How of a sudden Sleep has laid on thee
 His heavy hand—on thee, for ever blest,
 Sleeping or waking, stirring or at rest:
 But now thou wert exulting merrily,
 And in the very middle of thy glee
 Thy head thou layedst on thy father’s breast,
 There seeming to have found a peacefuller nest
 Than one would think might in this loud world be.
 There were no need to fear thy worser mood,
 Striving in years to come against the good
 He would impart, if thou couldst keep in mind
 How many times, the while with anxious care
 He sought to screen thee from the chilling air,
 Upon his bosom thou hast slept reclined.

THE DESCENT OF THE RHONE.

Often when my thought has been
 Pondering on what solemn scene,
 Which of all the glorious shows
 Nature can at will disclose,
 Once beholden by the eye,
 Ever after would supply
 Most unto the musing heart
 Of memories which should not depart—
 It has seemed no ampler dower
 Of her beauty or her power
 We could win, than night and day,
 An illimitable way,
 To sail down some mighty river,
 Sailing as we would sail for ever.
Lo! my wish is almost won,
 Broadly flows the stately Rhone,
 And we loosen from the shore
 Our light pinnace, long before
 The young East in gorgeous state
 Has unlocked his ruby gate,
 And our voyage is not done
 At the sinking of the sun;
 But for us the azure Night
 Feeds her golden flocks with light:
 Ours are all the hues of heaven,
 Sights and sounds of morn and even;
 In our view the day is born;
 First the stars of lustre shorn,
 Until Hesper, he who last
 Kept his splendour, now fades fast;
 A faint bloom over heaven is spread,
 And the clouds blush deeper red,
 Till from them the stream below
 Catches the same roseate glow;
 The pale east lightens into gold,
 And the west is with the fold
 Of the mantle of dim night
 Scarcely darkened or less bright—
 Till, his way prepared, at length
 Rising up in golden strength,
 Tramples the victorious sun
 The dying stars out, one by one.
Fairer scene the opening eye
 Of the day can scarce descry—
 Fairer sight he looks not on
 Than the pleasant banks of Rhone;
 Where in terraces and ranks,
 On those undulating banks,
 Rise by many a hilly stair
 Sloping tiers of vines, where’er
 From the steep and stony soil
 Has been won by careful toil,
 And with long laborious pains
 Fenced against the washing rains,
 Fenced and anxiously walled round,
 A little patch of garden ground.
 Higher still some place of power,
 Or a solitary tower,
 Ruined now, is looking down
 On some quiet little town
 In a sheltered glen beneath,
 Where the smoke’s unbroken wreath,
 Mounting in the windless air,
 Rests, dissolving slowly there,
 O’er the housetops like a cloud,
 Or a thinnest vapourous shroud.
Morn has been, and lo! how soon
 Has arrived the middle noon,
 And the broad sun’s rays do rest
 On some naked mountain’s breast,
 Where alone relieve the eye
 Massive shadows, as they lie
 In the hollows motionless;
 Still our boat doth onward press.
 Now a peaceful current wide
 Bears it on an ample tide,
 Now the hills retire, and then
 Their broad fronts advance again,
 Till the rocks have closed us round,
 And would seem our course to bound,
 But anon a way appears,
 And our vessel onward steers,
 Darting swiftly as between
 Narrow walls of a ravine.
Morn has been and noon—and now
 Evening falls about our prow:
 But the sunken sunset still
 Burns behind the western hill;
 Lo! the starry troop again
 Gather on the ethereal plain;
 Even now and there were none,
 And a moment since but one;
 And anon we lift our head,
 And all heaven is overspread
 With a still assembling crowd,
 With a silent multitude—
 Venus, first and brightest set
 In the night’s pale coronet,
 Armed Orion’s belted pride,
 And the Seven that by the side
 Of the Titan nightly weave
 Dances in the mystic eve,
 Sisters linked in love and light;
 ’Twere in truth a solemn sight,
 Were we sailing now as they,
 Who upon their western way
 To the isles of spice and gold,
 Nightly watching, might behold
 These our constellations dip,
 And the great sign of the Ship
 Rise upon the other hand,
 With the Cross that seems to stand
 In the vault of heaven upright,
 Marking the middle hour of night—
 Or with them whose keels first prest
 The mighty rivers of the west,
 Who the first with bold intent
 Down the Orellana went,[6]
 Or a dangerous progress won
 On the mighty Amazon,
 By whose ocean-streams they tell
 How yet the warrior-maidens dwell.
But the Fancy may not roam;
 Thou wilt keep it nearer home,
 Friend, of earthly friends the best,
 Who on this fair river’s breast
 Sailest with me fleet and fast,
 As the unremitting blast
 With a steady breath and strong
 Urges our light boat along.
 We this day have found delight
 In each pleasant sound and sight
 Of this river bright and fair,
 And in things which flowing are
 Like a stream, yet without blame
 These my passing song may claim,
 Or thy hearing may beguile,
 If we not forget the while,
 That we are from childhood’s morn
 On a mightier river borne,
 Which is rolling evermore
 To a sea without a shore,
 Life the river, and the sea
 That we seek—eternity.
 We may sometimes sport and play,
 And in thought keep holiday,
 So we ever own a law,
 Living in habitual awe,
 And beneath the constant stress
 Of a solemn thoughtfulness,
 Weighing whither this life tends,
 For what high and holy ends
 It was lent us, whence it flows,
 And its current whither goes.
There is ample matter here
 For as much of thought and fear,
 As will solemnize our souls—
 Thought of how this river rolls
 Over millions wrecked before
 They could reach that happy shore,
 Where we have not anchored yet;
 Of the dangers which beset
 Our own way, of hidden shoal,
 Waters smoothest where they roll
 Over point of sunken rock,
 Treacherous calm, and sudden shock
 Of the storm, which can assail
 No boat than ours more weak or frail—
 Matter not alone of sadness,
 But no less of thankful gladness,
 That, whichever way we turn,
 There are steady lights that burn
 On the shore, and lamps of love
 In the gloomiest sky above,
 Which will guide our bark aright
 Through the darkness of our night—
 Many a fixed unblinking star
 Unto them that wandering are
 Through this blindly-weltering sea.
 Themes of high and thoughtful glee,
 When we think we are not left,
 Of all solaces bereft,
 Each to hold, companionless,
 Through a watery wilderness,
 Unaccompanied our way,
 As we can—this I may say,
 Whatsoever else betide,
 With thee sitting at my side,
 And this happy cherub sweet,
 Playing, laughing at my feet.

ON THE PERSEUS AND MEDUSA OF BENVENUTO CELLINI.

In what fierce spasms upgathered, on the plain
 Medusa’s headless corpse has quivering sunk,
 While all the limbs of that undying trunk
 To their extremest joint with torture strain;
 But the calm visage has resumed again
 Its beauty,—the orbed eyelids are let down,
 As though a living sleep might once more crown
 Their placid circlets, guiltless of all pain.
 And Thou—is thine the spirit’s swift recoil,
 Which follows every deed of acted wrath,
 That holding in thine hand this lovely spoil,
 Thou dost not triumph, feeling that the breath
 Of life is sacred, whether it inform,
 Loathly or beauteous, man or beast or worm?

LINES.

WRITTEN AT THE VILLAGE OF PASSIGNANO, ON THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE.

The mountains stand about the quiet lake,
 That not a breath its azure calm may break;
 No leaf of these sere olive trees is stirred,
 In the near silence far-off sounds are heard;
 The tiny bat is flitting overhead,
 The hawthorn doth its richest odours shed
 Into the dewy air; and over all
 Veil after veil the evening shadows fall,
 And one by one withdraw each glimmering height,
 The far, and then the nearer, from our sight—
 No sign surviving in this tranquil scene;
 That strife and savage tumult here have been.
But if the pilgrim to the latest plain
 Of carnage, where the blood like summer rain
 Fell but the other day; if in his mind
 He marvels much and oftentimes to find
 With what success has Nature each sad trace
 Of man’s red footmarks laboured to efface—
 What wonder is it, if this spot appears
 Guiltless of strife, when now two thousand years
 Of daily reparation have gone by,
 Since it resumed its own tranquillity.
 This calm has nothing strange, yet not the less
 This holy evening’s solemn quietness,
 The perfect beauty of this windless lake,
 This stillness which no harsher murmurs break
 Than the frogs croaking from the distant sedge,
 These vineyards drest unto the water’s edge,
 This hind that homeward driving the slow steer,
 Tells that man’s daily work goes forward here,
 Have each a power upon me, while I drink
 The influence of the placid time, and think
 How gladly that sweet Mother once again
 Resumes her sceptre and benignant reign,
 But for a few short instants scared away
 By the mad game, the cruel impious fray
 Of her distempered children—how comes back,
 And leads them in the customary track
 Of blessing once again; to order brings
 Anew the dislocated frame of things,
 And covers up, and out of sight conceals
 What they have wrought of ill, or gently heals.

VESUVIUS, AS SEEN FROM CAPRI.

A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare,
 Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky,
 In quiet adoration, silently—
 Till the faint currents of the upper air
 Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there,
 The dome, as of a palace, hung on high
 Over the mountain—underneath it lie
 Vineyards and hays and cities white and fair.
 Might we not hope this beauty would engage
 All living things unto one pure delight?
 A vain belief!—for here, our records tell,
 Rome’s understanding tyrant from men’s sight
 Hid, as within a guilty citadel,
 The shame of his dishonourable age.

VESUVIUS.

As when unto a mother, having chid
 Her child in anger, there have straight ensued
 Repentings for her quick and angry mood,
 That she would fain see all its traces hid
 Quite out of sight—even so has Nature bid
 Fair flowers, that on the scarred earth she has strewed,
 To blossom, and called up the taller wood
 To cover what she ruined and undid.
 Oh! and her mood of anger did not last
 More than an instant, but her work of peace,
 Restoring and repairing, comforting
 The earth, her stricken child, will never cease;
 For that was her strange work, and quickly past,
 To this her genial toil no end the years shall bring.

THE SAME, CONTINUED.

That her destroying fury was with noise
 And sudden uproar—but far otherwise,
 With silent and with secret ministries,
 Her skill of renovation she employs:
 For Nature, only loud when she destroys,
 Is silent when she fashions. She will crowd
 The work of her destruction, transient, loud,
 Into an hour, and then long peace enjoys.
 Yea, every power that fashions and upholds
 Works silently—all things whose life is sure,
 Their life is calm—silent the light that moulds
 And colours all things; and without debate
 The stars, which are for ever to endure,
 Assume their thrones and their unquestioned state.

TO ENGLAND.

WRITTEN AFTER A VISIT TO SORRENTO.

They are but selfish visions at the best,
 Which tempt us to desire that we were free
 From the dear ties that bind us unto Thee,
 That so we might take up our lasting rest,
 Where some delightful spot, some hidden nest
 In brighter lands has pleased our phantasy:
 And might such vows at once accomplished be,
 We should not in the accomplishment be blest,
 But oh! most miserable, if it be true
 Peace only waits upon us, while we do
 Heaven’s work and will: for what is it we ask,
 When we would fain have leave to linger here,
 But to abandon our appointed task,
 Our place of duty and our natural sphere?

LINES.

WRITTEN AFTER HEARING SOME BEAUTIFUL SINGING IN A CONVENT CHURCH AT ROME.

Sweet voices! seldom mortal ear
 Strains of such potency might hear;
 My soul, that listened, seemed quite gone,
 Dissolved in sweetness, and anon
 I was borne upward, till I trod
 Among the hierarchy of God.
 And when they ceased, as time must bring
 An end to every sweetest thing,
 With what reluctancy came back
 My spirits to their wonted track,
 And how I loathed the common life,
 The daily and recurring strife
 With petty sins, the lowly road
 And being’s ordinary load.
 Why after such a solemn mood
 Should any meaner thought intrude?
 Why will not heaven hereafter give,
 That we for evermore may live
 Thus at our spirit’s topmost bent?
 This said I in my discontent.
But give me, Lord, a wiser heart;
 These seasons come, and they depart,
 These seasons, and those higher still,
 When we are given to have our fill
 Of strength and life and joy with thee,
 And brightness of thy face to see.
 They come, or we could never guess
 Of heaven’s sublimer blessedness;
 They come, to be our strength and cheer
 In other times, in doubt or fear,
 Or should our solitary way
 Lie through the desert many a day.
 They go, they leave us blank and dead,
 That we may learn, when they are fled,
 We are but vapours which have won
 A moment’s brightness from the sun,
 And which it may at pleasure fill
 With splendour, or unclothe at will.
 Well for us they do not abide,
 Or we should lose ourselves in pride,
 And be as angels—but as they
 Who on the battlements of day
 Walked, gazing on their power and might,
 Till they grew giddy in their height.
Then welcome every nobler time,
 When, out of reach of earth’s dull chime,
 ’Tis ours to drink with purgèd ears
 The music of the solemn spheres,
 Or in the desert to have sight
 Of those enchanted cities bright,
 Which sensual eye can never see:
 Thrice welcome may such seasons be.
 But welcome too the common way,
 The lowly duties of the day,
 And all which makes and keeps us low,
 Which teaches us ourselves to know,
 That we, who do our lineage high
 Draw from beyond the starry sky,
 Are yet upon the other side
 To earth and to its dust allied.

ON A PICTURE OF THE ASSUMPTION BY MURILLO.

With what calm power thou risest on the wind—
 Mak’st thou a pinion of those locks unshorn?
 Or of that dark blue robe which floats behind
 In ample fold? or art thou cloud-upborne?
A crescent moon is bent beneath thy feet,
 Above the heavens expand, and tier o’er tier
 With heavenly garlands thy advance to greet,
 The cloudy throng of cherubim appear.
There is a glory round thee, and mine eyes
 Are dazzled, for I know not whence it came,
 Since never in the light of western skies
 The island clouds burned with so pure a flame:
Nor were those flowers of our dull common mould,
 But nurtured on some amaranthine bed,
 Nearer the sun, remote from storms and cold,
 By purer dews and warmer breezes fed.
Well may we be perplexed and sadly wrought,
 That we can guess so ill what dreams were thine,
 Ere from the chambers of thy silent thought
 That face looked out on thee, Painter divine.
What innocence, what love, what loveliness,
 What purity must have familiar been
 Unto thy soul, before it could express
 The holy beauty in that visage seen.
And so, if we would understand thee right,
 And the diviner portion of thine art,
 We must exalt our spirits to thine height,
 Nor wilt thou else the mystery impart.

AN INCIDENT VERSIFIED.

Far in the south there is a jutting ledge
 Of rocks, scarce peering o’er the water’s edge,
 Where earliest come the fresh Atlantic gales,
 That in their course have filled a thousand sails,
 And brushed for leagues and leagues the Atlantic deep,
 Till now they make the nimble spirit leap
 Beneath their lifeful and renewing breath,
 And stir it like the ocean depths beneath.
 Two that were strangers to that sunny land,
 And to each other, met upon this strand;
 One seemed to keep so slight a hold of life,
 That when he willed, without the spirit’s strife,
 He might let go—a flower upon a ledge
 Of verdant meadow by a river’s edge,
 Which ever loosens with its treacherous flow
 In gradual lapse the moistened soil below;
 While to the last in beauty and in bloom
 That flower is scattering incense o’er its tomb,
 And with the dews upon it, and the breath
 Of the fresh morning round it, sinks to death.
They met the following day, and many more
 They paced together this low ridge of shore,
 Till one fair eve, the other with intent
 To lure him out, unto his chamber went;
 But straight retired again with noiseless pace,
 For with a subtle gauze flung o’er his face
 Upon his bed he lay, serene and still
 And quiet, even as one who takes his fill
 Of a delight he does not fear to lose.
 So blest he seemed, the other could not choose
 To wake him, but went down the narrow stair;
 And when he met an aged attendant there,
 She ceased her work to tell him, when he said,
 Her patient then on happy slumber fed,
 But that anon he would return once more,—
 Her inmate had expired an hour before.
———
I know not by what chance he thus was thrown
 On a far shore, untended and alone,
 To live or die; for, as I after learned,
 There were in England many hearts that yearned
 To know his safety, and such tears were shed
 For him as grace the living and the dead.

ADDRESSED ON LEAVING ROME TO A FRIEND RESIDING IN THAT CITY.

O lately written in the roll of friends,
 O written late, not last, three pleasant months
 Under the shadow of the Capitol,
 A pleasant time, made pleasanter by thee,
 It has been mine to pass—three months of spring,
 Which pleasant in themselves and for thy sake,
 Had yet this higher, that they stirred in the heart
 The motions of continual thankfulness
 To me, considering by what gracious paths
 I had been guided, by what paths of love,
 Since I was last a dweller in these gates.
 That meditation could not prove to me
 But as a spring that ever bubbles up,
 Sparkling in the face of heaven, when every day
 Reminded me how little gladness then
 I gathered from these things, but now how much.
For tho’ not then indifferent to me
 Nature or art, yea rather tho’ from these
 I drew whatever lightened for a while
 The burden of our life and weary load;
 Yet seldom could I summon heart enough,
 With all their marvels round me, to go forth
 In quest of any. But some lonely spot,
 Some ridge of ruin fringed with cypresses,
 Such as have everywhere loved well to make
 Their chosen home above all other trees,
 ’Mid the fal’n palaces of ancient Rome,
 Me did such haunt please better, or I loved,
 With others whom the like disquietude,
 At the like crisis of their lives, now kept
 Restless, with them to question to and fro
 And to debate the evil of the world,
 As tho’ we bore no portion of that ill,
 As tho’ with subtle phrases we could spin
 A woof to screen us from its undelight:
 Such talk sometimes prolonging into night,
 As being loth to separate, and find
 Each in his solitude how vain are words,
 When that they have opposed to them is more.
I would not live that time again for much,
 Full as it was of long and weary days,
 Full of rebellious askings, for what end,
 And by what power, without our own consent,
 We were placed here, to suffer and to sin,
 To be in misery and know not why.
 But so it was with me, a sojourner,
 Five years ago, beneath these mouldering walls
 As I am now: and, trusted friend, to thee
 I have not doubted to reveal my soul,
 For thou hast known, if I may read aright
 The pages of thy past existence, thou
 Hast known the dreary sickness of the soul,
 That falls upon us in our lonely youth,
 The fear of all bright visions leaving us,
 The sense of emptiness, without the sense
 Of an abiding fulness anywhere,
 When all the generations of mankind,
 With all their purposes, their hopes and fears,
 Seem nothing truer than those wandering shapes
 Cast by a trick of light upon a wall,
 And nothing different from these, except
 In their capacity for suffering;
 What time we have the sense of sin, and none
 Of expiation. Our own life seemed then
 But as an arrow flying in the dark
 Without an aim, a most unwelcome gift,
 Which we might not put by. But now, what God
 Intended as a blessing and a boon
 We have received as such, and we can say
 A solemn yet a joyful thing is life,
 Which, being full of duties, is for this
 Of gladness full, and full of lofty hopes.
And He has taught us what reply to make,
 Or secretly in spirit, or in words,
 If there be need, when sorrowing men complain
 The fair illusions of their youth depart,
 All things are going from them, and to-day
 Is emptier of delights than yesterday,
 Even as to-morrow will be barer yet;
 We have been taught to feel this need not be,
 This is not life’s inevitable law,—
 But that the gladness we are called to know,
 Is an increasing gladness, that the soil
 Of the human heart, tilled rightly, will become
 Richer and deeper, fitter to bear fruit
 Of an immortal growth, from day to day,
 Fruit of love life and indeficient joy.
Oh! not for baneful self-complacency,
 Not for the setting up our present selves
 To triumph o’er our past (worst pride of all),
 May we compare this present with that past;
 But to provoke renewed acknowledgments,
 But to incite unto an earnest hope
 For all our brethren. And how should I fear
 To own to thee that this is in my heart—
 This longing, that it leads me home to-day,
 Glad even while I turn my back on Rome,
 Yet half unseen—its arts, its memories,
 Its glorious fellowship of living men;
 Glad in the hope to tread the soil again
 Of England, where our place of duty lies:
 Not as altho’ we thought we could do much,
 Or claimed large sphere of action for ourselves;
 Not in this thought—since rather be it ours,
 Both thine and mine, to cultivate that frame
 Of spirit, when we know and deeply feel
 How little we can do, and yet do that.

TASSO’S DUNGEON, FERRARA.

How might the goaded sufferer in this cell,
 With nothing upon which his eyes might fall,
 Except this vacant court, that dreary wall,
 How might he live? I asked. Here doomed to dwell,
 I marvel how at all he could repel
 Thoughts which to madness and despair would call.
 Enter this vault—the bare sight will appal
 Thy spirit, even as mine within me fell,
 Until I learned that wall not always there
 Had stood—’twas something that this iron grate
 Once had looked out upon a garden fair.
 There must have been then here, to calm his brain,
 Green leaves, and flowers, and sunshine—and a weight
 Fell from me, and my heart revived again.

SONNET.

It may be that our homeward longings made
 That other lands were judged with partial eyes;
 But fairer in my sight the mottled skies,
 With pleasant interchange of sun and shade,
 And more desired the meadow and deep glade
 Of sylvan England, green with frequent showers,
 Than all the beauty which the vaunted bowers
 Of the parched South have in mine eyes displayed;
 Fairer and more desired—this well might be:
 For let the South have beauty’s utmost dower,
 And yet my heart might well have turned to thee,
 My home, my country, when a delicate flower
 Within thy pleasant borders was for me
 Tended, and growing up thro’ sun and shower.

AT BRUNECKEN, IN THE TYROL.

The men who for this earthly life would claim
 Well nigh the whole, and if the work of heaven
 Be relegated to one day in seven,
 Account the other six may without blame,
 Unsanctified by one diviner aim,
 To self to mammon and the world be given,
 These scanty worshippers might nigh be driven,
 Were they but here, to profitable shame.
 This eve, the closing of no festal day,
 This common work-day eve, in the open street
 Seen have I groups of happy people meet,
 Putting for this their toil and tasks away,
 Men, women, boys, at one rude shrine to pray,
 And there their fervent litanies repeat.

SONNET.

To leave unseen so many a glorious sight,
 To leave so many lands unvisited,
 To leave so many worthiest books unread,
 Unrealized so many visions bright;—
 Oh! wretched yet inevitable spite
 Of our short span, and we must yield our breath,
 And wrap us in the lazy coil of death,
 So much remaining of unproved delight.
 But hush, my soul, and, vain regrets, be stilled
 Find rest in Him who is the complement
 Of whatsoe’er transcends your mortal doom,
 Of broken hope and frustrated intent;
 In the clear vision and aspèct of whom
 All wishes and all longings are fulfilled.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN INN.

A dreary lot is his who roams
 “Homeless among a thousand homes;”
 A dreary thing it is to stray,
 As I have sometimes heard men say,
 And of myself have partly known,
 A passing stranger and alone
 In some great city: harder there,
 With life about us everywhere,
 Than in the desert to restrain
 A sense of solitary pain.
 We wander thro’ the busy street,
 And think how every one we meet
 Has parents sister friend or wife,
 With whom to share the load of life.
 We wander on, for little care
 Have we turn our footsteps there,
 Where we are but a nameless guest,
 One who may claim no interest
 In any heart—a passing face,
 That comes and goes, and leaves no trace;
 Where service waits us, prompt but cold,
 A loveless service, bought and sold.
Yet hard it is not to sustain
 A time like this, if there remain
 True greetings for us, hand and heart,
 Wherein we claim the chiefest part,
 Although divided now they be
 By many a tract of land and sea.
 If we can fly to thoughts like these,
 Fall back on such sure sympathies,
 This were sufficient to repress
 That transient sense of loneliness.
Yet better if, where’er we roam,
 Another country, truer home,
 Is in our hearts; if there we find
 The word of power, that from the mind
 All sad and drear thoughts shall repel,
 All solitary broodings quell;
 If in the joy of heav’n we live,
 Nor only on what earth can give,
 Tho’ pure and high—so we may learn
 Unto the soul’s great good to turn
 What things soever best engage
 Our thoughts towàrd our pilgrimage,
 Which teach us this is not our rest,
 That here we are but as a guest.
 As doubtless ’twas no other thought
 That in his holy bosom wrought,
 Who not alone content to win
 In life the shelter of an inn,
 Was fain to finish the last stage
 There of his mortal pilgrimage[7]
We too, if we are wise, may be
 Pleased for a season to be free
 From the encumbrances which love—
 Affection hallowed from above,
 But earthly yet, has power to fling
 About the spirit’s heav’nward wing;
 Pleased if we feel that God is nigh,
 Both where we live and where we die,
 Whether among true kindred thrown,
 Or seeming outwardly alone,
 That whether this or that befal,
 He watches and has care of all.

TO E ——.