Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile

  Is better than a thousand victories,

  Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo

  Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few

  Who for thy sake would give their manlihood

  And consecrate their being; I at least

  Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,

  And in thy temples found a goodlier feast

  Than this starved age can give me, spite of all

  Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.

  Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,

  The woods of white Colonos are not here,

  On our bleak hills the olive never blows,

  No simple priest conducts his lowing steer

  Up the steep marble way, nor through the town

  Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.

  Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,

  Whose very name should be a memory

  To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest

  Beneath the Roman walls, and melody

  Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play

  The lute of Adonais: with his lips Song passed away.

  Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left

  One silver voice to sing his threnody,

  But ah! too soon of it we were bereft

  When on that riven night and stormy sea

  Panthea claimed her singer as her own,

  And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,

  Save for that fiery heart, that morning star

  Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye

  Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war

  The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy

  Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring

  The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,

  And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,

  And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot

  In passionless and fierce virginity

  Hunting the tuskèd boar, his honied lute

  Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,

  And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

  And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,

  And sung the Galilaean’s requiem,

  That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine

  He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him

  Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,

  And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.

  Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,

  It is not quenched the torch of poesy,

  The star that shook above the Eastern hill

  Holds unassailed its argent armoury

  From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—

  O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,

  Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,

  Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,

  With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled

  The weary soul of man in troublous need,

  And from the far and flowerless fields of ice

  Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.

  We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,

  Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,

  How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,

  And what enchantment held the king in thrall

  When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers

  That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,

  Long listless summer hours when the noon

  Being enamoured of a damask rose

  Forgets to journey westward, till the moon

  The pale usurper of its tribute grows

  From a thin sickle to a silver shield

  And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field

  Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,

  At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come

  Almost before the blackbird finds a mate

  And overstay the swallow, and the hum

  Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,

  Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,

  And through their unreal woes and mimic pain

  Wept for myself, and so was purified,

  And in their simple mirth grew glad again;

  For as I sailed upon that pictured tide

  The strength and splendour of the storm was mine

  Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine,

  The little laugh of water falling down

  Is not so musical, the clammy gold

  Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town

  Has less of sweetness in it, and the old

  Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady

  Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

  Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!

  Although the cheating merchants of the mart

  With iron roads profane our lovely isle,

  And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,

  Ay! though the crowded factories beget

  The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!

  For One at least there is—He bears his name

  From Dante and the seraph Gabriel—

  Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame

  To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,

  Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,

  And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,

  Loves thee so well, that all the World for him

  A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,

  And Sorrow take a purple diadem,

  Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair

  Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be

  Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery

  Which Painters hold, and such the heritage

  This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,

  Being a better mirror of his age

  In all his pity, love, and weariness,

  Than those who can but copy common things,

  And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

  But they are few, and all romance has flown,

  And men can prophesy about the sun,

  And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,

  Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,

  How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,

  And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naïad shows her head.

  Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon

  That they have spied on beauty; what if we

  Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon

  Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,

  Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope

  Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!

  What profit if this scientific age

  Burst through our gates with all its retinue

  Of modern miracles! Can it assuage

  One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do

  To make one life more beautiful, one day

  More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay

  Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth

  Hath borne again a noisy progeny

  Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth

  Hurls them against the august hierarchy

  Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust

  They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must

  Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,

  From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,

  Create the new Ideal rule for man!

  Methinks that was not my inheritance;

  For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul

  Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.

  Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away

  Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat

  Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day

  Blew all its torches out: I did not note

  The waning hours, to young Endymions

  Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!

  Mark how the yellow iris wearily

  Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed

  By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,

  Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist,

  Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,

  Which ’gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.

  Come let us go, against the pallid shield

  Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,

  The corncrake nested in the unmown field

  Answers its mate, across the misty stream

  On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,

  And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,

  Scatters the pearlèd dew from off the grass,

  In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,

  Who soon in gilded panoply will pass

  Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion

  Hung in the burning east: see, the red rim

  O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him

  Already the shrill lark is out of sight,

  Flooding with waves of song this silent dell—

  Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight

  Than could be tested in a crucible!—

  But the air freshens, let us go, why soon

  The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!

  Rosa Mystica

  Requiescat

  Tread lightly, she is near

  Under the snow,

  Speak gently, she can hear

  The daisies grow.

  All her bright golden hair

  Tarnished with rust,

  She that was young and fair

  Fallen to dust.

  Lily-like, white as snow,

  She hardly knew

  She was a woman, so

  Sweetly she grew.

  Coffin-board, heavy stone,

  Lie on her breast,

  I vex my heart alone,

  She is at rest.

  Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

  Lyre or sonnet,

  All my life’s buried here,

  Heap earth upon it.

  Avignon.

  Sonnet on Approaching Italy

  I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned,

  Italia, my Italia, at thy name:

  And when from out the mountain’s heart I came

  And saw the land for which my life had yearned,

  I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:

  And musing on the marvel of thy fame

  I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame

  The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.

  The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,

  And in the orchards every twining spray

  Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:

  But when I knew that far away at Rome

  In evil bonds a second Peter lay,

  I wept to see the land so very fair.

  Turin.

  San Miniato

  See, I have climbed the mountain side

  Up to this holy house of God,

  Where once that Angel-Painter trod

  Who saw the heavens opened wide,

  And throned upon the crescent moon

  The Virginal white Queen of Grace—

  Mary! could I but see thy face

  Death could not come at all too soon.

  O crowned by God with thorns and pain!

  Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!

  My heart is weary of this life

  And over-sad to sing again.

  O crowned by God with love and flame!

  O crowned by Christ the Holy One!

  O listen ere the searching sun

  Show to the world my sin and shame.

  Ave Maria Gratia Plena

  Was this His coming! I had hoped to see

  A scene of wondrous glory, as was told

  Of some great God who in a rain of gold

  Broke open bars and fell on Danae:

  Or a dread vision as when Semele

  Sickening for love and unappeased desire

  Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire

  Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:

  With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,

  And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand

  Before this supreme mystery of Love:

  Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,

  An angel with a lily in his hand,

  And over both the white wings of a Dove.

  Florence.

  Italia

  Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen

  Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride

  From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!

  Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen

  Because rich gold in every town is seen,

  And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride

  Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride

  Beneath one flag of red and white and green.

  O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!

  Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town

  Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!

  Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?

  Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,

  And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.

  Venice.

  Sonnet

  Written in Holy Week at Genoa

  I wandered through Scoglietto’s far retreat,

  The oranges on each o’erhanging spray

  Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;

  Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet

  Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet

  Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:

  And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay

  Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.

  Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,

  “Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,

  O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.”

  Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours

  Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,

  The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.

  Rome Unvisited

  I

  The corn has turned from grey to red,

  Since first my spirit wandered forth

  From the drear cities of the north,

  And to Italia’s mountains fled.

  And here I set my face towards home,

  For all my pilgrimage is done,

  Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun

  Marshals the way to Holy Rome.

  O Blessed Lady, who dost hold

  Upon the seven hills thy reign!

  O Mother without blot or stain,

  Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!

  O Roma, Roma, at thy feet

  I lay this barren gift of song!

  For, ah! the way is steep and long