Poems & Ballads Volume I Part 17

Sweet, does death hurt? thou canst not do me wrong: I shall not lack thee, as I loved thee, long.

Hast thou not given me above all that live Joy, and a little sorrow shalt not give?

What even though fairer fingers of strange girls Pa.s.s nestling through thy beautiful boy's curls As mine did, or those curled lithe lips of thine Meet theirs as these, all theirs come after mine; And though I were not, though I be not, best, I have loved and love thee more than all the rest.

O love, O lover, loose or hold me fast, I had thee first, whoever have thee last; Fairer or not, what need I know, what care?

To thy fair bud my blossom once seemed fair.

Why am I fair at all before thee, why At all desired? seeing thou art fair, not I.

I shall be glad of thee, O fairest head, Alive, alone, without thee, with thee, dead; I shall remember while the light lives yet, And in the night-time I shall not forget.

Though (as thou wilt) thou leave me ere life leave, I will not, for thy love I will not, grieve; Not as they use who love not more than I, Who love not as I love thee though I die; And though thy lips, once mine, be oftener prest To many another brow and balmier breast, And sweeter arms, or sweeter to thy mind, Lull thee or lure, more fond thou wilt not find.

IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Back to the flower-town, side by side, The bright months bring, New-born, the bridegroom and the bride, Freedom and spring.

The sweet land laughs from sea to sea, Filled full of sun; All things come back to her, being free; All things but one.

In many a tender wheaten plot Flowers that were dead Live, and old suns revive; but not That holier head.

By this white wandering waste of sea, Far north, I hear One face shall never turn to me As once this year:

Shall never smile and turn and rest On mine as there, Nor one most sacred hand be prest Upon my hair.

I came as one whose thoughts half linger, Half run before; The youngest to the oldest singer That England bore.

I found him whom I shall not find Till all grief end, In holiest age our mightiest mind, Father and friend.

But thou, if anything endure, If hope there be, O spirit that man's life left pure, Man's death set free,

Not with disdain of days that were Look earthward now; Let dreams revive the reverend hair, The imperial brow;

Come back in sleep, for in the life Where thou art not We find none like thee. Time and strife And the world's lot

Move thee no more; but love at least And reverent heart May move thee, royal and released, Soul, as thou art.

And thou, his Florence, to thy trust Receive and keep, Keep safe his dedicated dust, His sacred sleep.

So shall thy lovers, come from far, Mix with thy name As morning-star with evening-star His faultless fame

A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER. 1852

Push hard across the sand, For the salt wind gathers breath; Shoulder and wrist and hand, Push hard as the push of death.

The wind is as iron that rings, The foam-heads loosen and flee; It swells and welters and swings, The pulse of the tide of the sea.

And up on the yellow cliff The long corn flickers and shakes; Push, for the wind holds stiff, And the gunwale dips and rakes.

Good hap to the fresh fierce weather, The quiver and beat of the sea!

While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

Out to the sea with her there, Out with her over the sand; Let the kings keep the earth for their share!

We have done with the sharers of land.

They have tied the world in a tether, They have bought over G.o.d with a fee; While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

We have done with the kisses that sting, The thief's mouth red from the feast, The blood on the hands of the king And the lie at the lips of the priest.

Will they tie the winds in a tether, Put a bit in the jaws of the sea?

While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

Let our flag run out straight in the wind!

The old red shall be floated again When the ranks that are thin shall be thinned, When the names that were twenty are ten;

When the devil's riddle is mastered And the galley-bench creaks with a Pope, We shall see Buonaparte the b.a.s.t.a.r.d Kick heels with his throat in a rope.

While the shepherd sets wolves on his sheep And the emperor halters his kine, While Shame is a watchman asleep And Faith is a keeper of swine,

Let the wind shake our flag like a feather, Like the plumes of the foam of the sea!

While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

All the world has its burdens to bear, From Cayenne to the Austrian whips; Forth, with the rain in our hair And the salt sweet foam in our lips;

In the teeth of the hard glad weather, In the blown wet face of the sea; While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

A SONG IN TIME OF REVOLUTION. 1860

The heart of the rulers is sick, and the high-priest covers his head: For this is the song of the quick that is heard in the ears of the dead.

The poor and the halt and the blind are keen and mighty and fleet: Like the noise of the blowing of wind is the sound of the noise of their feet.

The wind has the sound of a laugh in the clamour of days and of deeds: The priests are scattered like chaff, and the rulers broken like reeds.

The high-priest sick from qualms, with his raiment bloodily dashed; The thief with branded palms, and the liar with cheeks abashed.

They are smitten, they tremble greatly, they are pained for their pleasant things: For the house of the priests made stately, and the might in the mouth of the kings.

They are grieved and greatly afraid; they are taken, they shall not flee: For the heart of the nations is made as the strength of the springs of the sea.

They were fair in the grace of gold, they walked with delicate feet: They were clothed with the cunning of old, and the smell of their garments was sweet.