Imaginary Conversations and Poems Part 67

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust.

All that remains of thee these plaits unfold, Calm hair, meandering in pellucid gold.

XVII

Once, and once only, have I seen thy face, Elia! once only has thy tripping tongue Run o'er my breast, yet never has been left Impression on it stronger or more sweet.

Cordial old man! what youth was in thy years, What wisdom in thy levity, what truth In every utterance of that purest soul!

Few are the spirits of the glorified I'd spring to earlier at the gate of Heaven.

XVIII

TO WORDSWORTH

Those who have laid the harp aside And turn'd to idler things, From very restlessness have tried The loose and dusty strings.

And, catching back some favourite strain, Run with it o'er the chords again.

But Memory is not a Muse, O Wordsworth! though 'tis said They all descend from her, and use To haunt her fountain-head: That other men should work for me In the rich mines of Poesie, Pleases me better than the toil Of smoothing under hardened hand, With Attic emery and oil, The s.h.i.+ning point for Wisdom's wand, Like those thou temperest 'mid the rills Descending from thy native hills.

Without his governance, in vain Manhood is strong, and Youth is bold If oftentimes the o'er-piled strain Clogs in the furnace, and grows cold Beneath his pinions deep and frore, And swells and melts and flows no more, That is because the heat beneath Pants in its cavern poorly fed.

Life springs not from the couch of Death, Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the dead; Unturn'd then let the ma.s.s remain, Intractable to sun or rain.

A marsh, where only flat leaves lie, And showing but the broken sky, Too surely is the sweetest lay That wins the ear and wastes the day, Where youthful Fancy pouts alone And lets not Wisdom touch her zone.

He who would build his fame up high, The rule and plummet must apply, Nor say, 'I'll do what I have plann'd,'

Before he try if loam or sand Be still remaining in the place Delved for each polisht pillar's base.

With skilful eye and fit device Thou raisest every edifice, Whether in sheltered vale it stand Or overlook the Dardan strand, Amid the cypresses that mourn Laodameia's love forlorn.

We both have run o'er half the s.p.a.ce Listed for mortal's earthly race; We both have crost life's fervid line, And other stars before us s.h.i.+ne: May they be bright and prosperous As those that have been stars for us!

Our course by Milton's light was sped, And Shakespeare s.h.i.+ning overhead: Chatting on deck was Dryden too, The Bacon of the rhyming crew; None ever crost our mystic sea More richly stored with thought than he; Tho' never tender nor sublime, He wrestles with and conquers Time.

To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee, I left much prouder company; Thee gentle Spenser fondly led, But me he mostly sent to bed.

I wish them every joy above That highly blessed spirits prove, Save one: and that too shall be theirs, But after many rolling years, When 'mid their light thy light appears.

XIX

TO CHARLES d.i.c.kENS

Go then to Italy; but mind To leave the pale low France behind; Pa.s.s through that country, nor ascend The Rhine, nor over Tyrol wend: Thus all at once shall rise more grand The glories of the ancient land.

d.i.c.kens! how often, when the air Breath'd genially, I've thought me there, And rais'd to heaven my thankful eyes To see three spans of deep blue skies.

In Genoa now I hear a stir, A shout ... _Here comes the Minister!_ Yes, thou art he, although not sent By cabinet or parliament: Yes, thou art he. Since Milton's youth Bloom'd in the Eden of the South, Spirit so pure and lofty none Hath heavenly Genius from his throne Deputed on the banks of Thames To speak his voice and urge his claims.

Let every nation know from thee How less than lovely Italy Is the whole world beside; let all Into their grateful b.r.e.a.s.t.s recall How Prospero and Miranda dwelt In Italy: the griefs that melt The stoniest heart, each sacred tear One lacrymatory gathered here; All Desdemona's, all that fell In playful Juliet's bridal cell.

Ah! could my steps in life's decline Accompany or follow thine!

But my own vines are not for me To prune, or from afar to see.

I miss the tales I used to tell With cordial Hare and joyous Gell, And that good old Archbishop whose Cool library, at evening's close (Soon as from Ischia swept the gale And heav'd and left the dark'ning sail), Its lofty portal open'd wide To me, and very few beside: Yet large his kindness. Still the poor Flock round Taranto's palace door, And find no other to replace The n.o.blest of a n.o.ble race.

Amid our converse you would see Each with white cat upon his knee, And flattering that grand company: For Persian kings might proudly own Such glorious cats to share the throne.

Write me few letters: I'm content With what for all the world is meant; Write then for all: but, since my breast Is far more faithful than the rest, Never shall any other share With little Nelly nestling there.

XX

TO BARRY CORNWALL

Barry! your spirit long ago Has haunted me; at last I know The heart it sprung from: one more sound Ne'er rested on poetic ground.

But, Barry Cornwall! by what right Wring you my breast and dim my sight, And make me wish at every touch My poor old hand could do as much?

No other in these later times Has bound me in so potent rhymes.

I have observed the curious dress And jewelry of brave Queen Bess, But always found some o'ercharged thing, Some flaw in even the brightest ring, Admiring in her men of war, A rich but too argute guitar.

Our foremost now are more prolix, And sc.r.a.pe with three-fell fiddlesticks, And, whether bound for griefs or smiles, Are slow to turn as crocodiles.

Once, every court and country bevy Chose the gallant of loins less heavy, And would have laid upon the shelf Him who could talk but of himself.

Reason is stout, but even Reason May walk too long in Rhyme's hot season.

I have heard many folks aver They have caught horrid colds with her.

Imagination's paper kite, Unless the string is held in tight, Whatever fits and starts it takes, Soon bounces on the ground, and breaks.

You, placed afar from each extreme, Nor dully drowse nor wildly dream, But, ever flowing with good-humour, Are bright as spring and warm as summer.

Mid your Penates not a word Of scorn or ill-report is heard; Nor is there any need to pull A sheaf or truss from cart too full, Lest it o'erload the horse, no doubt, Or clog the road by falling out.

We, who surround a common table, And imitate the fas.h.i.+onable, Wear each two eyegla.s.ses: _this_ lens Shows us our faults, _that_ other men's.

We do not care how dim may be _This_ by whose aid our own we see, But, ever anxiously alert That all may have their whole desert, We would melt down the stars and sun In our heart's furnace, to make one Thro' which the enlighten'd world might spy A mote upon a brother's eye.

XXI

TO ROBERT BROWNING

There is delight in singing, tho' none hear Beside the singer: and there is delight In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone And see the prais'd 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 walkt 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 highths thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

XXII

AGE

Death, tho' I see him not, is near And grudges me my eightieth year.

Now, I would give him all these last For one that fifty have run past.

Ah! he strikes all things, all alike, But bargains: those he will not strike.

XXIII

Leaf after leaf drops off, flower after flower, Some in the chill, some in the warmer hour: Alike they flourish and alike they fall, And Earth who nourisht them receives them all.

Should we, her wiser sons, be less content To sink into her lap when life is spent?

XXIV

Well I remember how you smiled To see me write your name upon The soft sea-sand--'_O! what a child!_ _You think you're writing upon stone!_'

I have since written what no tide Shall ever wash away, what men Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide And find Ianthe's name again.