II

Now the country does not even boast a tree,

As you see,

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run

Into one)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

Bounding all,

Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed Twelve abreast.

III

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds

Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone-

Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe

Long ago;

Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;

And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.

IV

Now, The single little turret that remains
On the plains,

By the caper overrooted, by the gourd

Overscored,

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks

Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime,

And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced

As they raced,

And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.

V

And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave

To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece
In such peace,

And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
Melt away-

That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there

In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul

For the goal,

When the king looked, where she looks now,

breathless, dumb

Till I come.

VI

But he looked upon the city, every side,

Far and wide,

All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
Colonnades,

All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, and then,

All the men!

When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand

On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace

Of my face,

Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.

VII

In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,

And they built their gods a brazen pillar high

As the sky,

Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force-

Gold, of course.

Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
Earth's returns

For whole centuries of folly, noise, and sin!

Shut them in,

With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!

Love is best.

(1855.)

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

I

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:

A mile or so away,

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

III

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect―
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)

You looked twice ere you saw his breast

Was all but shot in two.

IV

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans

Soared up again like fire.

V

The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes. "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead.

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA

I

I wonder do you feel to-day

As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May?

II

For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.

III

Help me to hold it! First it left

The yellowing fennel, run to seed

There, branching from the brickwork's cleft,
Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed
Took up the floating weft,

IV

Where one small orange cup amassed

Five beetles,-blind and green they grope,

Among the honey-meal: and last,

Everywhere on the grassy slope,

I traced it. Hold it fast!

V

The champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air—
Rome's ghost since her decease.

VI

Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,

Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!

VII

How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control
To love or not to love?

VIII

I would that you were all to me,

You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? What the core O' the wound, since wound must be?

IX

I would I could adopt your will,

See with your eyes, and set my heart

Beating by yours, and drink my fill

At your soul's springs, your part my part In life, for good and ill.

X

No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,

Catch your soul's warmth,-I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak—
Then the good minute goes.