VI. AT THE AUST FERRY HOTEL. O DAINTY diamond-ornamented fingers, Puzzling plain folks, and leading some astray Who pore o'er panes where the inscription lingers Recording jovial rest, or anxious stay, I rather wish your Latin were away, Although the epigrams are obvious stingers; And the fine Roman hand - it makes one say, Was 't Coleridge, Southey, Lamb was 't one of Earth's fine singers? "One touch," et cætera ; - banter as they may, We see ourselves in him who could not pass Nor leave remembrance of himself some way, Though 't were but on the fragile face of glass. And who this mild ambition would gainsay In my opinion writes himself an ass! VII. A RENCONTRE AT TYTHERINGTON. (Merci, Monsieur, merci!) FORTH from the farmer's hospitable nook, And lo! before me stood, or rather shook, Into a thing scarce humanlike. He spoke, While through his frame a tide of diverse feelings rushed. "Poor, wretched, and from Paris!" all he said; Yet, plainly written in his visage pale, Fancy could still piece out the mournful tale; In that sad, low, strange tongue, imploring bread. BLOW ALFRED TENNYSON. I. THE POLISH INSURRECTION. ye the trumpet; gather from afar The hosts to battle; be not bought and sold. O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar Grew to this strength among his deserts cold; Boleslas drove the Pomeranian. II. A SOLDIER-PRIEST. To J. M. K. My hope and heart is with thee, thou wilt be A latter Luther and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the Master's feast; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee: Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws Distilled from some worm-cankered homily; The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk Browbeats his desk below. Thou, from a throne Mounted in heaven, wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. III. SONNET. O, WERE I loved as I desire to be! What is there in the great sphere of the earth, That I should fear, if I were loved by thee? All the inner, all the outer world of pain, Clear love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine; As I have heard that somewhere in the main Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine. 'T were joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee, To wait for death - mute - careless of all ills, Apart upon a mountain, though the surge Of some new deluge from a thousand hills Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge could see. |