VI.

The green young ivy, by its graceful clinging,
Pourtray'd fair Constancy and Faith sublime;
And Flora's tribes, their lovely fetters flinging,
Held in sweet thraldom all within that clime—
Such bonds unfelt are worn.

Blithesome I wander'd through this world of treasure,
Deeming my spirit's home at length attain'd,

Trusting such boundless joy would know no measure : Once more to me were Eden's blessings gain'd—

O Love, how fair thy morn!

VII.

Lull'd in sweet slumber, all my senses shrouded
By bright illusions that should never fade :
In that short dream my all of bliss was crowded:
I wake!—it passeth like a fleeting shade—

Life, light, the world is drear!—

Oh, stay, sweet dream; and yet, by mem'ry's pow'r, Whisper again the language of that land,

That I may tell thy charms in sorrow's hour

To the still ocean and the desert's sand,

Which thou alone canst cheer!

FAME.

"Though fame is smoke,

Its fumes are frankincense to human thought."

BYRON.

1.

SOLDIER, why so madly rushing

'Midst the gleaming spears ?

Why thy cheek with ardour flushing ?— Where thy human fears ?—

Thou hast life or limb to lose,

Life, and youth, and pleasure; Slaughter round her victims strews: Why so blindly treasure

Fame, fame-gory fame!

E

II.

Stricken, while thy heart is beating

With a hero's pride,

Even while thy arm's defeating

Widowing some bride,

Low thou 'lt fall, and mangled lie—

Trampled, rifled, gory;

Or, where Afric's sun is burning,
Fever'd, weak, and lone,

On a bed of anguish turning,
Vainly thou mayst moan-
All unnoted yield thy breath,

With no voice to cheer thee:
Oh! of all, a soldier's death
Mocks his dream of glory-

Fame, fame!-fickle fame!

IV.

Player, why that mimic seeming
Of a woe too big for words ?-
Why that soul-impassion'd dreaming,
Pacing o'er the Thespic boards,
Quick deep sobs, and passion's start-
True as Nature-breaking

From thy fancy-tortured heart,

Fabled grief mistaking

For thine own-thine own !

V.

Study's toil and nightly watching,

Daily wrongs and insults keen,

Stigma to thy name attaching:

But to seem a king or queen

No-I wrong thee !-Reckless thou

King or Beggar playing;

With thy mind-illumined brow

But one hope betraying

Fame, fame !-deathless fame!

VI.

Painter, wherefore ever straining

Eye and hand to image manLife's enjoyments all disdaining,

O'er and o'er thy work to scan?

Pale and silent worker, tell

From whence thy patience springeth,

Binding Nature in her spell

Until thy pencil bringeth

Fame, fame!-dear-bought fame!

VII.

Thou, to whom sweet Beauty seemeth
So divinely bright and fair,
As from out thy canvas beameth

Something of her 'witching air-
Doom'd obscurely, oft, to sigh,
'Midst the fancied forms of grace

That around thee scatter'd lie,
Over one remember'd face:

Fame, fame idle fame!