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Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips | Lest the wise world should look into your and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass And mock you with me after I am gone.
WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing;
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or Nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest,
Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in
When in eternal lines to time thou
To the sound of timbrels sweet
Swaying as we slowly move.
Thou hast left the joyous feast,
HENRY HART MILMAN.
TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND
BID me to live, and I will live
Thy protestant to be:
Or bid me love, and I will give
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
As in the whole world thou canst find,
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
To honor thy decree:
Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
While I have eyes to see:
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
Under that cypress tree:
E'en death, to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me,
And hast command of every part,
THE CHRONICLE: A BALLAD. MARGARITA first possess'd, If I remember well, my breast, Margarita first of all;
But when a while the wanton maid
Martha soon did it resign
Beauteous Catharine gave place
Mary then, and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began;
Alternately they sway'd,
And sometimes Mary was the fair,
Had not Rebecca set me free.
But soon those pleasures fled; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride,
And Judith reigned in her stead.
One month, three days and half an hour Judith held the sovereign power:
Wondrous beautiful her face,
And so Susanna took her place.
And th' artillery of her eye,
She beat out Susan by-the-by.
But in her place I then obey'd
Bless me from such an anarchy!
Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria;
And then a long et cetera.
But should I now to you relate
If I should tell the politic arts
The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, the smiles and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless mysteries!
And all the little lime-twigs laid
I more voluminous should grow
But I will briefer with them be,
My present emperess does claim,
ON THE DOORSTEP.
THE Conference-meeting through at last,
Not braver he that leaps the wall
By level musket-flashes litten, Than I, who stepped before them all, Who longed to see me get the mitten. But no; she blushed, and took my arm! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way.
I can't remember what we said,
'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped
Seemed all transformed and in a glory.
The snow was crisp beneath our feet,
The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,
Her face with youth and health was beaming.
The little hand outside her muff
O sculptor, if you could but mold it !— So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it. To have her with me there alone,
'Twas love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.
The old folks, too, were almost home; Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come,
Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.
She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled,
But yet I knew she understood
With what a daring wish I trembled.
O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
A DIRGE FOR LINCOLN.
()'APTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
ON A BUST OF DANTE.
SEE, from this counterfeit of him
Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song! There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care, and scorn, abide— Small friendship for the lordly throng, Distrust of all the world beside.
Faithful if this wan image be,
Where on the deck my Captain lies, Could any Beatrice see
A lover in that anchorite?
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight
Rise up for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-
Here Captain! dear father!
It is some dream that on the deck,
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
Who could have guessed the visions came Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame?
The lips as Cuma's cavern close,
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose,
But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe, Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.
Not wholly such his haggard look
When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade; Where, as the Benedictine laid
His palm upon the pilgrim guest, The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was rest.
Peace dwells not here—this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose;
The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble man of many woes.