English

O Golden Lyre, who art Phoebus' treasure
Which he shares with the dusk-haired Song-queens aye,
The light feet hear thee beating the measure
As the revellers marshal their dance-array.
O Lyre, thy signals the singers obey
When in preludes of choral song low-dreaming
O'er thy strings quick-throbbing the harmonies glide
Thou quenchest the thunderbolt's self red-gleaming
Javelined with flame-jets aye outstreaming
On the sceptre of Zeus the slumber-tide
O'er his eagle ripples, on either side.

My spirit only lived to look on Beauty's face,
As only when they clasp the arms seem served aright;
As in their flesh inheres the impulse to embrace,
To gaze on Loveliness was my soul's appetite.

I have roamed far in search; white road and plunging bow
Were keys in the blue doors where my desire was set;
Obedient to their lure, my lips and laughing brow
The hill-showers and the spray of many seas have wet.

Hot are enamored hands, the fragrant zone unbound.
To leave no dear delight unfelt, unfondled o'er,

When Autumn bleak and sunburnt do appear,
With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,
Bringing up Winter to fulfil the year,
Bearing upon his back the ripèd sheaf,
When all the hills with woody seed is white,
When levin-fires and lemes do meet from far the sight;
When the fair apple, red as even sky,
Do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground.
When juicy pears, and berries of black dye,
Do dance in air, and call the eyes around;
Then, be the even foul, or even fair,
Methinks my hartys joy is steyncèd with some care.

Here from the restless bed of lingering pain
The languid sufferer seeks the tepid wave,
And feels returning health and hope again
Disperse “the gathering shadows of the grave!”
And here romantic rocks that boldly swell,
Fringed with green woods, or stain'd with veins of ore,
Call'd native Genius forth, whose Heav'n-taught skill
Charm'd the deep echos of the rifted shore.
But tepid waves, wild scenes, or summer air,
Restore they palsied Fancy, woe-deprest?
Check they the torpid influence of Despair,

To thy bright beams I turn my swimming eyes,
Fair, fav'rite planet! which in happier days
Saw my young hopes, ah! faithless hopes!—arise,
And on my passion shed propitious rays!
Now nightly wandering 'mid the tempests drear
That howl the woods and rocky steeps among,
I love to see thy sudden light appear
Thro' the swift clouds—driven by the wind along;
Or in the turbid water, rude and dark,
O'er whose wild stream the gust of Winter raves,
Thy trembling light with pleasure still I mark,

O childish mind!—last night to rapture won
In marvel of wild Orion; now to sink
Earthward; and by the flames of a dwarf sun
Find a like happiness in a single pink!

I was at peace until you came
And set a careless mind aflame.
I lived in quiet; cold, content;
All longing in safe banishment,
Until your ghostly lips and eyes
Made wisdom unwise.

Naught was in me to tempt your feet
To seek a lodging. Quite forgot
Lay the sweet solitude we two
In childhood used to wander through;
Time's cold had closed my heart about;
And shut you out.

Well, and what then? … O vision grave,
Take all the little all I have!
Strip me of what in voiceless thought

I know where lurk
The eyes of Fear;
I, I alone,
Where shadowy-clear,
Watching for me,
Lurks Fear.

'Tis ever still
And dark, despite
All singing and
All candlelight,
'Tis ever cold,
And night.

He touches me;
Says quietly,
“Stir not, nor whisper,
I am nigh;
Walk noiseless on,
I am by!”

He drives me
As a dog a sheep;
Like a cold stone
I cannot weep.
He lifts me
Hot from sleep

In marble hands
To where on high
The jewelled horror

There are wrongs done in the fair face of heaven
Which cry aloud for vengeance, and shall cry;
Loves beautiful in strength whose wit has striven
Vainly with loss and man's inconstancy;
Dead children's faces watched by souls that die;
Pure streams defiled; fair forests idly riven;
A nation suppliant in its agony
Calling on justice, and no help is given.

All these are pitiful. Yet, after tears,
Come rest and sleep and calm forgetfulness,
And God's good providence consoles the years.
Only the coward heart which did not guess,

Thou hast begun well, Roe, which stand well too,
And I know nothing more thou hast to do.
He that is round within himself, and straight,
Need seek no other strength, no other height;
Fortune upon him breaks herself, if ill,
And what would hurt his virtue makes it still.
That thou at once, then, nobly may'st defend
With thine own course the judgement of thy friend,
Be always to thy gathered self the same:
And study conscience, more than thou wouldst fame.
Though both be good, the latter yet is worst,
And ever is ill got without the first.