English

Ye that have faced the billows and the spray
Of good St. Botolph's island-studded bay,
As from the gliding bark your eye has scanned
The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills of sand,
Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershadowed isle,
Round as the dimple chased in beauty's smile, —
A stain of verdure on an azure field,
Set like a jewel in a battered shield?
Fired in the narrow gorge of Ocean's path,
Peaceful it meets him in his hour of wrath;
When the mailed Titan, scourged by hissing gales,

You know " The Teacups, " that congenial set
Which round the Teapot you have often met;
The grave Dictator , him you knew of old, —
Knew as the shepherd of another fold:
Grayer he looks, less youthful, but the same
As when you called him by a different name.
Near him the M ISTRESS , whose experienced skill
Has taught her duly every cup to fill;
" Weak; " " strong; " " cool; " " lukewarm; " " hot as you can pour; "
" No sweetening; " " sugared; " " two lumps; " " one lump more. "

ADDITIONAL LINES

— They had their choice, you say, their will was free,
And nothing hindered each and every one
From thinking always as he should have thought
From doing always as he should have done.
So had he found the right and saved his soul
Look you, this choosing seems a simple thing
But could we always choose as we would choose,
When nothing seems to bind us in our choice
What painters, sculptors, poets, we might be!
— Lay me those flakes of color thus and so —

LOVE

What if a soul redeemed, a spirit that loved
While yet on earth and was beloved in turn,
And still remembered every look and tone
Of that dear earthly sister who was left
Among the unwise virgins at the gate, —
Itself admitted with the bridegroom's train, —
What if this spirit redeemed, amid the host
Of chanting angels, in some transient lull
Of the eternal anthem, heard the cry
Of its lost darling, whom in evil hour
Some wilder pulse of nature led astray

IDOLS

But what is this?
The sacred beetle, bound upon the breast
Of the blind heathen! Snatch the curious prize,
Give it a place among thy treasured spoils,
Fossil and relic, — corals, encrinites,
The fly in amber and the fish in stone,
The twisted circlet of Etruscan gold,
Medal, intaglio, poniard, poison-ring, —
Place for the Memphian beetle with thine hoard!

Ah! longer than thy creed has blest the world
This toy, thus ravished from thy brother's breast,

TRUTHS

The time is racked with birth-pangs; every hour
Brings forth some gasping truth, and truth newborn
Looks a misshapen and untimely growth,
The terror of the household and its shame,
A monster coiling in its nurse's lap
That some would strangle, some would only starve;
But still it breathes, and passed from hand to hand,
And suckled at a hundred half-clad breasts,
Comes slowly to its stature and its form,
Calms the rough ridges of its dragon-scales,
Changes to shining locks its snaky hair,

RIGHTS

What am I but the creature Thou hast made?
What have I save the blessings Thou hast lent?
What hope I but thy mercy and thy love?
Who but myself shall cloud my soul with fear?
Whose hand protect me from myself but thine?
I claim the rights of weakness, I, the babe,
Call on my sire to shield me from the ills
That still beset my path, not trying me.
With snares beyond my wisdom or my strength,
He knowing I shall use them to my harm,
And find a tenfold misery in the sense

Regrets

Brief glimpses of the bright celestial spheres,
False lights, false shadows, vague, uncertain gleams,
Pale vaporous mists, wan streaks of lurid flame,
The climbing of the upward-sailing cloud,
The sinking of the downward-falling star, —
All these are pictures of the changing moods
Borne through the midnight stillness of my soul.

Here am I, bound upon this pillared rock,
Prey to the vulture of a vast desire
That feeds upon my life. — I burst my bands

AMBITION

Another clouded night; the stars are hid,
The orb that waits my search is hid with them.
Patience! Why grudge an hour, a month, a year,
To plant my ladder and to gain the round
That leads my footsteps to the heaven of fame,
Where waits the wreath my sleepless midnights won?
Not the stained laurel such as heroes wear
That withers when some stronger conqueror's heel
Treads down their shrivelling trophies in the dust;
But the fair garland whose undying green

" CANST thou with a weak angle strike the whale,
Catch with a hook, or with a noose enthrall?
Drag by a slender line unto the shore?
His huge jaw with a twig or bulrush bore?
Will he his pitiful complaints renew?
For freedom with afflicted language sue?
Become thy willing vassal? Canst thou still
Subject him to the service of thy will?
And like a sparrow, fetter'd in a string,
The play'd-with monster to the virgins bring?
Shall thy companions feast upon his spoil?
Or wilt thou to the merchant sell his oil?