IN THE ROSPIGLIOSI PALACE, ROME

Forth from the arms of her beloved now,
Whitening the Orient steep, the Concubine
Of old Tithonus comes, her lucent brow
Glistening with gems, her fair hands filled with flowers,
That drop their violet odors on the brine,
While from her girdle pours a wealth of pearls
Round ocean's rocks and every vessel's prow
That cuts the laughing billow's crested curls.
Behind her step the busy, sober Hours,
With much to do, — and they must move apace:
Wake up, Apollo! should the women stir,
And thou be lagging? brighten up thy face!
(Those eyes of Phaeton more brilliant were.)
Hurry, dull god! Hyperion, to thy race!
Thy steeds are galloping, but thou seem'st slow:
Hesper, glad wretch, hath newly fed his torch,
And flies before thee, and the world cries, Go!
Light the dark woods, the dew-drenched mountain scorch!
Phaebus, Aurora calls, why linger so?

You restless ghosts that roam the lurid air,
I feel your misery, — for I was there;
Yea, not in dreams, but breathing and alive
Have seen the storm, and heard the tempest drive;
Yet while the sleet went, withering as it past,
And the mad hail gave scourges to the blast,
While all was black below and flame above,
Have thought, — 't is little to the storm of Love:
You know that sadly, know it to your cost,
Ah! too much loving, and forever lost!

Still, suffering spirits, even your doom affords
Kisses and tears, however scant of words;
Brief is your story, but it liveth long, —
Oh, thank for that your poet and his song!
Be it some comfort, in that hateful Hell,
You had a lover of your love to tell;
One that knew all — the ecstasy, the gloom,
All the sad raptures that precede the tomb,
The fluttering hope, the triumph, and the care,
The wild emotion, and the sure despair.

Not every friend hath friendship's finer touch,
To pardon passion, when it mounts too much;
Not every soul hath proved its own excess,
And feared the throb it still would not repress.
But he whose numbers gave you unto fame,
Lord of the lay, — I need not speak his name, —
Was one who felt; whose life was love or hate;
Born for extremes, he scorned the middle state;
And well he knew that, since the world began,
The heart was master in the world of man.