Not that I feel that hunger after fame, Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with;

But that the memory of noble deeds
Cries shame upon the idle and the vile,
And keeps the heart of Man forever up
To the heroic level of old time.
To be forgot at first is little pain
To a heart conscious of such high intent
As must be deathless on the lips of
men;

But, having been a name, to sink and be A something which the world can do without,

Which, having been or not, would never change

The lightest pulse offate, -thisis indeed A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs.

Endless despair shall be thy Caucasus, And memory thy vulture; thou wilt find Oblivion far lonelier than this peak, Behold thy destiny! Thou think'st it much

That I should brave thee, miserable god!

But I have braved a mightier than thou,

Even the tempting of this soaring heart, Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou,

A god among my brethren weak and blind,

Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing To be down-trodden into darkness

Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love,

By whom, and for whose glory, ye shall

cease:

And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard

From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I Shall be a power and a memory,

A name to fright all tyrants with, a light Unsetting as the pole-star, a great voice Heard in the breathless pauses ofthe fight By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong,

Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake Huge echoes that from age to age live on In kindred spirits, giving them a sense Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung:

And many a glazing eye shall smile to see The memory of my triumph (for to meet Wrong with endurance, and to overcome The present with a heart that looks beyond,

Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch Upon the sacred banner of the Right. Evil springs up, and flowers, and bears no seed,

And feeds the green earth with its swift decay,

Leaving it richer for the growth of truth; But Good, once put in action or in thought,

Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down

The ripe germs of a forest. Thou,

weak god,

Shalt fade and be forgotten! but this soul, Fresh-living still in the serene abyss, Inevery heaving shall partake, that grows From heart to heart among the sons of men,

As the ominous hum before the earthquake runs

Far through the Egean from roused isle to isle,

Foreboding wreck to palaces and shrines, And mighty rents in many a cavernous

error

That darkens the free light to man :This heart,

Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth

Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws

Part of that awful Presence which doth haunt

The palaces of tyrants, to hunt off, With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings

And hideous sense of utter loneliness, All hope of safety, all desire of peace, All but the loathed forefeeling of blank death,

Part of that spirit which doth ever brood In patient calm on the unpilfered nest Of man's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow fledged

To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world,

Filling with dread such souls as dare not trust

In the unfailing energy of Good, Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make

Of some o'erbloated wrong, spirit which

that

Scatters great hopes in the seed-field

of man,

Like acorns among grain, to grow and be

A roof for freedom in all coming time!

But no, this cannot be; for ages yet, In solitude unbroken, shall I hear The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout, And Euxine answer with a muffled roar, On either side storming the giant walls Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam

(Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow),

That draw back baffled but to hurl again, Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil,

Mountain on mountain, as the Titans

Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping - but divine. Violet ! dear violet !

Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of Him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience

Which made thee all that Nature meant thee! 1841.

ROSALINE.

THOU look'dst on me all yesternight.
Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright
As when we murmured our troth-plight
Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline!
Thy hair was braided on thy head,
As on the day we two were wed,
Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert
dead,

But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline !

The death-watch ticked behind the wall,
The blackness rustled like a pall,
The moaning wind did rise and fall
Among the bleak pines, Rosaline !
My heart beat thickly in mine ears:
The lids may shut out fleshly fears,
But still the spirit sees and hears, -
Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline !

A wildness rushing suddenly,
A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die,
Is not this vengeance, Rosaline?
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite withered up and
gone,
A strong soul trampled from its throne,
What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?

'Tis drear such moonless nightsas these,
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,
And the leaves shiver in the trees,
And then thou comest, Rosaline !
1 seem to hear the mourners go,
With long black garments trailing slow,
And plumes anodding to and fro,
As once I heard them, Rosaline !

Thy shroud is all of snowy white,
And, in the middle of the night,
Thou standest moveless and upright,