A pacing to and fro-anon, a stillness,
As nought remain’d of life, save life itself,
And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct.
Then all again was action! Disinclin'd
To converse, save he held it with himself;
Which oft he did, in moody vein discoursing,
And ever and anon invoking honour,
As some high contest there were pending, 'twixt
Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed.
Lorenzo. This spoke impediment; or he was bound
By promise to another; or had friends
Whom it behoveth him to consult, and doubted;
Or 'twixt you lay disparity too wide
For love itself to leap.
Mariana. I saw a struggle,
But knew not what it was.-I wondered still,
That what to me was all content, to him
Was all disturbance; but my turn did come.
At length he talked of leaving us; at length,
He fix'd the parting day--but kept it not-
O how my heart did bound! Then first I knew
It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank
When next he fixed to go; and sank it then
To bound no more! He went.
Lorenzo. To follow him
You came to Mantua?
Mariana. What could I do?
Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood,
Lake, sky, and mountain, went along with him:
Could I remain behind? My father found
My heart was not at home; he loved his child,
And asked me, one day, whither we should go?
I said, "To Mantua." I follow'd him
To Mantua! to breathe the air he breath'd,
To walk upon the ground he walked upon,
To look upon the things he look'd upon,
To look, perchance, on him! perchance to hear him,
To touch him! never to be known to him,
Till he was told, I lived and died his love.
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in its sound."
THE Muses are turn'd gossips; they have lost
The buskin'd step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come then, domestic Muse,
In slipshod measure loosely prattling on
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face;
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing Day.
Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend
With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day
Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on
Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs
Nor comfort; ere the first grey streak of dawn,
The red-arm'd washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile nor quaint device of mirth
E'er visited that day; the very cat,
From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast meal is soon despatched
Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks
Cast at the louring sky, if sky should lour.
From that last evil, oh! preserve us, heavens !
For should the sky pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet; then expect to hear
Of sad disasters-dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapp'd short-and linen horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miseries of life.
Saints have been calm while stretch'd upon the rack, And Montezuma smiled on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing day.
But grant the welkin fair, require not thou,
Who call'st thyself perchance the master here,
Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat,
Or usual 'tendance; ask not, indiscreet,
Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find
Some snug recess impervious; shouldst thou try
The 'custom'd garden walks, thine eye shall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs
Myrtle or rose, all crush'd beneath the weight
Of coarse check'd apron, with impatient hand
Twitch'd off when showers impend: or crossing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim
On such a day the hospitable rites;
Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy
Shall he receive; vainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie,
Or tart or pudding :-pudding he nor tart
That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try,
Mending what can't be help'd, to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow
Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away.
I well remember, when a child, the awe
This day struck into me; for then the maids,
I scarce knew why, look'd cross, and drove me from them;
Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope
Usual indulgences-jellies or creams,
Relique of costly suppers, and set by
For me their petted one; or butter'd toast,
When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale
Of ghost or witch or murder-so I went
And shelter'd me beside the parlour fire;
There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms,
Tended the little ones, and watch'd from harm,
Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles
With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins
Drawn from her ravell'd stocking, might have sour'd
One less indulgent.-
At intervals my mother's voice was heard,
Urging dispatch: briskly the work went on,
All hands employ'd to wash, to rinse, to wring,
To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.
Then would I sit me down, and ponder much
Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bole
Of pipe, amused, we blew, and sent aloft
The floating bubbles, little dreaming then
To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball
Ride buoyant through the clouds-so near approach
The sports of children and the toils of men.
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean hath its bubbles,
And verse is one of them-this most of all.
'Twas in the battle-field, and the cold pale moon
Look'd down on the dead and dying;
And the wind pass'd o'er with a dirge and a wail,
Where the young and brave were lying.
With his father's sword in his red right hand,
And the hostile dead around him,
Lay a youthful chief: but his bed was the ground,
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.
A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,
Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking;
Careless he stept, where friend and foe
Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.
Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
The soldier paused beside it:
He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.
He loosed his hold, and his English heart
Took part with the dead before him;
And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand.
As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him.
"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,
A soldier's grave won by it:
Before I would take that sword from thine hand,
My own life's blood should dye it.
"Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf to batten o'er thee;
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,
Who in life had trembled before thee."
Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth,
Where his warrior foe was sleeping;
And he laid him there in honour and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping.
ENGLAND, with all thy faults I love thee still,
My country! and while yet a nook is left
Where English minds and manners may be foun
Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime
Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deformed
With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies
And fields without a flower, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers.
To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task;
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart
As any thunderer there. And I can feel
Thy follies too, and with a just disdain
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
Reflect dishonour on the land I love.
How in the name of soldiership and sense,
Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth
And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er
With odours, and as profligate as sweet,
Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
And love when they should fight; when such as these
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause?
Time was when it was praise and boast enough
In every clime, and travel where we might,
That we were born her children; praise enough
To fill the ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,
And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
Farewell those honours, and farewell with them
The hope of such hereafter. They have fallen
Each in his field of glory: one in arms,
And one in council. Wolfe upon the lap
Of smiling victory that moment won ;
And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame.
They made us many soldiers. Chatham still
Consulting England's happiness at home,
Secured it by an unforgiving frown,
If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought,
Put so much of his heart into his act,
That his example had a magnet's force,
And all were swift to follow whom all loved.
Those suns are set. Oh rise some other such!
Or all that we have left is empty talk,
Of old achievements, and despair of new.
LOVE OF LIFE.-FROM THE COMPLAINT.
TELL me, some god!-my guardian angel! tell
What thus infatuates ?-What enchantment plants
The phantom of an age 'twixt us and death,
Already at the door? He knocks; —we hear him,—
And yet we will not hear. What mail defends
Our untouch'd hearts ?-What miracle turns off
The pointed thought, which from a thousand quivers
Is daily darted, and is daily shunn'd ?—
We stand as in a battle, throngs on throngs
Around us falling, wounded oft ourselves,-
Though bleeding with our wounds, immortal still!
We see Time's furrows on another's brow,
And Death intrench'd, preparing his assault:
How few themselves in that just mirror see!
Or, seeing, draw their inference as strong!
There death is certain; doubtful here: he must,
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