24 On silken cushions half reclined; Thro' my veins to all my frame, From thy rose-red lips My name I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I would be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleanore. I. My life is full of weary days, But good things have not kept aloof, Nor wander'd into other ways: I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise. And now shake hands across the brink Of that deep grave to which I go : Shake hands once more: I cannot sink So far-far down, but I shall know Thy voice, and answer from below. II. When in the darkness over me The four-handed mole shall scrape, Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, But pledge me in the flowing grape. II. TO J. M. K. My hope and heart is with thee-thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest Every turn and glance of thine, Every lineament divine, Eleanore, And the steady sunset glow, That stays upon thee? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streams of incense free From one censer in one shrine, To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep; Who may express thee, Eleänore? V. I stand before thee, Eleanore; I see thy beauty gradually unfold, Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, Serene, imperial Eleanore ! Ev'n while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face Fix'd-then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was before; So full, so deep, so slow, VII. As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, In a silent meditation, And luxury of contemplation : As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will: Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea: And the self-same influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand, Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore. VI. Sometimes, with most intensity Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep VIII. But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; Or, in a shadowy saloon, To scare church-harpies from the master's feast; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill'd from some worm-canker'd ho mily; But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God's good sabbath, while the wornout clerk Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark III. MINE be the strength of spirit, full and free, Like some broad river rushing down alone, With the selfsame impulse wherewith he was thrown From his loud fount upon the echoing lea : Which with increasing might doth forward flee By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle, And in the middle of the green salt sea Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. Mine be the power which ever to its sway Will win the wise at once, and by degrees IV. ALEXANDER. WARRIOR of God, whose strong right arm debased The throne of Persia, when her Satrap bled At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, disgraced For ever-thee (thy pathway sand-erased) Gliding with equal crowns two serpents led Joyful to that palm-planted fountain-fed Ammonian Oasis in the waste. There in a silent shade of laurel brown Apart the Chamian Oracle divine Shelter'd his unapproached mysteries: High things were spoken there, unhanded down ; Only they saw thee from the secret shrine Returning with hot cheek and kindled eyes. V. BUONAPARTE. HE thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, Madman!-to chain with chains, and bind with bands That island queen who sways the floods and lands From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, When from her wooden walls,-lit by sure hands, With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke, Peal after peal, the British battle broke, Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. |