7. THE VENGEANCE OF BACCHUS
BACCHUS by the lonely ocean
Stood in youthful semblance fair :
Summer winds, with gentle motion,
Waved his black and curling hair;
Streaming from his manly shoulders
Robes of gold and purple dye
Told of spoil to fierce beholders
In their black ship sailing by.
On the vessel's deck they placed him,
Strongly bound in triple bands;
But the iron rings that braced him
Melted, wax-like, from his hands.
Then the pilot spake in terror:
"Tis a god in mortal form!
Seek the land; repair your error
Ere his wrath invoke the storm."
"Silence!" cried the frowning master;
"Mind the helm; the breeze is fair.
Coward! cease to bode disaster:
Leave to men the captive's care.”
While he speaks, and fiercely tightens
In the full free breeze the sail,
From the deck wine bubbling lightens,
Winy fragrance fills the gale;
Gurgling in ambrosial lustre
Flows the purple-eddying wine;
O'er the yard-arms trail and cluster
Tendrils of the mantling vine;
Grapes, beneath the broad leaves springing, Blushing as in vintage hours,
Droop, while round the tall mast clinging
Ivy twines its buds and flowers,
Fast with graceful berries blackening;
Garlands hang on every oar.
Then, in fear the cordage slackening,
One and all, they cry, "To shore !"
Bacchus changed his shape, and glaring
With a lion's eyeballs wide,
Roared the pirate-crew, despairing,
Plunged amid the foaming tide.
Through the azure depths they flitted,
Dolphins by transforming fate:
But the god the pilot pitied,
Saved, and made him rich and great.
(FROM "THE SAD SHEPHERD ")
HERE she was wont to go; and here, and here;
Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow:
The world may find the Spring by following her,
For other print her airy steps ne'er left.
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blowball from his stalk;
But like the soft west wind she shot along,
And where she went, the flowers took thickest root,
As she had sowed them with her odorous foot.
9.—TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE
TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore :
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.
10. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S
O THAT those lips had language!
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me: Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blessed be the art that can immortalise,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here,
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long!
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss :
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! It answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?—It was.—Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more:
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped,
'Tis now become a history little known
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Could those few 1 pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might,-
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
1 She died when he was six years old.
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