Helen. Easy are all things, do but thou command. Menelaus. Look up then. Helen. To the hardest proof of all I am now bidden; bid me not look up. Menelaus. She looks as when I led her on behind The torch and fife, and when the blush o'erspread Her girlish face at tripping in the myrtle On the first step before the wreathed gate. Approach me. Fall not on thy knees. WHERE art thou gone, light-ankled With wing at either shoulder, Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near I doubted it: I felt no fear. I may not call thee back; but thou Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow Then smiling eyes bend over mine, 1853. years Have we lived door by door: The Fates have laid aside their shears Perhaps for some few more. 1 was indocile at an age When better boys were taught, But thou at length hast made me sage, Little I know from other men, Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, Rather what lies before my feet He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat 1853. The poet's heart: while that heart bleeds, the hand Presses it close. Grief must run on and pass Into near Memory's more quiet shade Rush back into his bosom; all the strength Of genius can not draw them into light From under mastering Grief; but Memory, The Muse's mother, nurses, rears them up, Informs, and keeps them with her all her 1853. days. I was among the shades (if shades they were) And look'd around me for some friendly hand To guide me on my way, and tell me all That compass'd me around. I wish'd to find One no less firm or ready than the guide Of Alighieri, trustier far than he, Higher in intellect, more conversant With earth and heaven and whatso lies between. He stood before me-Southey. "Thou art he," Said I, "whom I was wishing." "That I know," Replied the genial voice and radiant eye. "We may be question'd, question we may not ; For that might cause to bubble forth again Some bitter spring which crossed the pleasantest And shadiest of our paths." "I do not ask," Said I," about your happiness; I see The same serenity as when we walked Along the downs of Clifton. Fifty years Have roll'd behind us since that summer tide, Nor thirty fewer since along the lake Of Lario, to Bellaggio villa-crown'd, Thro' the crisp waves I urged my sideling bark, Amid sweet salutations off the shore From lordly Milan's proudly courteous dames." "Landor! I well remember it," said he, "I had just lost my first-born only boy, And then the heart is tender; lightest things Sink into it, and dwell there evermore." The words were not yet spoken when the air Blew balmier; and around the parent's neck An Angel threw his arms: it was that |