CCV. WINTER. A WRINKLED crabbed man they picture thee, OOVI. EVENING. My window's open to the evening sky; The solemn trees are fringed with golden light; The lawn here shadow'd lies, there kindles bright; And cherished roses lift their incense high. The punctual thrush, on plane-tree warbling nigh, With loud and luscious cries calls down the night; Dim waters, flowing on with gentle might, Between each pause are heard to murmur by. The book that told of wars in holy-land, (Nor less than Tasso sounded in mine ears) Escapes unheeded from my listless hand. Poets whom Nature for her service rears, Like Priests in her great temple ministering stand, But in her glory fade when she appears. COVII. TO TIME. TIME, I rejoice, amid the ruin wide That peoples thy dark empire, to behold Shores against which thy waves in vain have rolled, Where man's proud works still frown above thy tide. The deep based Pyramids still turn aside Thy wasteful current; vigorously old, Nor less thy joy, when, sheltered from thy storms Oft did I mock thee, spoiler, as I trod The glowing courts where still the Goddess warms And stern in beauty stands the quivered God. CCVIII. TO THEODORE WATTS. (Dedicatory Sonnet. Tristram of Lyonesse : And other Poems.) SPRING speaks again, and all our woods are stirred, Spring's light reverberate and reiterate word Shine forth and speak in season. Life stands crowned Here with the best one thing it ever found, As of my soul's best birthdays dawns the third. There is a friend that as the wise man saith Cleaves closer than a brother: nor to me Hath time not shown, through days like waves at strife, This truth more sure than all things else but death, This pearl most perfect found in all the sca That washes toward your feet those waifs of life, } CCIX. JOHN FORD. HEW hard the marble from the mountain's heart Carved night, and chiselled shadow: be the tomb That speaks him famous graven with signs of doom Intrenched inevitably in lines athwart, As on some thunder-blasted Titan's brow Shall strike forth music from so stern a chord, Touching this marble: darkness, none knows how, And stars impenetrable of midnight, may. So looms the likeness of thy soul, John Ford. |