Smote by the fresh beam of the spring ing east; And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the daïs-throne--were parch'd with dust; Or clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter'd column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tourna ment, Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. TO THE QUEEN. From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm, And that true North, whereof we lately heard A strain to shame us keep you to yourselves; So loyal is too costly! friends - your love Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go.' Is this the tone of empire? here the faith That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice And meaning, whom the roar of Hougoumont Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven? What shock has fool'd her since, that she should speak So feebly? wealthier-wealthier by hour! hour The voice of Britain, or a sinking land, Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas? There rang her voice, when the full city peal'd Thee and thy Prince! The loyal to their crown Are loyal to their own far sons, who love Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes For ever-broadening England, and her throne In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle, That knows not her own greatness: it she knows And dreads it we are fall'n.—But thou. my Queen Not for itself, but thro' thy living love For one to whom I made it o'er his grave Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale, New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with Soul Ideal manhood closed in real man Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost, Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak, And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a time That hover'd between war and wanton ness, And crownings and dethronements: take withal Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven Will blow the tempest in the distance back From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark, Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, Waverings of every vane with every wind, And wordy trucklings to the transient hour, And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, And Softness breeding scorn of simple life, Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, Or Labour, with a groan and not a voice, Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n from France, And that which knows, but careful for itself, And that which knows not, ruling that which knows To its own harm: the goal of this great world Lies beyond sight: yet-if our slowlygrown And crown'd Republic's crowning com mon-sense, That saved her many times, not failtheir fears Are morning shadows huger than the shapes That cast them, not those gloomier which The darkness of that battle in the Where all of high and holy dies away. THE LOVER'S TALE.. THE original Preface to 'The Lover's Tale' states that it was composed in my nineteenth year. Two only of the three parts then written were printed, when, feeling the imperfection of the poem, I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends, however, who, boylike, admired the boy's work, distributed among our common associates of that hour some copies of these two parts, without my knowledge, without the omissions and amendments which I had in contemplation, and marred by the many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that these two parts have of late been mercilessly pirated, and that what I had deemed scarce worthy to live is not allowed to die, may I not be pardoned if I suffer the whole poem at last to come into the light - accompanied with a reprint of the sequel - a work of my mature life 'The Golden Supper'? May 1879. ARGUMENT. JULIAN, whose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, Lionel, endeavours to narrate the story of his own love for her, and the strange sequel. He speaks (in Parts II. and III.) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, tolling for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage; but he breaks away, overcome, as he approaches the Event, and a witness to it completes the tale. Down those loud waters, like a setting star, Mixt with the gorgeous west the lighthouse shone, And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell Here, too, my love Waver'd at anchor with me, when day hung From his mid-dome in Heaven's airy halls; Gleams of the water-circles as they broke, Flicker'd like doubtful smiles about her lips, Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair, Leapt like a passing thought across her eyes; And mine with one that will not pass, till earth And heaven pass too, dwelt on my heaven, a face Most starry-fair, but kindled from within As 'twere with dawn. She was darkhair'd, dark-eyed: Oh, such dark eyes! a single glance of them Will govern a whole life from birth to death, Careless of all things else, led on with light And farther back, and still withdraw themselves Quite into the deep soul, that evermore Fresh springing from her fountains in the brain, Still pouring thro', floods with redundant life Her narrow portals. Trust me, long ago I should have died, if it were possible To die in gazing on that perfectness Which I do bear within me: I had died, But from my farthest lapse, my latest ebb, Thine image, like a charm of light and strength Upon the waters, push'd me back again On these deserted sands of barren life. |