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Jewel or shell, or starry ore,
To deck thy cradle, Eleanore.

Or the yellow-banded bees,
Through half-open lattices
Coming in the scented breeze,

Fed thee, a child, lying alone,

With whitest honey in fairy gardens culled A glorious child, dreaming alone,

In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees

Into dreamful slumber lulled.

Who may minister to thee ?
Summer herself should minister

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded

On golden salvers, or it may be,
Youngest Autumn, in a bower
Grape-thickened from the light, and blinded

With many a deep-hued bell-like flower
Of fragrant trailers, when the air

Sleepeth over all the heaven,
And the crag that fronts the Even,

All along the shadowing shore,
Crimsons over an inland mere,

Eleänore !

How may

full-sailed verse express, How may measured words adore

The full-flowing harmony
Of thy swan-like stateliness,

Eleanore ?
The luxuriant symmetry
Of thy floating gracefulness,

Eleanore ?
Every turn and glance of thine,
Every lineament divine,

And the steady sunset glow,

A That stays upon thee? 'For in thee

Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streams of incense free

From one censer, in one shrine,

Thought and motion mingle,
Mingle ever. Motions flow
To one another, even as though
They were modulated so

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, Eleanore ?
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, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleänore ! Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awakened, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpowered quite, I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light: As though a star, in inmost heaven set, Even while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain

Fixed—then as slowly fade again,

And draw itself to what it was before;

So full, so deep, so slow,

Thought seems to come and
In thy large eyes, imperial Eleänore.
As thunderclouds that, hung on high,

Roofed the world with doubt and fear,
Floating through an evening atmosphere,
Grow golden all about the sky;
In thee all passion becomes passionless,
Touched by thy spirit's mellowness,
Losing his fire and active might

In a silent meditation,
Falling into a still delight,

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 selfsame influence

Controlleth all the soul and sense
Of Passion gazing upon thee.
His bowstring slackened, languid Love,

Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
Droops both his wings, regarding thee,

And so would languish evermore,

Serene, imperial Eleanore. 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,
On silken cushions half reclined;

I watch thy grace; and in its place
My heart a charmed slumber keeps,

While I muse upon thy face;


And a languid fire creeps

Through my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly: soon,

From thy rose-red lips My name Floweth; and then, as in a swoon,

With dinning sound my ears are rife,

My tremulous tongue faltereth,
I lose my color, I lose my breath,

I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimmed with delirious draughts warmest life,

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 SEE the wealthy miller yet,

His double chin, his portly size,
And who that knew him could forget

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ?
The slow wise smile that, round about

His dusty forehead dryly curled,
Seemed half-within and half-without,

And full of dealings with the world ?
In yonder chair I see him sit,

Three fingers round the old silver cup--
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet

At his own jest-gray eyes lit up
With summer lightnings of a soul

So full of summer warmth, so glad,
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole,

His memory scarce can make me sad.
Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss :

My own sweet Alice, we must die.

There's somewhat in this world amiss

Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life,

But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,

That we may die the selfsame day.

Have I not found a happy earth ?

I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my

birth I'd almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk,

And once again to woo thee mineIt seems in after-dinner talk

Across the walnuts and the wine

To be the long and listless boy

Late left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high

Looks down upon the village spire: For even here, where I and you

Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken through

By some wild skylark’s matin song.

And oft I heard the tender dove

In firry woodlands making moan;
But ere I saw your eyes, my love,

I had no motion of my own.
For scarce my life with fancy played

Before I dreamed that pleasant dream-Still hither thither idly swayed

Like those long mosses in the stream. Or from the bridge I leaned to hear

The mill-dam rushing down with noise, And see the minnows everywhere

In crystal eddies glance and poise, The tall flag-flowers, when they sprung

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