The Golden Treasury

Additional Poems

CCCXL

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

W. S. Landor

CCCXLI

ROSE AYLMER

Ah what avails the sceptred race!
Ah what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs

I consecrate to thee.

W. S. Landor

CCCXLII

TO ROBERT BROWNING

There is delight in singing, tho' none hear
Beside the singer: and there is delight
In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone
And see the praised far off him, far above.

Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walked along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue

So varied in discourse. But warmer climes

Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where

The Siren waits thee, singing sing for song.
W. S. Landor

CCCXLIII

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak Four not exempt from pride some future day. Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek Over my open volume you will say,

"This man loved me!' then rise and trip away. W. S. Landor

CCCXLIV

RONDEAU

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add,

Jenny kiss'd me.

J. H. Leigh Hunt

CCCXLV

THREE MEN OF GOTHAM

Seamen three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.

Whither in your bowl so free?

To rake the moon from out the sea.

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.

And our ballast is old wine.

And your ballast is old wine.

Who art thou, so fast adrift?

I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be.
In a bowl Care may not be.

Fear ye not the waves that roll?

No: in charméd bowl we swim.

What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.

The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.

And your ballast is old wine.

T. L. Peacock

CCCXLVI

AND SHALL TRELAWNY DIE?

A good sword and a trusty hand!
A merry heart and true!

King James's men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die?

Here's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!

Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he:

'If London Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawny free!

'We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, The Severn is no stay,—

With "

one and all," and hand in hand, And who shall bid us nay?

'And when we come to London Wall,

A pleasant sight to view,

Come forth! Come forth, ye cowards all, Here's men as good as you.

'Trelawny he 's in keep and hold,

Trelawny he may die;

But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold

Will know the reason why!'

R. S. Hawker

CCCXLVII

THE SHANDON BELLS

With deep affection,

And recollection,

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle

Their magic spells.

On this I ponder

Where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder,

Sweet Cork, of thee;

With thy bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,

Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,

While at a glibe rate

Brass tongues would vibrateBut all their music

Spoke naught like thine;

For memory, dwelling

On each proud swelling

Of thy belfry knelling
Its bold notes free,

Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame :

But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter

Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly;

O! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the River Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow,

While on tower and kiosk O

In Saint Sophia

The Turkman gets;

And loud in air

Calls men to prayer

From the tapering summit

Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there is an anthem

More dear to me,