Chased, like Orestes, by the Furies' rods,

Like him at length thy peace dost thou inherit !

Beholding whom, men think how fairer far

Than all the steadfast stars the wandering star! ! 1

1 Mr. Swinburne's and Mr. Arnold's diverse views of Byron will be found in the Selections by Mr. Arnold and in the Nineteenth Century.

XXI.

To Omar Khayyâm.

WISE Omar, do the Southern Breezes fling
Above your Grave, at ending of the Spring,
The Snowdrift of the Petals of the Rose,
The wild white Roses you were wont to sing?

Far in the South I know a Land divine,
And there is many a Saint and many a Shrine,
And over all the Shrines the Blossom blows
Of Roses that were dear to you as Wine.

You were a Saint of unbelieving Days,
Liking your Life and happy in Men's Praise ;

Enough for you the Shade beneath the Bough,
Enough to watch the wild World go its Ways.

The hills above San Remo, where rose-bushes are planted by the shrines. Omar desired that his grave might be where

the wind would scatter rose-leaves over it.

1

Dreadless and hopeless thou of Heaven or

Hell,

Careless of Words thou hadst not Skill to spell,

Content to know not all thou knowest now, What's Death? Doth any Pitcher dread the Well?

The Pitchers we, whose Maker makes them ill, Shall He torment them if they chance to spill?

Nay, like the broken Potsherds are we cast Forth and forgotten,—and what will be will!

So still were we, before the Months began
That rounded us and shaped us into Man.

So still we shall be, surely, at the last,
Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban!

Ah, strange it seems that this thy common Thought

How all Things have been, ay, and shall be nought

Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East,

In those old Days when Senlac Fight was

fought,

Which gave our England for a captive Land
To pious Chiefs of a believing Band,

A gift to the Believer from the Priest,
Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand!1

1

Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave Through Helm and Brain of him who could not

save

His England, even of Harold Godwin's son ; The high Tide murmurs by the Hero's Grave! 2

And thou wert wreathing Roses-who can tell ?— Or chanting for some Girl that pleased thee well,

Or satst at Wine in Nashâpûr, when dun The twilight veiled the Field where Harold fell!

The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam! Along the white Walls of his guarded Home

No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o'er the Wave The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam!

1 Omar was contemporary with the battle of Hastings. 2 Per mandata Ducis, Rex hic, Heralde, quiescis, Ut custos maneas littoris et pelagi.

And dear to him, as Roses were to thee,
Rings the long Roar of Onset of the Sea;

The Swan's Path of his Fathers is his Grave: His Sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be.

His was the Age of Faith, when all the West Looked to the Priest for Torment or for Rest;

And thou wert living then, and didst not heed The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed!

Ages of Progress! These eight hundred Years Hath Europe shuddered with her Hopes or

Fears,

And now! to thee she listeneth indeed,

To thee, and half believeth what she hears!

Hadst thou THE SECRET? Ah, and who may

tell?

"An Hour we have," thou saidst; "Ah, waste

it well!"

An Hour we have, and yet Eternity

Looms o'er us, and the Thought of Heaven or

Hell!