O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Twelve abreast. III. And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame And that glory and that shame alike, the gold IV. Now, the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. V. And I know-while thus the quiet-coloured eve To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. VI. But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,-and then, All the men ! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each. VII. In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force Gold, of course. Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best. TIME'S REVENGES. I've a Friend, over the sea ; I like him, but he loves me. It all grew out of the books I write ; He does himself though,—and if some vein Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand To be my nurse in this poor place, And make my broth and wash my face 66 With, worse than fever throbs and shoots, "The creaking of his clumsy boots." I am as sure that this he would do, As that Saint Paul's is striking two. And I think I rather ... woe is me! -Yes, rather should see him than not see, To-night, when my head aches indeed, And I've a Lady—there he wakes Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint And you shall see how the devil spends A fire God gave for other ends! I tell you, I stride up and down This garret, crowned with love's best crown, And feasted with love's perfect feast, To think I kill for her, at least, |