Part 33 (1/2)

I strike the lyre, I sound the hollow sh.e.l.l; And why? For comfort, when my thoughts rebel, And when I count the woes that must ensue.

But for this reason, and no other one, I dare to look thy way, and bow my head To thy sweet name, as sunflower to the sun, Though, peradventure, not so wisely fed With garden fancies. Tears must now be shed, Unnumber'd tears, till life or love be done!

XIII.

A THUNDERSTORM AT NIGHT.

The lightning is the shorthand of the storm That tells of chaos; and I read the same As one may read the writing of a name,-- As one in h.e.l.l may see the sudden form Of G.o.d's fore-finger pointed as in blame.

How weird the scene! The Dark is sulphur-warm With hints of death; and in their vault enorme The reeling stars coagulate in flame.

And now the torrents from their mountain-beds Roar down uncheck'd; and serpents shaped of mist Writhe up to Heaven with unforbidden heads; And thunder-clouds, whose lightnings intertwist, Rack all the sky, and tear it into shreds, And shake the air like t.i.tians that have kiss'd!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

XIV.

IN TUSCANY.

Dost thou remember, friend of vanish'd days, How in the golden land of love and song, We met in April in the crowded ways Of that fair city where the soul is strong, Aye! strong as fate, for good or evil praise?

And how the lord whom all the world obeys,-- The lord of light to whom the stars belong,-- Illumed the track that led thee through the throng?

Dost thou remember, in the wooded dale, Beyond the town of Dante the Divine, How all the air was flooded as with wine?

And how the lark, to drown the nightingale, Peal'd out sweet notes? I live to tell the tale.

But thou? Oblivion signs thee with a sign!

XV.

A HERO.

The warrior knows how fitful is the fight,-- How sad to live,--how sweet perchance to die.

Is Fame his joy? He meets her on the height, And when he falls he shouts his battle-cry; His eyes are wet; our own will not be dry.

Nor shall we stint his praise, or our delight, When he survives to serve his Land aright And make his fame the watchword of the sky.

In all our hopes his love is with us still; He tends our faith, he soothes us when we grieve.

His acts are just; his word we must believe, And none shall spurn him, though his blood they spill To pierce the heart whose pride they cannot kill.-- Death dies for him whose fame is his reprieve!

XVI.

REMORSE.

Go, get thee gone. I love thee not, I swear; And if I lov'd thee well in days gone by, And if I kiss'd, and trifled with thy hair, And crown'd my love, to prove the same a lie, My doom is this: my joy was quick to die.