Agamemnon. Never mayst thou, Iphigeneia, feel it!

Aulis had no sharp sword, thou wouldst exclaim,

Greece no avenger-I, her chief so late. Through Erebos, through Elysium, writhe beneath it.

Iphigeneia. Come, I have better diadems than those

Of Argos and Mycenai: come away, And I will weave them for you on the bank.

You will not look so pale when you have walk'd

A little in the grove, and have told all
Those sweet fond words the widow sent
her child.
Agamemnon.

O Earth! I suffered less upon thy shores! (Aside.) The bath that bubbled with my blood, the blows

That spilt it (O worse torture!) must she know?

Ah! the first woman coming from Mycenai

Will pine to pour this poison in her ear, Taunting sad Charon for his slow ad

Of full-orb'd gladness! Shades we are indeed,

But mingled, let us feel it, with the blessed.

I knew it, but forgot it suddenly,
Altho' I felt it all at your approach.
Look on me; smile with me at my
illusion.

You are so like what you have ever been
Except in sorrow !) I might well forget
I could not win you as I used to do.
It was the first embrace since my de-
scent

I ever aim'd at: those who love me live, Save one, who loves me most, and now would chide me.

Agamemnon. We want not, O Iphigeneia, we

Want not embrace, nor kiss that cools the heart

[more With purity, nor words that more and Teach what we know, from those we know, and sink

Often most deeply where they fall most

light.

Time was when for the faintest breath

And must away to earth again. (Ascending.) Where thou art, thou Of braided brow, Thou cull'd too soon from Argive bowers, Where thy sweet voice is heard among The shades that thrill with choral song, None can regret the parted Hours.

(As the Hours depart, the shades of the Argive warriors who had fought at Troy approach and chant in chorus the praises of Agamemnon and his daughter.)

Chorus of Argives

Maiden! be thou the spirit that breathes Triumph and joy into our song! Wear and bestow these amaranthwreaths,

Iphigeneia-they belong

To none but thee and her who reigns (Less chanted) on our bosky plains.

Semi-chorus

Iphigeneia! 'tis to thee

Glory we owe and victory.

Clash, men of Argos, clash your

arms,

To martial worth and virgin charms.

Other Semi-chorus

Ye men of Argos! it was sweet
To roll the fruits of conquest at the feet
Whose whispering sound made bravest
hearts beat fast.

This we have known at home;
But hither we are come

To crown the king who ruled us first and last.

Chorus

Father of Argos! king of men! We chant the hymn of praise to thee.

In serried ranks we stand again,

Our glory safe, our country free.

Tydeus! and worthy of thy son. 'Tis Ajax wears them now; for he Rules over Adria's stormy sea.

He threw them to the friend who lost
(By the dim judgment of the host)
Those wet with tears which Thetis gave
The youth most beauteous of the brave.
In vain! the insatiate soul would go
For comfort to his peers below.
Clash! ere we leave them all the plain,
Clash! Io Paean! once again.1 1836.

THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA 2 "ARTEMIDORA! Gods invisible, While thou art lying faint along the couch,

Have tied the sandal to thy slender feet And stand beside thee, ready to convey Thy weary steps where other rivers flow. Refreshing shades will waft thy weari

ness

Away, and voices like thy own come near And nearer, and solicit an embrace."

Artemidora sigh'd, and would have pressed

The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak.

Iris stood over her dark hair unseen While thus Elpenor spake. He looked into Eyes that had given light and life erewhile

To those above them, but now dim with tears

And wakefulness. Again he spake of joy Eternal. At that word, that sad word, joy,

Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once

more:

Her head fell back; and now a loud deep sob

Swell'd thro' the darken'd chamber ; 'twas not hers.

CORINNA TO TANAGRA, FROM

ATHENS

TANAGRA! think not I forget

Thy beautifully storied streets; Be sure my memory bathes yet

In clear Thermodon, and yet greets The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy,

1 See Landor's own comment on this poem, p. 440.

21836, in Pericles and Aspasia. Slightly altered and included in the Hellenics, 1846, etc., from which the present text is taken. See Colvin's comment on the poem, in his Life of Landor, pp. 193-4.

Whose sunny bosom swells with joy When we accept his matted rushes Upheav'd with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.

A gift I promise: one I see

Which thou with transport wilt receive,

The only proper gift for thee,

Of which no mortal shall bereave In later times thy mouldering walls, Until the last old turret falls;

A crown, a crown from Athens won, A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son.

There may be cities who refuse

To their own child the honors due, And look ungently on the Muse; But ever shall those cities rue The dry, unyielding, niggard breast, Offering no nourishment, no rest, To that young head which soon shall rise

Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.

Sweetly where cavern'd Dirce flows Do white-arm'd maidens chant my lay,

Flapping the while with laurel-rose

The honey-gathering tribes away; And sweetly, sweetly Attic tongues Lisp your Corinna's early songs;

To her with feet more graceful come The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.

Is hastening on; but when the golden orb

Strikes the extreme of earth, and when the gulfs

Of air and ocean open to receive him, Dampness and gloom invade us; then we think

Ah! thus is it with Youth. Too fast his feet

Run on for sight; hour follows hour; fair maid

Succeeds fair maid; bright eyes bestar his couch:

The cheerful horn awakens him; the feast,

The revel, the entangling dance, allure, And voices mellower than the Muse's

own

Heave up his buoyant bosom on their

wave.

A little while, and then-Ah Youth! Youth! Youth!

Listen not to my words-but stay with me!

When thou art gone, Life may go too; the sigh

That rises is for thee, and not for Life. 1836.

THOSE who have laid the harp aside
And turn'd to idler things,
From very restlessness have tried
The loose and dusty strings,

And, catching back some favorite strain,
Run with it o'er the chords again.

But Memory is not a Muse,

O Wordsworth! though 'tis said They all descend from her, and use To haunt her fountain-head: That other men should work for me In the rich mines of Poesie,

Pleases me better than the toil

Of smoothing under hardened hand, With attic emery and oil,

The shining point for Wisdom's wand, Like those thou temperest 'mid the rills Descending from thy native hills. Without his governance, in vain, Manhood is strong, and Youth is bold.

If oftentimes the o'er-piled strain,

Clogs in the furnace and grows cold Beneath his pinions deep and frore, And swells and melts and flows no more,

That is because the heat beneath

Pants in its cavern poorly fed. Life springs not from the couch of Death,

Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the dead;

Unturn'd then let the mass remain,
Intractable to sun or rain.

A marsh, where only flat leaves lie,
And showing but the broken sky,
Too surely is the sweetest lay
That wins the ear and wastes the day,
Where youthful Fancy pouts alone
And lets not Wisdom touch her zone.

He who would build his fame up high,
The rule and plummet must apply.
Nor say, "I'll do what I have plann'd,”

Before he try if loam or sand
Be still remaining in the place
Delved for each polished pillar's base.
With skilful eye and fit device
Thou raisest every edifice,
Whether in sheltered vale it stand,
Or overlook the Dardan strand,
Amid the cypresses that mourn
Laodameia's love forlorn.

We both have run o'er half the space
Listed for mortal's earthly race;
We both have crossed life's fervid line,
And other stars before us shine:
May they be bright and prosperous
As those that have been stars for us!
Our course by Milton's light was sped,
And Shakespeare shining overhead:
Chatting on deck was Dryden too,
The Bacon of the rhyming crew;
None ever cross'd our mystic sea
More richly stored with thought than he;
Tho' never tender nor sublime,
He wrestles with and conquers Time.
To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee,
I left much prouder company;
Thee gentle Spenser fondly led,?
But me he mostly sent to bed.

I wish them every joy above
That highly blessed spirits prove.
Save one and that too shall be theirs,
But after many rolling years,
When 'mid their light thy light appears.
1833. 1837.

TO JOSEPH ABLETT

LORD of the Celtic dells, Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel

tells

Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance
The plumes of flashy France,
Or, in dark region far across the main.
Far as Grenada in the world of Spain,

Warriors untold to Saxon ear, Until their steel-clad spirits reappear; How happy were the hours that held Thy friend (long absent from his native home)

Amid thy scenes with thee! how wide afield

From all past cares and all to come!

What hath Ambition's feverish grasp. what hath

Inconstant Fortune, panting Hope; What Genius, that should cope