Beneath a heaven dark and holy,

To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His waters from the purple hill-

To hear the dewy echoes calling

From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine-
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine !

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.

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VIII.

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak :

The Lotos blows by every winding creek :

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone :

Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotus-dust is

blown.

We have had enough of action, and of motion we,

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Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was

seething free,

Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in

the sea.

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined

On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world :
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and
fiery sands,
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Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.

But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,

Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ;
Till they perish and they suffer--some, 'tis whisper'd-down
in hell

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Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.

I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade,

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The Legend of Good Women,' long ago

Sung by the morning star of song, who made

His music heard below;

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill

The spacious times of great Elizabeth

With sounds that echo still.

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art
Held me above the subject, as strong gales
Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart,
Brimful of those wild tales,

Charged both mine eyes with tears.

In every land

I saw, wherever light illumineth,
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand
The downward slope to death.

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Those far-renowned brides of ancient song
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars,
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong,
And trumpets blown for wars;

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs;
And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries;
And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs
Of marble palaces ;

Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall
Dislodging pinnacle and parapet

Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall;
Lances in ambush set;

And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts
That run before the fluttering tongues of fire;
White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and masts,
And ever climbing higher;

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates,
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes,
Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates,
And hush'd seraglios.

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land
Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way,
Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand,
Torn from the fringe of spray.

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain,

Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak,
As when a great thought strikes along the brain,
And flushes all the cheek.

And once my arm was lifted to hew down
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow,
That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ;
And then, I know not how,

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All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep
Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought
Into the gulfs of sleep.

At last methought that I had wander'd far

In an old wood: fresh-wash'd in coolest dew
The maiden splendours of the morning star
Shook in the stedfast blue.

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and lean
Upon the dusky brushwood underneath

Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, New from its silken sheath.

The dim red morn had died, her journey done,

And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun,

Never to rise again.

There was no motion in the dumb dead air,
Not any song of bird or sound of rill;
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre

Is not so deadly still

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn'd
Their humid arms festooning tree to tree,
And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd
The red anemone.

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew,
Leading from lawn to lawn.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green,

Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame.

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And from within me a clear under-tone

Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unblissful clime, 'Pass freely thro': the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time.'

At length I saw a lady within call,

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there;
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair.

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise
Froze my swift speech: she turning on my face
The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes,

Spoke slowly in her place.

'I had great beauty: ask thou not my name :
No one can be more wise than destiny.
Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came
I brought calamity.'

'No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field
Myself for such a face had boldly died,'
I answer'd free; and turning I appeal'd
To one that stood beside.

But she with sick and scornful looks averse,

To her full height her stately stature draws; 'My youth,' she said, ' was blasted with a curse : This woman was the cause.

'I was cut off from hope in that sad place, Which men call'd Aulis in those iron years:

My father held his hand upon his face;

I, blinded with my tears,

'Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs
As in a dream. Dimly I could descry

The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes,
Waiting to see me die.

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