1Ο

Meantime, how much I loved him,
I find out now I've lost him.
I who cared not if I moved him,
Who could so carelessly accost him,
Henceforth never shall get free
Of his ghostly company,
His eyes that just a little wink
As deep I go into the merit

Of this and that distinguished spirit

20 His cheeks' raised colour, soon to sink, As long dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous

Demoniaco-seraphic

Penman's latest piece of graphic.
Nay, my very wrist grows warm
With his dragging weight of arm.
E'en so, swimmingly appears,
Through one's after-supper musings,

30 Some lost lady of old years

With her beauteous vain endeavour
And goodness unrepaid as ever;
The face, accustomed to refusings,
We, puppies that we were . . . Oh never
Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled
Being aught like false, forsooth, to?
Telling aught but honest truth to?
What a sin, had we centupled
Its possessor's grace and sweetness!
40 No she heard in its completeness

Truth, for truth's a weighty matter,
And truth at issue, we can't flatter!
Well, 'tis done with; she's exempt
From damning us thro' such a sally;
And so she glides, as down a valley,
Taking up with her contempt,
Past our reach; and, in the flowers
Shut her unregarded hours.

V.

Oh, could I have him back once more, 50 This Waring, but one half-day more! Back, with the quiet face of yore, So hungry for acknowledgment Like mine! I'd fool him to his bent. Feed, should not he, to heart's content?

Ichabod, Ichabod,
The glory is departed!
Travels Waring East, away?
Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,
Reports a man upstarted
Somewhere as a god,

Hordes grown European-hearted,
Millions of the wild made tame
On a sudden at his fame?

In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar,
With the demurest of footfalls
Over the Kremlin's pavement bright
With serpentine and syenite,'
Steps, with five other Generals
That simultaneously take snuff,
For each to have pretext enough
And kerchiefwise unfold his sash
Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff
To hold fast where a steel chain snaps,
And leave the grand white neck no gash?
Waring in Moscow, to those rough
Cold northern natures born perhaps,
Like the lambwhite maiden dear
From the circle of mute kings
Unable to repress the tear,
Each as his sceptre down he flings,
To Dian's fane at Taurica,

Where now a captive priestess, she alway
Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech
With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten
beach

As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands

Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands

бо

70

80

90

Where breed the swallows, her melodious 100

cry

Amid their barbarous twitter!

In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain

That we and Waring meet again

Now, while he turns down that cool nar

row lane

Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid Egyptian granite.

slid

Its stiff gold blazing pall

From some black coffin-lid. Or, best of all,

I love to think

The leaving us was just a feint; Back here to London did he slink, And now works on without a wink Of sleep, and we are on the brink 10 Of something great in fresco-paint: Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, Up and down and o'er and o'er He splashes, as none splashed before Since great Caldara Polidore.1 Or Music means this land of ours Some favour yet, to pity won By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers, "Give me my so-long promised son, "Let Waring end what I begun!" 20 Then down he creeps and out he steals Only when the night conceals

--

His face; in Kent 'tis cherry-time,
Or hops are picking: or at prime
Of March he wanders as, too happy,
Years ago when he was young,
Some mild eve when woods grew sappy
And the early moths had sprung
To life from many a trembling sheath
Woven the warm boughs beneath;
30 While small birds said to themselves
What should soon be actual song,
And young gnats, by tens and twelves,
Made as if they were the throng
That crowd around and carry aloft
The sound they have nursed, so sweet and
pure,

Out of a myriad noises soft,
Into a tone that can endure
Amid the noise of a July noon
When all God's creatures
boon,

crave their

40 All at once and all in tune,
And get it, happy as Waring then,
Having first within his ken

What a man might do with men:
And far too glad, in the even-glow,

To mix with the world he meant to take
Into his hand, he told you, so
And out of it his world to make,
To contract and to expand
As he shut or oped his hand.
50 Oh Waring, what's to really be?

A clear stage and a crowd to see!
Some Garrick, say, out shall not he
The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck?
Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,
Some Junius am I right? -- shall tuck
His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife!
Some Chatterton shall have the luck
Of calling Rowley into life!

Surnamed da Caravaggio. A pupil of Raphael.

"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; 10c 'And one, half-hidden by his side 'Under the furled sail, soon I spied, "With great grass hat and kerchief Black, 'Who looked up with his kingly throat, 'Said somewhat, while the other shook "His hair back from his eyes to look "Their longest at us; then the boat, "I know not how, turned sharply round, 'Laying her whole side on the sea As a leaping fish does; from the lee "Into the weather, cut somehow

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IIC

An hour they sat in council,

At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, "I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain "I'm sure my poor head aches again, "I've scratched it so, and all in vain. "Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"

(With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister

Younger.

I.

HAMELIN Town's in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,

Save when at noon his paunch grew muti

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