"Give me my so long promised son, His face-in Kent 'tis cherry-time, Some mild eve when woods grew sappy, 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 crave their boon, 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 your world he meant to take And out of it his world to make, Some one shall somehow run a muck Still more distinguished, like the games Of children. Turn our sport to earnest With a visage of the sternest! Bring the real times back, confessed Still better than our very best! (How all turned to him who spokeYou saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel, or seafaring?) II. "We were sailing by Triest, "Where a day or two we harboured: "A sunset was in the West, "When, looking over the vessel's side, "One of our company espied "A sudden speck to larboard. "And, as a sea-duck flies and swims "At once, so came the light-craft up, "With its sole lateen sail that trims "And turns (the water round its rims 66 Dancing, as round a sinking cup) "And by us like a fish it curled, "And drew itself up close beside, "Its great sail on the instant furled, "And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried, 66 (A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) "Buy wine of us, you English Brig? "Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? "A Pilot for you to Triest? "Without one, look you ne'er so big, "They'll never let you up the bay! "We natives should know best.' "I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,' "Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thieves "Are laughing at us in their sleeves.' III. "In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; "With great grass hat, and kerchief black, "Of the sky, to overtake the sun, "Its singing cave; yet I caught one "Those features: so I saw the last "Of Waring!"-You? Oh, never star Look East, where whole new thousands are! RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI. I. I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives grace Is reared, and still with old names, fresh ones vie, Each to its proper praise and own account: Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively. |