[exerpt] Of late, in one of those most weary hours, When life seems emptied of all genial powers, A dready mood, which he who ne'er has known May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ; And, from the numbing spell to win relief, Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief. In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee, I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy ! And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache, Which, all else slumb'ring, seem'd alone to wake ; O Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal, And soothe by silence what words cannot heal, I but half saw that quiet hand of thine Place on my desk this exquisite design. Boccaccio's Garden and its faery, The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry ! An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, Framed in the silent poesy of form.
Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep Emerging from a mist : or like a stream Of music soft that not dispels the sleep, But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream, Gazed by an idle eye with silent might The picture stole upon my inward sight. A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest, As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast. And one by one (I know not whence) were brought All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ; Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above, Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! ... And many a verse which to myself I sang, That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang, Of hopes, which in lamenting I renew'd : ...
Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand, Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ; ... I see no longer ! I myself am there, Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings, And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings : Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells From the high tower, and think that there she dwells. With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. ...
Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, ... With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves!
The Good, Great Man
"How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits If any man obtain that which he merits Or any merit that which he obtains."
Reply to the Above
For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain! What would'st thou have a good great man obtain? Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain? Or throne of corses which his sword had slain? Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT, And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath: And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!
The Happy Husband
Oft, oft, methinks, the while with thee I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear And dedicated bame, I hear A promise and a mystery, A pledge of more than passing life, Yea, in that very name of wife!
A pulse of love that ne'er can sleep! A feeling that upbraids the heart With happiness beyond desert, That gladness half requests to weep! Nor bless I not the keener sense And unalarming turbulence.
Of transient joys, that ask no sting From jealous fears, or coy denying; But born beneath Love's brooding wing, And into tenderness soon dying. Wheel out their giddy moment, then Resign the soul to love again;
A more precipitated vein Of notes that eddy in the flow Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave their sweeter understrain Its own sweet self-a love of thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!
