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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
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
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
Her head fell back; and now a loud deep sob
Swell'd thro' the darken'd chamber; 'twas not hers. 1836.
CORINNA TO TANAGRA, FROM
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.
THOSE who have laid the harp aside
And, catching back some favorite strain,
But Memory is not a Muse,
O Wordsworth! though 'tis said
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,
A marsh, where only flat leaves lie,
He who would build his fame up high,
Before he try if loam or sand
We both have run o'er half the space
I wish them every joy above
TO JOSEPH ABLETT
LORD of the Celtic dells, Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel
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
"Take what hath been for years delay'd, And fear not that the leaves will fall One hour the earlier from thy coronal." Ablett! thou knowest with what even hand
I waved away the offer'd seat Among the clambering, clattering, stilted great,
The rulers of our land;
Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up,
Thou knowest how, and why, are dear to me
My citron groves of Fiesole,
My chirping Affrico, my beechwood nook,
My Naiads, with feet only in the brook, Which runs away and giggles in their
Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other places.
'Tis not Pelasgian wall,
By him made sacred whom alone
Here can I sit or roam at will: Few trouble me, few wish me ill, Few come across me, few too near ; Here all my wishes make their stand; Here ask I no one's voice or hand; Scornful of favor, ignorant of fear.
Yon vine upon the maple bough Flouts at the hearty wheat below; Away her venal wines the wise man sends,
While those of lower stem he brings
From inmost treasure vault, and sings Their worth and age among his chosen friends.
Behold our Earth, most nigh the sun Her zone least opens to the genial heat, But farther off her veins more freely
'Tis thus with those who whirl about the great; [mote The nearest shrink and shiver, we reMay open-breasted blow the pastoral oat. 1834. 1837.1
1 This poem had been printed in an earlier form, containing lines to Coleridge, in Leigh Hunt's London Journal, December 3, 1834. See Colvin's Life of Landor. note to p. 142.
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherished thee so little;
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely
Can lift no aspiration-reasoning
The smiles of nature shed a potent charm,
And light us to our chamber at the grave. 1835. 1846.