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Since but the children of the gods, like them, Suffer not age.

Menelaus. Hast thou more words?
Her voice is musical

As the young maids who sing to Artemis:
How glossy is that yellow braid my grasp
Seiz'd and let loose! Ah! can then years
have past

Helen! speak honestly, And thus escape my vengeance-was it


That bore thee off?
It was some evil god.
Menelaus. Helping that hated man?
How justly hated!
Menelaus. By thee too?
Helen. Hath he not made thee un-

O do not strike.

Menelaus. Wretch!

Strike, but do not speak.
Menelans. Lest thou remember me
against thy will.

Helen. Lest I look up and see you wroth and sad,

Against my will; O! how against my will They know above, they who perhaps can pity.

Menelaus. They shall not save thee.
Then indeed they pity.
Menelaus. Prepare for death.
Helen. Not from that hand: 'twould
pain you.

Menelaus. Touch not my hand.-Easily
dost thou drop it!

Helen. Easy are all things, do but thou command.

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The poet's heart: while that heart
bleeds, the hand
Presses it close. Grief must run on and

Into near Memory's more quiet shade
Before it can compose itself in song.
He who is agonized and turns to show
His agony to those who sit around,
Seizes the pen in vain: thought, fancy,

Rush back into his bosom; all the strength

Of genius can not draw them into light From under mastering Grief; but Memory,

The Muse's mother, nurses, rears them up, Informs, and keeps them with her all her days. 1853.



YEARS, many parti-colored years,

Some have crept on, and some have flown

Since first before me fell those tears
I never could see fall alone.
Years, not so many, are to come,
Years not so varied, when from you
One more will fall: when, carried home,
I see it not, nor hear adieu. 1853.


I wonder not that Youth remains

With you, wherever else she flies: Where could she find such fair domains. Where bask beneath such sunny eyes? 1853.


MANY love music but for music's sake, Many because her touches can awake Thoughts that repose within the breast half-dead,

And rise to follow where she loves to lead.

What various feelings come from days gone by!

What tears from far-off sources dim the eye!

Few, when light fingers with sweet voices play

And melodies swell, pause, and melt


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FRIENDS! hear the words my wandering thoughts would say, And cast them into shape some other day. Southey, my friend of forty years, is

gone, And, shattered by the fall, I stand alone. 1858.


THERE is a flower I wish to wear,
But not until first worn by you
Heart's-ease of all earth's flowers
most rare;
Bring it; and bring enough for two.



WHEN the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First,
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, "Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part."
Many summers have gone by
Since a Second Rose and I

(Rose from that same stem) have told
This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding-day
Carried home my tenderest lay:
From her lap I now have heard
Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third,
Not for her this hand of mine
Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine;
Cold and torpid it must lie,
Mute the tongue and closed the eye.

1858. LATELY OUR SONGSTERS LOITERED IN GREEN LANES LATELY our songsters loiter'd in green lanes,

Content to catch the ballads of the plains;

I fancied I had strength enough to climb

A loftier station at no distant time, And might securely from intrusion doze Upon the flowers thro' which Ilissus flows.


1 See pages 428 and 441. "Rose the Third " the daughter of "the Second Rose," and thus the grand-niece of Rose Aylmer.

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