Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay:

Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;

La the dimmest Northeast distance dawned Gibraltar grand and gray; "Here and here did England help me : how can I help England?"-say,

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,

While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 1838. 1845.

TIME'S REVENGES

I'VE a Friend, over the sea;
I like him, but he loves me.

It all grew out of the books I write ;
They find such favor in his sight
That he slaughters you with savage looks
Because you don't admire my books.
He does himself though,-and if some
vein

Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain,

To-morrow month, if I lived to try,
Round should I just turn quietly,
Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand
Till I found him, come from his foreign
land

To be my nurse in this poor place,
And make my broth and wash my face
And light my fire and, all the while,
Bear with his old good-humored smile
That I told him "Better have kept away
Than come and kill me, night and day,
With, worse than fever throbs and
shoots,

The creaking of his clumsy boots."
I am as sure that this he would do,
As that Saint Paul's is striking two.
And I think I rather . . woe is me!

--Yes, rather should see him than not

see,

If lifting a hand could seat him there
Before me in the empty chair
To-night, when my head aches indeed,
And I can neither think nor read,
Nor make these purple fingers hold
The pen; this garret's freezing cold!

And I've a Lady-there he wakes,
The laughing fiend and prince of snakes
Within me, at her name, to pray
Fate send some creature in the way
Of my love for her, to be down-torn,
Upthrust and outward-borne,

So I might prove myself that sea
Of passion which I needs must be!
Call my thoughts false and my fancies
quaint

And my style infirm and its figures faint,
All the critics say and more blame yet,
And not one angry word you get.
But, please you, wonder I would put
My cheek beneath that lady's foot
Rather than trample under mine
The laurels of the Florentine,

And you shall see how the devil spends
A fire God gave for other ends!
I tell you, I ride up and down
This garret, crowned with love's best

crown,

And feasted with love's perfect feast,
To think I kill for her, at least,
Body and soul and peace and fame,
Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,
-So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,
Filled full, eaten out and in

With the face of her, the eyes of her,
The lips, the little chin, the stir

Of shadow round her mouth; and she
-I'll tell you-calmly would decree
That I should roast at a slow fire,
If that would compass her desire
And make her one whom they invite
To the famous ball to-morrow night.

There may be heaven; there must be hell;

Meantime, there is our earth herewell! 1845.

Up to the neck in ferns and cress,
Thinking on Metternich our friend,
And Charles's miserable end,
And much beside, two days; the third,
Hunger o'ercame me when I heard
The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize; you know,
With us in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun's heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line,
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village, too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew. When these had
passed,

I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart,
One instant rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground;
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt:
She picked my glove up while she
stripped

A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that; my glove lay in her breast.
Then I drew breath: they disappeared:
It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone Exactly where my glove was thrown. Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me Rested the hopes of Italy;

I had devised a certain tale

Which, when 't was told her, could not fail

Persuade a peasant of its truth;
I meant to call a freak of youth
This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
And no temptation to betray.

But when I saw that woman's face,
Its calm simplicity of grace,
Our Italy's own attitude

In which she walked thus far, and stood,
Planting each naked foot so firm,

To crush the snake and spare the worm-
At first sight of her eyes, I said,
"I am that man upon whose head
They fix the price, because I hate
The Austrians over us: the State
Will give you gold—oh, gold so much!—
If you betray me to their clutch,
And be your death, for aught I know,
If once they find you saved their foe.
Now, you must bring me food and drink,
And also paper, pen and ink,

And carry safe what I shall write
To Padua, which you'll reach at night
Before the duomo shuts; go in,
And wait till Tenebræ begin;
Walk to the third confessional,
Between the pillar and the wall,
And kneeling whisper, Whence comes
peace?

Say it a second time, then cease;
And if the voice inside returns,
From Christ and Freedom; what concerni
The cause of Peace?-for answer, slip
My letter where you placed your lip;
Then come back happy we have done
Our mother service-I. the son,
As you the daughter of our land!"

Three mornings more, she took her stand

In the same place, with the same eyes:
I was no surer of sunrise

Than of her coming. We conferred
Of her own prospects, and I heard
She had a lover-stout and tall,
She said then let her eyelids fall,
"He could do much "-as if some doubt
Entered her heart,-then, passing out,
"She could not speak for others, who
Had other thoughts; herself she knew:"
And so she brought me drink and food.
After four days, the scouts pursued
Another path; at last arrived

The help my Paduan friends contrived
To furnish me: she brought the news.
For the first time I could not choose
But kiss her hand, and lay my own
Upon her head-"This faith was shown
To Italy, our mother; she

Uses my hand and blesses thee."
She followed down to the sea-shore;
I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thought Concerning--much less wished foraught

Beside the good of Italy,

For which I live and mean to die!

I never was in love; and since

Charles proved false, what shall now convince

My inmost heart I have a friend?
However, if I pleased to spend
Real wishes on myself-say, three-
I know at least what one should be.

I would grasp Metternich until

I felt his red wet throat distil

In blood through these two hands. And

next

-Nor much for that am I perplexed

Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,
Should die slow of a broken heart
Under his new employers. Last
-Ah, there, what should I wish? For
fast

Do I grow old and out of strength.
If I resolved to seek at length
My father's house again, how scared
They all would look, and unprepared!
My brothers live in Austria's pay
-Disowned me long ago, men say;
And all my early mates who used
To praise me so-perhaps induced
More than one early step of mine--
Are turning wise: while some opine
"Freedom grows licence," some suspect
"Haste breeds delay," and recollect
They always said, such premature
Beginnings never could endure !
So, with a sullen All's for best,'
The land seems settling to its rest.
I think then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles,
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt: what harm
If I sat on the door-side bench,
And, while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,

Inquired of all her fortunes-just
Her children's ages and their names,
And what may be the husband's aims
For each of them. I'd talk this out,
And sit there, for an hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing-how

It steals the time! To business now. 1845.

PICTOR IGNOTUS
FLORENCE, 15-

I COULD have painted pictures like that youth's

Ye praise so. up! No bar Stayed me-ah, thought which saddens while it soothes !

How my soul springs

-Never did fate forbid me, star by star.

To outburst on your night with all my gift

Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk

From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift

And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk

To the centre, of an instant; or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan The license and the limit, space and bound,

Allowed to truth made visible in man. And, like that youth ye praise so, all I

saw,

Over the canvas could my hand have flung,

Each face obedient to its passion's law, Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue;

Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood,

A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace, Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood

Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place;

Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved,

O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup? What did ye give me that I have not saved?

Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!)

Of going-I, in each new picture,-

Have scared me, like the revels through a door

Of some strange house of idols at its rites!

This world seemed not the world it was before:

Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped

... Who summoned those cold faces that begun

To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped

Shrinking, as from the soldiery a

nun,

They drew me forth, and spite of me. . . enough!

These buy and sell our pictures, take and give,

Count them for garniture and householdstuff,

And where they live needs must our pictures live

And see their faces, listen to their prate,

Partakers of their daily pettiness, Discussed of,-"This I love, or this I hate,

This likes me more, and this affects me less!"

Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles

My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint These endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series, Virgin, Babe and Saint,

With the same cold calm beautiful

The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:

Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe

As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.

stone,

--Old Gandolf with his paltry onion[peach, Put me where I may look at him!. True

Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!

Draw close that conflagration of my church

-What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!

My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig

The white-grape vineyard where the oilpress stood,

Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find... Ah God, I know not, I!..

Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast.
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas,
all,

That brave Frascati villa with its bath, So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,

Like God the Father's globe on both his hands

Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and

The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me. Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance

Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off.

And Moses with the tables... but I know

Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,

Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope

To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine

Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!

Nay, boys, ye love me-all of jasper, then!

And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long,

And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste

Good strong thick stupefying incensesmoke!

For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,

And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,

And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop

Into great laps and folds of sculptor'swork:

And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts

Grow, with a certain humming in my

ears,

About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,

Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talking

eyes,

And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,

And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet,

--Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?