There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn abide; Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world beside. Faithful if this wan image be, No dream his life was-but a fight; Could any Beatrice see A lover in that Anchorite? To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight, Who could have guessed that visions came Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame? The lips as Cuma's cavern close, The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe; Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once forlorn he strayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade; His palm upon the pilgrim guest, The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was Rest. Peace dwells not here: this rugged face The sullen warrior sole we trace, War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth • Baron and Duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth. He used Rome's Harlot for his mirth; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; But valiant souls of knightly worth O Time! whose judgments mock our own, Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, ST. JAMES'S PARK. I watched the swans in that proud Park And every other soul was gone; I seemed to hear a spirit say : Be calm-the night is; never moan The swans that vanished from thy sight To bring them back no prayer hath power. Believ'st thou in eternal things? Thou feelest in thy inmost heart Thou art not clay-thy soul hath wings; DIRGE. For one who fell in battle. Room for a Soldier! lay him in the clover; He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover; Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover: Where the rain may rain upon it, Where the sun may shine upon it, Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches; Make his mound with sunshine on it, |