Kate hath a spirit ever strung

ike a new bow, and bright and sharp

As edges of the cimeter.

The growing murmurs of the Polish

war!

Now must your noble anger blaze out

more

To lapse far back in a confuséd dream
To states of mystical similitude;
If one but speaks or hems or stirs his
chair,

Ever the wonder waxeth more and more,

II.

For I the Nonnenwerth have seen,
And Oberwinter's vineyards green,
Musical Lurlei; and between
The hills to Bingen have I been,

All this hath been, I know not when or where."

So, friend, when first I looked upon your face,

Our thought gave answer, each to each,

so true,

Opposed mirrors each reflecting each Altho' I knew not in what time or place, Methought that I had often met with you,

And each had lived in the other's mind and speech.

O DARLING ROOM.

I.

O DARLING room, my heart's delight,
Dear room, the apple of my sight,
With thy two couches soft and white,
There is no room so exquisite,
No little room so warm and bright
Wherein to read, wherein to write.

Curves toward Mentz, a woody scene.

I.

Yet never did there meet my sight,
In any town to left or right,
A little room so exquisite,

With two such couches soft and white;
Not any room so warm and bright,
Wherein to read, wherein to write.

TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH.

You did late review my lays,
Crusty Christopher;

You did mingle blame and praise,
Rusty Christopher.

When I learnt from whom it came,
I forgave you all the blame,
Musty Christopher;

I could not forgive the praise
Fusty Christopher.

Of brassy vastness broad-blown Argosies

Drave into haven? Yet endure unscathed

Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, and sloped

Into the slumberous summer-noon; but where,

Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks Graven with gorgeous emblems undiscerned?

Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the Nile?

Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes, Awful Memnonian countenances calm Looking athwart the burning flats, far off

Seen by the high-necked camel on the

I am so dark, alas! and thou so bright When we two meet there's never perfect light.

And shook a mane en papillotes.

And once you tried the Muses too; You failed, Sir; therefore now you turn,

To fall on those who are to you

As Captain is to Subaltern.

But men of long-enduring hopes, And careless what this hour may bring,

Can pardon little would-be POPES And BRUMMELS, when they try to sting.

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art,

And waive a little of his claim; To have the deep poetic heart

Is more than all poetic fame.

But you, Sir, you are hard to please;
You never look but half content;
Nor like a gentleman at ease,

With moral breadth of temperament. And what with spites and what with fears,

You cannot let a body be: It's always ringing in your ears, "They call this man as good as me." What profits now to understand The merits of a spotless shirtA dapper boot--a little handIf half the little soul is dirt?

You talk of tinsel! why we see

The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks.

You prate of Nature! you are he

That spilt his life about the cliques. A TIMON you! Nay, nay, for shame : It looks too arrogant a jestThe fierce old man-to take his mame, You bandbox. Off, and let him rest.

STANZAS.

WHAT time I wasted youthful hours, One of the shining wingéd powers, Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of towers.

The Keepsake, 1851.

As towards the gracious light I bow'd,
They seem'd high palaces and proud,
Hid now and then with sliding cloud.
He said, "The labor is not small;
Yet winds the pathway free to all
Take care thou dost not fear to fall!"

SONNET

TO WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY.*

The Pope has bless'd him; The Church caress'd him; He triumphs; maybe we shall stand alone.

Britons, guard your own.

His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd gold,

By lying priests the peasants' votes controll'd.

All freedom vanish'd,
The true men banish'd,

alone.

Britons, guard your own.

Peace-lovers we-sweet Peace we all desire

Peace-lovers we-but who can trust a liar?

Peace-lovers, haters

Of shameless traitors, We hate not France, but this man's heart of stone,

Britons, guard your own.

We hate not France, but France has lost her voice.

This man is France, the man they call her choice.

By tricks and spying, And murder was her freedom overBy craft and lying,

thrown.