Not that I feel that hunger after fame, Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with;

But that the memory of noble deeds
Cries shame upon the idle and the vile,
And keeps the heart of Man forever up
To the heroic level of old time.
To be forgot at first is little pain
To a heart conscious of such high intent
As must be deathless on the lips of


But, having been a name, to sink and be A something which the world can do without,

Which, having been or not, would never change

The lightest pulse offate, -thisis indeed A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs.

Endless despair shall be thy Caucasus, And memory thy vulture; thou wilt find Oblivion far lonelier than this peak, Behold thy destiny! Thou think'st it much

That I should brave thee, miserable god!

But I have braved a mightier than thou,

Even the tempting of this soaring heart, Which might have made me, scarcely less than thou,

A god among my brethren weak and blind,

Scarce less than thou, a pitiable thing To be down-trodden into darkness

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Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love,

By whom, and for whose glory, ye shall


And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard

From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I Shall be a power and a memory,

A name to fright all tyrants with, a light Unsetting as the pole-star, a great voice Heard in the breathless pauses of the fight By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong,

Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake Huge echoes that from age to age live on In kindred spirits, giving them a sense Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung:

And many a glazing eye shall smile to see The memory of my triumph (for to meet Wrong with endurance, and to overcome The present with a heart that looks beyond,

Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch Upon the sacred banner of the Right. Evil springs up. and flowers, and bears

no seed,

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In the unfailing energy of Good, Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make

Of some o'erbloated wrong, spirit which


Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of man,

Like acorns among grain, to grow and be

A roof for freedom in all coming time !

But no, this cannot be; for ages yet, In solitude unbroken, shall I hear The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout, And Euxine answer with a muffled roar, On either side storming the giant walls Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam

(Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow),

That draw back baffled but to hurl again, Snatched up in wrath and horrible tur moil,

Mountain on mountain, as the Titans


My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove,

Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad

In vain emprise. The moon will come and go

With her monotonous vicissitude; Once beautiful, when I was free to walk Among my fellows, and to interchange The influence benign of loving eyes, But now by aged use grown wear.


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The death-watch ticked behind the wall,
The blackness rustled like a pall,
The moaning wind did rise and fall
Among the bleak pines, Rosaline !
My heart beat thickly in mine ears:
The lids may shut out fleshly fears,
But still the spirit sees and hears, -
Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline !

A wildness rushing suddenly,
A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die,
Is not this vengeance, Rosaline?
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite withered up and gone,
A strong soul trampled from its throne,
What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?

'Tis drear such moonless nights as these,
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,
And the leaves shiver in the trees,
And then thou comest, Rosaline!
I seem to hear the mourners go,
With long black garments trailing slow,
And plumes anodding to and fro,
As once I heard them, Rosaline !

Thy shroud is all of snowy white,
And, in the middle of the night,
Thou standest moveless and upright,

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Why wilt thou haunt me with thineeyes,
Wherein such blessed memories,
Such pitying forgiveness lies,
Than hate more bitter, Rosaline?
Woe's me! I know that love so high
As thine, true soul, could never die,
And with mean clay in churchyard lie, -
Would it might be so, Rosaline !


THERE came a youth upon the earth,
Some thousand years ago,
Whose slender hands were nothing

Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty


He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell. Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half-sleep,

Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,

And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough,
And yet he used them so,
That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,
For idly, hour by hour,

He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,

For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,

He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise,
But, when a glance they caught
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,
They laughed, and called him good-for-

Vet after he was dead and gone,

And e'en his memory dim,

Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother as a god.


It is a mere wild rosebud,
Quite sallow now, and dry,
Yet there's something wondrousin it,-
Some gleams of days gone by,
Dear sights and sounds that are to me
The very moons of memory,

And stir my heart's blood far below
Its short-lived waves of joy and woe.

Lips must fade and roses wither,
All sweet times be o'er,
They only smile, and, murmuring

Stay with us no more:
And yet ofttimes a look or smile,
Forgotten in a kiss's while,

Years after from the dark will start,
And flash across the trembling heart.

Thou hast given me many roses,
But never one, like this,
O'erfloods both sense and spirit

With such a deep, wild bliss;
We must have instincts that glean up
Sparse drops of this life in the cup,
Whose taste shall give us all that we
prove of immortality.

Earth's stablest things are shadows,
And, in the life to come

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