Part 18

He past from sight; my laughing life remained Like merry waves that ripple to the bank, Curved round the spot where longing eyes are strained, Because beneath the lake a treasure sank.

Dear as the token of a loss to some, And praised for likeness, this was well; and yet 'Twas better still that younger friends should come, Whose love might grow entwined with no regret.

They came; and one was of a northern race, Who bore the island galley on his shield, Grand histories on his name, and in his face A bright soul's ardour fearlessly revealed.

We trifled, toiled, and feasted, far apart From churls, who wondered what our friendship meant; And in that coy retirement heart to heart Drew closer, and our natures were content.

My noblest playmate lost, I still withdrew From dull excitement which the Graces dread, And talked in saunterings with the gentle few Of tunes we practised, and of rhymes we read.

We swam through twilight waters, or we played Like spellbound captives in the Naiad's grot; Coquetted with the oar, and wooed the shade On dainty banks of shy forget-me-not.

Oh Thames! my memories bloom with all thy flowers, Thy kindness sighs to me from every tree: Farewell I I thank thee for the frolic hours, I bid thee, whilst thou flowest, speak of me.

July 28th, 1864.

PHAEDRA'S NURSE

A plague on the whimsies of sickly folk! What am I to do? What not? Why, here's the fair sky, and here you lie With your couch in a sunny spot. For this you were puling whenever you spoke, Craving to lie outside, And now you'll be sure not to bide.

You won't lie still for an hour; You'll want to be back to your bower-- Longing, and never enjoying, Shifting from yea to nay. For all that you taste is cloying, And sweet is the far away.

'Tis hard to be sick, but worse To have to sit by and nurse, For that is single, but this is double, The mind in pain, and the hands in trouble. The life men live is a weary coil, There is no rest from woe and toil; And if there's aught elsewhere more dear Than drawing breath as we do here, That darkness holds In black inextricable folds.

Lovesick it seems are we Of this, whate'er it be, That gleams upon the earth; Because that second birth, That other life no man hath tried.

What lies below No god will show, And we to whom the truth's denied Drift upon idle fables to and fro.

BELOW BOULTER'S LOCK

The aspen grows on the maiden's bank, Down swoops the breeze on the bough, Quick rose the gust, and suddenly sank, Like wrath on my sweetheart's brow.

The tree is caught, the boat dreads nought, Sheltered and safe below; The bank is high, and the wind runs by, Giving us leave to row.

The bank was dipping low and lower, Showing the glowing west, The oar went slower, for either rower The river was heaving her breast.

That sunset seemed to my dauntless steerer The lifting and breaking of day, That flush on the wave to me was dearer Than shade on a windless way.

June 2nd, 1868.

FROM HALS DON TO CHELTENHAM TO TWO LITTLE LADIES.

Across three shires I stretch and lean, To gaze beyond the hills that screen The trustful eyes and gracious mien Of unforgotten Geraldine.

Up Severn sea my fancy leadeth, And past the springs of Thames it speedeth, On to the brilliant town, which needeth, Far less than I, the laugh of Edith.

Sad gales have changed my woodland scene To russet-brown from gold and green; Cold and forlorn like me hath been The boat that carried Geraldine.

On silent paths the whistler weedeth, And what his tune is no one heedeth; On hay beneath the linhay feedeth The ass that felt the hand of Edith.

Oh cherished thought of Geraldine, I'd rhyme till summer, if the Queen Would blow her trumpets and proclaim Fresh rhymes for that heroic name.

Oh babbler gay as river stickle, Next year you'll be too old to tickle; But while my Torridge flows I'll say "Blithe Edith liked me half day."

A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH SWEETHEART