Part 27

("Ionica," 1877)

Oh lord of high compassion, strong to scorn Ephemeral monsters, who with tragic pain Purgest our trivial humours, once again Through thine own Paris have I roamed, to mourn

For freemen plagued with cant, ere we were born, For feasts of death, and hatred's harvest wain Piled high, for princes from proud mothers torn, And soft despairs hushed in the waves of Seine.

Oh Victor, oh my prophet, wilt thou chide If Gudule's pangs, and Marion's frustrate plea, And Gauvrain's promise of a heavenly France, Thy sadly worshipt creatures, almost died This evening, for that spring was on the tree, And April dared in children's eyes to dance?

April 1877.

IN HONOUR OF MATTHEW PRIOR

("Ionica," 1877)

I am Her mirror, framed by him Who likes and knows her. On my rim No fret, no bead, no lace. He tells me not to mind the scorning Of every semblance of adorning, Since I receive Her face.

Sept. 1877.

The following little Greek lyric occurs in a letter of December 18, 1862, to the Rev. E. D. Stone. "My lines," wrote William Johnson, "are suggested by the death of Thorwaldsen: he died at the age of seventy, imperceptibly, having fallen asleep at a concert. But when I had done them, I remembered Provost Hawtrey's last appearance in public at a music party, where he fell asleep: and so I value my lines as a bit of honour done to him, and it seems odd that I should unintentionally have caught in the second and third lines his characteristic sympathy with the young...."

NEC CITHARA CARENTEM

Guide me with song, kind Muse, to death's dark shade; Keep me in sweet accord with boy and maid, Still in fresh blooms of art and truth arrayed.

Bear with old age, blithe child of memory! Time loves the good; and youth and thou art nigh To Sophocles and Plato, till they die.

Playmate of freedom, queen of nightingales, Draw near; thy voice grows faint: my spirit fails Still with thee, whether sleep or death assails.