No More Learning

Man-grown, I charm for men.





BABY'S SEASIDE GRAVE.

_("Vieux lierre, frais gazon. ")_

[XXXVIII. , 1840. ]


Brown ivy old, green herbage new;
Soft seaweed stealing up the shingle;
An ancient chapel where a crew,
Ere sailing, in the prayer commingle.
A far-off forest's darkling frown,
Which makes the prudent start and tremble,
Whilst rotten nuts are rattling down,
And clouds in demon hordes assemble.

Land birds which twit the mews that scream
Round walls where lolls the languid lizard;
Brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream
Past caves fit for an ocean wizard.
Alow, aloft, no lull--all life,
But far aside its whirls are keeping,
As wishfully to let its strife
Spare still the mother vainly weeping
O'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping.






LES CHATIMENTS. --1853.





INDIGNATION!

_("Toi qu'aimais Juvenal. ")_

[Nox (PRELUDE) ix. , Jersey, November, 1852.
]


Thou who loved Juvenal, and filed
His style so sharp to scar imperial brows,
And lent the lustre lightening
The gloom in Dante's murky verse that flows--
Muse Indignation! haste, and help
My building up before this roseate realm,
And its so fruitless victories,
Whence transient shame Right's prophets overwhelm,
So many pillories, deserved!
That eyes to come will pry without avail,
Upon the wood impenetrant,
And spy no glimmer of its tarnished tale.





IMPERIAL REVELS.

_("Courtisans! attables dans le splendide orgie. ")_

[Bk. I. x. , Jersey, December, 1852. ]


Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread--
The board that groans with shame and plate,
Still fawning to the sham-crowned head
That hopes front brazen turneth fate!
Drink till the comer last is full,
And never hear in revels' lull,
Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet,
Whilst I gnaw at the crust
Of Exile in the dust--
But _Honor_ makes it sweet!

Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane,
Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief,
In blazing _cafes_ spend the gain,
But draw the blind, lest at _his_ thief
Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance
And interrupts with steel the dance!
But let him toilsomely tramp by,
As I myself afar
Follow no gilded car
In ways of _Honesty_.

Ye troopers who shot mothers down,
And marshals whose brave cannonade
Broke infant arms and split the stone
Where slumbered age and guileless maid--
Though blood is in the cup you fill,
Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still
Hail Cannon "King!