—“_Patulis ubi vallibus errans, Subjacet aëriis montibus Isca pater._” _Ad Posteros._ I. I followed thee, wild stream of Paradise, White Usk, forever showering the sunned bee In the pink chestnut and the hawthorn tree; And, all along, had magical surmise Of mountains fluctuant in those vesper skies, As unto mermen, caverned in mid-sea, Far up the vast green reaches, soundlessly The giant rollers form, and fall, and rise. Above thy poet’s dust, by yonder yew, Ere distance perished, ere a star began, His clear monastic measure, heard of few, Through lonelier glens of mine own being ran; And thou to me wert dear, because I knew The God who made thee gracious, and the man. II. If, by that second lover’s power controlled, In sweet symbolic rite thy breath o’erfills Fields of no war with vagrant daffodils, From distance unto distance trailing gold; If dazzling sands or thickets thee enfold, Transfigured Usk, where from their mossy sills Gray hamlets kiss thee, and by herded hills Diviner run thy shallows than of old;— If intellectual these, O name thy Vaughan Creator too: and close his memory keep, Who from thy fountain, kind to him, hath drawn Birth, energy, and joy; devotion deep; A play of thought more mystic than the dawn; And death at home; and centuried sylvan sleep. WRIT IN MY LORD CLARENDON’S “HISTORY OF THE REBELLION.” How life hath cheapened, and how blank The Worlde is! like a fen Where long ago unstainèd sank The starrie gentlemen: Since Marston Moor and Newbury drank King Charles his gentlemen. If Fate in any air accords What Fate denied, O then I ask to be among your Swordes, My joyous gentlemen; Towards Honour’s heaven to goe, and towards King Charles his gentlemen! A LAST WORD ON SHELLEY. Each great inrolling wave, a league of sound, All night, all day, the hostile crags confound To merest snow and smoke. The crags remain. Smile at the storm for our safe poet’s sake! Not ever this ordainèd world shall break That mounting, foolish, foam-bright heart again. AN EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM HAZLITT. Between the wet trees and the sorry steeple, Keep, Time, in dark Soho, what once was Hazlitt, Seeker of Truth, and finder oft of Beauty; Beauty’s a sinking light, ah, none too faithful; But Truth, who leaves so here her spent pursuer, Forgets not her great pawn: herself shall claim it. Therefore sleep safe, thou dear and battling spirit, Safe also on our earth, begetting ever Some one love worth the ages and the nations! Nothing falls under, to thine eyes eternal. Sleep safe in dark Soho: the stars are shining; Titian and Wordsworth live; the People marches. EMILY BRONTË.