To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back The boon she tender'd, and then, finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropt it, as loath to drop it, on the rest. XI Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. XII With rosy hand a little girl prest down A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill: Often as they sprang up again, a frown Show'd she disliked resistance to her will: But when they droopt their heads and shone much less, She shook them to and fro, and threw them by, And tript away. 'Ye loathe the heaviness Ye love to cause, my little girls!' thought I, 'And what had shone for you, by you must die.' XIII Ternissa! you are fled! I say not to the dead, But to the happy ones who rest below: For, surely, surely, where Your voice and graces are, Nothing of death can any feel or know. Girls who delight to dwell Where grows most asphodel, Gather to their calm breasts each word you speak: The mild Persephone Places you on her knee, And your cool palm smooths down stern Pluto's cheek. XIV Various the roads of life; in one All terminate, one lonely way We go; and 'Is he gone?' Is all our best friends say. XV Yes; I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talkt of by young men As rather clever: In the last quarter are my eyes, You see it by their form and size; Is it not time then to be wise? Or now or never. Fairest that ever sprang from Eve! While Time allows the short reprieve, Just look at me! would you believe 'Twas once a lover? I cannot clear the five-bar gate, But, trying first its timber's state, Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait To trundle over. Thro' gallopade I cannot swing The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring: I cannot say the tender thing, Be 't true or false, And am beginning to opine Those girls are only half-divine Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine In giddy waltz. I fear that arm above that shoulder, I wish them wiser, graver, older, Sedater, and no harm if colder And panting less. Ah! people were not half so wild In former days, when, starchly mild, Upon her high-heel'd Essex smiled The brave Queen Bess. XVI