But hither, oh ideal bride! For whom this heart in silence aches, Love is unwearied as the tide, Love is perennial as the lakes; Come thou. The spiky crags will seem One harvest of one heavenly year, And fear of death, like childish dream, Will pass and flee, when thou art here. TWO FRAGMENTS OF CHILDHOOD When these locks were yellow as gold, When past days were easily told, Well I knew the voice of the sea, Once he spake as a friend to me. Thunder-roarings carelessly heard, Once that poor little heart they stirred. Why, oh, why? Memory, Memory! She that I wished to be with was by. Sick was I in those misanthrope days Of soft caresses, womanly ways; Once that maid on the stairs I met, Lip on brow she suddenly set. Then flushed up my chivalrous blood Like Swiss streams in a midsummer flood. Then, oh, then, Imogen, Imogen! Hadst thou a lover, whose years were ten. WAR MUSIC One hour of my boyhood, one glimpse of the past, One beam of the dawn ere the heavens were o'ercast. I came to a castle by royalty's grace, Forgot I was bashful, and feeble, and base. For stepping to music I dreamt of a siege, A vow to my mistress, a fight for my liege. The first sound of trumpets that fell on mine ear Set warriors around me and made me their peer. Meseemed we were arming, the bold for the fair, In joyous devotion and haughty despair: The warders were waiting to draw bolt and bar, The maidens attiring to gaze from afar: I thought of the sally, but not the retreat, The cause was so glorious, the dying so sweet. I live, I am old, I return to the ground: Blow trumpets, and still I can dream to the sound. NUBENTI Though the lark that upward flies Recks not of the opening skies, Nor discerneth grey from blue, Nor the rain-drop from the dew: Yet the tune which no man taught So can quicken human thought, That the startled fancies spring Faster far than voice or wing. And the songstress as she floats Rising on her buoyant notes, Though she may the while refuse Homage to the nobler Muse, Though she cannot truly tell How her voice hath wrought the spell, Fills the listener's eyes with tears, Lifts him to the inner spheres. Lark, thy morning song is done; Overhead the silent sun Bids thee pause. But he that heard Such a strain must bless the bird. Lady, thou hast hushed too soon Sounds that cheered my weary noon; Let met, warned by marriage bell, Whisper, Queen of Song, farewell. WORDS FOR A PORTUGUESE AIR