"What sonnet of Petrarca equals this?" he says of the following:-- "Happy are they who kiss thee, morn and even, Parting the hair upon thy forehead white; For them the sky is bluer and more bright, And purer their thanksgivings rise to Heaven. Happy are they to whom thy songs are given; Happy are they on whom thy hands alight; And happiest they for whom thy prayers at night In tender piety so oft have striven. Away with vain regrets and selfish sighs! Even I, dear friend, am lonely, not unblest: Permitted sometimes on that form to gaze, Or feel the light of those consoling eyes,-- If but a moment on my cheek it stays, I know that gentle beam from all the rest!" "Like Shakespeare's, but better, is this allegory:-- "You say that you have given your love to me. Ah, give it not, but lend it me; and say That you will ofttimes ask me to repay, But never to restore it: so shall we, Retaining, still bestow perpetually: So shall I ask thee for it every day, Securely as for daily bread we pray; So all of favor, naught of right shall be. The joy which now is mine shall leave me never. Indeed, I have deserved it not; and yet No painful blush is mine,--so soon my face Blushing is hid in that beloved embrace. Myself I would condemn not, but forget; Remembering thee alone, and thee forever!" "Worthy of Raleigh and like him," is Landor's preface to the following sonnet:-- "Flowers I would bring, if flowers could make thee fairer, And music, if the Muse were dear to thee; (For loving these would make thee love the bearer.) But sweetest songs forget their melody, And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:-- A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her, Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry. Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee, What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee, When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee, And all old poets and old songs adore thee. And love to thee is naught, from passionate mood Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!" Occasionally Landor indulges in a little humorous indignation, particularly in his remarks on the poem of which Coleridge is the hero. De Vere's lines end thus:-- "Soft be the sound ordained thy sleep to break! When thou art waking, wake me, for thy Master's sake!" "And let me nap on," wrote the august critic, who had no desire to meet Coleridge, even as a celestial being. Now and then there is a dash of the pencil across some final verse, with the remark, "Better without these." Twice or thrice Landor finds fault with a word. He objects to the expression, "eyes so fair," saying _fair_ is a bad word for eyes. * * * * *