O GLORIOUS tide, O hospitable tide On whose moon-heaving breast my head hath lain, Lest I, all eased of wounds and washed of stain Thro’ holy hours, be yet unsatisfied, Loose me betimes! for in my soul abide Urgings of memory; and exile’s pain Weighs on me, as the spirit of one slain May throb for the old strife wherein he died. Often and evermore, across the sea Of dark and dreams, to fatherlands of day O speed me! like that outworn king erewhile From kind Phæacia shoreward borne; for me, Thy loving healèd Greek, thou too shall lay Beneath the olive boughs of mine own isle. THE ATONING YESTERDAY. YE daffodilian days, whose fallen towers Shielded our paradisal prime from ill, Fair past, fair motherhood! let come what will, We, being yours, defy the anarch powers. For us the happy tidings fell, in showers Enjewelling the wind from every hill; We drained the sun against the winter’s chill; Our ways were barricadoed in with flowers: And if from skyey minsters now unhoused, Earth’s massy workings at the forge we hear, The black roll of the congregated sea, And war’s live hoof: O yet, last year, last year We were the lark-lulled shepherdlings, that drowsed Grave-deep, at noon, in grass of Arcady! ‘RUSSIA UNDER THE CZARS.’ OF thraldom and the accursèd diadem In that vast snow-land, shout the passionate tale; Touch graybeards in the mart, bid braggarts quail, And rouse the student lone from his old phlegm To breathe the self-same sacred air with them, Spirits supreme, our brothers! whose avail Is sacrifice. Nay, make no woman’s wail: Rome is re-born! whom kings dare not contemn. On Neva’s shore-streets tho’ high blood be spent, There this lorn world’s renascent hopes are meeting: In camp is Mucius, at the bridge, Horatius; Regulus walks in gyves, magnificent; And thence men hear--O sound sublime and gracious! The unquelled heart of Cæsar’s Brutus beating. FOUR SONNETS FROM ‘LA VITA NUOVA.’ I. ‘_Io mi sentii svegliar dentro allo core._’ WITHIN my bosom, from long apathy, Love’s mood of tenderness extreme awoke, And spying him far off, mine eye bespoke Love’s self, so joyous scarce it seemèd he, Crying: ‘Now, verily, pay thy vows to me!’ And bright thro’ every word his smile outbroke. Then stood we twain, I in my liege lord’s yoke, Watching the path he came by, soon to see The Lady Joan and Lady Beatrice Nearing our very nook, each marvel close Following her peer, all beauty else above; And Love said, in a voice like Memory’s: ‘The first is Spring; but she that with her goes, My counterpart, bears my own name of Love!’ II. ‘_Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare._’