Walter Savage Landor.


570   Corinna, from Athens, to Tanagra

Tanagra! think not I forget
   Thy beautifully-storey’d streets;
Be sure my memory bathes yet
   In clear Thermodon, and yet greets
  The blythe and liberal shepherd boy,
  Whose sunny bosom swells with joy
  When we accept his matted rushes
Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.

I promise to bring back with me
   What thou with transport wilt receive,
The only proper gift for thee,
   Of which no mortal shall bereave
  In later times thy mouldering walls,
  Until the last old turret falls;
  A crown, a crown from Athens won!
A crown no god can wear, beside Latona’s son.

There may be cities who refuse
   To their own child the honours due,
And look ungently on the Muse;
   But ever shall those cities rue
  The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,
  Offering no nourishment, no rest,
  To that young head which soon shall rise
Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.

Sweetly where cavern’d Dirce flows
   Do white-arm’d maidens chaunt my lay,
Flapping the while with laurel-rose
   The honey-gathering tribes away;
  And sweetly, sweetly, Attick tongues
  Lisp your Corinna’s early songs;
  To her with feet more graceful come
The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.

O let thy children lean aslant
   Against the tender mother’s knee,
And gaze into her face, and want
   To know what magic there can be
  In words that urge some eyes to dance,
  While others as in holy trance
  Look up to heaven; be such my praise!
Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphick bays.

571   The Maid’s Lament

I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone,
         I feel I am alone.
I check’d him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,
         Alas! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
         And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him; I now would give
         My love, could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and when he found
         ’Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death.
         I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
         And this lorn bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
         And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years
         Wept he as bitter tears.
Merciful God!’ such was his latest prayer,
         ‘These may she never share!’
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
         Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
         His name and life’s brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er you be,
         And, O, pray too for me!

572   Rose Aylmer

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 sighs
   I consecrate to thee.

573   Ianthe

FROM you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
   Like little ripples down a sunny river;
Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
   Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.

574   Ianthe’s Question

‘DO you remember me? or are you proud?’
   Lightly advancing thro’ her star-trimm’d crowd,
   Ianthe said, and look’d into my eyes.
‘A yes, a yes to both: for Memory
Where you but once have been must ever be,
   And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.’

  By PanEris using Melati.

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