Walter Savage Landor.
Tanagra! think not I forget
Thy beautifully-storeyd streets;
Be sure my memory bathes yet
clear Thermodon, and yet greets
The blythe and liberal shepherd boy,
Whose sunny bosom swells with
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
Of which no mortal shall bereave
In later times thy mouldering walls,
Until the last old turret falls;
crown, a crown from Athens won!
A crown no god can wear, beside Latonas son.
There may be cities who refuse
To their own child the honours due,
And look ungently on
But ever shall those cities rue
The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,
Offering no nourishment, no
To that young head which soon shall rise
Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.
Sweetly where cavernd Dirce flows
Do white-armd maidens chaunt my lay,
Flapping the while
The honey-gathering tribes away;
And sweetly, sweetly, Attick tongues
Lisp your Corinnas
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 mothers knee,
And gaze into her face, and
To know what magic there can be
In words that urge some eyes to dance,
While others as in holy
Look up to heaven; be such my praise!
Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphick bays.
I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.
I checkd 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
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
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
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,
and lifes brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoeer you be,
And, O, pray too for me!
AH, what avails the sceptred race!
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and
I consecrate to thee.
FROM you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples down a sunny river;
spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.
DO you remember me? or are you proud?
Lightly advancing thro her star-trimmd crowd,
said, and lookd into my eyes.
A yes, a yes to both: for Memory
Where you but once have been must
And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.
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