VII

DARK house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street,

Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp'd no more
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.

VIII

A HAPPY lover who has come

To look on her that loves him well, Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home;

He saddens, all the magic light

Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight:

So find I every pleasant spot

In which we two were wont to meet,
The field, the chamber, and the street,

For all is dark where thou art not.

Yet as that other, wandering there

In those deserted walks, may find
A flower beat with rain and wind,
Which once she foster'd up with care;

So seems it in my deep regret,
O my forsaken heart, with thee
And this poor flower of poesy
Which, little cared for, fades not yet.

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye,

I

go to plant it on his tomb,

That if it can it there may bloom,

Or, dying, there at least may die.

IX

FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains

With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.

So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favorable speed

Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.

All night no ruder air perplex

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro' early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.

Sphere all your lights around, above;

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love;

My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widow'd race be run;
Dear as the mother to the son,
More than
my brothers are to me.

X

I HEAR the noise about thy keel;
I hear the bell struck in the night;
I see the cabin-window bright;
I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife,
And travell❜d men from foreign lands;
And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

So bring him; we have idle dreams;
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies. O, to us,

The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod,

That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God;

Than if with thee the roaring wells

Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine, And hands so often clasp'd in mine, Should toss with tangle and with shells.