130

A DEAD ROSE.

A DEAD ROSE.

O ROSE! who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;

But barren, and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat,
Kept seven years in a drawer-thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedge-row thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane, to last all day—

If breathing now-unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appeared to bloom and flower to burn-
If shining now—with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grew incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was-

If dropping now-would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet

Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,—

If lighting now-would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive-
If passing now-would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognise thee,

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete—
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee

More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!—

Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee!

E. B. Browning.

9*

132

THE DAFFODILS.

THE DAFFODILS.

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

W. Wordsworth.

SEA MEWS IN WINTER-TIME.

I WALKED beside a dark grey sea,
And said, "O world, how cold thou art!
Thou poor white world, I pity thee,

For joy and warmth from thee depart.

"Yon rising wave licks off the snow,

Winds on the crag each other chase, In little powdery whirls they blow

The misty fragments down its face.

"The sea is cold, and dark its rim,
Winter sits cowering on the wold,
And I beside this watery brim
Am also lonely, also cold."

I spoke, and drew toward a rock

Where many mews made twittering sweet; Their wings upreared, the clustering flock Did pat the sea-grass with their feet.

A rock but half submerged, the sea
Ran up and washed it while they fed;
Their fond and foolish ecstasy
A wondering in my fancy bred.

Joy companied with every cry,

Joy in their food, in that keen wind, That heaving sea, that shaded sky,

And in themselves, and in their kind,

134

SEA MEWS IN WINTER-TIME.

The phantoms of the deep at play!
What idlesse graced the twittering things;
Luxurious paddlings in the spray,

And delicate lifting up of wings.

Then all at once a flight, and fast

The lovely crowd flew out to sea;
If mine own life had been recast,

Earth had not looked more changed to me.

"Where is the cold? Yon clouded skies
Have only dropt their curtains low
To shade the old mother where she lies
Sleeping a little, neath the snow.

"The cold is not in crag, nor scar,
Not in the snows that lap the lea,
Not in yon wings that beat afar,
Delighting, on the crested sea;

"No, nor in yon exultant wind

That shakes the oak and bends the pine,
Look near, look in, and thou shalt find
No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine!"

With that I felt the gloom depart,
And thoughts within me did unfold,
Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart-
I walked in joy, and was not cold.

J. Ingelow.