O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine,In lands of palm and southern pine;In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.What Roman strength Turbia show'dIn ruin, by the mountain road;How like a gem, beneath, the cityOf little Monaco, basking, glow'd.How richly down the rocky dellThe torrent vineyard streaming fellTo meet the sun and sunny waters,That only heaved with a summer swell.What slender campanili grewBy bays, the peacock's neck in hue;Where, here and there, on sandy beachesA milky-bell'd amaryllis blew.How young Columbus seem'd to rove,Yet present in his natal grove,Now watching high on mountain cornice,And steering, now, from a purple cove,Now pacing mute by ocean's rim;Till, in a narrow street and dim,I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto,And drank, and loyally drank to him.Nor knew we well what pleased us most,Not the clipt palm of which they boast;But distant colour, happy hamlet,A moulder'd citadel on the coast,Or tower, or high hill-convent, seenA light amid its olives green;Or olive-hoary cape in ocean;Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,Where oleanders flush'd the bedOf silent torrents, gravel-spread;And, crossing, oft we saw the glistenOf ice, far up on a mountain head.We loved that hall, tho' white and cold,Those niched shapes of noble mould,A princely people's awful princes,The grave, severe Genovese of old.At Florence too what golden hours,In those long galleries, were ours;What drives about the fresh Cascin?,Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers.In bright vignettes, and each complete,Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,Or palace, how the city glitter'd,Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet.But when we crost the Lombard plainRemember what a plague of rain;Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma;At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain.And stern and sad (so rare the smilesOf sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles;Porch-pillars on the lion resting,And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles.O Milan, O the chanting quires,The giant windows' blazon'd fires,The height, the space, the gloom, the glory!A mount of marble, a hundred spires!I climb'd the roofs at break of day;Sun-smitten Alps before me lay.I stood among the silent statues,And statued pinnacles, mute as they.How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair,Was Monte Rosa, hanging thereA thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleysAnd snowy dells in a golden air.Remember how we came at lastTo Como; shower and storm and blastHad blown the lake beyond his limit,And all was flooded; and how we pastFrom Como, when the light was gray,And in my head, for half the day,The rich Virgilian rustic measureOf Lari Maxume, all the way.Like ballad-burthen music, kept,As on The Lariano creptTo that fair port below the castleOf Queen Theodolind, where we slept;Or hardly slept, but watch'd awakeA cypress in the moonlight shake.The moonlight touching o'er a terraceOne tall Agav? above the lake.What more? we took our last adieu,And up the snowy Splugen drew,But ere we reach'd the highest summitI pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you.It told of England then to me,And now it tells of Italy.O love, we two shall go no longerTo lands of summer across the sea;So dear a life your arms enfoldWhose crying is a cry for gold:Yet here to-night in this dark city,When ill and weary, alone and cold,I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry,This nurseling of another skyStill in the little book you lent me.And where you tenderly laid it by:And I forgot the clouded Forth,The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth,The bitter east, the misty summerAnd gray metropolis of the North.Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain,Perchance, to charm a vacant brain,Perchance, to dream you still beside me,My fancy fled to the South again.
Come, when no graver cares employ,God-father, come and see your boy:Your presence will be sun in winter,Making the little one leap for joy.For, being of that honest few,Who give the Fiend himself his due,Should eighty-thousand college-councilsThunder 'Anathema,' friend, at you;Should all our churchmen foam in spiteAt you, so careful of the right,Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight;Where, far from noise and smoke of town,I watch the twilight falling brownAll round a careless-order'd gardenClose to the ridge of a noble down.You'll have no scandal while you dine,But honest talk and wholesome wine.And only hear the magpie gossipGarrulous under a roof of pine:For groves of pine on either hand,To break the blast of winter, stand;And further on, the hoary ChannelTumbles a breaker on chalk and sand;Where, if below the milky steepSome ship of battle slowly creep,And on thro' zones of light and shadowGlimmer away to the lonely deep,We might discuss the Northern sinWhich made a selfish war begin;Dispute the claims, arrange the chances;Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win:Or whether war's avenging rodShall lash all Europe into blood;Till you should turn to dearer matters,Dear to the man that is dear to God;How best to help the slender store,How mend the dwellings, of the poor;How gain in life, as life advances,Valour and charity more and more.Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yetIs hoar with rime, or spongy-wet;But when the wreath of March has blossom'd,Crocus, anemone, violet,Or later, pay one visit here,For those are few we hold as dear;Nor pay but one, but come for many,Many and many a happy year.January, 1854.
1.O well for him whose will is strong!He suffers, but he will not suffer long;He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong:For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,Who seems a promontory of rock,That, compass'd round with turbulent sound,In middle ocean meets the surging shock,Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd.2.But ill for him who, bettering not with time,Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will,And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime,Or seeming-genial venial fault,Recurring and suggesting still!He seems as one whose footsteps halt,Toiling in immeasurable sand,And o'er a weary sultry land,Far beneath a blazing vault,Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill,The city sparkles like a grain of salt.
1.Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."Forward, the Light Brigade!"Charge for the guns!" he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.2."Forward, the Light Brigade!"Was there a man dismay'd?Not tho' the soldier knewSome one had blunder' d:Their's not to make reply,Their's not to reason why,Their's but to do and die,Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.3.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.4.Flash'd all their sabres bare,Flash'd as they turn'd in air,Sabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder'd:Plunged in the battery-smokeRight thro' the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel'd from the sabre-strokeShatter'd and sunder'd.Then they rode back, but notNot the six hundred.5.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley'd and thunder'd;Storm'd at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro' the jaws of DeathBack from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.6.When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!All the world wonder'd.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!