From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples in a sunny river.
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Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
What every virtue, every grace!Rose Aylmer, all were thine.Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyesMay weep, but never see,A night of memories and sighsI consecrate to thee.
I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife;
I warm’d both hands before the fire of life;It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Stand close around, ye Stygian set,
Or Charon, seeing, may forgetThat he is old and she a shade.
FIRST BOOK.
Among those mountain-caverns which retainHis labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells,Nor have forgotten their old master’s nameThough severed from his people here, incensedBy meditating on primeval wrongs,He blew his battle-horn, at which uproseWhole nations; here, ten thousand of most mightHe called aloud, and soon Charoba sawHis dark helm hover o’er the land of Nile,What…
WHY, why repine, my pensive friend,
Some the stern Fates will never lend,And all refuse to stay.I see the rainbow in the sky,The dew upon the grass;I see them, and I ask not whyThey glimmer or they pass.With folded arms I linger notTo call them back; ’twere vain:In this, or in some other spot,I know they’ll shine again.
OVER his millions Death has lawful power,
After a longer struggle, in a fightWorthy of Italy, to youth restor’d,Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surgeOf the Atlantic; on its shore; in reachOf help; in trust of refuge; sunk with allPrecious on earth to thee … a child, a wife!Proud as thou wert of her, AmericaIs prouder, showing to her sons…