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The quick lark's closest-carolled strains,
The shadow rushing up the sea,
The lightning flash atween the rains,
The sunlight driving down the lea,
The leaping stream, the very wind,
That will not stay, upon his way,
To stoop the cowslip to the plains,
Is not so clear and bold and free
As you, my falcon Rosalind.
You care not for another's pains,
Because you are the soul of joy,
Bright metal all without alloy.

Life shoots and glances thro' your veins,
And flashes off a thousand ways
Through lips and eyes in subtle rays.
Your hawkeyes are keen and bright,
Keen with triumph, watching still
To pierce me through with pointed light;
But oftentimes they flash and glitter
Like sunshine on a dancing rill,

And your words are seeming-bitter, Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter From excess of swift delight.


Come down, come home, my Rosalind,
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind :
Too long you keep the upper skies;
Too long you roam and wheel at will;
But we must hood your random eyes,
That care not whom they kill,
And your cheek, whose brilliant hue
Is so sparkling-fresh to view,
Some red heath-flower in the dew,
Touched with sunrise. We must bind
And keep you fast, my Rosalind,
Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind,
And clip your wings, and make you love:
When we have lured you from above,
And that delight of frolic flight, by day
or night,

From north to south;

Will bind you fast in silken cords,

And kiss away the bitter words

From off your rosy mouth.*


WHO can say Why To-day

To-morrow will be yesterday?
Who can tell

AUTHOR'S NOTE. - Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem; originally they made part of the text, where they were manifestly superfluous.

MY Rosalind, my Rosalind,

Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,

Is one of those who know no strife

Of inward woe or outward fear;

To whom the slope and stream of Life,
The life before, the life behind,

In the ear, from far and near,

Chimeth musically clear.

My falcon-hearted Rosalind,
Full-sailed before a vigorous wind,

Is one of those who cannot weep
For others' woes, but overleap
All the petty shocks and fears
That trouble life in early years,
With a flash of frolic scorn
And keen delight, that never falls
Away from freshness, self-upborne
With such gladness as, whenever
The fresh-flushing springtime calls
To the flooding waters cool,
Young fishes, on an April morn,
Up and down a rapid river,
Leap the little waterfalls
That sing into the pebbled pool,
My happy falcon, Rosalind,
Hath daring fancies of her own,

Fresh as the dawn before the day.
Fresh as the early sea-smell blown
Through vineyards from an inland bay
My Rosalind, ny Rosalind,
Because no shadow on you falls,
Think you hearts are tennisballs
To play with, wanton Rosalind ?

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I KNOW her by her angry air,

Her bright black eyes, her bright black hair,

Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, As laughters of the woodpecker

From the bosom of a hill.

'Tis Kate she sayeth what she will: For Kate hath an unbridled tongue, Clear as the twanging of a harp.

Her heart is like a throbbing star. Kate hath a spirit ever strung Like a new bow, and bright and sharp, As edges of the scymitar. Whence shall she take a fitting mate? For Kate no common love will feel; My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, As

pure and true as blades of steel.

Kate saith"the world is void of might." Kate saith "the men are gilded flies."

Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. I would I were an arméd knight,

Far famed for well-won enterprise, And wearing on my swarthy brows The garland of new-wreathed emprise : For in a moment I would pierce The blackest files of clanging fight, And strongly strike to left and right, In dreaming of my lady's eyes.

Oh! Kate loves well the bold and

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Grew to his strength among his deserts cold;

When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled

The growing murmurs of the Polish war! Now must your noble anger blaze out


Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan, The Moslem myriads fell, and fled beforeThan when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan;

Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore Boleslas drove the Pomeranian.



How long, O God, shall men be ridden down,

And trampled under by the last and least Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceased

To quiver, though her sacred blood doth drown

The fields; and out of every mouldering


Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be increased,

Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East Transgress his ample bound to some

new crown:

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Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys With dandy pathos when you wrote! A Lion, you, that made a noise,

And shook a mane en papillotes.

And once you tried the Muses too;
You failed, Sir: therefore now you turn,
To fall on those who are to you
As Captain is to Subaltern.

But men of long-enduring hopes,
And careless what this hour may bring,
Can pardon little would-be PoPES
And BRUMMELS, when they try to sting.

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art,
And waive a little of his claim;
To have the deep Poetic heart

Is more than all poetic fame.

But you, Sir, you are hard to please;
You never look but half content;
Nor like a gentleman at ease,

With moral breadth of temperament.

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RISE, Britons, rise, if manhood be not dead;

The world's last tempest darkens overhead;

The Pope has bless'd him; The Church caress'd him; He triumphs; may be we shall stand alone. Britons, guard your own.

His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd gold,

By lying priests the peasants' votes controll'd.

Read by Mr. John Forster at a dinner given to Mr. Macready, March 1, 1851, on his retirement from the stage.

The Examiner, 1852.

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