I write thy name, and kiss it, dear Jeanette, in most impulsive fear! I whisper it into my heart, And then its music makes me start In sudden gladness. I am fain To let the echo die again! Thy image groweth out of air Until, entranced, I pause and stare Into thy dear ideal eyes— The shadow of God’s paradise.
I am in love with thee, thou dear Jeanette, and keep my spirit clear For thy embrace. It cannot be That thou wilt keep aloof from me Like that immortal Florentine Whom Tasso lov’d. O I would pine Into a pale accusing dream To haunt thy pillow, and would seem So fond and sad, thy heart would fret For its unkindness, good Jeanette!
O many a long glad summer day I laughed at love, and deemed his sway The tinkle of an idle tongue, A fancy only to be sung. But thou all-beautiful! hast more Of this, the thrilling passion—love— In one soft tress of plaited gold, Than blessed Petrarch could unfold. I love thee, dear Jeanette! I love Thee, O how dearly! Far above All singing is my love for thee, Thou paradise of ecstasy! Make me immortal with a kiss Of earnest pressure, and all bliss Is mine for ever, ever! Dear Jeanette, beloved, adored in fear!
The Poet and his Friend.
And, sitting by the still translucent water, In pleasaunce sweet we quaffed the liquid cold; Lo! as we drank, there passed a fairer daughter Of Beauty than Fidessa. Then the old— Yet never old, immortal song of glory, Breathing of summer bower and emerald lea, And fountain bubbling coldly—Spenser’s story Thrilled all our brains to living ecstasy: Such power had maiden floating onward maidenly.
And pondered we, above that placid wave, How we were thrown upon a colder day; Yet, by the sword of Arthur! quite as brave, As wondrous willing for the haughty fray As Arthegal and Guyon. So we rose And joined our hands in fervent heat, and swore By old Renown’s endeavours, and by those Who battled well and won, to dream no more, But through a sea of fears to struggle for the shore.
I think no good of him who takes his ease, As pigeon-livered in the human game As Braggadocio: on the tranquil seas All ships sail nobly; but whoe’er is tame To face the waves when fringed with windy spray, Is but a coward. Let him live, then rot! No man shall speak of him, no pilgrim lay A twist of wild-flowers on the common spot That marks his meagre dust—the poltroon is forgot.
But, good friend! we shall fight. Even he who fails In a great cause is noble. Time will show The best and worst of it; and while it hails Some worthy Song-kings of the long-ago, Perhaps our names will echo with the rest, And in no feebleness. Meantime, oh fight! In the thick hurry of the battle press’d, Clothed on with resolution, the soul’s might— Be Hector or Achilles!—God defend the right!