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My Koh-i-noor-or (if that's a platitude)

Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Sofi's eye
So, in anticipative gratitude,

What if I take up my hope and prophesy?
XXXII.

When the hour grows ripe, and a certain dotard
Is pitched, no parcel that needs invoicing,

To the worse side of the Mont Saint Gothard,
We shall begin by way of rejoicing;

None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge),
Nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer,

Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge
Over Morello with squib and cracker.

XXXIII.
This time we'll shoot better game and bag 'em hot---

No mere display at the stone of Dante,
But a kind of sober Witanagemot

(Ex: ``Casa Guidi,'' _quod videas ante_)
Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to Florence,

How Art may return that departed with her.
Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine's,

And bring us the days of Orgagna<*11> hither!
XXXIV.

How we shall prologize, how we shall perorate,
Utter fit things upon art and history,

Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at zero rate,
Make of the want of the age no mystery;

Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras,
Show---monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks

Out of the bear's shape into Chimra's,
While Pure Art's birth is still the republic's.

XXXV.
Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan,

Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an ``_issimo,_'')
To end now our half-told tale of Cambuscan,<*12>

And turn the bell-tower's _alt_ to _altissimo_:
And fine as the beak of a young beccaccia<*13>

The Campanile, the Duomo's fit ally,
Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia,

Completing Florence, as Florence Italy.
XXXVI.

Shall I be alive that morning the scaffold
Is broken away, and the long-pent fire,

Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffled
Springs from its sleep, and up goes the spire

While ``God and the People'' plain for its motto,
Thence the new tricolour flaps at the sky?

At least to foresee that glory of Giotto
And Florence together, the first am I!

* 1 A sculptor, died 1278.
* 2 Died 1455. Designed the bronze gates of the Baptistry at Florence.

* 3 A painter, died 1498.
* 4 The son of Fr Lippo Lippi. Wronged, because some of his

* pictures have been attributed to others.
* 5 Died 1366. One of Giotto's pupils and assistants.

* 6 Rough cast.
* 7 Painter,
sculptor, and goldsmith.

* 8 Distemper---mixture of water and egg yolk.
* 9 Sculptor and architect, died 1313-

*10 All Saints.
*11 A Florentine painter, died 1576.

*12 Tartar king.
*13 A woodcock

``DE GUSTIBUS---''
I.

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
(If our loves remain)

In an English lane,
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.

Hark, those two in the hazel coppice---
A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,

Making love, say,---
The happier they!

Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,
And let them pass, as they will too soon,

With the bean-flowers' boon,
And the blackbird's tune,

And May, and June!
II.

What I love best in all the world
Is a castle, precipice-encurled,

In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine
Or look for me, old fellow of mine,

(If I get my head from out the mouth
O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,

And come again to the land of lands)---
In a sea-side house to the farther South,

Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,
And one sharp tree---'tis a cypress---stands,

By the many hundred years red-rusted,
Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,

My sentinel to guard the sands
To the water's edge. For, what expands

Before the house, but the great opaque
Blue breadth of sea without a break?

While, in the house, for ever crumbles
Some fragment of the frescoed walls,

From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.
A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles

Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons,
And says there's news to-day---the king

Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,
Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:

---She hopes they have not caught the felons.
Italy, my Italy!

Queen Mary's saying serves for me---
(When fortune's malice

Lost her---Calais)---
Open my heart and you will see

Graved inside of it, ``Italy.''
Such lovers old are I and she:

So it always was, so shall ever be!
HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD.

I.
Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England---now!!
II.

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops---at the bent spray's edge---
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower
---Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA.
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;

In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and gray;
``Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?''---say,

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

SAUL.
I.

Said Abner, ``At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak,
``Kiss my cheek, wish me well!'' Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek.

And he, ``Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent,
``Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent

``Thou return with the joyfulassurance the King liveth yet,
``Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet.

``For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days,
``Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise,

``To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife,
``And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life.

II.
``Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew

``On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue
``Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild beat

``Were now raging to torture the desert!''
III.

Then I, as was meet,
Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet,

And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped;
I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped

Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone,
That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on

Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed,
And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid

But spoke, ``Here is David, thy servant!'' And no voice replied.
At the first I saw nought but the blackness but soon I descried

A something more black than the blackness---the vast, the upright
Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sight

Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all.
Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent-roof, showed Saul.

IV.
He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide

On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side;
He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs

And waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs,
Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come

With the spring-time,---so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb.
V.

Then I tuned my harp,---took off the lilies we twine round its chords
Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon-tide---those sunbeams like swords!

And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one,
So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done.

They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed
Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed;

And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star
Into eve and the blue far above us,---so blue and so far!

VI.
---Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate

To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate
Till for boldness they fight one another: and then, what has weight

To set the quick jerboa<*1> amusing outside his sand house---
There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse!

God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear,
To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here.

VII.
Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand



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