MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

“Where’s the coward that would not dare
To fight for such a land?” Marmion.
The stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O’er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their greensward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman’s voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood’s tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
Is laid the holy quietness
That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell’s chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o’er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear’d
To guard each hallow’d wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child’s glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.

“I have dreamt thou wert
A captive in thy hopelessness; afar
From the sweet home of thy young infancy,
Whose image unto thee is as a dream
Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting,
Sick for thy native air.” L. E. L.
The champions had come from their fields of war,
Over the crests of the billows far;
They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores,
Where the deep had foam’d to their flashing oars.
They sat at their feast round the Norse king’s board;
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour’d;
The hearth was heap’d with the pine-boughs high,
And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.
The Scalds had chanted in Runic rhyme
Their songs of the sword and the olden time;
And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung,
Had breathed from the walls where the bright spears hung.
But the swell was gone from the quivering string,
They had summon’d a softer voice to sing;
And a captive girl, at the warriors’ call,
Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall.
Lonely she stood,—in her mournful eyes
Lay the clear midnight of southern skies;
And the drooping fringe of their lashes low
Half-veil’d a depth of unfathom’d woe.
Stately she stood—though her fragile frame
Seem’d struck with the blight of some inward flame,
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn,
Under the waves of her dark hair worn.
And a deep flush pass’d, like a crimson haze,
O’er her marble cheek by the pine-fire’s blaze—
No soft hue caught from the south wind’s breath,
But a token of fever at strife with death.
She had been torn from her home away,
With her long locks crown’d for her bridal-day,
And brought to die of the burning dreams
That haunt the exile by foreign streams.
They bade her sing of her distant land—
She held its lyre with a trembling hand,
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.
Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow—
Troubled its murmur, and sad and low;
But it swell’d into deeper power ere long,
As the breeze that swept o’er her soul grew strong.
“They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny land! of thee!
Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful-sounding sea?
Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul? In silence let me die,
In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure, deep sapphire sky:
How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth—
Its tones of summer’s breathings born, to the wild winds of the north?
“Yet thus it shall be once, once more! My spirit shall awake,
And through the mists of death shine out, my country, for thy sake!
That I may make thee known, with all the beauty and the light,
And the glory never more to bless thy daughter’s yearning sight!
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by,
Thy soul flow o’er my lips again—yet once, my Sicily!
“There are blue heavens—far hence, far hence! but, oh! their glorious blue!
Its very night is beautiful with the hyacinth’s deep hue!
It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home,
And arching o’er my vintage hills, they hang their cloudless dome;
And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore,
And steeping happy hearts in joy—that now is mine no more.
“And there are haunts in that green land—oh! who may dream or tell
Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell!
By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and glossy leaves,
And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves;
The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath,
And the violets gleam like amethysts from the dewy moss beneath.
“And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day—
Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away;
They wander through the olive woods, and o’er the shining seas—
They mingle with the orange scents that load the sleepy breeze;
Lute, voice, and bird are blending there,—it were a bliss to die,
As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!
“I may not thus depart—farewell! Yet no, my country! no!
Is not love stronger than the grave? I feel it must be so!
My fleeting spirit shall o’ersweep the mountains and the main,
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again.
Its passion deepens—it prevails!—I break my chain—I come
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest—in thy sweet air, my home!”
And her pale arms dropp’d the ringing lyre—
There came a mist o’er her eye’s wild fire—
And her dark rich tresses in many a fold,
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom roll’d.
For her head sank back on the rugged wall—
A silence fell o’er the warriors’ hall;
She had pour’d out her soul with her song’s last tone:
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!

IVAN THE CZAR.

[“Ivan le Terrible, étant déjà devenu vieux, assiégait Novgorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui demandèrent s’il ne voulait pas donner le commandement de l’assaut à son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande à cette proposition, que rien ne pût l’appaiser; son fils se prosterna à ses pieds; il le repoussa avec un coup d’une telle violence, que deux jours après le malheureux en mourut. Le père, alors au désespoir, devint indifférent à la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne survécut que peu de mois à son fils.”—Dix Années d’Exil, par Madame de Stael.]

“Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss
Ihn wieder haben!...
... Trostlose allmacht,
Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm
Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung
Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann!” Schiller.
He sat in silence on the ground,
The old and haughty Czar,
Lonely, though princes girt him round,
And leaders of the war;
He had cast his jewell’d sabre,
That many a field had won,
To the earth beside his youthful dead—
His fair and first-born son.
With a robe of ermine for its bed
Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed
Through the rich tent made way;
And a sad and solemn beauty
On the pallid face came down,
Which the lord of nations mutely watch’d,
In the dust, with his renown.
Low tones at last, of woe and fear,
From his full bosom broke—
A mournful thing it was to hear
How then the proud man spoke!
The voice that through the combat
Had shouted far and high,
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,
Burden’d with agony.
“There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath;
I call thee, and thou dost not speak—
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done—
For the honour of thy father’s name,
Look up, look up, my son!
“Well might I know death’s hue and mien—
But on thine aspect, boy!
What, till this moment, have I seen
Save pride and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,
And bravest there of all—
How could I think a warrior’s frame
Thus like a flower should fall?
“I will not bear that still cold look—
Rise up, thou fierce and free!
Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee!
Lift brightly up, and proudly,
Once more thy kindling eyes!
Hath my word lost its power on earth?
I say to thee, arise!
“Didst thou not know I loved thee well?
Thou didst not! and art gone,
In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit!
If but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart
That seem’d to thee so stern.
“Thou wert the first, the first, fair child
That in mine arms I press’d:
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled
Like summer on my breast!
I rear’d thee as an eagle,
To the chase thy steps I led,
I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee—dead!
“Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,
Chiefs! in my first-born’s grave!
And leave me!—I have conquer’d,
I have slain: my work is done!
Whom have I slain? Ye answer not—
Thou too art mute, my son!”
And thus his wild lament was pour’d
Through the dark resounding night,
And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning
In every wind that sigh’d;
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank—
Humbly the conqueror died.

CAROLAN’S PROPHECY.

[“It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father’s house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter’s perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; nay,’ said he emphatically, ‘she will not survive twelve months.’ The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard.”—Percy Anecdotes.]

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o’er thine eye
The lights and shadows come and go too fast;
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate
For peace on earth: oh! therefore, child of song!
’Tis well thou shouldst depart.
A sound of music, from amidst the hills,
Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose,
And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept
Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset’s light
Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair,
And the wind’s whisper in the mountain ash,
Whose clusters droop’d above. His head was bow’d,
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch
Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood
Waiting around, in silent earnestness,
Th’ unchaining of his soul, the gush of song—
Many and graceful forms!—yet one alone
Seem’d present to his dream; and she, indeed,
With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek,
And the clear starlight of her serious eyes,
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful,
E’en painfully!—a creature to behold
With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth
Too dim without its brightness! Did such fear
O’ershadow in that hour the gifted one,
By his own rushing stream? Once more he gazed
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more
From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out
A few short festive notes, an opening strain
Of bridal melody, soon dash’d with grief—
As if some wailing spirit in the strings
Met and o’ermaster’d him; but yielding then
To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully,
Like moaning waters o’er the harp he pour’d
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang—
“Voice of the grave!
I hear thy thrilling call;
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave,
In the sere leaf’s trembling fall!
In the shiver of the tree,
I hear thee, O thou voice!
And I would thy warning were but for me,
That my spirit might rejoice.
“But thou art sent
For the sad earth’s young and fair,
For the graceful heads that have not bent
To the wintry hand of care!
They hear the wind’s low sigh,
And the river sweeping free,
And the green reeds murmuring heavily,
And the woods—but they hear not thee!
“Long have I striven
With my deep-foreboding soul,
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,
And darkly on must roll.
There’s a young brow smiling near,
With a bridal white-rose wreath—
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier,
Touch’d solemnly by death!
“Fair art thou, Morna!
The sadness of thine eye
Is beautiful as silvery clouds
On the dark-blue summer sky!
And thy voice comes like the sound
Of a sweet and hidden rill,
That makes the dim woods tuneful round—
But soon it must be still!
“Silence and dust
On thy sunny lips must lie—
Make not the strength of love thy trust,
A stronger yet is nigh!
No strain of festal flow
That my hand for thee hath tried,
But into dirge-notes wild and low
Its ringing tones have died.
“Young art thou, Morna!
Yet on thy gentle head,
Like heavy dew on the lily’s leaves,
A spirit hath been shed!
And the glance is thine which sees
Through nature’s awful heart—
But bright things go with the summer breeze,
And thou too must depart!
“Yet, shall I weep?
I know that in thy breast
There swells a fount of song too deep,
Too powerful for thy rest!
And the bitterness I know,
And the chill of this world’s breath—
Go—all undimm’d in thy glory, go!
Young and crown’d bride of death!
“Take hence to heaven
Thy holy thoughts and bright,
And soaring hopes, that were not given
For the touch of mortal blight!
Might we follow in thy track,
This parting should not be!
But the spring shall give us violets back,
And every flower but thee!”
There was a burst of tears around the bard:
All wept but one—and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye
Raised to the first faint star above the hills,
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek
Was paler than before. So Morna heard
The minstrel’s prophecy.
And spring return’d,
Bringing the earth her lovely things again—
All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile,
A young sweet spirit gone.

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE.

FROM THE “PORTRAIT GALLERY,” AN UNFINISHED POEM.

If there be but one spot on thy name,
One eye thou fear’st to meet, one human voice
Whose tones thou shrink’st from—Woman! veil thy face,
And bow thy head—and die!
Thou see’st her pictured with her shining hair,
(Famed were those tresses in Provençal song,)
Half braided, half o’er cheek and bosom fair
Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along
Her gorgeous vest. A child’s light hand is roving
Midst the rich curls; and, oh! how meekly loving
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace!
Yet that bright lady’s eye, methinks, hath less
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness,
Than might beseem a mother’s; on her brow
Something too much there sits of native scorn,
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow
As from the thought of sovereign beauty born.
These may be dreams—but how shall woman tell
Of woman’s shame, and not with tears? She fell!
That mother left that child!—went hurrying by
Its cradle—haply not without a sigh,
Haply one moment o’er its rest serene
She hung. But no! it could not thus have been,
For she went on!—forsook her home, her hearth,
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth,
To live a gaudy and dishonour’d thing,
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king.
Her lord, in very weariness of life,
Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife.
He reck’d no more of glory: grief and shame
Crush’d out his fiery nature, and his name
Died silently. A shadow o’er his halls
Crept year by year: the minstrel pass’d their walls;
The warder’s horn hung mute. Meantime the child
On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled,
A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew
Into sad youth; for well, too well, she knew
Her mother’s tale! Its memory made the sky
Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye;
Check’d on her lip the flow of song, which fain
Would there have linger’d; flush’d her cheek to pain,
If met by sudden glance; and gave a tone
Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone,
E’en to the spring’s glad voice. Her own was low
And plaintive. Oh! there lie such depths of woe
In a young blighted spirit! Manhood rears
A haughty brow, and age has done with tears;
But youth bows down to misery, in amaze
At the dark cloud o’ermantling its fresh days;—
And thus it was with her. A mournful sight
In one so fair—for she indeed was fair;
Not with her mother’s dazzling eyes of light—
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and prayer,
And with long lashes o’er a white-rose cheek
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek,
Still that fond child’s—and oh! the brow above
So pale and pure! so form’d for holy love
To gaze upon in silence! But she felt
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt
Where’er she moved, and reverence mutely given
Went with her; and low prayers, that call’d on heaven
To bless the young Isaure.
One sunny morn
With alms before her castle-gate she stood,
Midst peasant groups: when, breathless and o’erworn,
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood,
A stranger through them broke. The orphan maid,
With her sweet voice and proffer’d hand of aid,
Turn’d to give welcome; but a wild sad look
Met hers—a gaze that all her spirit shook;
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued
By some strong passion, in its gushing mood,
Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears
As rain the hoarded agonies of years
From the heart’s urn; and with her white lips press’d
The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest
Her brow’s deep flush, sobb’d out—“O undefiled!
I am thy mother—spurn me not, my child!”
Isaure had pray’d for that lost mother; wept
O’er her stain’d memory, while the happy slept
In the hush’d midnight; stood with mournful gaze
Before yon picture’s smile of other days,
But never breathed in human ear the name
Which weigh’d her being to the earth with shame.
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise,
The dark remembrances, the alter’d guise,
Awhile o’erpower’d her? From the weeper’s touch
She shrank—’twas but a moment—yet too much
For that all-humbled one; its mortal stroke
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke
At once in silence. Heavily and prone
She sank, while o’er her castle’s threshold stone,
Those long fair tresses—they still brightly wore
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more—
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll’d,
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold.
Her child bent o’er her—call’d her: ’twas too late—
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate!
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard—
How didst thou fall, O bright-hair’d Ermengarde!

THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES.

“O good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times.”
As You Like It.
Fallen was the house of Giafar; and its name,
The high romantic name of Barmecide,
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores,
By the swift Tigris’ wave. Stern Haroun’s wrath,
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away,
Had so pass’d sentence: but man’s chainless heart
Hides that within its depths which never yet
Th’ oppressor’s thought could reach.
’Twas desolate
Where Giafar’s halls, beneath the burning sun,
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased;
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales
Had ceased; the guests were gone. Yet still one voice
Was there—the fountain’s; through those Eastern courts,
Over the broken marble and the grass,
Its low clear music shedding mournfully.
And still another voice! An aged man,
Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath
His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate
On a white column’s fragment; and drew forth,
From the forsaken walls and dim arcades,
A tone that shook them with its answering thrill,
To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale
He told that sad yet stately solitude,
Pouring his memory’s fulness o’er its gloom,
Like waters in the waste; and calling up,
By song or high recital of their deeds,
Bright solemn shadows of its vanish’d race
To people their own halls: with these alone,
In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts
Held still unbroken converse. He had been
Rear’d in this lordly dwelling, and was now
The ivy of its ruins, unto which
His fading life seem’d bound. Day roll’d on day,
And from that scene the loneliness was fled;
For crowds around the gray-hair’d chronicler
Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts
Fear with deep feeling strives; till, as a breeze
Wanders through forest branches, and is met
By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves,
The spirit of his passionate lament,
As through their stricken souls it pass’d, awoke
One echoing murmur. But this might not be
Under a despot’s rule, and, summon’d thence,
The dreamer stood before the Caliph’s throne:
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale,
And with his white lips rigidly compress’d;
Till, in submissive tones, he ask’d to speak
Once more, ere thrust from earth’s fair sunshine forth.
Was it to sue for grace? His burning heart
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye,
And he was changed!—and thus, in rapid words,
Th’ o’ermastering thoughts, more strong than death, found way:—
“And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave,
With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave?
What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land?
I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band!
“My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes that in your halls was nursed—
That follow’d you to many a fight, where flash’d your sabres first—
That bore your children in his arms, your name upon his heart:—
Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth depart?
“It shall not be! A thousand tongues, though human voice were still,
With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall fill;
The wind’s free flight shall bear it on as wandering seeds are sown,
And the starry midnight whisper it with a deep and thrilling tone.
“For it is not as a flower whose scent with the dropping leaves expires,
And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath should quench its fires;
It is written on our battle-fields with the writing of the sword,
It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in blessings pour’d.
“The founts, the many gushing founts which to the wild ye gave,
Of you, my chiefs! shall sing aloud, as they pour a joyous wave;
And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung the pilgrim’s way,
Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on the day.
“The very walls your bounty rear’d for the stranger’s homeless head,
Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead!
Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute and cittern rung,
And the serpent in your palaces lie coil’d amidst its young.
“It is enough! Mine eye no more of joy or splendour sees—
I leave your name in lofty faith to the skies and to the breeze!
I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair,
And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs! are there.”
But while the old man sang, a mist of tears
O’er Haroun’s eyes had gather’d, and a thought—
Oh! many a sudden and remorseful thought—
Of his youth’s once-loved friends, the martyr’d race,
O’erflow’d his softening heart. “Live! live!” he cried,
“Thou faithful unto death! Live on, and still
Speak of thy lords—they were a princely band!”

THE SPANISH CHAPEL.[353]

“Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life’s early morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a veil o’er the spirit’s young bloom,
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.”
Moore.
I made a mountain brook my guide
Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wander’d on its grassy side,
Far from the homes of men.
It lured me with a singing tone,
And many a sunny glance,
To a green spot of beauty lone,
A haunt for old romance.
A dim and deeply bosom’d grove
Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,
The fawn and forest bee.
The darkness of the chestnut-bough
There on the waters lay,
The bright stream reverently below
Check’d its exulting play;
And bore a music all subdued,
And led a silvery sheen
On through the breathing solitude
Of that rich leafy scene.
For something viewlessly around
Of solemn influence dwelt,
In the soft gloom and whispery sound,
Not to be told, but felt;
While, sending forth a quiet gleam
Across the wood’s repose,
And o’er the twilight of the stream,
A lowly chapel rose.
A pathway to that still retreat
Through many a myrtle wound,
And there a sight—how strangely sweet!
My steps in wonder bound.
For on a brilliant bed of flowers,
E’en at the threshold made,
As if to sleep through sultry hours,
A young fair child was laid.
To sleep?—oh! ne’er, on childhood’s eye
And silken lashes press’d,
Did the warm living slumber lie
With such a weight of rest!
Yet still a tender crimson glow
Its cheeks’ pure marble dyed—
’Twas but the light’s faint streaming flow
Through roses heap’d beside.
I stoop’d—the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lips’ breath was fled,
And the bright ringlets hung so still—
The lovely child was dead!
“Alas!” I cried, “fair faded thing!
Thou hast wrung bitter tears,
And thou hast left a woe, to cling
Round yearning hearts for years!”
But then a voice came sweet and low—
I turn’d, and near me sate
A woman with a mourner’s brow,
Pale, yet not desolate.
And in her still, clear, matron face,
All solemnly serene,
A shadow’d image I could trace
Of that young slumberer’s mien.
“Stranger! thou pitiest me,” she said
With lips that faintly smiled,
“As here I watch beside my dead,
My fair and precious child.
“But know, the time-worn heart may be
By pangs in this world riven,
Keener than theirs who yield, like me,
An angel thus to heaven!”