Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/22

 Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
 * Ye that never have loved before!

And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
 * Ye that have loved, love once more!

She, amidst Hyblæan flowers, Bids us build her florid throne; And in this light court of ours Lightly is her bidding done. All the Graces will be there, Hybla all her flowers will lend; Treasures which the opulent year Doth to her, in tribute, send: Flowers many more than ever Bloom'd on Enna's meadow banks, Flowers from every lawn and river That doth owe Dione thanks! And the maidens all will come From the vales and from the mountains; Leaving, these their woodland home, Those their haunts in happy fountains, Here the nymphs are hastening: Whilst outspeeding one another, Boys and maidens homage bring To the Boy-God's wingèd Mother, But she bids you, while 'tis Spring, Boys and maidens both beware, Since she let's young love go bare.

Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
 * Ye that never have loved before!

And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
 * Ye that have loved, love once more!

Beauty's self hath bid us gather Beauteous buds, and bring them to her. For the all-paternal Æther, He, the green world's earliest wooer, Wills that, to his warm embrace, Her most bounteous womb shall bear (Youngest of an ancient race!) Yet another infant year. On her balmy bosom fall In delicious dews and rains His prolific kisses all; Whose sweet influence the deep veins Of the Mighty Mother fill With such throbbing joys as pant Into visible forms, and thrill Every green and grassy haunt, Lawn, and lake, and dale, and hill, With love's labour procreant. Over heaven, and over earth, On thro' rill, and river, and ocean, Moves the mystic spirit of birth, With a soft and secret motion; And his breath, with raptures rife, Opes the glowing gates of life.

Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
 * Ye that never have loved before!

And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
 * Ye that have loved, love once more!

She, the household gods of Troy Into royal Latium led. She to her illustrious boy The Laurentian virgin wed; Gave to Mars, in snatcht embrace, Lips too sweet for Vesta's shrine; And the Romulean race Married to the Sabine line: Whence the lordly Roman springs, Whence the Conscript Fathers were, Knights, Quirites, king-born kings, Cæsar's self, and Cæsar's heir!

Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
 * Ye that never have loved before!

And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
 * Ye that have loved, love once more!

Far i' the fields doth pleasure stray: Far i' the fields is Venus found: Love, himself, was born, they say, Far i' the fields, on flowery ground. Him the grassy lawns did guard, From his happy hour of birth; He was born on thymy sward: He was nurst by Rural Mirth.

Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
 * Ye that never have loved before!

And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
 * Ye that have loved, love once more!

Now his gentle yoke he throws Over all things far and wide. Hark! the lusty bullock lows After his brown-spotted bride. The chill ocean's uncouth droves Couple in their briny bowers: And the birds pursue their loves, Singing from their leafy towers. Even the wild swan's marriage hymn, Thro' the reedy marish rings: And in poplar shadows dim All night Philomela sings. Who that hears her happy song Could believe that voice laments A loved sister's bitter wrong? No! she sings, and, singing, vents Pain (if pain at all) made such By a too great stress of gladness, Joy, that were not joy so much If there were no joy in sadness! She, and all things else, do sing. I, alone? shall I be dumb When to me the long-wisht Spring Of my love's sweet prime is come? Nay, if I were silent now, Would not my dishonour'd Muse Voice, name, fame, and laurel bough, Evermore to me refuse? Which were then deservèd most, Mine, or weak Amyclæ's fate, Whom her coward silence lost When the foe was at the gate?

Love, to-morrow! love, to-morrow,
 * Ye that never have loved before!

And to-morrow, again to-morrow,
 * Ye that have loved, love once more!

journeys as Uncommercial Traveller for the firm of Human Interest Brothers, have not slackened since I last reported of them, but have kept me continually on the move. I remain in the same idle employment. I never solicit an order, I never get any commission, I am the rolling stone that, gathers no moss—unless any should by chance be found among these Samples.

Some half a year ago, I found myself in my idlest, dreamiest, and least accountable condition altogether, on board-ship, in the harbour of the City of New York, in the United States of America. Of all the good ships afloat, mine was the good steam-ship, , Cunard line, bound for Liverpool. What more could I wish for?

I had nothing to wish for, but a prosperous passage. My salad-days, when I was