Is any as God, not made of mortal mother,
  That love should turn in him to gall and flame? 
Nay:  but the true is not the false heart’s brother: 
  Love cannot love disloyalty:  the name
  That else it wears is love no more, but shame.

ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD DOYLE.

A light of blameless laughter, fancy-bred,
  Soft-souled and glad and kind as love or sleep,
  Fades, and sweet mirth’s own eyes are fain to weep
Because her blithe and gentlest bird is dead. 
Weep, elves and fairies all, that never shed
  Tear yet for mortal mourning:  you that keep
  The doors of dreams whence nought of ill may creep,
Mourn once for one whose lips your honey fed. 
Let waters of the Golden River steep
  The rose-roots whence his grave blooms rosy-red
And murmuring of Hyblaean hives be deep
  About the summer silence of its bed,
And nought less gracious than a violet peep
  Between the grass grown greener round his head.

IN MEMORY OF HENRY A. BRIGHT.

Yet again another, ere his crowning year,
  Gone from friends that here may look for him no more. 
  Never now for him shall hope set wide the door,
Hope that hailed him hither, fain to greet him here. 
All the gracious garden-flowers he held so dear,
  Oldworld English blossoms, all his homestead store,
  Oldworld grief had strewn them round his bier of yore,
Bidding each drop leaf by leaf as tear by tear;
Rarer lutes than mine had borne more tuneful token,
  Touched by subtler hands than echoing time can wrong,
  Sweet as flowers had strewn his graveward path along. 
Now may no such old sweet dirges more be spoken,
Now the flowers whose breath was very song are broken,
  Nor may sorrow find again so sweet a song.

A SOLITUDE.

Sea beyond sea, sand after sweep of sand,
  Here ivory smooth, here cloven and ridged with flow
  Of channelled waters soft as rain or snow,
Stretch their lone length at ease beneath the bland
Grey gleam of skies whose smile on wave and strand
  Shines weary like a man’s who smiles to know
  That now no dream can mock his faith with show,
Nor cloud for him seem living sea or land.

Is there an end at all of all this waste,
These crumbling cliffs defeatured and defaced,
These ruinous heights of sea-sapped walls that slide
  Seaward with all their banks of bleak blown flowers
Glad yet of life, ere yet their hope subside
  Beneath the coil of dull dense waves and hours?

VICTOR HUGO:  L’ARCHIPEL DE LA MANCHE.

Sea and land are fairer now, nor aught is all the same,
  Since a mightier hand than Time’s hath woven their votive wreath. 
Rocks as swords half drawn from out the smooth wave’s jewelled sheath,
Fields whose flowers a tongue divine hath numbered name by name,
Shores whereby the midnight or the noon clothed round