To Aubrey De Vere

Welcome! who last hast climb'd the cloven hill
Forsaken by its Muses and their God!
Show us the way; we miss it, young and old.
Roses that can not clasp their languid leaves,
Puffy and odourless and overblown,
Encumber all our walks of poetry;
The satin slipper and the mirror boot
Delight in pressing them: but who hath trackt
A Grace's naked foot amid them all?
Or who hath seen (ah! how few care to see!)
The close-bound tresses and the robe succinct?
Thou hast; and she hath placed her palm in thine.
Walk ye together in our fields and groves:
We have gay birds and graver, we have none
Of varied note, none to whose harmony
Time long will listen, none who sings alone.
Make thy proud name yet prouder for thy sons,
Aubrey de Yere! Fling far aside all heed
Of that hyaena race which growls and smiles
Alternate, and which neither blows nor food
Nor stern nor gentle brow, domesticate.
Await some Cromwell, who alone hath strength
Of heart to dash down its wild wantonness
And fasten its fierce grin with steady gaze.
Come, re-ascend with me the steeps of Greece,
With firmer foot than mine. None stop the road,
And few will follow: we shall breathe apart
That pure fresh air, and drink the untroubled spring.
Lead thou the way; I knew it once; my sight
May miss old marks; lend me thy hand; press on;
Elastic is thy step, thy guidance sure.