 | Hours at Naples, and Other Poems |  |
97
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
Ispahan! do I breathe thy spiced Zephyrs once more?
Long, long, have I wandered o'er far foreign shore,
But again through thy fields paved with Jonquilles I roam,
And I claim thee my City—my Country—my Home!
Long, long, have I wandered o'er far foreign shore,
But again through thy fields paved with Jonquilles I roam,
And I claim thee my City—my Country—my Home!
Ispahan!—'tis with tears that I hail thee and greet,
Yet with songs in my heart and with wings on my feet;
For the present is joy, while the past perished years
Wake the sadness of sighs—and the trouble of tears.
Yet with songs in my heart and with wings on my feet;
For the present is joy, while the past perished years
Wake the sadness of sighs—and the trouble of tears.
Thus with softened dejection and tempered delight,
I hail thee once more—ever glorious and bright—
And again through thy sweet Jonquille-fields though I tread,
For my Brethren I weep—ah! I weep for my Dead.
I hail thee once more—ever glorious and bright—
And again through thy sweet Jonquille-fields though I tread,
For my Brethren I weep—ah! I weep for my Dead.
98
I must mourn—I must moan o'er the turbanned death-stone,
And give deep thoughts to ties that are frittered and flown—
Yet, my fair Ispahan! thou art not the less dear,
Since the Dead, not the Living, are all I love here.
And give deep thoughts to ties that are frittered and flown—
Yet, my fair Ispahan! thou art not the less dear,
Since the Dead, not the Living, are all I love here.
In my young golden days of delight and of love,
My haunt was the glowing Pomegranate-lined grove,
Where the Bulbul sings still in the Sun-brightened day,
Though at night to the Cypress he wingeth his way!
My haunt was the glowing Pomegranate-lined grove,
Where the Bulbul sings still in the Sun-brightened day,
Though at night to the Cypress he wingeth his way!
Ah! 'tis thus in Life's weary and desolate night,
That we turn from the paths whose twined shades ev'n were bright,
And bend our lone footsteps in deep pondering mood
To the sunless, and scentless, and dark-shadowing Wood.
That we turn from the paths whose twined shades ev'n were bright,
And bend our lone footsteps in deep pondering mood
To the sunless, and scentless, and dark-shadowing Wood.
To the Wood where the Death-trees, the Cypresses frown,
Where the graves of our friends make us think of our own;
And lone in the Shadow of Memory we dwell,
And to Life's young delights bid a mournful farewell.
Where the graves of our friends make us think of our own;
And lone in the Shadow of Memory we dwell,
And to Life's young delights bid a mournful farewell.
99
Yet though thus solemn thoughts in my bosom will rise,
And bring sighs to my lip—and a tear to mine eyes—
Those fond sighs they are stingless, those tears they are sweet,
I have songs in my heart—I have wings on my feet.
And bring sighs to my lip—and a tear to mine eyes—
Those fond sighs they are stingless, those tears they are sweet,
I have songs in my heart—I have wings on my feet.
'Twill be joy—'twill be joy, each familiar old place
With the yearnings of unchanged affection to trace,
And to rest these tired eyes upon objects well-known,
And call back all the years and the hopes that are flown.
With the yearnings of unchanged affection to trace,
And to rest these tired eyes upon objects well-known,
And call back all the years and the hopes that are flown.
'Twill be joy—'twill be joy, to these scenes to return,
And the long-unconned lessons of love to relearn!
To relume each warm feeling—relink each sweet tie,
And behold all the things most beloved ere I die!
And the long-unconned lessons of love to relearn!
To relume each warm feeling—relink each sweet tie,
And behold all the things most beloved ere I die!
Though those feelings be faded—these ties may be torn,
Yet still Memory's dear magic shall cheer the forlorn—
So the dimmed shall be cleared—and the broken renewed—
And at one glorious Vision, the whole Past reviewed!
Yet still Memory's dear magic shall cheer the forlorn—
So the dimmed shall be cleared—and the broken renewed—
And at one glorious Vision, the whole Past reviewed!
100
But the things most beloved, shall I see them indeed—
Shall they rise to my call—shall they come at my need?
Ah! the things most beloved—and regretted the most—
Are the things that for ever are vanished and lost.
Shall they rise to my call—shall they come at my need?
Ah! the things most beloved—and regretted the most—
Are the things that for ever are vanished and lost.
Yes! the bower and the path still the same may remain,
But the friends of my youth, what shall bring them again?
Can even Memory restore them—the scattered—the flown—
Can even Memory now make them once more all my own?
But the friends of my youth, what shall bring them again?
Can even Memory restore them—the scattered—the flown—
Can even Memory now make them once more all my own?
Or if their dim forms for a moment she bring—
In a moment they are gone—on too swift-rushing wing—
Nor can fond prayers arrest them, nor wild plaints detain,
And the pleasure is lost in the cold-crushing pain.
In a moment they are gone—on too swift-rushing wing—
Nor can fond prayers arrest them, nor wild plaints detain,
And the pleasure is lost in the cold-crushing pain.
Oh, Hope! I have known thee and found thee a reed—
And 'tis well from thy dangerous delights to be freed;
But for Memory, sweet Memory—it is but a glass,
And the forms it reflects, all too rapidly pass.
And 'tis well from thy dangerous delights to be freed;
But for Memory, sweet Memory—it is but a glass,
And the forms it reflects, all too rapidly pass.
101
There bright images traced—for a while may appear
To the Life—to the Truth—soft, harmonious, and clear;
But like clouds from the Spring-skies they vanish, alas!
Ah! if Hope's but a reed—Memory! thou'rt but a glass!
To the Life—to the Truth—soft, harmonious, and clear;
But like clouds from the Spring-skies they vanish, alas!
Ah! if Hope's but a reed—Memory! thou'rt but a glass!
Thus, ye Silent—ye Sleeping—my thoughts turn to ye,
Who lie hid beneath Death-stone and solemn Death-tree!
Whose hearts (altered hearts!) have forgotten to beat
At the approach of their loved Friend's swift hastening feet.
Who lie hid beneath Death-stone and solemn Death-tree!
Whose hearts (altered hearts!) have forgotten to beat
At the approach of their loved Friend's swift hastening feet.
Forgotten by them are those glad glowing hours,
When together we met in our Kiosques and Bowers;
Clustered flowers mark the feet, and carved turbans the head,
For my Dear Ones I weep—Ah! I weep for my Dead!
When together we met in our Kiosques and Bowers;
Clustered flowers mark the feet, and carved turbans the head,
For my Dear Ones I weep—Ah! I weep for my Dead!
Forgotten—forgotten—are all that they loved!—
Lo! how can they lie there, so untouched and unmoved?
How can they lie there, thus unfeeling and cold,
When their loved friend rejoins them, the cherished of old?
Lo! how can they lie there, so untouched and unmoved?
How can they lie there, thus unfeeling and cold,
When their loved friend rejoins them, the cherished of old?
102
They are banished for ever—and darkly are laid
In the deep wormy pit—in the stillness and shade—
And the Dead have no hold—and the Dead have no home,
Save on my changeless bosom—save in the grave's gloom.
In the deep wormy pit—in the stillness and shade—
And the Dead have no hold—and the Dead have no home,
Save on my changeless bosom—save in the grave's gloom.
My brethren—my comrades—still, still must I love,
Your remembrance no change and no chance shall remove
From a lone, world-worn heart that loves ye laid in death,
Oh! far better than All that have Being and Breath.
Your remembrance no change and no chance shall remove
From a lone, world-worn heart that loves ye laid in death,
Oh! far better than All that have Being and Breath.
And thou—my Nouzhetos!—like winged Perii fair,
Thou art still at my heart—still thy deep home is there,
Though I know thy dark eyes have lost all their glad light,
That thy beauties are Nothing—thy dwelling is—Night!
Thou art still at my heart—still thy deep home is there,
Though I know thy dark eyes have lost all their glad light,
That thy beauties are Nothing—thy dwelling is—Night!
Mine own sweet Native Land—thou art dear unto me,
Though the Shadow of all thou wert once wont to be,
Though a charm is for ever withdrawn from thee now,
And a change in thine aspect I sorrowing avow!
Though the Shadow of all thou wert once wont to be,
Though a charm is for ever withdrawn from thee now,
And a change in thine aspect I sorrowing avow!
103
Oh! how glorious thou wert in Youth's free tearless eyes,
When Earth seemed the reflection of Sun-lighted Skies!
Oh! how worshipped thou wert by this wild bounding Heart,
And still glorious my Country, still blessed thou Art!
When Earth seemed the reflection of Sun-lighted Skies!
Oh! how worshipped thou wert by this wild bounding Heart,
And still glorious my Country, still blessed thou Art!
But to eyes that have once known the dimness of tears,
No scene shines so bright but some shade there appears;
But to hearts that have once felt the sharp stings of Care,
Wheresoever is Love—Sorrow's cloud too is there!
No scene shines so bright but some shade there appears;
But to hearts that have once felt the sharp stings of Care,
Wheresoever is Love—Sorrow's cloud too is there!
My Brethren! the joy and the pride of my Soul!—
Shadows, Night-born from Morn's mighty Rising may roll,
But the Shadows of Death are eternal on Earth,
Yea—Departed—ye have darkened my threshold and hearth.
Shadows, Night-born from Morn's mighty Rising may roll,
But the Shadows of Death are eternal on Earth,
Yea—Departed—ye have darkened my threshold and hearth.
And with Ye half the sweet light seems banished of Day,
Ye have borne with Ye half Life's dear blessings away;
Though that light and those blessings fall not to your share,
For you know them not, seek them not, need them not—there.
Ye have borne with Ye half Life's dear blessings away;
Though that light and those blessings fall not to your share,
For you know them not, seek them not, need them not—there.
104
They are lost to the Dead—to the Living they are lost—
And alas! 'tis the Living must mourn them the most!—
And for me—every Scene that was loveliest of yore,
Must more deepen the strife in my heart's wounded core.
And alas! 'tis the Living must mourn them the most!—
And for me—every Scene that was loveliest of yore,
Must more deepen the strife in my heart's wounded core.
Yet—ye sweet Jonquille-fields—and ye Pomegranate bowers,
That have touches, and traces, and tones of past hours,
Tho' no more ye may hold Earth's bright Hopes to mine Eyes,
Breathe ye should—breathe ye shall—of hopes shrined in the skies.
That have touches, and traces, and tones of past hours,
Tho' no more ye may hold Earth's bright Hopes to mine Eyes,
Breathe ye should—breathe ye shall—of hopes shrined in the skies.
For in Bowers far more lovely—in fields far more bright,
All o'erflowing with rapture—magnific with light,
With all blessings—charms—transports—for souls, hearts, and eyes,
Shall I meet with my Dead—where Death cannot disguise!
All o'erflowing with rapture—magnific with light,
With all blessings—charms—transports—for souls, hearts, and eyes,
Shall I meet with my Dead—where Death cannot disguise!
Then, ye bright Jonquille-fields and ye Pomegranate groves,
Once the scenes of my Joys and the haunts of my Loves,
Tho' Grief's heavy remembrance your sweet prospect mars,
Breathe ye may—breathe ye do—of Hopes shrined 'mid the Stars!
Once the scenes of my Joys and the haunts of my Loves,
Tho' Grief's heavy remembrance your sweet prospect mars,
Breathe ye may—breathe ye do—of Hopes shrined 'mid the Stars!
105
Ye remind me of prospects that yet shall unfold
To the eye of my Soul—in resplendence unrolled—
The sublime golden mounts, and the starry-flowered plains,
And the Bowers where the Sunshine that fadeth not reigns!
To the eye of my Soul—in resplendence unrolled—
The sublime golden mounts, and the starry-flowered plains,
And the Bowers where the Sunshine that fadeth not reigns!
There shall spread forth the Landscapes, still cloudless and bright,
All ecstatic of transport—prolific of light,
With all joys, pomps, and triumphs for sense, souls and hearts,
Where the bloom ne'er decays—whence the bliss ne'er departs.
All ecstatic of transport—prolific of light,
With all joys, pomps, and triumphs for sense, souls and hearts,
Where the bloom ne'er decays—whence the bliss ne'er departs.
Ispahan! oh, thy child hath returned to thy clime—
A weak war-beaten Wanderer—the toy of old Time;
And again through thy bright Jonquille-fields though I tread,
For my Brethren I weep—oh! I weep for my Dead.
A weak war-beaten Wanderer—the toy of old Time;
And again through thy bright Jonquille-fields though I tread,
For my Brethren I weep—oh! I weep for my Dead.
I weep—yes! I weep—yet 'tis strange that the while
My flushed lip is upwreathed by a fond lingering smile,
And my charmed senses kindle—my cheered pulses beat—
I have songs in my heart—I have wings on my feet.
My flushed lip is upwreathed by a fond lingering smile,
And my charmed senses kindle—my cheered pulses beat—
I have songs in my heart—I have wings on my feet.
| Hours at Naples, and Other Poems | |