Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. :: :: University of Virginia Library

The shade of the willow fell dark on the tide,
When the maid left her pillow to stand by its side;
The wind, like a sweet voice, was heard in the tree,
And a soft lulling music swept in from the sea.

The land was in darkness, for mountain and tower
Flung before them the shadows of night's deepest hour;
The moonlight unbroken lay white on the wave,
Till the wide sea was clear as the shield of the brave.

She flung from her forehead its curls of bright hair,—
Ere those ringlets fell round her another was there;
Red flushed her cheek's crimson, and dark drooped her eye,
A stranger had known 'twas her lover stood by.

One note on his sea-call, the signal he gave,
And a boat like a plaything, danced light on the wave;
Her head on his shoulder, her hand in his hand,
Yet the maiden looked back as they rowed from the strand.

She wept not for parents, she wept not for friends,
Yet fast the bright rain from her dark eye descends;
The portionless orphan left nothing behind
But the green leaves—the wild flowers sown by the wind.

But how the heart clings to that earliest love,
Which haunts the lone garden, and hallows the grove;
Which makes the old oak-tree and primrose-bank fair,
With the memories of childhood whose playtime was there.

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'Tis our spirits which fling round the joy which they take;
The best of our pleasures are those which we make:
We look to the past, and remember the while,
Our own buoyant step and our own sunny smile.

A pathway of silver was tracked on the wave,
The oars left behind them the light which they gave,
And the slight boat flew over the moonlighted brine,
Till the coast afar-off was one shadowy line.

They reached the proud ship, and the silken sails spread,
And the gallant flag shone like a meteor blood red;
And forth from the scabbard flashed out each bright sword,
In fealty to her the young bride of their lord.

From a cup of pale gold then she sipped the clear wine,
And clasped on her arm the green emeralds shine;
The silver lamps swinging with perfume were fed,
And the rich fur beneath her light footstep was spread.

From the small cabin window she looked to the shore,
Lost in night she could see its dim outline no more:
She sighed as she thought of her earlier hours,
Ah, who will now watch o'er my favourite flowers!”

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

AN ANECDOTE FROM PLUTARCH.

Glorious was the marble hall
With the sight and sound of festival,
For autumn had sent its golden hoard,
And summer its flowers to grace the board.
Inside and out the goblets shine,
Outside with gems, inside with wine;
And silver lamps shed round their light
Like the moonrise on an eastern night.
Gay laughs were heard; when these were mute
Came a voluptuous song and lute;

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And fair nymphs floated round, whose feet
Were light as the air on which they beat;
Their steps had no sound, they moved along
Like spirits that lived in the breath of song.

Beneath the canopy's purple sweep,
Like a sunset cloud on the twilight deep,
Sate the king of the feast, stately and tall,
Who look'd what he was, the lord of all.
A glorious scar was upon his brow,
And furrows that time and care will plough.
His battle-suns had left their soil,
And traces of tempest and traces of toil;
Yet was he one for whom woman's sigh
Breathes its deepest idolatry.
His that soft and worshipping air
She loves so well her lover should wear;
His that low and pleading tone
That makes the yielding heart its own;
And, more than all, his was the fame
That victory flings on the soldier's name.

Yet those meanings high that speak,
Scorn on the lip, fire on the cheek,
Tell of somewhat above such scenes as these,
With their wasting and midnight revelries.
Albeit he drain'd the purple bowl,
And heard the song till they madden'd his soul;
Yet his forehead grew pale, and then it burn'd—
As if in disdain from the feast he turn'd;
And his inward thoughts sought out a home
And dwelt on thy stately memory, Rome.
But his glance met her's beside, and again
His spirit clung to its precious chain.

With haughty brow, and regal hand,
As born but for worship and command,
Yet with smiles that told she knew full well
The power of woman's softest spell,

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Leant that Egyptian queen: a braid
Of jewols shone 'mid her dark hair's shade.
One pearl on her forehead hung, whose gem
Was worth a monarch's diadem,
And an emerald cestus bound the fold
Of her robe that shone with purple and gold.
All spoke of pomp, all spoke of pride,
And yet they were as nothing beside
Her radiant cheek, her flashing eye,
For their's was beauty's regality.
It was not that every feature apart,
Seem'd as if carved by the sculptor's art;
It was not the marble brow, nor the hair
That lay in its jewel-starr'd midnight there;
Nor her neck, like the swan's, for grace and whiteness,
Nor her step, like the wind of the south for lightness;
But it was a nameless spell, like the one
That makes the opal so fair a stone,
The spell of change:—for a little while
Her red lip shone with its summer smile—
You look'd again, and that smile was fled,
Sadness and softness were there instead.
This moment all bounding gaiety,
With a laugh that seem'd the heart's echo to be;
Now it was grace and mirth, and now
It was princely step and lofty brow;
By turns the woman and the queen,
And each as the other had never been.

But on her lip, and cheek, and brow,
Were traces that wildest passions avow;
All that a southern sun and sky
Could light in the heart, and flash from the eye;
A spirit that might by turns be led
To all we love, and all we dread.
And in that eye darkness and light
Mingled, like her own climate's night,
Till even he on her bosom leaning,
Shrank at times from its fiery meaning.

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There was a cloud on that warrior's face,
That wine, music, smiles, could not quite erase:
He sat on a rich and royal throne,
But a fear would pass that he sat there alone.
He stood not now in his native land,
With kinsman and friends at his red right hand;
And the goblet pass'd unkiss'd, till the brim
Had been touch'd by another as surety for him.

She, his enchantress, mark'd his fear,
But she let not her secret thought appear.
Wreath'd with her hair were crimson flowers,
The brightest that form the lotus bowers;—
She pluck'd two buds, and fill'd them with wine,
And, laughing said, “this pledge be mine!”

Her smile shone over their bloom like a charm,
He raised them up, but she caught his arm,
And bade them bring to the festive hall
One doom'd to death, a criminal.

He drank of the wine, he gasped for breath,
For those bright, but poison'd flowers, held death;
And turn'd she to Antony with the wreath,
While her haughty smile hid the sigh beneath,
“Where had thy life been at this hour,
Had not my Love been more than my Power?
—Away, if thou fearest,—love never must,
Never can live with one shade of distrust.”

EGERIA'S GROTTO.

A silver Fountain with a changeful shade
Of interwoven leaves and blossoms made;
The leaves that turn'd the light to emerald green,
While colour'd buds like rainbows shone between:
And on the southern bank, as if beset
With ocean pearls, grew the white violet;

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Above there stood a graceful orange-tree,
Where Spring and Summer dwelt in amity,
And shared the boughs between them,—one with flowers
Its silver offering to the sunshine hours;
The other with its fruit, like Indian gold,
Or those bright apples the last lover roll'd
In Atalanta's path and won the day—
Alas! how often gold has led astray!
The shadow of old chestnut trees was round—
They were the guardians of the hallow'd ground;
The hunter in his chase had past it by,
So closely was it screen'd from curious eye.

On the bank opposite to that, where strew'd
Sigh'd the pale violets' sweet multitude,
There was a little Grotto, and like stars
The roof was set with crystal and with spars
Trembling in light;—it needed much their aid,
For at the entrance the dark branches play'd
Of a lone cypress, and the summer-day
Was changed to twilight as it made its way.
It is Egeria's Grotto. Her bright hair
Has left its odour on the fragrant air;
The echo of her step is lingering still
In the low music of the lute-toned rill;
And here the flowers are beautiful and young
As when beneath her ivory feet they sprung.

Ay, this made Love delicious as a dream,
Save that it was too constant but to seem—
No time to tire, gone almost soon as seen;
Known but by happiness, that it had been—
A shade, but such a shade as rainbows cast
Upon the clouds, in its first beauty past—
A mystery, such mystery as the breath
Lurking in summer sweetness on a wreath,
Which we would but enjoy, but not explore,
Too blest in the pleased sense to desire more.
And thus if Love would last, thus must it be—
A wish, a vision, and a fantasie.

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STANZAS ON THE NEW YEAR

I stood between the meeting Years,
The coming and the past,
And I ask'd of the future one,
Wilt thou be like the last?

The same in many a sleepless night,
In many an anxious day?
Thank Heaven! I have no prophet's eye
To look upon thy way!

For Sorrow like a phantom sits
Upon the last Year's close.
How much of grief, how much of ill,
In its dark breast repose!

Shadows of faded Hopes flit by,
And ghosts of Pleasures fled:
How have they chang'd from what they were!
Cold, colourless, and dead.

I think on many a wasted hour,
And sicken o'er the void;
And many darker are behind,
On worse than nought employ'd.

Oh Vanity! alas, my heart!
How widely hast thou stray'd,
And misused every golden gift
For better purpose made!

I think on many a once-loved friend
As nothing to me now;
And what can mark the lapse of time
As does an alter'd brow?

Perhaps 'twas but a careless word
That sever'd Friendship's chain;
And angry Pride stands by each gap,
Lest they unite again.

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Less sad, albeit more terrible,
To think upon the dead,
Who quiet in the lonely grave
Lay down the weary head.

For faith, and hope, and peace, and trust,
Are with their happier lot:
Though broken is their bond of love,
At least we broke it not.—

Thus thinking of the meeting years,
The coming and the past,
I needs must ask the future one:
Wilt thou be like the last?

There came a sound, but not of speech,
That to my thought replied,
“Misery is the marriage-gift
That waits a mortal bride:

But lift thine hopes from this base earth,
This waste of worldly care,
And wed thy faith to yon bright sky,
For Happiness dwells there!”

STANZAS.

I know it is not made to last,
The dream which haunts my soul;
The shadow even now is cast
Which soon will wrap the whole.

Ah! waking dreams that mock the day
Have other end than those,
Which come beneath the moonlight ray,
And charm the eyes they close.

The vision colouring the night
'Mid bloom and brightness wakes,
Banished by morning's cheerful light,
Which gladdens while it breaks.

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But dreams which fix the waking eye
With deeper spells than sleep,
When hours unnoted pass us by,
From such we wake and weep.

We wake,—but not to sleep again;
The heart has lost its youth,—
The morning light which wakes us then,
Calm, cold, and stern, is Truth.

I know all this, and yet I yield
My spirit to the snare,
And gather flowers upon the field,
Though Woe and Fate are there.

The maid divine, who bound her wreath
On Etna's fatal plain,
Knew not the foe that lurked beneath
The summer-clad domain.

But I—I read my doom aright,
I snatched a few glad hours,
Then where will be the past delight—
And where my gathered flowers?

Gone—gone for ever! let them go!
The present is my meed—
Aye, let me worship, ere I know
The falsehood of my creed.

The time may come—they say it must—
When thou, my idol now,
Like all we treasure and we trust,
Will mock the votive vow.

And when the temple's on the ground—
The altar overthrown—
Too late the bitter moral's found,—
The folly was our own.

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It matters not, my heart is full
With present hopes and fears,
The future cannot quite annul—
Let them be bought by tears.

Though sorrow, disbelief, and blame
May load the fallen shrine;
To think that once it bore thy name
Will make it still divine.

And such it was—for it was love's;
And love its heaven brings,
And from life's daily path removes
All other meaner things;

And calls from out the common heart
Its music, and its fire;
Like that the early hours impart
To Memnon's sculptured lyre.

A touch of light—a tone of song—
The sweet enchantment's o'er;
The thrilling heart and lute ere long
Confess the spell do more.

The music from the heart is gone;
The light has left the sky;
And time again flows calmly on,
The haunted hour past by.

And thus with love the charmed earth
Grows actual, cold, and drear;
But that sweet phantasy was worth
All else most precious here.

'Mid the dark web that life must weave,
'Twill linger in the mind
As angels spread their wings, yet leave
The trace of heaven behind.

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Ah! let the heart that worships thee
By every change be proved:
Its dearest memory will be
To know that once it loved.

THE OLD TIMES.

Do you recall what now is living only
Amid the memories garnered at the heart?—
The quiet garden, quiet and so lonely,
Where fruit and flowers had each an equal part?
When we had gathered cowslips in the meadow
We used to bear them to the ancient seat,
Moss-grown, beneath the apple-tree's soft shadow,
Which flung its rosy blossoms at our feet,
In the old, old times,
The dear old times.

Near was the well o'er whose damp walls were weeping
Stonecrop, and grounsel, and pale yellow flowers,
While o'er the banks the strawberry plants were creeping
In the white beauty of June's earliest hours.
The currant-bush and lilac grew together;
The bean's sweet breath was blended with the rose;
Alike rejoicing in the pleasant weather
That brought the bloom to these, the fruit to those,
In the old, old times,
The dear old times.

There was no fountain over marble falling;
But the bees murmur'd one perpetual song,
Like soothing waters, and the birds were calling
Amid the fruit-tree blossoms all day long;
Upon the sunny grass-plot stood the dial,
Whose measured time strange contrast with ours made:
Ah! was it omen of life's after trial,
That even then the hours were told in shade,
In the old, old times,
The dear old times?

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But little recked we then of those sick fancies
To which in after life the spirit yields:
Our world was of the fairies and romances
With which we wandered o'er the summer fields;
Then did we question of the down-balls blowing
To know if some slight wish would come to pass;
If showers we feared, we sought where there was growing
Some weather-flower which was our weather-glass:
In the old, old times,
The dear old times.

Yet my heart warms at these fond recollections,
Breaking the heavy shadow on my day.
Ah! who hath cared for all the deep affections—
The love, the kindness I have thrown away?
The dear old garden! There is now remaining
As little of its bloom as rests with me.
Thy only memory is this sad complaining,
Mourning that never more for us can be
The old, old times,
The dear old times.

SONG.

Oh! breathe not of love,
Or breathe not to me,
If constant for aye
Must your love-motto be.
Where are the things
The fairest on earth;
Is it not in their change
That their beauty has birth?
The neck of the peacock,
The iris's dyes,
The light in the opal,
The April-day skies:—

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Would they be lovely,
As all of them are,
But for the chance
And the change that are there?
Breathe no vow to me,
I will give none of mine;
Love must light in an instant,
As quickly decline.
His blushes, his sighs,
Are bewildering things;
Then away with his fetters,
And give me his wings.

CI-DEVANT!

I cannot, if I would, call back again
The early feelings of my love for thee,
I love thee ever, but it is in vain
To dream Love can be what it was to me.
Some of its flowers have fallen from the chain,
And showed that iron under them could be—
And it has entered in my soul: no more
Can that soul revel in its dreams of yore.

O no, my heart can never be
Again in lighted hopes the same—
The love that lingers thère for thee
Has more of ashes than of flame.

Still deem not but that I am yet
As much as ever all thine own;
Though now the seal of love be set
On a heart chilled almost to stone.

And can you marvel? only look
On all that heart has had to bear—
On all that it has yet to brook,
And wonder then at its despair.

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Oh, Love is destiny, and mine
Has long been struggled with in vain—
Victim or votary, at thy shrine
There I am vow'd—there must remain.

My first—my last—my only love.
O blame me not for that I dwell
On all that I have had to prove
Of Love's despair, of Hope's farewell.

I think upon mine early dreams,
When Youth, Hope, Joy, together sprung;
The gushing forth of mountain-streams,
On which no shadow had been flung.

When Love seemed only meant to make
A sunshine on life's silver seas—
Alas, that we should ever wake,
And wake to weep o'er dreams like these!

I loved, and Love was like to me
The spirit of a faery tale,
When we have but to wish, and be
Whatever wild wish may prevail.

I deemed that Love had power to part
The chains and blossoms of life's thrall,
Make an Elysium of the heart,
And shed its influence over all.

I linked it with all lovely things,
Beautiful pictures, tones of song,
All those pure, high imaginings
That but in thought to earth belong.

And all that was unreal became
Reality when blent with thee—
It was but colouring that flame,
More than a lava flood to me.

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I was not happy—Love forbade
Peace by its feverish restlessness;
But this was sweet, and then I had
Hope, which relies on happiness.

I need not say how, one by one,
Love's flowers have dropp'd from off Love's chain;
Enough to say that they are gone,
And that they cannot bloom again.

I know not what the pangs may be
That hearts betray'd or slighted prove—
I speak but of the misery
That waits on fond and mutual love.

The torture of an absent hour,
When doubts mock Reason's faint control:—
'Tis fearful thinking of the power
Another holds upon our soul!

To think another has in thrall
All of life's best and dearest part—
Our hopes, affections, trusted all
To that frail bark—the human heart.

To yield thus to another's reign;—
To live but in another's breath—
To double all life's powers of pain—
To die twice in another's death;

While these things present to me seem,
And what can now the past restore,
Love as I may, yet I can dream
Of happiness in Love no more.