The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Once more, through God's high will, and grace
Of hours that each its task fulfils,
Heart-healing Spring resumes her place,
The valley throngs and scales the hills;

In vain. From earth's deep heart o'ercharged
The exulting life runs o'er in flowers;
The slave unfed is unenlarged:
In darkness sleep a Nation's powers.

Who knows not Spring? Who doubts, when blows
Her breath, that Spring is come indeed?
The swallow doubts not; nor the rose
That stirs, but wakes not; nor the weed.

I feel her near, but see her not;
For these with pain uplifted eyes
Fall back repulsed, and vapours blot
The vision of the earth and skies.

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I see her not: I feel her near,
As, charioted in mildest airs,
She sails through yon empyreal sphere,
And in her arms and bosom bears

That urn of flowers and lustral dews
Whose sacred balm, o'er all things shed,
Revives the weak, the old renews,
And crowns with votive wreaths the dead.

Once more the cuckoo's call I hear;
I know, in many a glen profound,
The earliest violets of the year
Rise up like water from the ground.

The thorn I know once more is white;
And, far down many a forest dale,
The anemonies in dubious light
Are trembling like a bridal veil.

By streams released that singing flow
From craggy shelf through sylvan glades
The pale narcissus, well I know,
Smiles hour by hour on greener shades.

The honeyed cowslip tufts once more
The golden slopes; with gradual ray
The primrose stars the rock, and o'er
The wood-path strews its milky way.

From ruined huts and holes come forth
Old men, and look upon the sky!
The Power Divine is on the earth:
Give thanks to God before ye die!

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And ye, O children worn and weak!
Who care no more with flowers to play,
Lean on the grass your cold, thin cheek,
And those slight hands, and, whispering, say,

‘Stern mother of a race unblest,
In promise kindly, cold in deed,—
Take back, O Earth, into thy breast,
The children whom thou wilt not feed.’

II.—SUMMER.

Approved by works of love and might,
The Year, consummated and crowned,
Hath scaled the zenith's purple height,
And flings his robe the earth around.

Impassioned stillness, fervours calm,
Brood, vast and bright, o'er land and deep:
The warrior sleeps beneath the palm;
The dark-eyed captive guards his sleep.

The Iberian labourer rests from toil;
Sicilian virgins twine the dance;
Laugh Tuscan vales in wine and oil;
Fresh laurels flash from brows of France.

Far off, in regions of the North,
The hunter drops his winter fur;
Sun-wakened babes their feet stretch forth;
And nested dormice feebly stir.

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But thou, O land of many woes!
What cheer is thine? Again the breath
Of proved Destruction o'er thee blows,
And sentenced fields grow black in death.

In horror of a new despair
His blood-shot eyes the peasant strains,
With hands clenched fast, and lifted hair,
Along the daily darkening plains.

‘Why trusted he to them his store?
Why feared he not the scourge to come?’
Fool! turn the page of History o'er—
The roll of Statutes—and be dumb!

Behold, O People! thou shalt die!
What art thou better than thy sires?
The hunted deer a weeping eye
Turns on his birthplace, and expires.

Lo! as the closing of a book,
Or statute from its base o'erthrown,
Or blasted wood, or dried-up brook,
Name, race, and nation, thou art gone!

The stranger shall thy hearth possess;
The stranger build upon thy grave:
But know this also—he, not less,
His limit and his term shall have.

Once more thy volume, open cast,
In thunder forth shall sound thy name;
Thy forest, hot at heart, at last
God's breath shall kindle into flame.

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Thy brook dried up a cloud shall rise,
And stretch an hourly widening hand,
In God's good vengeance, through the skies,
And onward o'er the Invader's land.

Of thine, one day, a remnant left
Shall raise o'er earth a Prophet's rod,
And teach the coasts of Faith bereft
The names of Ireland, and of God.

III.—AUTUMN.

Then die, thou Year—thy work is done:
The work ill done is done at last:
Far off, beyond that sinking sun
Which sets in blood, I hear the blast

That sings thy dirge, and says—‘Ascend,
And answer make amid thy peers,
Since all things here must have an end,
Thou latest of the famine years!’

I join that voice. No joy have I
In all thy purple and thy gold;
Nor in that nine-fold harmony
From forest on to forest rolled;

Nor in that stormy western fire
Which burns on ocean's gloomy bed,
And hurls, as from a funeral pyre,
A glare that strikes the mountain's head;

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And writes on low-hung clouds its lines
Of cyphered flame, with hurrying hand;
And flings amid the topmost pines
That crown the cliff, a burning brand.

Make answer, Year, for all thy dead,
Who found not rest in hallowed earth;
The widowed wife, the father fled,
The babe age-stricken from his birth.

Make answer, Year, for virtue lost;
For courage proof 'gainst fraud and force
Now waning like a noontide ghost;
Affections poisoned at their source.

The labourer spurned his lying spade;
The yeoman spurned his useless plough;
The pauper spurned the unwholesome aid
Obtruded once, exhausted now.

The roof-trees fall of hut and hall;
I hear them fall, and falling cry,
‘One fate for each, one fate for all;
So wills the Law that willed a lie.’

Dread power of Man! what spread the waste
In circles hour by hour more wide,
And would not let the past be past?
That Law which promised much, and lied.

Dread power of God; Whom mortal years
Nor touch, nor tempt: Who sitt'st sublime
In night of night,—O bid thy spheres
Resound at last a funeral chime!

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Call up at last the afflicted race,
Whom Man, not God, abolished. Sore,
For centuries, their strife: the place
That knew them once shall know no more!

IV.—WINTER.

Fall, snow, and cease not! Flake by flake
The decent winding-sheet compose:
Thy task is just and pious; make
An end of blasphemies and woes.

Fall, flake by flake! by thee alone,
Last friend, the sleeping draught is given:
Kind nurse, by thee the couch is strewn,
The couch whose covering is from Heaven.

Descend and clasp the mountain's crest;
Inherit plain and valley deep:
This night on thy maternal breast
A vanquished nation dies in sleep.

Lo! from the starry Temple Gates
Death rides, and bears the flag of peace:
The combatants he separates;
He bids the wrath of ages cease.

Descend, benignant Power! But O,
Ye torrents, shake no more the vale:
Dark streams, in silence seaward flow:
Thou rising storm, remit thy wail.

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Shake not, to-night, the cliffs of Moher,
Nor Brandon's base, rough sea! Thou Isle,
The Rite proceeds! From shore to shore,
Hold in thy gathered breath the while.

Fall, snow! in stillness fall, like dew,
On church's roof and cedar's fan;
And mould thyself on pine and yew;
And on the awful face of Man.

Without a sound, without a stir,
In streets and wolds, on rock and mound,
O, omnipresent Comforter,
By thee, this night, the lost are found!

On quaking moor and mountain moss,
With eyes upstaring at the sky,
And arms extended like a cross,
The long-expectant sufferers lie.

Bend o'er them, white-robed Acolyte!
Put forth thine hand from cloud and mist;
And minister the last sad Rite,
Where altar there is none, nor priest.

Touch thou the gates of soul and sense;
Touch darkening eyes and dying ears;
Touch stiffening hands and feet, and thence
Remove the trace of sins and tears.

And, ere thou seal those filmèd eyes,
Into God's urn thy fingers dip,
And lay, 'mid eucharistic sighs,
The sacred wafer on the lip.

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This night the Absolver issues forth:
This night the Eternal Victim bleeds:—
O winds and woods; O heaven and earth!
Be still this night. The Rite proceeds!

TO BURNS'S ‘HIGHLAND MARY.’

O loved by him whom Scotland loves,
Long loved, and honoured duly
By all who love the bard who sang
So sweetly and so truly!
In cultured dales his song prevails;
Thrills o'er the eagle's aëry—
Has any caught that strain, nor sighed
For Burns's ‘Highland Mary’?

I wandered on from hill to hill,
I feared nor wind nor weather,
For Burns beside me trode the moor,
Beside me pressed the heather.
I read his verse: his life—alas!
O'er that dark shades extended:—
With thee at last, and him in thee,
My thoughts their wanderings ended.

His golden hours of youth were thine;
Those hours whose flight is fleetest
Of all his songs to thee he gave
The freshest and the sweetest.

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Ere ripe the fruit one branch he brake,
All rich with bloom and blossom;
And shook its dews, its incense shook,
Above thy brow and bosom.

And when his Spring, alas, how soon!
Had vanished, self-subverted,
His Summer, like a god repulsed,
Had from his gates departed;
Beneath that evening star, once more,
Star of his morn and even!
To thee his suppliant hands he spread,
And hailed his love ‘in heaven.’

And if his spirit in ‘a waste
Of shame’ too oft was squandered,
And if too oft his feet ill-starred
In ways erroneous wandered;
Yet still his spirit's spirit bathed
In purity eternal;
And all fair things through thee retained
For him their aspect vernal.

Nor less that tenderness remained
Thy favouring love implanted;
Compunctious pity, yearnings vague
For love to earth not granted;
Reserve with freedom, female grace
Well matched with manly vigour,
In songs where fancy twined her wreaths
Round judgment's stalwart rigour.

A mute but strong appeal was made
To him by feeblest creatures:

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In his large heart had each a part
That part had found in Nature's.
The wildered sheep, sagacious dog,
Old horse reduced and crazy;
The field-mouse by the plough upturned,
And violated daisy.

In him there burned that passionate glow
All Nature's soul and savour,
Which gives its hue to every flower,
To every fruit its flavour:
Nor less the kindred power he felt;
That love of all things human
Whereof the fiery centre is
The love man bears to woman.

He sang the dignity of man,
Sang woman's grace and goodness;
Passed by the world's half-truths; her lies
Pierced through with lance-like shrewdness:
Upon life's broad highways he stood,
And aped nor Greek nor Roman;
But snatched from heaven Promethean fire
To glorify things common.

He sang of youth, he sang of age,
Their joys, their griefs, their labours
Felt with, not for, the people; hailed
All Scotland's sons his neighbours:
And therefore all repeat his verse,
Hot youth, or greybeard steady,
The boatman on Loch Etive's wave,
The shepherd on Ben Ledi.

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He sang from love of song; his name
Dunedin's cliff resounded:
He left her, faithful to a fame
On truth and nature founded:
He sought true fame, not loud acclaim;
Himself and Time he trusted:
For laurels crackling in the flame
His fine ear never lusted.

He loved, and reason had to love,
The illustrious land that bore him:
Where'er he went, like heaven's broad tent
A star-bright Past hung o'er him:
Each isle had fenced a saint recluse,
Each tower a hero dying;
Down every mountain-gorge had rolled
The flood of foemen flying.

From age to age that land had paid
No alien throne submission;
For feudal faith had been her Law,
And freedom her Tradition.
Where frowned the rocks had Freedom smiled,
Sung 'mid the shrill wind's whistle—
So England prized her garden Rose,
But Scotland loved her Thistle.

Fair field alone the brave demand,
And Scotland ne'er had lost it;
And honest prove the hate and love
To objects meet adjusted:
Her will and way had ne'er been crossed
In fatal contradiction;
Nor loyalty to treason soured,
Nor faith abused with fiction.

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Can song be false where hearts are sound?
Weak doubts, away we fling them!
The land that breeds great men, great deeds,
Shall ne'er lack bards to sing them:
That vigour, sense, and mutual truth
Which baffled each invader,
Shall fill her marts, and feed her arts,
While peaceful olives shade her.

Honour to Scotland and to Burns!
In him she stands collected:
A thousand streams one river make—
Thus Genius, heaven-directed,
Conjoins all separate veins of power
In one great soul-creation;
Thus blends a million men to make
The Poet of the nation.

Be green for aye, green bank and brae
Around Montgomery's Castle!
Blow there, ye earliest flowers! and there,
Ye sweetest song-birds, nestle!
For there was ta'en that last farewell
In hope, indulged how blindly;
And there was given that long last gaze
‘That dwelt’ on him ‘sae kindly.’

No word of thine recorded stands;
Few words that hour were spoken:
Two Bibles there were interchanged,
And some slight love-gift broken:
And there thy cold faint hands he pressed,
Thy head by dew-drops misted;
And kisses, ill-resisted first,
At last were unresisted.

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Ah cease!—she died. He too is dead.
Of all her girlish graces
Perhaps one nameless lock remains:
The rest stern Time effaces—
Dust lost in dust. Not so: a bloom
Is hers that ne'er can wither;
And in that lay which lives for aye
The twain live on together.

PSYCHE; OR, AN OLD POET'S LOVE.—

1847.

I.

O western Isle that gave her birth!
O Delos of a holier sea!
O casket of uncounted worth!
How dear thou art to Love and me!

Thy whispering woods, in some soft dell,
Now charmed, now broke the Infant's rest;
Thy vales the wild-flower cherished well,
Predestined for the Virgin's breast.

May airs salubrious, gusts of balm,
On all thy shores incumbent, blow
Thy billow from the glassy calm,
And fringe thy myrtles with sea-snow!

My Psyche's lips thy zephyrs breathe;
My Psyche's feet thy pastures tread:—

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O Isle of isles, around me wreathe
Thine asphodels when I am dead.

II.

How blue were Ariadne's eyes,
When from the sea's horizon line,
At eve, she raised them on the skies!
My Psyche, bluer far are thine.

How pallid, snatched from falling flowers,
The cheek averse of Proserpine,
Unshadowed yet by Stygian bowers!
My Psyche, paler far is thine.

Yet thee no lover e'er forsook;
No tyrant urged with love unkind:
Thy joy the ungentle could not brook;
Thy light would strike the unworthy blind.

A golden flame invests thy tresses:
An azure flame invests thine eyes:
And well that wingless form expresses
Communion with relinquished skies.

Forbear, O breezes of the West,
To waft her to her native bourne;
For heavenly, by her feet impressed,
Becomes our ancient earth outworn!

On Psyche's life our beings hang:
In Psyche life and love are one:—
My Psyche glanced at me and sang,
‘Perhaps to-morrow I am gone!’

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III.—PSYCHE'S BATH.

O stream beloved! O stream unknown!
In which my love has bathed,
Be still thy fount unvexed with floods
Thy marge by heats unscathed!

How oft her white hand tempted thine!
How oft, by fears delayed,
Ere yet her light had filled thy depth,
With thee her shadow played!

Thy purity encompassed hers;
Thy crystal cased my pearl;
Of founts, the fairest fount embraced
Of girls, the loveliest girl!

May still thy lilies round thee wave,
As shaken by a sigh!
Thy violets, blooming where she gazed,
Bloom first and latest die!

May better bards, when I am gone,
Like birds salute thy bower;
And each that sings thee grow in heart
A virgin from that hour!

IV.—PSYCHE'S STUDY.

The low sun smote the topmost rocks,
Ascending o'er the eastern sea:
Backward my Psyche waved her locks,
And held her book upon her knee.

No brake was near, no flower, no bird,
No music but the ocean wave,

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That with complacent murmur stirred
The echoes of a neighbouring cave.

Absorbed my Psyche sat, her face
Reflecting Plato's sun-like soul,
And seemed in every word to trace
The pent-up spirit of the whole.

Absorbed she sat in breathless mood,
Unmoved as kneeler at a shrine,
Save one slight finger that pursued
The meaning on from line to line.

As some white flower in forest nook
Bends o'er its own face in a well,
So seemed the virgin in that book
Her soul, unread before, to spell.

Sudden, a crimson butterfly
On that illumined page alit:—
My Psyche flung the volume by,
And sister-like, gave chase to it!

V.

Nearer yet, by soft degrees,
Nearer nestling by my side,
Her arm she propped upon my knees;
Her head, ere long, its place supplied.

Mysteriously a child there lurked
Within that soaring spirit wild:
Mysteriously a woman worked
Imprisoned in that fearless child.

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One thought before me, like a star,
Rolled onward ever, always on;
It called me to the fields afar,
In which triumphant palms are won.

The concourse of far years I heard
Applausive as a summer sea:—
My trance was broken: Psyche stirred;—
‘Is Psyche nothing then to thee?’

VI.

Ah, that a lightly-lifted hand
Should thus man's soul depress or raise,
And wield, as with a magic wand,
A spirit steeled in earlier days!

Ah, that a voice whose speech is song,
Whose pathos weeps, whose gladness smiles,
Should melt a heart unmoved so long,
And charm it to the Syren Isles!

Ah, that one presence, morn or eve,
Should fill deserted halls with light;
One breeze-like step, departing, leave
The noonday darker than the night!

Thy power is great: but Love and Youth
Conspire with thee. With thee they dwell:
From those kind eyes in tenderest ruth
On mine they look and say, ‘Farewell!’

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VII.

Love! Love the avenger! Had I deemed
There lived such beauty, ere too late,
But once of Psyche had I dreamed,
How different had been my fate!

I heard of Virtue, and believed:
But till that glorious face I saw,
Her image in my soul conceived
Possessed me less with love than awe.

It was mine own infirmity:—
I heard, believed; but Faith was weak:
The Syren-Muse for ever nigh,
Forbade me heavenlier lights to seek.

Deposed I stand by power divine:
The robes of Song are changed for chains;
To love my Psyche; this is mine;
To love—not seek her—this remains.

VIII.—PSYCHE DRAWING.

Of mind all light, and tenderest-handed,
She sketched, untaught, an infant's face,
And as the ideal Thought expanded,
Stamped, line by line, a deepening grace.

Not pilotless her fancy dreamed,
Though borne through shoreless seas and air:
From native regions on her beamed
The archetypes of True and Fair.

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As when the Spring with touches pure
Evolves some blossom, hour by hour,
So Psyche's Thought became mature;
So Psyche nursed her human flower.

The billowy locks, the look intense,
The eyes so piercing, sweet, and wild!—
I cried, inspired by sudden sense,
‘Thus Psyche looked, an infant child!’

IX.—PSYCHE'S REMORSE.

A word unkind, yet scarce unkind,
Was sweetened by so soft a smile,
It lingered long in heart and mind,
Yet hardly woke a pang the while.

At night she dreamed that I was dead;
And wished to touch, yet feared to stir,
The heavy hands beside me laid,
Incapable of love and her.

We met at morning: still her breast
Rose gently with a mournful wave:
And of the flowers thereon, the best
She gave; and kissed before she gave.

X.—PSYCHE SINGING.

Between the green hill and the cloud
The skylark loosed his silver chain
Of rapturous music, clear and loud—
My Psyche answered back the strain!

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A glory rushed along the sky;
She sang, and all dark things grew plain;
Hope, starlike, shone; and Memory
Flashed like a cypress gemmed with rain.

Once more the skylark recommenced;
Once more from heaven his challenge rang:
Again with him my Psyche fenced;
At last the twain commingled sang.

Then first I learned the skylark's lore;
Then first the words he sang I knew:
My soul with rapture flooded o'er
As breeze-borne gossamer with dew.

XI.

Wert thou a child, O gladness then
Thy hand in mine to roam the woods,
And teach that child in vale or glen
To scale the rocks, nor fear the floods!

What joy the page of ancient lore
To turn: her dawn of thought to watch:
And from her kindling eyes once more
The sunrise of old times to catch!

Wert thou an infant, then my arms
Might lift thee in the light; and I
The captive were of infant charms:—
From such at least no need to fly!

Wert thou my sister, Love would swear
To own thenceforth no haughtier name:
Whatever form that Soul might wear,
The spell would be to me the same.

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It is not love that rules my heart,
Nor aught by mortals named or known:
I know but this;—when near thou art,
I live. I die when thou art gone.

XII.

As when—deep chaunts abruptly stayed—
The Thoughts that, music-born, advanced
In tides of puissance, music-swayed
And waves that in the glory danced,

Contract, subside, and leave at last,
Where late the abounding floods were spread,
A vale of darkness, grim and vast,
A buried river's rocky bed;

Thus—when thou goest—my heart, my life
Descend to dim sepulchral caves;
My world, but late with rapture rife,
Becomes a world of rocks and graves.

Come back! From mountain-cells afar,
My soul's strong river shall return:
Come back! Again the Morning Star
Shall shine against the exhaustless urn.

XIII.

My Psyche laid her silken hand
Upon my silver head,
And said, ‘To thee shall I remand
The light of seasons fled?’

The child bent o'er me as she spake;
And, leaning yet more near,

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A tress that kissed me for Love's sake,
Removed from me a tear.

Psyche, not so! lest life should grow
Near thee too deeply sweet;
And I who censure Death as slow
Should fear her far-off feet.

Eternal sweetness, love, and truth,
Are in thy face enshrined;
The breathing soul of endless youth
On wafts thee like a wind.

Those eyes, where'er they chance to gaze,
Might wake to songs the dumb!
Breathe thou upon my blighted bays—
Rose-odoured they become!

Yet go, and cheer a happier throng:
For Death, a spouse dark-eyed,
On me her eyes hath levelled long,
And calls me to her side.

O'er yon not distant coast, even now,
What shape ascends? A Tomb.
Farewell, my Psyche!—why shouldst thou
Be shadowed by its gloom?

XIV.

‘Can Love be just? can Hope be wise?
Can Youth renew his honours dead?’—
On me my Psyche turned her eyes;
And all my great resolves were fled.

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Psyche, I said, when thou art nigh
Transpicuous grow the mists of years:
I cannot ever wholly die
If on my grave should drop thy tears.

Nor thine a part in mortal hours:
Thy flower nor autumn knows, nor May:
Thou bendest from sidereal bowers
A dateless glory, fresh for aye!

Though I be nothing, yet the best
To thee no gift of price could give:—
Fall then, in radiance, on my breast,
And in thy blessing bid me live!

XV.

Pure lip coralline, slightly stirred;
Thus stir; but speak not! Love can see
On you the syllables unheard
Which are his only melody.

Pure, drooping lids; dark lashes wet
With that unhoped-for, trembling tear;
Thus droop; thus meet; nor give me yet
The eyes that I desire, yet fear.

Hands lightly clasped on meekest knee;
All-beauteous head, as by a spell
Bent forward; loveliest form, to me
A lovely Soul made visible;—

Speak not! move not! More tender grows
The heart, long musing. Night may plead,

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Perhaps, my part; and, at its close,
The morning bring me light indeed.

XVI.

‘Such beauty was not born to die!’
That thought above my fancy kept
Hovering like moonbeams tremulously;
And as its lustre waned, I slept.

Deep Love kept vigil. Where she sate
Methought I sought her. Ah the change!
Youth freezes at the frown of Fate;
And Time defied will have revenge.

The summer sunshine of her head
Had changed to moonlight tresses grey:
O'er all her countenance was spread
The twilight of a winter's day.

Dim as a misty tree ere morn,
Sad as a tide-deserted strand,
She sate, with roseless lip forlorn:—
I knelt, and, reverent, kissed her hand.

I loved her. Whom I loved of yore,
A shape all lustrous from the skies,
I loved that hour, and loved far more,
So sweet in this unjust disguise.

A human tenderness, a love,
More deep than loves of prosperous years,
Through all my spirit rose and strove,
And, cloud-like, o'er her sank in tears.

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XVII.

She leaves us! Many a gentler breast
Will mourn our common loss like me:
The babe her hand, her voice caressed,
The lamb that couched beside her knee.

The touch thou lovest—the robe's far gleam—
Thou shalt not find, thou dark-eyed fawn!
Thy light is lost, exultant stream:
Dim woods, your sweetness is withdrawn.

Descend dark heavens, and flood with rain
Their crimson roofs; their silence rout:
Their vapour-laden branches strain;
And force the smothered sadness out!

That so the ascended moon, when breaks
The cloud, may light once more a scene
Fair as some cheek that suffering makes
Only more tearfully serene:

That so the vale she loved may look
Calm as some cloister roofed with snows,
Wherein, unseen, in shadowy nook,
A buried Vestal finds repose.

XVIII.

Ah! Grief had but begun to grieve
When thus I trifled with my sighs:
Who brings what Psyche brought must leave
The loss no song can harmonise.

She brought me back the buried years;
And glorious in her light they shone:

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Once more their sun is set; and tears
Deface their care-worn aspect wan.

Old joys, old sorrows,—ghosts unlaid,—
In every dirge-like breeze go by:
Loved phantoms haunt the unwholesome shade:
Ah then revived they but to die?

They die, like music: like a tide
They ebb through darkness far away:
Till, meeting Lethè, side by side
The rivers roll that love not day.

XIX.

Cold Fount, I sing thee not, although
Thy wave has cooled abandoned hands:
Sing thou, cold-lipped, in whispers low,
The praises of thy shells and sands.

Dark cave that, lenient, in the woods
Didst breathe thy darkness o'er my day,
I sing thee not, though sullen moods
Relaxed in thee, and waned away.

The Shepherd youth whose love is fled
Lies outcast in some lonely place:
But o'er his eyes her veil is spread,
And airy kisses touch his face.

Beneath that veil his eyes may stream;
Beneath that heaven his heart may heave:
The day goes by him like a dream,
And comfort comes to him at eve.

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He sings: her name makes sweet his strains:
Such solace suits a stripling's years—
For age what healing herb remains?
Nor love, nor hope, nor song, nor tears.

XX.

What art thou? If thou liv'st, I know
That thou art good, and true, and fair:
But Love, the Avenger, whispers low
At times, ‘Thy passion paints the air!

‘Love's fair, true world thou deem'dst at first
Was only fair through Fancy's gleam:—
At last thou lov'st, with doom reversed,
As beauteous Truth a Poet's dream.

‘Too late thy Fancy, tired of dust,
Unsphered a Spirit. Self-enthralled,
It worships now, because it must,
An Idol pride at first installed.

‘Or else the pathos of the Past
Above thy Present moves in power;
And o'er thy sultry day hath cast
This dewdrop from its matin hour.

‘In her thou lov'st the times gone by;
In her the joys possessed—not missed:—
It was not Hope, but Memory
Thy dreaming lids that bent and kissed.

‘In her the dawning lawns forlorn
Thou lov'st; the lights along them flung

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The witcheries of the wakening morn;
The echo of its latest song.

‘Thou tread'st once more Castalia's brink:—
Far down, thy youth finds rest from trouble:
And thou, that saw'st it slowly sink,
Dost watch its latest-breaking bubble.’

XXI.—PSYCHE'S BRIDAL SONG.

When now had come the marriage day,
The church was decked, and nigh the hour,
My Psyche said, ‘One other lay,
To bless the bride, and bless the bower!’

My Psyche's eyes in gladness swim;
His gladness, doubled in her breast:
All that she is, and has, to him
She gives, not doubting; and is blest.

She walks on air; she lifts her brow
Like one inspired:—Such light as flushes
The Alps at morn, upon its snow
Is stayed, in glory, not in blushes.

Her world of dream has ta'en its flight!
The shadow passed: the substance came:
A Soul that long had fed on light
Love touched, and kindled into flame.

Ah heart of hearts! ah life of life!
My Psyche to another given!—
The vow that changes Maid to Wife
Is pledged to-day, and heard in Heaven!

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And must she change? And must that wing
So soaring, leave its native sky?
Then, fairest, purest, o'er thee fling
The lightest-robed mortality!

Ah! now her other life begins;
The soft submission, humble pride;
The smile tear-dipp'd; the loss that wins;
The life transfused and multiplied!

Even now, large heart, thy wish is this:—
That from that altar love might stream,
And bathe a sorrowing world in bliss!
That wish shall end not like a dream.

Good works, good will, shall round her spread;
The desert blossom, and the waste:
The poor man's prayer her golden head
Shall crown with lustres ne'er displaced.

Go now, my Psyche: meet the throngs
That sprinkle flowers and banners wave;—
Take, Psyche, take, my last of songs;
And keep a garland for a grave.

University of Virginia Library

THE YEAR OF SORROW AND OTHER POEMS.

THE YEAR OF SORROW—IRELAND— 1849.

I.—SPRING.