 | Aonian Hours; And Other Poems |  |
Lines on Howard.
Why, when the souls we loved are fled,
Plant we their turf with flowers,
Their blossomed fragrance there to shed
In sunshine and in showers?
Why bid, when these have passed away,
The laurel flourish o'er their clay,
In winter's blighting hours,
To spread a leaf, for ever green,—
Ray of the life that once hath been.
Plant we their turf with flowers,
Their blossomed fragrance there to shed
In sunshine and in showers?
Why bid, when these have passed away,
The laurel flourish o'er their clay,
In winter's blighting hours,
To spread a leaf, for ever green,—
Ray of the life that once hath been.
It is that we would thence create
Bright memory of the past;
And give their imaged form a date
Eternally to last.
It is, to hallow—whilst regret
Is busy with their actions yet—
The sweetnesses they cast;
To sanctify upon the earth
The glory of departed worth.
Bright memory of the past;
And give their imaged form a date
Eternally to last.
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Is busy with their actions yet—
The sweetnesses they cast;
To sanctify upon the earth
The glory of departed worth.
Such, and so fair, in Day's decline
The hues which Nature gives;
Yet—yet—though suns have ceased to shine,
Her fair creation lives:
With loved remembrances to fill
The mind, and tender grief instil,
Dim radiance still survives;
And lovelier seems that lingering light,
When blended with the shades of night.
The hues which Nature gives;
Yet—yet—though suns have ceased to shine,
Her fair creation lives:
With loved remembrances to fill
The mind, and tender grief instil,
Dim radiance still survives;
And lovelier seems that lingering light,
When blended with the shades of night.
Else, why when rifled stands the Tower,
The column overthrown,
And, record of Man's pride or power,
Crumbles the storying stone;
Why does she give her Ivy-Vine
Their ruins livingly to twine,
If not to grant alone,
In the soliloquies of man,
To glory's shade an ampler span!
The column overthrown,
And, record of Man's pride or power,
Crumbles the storying stone;
Why does she give her Ivy-Vine
Their ruins livingly to twine,
If not to grant alone,
In the soliloquies of man,
To glory's shade an ampler span!
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Still o'er thy temples and thy shrines,
Loved Greece! her spirit throws
Visions where'er the ivy twines,
Of beauty in repose:
Though all thy Oracles be dumb,
Not voiceless shall those piles become,
Whilst there one wild-flower blows
To claim a fond—regretful sigh
For triumphs passed, and times gone by.
Loved Greece! her spirit throws
Visions where'er the ivy twines,
Of beauty in repose:
Though all thy Oracles be dumb,
Not voiceless shall those piles become,
Whilst there one wild-flower blows
To claim a fond—regretful sigh
For triumphs passed, and times gone by.
Still, Egypt, tower thy sepulchres
Which hearse the thousand bones
Of those who grasped, in vanished years,
Thy diadems and thrones!
Still frowns, by shattering years unrent,
The Mosque, Mohammed's monument!
And still Pelides owns,
By monarchs crowned, by shepherds trod,
His Cenotaph—a grassy sod!
Which hearse the thousand bones
Of those who grasped, in vanished years,
Thy diadems and thrones!
Still frowns, by shattering years unrent,
The Mosque, Mohammed's monument!
And still Pelides owns,
By monarchs crowned, by shepherds trod,
His Cenotaph—a grassy sod!
They were the Mighty of the world,—
The demigods of earth;
Their breath the flag of blood unfurled,
And gave the battle birth;
They lived to trample on mankind,
And in their ravage leave behind
The impress of their worth:
And wizard rhyme, and hoary song,
Hallowed their deeds and hymned their wrong.
The demigods of earth;
Their breath the flag of blood unfurled,
And gave the battle birth;
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And in their ravage leave behind
The impress of their worth:
And wizard rhyme, and hoary song,
Hallowed their deeds and hymned their wrong.
But Thou, mild Benefactor—thou,
To whom on earth were given
The sympathy for others' woe,
The charities of heaven;—
Pity for grief, a fever-balm
Life's ills and agonies to calm;—
To tell that thou hast striven,
Thou hast thy records which surpass
Or storying stone, or sculptured brass!
To whom on earth were given
The sympathy for others' woe,
The charities of heaven;—
Pity for grief, a fever-balm
Life's ills and agonies to calm;—
To tell that thou hast striven,
Thou hast thy records which surpass
Or storying stone, or sculptured brass!
They live not in the sepulchre
In which thy dust is hid,
Though there were kindlier hands to rear
Thy simple Pyramid,
Than Egypt's mightiest could command—
A duteous tribe, a peasant band
Who mourned the rites they did—
Mourned that the cold turf should confine
A spirit kind and pure as thine.
In which thy dust is hid,
Though there were kindlier hands to rear
Thy simple Pyramid,
Than Egypt's mightiest could command—
A duteous tribe, a peasant band
Who mourned the rites they did—
Mourned that the cold turf should confine
A spirit kind and pure as thine.
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They are existent in the clime
Thy pilgrim-steps have trod,
Where Justice tracks the feet of Crime,
And seals his doom with blood;
The tower where criminals complain,
And fettered captives mourn in vain,
The pestilent Abode
Are thy memorials in the skies,
The portals of thy Paradise.
Thy pilgrim-steps have trod,
Where Justice tracks the feet of Crime,
And seals his doom with blood;
The tower where criminals complain,
And fettered captives mourn in vain,
The pestilent Abode
Are thy memorials in the skies,
The portals of thy Paradise.
Thine was an empire o'er distress,
Thy triumphs of the mind!
To burst the bonds of wretchedness,
The friend of human kind!
Thy name, through every future age,
By bard, philanthropist, and sage,
In glory shall be shrined;
Whilst other Nields and Clarksons show
That still thy mantle rests below.
Thy triumphs of the mind!
To burst the bonds of wretchedness,
The friend of human kind!
Thy name, through every future age,
By bard, philanthropist, and sage,
In glory shall be shrined;
Whilst other Nields and Clarksons show
That still thy mantle rests below.
I know not if there be a sense
More sweet, than to impart
Health to the haunts of pestilence,
Balm to the sufferer's smart,
And freedom to Captivity!
The pitying tear, the sorrowing sigh
Might grace an angel's heart;
And e'en when Sickness damped thy brow,
Such bliss was thine, and such wert Thou!
More sweet, than to impart
Health to the haunts of pestilence,
Balm to the sufferer's smart,
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The pitying tear, the sorrowing sigh
Might grace an angel's heart;
And e'en when Sickness damped thy brow,
Such bliss was thine, and such wert Thou!
Serene, unhurt, in wasted lands,
Amid the general doom,
Long stood'st thou as the traveller stands,
Where breathes the lone Simoom;
One minute, beautiful as brief,
Flowers bloom, trees wave the verdant leaf,
Another—all is gloom;
He looks—the green, the blossomed bough
Is blasted into ashes now!
Amid the general doom,
Long stood'st thou as the traveller stands,
Where breathes the lone Simoom;
One minute, beautiful as brief,
Flowers bloom, trees wave the verdant leaf,
Another—all is gloom;
He looks—the green, the blossomed bough
Is blasted into ashes now!
But deadlier than the Simoom burns
The fire of Pestilence,
His shadow into darkness turns
The passing of events;
Where points his finger,—lowers the storm;
Where his eye fixes,—feeds the worm
On people and on prince;
Where treads his step,—there Glory lies;—
Where breathes his breath,—there Beauty dies!
The fire of Pestilence,
His shadow into darkness turns
The passing of events;
Where points his finger,—lowers the storm;
Where his eye fixes,—feeds the worm
On people and on prince;
Where treads his step,—there Glory lies;—
Where breathes his breath,—there Beauty dies!
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And to the beautiful and young
Thy latest cares were given;
How spake thy kind and pitying tongue
The messages of heaven!
Soothing her grief who, fair and frail,
Waned paler yet, and yet more pale,
Like lily-flowers at even:
Smit by the livid Plague, which cast
O'er thee his shadow as he passed.
Thy latest cares were given;
How spake thy kind and pitying tongue
The messages of heaven!
Soothing her grief who, fair and frail,
Waned paler yet, and yet more pale,
Like lily-flowers at even:
Smit by the livid Plague, which cast
O'er thee his shadow as he passed.
As danger deeper grew and dark,
Her hopes could Conscience bring;
And Faith, and Mind's immortal spark
Grew hourly brightening;
One pang at parting—'twas the last—
Joy for the future!—for the past—
But thou art on the wing
To track the source from whence it came,
And mingle with thy parent flame!
Her hopes could Conscience bring;
And Faith, and Mind's immortal spark
Grew hourly brightening;
One pang at parting—'twas the last—
Joy for the future!—for the past—
But thou art on the wing
To track the source from whence it came,
And mingle with thy parent flame!
The nodding hearse, the sable plume,
Those attributes of pride,
The artificial grief or gloom
Are pageants which but hide
Hearts, from the weight of anguish free:
But there were many wept for thee
Who wept for none beside;
And felt, thus left alone below,
The full desertedness of woe.
Those attributes of pride,
The artificial grief or gloom
Are pageants which but hide
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But there were many wept for thee
Who wept for none beside;
And felt, thus left alone below,
The full desertedness of woe.
And many mourned that thou should'st lie
Where Dnieper rolls and raves,
Glad from barbaric realms to fly
And blend with Pontic waves;
A desart bleak—a barren shore,
Where Mercy never trod before—
A land whose sons were slaves;
Crouching, and fettered to the soil
By feudal chains and thankless toil.
Where Dnieper rolls and raves,
Glad from barbaric realms to fly
And blend with Pontic waves;
A desart bleak—a barren shore,
Where Mercy never trod before—
A land whose sons were slaves;
Crouching, and fettered to the soil
By feudal chains and thankless toil.
But oft methinks in future years
To raise exalted thought,
And soften sternest eyes to tears,
Shall be thy glorious lot;
And oft the rugged Muscovite,—
As spring prepares the pious rite,—
Shall tread the holy spot,
And see her offered roses showered
Upon the grave of gentle Howard!
To raise exalted thought,
And soften sternest eyes to tears,
Shall be thy glorious lot;
And oft the rugged Muscovite,—
As spring prepares the pious rite,—
Shall tread the holy spot,
And see her offered roses showered
Upon the grave of gentle Howard!
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Those roses on their languid stalk
Will fade ere fades the day,
Winter may wither in his walk
The myrtle and the bay,
Which, mingled with the laurel's stem,
Her hands may plant, but not with them
Shall memory pass away,
Or pity cease the heart to swell—
To Thee there can be no Farewell!
Will fade ere fades the day,
Winter may wither in his walk
The myrtle and the bay,
Which, mingled with the laurel's stem,
Her hands may plant, but not with them
Shall memory pass away,
Or pity cease the heart to swell—
To Thee there can be no Farewell!
| Aonian Hours; And Other Poems | |