 | Poems: Second Series |  |
66
TO MELANCHOLY.
A MOONLIT NIGHT IN FEBRUARY.
D'ou vient a l'homme la plus durable des jouissances de son
cœur, cette volupté de la mélancolie, ce charme plein de secrets,
qui le fait vivre de ses douleurs et s'aimer encore dans le sentiment
de sa ruine?—Senancour.
Come to me—for I am weary:
Bid thy breezes fan my brow:
Come to me—the night is weird and dreary,
Wan and weird as thou.
Come—the wind of midnight moans and shivers
Through the bending bushes black as death,—
And each mooncast shadow starts and quivers
At each fancied passing of the night wind's breath.
Bid thy breezes fan my brow:
Come to me—the night is weird and dreary,
Wan and weird as thou.
Come—the wind of midnight moans and shivers
Through the bending bushes black as death,—
And each mooncast shadow starts and quivers
At each fancied passing of the night wind's breath.
See the moorland tarn is gleaming
In the hollow far below,
While around the lonely wastes are dreaming
White as wintry snow.
Through the calm unruffled deep of Heaven
Glides in majesty the maiden queen:
Few the clouds and fleecy that are driven
O'er the floating splendour of her midnight sheen.
In the hollow far below,
While around the lonely wastes are dreaming
White as wintry snow.
Through the calm unruffled deep of Heaven
Glides in majesty the maiden queen:
Few the clouds and fleecy that are driven
O'er the floating splendour of her midnight sheen.
67
Listen to the wavelets sobbing
On the pebbles of the beach,
Keeping time with ripples that are throbbing
In yon moonlit reach.
Listen to the breezes that are sighing
Through the rushes of yon marshy shore,
Where the shadows of the hills are lying,
And the reedy coves are darkly woven o'er.
On the pebbles of the beach,
Keeping time with ripples that are throbbing
In yon moonlit reach.
Listen to the breezes that are sighing
Through the rushes of yon marshy shore,
Where the shadows of the hills are lying,
And the reedy coves are darkly woven o'er.
Come to me—for I am lonely,
And the heart in solitude
Finds itself, and is companioned only
Of its inmost mood.
And our deepest feelings are awoken
Of the things without us—come to me:
In that plash of waters thou hast spoken;
And the murmur in the rushes is of thee.
And the heart in solitude
Finds itself, and is companioned only
Of its inmost mood.
And our deepest feelings are awoken
Of the things without us—come to me:
In that plash of waters thou hast spoken;
And the murmur in the rushes is of thee.
'Tis of thee: each master feeling,
As it dawns and dies away,
Has an hour—a season for revealing
Its imperial sway.
And this hour of midnight and of moaning,
Sobbing waters and unearthly light—
Is not all its voice—its silence owning
Thee supreme and lonely, mistress of the night.
As it dawns and dies away,
Has an hour—a season for revealing
Its imperial sway.
And this hour of midnight and of moaning,
Sobbing waters and unearthly light—
Is not all its voice—its silence owning
Thee supreme and lonely, mistress of the night.
68
There is here no joy, no sadness—
Hushed despair or hope confessed:—
No exultant burst of evening gladness
From a darkened west—
Not the triumph of unclouded splendour,
Not the blinding glory of the noon:
Not the haze of love, serene and tender,
In the full-orbed lustre of the summer moon.
Hushed despair or hope confessed:—
No exultant burst of evening gladness
From a darkened west—
Not the triumph of unclouded splendour,
Not the blinding glory of the noon:
Not the haze of love, serene and tender,
In the full-orbed lustre of the summer moon.
In the songs—the flowers of Maytime,—
In the green leaves Hope is nigh:
Then the fragant breezes have their playtime—
Now the night winds sigh.
When the woods are touched with autumn's fire
Come the gusts and, as they drive the rain,
Wail with infinite, untold desire—
Ah! that soughing murmur is no voice of pain.
In the green leaves Hope is nigh:
Then the fragant breezes have their playtime—
Now the night winds sigh.
When the woods are touched with autumn's fire
Come the gusts and, as they drive the rain,
Wail with infinite, untold desire—
Ah! that soughing murmur is no voice of pain.
In the scented summer meadows,
When the sounds of labour cease,
With the slowly-lengthening twilight shadows
Comes a solemn peace.
Peace enfolds the spirit that has striven:—
Raving storms may rock themselves to rest:—
But those clouds are all too faintly driven,
And the night wind moans, and cannot find its nest.
When the sounds of labour cease,
With the slowly-lengthening twilight shadows
Comes a solemn peace.
Peace enfolds the spirit that has striven:—
Raving storms may rock themselves to rest:—
But those clouds are all too faintly driven,
And the night wind moans, and cannot find its nest.
69
And to-night is not the chosen
Time of desolate despair,
Such as reigns when earth is white and frozen,
And the woods are bare.
'Tis no time of glorious awaking,
As when sunrise gilds a rolling wave:
'Tis no time of stormy passions breaking
On a reef of wrath when angry tempests rave.
Time of desolate despair,
Such as reigns when earth is white and frozen,
And the woods are bare.
'Tis no time of glorious awaking,
As when sunrise gilds a rolling wave:
'Tis no time of stormy passions breaking
On a reef of wrath when angry tempests rave.
Other hours to these are given—
Other seasons own their might:
But the spirits of the earth and heaven
Bow to thee to-night.
Every shadow, every breath is holy—
Every stir and every sound to thee,
O my queen! mysterious melancholy—
And with these my heart is mingled—come to me.
Other seasons own their might:
But the spirits of the earth and heaven
Bow to thee to-night.
Every shadow, every breath is holy—
Every stir and every sound to thee,
O my queen! mysterious melancholy—
And with these my heart is mingled—come to me.
Now thou reignest—none beside thee—
Cloudless as yon thronéd sphere:
Yet no cloud no light can ever hide thee:—
Hidden, thou art near.
Ay in other hours of kindled feeling,
When the waves awoke and spurned control,
I have heard thy deeper accents stealing,
Out of depths of slumber stealing on the soul.
Cloudless as yon thronéd sphere:
Yet no cloud no light can ever hide thee:—
Hidden, thou art near.
Ay in other hours of kindled feeling,
When the waves awoke and spurned control,
I have heard thy deeper accents stealing,
Out of depths of slumber stealing on the soul.
70
Pure the fragrance of the river,
Taintless in the early morn—
Yet I know thee, for the alders shiver
At the breath of dawn.
Or if e'er the summer wind is sounding
Through the cornfields onward to the deep;
Oh! that rush of gladness pulsing, bounding
Yearns and yearns and on thy bosom falls asleep.
Taintless in the early morn—
Yet I know thee, for the alders shiver
At the breath of dawn.
Or if e'er the summer wind is sounding
Through the cornfields onward to the deep;
Oh! that rush of gladness pulsing, bounding
Yearns and yearns and on thy bosom falls asleep.
When the midnight moon has fashioned
Gleaming pathways o'er the sea—
Look, that lit repose—that peace impassioned
Breaks in waves on thee.
When the fierce autumnal blasts are wailing,
Eddying through the forest solitudes—
Hark! that wearied gust is faint and failing,
'Tis thy far off moaning in the dripping woods.
Gleaming pathways o'er the sea—
Look, that lit repose—that peace impassioned
Breaks in waves on thee.
When the fierce autumnal blasts are wailing,
Eddying through the forest solitudes—
Hark! that wearied gust is faint and failing,
'Tis thy far off moaning in the dripping woods.
This the curse that all inherit—
This that through the gates of sense
Passion sweeps in whirlwinds o'er the spirit,
Limitless—intense:
And the heart, in thrall to each emotion,
Rises as the deep when storms are black—
But hard barriers bound that fettered ocean,
And its billows break and break in wrath and wrack.
This that through the gates of sense
Passion sweeps in whirlwinds o'er the spirit,
Limitless—intense:
And the heart, in thrall to each emotion,
Rises as the deep when storms are black—
But hard barriers bound that fettered ocean,
And its billows break and break in wrath and wrack.
71
For the wind is free and chainless—
Chained and bound the ocean's flow—
Yet its durance is unguessed and painless,
Till the storm winds blow.
Then it knows its bonds and pants to break them,
And it beats its wings against the shore,
But in vain its slumbering waves awake them—
And in scorn the sea caves thunder back their roar.
Chained and bound the ocean's flow—
Yet its durance is unguessed and painless,
Till the storm winds blow.
Then it knows its bonds and pants to break them,
And it beats its wings against the shore,
But in vain its slumbering waves awake them—
And in scorn the sea caves thunder back their roar.
So they come and go for ever—
Waves that wander through the soul:
And in turn each trance and each endeavour
Finds in thee its goal.
Aimless longings, without form or number,
Into thy dark depth of waters leap—
Rest itself exhausted of its slumber,
And despair that wearies of its frozen sleep.
Waves that wander through the soul:
And in turn each trance and each endeavour
Finds in thee its goal.
Aimless longings, without form or number,
Into thy dark depth of waters leap—
Rest itself exhausted of its slumber,
And despair that wearies of its frozen sleep.
Thine the hush of wearied laughter:—
Thine the swoon of tears that fail:
Sets the sun of hope to linger after
In thy twilight pale.
Aye and love's own flame too fiercely burning
Dies of its deep passion into thee,
Dies and lives—for thou art endless yearning
For unuttered things that may not ever be.
Thine the swoon of tears that fail:
Sets the sun of hope to linger after
In thy twilight pale.
Aye and love's own flame too fiercely burning
Dies of its deep passion into thee,
Dies and lives—for thou art endless yearning
For unuttered things that may not ever be.
72
Say then who is doomed to know thee
As I know thee face to face,
If all stirrings of the tempest show thee
In each breathing space?
For a thousand winds have swept and shaken
Into music every slumbering chord,
And my heart, of each in turn forsaken,
In the dying strains thy mystic accents heard.
As I know thee face to face,
If all stirrings of the tempest show thee
In each breathing space?
For a thousand winds have swept and shaken
Into music every slumbering chord,
And my heart, of each in turn forsaken,
In the dying strains thy mystic accents heard.
So to-night, because thou reignest,
These that lived and died in thee—
These, that sink forgotten if thou wanest,
Wake again in me.
Not alone—for each with all is blended—
Love and sorrow, hope and joy and pain
Rise anew, their time of slumber ended,
Rise transfigured, lit with glory, live again.
These that lived and died in thee—
These, that sink forgotten if thou wanest,
Wake again in me.
Not alone—for each with all is blended—
Love and sorrow, hope and joy and pain
Rise anew, their time of slumber ended,
Rise transfigured, lit with glory, live again.
Live again those wond'rous hours
When my heart awoke to love,
When the green earth laughed in wreaths of flowers—
Laughed the skies above.
Burn again through clouds of sunset fire
Days of bliss that left a night of woe:
Breathes again each blast of deep desire
At whose breath my bosom panted long ago.
When my heart awoke to love,
When the green earth laughed in wreaths of flowers—
Laughed the skies above.
Burn again through clouds of sunset fire
Days of bliss that left a night of woe:
Breathes again each blast of deep desire
At whose breath my bosom panted long ago.
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Let them come and let them quicken
Into life my swooning heart:
Aye if e'er my soul was blest or stricken—
Let it feel the smart—
Like it feel the angel's kiss of healing—
Dewlike peace the child of whirling strife:
In those tides of strong impassioned feeling
Beat the truest pulsings of the spirit's life.
Into life my swooning heart:
Aye if e'er my soul was blest or stricken—
Let it feel the smart—
Like it feel the angel's kiss of healing—
Dewlike peace the child of whirling strife:
In those tides of strong impassioned feeling
Beat the truest pulsings of the spirit's life.
Let them come, and roll in thunder
Through the caverns of the air:
Bid their lightning flashes cleave asunder
Leaden-hued despair.
Bid the blast awake in wrath, atoning
For its weary trance with Ocean's roar:—
Hush! the midnight wind is faintly moaning,
And the tarn is plashing on its pebbly shore,
Through the caverns of the air:
Bid their lightning flashes cleave asunder
Leaden-hued despair.
Bid the blast awake in wrath, atoning
For its weary trance with Ocean's roar:—
Hush! the midnight wind is faintly moaning,
And the tarn is plashing on its pebbly shore,
| Poems: Second Series | |