Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. by Laman Blanchard. In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
|
| SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
|
|
|
 | Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. |  |
195
SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES.
197
What seek I here to gather into words?
The scenes that rise before me as I turn
The pages of old times. A word—a name—
Conjures the past before me, till it grows
More actual than the present: that—I see
But with the common eyes of daily life,
Imperfect and impatient; but the past
Out of imagination works its truth,
And grows distinct with poetry.
The scenes that rise before me as I turn
The pages of old times. A word—a name—
Conjures the past before me, till it grows
More actual than the present: that—I see
But with the common eyes of daily life,
Imperfect and impatient; but the past
Out of imagination works its truth,
And grows distinct with poetry.
I. PETRARCH'S DREAM.
Rosy as a waking bride
By her royal lover's side,
Flows the Sorgia's haunted tide
Through the laurel grove,—
Through the grove which Petrarch gave,
All that can escape the grave—
Fame, and song, and love.
By her royal lover's side,
Flows the Sorgia's haunted tide
Through the laurel grove,—
Through the grove which Petrarch gave,
All that can escape the grave—
Fame, and song, and love.
He had left a feverish bed
For the wild flowers at his head,
And the dews the green leaves shed
O'er his charmed sleep:
From his hand had dropp'd the scroll
To which Virgil left his soul
Through long years to keep.
For the wild flowers at his head,
And the dews the green leaves shed
O'er his charmed sleep:
From his hand had dropp'd the scroll
To which Virgil left his soul
Through long years to keep.
198
Passion on that cheek had wrought,
Its own paleness had it brought;
Passion marks the lines of thought:
We must feel to think.
Care and toil had flung their shade
Over that bright head, now laid
By the river's brink.
Its own paleness had it brought;
Passion marks the lines of thought:
We must feel to think.
Care and toil had flung their shade
Over that bright head, now laid
By the river's brink.
Youth that, like a fever, burns;
Struggle, scorning what it earns;
Knowledge, loathing as it learns;
Worn and wasted heart!
And a song whose secrets are
In its innermost despair;—
Such the poet's part!
Struggle, scorning what it earns;
Knowledge, loathing as it learns;
Worn and wasted heart!
And a song whose secrets are
In its innermost despair;—
Such the poet's part!
But what rises to efface
Time's dark shadows from that face?
Doth the heart its image trace
In the morning dream?
Yes; it is its light that shines
Far amid the dusky pines,
By the Sorgia's stream.
Time's dark shadows from that face?
Doth the heart its image trace
In the morning dream?
Yes; it is its light that shines
Far amid the dusky pines,
By the Sorgia's stream.
Flowers up-springing, bright and sweet,
At the pressure of their feet,
As the summer came to greet
Each white waving hand.
Round them kindles the dark air;
Golden with their golden hair,
Glide a lovely band.
At the pressure of their feet,
As the summer came to greet
Each white waving hand.
Round them kindles the dark air;
Golden with their golden hair,
Glide a lovely band.
Spirits, starry Spirits, they,
That attend the radiant day,
When the freed soul burst the clay
Of its prison wall:
Distant visions they appear;
For we only dream of, here,
Things etherial.
That attend the radiant day,
When the freed soul burst the clay
Of its prison wall:
Distant visions they appear;
For we only dream of, here,
Things etherial.
199
But one glideth gently nigh,
Human love within her eye,—
Love that is too true to die,—
That is heaven's own.
Let the angel's first look dwell
Where the mortal loved so well,
Ere yet life was flown.
Human love within her eye,—
Love that is too true to die,—
That is heaven's own.
Let the angel's first look dwell
Where the mortal loved so well,
Ere yet life was flown.
To that angel-look was given
All that ever yet from heaven
Purified the earthly leaven
Of a beating heart.
She hath breathed of hope and love,
As they warm the world above;—
She must now depart.
All that ever yet from heaven
Purified the earthly leaven
Of a beating heart.
She hath breathed of hope and love,
As they warm the world above;—
She must now depart.
Aye, I say that love hath power
On the spirit's dying hour,
Sharing its immortal dower,
Mastering its doom:
For that fair and mystic dream
By the Sorgia's hallowed stream,
Kindled from the tomb.
On the spirit's dying hour,
Sharing its immortal dower,
Mastering its doom:
For that fair and mystic dream
By the Sorgia's hallowed stream,
Kindled from the tomb.
II. THE BANQUET OF ASPASIA AND PERICLES.
Waken'd by the small white fingers,
Which its chords obey,
On the air the music lingers
Of a low and languid lay
From a soft Ionian lyre;—
Purple curtains hang the walls,
And the dying daylight falls
O'er the marble pedestals
Of the pillars that aspire,
In honour of Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
Which its chords obey,
On the air the music lingers
Of a low and languid lay
From a soft Ionian lyre;—
Purple curtains hang the walls,
And the dying daylight falls
O'er the marble pedestals
Of the pillars that aspire,
200
The bright Athenian bride.
There are statues white and solemn,
Olden gods are they;
And the wreath'd Corinthian column
Guardeth their array.
Lovely that acanthus wreath,
Drooping round the graceful girth:
All the fairest things of earth,
Art's creations have their birth—
Still from love and death.
They are gather'd for Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
Olden gods are they;
And the wreath'd Corinthian column
Guardeth their array.
Lovely that acanthus wreath,
Drooping round the graceful girth:
All the fairest things of earth,
Art's creations have their birth—
Still from love and death.
They are gather'd for Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
There are gold and silver vases
Where carved victories shine;
While within the sunlight blazes
Of the fragrant Teian wine,
Or the sunny Cyprian isle.
From the garlands on each brow
Take they early roses now;
And each rose-leaf bears a vow,
As they pledge the radiant smile
Of the beautiful Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
Where carved victories shine;
While within the sunlight blazes
Of the fragrant Teian wine,
Or the sunny Cyprian isle.
From the garlands on each brow
Take they early roses now;
And each rose-leaf bears a vow,
As they pledge the radiant smile
Of the beautiful Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
With the spoils of nations splendid
Is that stately feast;
By her youthful slaves attended—
Beauties from the East,
With their large black dewy eyes.
Though their dark hair sweeps the ground,
Every heavy tress is wound
With the white sea-pearl around;
For no queen in Persia vies
With the proud Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
Is that stately feast;
By her youthful slaves attended—
Beauties from the East,
With their large black dewy eyes.
Though their dark hair sweeps the ground,
Every heavy tress is wound
With the white sea-pearl around;
For no queen in Persia vies
With the proud Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
201
One hath caught mine eye—the fairest;
'Tis a Theban girl:
Though a downcast look thou wearest,
And nor flower nor pearl
Winds thy auburn hair among:
With a white, unsandall'd foot,
Leaning languid on thy lute,
Weareth thy soft lip, though mute,
Smiles yet sadder than thy song.
Can grief come nigh Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride?
'Tis a Theban girl:
Though a downcast look thou wearest,
And nor flower nor pearl
Winds thy auburn hair among:
With a white, unsandall'd foot,
Leaning languid on thy lute,
Weareth thy soft lip, though mute,
Smiles yet sadder than thy song.
Can grief come nigh Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride?
On an ivory couch reclining
Doth the bride appear;
In her eyes the light is shining,
For her chief is near;—
And her smile grows bright to gaze
On the stately Pericles,
Lord of the Athenian seas,
And of Greece's destinies.
Glorious, in those ancient days,
Was the lover of Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
Doth the bride appear;
In her eyes the light is shining,
For her chief is near;—
And her smile grows bright to gaze
On the stately Pericles,
Lord of the Athenian seas,
And of Greece's destinies.
Glorious, in those ancient days,
Was the lover of Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
Round her small head, perfume breathing
Was a myrtle stem,
Fitter for her bright hair's wreathing
Than or gold or gem;
For the myrtle breathes of love.
O'er her cheek so purely white,
From her dark eyes came such light
As is, on a summer night,
With the moon above.
Fair as moonlight was Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
Was a myrtle stem,
Fitter for her bright hair's wreathing
Than or gold or gem;
For the myrtle breathes of love.
O'er her cheek so purely white,
From her dark eyes came such light
As is, on a summer night,
With the moon above.
Fair as moonlight was Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
These fair visions have departed,
Like a poet's dream,
Leaving us pale and faint-hearted
By life's common stream,
Whence all lovelier light hath fled.
Not so: they have left behind
Memory to the kindling mind,
With bright fantasies combined.
Still the poet's dream is fed
By the beauty of Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
Like a poet's dream,
Leaving us pale and faint-hearted
By life's common stream,
202
Not so: they have left behind
Memory to the kindling mind,
With bright fantasies combined.
Still the poet's dream is fed
By the beauty of Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
III. RIENZI SHOWING NINA THE TOMB OF HIS BROTHER.
It was hidden in a wild wood
Of the larch and pine;
It had been unto his childhood
Solitude and shrine,—
There he dream'd the hours away,
On the boughs the wood-dove hover'd
With her mournful song;
And the ground with moss was cover'd,
Where a small brook danced along
Like a fairy child at play,
Thither did Rienzi bring
The loved and lovely one;
There was the stately Nina woo'd,
There was she won.
Of the larch and pine;
It had been unto his childhood
Solitude and shrine,—
There he dream'd the hours away,
On the boughs the wood-dove hover'd
With her mournful song;
And the ground with moss was cover'd,
Where a small brook danced along
Like a fairy child at play,
Thither did Rienzi bring
The loved and lovely one;
There was the stately Nina woo'd,
There was she won.
Reeds and water-flags were growing
By the green morass;
While the fresh wild flowers were blowing
In the pleasant grass,
Cool and sweet, and very fair,
Though the wild wind planted them
With a careless wing,
Yet kind Nature granted them
All the gifts of Spring,
Nought they needed human care.
They grew lovelier in the looks
Of that lovely one;
While the Roman maid was woo'd,
While she was won.
By the green morass;
While the fresh wild flowers were blowing
In the pleasant grass,
Cool and sweet, and very fair,
Though the wild wind planted them
With a careless wing,
Yet kind Nature granted them
All the gifts of Spring,
Nought they needed human care.
203
Of that lovely one;
While the Roman maid was woo'd,
While she was won.
In the pines, a soft bewailing
Stirr'd the fringed leaves,
Like a lute whose song is failing,
Loving, while it grieves
So to die upon the wind.
Ivy garlanded the laurel,
Drooping mournfully;
Poet—warrior—read the moral
Of the victor's tree,
Lonely still amid its kind!
Yet what dreams of both are blent
In the soft tale now begun,
Which the radiant Nina woo'd,
And which Nina won.
Stirr'd the fringed leaves,
Like a lute whose song is failing,
Loving, while it grieves
So to die upon the wind.
Ivy garlanded the laurel,
Drooping mournfully;
Poet—warrior—read the moral
Of the victor's tree,
Lonely still amid its kind!
Yet what dreams of both are blent
In the soft tale now begun,
Which the radiant Nina woo'd,
And which Nina won.
There a cypress raised to heaven
Its sepulchral head,
Like a stately column given
By the summer to the dead;—
There the young Rienzi slept.
In that grave his brother laid him,
'Neath the evening star;
While revenge and sorrow made him
What earth's great ones are;—
Long, drear vigils there he kept.
Now a sweeter one was lit
By the setting sun;
While that lady bright was woo'd,
While she was won.
Its sepulchral head,
Like a stately column given
By the summer to the dead;—
There the young Rienzi slept.
In that grave his brother laid him,
'Neath the evening star;
While revenge and sorrow made him
What earth's great ones are;—
Long, drear vigils there he kept.
Now a sweeter one was lit
By the setting sun;
While that lady bright was woo'd,
While she was won.
By the grey cross o'er his brother,
By his heart's first care,
Did Rienzi ask another
In that heart to share.
To that maiden's feet he brought
All his early youth's affection,
All his early years;
All whose tender recollection
Only speaks in tears.
Thus to share his soul he sought:
All life's loveliest feelings grew
Round that lovely one;—
Thus was the bright Nina woo'd,
Thus was she won.
By his heart's first care,
Did Rienzi ask another
In that heart to share.
204
All his early youth's affection,
All his early years;
All whose tender recollection
Only speaks in tears.
Thus to share his soul he sought:
All life's loveliest feelings grew
Round that lovely one;—
Thus was the bright Nina woo'd,
Thus was she won.
Ah! the glorious mind's aspiring
Needeth some repose—
Some sweet object for desiring,
Where its wings may close.
Wrapp'd in purple shadows, Rome
Rose afar off like a vision—
Stately, dark, and high;
But a softer one had risen
Neath that twilight sky.
While the full heart found a home,
There were mighty words and hopes
Shared with his beloved one;
Thus was the bright Nina woo'd,
Thus was she won.
Needeth some repose—
Some sweet object for desiring,
Where its wings may close.
Wrapp'd in purple shadows, Rome
Rose afar off like a vision—
Stately, dark, and high;
But a softer one had risen
Neath that twilight sky.
While the full heart found a home,
There were mighty words and hopes
Shared with his beloved one;
Thus was the bright Nina woo'd,
Thus was she won.
IV. CALYPSO WATCHING THE OCEAN.
Years, years have pass'd away,
Since to yonder fated bay
Did the Hero come.
Years, years, have pass'd the while
Since he left the lovely isle
For his Grecian home.
He is with the dead—but She
Weepeth on eternally
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Since to yonder fated bay
Did the Hero come.
Years, years, have pass'd the while
Since he left the lovely isle
For his Grecian home.
He is with the dead—but She
Weepeth on eternally
205
Mid the far off southern seas.
Downwards floateth her bright hair,
Fair—how exquisitely fair!
But it is unbound.
Never since that parting hour
Golden band or rosy flower
In it has been wound?
There it droopeth sadly bright,
In the morning's sunny light,
On the lone and lovely island
In the far off southern seas.
Fair—how exquisitely fair!
But it is unbound.
Never since that parting hour
Golden band or rosy flower
In it has been wound?
There it droopeth sadly bright,
In the morning's sunny light,
On the lone and lovely island
In the far off southern seas.
Like a marble statue placed,
Looking o'er the watery waste,
With its white fixed gaze;
There the Goddess sits, her eye
Raised to the unpitying sky:
So uncounted days
Has she asked of yonder main,
Him it will not bring again
To the lone and lovely island
In the far off southern seas.
Looking o'er the watery waste,
With its white fixed gaze;
There the Goddess sits, her eye
Raised to the unpitying sky:
So uncounted days
Has she asked of yonder main,
Him it will not bring again
To the lone and lovely island
In the far off southern seas.
To that stately brow is given,
Loveliness that sprung from heaven—
Is, like heaven, bright:
Never there may time prevail,
But her perfect face is pale;
And a troubled light
Tells of one who may not die,
Vex'd with immortality
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Loveliness that sprung from heaven—
Is, like heaven, bright:
Never there may time prevail,
But her perfect face is pale;
And a troubled light
Tells of one who may not die,
Vex'd with immortality
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Desolate beside that strand,
Bow'd upon her cold, white hand,
Is her radiant head;
Silently she sitteth there,
While her large eyes on the air
Traced the much-loved dead:
Eyes that know not tears nor sleep,
Would she not be glad to weep,
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Bow'd upon her cold, white hand,
206
Silently she sitteth there,
While her large eyes on the air
Traced the much-loved dead:
Eyes that know not tears nor sleep,
Would she not be glad to weep,
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Far behind the fragrant pile,
Sends its odours through the isle;
And the winds that stir
In the poplars are imbued
With the cedar's precious wood,
With incense and with myrrh,
Till the azure waves beneath
Bear away the scented breath
Of the lone and lovely island
In the far off southern seas.
Sends its odours through the isle;
And the winds that stir
In the poplars are imbued
With the cedar's precious wood,
With incense and with myrrh,
Till the azure waves beneath
Bear away the scented breath
Of the lone and lovely island
In the far off southern seas.
But no more does that perfume
Hang around the purple loom
Where Calypso wove
Threads of gold with curious skill,
Singing at her own sweet will
Ancient songs of love;
Weary on the sea-wash'd shore,
She will sing those songs no more
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Hang around the purple loom
Where Calypso wove
Threads of gold with curious skill,
Singing at her own sweet will
Ancient songs of love;
Weary on the sea-wash'd shore,
She will sing those songs no more
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
From the large green leaves escape
Clusters of the blooming grape;
Round the shining throne
Still the silver fountains play,
Singing on through night and day,
But they sing alone:
Lovely in their early death,
No one binds a violet wreath,
In the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Clusters of the blooming grape;
Round the shining throne
Still the silver fountains play,
Singing on through night and day,
But they sing alone:
Lovely in their early death,
No one binds a violet wreath,
207
Mid the far off southern seas.
Love and Fate—oh, fearful pair!
Terrible in strength ye are;
Until ye had been,
Happy as a summer night,
Conscious of its own sweet light,
Was that Island-queen.
Would she could forget to grieve,
Or that she could die and leave
The lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Terrible in strength ye are;
Until ye had been,
Happy as a summer night,
Conscious of its own sweet light,
Was that Island-queen.
Would she could forget to grieve,
Or that she could die and leave
The lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
She is but the type of all,
Mortal or celestial,
Who allow the heart,
In its passion and its power,
On some dark and fated hour,
To assert its part.
Fate attends the steps of Love,—
Both brought misery from above
To the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
Mortal or celestial,
Who allow the heart,
In its passion and its power,
On some dark and fated hour,
To assert its part.
Fate attends the steps of Love,—
Both brought misery from above
To the lone and lovely island
Mid the far off southern seas.
V. A SUPPER OF MADAME DE BRINVILLIERS.
Small but gorgeous was the chamber
Where the lady leant;
Heliotrope, and musk, and amber,
Made an element,
Heavy like a storm, but sweet.
Softly stole the light uncertain
Through the silken fold
Of the sweeping purple curtain;
And enwrought in gold
Was the cushion at her feet.
There he knelt to gaze on her—
He the latest worshipper.
Where the lady leant;
Heliotrope, and musk, and amber,
Made an element,
Heavy like a storm, but sweet.
Softly stole the light uncertain
Through the silken fold
Of the sweeping purple curtain;
And enwrought in gold
Was the cushion at her feet.
208
He the latest worshipper.
From the table came the lustre
Of its fruit and flowers;
There were grapes, each shining cluster
Bright with sunny hours,—
Noon and night were on their hues.
There the purple fig lay hidden
Mid its wide green leaves;
And the rose, sweet guest, was bidden,
While its breath receives
Freshness from the unshed dews.
Nothing marks the youth of these—
One bright face is all he sees.
Of its fruit and flowers;
There were grapes, each shining cluster
Bright with sunny hours,—
Noon and night were on their hues.
There the purple fig lay hidden
Mid its wide green leaves;
And the rose, sweet guest, was bidden,
While its breath receives
Freshness from the unshed dews.
Nothing marks the youth of these—
One bright face is all he sees.
With such colours as are dying
On a sunset sky;
With such odours as are sighing,
When the violets die,
Are the rich Italian wines.
Dark and bright they glow together,
In each graceful flask,
Telling of the summer weather,
And the autumn task,
When young maidens stripped the vines.
One small flask of cold pale green,
Only one, he has not seen.
On a sunset sky;
With such odours as are sighing,
When the violets die,
Are the rich Italian wines.
Dark and bright they glow together,
In each graceful flask,
Telling of the summer weather,
And the autumn task,
When young maidens stripped the vines.
One small flask of cold pale green,
Only one, he has not seen.
When She woke the heart that slumber'd
In a poet's dream,
Few the summers he had number'd,
Little did he deem
Of such passion and such power;
When there hangs a life's emotion
On a word—a breath—
Like the storm upon the ocean,
Bearing doom and death.
Youth has only one such hour;
And its shadow now is cast
Over him who looks his last.
In a poet's dream,
Few the summers he had number'd,
Little did he deem
Of such passion and such power;
When there hangs a life's emotion
On a word—a breath—
Like the storm upon the ocean,
Bearing doom and death.
Youth has only one such hour;
209
Over him who looks his last.
Does he love her?—Yes, to madness,
Fiery, fierce, and wild;
Touch'd, too, with a gentle sadness;
For his soul is mild,
Tender as his own sad song.
And that young wan cheek is wasted
With the strife within:
Well he knows his course has hasted
Through delicious sin,
Borne tumultuously along.
Never have the stars above
Chronicled such utter love.
Fiery, fierce, and wild;
Touch'd, too, with a gentle sadness;
For his soul is mild,
Tender as his own sad song.
And that young wan cheek is wasted
With the strife within:
Well he knows his course has hasted
Through delicious sin,
Borne tumultuously along.
Never have the stars above
Chronicled such utter love.
Well the red robe folded round her
Suits her stately mien;
And the ruby chain has bound her
Of some Indian queen;—
Pale her cheek is, like a pearl.
Heavily the dusky masses
Of her night-black hair,
Which the raven's wing surpasses,
Bind her forehead fair;
Odours float from every curl.
He would die, so he might wear
One soft tress of that long hair.
Suits her stately mien;
And the ruby chain has bound her
Of some Indian queen;—
Pale her cheek is, like a pearl.
Heavily the dusky masses
Of her night-black hair,
Which the raven's wing surpasses,
Bind her forehead fair;
Odours float from every curl.
He would die, so he might wear
One soft tress of that long hair.
Clear her deep black eyes are shining,
Large, and strangely bright;
Somewhat of the hid repining,
Gives unquiet light
To their wild but troubled glow.
Dark-fringed lids an eastern languor
O'er their depths have shed;
But the curved lip knoweth anger,
'Tis so fiercely red,—
Passion crimsons in its glow.
Tidings from that face depart
Of the death within her heart.
Large, and strangely bright;
Somewhat of the hid repining,
Gives unquiet light
To their wild but troubled glow.
Dark-fringed lids an eastern languor
O'er their depths have shed;
But the curved lip knoweth anger,
'Tis so fiercely red,—
Passion crimsons in its glow.
210
Of the death within her heart.
Does she love the boy who, kneeling,
Brings to her his youth,
With its passionate, deep feeling,
With its hope, its truth?
No; his hour has pass'd away!
Scarcely does she seek to smother
Change and scornful pride;
She is thinking of another,
With him at her side;—
He has had his day!
Love has darken'd into hate,
And her falsehood is his fate.
Brings to her his youth,
With its passionate, deep feeling,
With its hope, its truth?
No; his hour has pass'd away!
Scarcely does she seek to smother
Change and scornful pride;
She is thinking of another,
With him at her side;—
He has had his day!
Love has darken'd into hate,
And her falsehood is his fate.
Even now, her hand extending,
Grasps the fated cup;
For her red lip o'er it bending,
He will drink it up,—
He will drink it to her name;
Little of the vial knowing
That has drugg'd its wave,
How its rosy tide is flowing
Onwards to the grave!
One sweet whisper from her came;
And he drank to catch her breath,—
Wine and sigh alike are death!
Grasps the fated cup;
For her red lip o'er it bending,
He will drink it up,—
He will drink it to her name;
Little of the vial knowing
That has drugg'd its wave,
How its rosy tide is flowing
Onwards to the grave!
One sweet whisper from her came;
And he drank to catch her breath,—
Wine and sigh alike are death!
VI. THE MOORISH MAIDEN'S VIGIL.
Does she watch him, fondly watch him,
Does the maiden watch in vain?
Do her dark eyes strain to catch him
Riding o'er the moonlit plain,
Stately, beautiful, and tall?
Those long eyelashes are gleaming
With the tears she will not shed;
Still her patient hope is dreaming
That it is his courser's tread,
If an olive leaf but fall.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Does the maiden watch in vain?
Do her dark eyes strain to catch him
Riding o'er the moonlit plain,
Stately, beautiful, and tall?
211
With the tears she will not shed;
Still her patient hope is dreaming
That it is his courser's tread,
If an olive leaf but fall.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Scarlet is the turban folded
Round the long black plaits of hair;
And the pliant gold is moulded
Round her arms that are as fair
As the moonlight which they meet.
Little of their former splendour
Lingereth in her large dark eyes;
Ever sorrow maketh tender,
And the heart's deep passion lies
In their look so sad and sweet.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Round the long black plaits of hair;
And the pliant gold is moulded
Round her arms that are as fair
As the moonlight which they meet.
Little of their former splendour
Lingereth in her large dark eyes;
Ever sorrow maketh tender,
And the heart's deep passion lies
In their look so sad and sweet.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Once the buds of the pomegranate
Paled beside her cheek's warm dye,
Now 'tis like the last sad planet
Waning in the morning sky—
She has wept away its red.
Can this be the Zegri maiden,
Whom Granada named its flower,
Drooping like a rose rain-laden?—
Heavy must have been the shower,
Bowing down its fragrant head.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Paled beside her cheek's warm dye,
Now 'tis like the last sad planet
Waning in the morning sky—
She has wept away its red.
Can this be the Zegri maiden,
Whom Granada named its flower,
Drooping like a rose rain-laden?—
Heavy must have been the shower,
Bowing down its fragrant head.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
212
To the north her fancies wander,
There he dwells, her Spanish knight;
'Tis a dreadful thing to ponder,
Whether true love heard aright.
Did he say those gentle things
Over which fond memories linger,
And with which she cannot part?
Still his ring is on her finger,
Still his name is in her heart—
All around his image brings.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
There he dwells, her Spanish knight;
'Tis a dreadful thing to ponder,
Whether true love heard aright.
Did he say those gentle things
Over which fond memories linger,
And with which she cannot part?
Still his ring is on her finger,
Still his name is in her heart—
All around his image brings.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Can the fond heart be forsaken
By the one who sought that heart?
Can there be who will awaken
All of life's diviner part,
For some vanity's cold reign.
Heavy is the lot of woman—
Heavy is her loving lot—
If it thus must share in common
Love with those who know it not—
With the careless and the vain.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
By the one who sought that heart?
Can there be who will awaken
All of life's diviner part,
For some vanity's cold reign.
Heavy is the lot of woman—
Heavy is her loving lot—
If it thus must share in common
Love with those who know it not—
With the careless and the vain.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Faithless Christian!—ere the blossom,
Hanging on the myrtle bough,
Float on the clear fountain's bosom,
She who listened to thy vow—
She will watch for thee no more!
'Tis a tale of frequent sorrow
Love seems fated to renew;
It will be again to-morrow
Just as bitter and as true,
As it aye has been of yore.
Woe to thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's wave;
But the shade of rest is round thee—
And it is the grave!
Hanging on the myrtle bough,
Float on the clear fountain's bosom,
She who listened to thy vow—
She will watch for thee no more!
'Tis a tale of frequent sorrow
Love seems fated to renew;
It will be again to-morrow
Just as bitter and as true,
As it aye has been of yore.
213
By the fountain's wave;
But the shade of rest is round thee—
And it is the grave!
VII. THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION.
Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him,
Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid;
Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him,
Yet his beauty, like a statue's pale and fair, is undecay'd.
When will he awaken?
When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying
Night after night, and the cry has been in vain;
Winds, woods, and waves, found echoes for replying,
But the tones of the beloved one were never heard again.
When will he awaken?
Ask'd the midnight's silver queen.
Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid;
Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him,
Yet his beauty, like a statue's pale and fair, is undecay'd.
When will he awaken?
When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying
Night after night, and the cry has been in vain;
Winds, woods, and waves, found echoes for replying,
But the tones of the beloved one were never heard again.
When will he awaken?
Ask'd the midnight's silver queen.
Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping;
Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as dead;
By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping,
And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed.
When will he awaken?
Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring,
Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above;
When will the Fates, the life of life restoring,
Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring love?
When will he awaken?
Asks the midnight's weary queen.
Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as dead;
By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping,
And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed.
When will he awaken?
Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring,
Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above;
When will the Fates, the life of life restoring,
Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring love?
When will he awaken?
Asks the midnight's weary queen.
Beautiful the sleep that she has watch'd untiring,
Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky,
Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring,
Softened by the woman's meek and loving sigh,
When will he awaken?
He has been dreaming of old heroic stories,
The poet's passionate world has entered in his soul;
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories,
When sages and when kings first uphold the mind's control.
When will he awaken?
Ask'd midnight's stately queen.
Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky,
Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring,
Softened by the woman's meek and loving sigh,
When will he awaken?
214
The poet's passionate world has entered in his soul;
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories,
When sages and when kings first uphold the mind's control.
When will he awaken?
Ask'd midnight's stately queen.
Lo! the appointed midnight! the present hour is fated;
It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air;
How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited,
Waited with a love too mighty for despair.
Soon he will awaken!
Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing,
Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers depart;
Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos, but is bringing
Music that is murmur'd from nature's inmost heart.
Soon he will awaken,
To his and midnight's queen!
It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air;
How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited,
Waited with a love too mighty for despair.
Soon he will awaken!
Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing,
Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers depart;
Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latmos, but is bringing
Music that is murmur'd from nature's inmost heart.
Soon he will awaken,
To his and midnight's queen!
Lovely is the green earth—she knows the hour is holy;
Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy;
Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly
O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy.
Soon he will awaken!
Red as the red rose towards the morning turning,
Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own,
While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and burning
With a life more glorious than ere they closed was known.
Yes, he has awakened
For the midnight's happy queen!
Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy;
Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly
O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy.
Soon he will awaken!
Red as the red rose towards the morning turning,
Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own,
While the dark eyes open, bright, intense, and burning
With a life more glorious than ere they closed was known.
Yes, he has awakened
For the midnight's happy queen!
What is this old history but a lesson given,
How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth,
How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven.
Sanctify the visions of hope, faith, and youth.
'Tis for such they waken!
When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken,
Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few;
Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken
To a being more intense, more spiritual and true.
So doth the soul awaken,
Like that youth to night's fair queen!
How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth,
How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven.
Sanctify the visions of hope, faith, and youth.
'Tis for such they waken!
215
Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few;
Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken
To a being more intense, more spiritual and true.
So doth the soul awaken,
Like that youth to night's fair queen!
VIII. THE DEATH OF THE SEA KING.
Dark, how dark the morning
That kindles the sky!
But darker the scorning
Of Earl Harold's eye;
On his deck he is lying,—
It once was his throne,
Yet there he is dying,
Unheeded and lone.
There gather'd round nor follower nor foeman,
But over him bendeth a young and pale woman.
That kindles the sky!
But darker the scorning
Of Earl Harold's eye;
On his deck he is lying,—
It once was his throne,
Yet there he is dying,
Unheeded and lone.
There gather'd round nor follower nor foeman,
But over him bendeth a young and pale woman.
He has lived mid the hurtle
Of spears and of snow;
Yet green droops the myrtle
Where he is laid low:
The vessel is stranded
On some southern isle;
The foes that are banded
Will wait her awhile:—
Ay, long is that waiting—for never again
Will the Sea Raven sweep o'er her own northern main.
Of spears and of snow;
Yet green droops the myrtle
Where he is laid low:
The vessel is stranded
On some southern isle;
The foes that are banded
Will wait her awhile:—
Ay, long is that waiting—for never again
Will the Sea Raven sweep o'er her own northern main.
He was born on the water,
Mid storm and 'mid strife;
Through tempest and slaughter
Was hurried his life;
Few years has he numbered,
And golden his head,
Yet the north hills are cumbered
With bones of his dead.
The combat is distant, the whirlwind is past
From the spot where Earl Harold is breathing his last.
Mid storm and 'mid strife;
Through tempest and slaughter
Was hurried his life;
216
And golden his head,
Yet the north hills are cumbered
With bones of his dead.
The combat is distant, the whirlwind is past
From the spot where Earl Harold is breathing his last.
'Tis an isle which the ocean
Has kept like a bride,
For the moonlit devotion
Of each gentler tide;
No eyes hath ere wander'd,
No step been addrest,
Where nature has squander'd
Her fairest and best.
Yet the wild winds have brought from the Baltic afar
That vessel of slaughter, that lord of the war.
Has kept like a bride,
For the moonlit devotion
Of each gentler tide;
No eyes hath ere wander'd,
No step been addrest,
Where nature has squander'd
Her fairest and best.
Yet the wild winds have brought from the Baltic afar
That vessel of slaughter, that lord of the war.
He saw his chiefs stooping,
But not unto him;
The stately form drooping,
The flashing eye dim.
The wind from the nor'erd
Swept past, fierce and free;
It hurried them forward,
They knew not the sea;
And a foe track'd their footsteps more stern than the tide—
The plague was among them—they sicken'd and died.
But not unto him;
The stately form drooping,
The flashing eye dim.
The wind from the nor'erd
Swept past, fierce and free;
It hurried them forward,
They knew not the sea;
And a foe track'd their footsteps more stern than the tide—
The plague was among them—they sicken'd and died.
Left last, and left lonely,
Earl Harold remain'd;
One captive—one only
Life's burden sustain'd;
She watch'd o'er his sleeping,
Low, sweetly she spoke,
He saw not her weeping,
She smiled when he woke;
Tho' stern was his bearing and haughty his tone,
He had one gentler feeling, and that was her own.
Earl Harold remain'd;
One captive—one only
Life's burden sustain'd;
She watch'd o'er his sleeping,
Low, sweetly she spoke,
He saw not her weeping,
She smiled when he woke;
Tho' stern was his bearing and haughty his tone,
He had one gentler feeling, and that was her own.
217
Fierce the wild winds were blowing
That drove them all night,
Now the hush'd waves are flowing
In music and light:
The storm is forsaking
Its strife with the main,
And the blue sky is breaking
Thro' clouds and thro' rain:
They can see the fair island whereon they are thrown,
Where the palms and the spice-groves rise lovely and lone.
That drove them all night,
Now the hush'd waves are flowing
In music and light:
The storm is forsaking
Its strife with the main,
And the blue sky is breaking
Thro' clouds and thro' rain:
They can see the fair island whereon they are thrown,
Where the palms and the spice-groves rise lovely and lone.
Her bright hair is flying
Escaped from its fold,
The night-dews are drying
Away from its gold;
The op'ning flowers quiver
Beneath the soft air;
She turns with a shiver
From what is so fair.
Paler, colder the forehead that rests on her knee!
For her, in the wide world, what is there to see!
Escaped from its fold,
The night-dews are drying
Away from its gold;
The op'ning flowers quiver
Beneath the soft air;
She turns with a shiver
From what is so fair.
Paler, colder the forehead that rests on her knee!
For her, in the wide world, what is there to see!
He tries—vain the trying—
To lift up his sword,
As if still defying
The Death, now his lord.
Once to gaze on the ocean,
His lips faintly stir;
But life's last emotion
Is one look on her.
Down drops on his bosom her beautiful head,—
The Earl and the maiden together lie dead!
To lift up his sword,
As if still defying
The Death, now his lord.
Once to gaze on the ocean,
His lips faintly stir;
But life's last emotion
Is one look on her.
Down drops on his bosom her beautiful head,—
The Earl and the maiden together lie dead!
218
IX. THE LITTLE GLEANER.
Very fair the child was, with hair of darkest auburn,—Fair, and yet sunburnt with the golden summer:
Sunshine seem'd the element from which she drew her being.
Careless from her little hand the gather'd ears are scatter'd,
In a graceful wreath the purple corn-flowers binding;
While her sweet face brightens with a sudden pleasure.
Blame not her binding: already stirs within her
All the deep emotions in the love of nature,—
Love, that is the source of the beautiful and holy.
In long-after years will memory, recalling
Sweetness undying from that early garland,
Keep the heart glad with natural devotion.
'Tis a true, sweet lesson; for, in life's actual harvest,
Much we need the flowers that mingle with our labours.
Pleasures, pure and simple, recall us to their Giver;
For ever, in its joy, does the full heart think of Heaven.
X. THE CARRIER-PIGEON RETURNED.
Sunset has flung its glory o'er the floods,
That wind amid Ionia's myrtle woods,—
Sunset that dies a conqueror in his splendour;
But the warm crimson ray
Has almost sunk away
Beneath a purple twilight faint and tender.
That wind amid Ionia's myrtle woods,—
Sunset that dies a conqueror in his splendour;
But the warm crimson ray
Has almost sunk away
Beneath a purple twilight faint and tender.
Soft are the hues around the marble fanes,
Whose marble shines amid the wooded plains,—
Fanes where a false but lovely creed was kneeling,—
A creed that held divine
All that was but a sign,
The outward to the inward world appealing.
Whose marble shines amid the wooded plains,—
Fanes where a false but lovely creed was kneeling,—
A creed that held divine
All that was but a sign,
The outward to the inward world appealing.
219
Earth was a child, and child-like, in those hours,
Full of fresh feelings, and scarce conscious powers,
Around its own impatient beauty flinging;
These young believings were
Types of the true and fair,—
The holy faith that Time was calmly bringing.
Full of fresh feelings, and scarce conscious powers,
Around its own impatient beauty flinging;
These young believings were
Types of the true and fair,—
The holy faith that Time was calmly bringing.
Still to those woods, with ruins fill'd, belong
The ancient immortality of song,—
Names and old words whose music is undying,—
Yet do they haunt the heart
With its divinest part,
The past that to the present is replying.
The ancient immortality of song,—
Names and old words whose music is undying,—
Yet do they haunt the heart
With its divinest part,
The past that to the present is replying.
The purple ocean far beneath her feet,
The wild thyme on the fragrant hill her seat,
As in the days of old there leans a Maiden,—
Many have watch'd before
The breaking waves ashore,—
Faint with uncounted moments sorrow-laden.
The wild thyme on the fragrant hill her seat,
As in the days of old there leans a Maiden,—
Many have watch'd before
The breaking waves ashore,—
Faint with uncounted moments sorrow-laden.
With cold and trembling hand
She has undone the band
Around the carrier-pigeon just alighted,—
And instant dies away
The transitory ray
From the dark eye it had one instant lighted.
She has undone the band
Around the carrier-pigeon just alighted,—
And instant dies away
The transitory ray
From the dark eye it had one instant lighted.
The sickness of a hope too long deferred
Sinks on her heart,—it is no longer stirred
By the quick presence of the sweet emotion,—
Sweet even unto pain,
With which she sees again
Her bird come sweeping o'er the purple ocean.
Sinks on her heart,—it is no longer stirred
By the quick presence of the sweet emotion,—
Sweet even unto pain,
With which she sees again
Her bird come sweeping o'er the purple ocean.
Woe for the watcher,—still it doth not bring
A letter nestled fragrant 'neath its wing;
There is no answer to her fond inquiring,—
Again, and yet again,
No letter o'er the main
Quiets the anxious spirit's fond desiring.
A letter nestled fragrant 'neath its wing;
220
Again, and yet again,
No letter o'er the main
Quiets the anxious spirit's fond desiring.
Down the ungather'd darkness of her hair
Floats, like a pall that covers her despair,—
What woman's care hath she in her adorning?
The noontide's sultry hours
Have wither'd the white flowers,
Binding its dark lengths in the early morning.
Floats, like a pall that covers her despair,—
What woman's care hath she in her adorning?
The noontide's sultry hours
Have wither'd the white flowers,
Binding its dark lengths in the early morning.
All day her seat hath been beside the shore
Watching for him who will return no more;
He thinks not of her or her weary weeping.
Absence, it is thy lot
To be too soon forgot,
Or to leave memory but to one sad keeping.
Watching for him who will return no more;
He thinks not of her or her weary weeping.
Absence, it is thy lot
To be too soon forgot,
Or to leave memory but to one sad keeping.
Oh, folly of a loving heart that clings
With desperate faith, to which each moment brings
Quick and faint gleams an instant's thought must smother;
And yet finds mocking scope
For some unreal hope,
Which would appear despair to any other!
With desperate faith, to which each moment brings
Quick and faint gleams an instant's thought must smother;
And yet finds mocking scope
For some unreal hope,
Which would appear despair to any other!
She knows the hopelessness of what she seeks,
And yet, as soon as rosy morning breaks,
Doth she unloose her pigeon's silken fetter;
But thro' the twilight air
No more its pinions bear
What once so oft they brought—the false one's letter.
And yet, as soon as rosy morning breaks,
Doth she unloose her pigeon's silken fetter;
But thro' the twilight air
No more its pinions bear
What once so oft they brought—the false one's letter.
The harvest of the summer-rose is spread,
But lip and cheek with her have lost their red;
Theirs is the paleness of the soul's consuming—
Fretfully day by day
In sorrow worn away;
Youth, joy, and bloom have no more sure entombing.
But lip and cheek with her have lost their red;
Theirs is the paleness of the soul's consuming—
Fretfully day by day
In sorrow worn away;
Youth, joy, and bloom have no more sure entombing.
221
It is a common story, which the air
Has had around the weary world to bear,
That of the trusting spirit's vain accusing;
Yet once how firm and fond
Seemed the eternal bond
That now a few brief parted days are loosing.
Has had around the weary world to bear,
That of the trusting spirit's vain accusing;
Yet once how firm and fond
Seemed the eternal bond
That now a few brief parted days are loosing.
Close to her heart the weary pigeon lies,
Gazing upon her with its earnest eyes,
Which seem to ask—Why are we thus neglected?
It is the still despair
Of passion forced to bear
Its deep and tender offering rejected.
Gazing upon her with its earnest eyes,
Which seem to ask—Why are we thus neglected?
It is the still despair
Of passion forced to bear
Its deep and tender offering rejected.
Poor girl! her soul is heavy with the past;
Around the shades of night are falling fast;
Heavier still the shadow passing o'er her.
The maiden will no more
Watch on the sea-beat shore—
The darkness of the grave is now before her.
Around the shades of night are falling fast;
Heavier still the shadow passing o'er her.
The maiden will no more
Watch on the sea-beat shore—
The darkness of the grave is now before her.
XI. ALEXANDER ON THE BANKS OF THE HYPHASIS.
Lonely by the moonlit waters
Does the conqueror stand,
Yet unredden'd by the slaughters
Of his mighty band.
Yet his laurel wants a leaf.
There he stands, sad, silent, lonely;
For his hope is vain:
He has reached that river only
To return again.
Mournful bends the matchless chief;
He—the earth's unrivalled one—
He must leave his task undone.
Does the conqueror stand,
Yet unredden'd by the slaughters
Of his mighty band.
Yet his laurel wants a leaf.
There he stands, sad, silent, lonely;
For his hope is vain:
He has reached that river only
To return again.
Mournful bends the matchless chief;
He—the earth's unrivalled one—
He must leave his task undone.
222
Far behind the camp lies sleeping—
Gods! how can they sleep,
Pale fear o'er their slumbers creeping,
With a world to weep?
With a victory to win.
There they lie in craven slumber,
By their murmurs won—
Must their earthly weakness cumber
Jove's immortal son?
From the ardent fire within,
Is there no impelling ray
To excite their on ward way?
Gods! how can they sleep,
Pale fear o'er their slumbers creeping,
With a world to weep?
With a victory to win.
There they lie in craven slumber,
By their murmurs won—
Must their earthly weakness cumber
Jove's immortal son?
From the ardent fire within,
Is there no impelling ray
To excite their on ward way?
No! beside that moonlit river
Stands the soldier-king,
While he hears the night-wind shiver
With a weary wing—
With a weary sound to him;
By the numerous shadows broken
On the river's brim—
From the mirror'd stars a token
That his star is dim—
Changed and sullen they appear.
To a great and fix'd despair
All things fate and omen are.
Stands the soldier-king,
While he hears the night-wind shiver
With a weary wing—
With a weary sound to him;
By the numerous shadows broken
On the river's brim—
From the mirror'd stars a token
That his star is dim—
Changed and sullen they appear.
To a great and fix'd despair
All things fate and omen are.
Far away the plains are spreading
Various, dark and vast—
Where a thousand tombs are shading
Memories from the past—
He must leave them still unknown.
All the world's ancestral learning—
Secrets strange and old—
Early wisdom's dark discerning,
Must remain untold.
Mighty is the hope o'erthrown—
Mighty was the enterprise
Which upon that moment dies.
Various, dark and vast—
Where a thousand tombs are shading
Memories from the past—
He must leave them still unknown.
All the world's ancestral learning—
Secrets strange and old—
Early wisdom's dark discerning,
Must remain untold.
Mighty is the hope o'erthrown—
Mighty was the enterprise
Which upon that moment dies.
223
With the moonlight on them sleeping
Stands each stately palm,
Like to ancient warriors keeping
Vigil stern and calm
O'er a prostrate world below.
Sudden from beneath their shadow
Forth a serpent springs,
O'er the sands, as o'er a meadow,
Winding in dark rings.
Stately doth it glide, and slow
Like an omen in a dream,
Does that giant serpent seem.
Stands each stately palm,
Like to ancient warriors keeping
Vigil stern and calm
O'er a prostrate world below.
Sudden from beneath their shadow
Forth a serpent springs,
O'er the sands, as o'er a meadow,
Winding in dark rings.
Stately doth it glide, and slow
Like an omen in a dream,
Does that giant serpent seem.
Silvery rose those far sands shining,
Where that shade was cast—
While the king with stern repining
Watched the serpent past.
Sadly did the conqueror say—
“Would my steps were like my spirit,
I would track thy path!
What those distant sands inherit,
What this new world hath,
Should grow bright around my way.
Ah! not mine, yon glorious sphere—
My world's boundary is here!”
Where that shade was cast—
While the king with stern repining
Watched the serpent past.
Sadly did the conqueror say—
“Would my steps were like my spirit,
I would track thy path!
What those distant sands inherit,
What this new world hath,
Should grow bright around my way.
Ah! not mine, yon glorious sphere—
My world's boundary is here!”
Pale he stood, the moonlight gleaming
In his golden hair—
Somewhat of a spirit's seeming,
Glorious and fair,
Is upon that radiant brow.
Like the stars that kindle heaven
In the sacred night,
To those blue clear eyes were given
An unearthly light,
Though the large tears fill them now;
For the Macedonian wept
As his midnight watch he kept.
In his golden hair—
Somewhat of a spirit's seeming,
Glorious and fair,
Is upon that radiant brow.
Like the stars that kindle heaven
In the sacred night,
To those blue clear eyes were given
An unearthly light,
Though the large tears fill them now;
For the Macedonian wept
As his midnight watch he kept.
224
In those mighty tears' o'erflowing,
Found the full heart scope
For the bitter overthrowing
Of its noblest hope;
So will many weep again.
Our aspirings have arisen
In another world;
Life is but the spirit's prison,
Where its wings are furl'd,
Stretching to their flight in vain,—
Seeking that eternal home
Which is in a world to come.
Found the full heart scope
For the bitter overthrowing
Of its noblest hope;
So will many weep again.
Our aspirings have arisen
In another world;
Life is but the spirit's prison,
Where its wings are furl'd,
Stretching to their flight in vain,—
Seeking that eternal home
Which is in a world to come.
Like earth's proudest conqueror, turning
From his proudest field,
Is the human soul still yearning
For what it must yield,
Of dreams unfulfill'd and powers;
Like the great yet guided ocean
Is our mortal mind,
Stirr'd by many a high emotion,
But subdued, confined;—
Such are shadows of the hours,
Glorious in the far-off gloom,
But whose altar is the tomb!
From his proudest field,
Is the human soul still yearning
For what it must yield,
Of dreams unfulfill'd and powers;
Like the great yet guided ocean
Is our mortal mind,
Stirr'd by many a high emotion,
But subdued, confined;—
Such are shadows of the hours,
Glorious in the far-off gloom,
But whose altar is the tomb!
[There is something singularly fine in Alexander's appeal to his army, when the Indian world lay before them, but more present to their fears than to their hopes. “For my own part,” said the ardent conqueror, “I recognise no limits to the lahours of a high-spirited man but the failure of adequate objects.” Never was more noble motto for all human achievement; and it was from a lofty purpose that the Macedonians turned back on the banks of the Hyphasis. But it is the same with all mortal enterprise: nothing is, in this world, carried out to its complete fulfilment. Our mortality predominates in a world only meant to be a passage to another.]
225
XII. THE ZEGRI LADY'S VIGIL.
Ever sits the lady weeping—
Weeping night and day—
One perpetual vigil keeping,
Till life pass away,
And she join the seven who sleep.
Daylight enters not that building,
Tho' so rich and fair—
With the azure and the gilding
That are lavish'd there;
Round the purple curtains sweep,
Heavily their shadows creep
Around the Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
Weeping night and day—
One perpetual vigil keeping,
Till life pass away,
And she join the seven who sleep.
Daylight enters not that building,
Tho' so rich and fair—
With the azure and the gilding
That are lavish'd there;
Round the purple curtains sweep,
Heavily their shadows creep
Around the Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
On the walls are many a sentence,
In bright letters wrought—
Touch'd not with the meek repentance
By the Gospel brought—
But the Koran's haughty words—
Words that, like a trumpet calling,
Urge the warrior on;
In the front of battle falling,
Paradise is won—
By the red and ready swords—
Can they soothe the spirit's chords
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye—
Of the Ladye weeping there!
In bright letters wrought—
Touch'd not with the meek repentance
By the Gospel brought—
But the Koran's haughty words—
Words that, like a trumpet calling,
Urge the warrior on;
In the front of battle falling,
Paradise is won—
By the red and ready swords—
Can they soothe the spirit's chords
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye—
Of the Ladye weeping there!
Seven tombs are in that chamber—
Each a marble tomb:—
Lamps that breathe of musk and amber
Tremble in the gloom.
Seven lamps perfume the air.
On each tomb a statue lying,
Almost seems like life;
And, above, the banner flying
Seems to dare the strife—
Which again it may not dare.
Can the carved statues there
Suffice the Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there!
Each a marble tomb:—
Lamps that breathe of musk and amber
Tremble in the gloom.
Seven lamps perfume the air.
226
Almost seems like life;
And, above, the banner flying
Seems to dare the strife—
Which again it may not dare.
Can the carved statues there
Suffice the Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there!
While the others fled around them,
Did the seven die.—
In the front of war she found them
With none others nigh:—
Noble was the blood they shed.
Sacred in her grief and beauty,
Did the Ladye go,
Asking life's last sacred duty
Of the Christian foe.
Those white feet were stain'd with red,
When the King bestow'd her dead
On the lovely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
Did the seven die.—
In the front of war she found them
With none others nigh:—
Noble was the blood they shed.
Sacred in her grief and beauty,
Did the Ladye go,
Asking life's last sacred duty
Of the Christian foe.
Those white feet were stain'd with red,
When the King bestow'd her dead
On the lovely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
Never since the hour she brought them
To that ancient hall,
Since with her sad hands she wrought them
Their embroidered pall,
Hath the daylight seen her face.
Rosy o'er the Guadalquivir
Doth the morning gleam;
Pale the silver moonbeams shiver
O'er the haunted stream.
Nothing knows she of their grace—
Nothing cheers the funeral place
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
To that ancient hall,
Since with her sad hands she wrought them
Their embroidered pall,
Hath the daylight seen her face.
Rosy o'er the Guadalquivir
Doth the morning gleam;
Pale the silver moonbeams shiver
O'er the haunted stream.
Nothing knows she of their grace—
Nothing cheers the funeral place
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
227
Each of six tombs hold a brother—
All her house's pride:—
Six contain her line; one other
Riseth at her side.
Who is in that seventh tomb?
One far dearer than the others
Shares their place of rest:
Well she loved her noble brothers—
But she loved him best—
He who shared the warrior's doom
With the favour at his plume
Of the lovely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
All her house's pride:—
Six contain her line; one other
Riseth at her side.
Who is in that seventh tomb?
One far dearer than the others
Shares their place of rest:
Well she loved her noble brothers—
But she loved him best—
He who shared the warrior's doom
With the favour at his plume
Of the lovely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
Never more when first appearing
Will he watch her eye,
In the mounted lists careering,
When his steed went by
Rapid as the lance he flung.
Never more when night is lonely
Will the warrior glide
To the citron shade, where only
He was at her side,
While the very wild wind hung
On the music of the tongue
Of the lovely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
Will he watch her eye,
In the mounted lists careering,
When his steed went by
Rapid as the lance he flung.
Never more when night is lonely
Will the warrior glide
To the citron shade, where only
He was at her side,
While the very wild wind hung
On the music of the tongue
Of the lovely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
Not with daylight to discover
How the wretched weep
Will the maiden wail her lover,
Or her brothers keep
In remembrance with her tears.
Grief hath stern and silent powers,
And her house is proud;
Not to day's cold guarded hours
Is despair allow'd;
But, shut out with haughty fears,
Pride with daylight disappears,
From the lovely Zegri Ladye—
The Ladye weeping there.
How the wretched weep
Will the maiden wail her lover,
Or her brothers keep
In remembrance with her tears.
Grief hath stern and silent powers,
And her house is proud;
Not to day's cold guarded hours
Is despair allow'd;
But, shut out with haughty fears,
Pride with daylight disappears,
228
The Ladye weeping there.
But her slight frame has been shaken
By the sudden blight,
And her dark eyes are forsaken
By their former light;
Heavy is their settled gloom.
And her wan cheek beareth token
Of young life's decline;
You may see the heart is broken
By each outward sign.
Soon the heart can life consume,
Fast approaching is the tomb
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye—
Of the Ladye weeping there.
By the sudden blight,
And her dark eyes are forsaken
By their former light;
Heavy is their settled gloom.
And her wan cheek beareth token
Of young life's decline;
You may see the heart is broken
By each outward sign.
Soon the heart can life consume,
Fast approaching is the tomb
Of the lonely Zegri Ladye—
Of the Ladye weeping there.
ARIADNE WATCHING THE SEA AFTER THE DEPARTURE OF THESEUS.
Lonely—lonely on the shore—
Where the mighty waters roar,
Would that she could pass them o'er!
Doth the maiden stand.
Those small ivory feet are bare,
Rosy as the small shells are,
They are, than the feet, less fair
On that sea-beat strand!
Wherefore doth the girl complain?
Wind and wave will hear in vain.
Where the mighty waters roar,
Would that she could pass them o'er!
Doth the maiden stand.
Those small ivory feet are bare,
Rosy as the small shells are,
They are, than the feet, less fair
On that sea-beat strand!
Wherefore doth the girl complain?
Wind and wave will hear in vain.
Dark as is the raven's breast
Wand'ring wild in its unrest—
Like a human thought in quest
Of a future hour,
Do her raven tresses flow
Over neck and arm below,
White as is the silent snow,
Or the early flower!
Coming ere the summer sun
Colours what it shines upon.
Wand'ring wild in its unrest—
Like a human thought in quest
Of a future hour,
Do her raven tresses flow
Over neck and arm below,
White as is the silent snow,
Or the early flower!
229
Colours what it shines upon.
Vainly does the west wind seek
To recall upon her cheek
How the red rose used to break
In her native isle—
Breaking with a lovely flush;
But her cheek has lost its blush
And her lip its smile:
Once how fair they used to spring
For the young Athenian King!
To recall upon her cheek
How the red rose used to break
In her native isle—
Breaking with a lovely flush;
But her cheek has lost its blush
And her lip its smile:
Once how fair they used to spring
For the young Athenian King!
Desolate—how desolate—
Does the Cretan lady wait
On the beach forlorn, who late
In a palace dwelt.
They will not—the coming waves—
Watch her pleasure like the slaves
Who before her knelt;
And the least sign was command
From her slight but royal hand.
Does the Cretan lady wait
On the beach forlorn, who late
In a palace dwelt.
They will not—the coming waves—
Watch her pleasure like the slaves
Who before her knelt;
And the least sign was command
From her slight but royal hand.
Lovely was the native bower
Where she dwelt a guarded flower,
In her other happier hour,
Ere love grew to pain.
Mid these grey rocks may she roam,
For the maiden hath no home—
None will have again.
Never more her eyes will meet
Welcome from her native Crete.
Where she dwelt a guarded flower,
In her other happier hour,
Ere love grew to pain.
Mid these grey rocks may she roam,
For the maiden hath no home—
None will have again.
Never more her eyes will meet
Welcome from her native Crete.
Little did that Princess fear,
When a thousand swords were near,
Where no other was her peer,
That an hour was nigh,
When her hands would stretch in vain
Helpless to the unpitying main,
To the unpitying sky—
Earth below and heaven above
Witness to the wrongs of Love.
When a thousand swords were near,
Where no other was her peer,
That an hour was nigh,
When her hands would stretch in vain
Helpless to the unpitying main,
To the unpitying sky—
230
Witness to the wrongs of Love.
On the white and sounding surge,
In the dark horizon's verge,
Does a vessel seem to urge
Fast her onward way.
And the swelling canvass spread,
Glitters in the early red
Of the coming day;
'Tis as if that vessel bore
All the sunshine from the shore.
In the dark horizon's verge,
Does a vessel seem to urge
Fast her onward way.
And the swelling canvass spread,
Glitters in the early red
Of the coming day;
'Tis as if that vessel bore
All the sunshine from the shore.
Hath the young King left her side—
She but yesterday his bride—
Who for his sake cross'd the tide,
Gave him love and life?
He hath left her far behind
To the warring wave and wind.
But what is their strife,
To the war within the heart,
Which beholdeth him depart?
She but yesterday his bride—
Who for his sake cross'd the tide,
Gave him love and life?
He hath left her far behind
To the warring wave and wind.
But what is their strife,
To the war within the heart,
Which beholdeth him depart?
She hath perill'd life and fame
Upon an all desperate game;
What availeth now her claim
On the false and fled?
Not him only hath she lost—
All the spirit treasured most
Has its lustre shed.
Let the false one cross the main,
If she could believe again.
Upon an all desperate game;
What availeth now her claim
On the false and fled?
Not him only hath she lost—
All the spirit treasured most
Has its lustre shed.
Let the false one cross the main,
If she could believe again.
After hours may yet restore
To the cheek the rose it wore,
And, as it has smiled before,
So the lip will smile.
Let them be however bright,
Never will they wear the light
Of their native isle.
Trusting, happy were they then—
Such they cannot be again.
To the cheek the rose it wore,
And, as it has smiled before,
So the lip will smile.
231
Never will they wear the light
Of their native isle.
Trusting, happy were they then—
Such they cannot be again.
Strange the heart's emotions are,
How from out of its despair
Will it summon strength to hear
Desperate wrong and woe!
But such strength is as the light
Seen upon the grave by night—
There is death below:
And the very gleam that flashes
Kindles from the heart's sweet ashes.
How from out of its despair
Will it summon strength to hear
Desperate wrong and woe!
But such strength is as the light
Seen upon the grave by night—
There is death below:
And the very gleam that flashes
Kindles from the heart's sweet ashes.
Maiden! gazing o'er the sea,
Wistfully, how wistfully!—
Thine such weary doom must be—
Thine the weary heart.
Woe for confidence misplaced,
For affections run to waste,
And for hopes that part—
Leaving us their farewell word,
One for ever jarring chord.
Wistfully, how wistfully!—
Thine such weary doom must be—
Thine the weary heart.
Woe for confidence misplaced,
For affections run to waste,
And for hopes that part—
Leaving us their farewell word,
One for ever jarring chord.
There the Cretan maiden stands,
Wringing her despairing hands,
Lonely on the lonely sands—
'Tis a woman's lot:
Only let her heart be won,
And her summer hour is done—
Soon she is forgot;
Sad she strays by life's bleak shore,
Loving, but beloved no more!
Wringing her despairing hands,
Lonely on the lonely sands—
'Tis a woman's lot:
Only let her heart be won,
And her summer hour is done—
Soon she is forgot;
Sad she strays by life's bleak shore,
Loving, but beloved no more!
232
XIV. THE TWO DEATHS.
I. The Death of Sigurd, the Earl of Northumberland.
The Earl lay on his purple bed,
Faint and heavy was his head,
Where the snows of age were shed—
Heavy on his pillow.
Never more when seas are dark
Will Earl Sigurd guide his bark
Thro' the dashing billow.
Never from that bed of pain
Will the warrior rise again.
Faint and heavy was his head,
Where the snows of age were shed—
Heavy on his pillow.
Never more when seas are dark
Will Earl Sigurd guide his bark
Thro' the dashing billow.
Never from that bed of pain
Will the warrior rise again.
Yes, he will arise:—e'en now
Red he flushes to the brow;
Like the light before his prow
Is the dark eye's gleaming.
No: it never shall be said
Sigurd died within his bed
With its curtains streaming—
Whose sole curtain wont to be
Banners red with victory.
Red he flushes to the brow;
Like the light before his prow
Is the dark eye's gleaming.
No: it never shall be said
Sigurd died within his bed
With its curtains streaming—
Whose sole curtain wont to be
Banners red with victory.
Lift me up, the sea-king said—
At the word his sons obey'd,
And the old man was convey'd
Where the sea was sounding,
At his ancient castle-gate,
Death's dark coming to await,
With his knights surrounding.
Morn was reddening in the sky,
As the Earl came forth to die.
At the word his sons obey'd,
And the old man was convey'd
Where the sea was sounding,
At his ancient castle-gate,
Death's dark coming to await,
With his knights surrounding.
Morn was reddening in the sky,
As the Earl came forth to die.
In a carved oaken chair,
Carved with carving quaint and rare—
Faces strange and garlands fair—
Is the chieftain seated,
As when at some festival
In his high ancestral hall
Bards his deeds repeated.
And there was no loftier song,
Than what bore his name along.
Carved with carving quaint and rare—
Faces strange and garlands fair—
Is the chieftain seated,
233
In his high ancestral hall
Bards his deeds repeated.
And there was no loftier song,
Than what bore his name along.
Round him swept his mantle red,
Like a chief apparelled,
With his helmet on his head—
With its white plumes flying.
At his side the sheathed brand,
And the spear in his right hand—
Mid the dead and dying.
Where the battle raged the worst,
Ever was that right hand first.
Like a chief apparelled,
With his helmet on his head—
With its white plumes flying.
At his side the sheathed brand,
And the spear in his right hand—
Mid the dead and dying.
Where the battle raged the worst,
Ever was that right hand first.
He—the tamer of the wild—
Who invincible was styled,
Now is feeble as a child
By its mother sleeping;
But the mind is unsubdued—
Fearless is the warrior's mood,
While his eyes are keeping
This last vigil strange and lone,
That his spirit may be known.
Who invincible was styled,
Now is feeble as a child
By its mother sleeping;
But the mind is unsubdued—
Fearless is the warrior's mood,
While his eyes are keeping
This last vigil strange and lone,
That his spirit may be known.
As a ship cuts through the froth
Shining comes the morning forth,
From his own ancestral north,
While each rosy vapour
Kindles beautiful and bright,
With an evanescent light:
But the human taper
Hath an even briefer ray:
Strange, oh life, is thy decay!
Shining comes the morning forth,
From his own ancestral north,
While each rosy vapour
Kindles beautiful and bright,
With an evanescent light:
But the human taper
Hath an even briefer ray:
Strange, oh life, is thy decay!
Haughtily his castle stands
On a rock amid the sands,
Where the waves in gather'd bands
Day by day are dashing.
Never is the sounding shore
Still with their eternal roar,
And their strife is flashing
To the noontide's azure ight,
And the stars that watch at night.
On a rock amid the sands,
Where the waves in gather'd bands
Day by day are dashing.
234
Still with their eternal roar,
And their strife is flashing
To the noontide's azure ight,
And the stars that watch at night.
Sigurd's look is on the foam
Where his childhood wont to roam—
For the sea has been his home
From his earliest hours—
Gathering the echoing shells,
Where the future tempest dwells,
As some gather flowers;
Trembling when a rosy boy
With a fierce and eager joy.
Where his childhood wont to roam—
For the sea has been his home
From his earliest hours—
Gathering the echoing shells,
Where the future tempest dwells,
As some gather flowers;
Trembling when a rosy boy
With a fierce and eager joy.
Many things long since forgot
In a hard and hurried lot
Now arise—they trouble not
Him, the stately hearted:
But he saw a blue-eyed maid,
Long since 'mid the long grass laid,
And true friends departed.
Tears that stand in that dark eye
Only may the sea-breeze dry.
In a hard and hurried lot
Now arise—they trouble not
Him, the stately hearted:
But he saw a blue-eyed maid,
Long since 'mid the long grass laid,
And true friends departed.
Tears that stand in that dark eye
Only may the sea-breeze dry.
Longer do the shadows fall
Of his castle's armed wall,
Yet the old man sits, while all
Stand behind him weeping:
But behind they stand, for he
Would not brook man's tears to see.
One fair child is sleeping—
To his grandsire's feet he crept,
Weeping silent till he slept.
Of his castle's armed wall,
Yet the old man sits, while all
Stand behind him weeping:
But behind they stand, for he
Would not brook man's tears to see.
One fair child is sleeping—
To his grandsire's feet he crept,
Weeping silent till he slept.
Heavily beneath his mail
Seems Earl Sigurd's breath to fail,
And his pale cheek is more pale,
And his hand less steady.
Crimson are the sky and surge,
Stars are on th' horizon's verge,
Night and Death are ready!
Down in ocean goes the sun,
And Earl Sigurd's life is done!
Seems Earl Sigurd's breath to fail,
And his pale cheek is more pale,
235
Crimson are the sky and surge,
Stars are on th' horizon's verge,
Night and Death are ready!
Down in ocean goes the sun,
And Earl Sigurd's life is done!
II. The Death of Camoens.
Pale comes the moonlight thro' the lattice gleaming,
Narrow is the lattice, scanty is the ray,
Yet on its white wings the fragrant dews are streaming—
Dews—oh how sweet after August's sultry day!
Narrow is the lattice—oh let night's darkness cover
Chamber so wretched from any careless eye—
Over yon pallet whatever shadows hover,
They are less dark than the shadow drawing nigh—
Death, it is thy shadow!
Let the weary one now die!
Narrow is the lattice, scanty is the ray,
Yet on its white wings the fragrant dews are streaming—
Dews—oh how sweet after August's sultry day!
Narrow is the lattice—oh let night's darkness cover
Chamber so wretched from any careless eye—
Over yon pallet whatever shadows hover,
They are less dark than the shadow drawing nigh—
Death, it is thy shadow!
Let the weary one now die!
Beautiful, how beautiful!—the heavy eyes now closing
Only with the weight of the moonlight's soothing smile—
Or do they recall another hour's reposing,
When the myrtle and the moonlight were comrades the while?
Yes; for, while memory languidly is fetching
Her treasures from the depths which they have lain among,
A fragile hand—how thin—how weak—is sadly sketching
Figures and fancies that cell's white walls along.
On the lip there is a murmur—
It is the swan's last song.
Only with the weight of the moonlight's soothing smile—
Or do they recall another hour's reposing,
When the myrtle and the moonlight were comrades the while?
Yes; for, while memory languidly is fetching
Her treasures from the depths which they have lain among,
A fragile hand—how thin—how weak—is sadly sketching
Figures and fancies that cell's white walls along.
On the lip there is a murmur—
It is the swan's last song.
Dark order of St. Dominick! thy shelter to the weary
Is like thy rule—cold, stern, unpitying in its aid;
Cold is general charity, lorn the cell and dreary—
Yet there the way—worn wretched one may rest the dying head;
Who would remember him—ah, who does remember!—
He the ill-fated, yet the young and gifted one?
Grief and toil have quench'd life's once aspiring ember:
High heaven may have pity—but man for man has none!
Close thine eyes, Camoens;
Life's task is nearly done.
Is like thy rule—cold, stern, unpitying in its aid;
Cold is general charity, lorn the cell and dreary—
Yet there the way—worn wretched one may rest the dying head;
236
He the ill-fated, yet the young and gifted one?
Grief and toil have quench'd life's once aspiring ember:
High heaven may have pity—but man for man has none!
Close thine eyes, Camoens;
Life's task is nearly done.
Feebly his hand upon the wall is tracing
One lovely face and one face alone,
E'en the coming hour—other memories effacing—
Leaves that as fresh as when it first was known;
Faintly he traces with white and wasted fingers
What was once so lovely—what is still so dear:
Life's latest look, like its earliest one, yet lingers
On the large soft eyes that seem to meet him here;
Love's ethereal vision
Is not of Earth's dim sphere!
One lovely face and one face alone,
E'en the coming hour—other memories effacing—
Leaves that as fresh as when it first was known;
Faintly he traces with white and wasted fingers
What was once so lovely—what is still so dear:
Life's latest look, like its earliest one, yet lingers
On the large soft eyes that seem to meet him here;
Love's ethereal vision
Is not of Earth's dim sphere!
Large, soft, and dark, the eyes, where he has blended
So much of the soul, are somewhat like his own;
So in their youth the auburn hair descended,
Such the sad sweet smile to either red lip known.
Like were they in beauty, so the heart's light trembled
On the flushing cheek and in the kindling eye;
Yet more clearly like—the inward world resembled—
In its sweet communion—the tender and the high;
Our cold world is cruel
To rend so sweet a tie.
So much of the soul, are somewhat like his own;
So in their youth the auburn hair descended,
Such the sad sweet smile to either red lip known.
Like were they in beauty, so the heart's light trembled
On the flushing cheek and in the kindling eye;
Yet more clearly like—the inward world resembled—
In its sweet communion—the tender and the high;
Our cold world is cruel
To rend so sweet a tie.
Thro' a weary world-path known to care and sorrow,
Still was her influence o'er his being cast;
She was the hope that whispered of to-morrow,
She was the memoried music of the past—
She was in his numbers—when those numbers breathing
Of his country's glory made it glorious more—
To its southern language long harmony bequeathing,
Haunting every wild wave dashing on its shore.
Ay, the poet's music
Is lovely as of yore.
Still was her influence o'er his being cast;
She was the hope that whispered of to-morrow,
She was the memoried music of the past—
She was in his numbers—when those numbers breathing
Of his country's glory made it glorious more—
To its southern language long harmony bequeathing,
Haunting every wild wave dashing on its shore.
Ay, the poet's music
Is lovely as of yore.
237
Dream not that the love which haunts the poet's spirit
Is the common passion that sweetens daily earth:
From a world ethereal its nature must inherit
All the high imaginings that crowded round its birth;
From the pure, pale stars, amid their midnight watches,
It asks for inspiration lofty and divine;
From the small wild flowers amid the woods it catches
Charms, round the careless and the usual path to shine.
Such is the poet's passion—
Such, Camoens, was thine.
Is the common passion that sweetens daily earth:
From a world ethereal its nature must inherit
All the high imaginings that crowded round its birth;
From the pure, pale stars, amid their midnight watches,
It asks for inspiration lofty and divine;
From the small wild flowers amid the woods it catches
Charms, round the careless and the usual path to shine.
Such is the poet's passion—
Such, Camoens, was thine.
Flinging far below him each meaner thought that cumbers
Wishes born of wants, he lighted up life's dream
With the kindling light that warms the poet's numbers—
Yet are they sung by the Tajo's sunny stream.
Still was his country the theme of his inspiring,
How her bold vessels first swept the southern seas—
Still was her praise the meed of his desiring,
While telling how her heroes met the fierce and mighty breeze.
The past and its sea-triumphs—
His dreams were fill'd with these.
Wishes born of wants, he lighted up life's dream
With the kindling light that warms the poet's numbers—
Yet are they sung by the Tajo's sunny stream.
Still was his country the theme of his inspiring,
How her bold vessels first swept the southern seas—
Still was her praise the meed of his desiring,
While telling how her heroes met the fierce and mighty breeze.
The past and its sea-triumphs—
His dreams were fill'd with these.
How was he rewarded?—how are such rewarded?
Those who thus lavish their inward wealth in vain?
Only one doom for the poet is recorded—
A present that must buy the future with its pain.
Long, long away, toss'd on the Indian billow,
Dream'd he sweet songs for his lady and his land;
Pale and wan he lies on his last neglected pillow—
None are near to minister with soft and soothing hand.
There let the poet perish—
So hath perish'd all his band.
Those who thus lavish their inward wealth in vain?
Only one doom for the poet is recorded—
A present that must buy the future with its pain.
Long, long away, toss'd on the Indian billow,
Dream'd he sweet songs for his lady and his land;
Pale and wan he lies on his last neglected pillow—
None are near to minister with soft and soothing hand.
There let the poet perish—
So hath perish'd all his band.
Heavily, heavily his large black eyes are closing
On the twilight loveliness they are too faint to know;
O'er that pale high forehead a shadow is reposing—
Peace to the weary heart that languid beats below!
From that sweet lip its old songs are departed;
Take, ye wild winds, what it wont to breathe of yore—
There he is dying deserted, broken-hearted,
Like a broken lute which no music wanders o'er.
Farewell to Cameons!
The swan will sing no more.
On the twilight loveliness they are too faint to know;
O'er that pale high forehead a shadow is reposing—
Peace to the weary heart that languid beats below!
238
Take, ye wild winds, what it wont to breathe of yore—
There he is dying deserted, broken-hearted,
Like a broken lute which no music wanders o'er.
Farewell to Cameons!
The swan will sing no more.
Yet not for this in the spirit's faith I falter,
Heavy though the doom be—yet glorious is the meed.
Let the life be laid upon the fated altar—
It is but the sacrifice of an eternal creed.
Never yet was song breathed in this high believing,
But, like a star, it hath floated down time's wave!
While what lofty praises and what tender grieving
And what noble hopes, come to sanctify and save!
Even such the glory,
Camoens, by thy grave
Heavy though the doom be—yet glorious is the meed.
Let the life be laid upon the fated altar—
It is but the sacrifice of an eternal creed.
Never yet was song breathed in this high believing,
But, like a star, it hath floated down time's wave!
While what lofty praises and what tender grieving
And what noble hopes, come to sanctify and save!
Even such the glory,
Camoens, by thy grave
| Life and Literary Remains of L. E. L. | |