Judith, Esther, and other poems | ||
Per troppa speranza;
Si perde la fede
Per troppo timor.
Il fior si fa, veleno
In sen dell' ape il fiore
Dolce liquor si fa'.
INTRODUCTION.
See fierce Achilles tread the corse-strown plain,
Behold proud Troy in flames, or turn your eyes
Where, pale and gasping, noble Hector lies.
Or, do you love when darkly lours the night
To hear of wizard grim and goblin sprite,
Go see the moon illume the storied pane
And seek the book with shuddering Deloraine.
Delight your hearts in tumult, what a grace
In young Zuleika's music breathing face!
Love you mild beauty, on the forehead fair,
Of guileless Gertrude see her parted hair,
Or, pleases most, the sad, impassioned tale,
With Eloisa's sighs resound the cloisters pale.
As rosy dreams that crown the summer night,
When angry winds against your casements throw
The tinkling sleet or softly-falling snow,
Or when the moon wandering o'er frozen streams
Coldly upon dismantled willow gleams,
When no congenial, kindly heart is nigh
And your lone bosoms heave th' unbidden sigh,
Or, youthful mothers, who soft vigil's leep
O'er smiling cherubs wrapt in dewy sleep,
Every sweet breath that warms the pallet near,
On such a night if my rude lay has power
To mitigate the drear'ness of the hour,
Or lend one melancholy moment speed—
Bless thee, my harp! I ask no other meed.
DEDICATION.
With the hope-kindling breath of timely praise,
And taught my song, of wild spontaneous flow,
Whate'er of art its simple numbers know.
Tho' pale the buds that gem it,
Think of the gloom they grew beneath,
Nor utterly contemn it.
Ere Fate relentless bound me,
Deep in a narrow vale of shade
Where prisoning rocks surround me.
From the few flowers that grow there,
Because 'twas all that I could do
To lull the sense of woe there.
The heart with bliss o'erflowing,
Endearing forms have blest my sight
With soul and beauty glowing.
And pitying stood before me,
Smiled on each flinty barrier's height
And to its summit bore me.
She told me—and descended—
Of joys that never must be mine—
And then—her power was ended.
To be forgotten never!
Oh, moments—fleeting—few—and gone
To be regretted ever!
Upon time's dreary ocean—
Light gales that wake the dead calm night
To momentary motion—
A dark and desert plain—
To show its fearful loneliness—
And disappear again.
Each soothing effort making,
So mothers kiss the infant's brow
But cannot cure its aching.
Though all besides condemn it,
Think of the gloom it grew beneath
Nor utterly contemn it.
JUDITH.
Rose duskily; night's dome of deepened blue
Swelled beauteous o'er her countless founts of light,
Softening their brilliancy with gentle dew.
Thy mountains mournful in the mellow beams,
The stranger's tent conceals their flowery slopes,
And hostile hands withhold their plenteous streams!
(Opening the lip, blood-wet or sorely dry,)
Their burning bosoms; while the moistened air
Heightens the thirst it cannot satisfy.
Fair Judith walked, and grandeur marked her air,
Though humble dust, in pious sprinklings laid,
Soiled the dark tresses of her copious hair.
The voice of many a sufferer below,
Who, supplicating at her portal, spends
His fainting breath in hollow tones of woe.
Where pity still impelled her, bending o'er,
Though her heart bled at every accent, learnt
And wept the woes she could not soften more.
Judith beheld; her noble heart was wrung,
Yet pensively serene her brow appears,
And wisdom's words flow sweeten'd by her tongue.
But once again their piercing griefs allay,
To all alike be bountiful,” she said,
“As far as with our wasted means we may.”
'Tis not for me to utter weak replies;
Yet, I entreat thee close thy bounteous hand,
All that we now have left would scarce suffice.
With scorching breath shall tell thy throbbing veins,
The last thick drop from every cistern's gone,
Save that which still thy beauteous boy sustains.’
To keep our altars from pollution free,
All, save for him alone, ere now were given,
And we had shared the general misery.
The Lord to look in mercy from his throne,
Our uncomplaining patience we would prove.
And die the general trespass to atone.
When the vile heathen ope our temple's doors,
How many a wronged and wretched one will sigh,
In her life blood, to wash its holy floors.
This morn our elders yielded the decree,
Sad children of captivity once more,
We crouch before the impious enemy.
Do all thou canst and bid them not complain,”
She said, and bent in humbleness the knee
Until th' attentive maid returned again.
Which in my days of joyfulness I wore;
This evening's moon must light me on the way
To bring you blest relief—or come no more.
I go to seek the Assyrian chief to night;
Through lawless hoards that trust in spear and mail,
Wild with success and glorying in their might.
The threatening horrours of that dangerous way—
Nor trust, to purchase shameful safety there,
The colouring and structure of my clay.
This face could never smile with syren art,
My honoured lord in his uprightness loved,
Nor needed more to fix his constant heart.
And well would wish to bid thee follow me,
But may thy care, so true and tender, save
My boy—that dearer one remains with thee.
If naught avails, and ye are captive led—
Teach his young heart to know the Lord of all,
And tell him in what cause his mother bled.
My ripened purpose may not brook delay,”
She said, and with Sapphira mild descends,
To cast her robes of widowhood away.
Her handmaid waits the moment to depart;
But in sweet slumber rests her little son,
And all the mother struggles at her heart.
His life is heaven's—be it what it may.”
Thus spake Religion, but the tender thought
Evades its power, she sought him as he lay.
His locks curled high leaving the forehead bare,
And o'er his eyes the light lids gently closed,
As they had feared to hide the brilliance there.
Had melted, but Sapphira's bursting sigh
Recalled her slumbering wisdom to control,
The tear that almost trembled in her eye.
Where the chief elders of the City stand,
Attended by one trembling follower came
Bethulia's gate was oped at her command.
From earliest childhood not a breath had soiled
The fairness of her fame: Detraction's dart
From that bright crystal rock, fell ever foiled.
To see her on the mountain-path's descent,
They knew, whatever her intent, 'twas good,
And raised the hand and blessed her as she went.
Where its clear founts in mournful murmurs play,
And the first watch of the Assyrian crew,
Beholds and intercepts her on the way.
“Behold a Hebrew woman. I have come
From yon devoted city, for I know
My nation must be given you to consume.
Alone to him a tale of truth, I fled.
Soon may you win our hills and vallies fair,
Nor shall a single drop of blood be shed.”
Go to his presence, fearlessly and free,
Declare thy purpose: never yet was known
Our lord to scorn a messenger like thee.’
A hundred ready warriors they chose,
While to the chief a favourite youth was sent,
Of flowing speech to lure him from repose.
Gem-broidered purple canopied his bed,
Soft Pleasure's breath had warmed th' inactive day,
But light-winged slumber fluttered o'er his head.
For more than thou can'st dream of beauty bright
Is blooming for thee! Hero, ope thine eyes!
Oh, sun, the loveliest moon is suing for thy light!’
“Surpassing fair—Bagoas—dost thou say?”
‘Fairer than pearls—the like cannot be found
From’—“Help me then to rise. Slaves, lead the way.”
While borne before him lamps of silver flame,
As 'twere alike, or beauty, or repose,
With leisure step, indifferent he came.
So many lovely captives wait his sigh,
Unmoved he wanders through a world of charms,
And scarcely raises his fastidious eye.
While thousand fears her hapless bosom shook,
Her timid charms—her all that's left, displayed,
Supremely happy, if he deigned to look.
Stood, like a graceful column, and with cheek
Crimsoned by scorn, when near the pagan came,
She slowly fell before him proudly meek.
His every movement, every look, was fraught:
Then “whatsoe'er thy purpose, lady, rise,
Declare to me thy nation, fear thou naught.
Her soul disclaimed the while, in accents free:
Her rounded tones flow from her lips as sweet
And fragrant as the drops of Carmel's bee.
Alike in wisdom as in war renowned!
Receive thy handmaiden, of Hebrew birth,
So shall thine efforts with success be crowned!
Nor sword nor spear against her can prevail,
But for their sins her children must atone,
Death's on the watch and all their succours fail.
The first ripe clusters of the curling vine,
The first rich streams our teeming olives yield,
Are food forbidden by a law divine.
'Tis sacrilege to touch with hands profane;
But their impatient wants must be supplied,
And, daring all, they will not long abstain.
Is given me to know, in secret thought,
Nor might I there its consummation wait,
But to declare it all thy presence sought.
Go out to pray beside a lonely stream;
And when their crimes are ripe for punishment
It will be told me in a holy dream.
Follow me, warrior; the way I'll lead,
Till in Jerusalem thou sett'st thy throne,
Not ev'n an insect's voice shall wake the mead.”
Sweetly reverberates their magic sound;
From his dark eyes his wild emotions dart,
And thus his tongue impetuous utterance found.
Do as thy soul directs thee! Thou art free:
All once performed, the god thou serv'st is mine,
Well may he be adored for forming thee!
Within her tent, while three days lent their light;
And thence with fervency went out and prayed,
And bathed her in a lucid stream by night.
A sumptuous feast, the moments to beguile,
That all around with drooping pinions tread,
And pant to sport in the fair Hebrew's smile.
He said, “with fairest promise I can find
No joy but in her presence. Ah! I fear—
Is the eye loveless when the heart is kind?”
Well knew the youth to feed Hope's flickering flame,
And flowing from his lip of ready power,
As quick as thought the soothing answer came.
In too much sun the plant will languid prove;
And all those looks of coldness are but dew,
Fal'n to refresh the roses of thy love.
Deep in Judea's vales what flowers must glow!
Full soon thy love in thankfulness she'll share,—
Frown not, e'en now, to make thee blest, I go.’
For well she knew th' eventful hour drew nigh;
And rose and deckt her, when the summons came,
With every pleasing art to lure the eye.
But countless lamps a noon-light splendour shed,
The thoughtless pagans ply the glittering cup,
And pleasure silenced every thought of dread.
Her hair, save what composed the platted wreath,
In glossy waves descending, Judith sate
On skins of silky softness spread beneath.
Her graceful head a bright tiara wore,
Yet seemed, so much was there of loftiness,
As it disdained the ornaments it bore.
Oft as the treacherous stream she bows to sip,
Fires the bright convex of her jetty eye,
And curls the living vermil of her lip.
And his devoted temples ached to rest,
Temples, which oft dark ire's suffusion shew,
On the smooth arch of her majestic breast.
Profusion fed luxurious revelry—
A little distant, her afflicted race
Have nought to drink but tears of agony.
On Plenty's couch; their wounded souls to cure;
To drown, in the impious tyrant's blood, their woes;
Gave renovated patience to endure.
And every weary slave to rest has sped;
Bagoas but remains to close the door
And lead th' inebriate warrior to his bed.
Commands her maid to wait her coming forth,
To seek the fountain at the hour of prayer,
And stayed; nor seemed, at his entreaty, loth.
Before his towering form reposed supine;
The fair so warmly wished his presence blest,
But love lay senseless in a sea of wine.
The Hebrew with thy lord was left alone,
And in the lamp-beam gleaming o'er his head
With fatal light, his glittering falchion shone.
In his own den's fell depths, unfearing lies!
Oh! for thine own, thy suffering people's sake,
My God, nerve thou this arm and end my enterprize!”
Then, his last breath the proud oppressor drew;
The blade her right hand wielded high in air
Descends: his neck was bare, her hand was true.
And when the quivering visage severed lay,
Wiped from her ivory arms the steaming stain,
And took the costly canopy away.
Lest crimson traces might declare the tale,
Gave them in silence to her trembling maid,
And as accustomed, nightly, sought the vale.
No watch interrogates the favoured dame,
Saw from Bethulia's mount the fated camp,
And near the gates of the loved city came.
“Descend, O watch, and praise the great divine!
Weeping Judea, arm thee in his might!
Arise! Arise! The enemy is thine!”
Proclaimed 'twas Judith who her kindred sought,
With beating hearts around the gate they crowd,
And light a flame to see what she had brought.
Ta'en by my hand, as in his wine he slept;
Behold this canopy: it deckt his bed,
Yet by my God from every stain I'm kept,
For a great battle get ye in array;
Soon as the morn's first glimmerings appear,
High on the mountain make a brave display.
To seek their leader in his tent will haste,
And pale with fear behold the slayer slain,
Headless, and in his own vile gore debased.
Rush on them! all in their confusion, smite!
Nor rest nor respite till the impious brood
Lie like plucked grapes, in heaps before your sight.”
ESTHER.
Soft Persia's sovereign yielded his decree;
And every Hebrew in his realm to bleed
Was destined, but to please a favourite's cruelty.
Only with bitterer pains a day so dire?
What, proud oppressor, can it profit thee,
Though all my unoffending race expire?
A powerful sovereign's smile thy bosom cheers,
Yet from the glowing scene thou turn'st away,
And seek'st thy happiness in groans and tears.
What can a weak and artless woman do?
Who, till the diadem begirt her brow,
Nought but the name of guilt or grandeur knew.
Where ne'er a court its baneful splendour shed,
And scarcely scares the hummer from his spoils,
In gathering garlands for her firstlings' head!
And eve's soft gales refreshing coolness bear,
Sees her loved shepherd view the lucid star,
With scarce a joy to wish, and naught to fear.
Formed for entreaty—gentle, meek, and mild—
The lion, fierce for blood, will sometimes spare,
For pride or pity's sake, the helpless child—
That, to her grief, dishonoured Vashti knew;
And all her beauty, for the slight offence
From an offended lord no pardon drew.
And the soft word was softened by his look—
Esther, be firm and banish every fear!
Can he who loves, so well, thy death-blow brook?
Those words, those melting looks, another's were—
Yes, hapless queen, thine were my throne and bed;
Another still—full soon may triumph there.
And suffers guilt to triumph but a day—
Heaven's Lord, in all my fortunes blaze, I've leant
Still, still on thee, oh! cast me not away!
And raise the tearful anxious eye to thee,
High over kings exalted, deign to send
From thy dread throne, one pitying thought for me!”
Those looks which every passing thought confest,
Then thus resumed, as Heaven relief had given,
And calmed the tumult of her gentle breast.
To please my lord, once more, it may be mine—
And oh! my wretched country, if I die,
I only mix my worthless blood with thine.
Bring all my glowing gems and garments fair,
A nation's fate impending, hangs to day,
But on my beauty and your duteous care.”
Some comb and braid her hair of wavy gold,
Some softly wipe away the limpid wave
That o'er her dimply limbs in drops of fragrance rolled.
Like form celestial clad in raiment bright,
O'er all her garb rich India's treasures flame,
In mingling beams of rain-bow coloured light.
Played twinkling o'er the turban's stainless white,
As lingering sunbeams beautifully glow
Blue Caucasus, around thy snowy height.
Her bosom throbbing with its purpose high,
Slow were her steps, and unassured her port,
While hope just trembled in her azure eye.
And when the king, reclined in musing mood,
Lifts at the gentle sound his stately head,
Low at his feet the sweet intruder stood.
At such an hour, such suppliant's soft controul—
Her guileless looks th' admiring monarch melt,
Who thus, disordered, uttered forth his soul.
Tremble not, Esther, tell thy wish to me,
For shouldst thou half fair Persia's realm require,
Speak but a word, and I will give it thee.’
“Since thou art pleased to listen, my request
Is that the banquet, which to day I spread,
May be with thy majestic presence blest.
Who next thyself magnificently placed,
Though thousands sigh, enjoys the envied height
With all the lustre of thy favour graced.”
And bade a slave the sovereign will declare.
Meantime her happy way fair Esther went,
To join her maidens in the thankful prayer.
To undeceive her lord's too ready ear,
And to confound, ev'en at the genial board,
The wretch who in his pride prepared him to appear.
TO ONE, who had taken laudanum to enliven himself.
When there are those who prize thy life so dearly,
Because a transient gloom obscures thy soul,
And thy pulse beats not to its wonted time?
Mad pleasure's throb we may not always know:—
The heart's bright ruby streams would burst their bourns
And struggling life sink in the wild disorder.
Or should the strength of Nature's works resist
And firmly stand besieging dissolution,
Soon would the heated mind become a waste,
Like those vast plains beneath the burning line.
Each flower that fair affection rears would die;
Pure Virtue's springs yield up their last sweet drop,
While on their barren shores the reptile vice
Would hide her evil egg, and to the ray
Call forth with fœtid hiss her writhing young.
Drink the young blooming morning's fragrant breath,
Then haste, all glowing with her rosy light,
Take the dear harp thou know'st to touch so sweetly,
And while the heaving ocean kisses heaven,
Whose hues empurpled veil the radiant star,
Pour forth a lay of gratitude and love.
And all the live-long day watch and protect thee.
Or (can it please thee better?) lie thou long,
Wasted and languid on the late-sought couch.
And when the hour inert grows too oppressive,
Slowly arise enervate, and with hand
That trembling does its office, faintly reach
Th' infernal poppy's black and baleful juice.
The which I ne'er behold, but a cold corse
All grim with poison, from its bed impure
Rises distinct to fright my shrinking fancy.
For I have heard such accents from thy lips
As sure a soul polluted could not dictate.
Then guard thy heart susceptible and learn
To love such calm delights as hide not death.
Grows lovelier from having known her long;
Whose brightly beaming eye and dulcet voice
Heightens thy filial love to adoration;
Whom even Time admires, and will not touch
Rudely enough to leave his cruel traces.
Think of the hour that gave thee to her arms
When her soft form had scarcely banished childhood.
Think with what joy she clasped thee to her heart,
Just entering on a world, till then unknown,
Of new and dear emotion, wordless bliss.
That feared to hurt thee with their warm embrace,
While heaven-refined, swift coursing through her veins
The sweet draught sought thy lip, by heaven instructed.
Think how her love could meet thine early doom,
And scorn not the remonstrance of a friend.
HYMN.
The silken nerve's mysterious play,
Turn not from me, O, ever kind,
Thy life dispensing glance away!
Hope's trembling buds the cold blast sears,
And Fancy all in sable clad
Kneeling bedews them with her tears.
And change it to a soothing sigh,
Come like the warm and silent shower,
Soft trickling from an April sky.
That sweeps the mountain's rocky side;
Bid the faint heart its wo-throb cease,
And swell with energetic pride.
When fierce misfortune's storms are high,
And bid the trembler brave the storm
With brow composed and fearless eye.
Thou bid'st the charm from pleasure part,
That rest of all its promised zest
Falls tasteless on the languid heart.
Deign'st to support, 'tis sweet to bear!
And all that's glowing, soft, serene,
Is joyless if thou art not there.
MONODY on --- --- lately killed in a duel.
Still in the dark earth rested!
Ere all in youth's too ardent glow,
The deadly blow was breasted.
As perfect tower'd that matchless head
As some fond sculptress formed it,
And heaven disdaining not to aid
With heaven's own life-fires warmed it.
When maddened honour tost it,
And Reason, fainting in the storm,
Strove vainly to accost it!
So lovely was thy latest sleep,
The eye that never knew thee,
Turned from the beauteous sight to weep,
On lingering stayed to view thee.
In yester's moon-beam veering,
Those dark, bright, azure lights were closed,
Whence looked the soul unfearing.
But on that lip a smile remained
As if, in heaven expected,
Some angel guide heaven's joys explained,
And thou his look reflected.
Deep in the grave they laid thee;
With drooping plumes thy comrades met
And the last tribute paid thee:
And thought upon the evening past,
Thine accents bland recalling,
Mid the low wailings of the blast
And rain-drop fastly falling.
(And strove the sigh to smother.)
To meet her blooming brother.
In fancy while the cold clod fell,
Beheld his future glory—
Her dream must pass—but softly tell,
Sad bearer of the story,
It seems a dear illusion:
Nor fault, nor stain, nor blot is there
Save one—at its conclusion.
To friendship's bosom be it prest
Let weeping Love embrace it!
One fatal blot, brave youth, but rest
The tear and kiss efface it.
TO --- ---
And my heart caught and treasured thine—
Ev'n then, I could not, dared not look
For faith but half so true as mine.
Which the first breath might waft away,
Yet would I not the charm resist,
But fondly knelt and wooed its stay.
Because tomorrow morn she falls?
Or fair Affection's portals close,
Though all may soon forsake her halls?
Draw many a sweet from memory's store;
But sighs from bosoms ever lone
Like a cold cavern's vapours pour.
Wouldst tempt but half I'd freely dare,
Did pain or peril threaten thee,
To snatch and shield thee from despair.
My soul can clasp thine image yet—
Oh! one with mine as closely twined,
I may not meet—I never met.
The truths that chill experience shows,
While o'er the heart the trickling gush
Of balmy rapture softly flows.
The blue wave wears when day-songs ring,
But oh! Reflection, lay thee down,
Nor tear one moment's tender wing.
ADOLPHUS.
Though wicked tongues surround him
Well can this faithful bosom tell
What it has ever found him.
To greatness' faults a stranger,
He scorned to wrong a lowly maid
With no one to avenge her.
With Fame's loud trumpet calling,
He turned him from a royal dunce
To help a beggar falling.
And envious ears receive it,
But though from half the world it came,
I never would believe it.
I fear his grief will break it,
Let me, Adolphus, bear a part,—
'Twould bless me to partake it.
And myriads sighed to please me,
Still, still, exulting in my vow
I'd quit them all to ease thee.
The changeful winds have blighted,
I'll cheer me through thy coming night
With hopes to see thee righted.
Their heaven-fixt roots should sever,
I'll love thee for thy fall more dear,—
And leave thee, never, never.
STANZAS.
That smiles amid the morning dew,
Go leave me lonely in my bower,
Almora still will live for you.
That flutters o'er yon gay parterre,
The changeless amarantha, I
Will wait for thy returning there.
And only blame my powerless charms
And wish I were the blossom bright
That lures thee from my tender arms.
Yield to a friendly thought—Oh! yes,
Sometimes return to me, and tell
How perfect is thy happiness.
Come tell me how thou wert carest;
Return—thou shalt not see me weep—
All fragrant from the rose's breast.
Not one unkind reproach shall blend,
Or jealous sigh, I'll claim no more—
Too happy still, to be thy friend.
And all its madd'ning joys are flown,
And, past its genial warmth, the blast
Around thy wings begins to moan.
Thou'lt see me pensive but unchanged,
And learn to love my lasting bloom
And wish that thou hadst never ranged.
Song of an Indian Mother.
Fast falling tears thy bosom steep,
Yet why, my first-born, should I weep
That thou art gone?
The little bird when fledged and grown,
Far from its fostering parent flown,
Must seek a sustenance alone,
And many a thorn,
Are in the shady forest placed,
And lovely fruits upon the waste
Fell poisons hide.
Why do the drops that dew thee, flow?
At least, thou never now canst know,
Of treacherous man the wiles and wo
And wounded pride.
Ere yet the ripening beams of day
Called forth their perfumes, pass away
Like thee my son.
Ah, happy in a doom like this!
While yet thou knewest but the bliss
Of a fond mother's smile and kiss,
Forever gone.
TO Dr. --- ---,
And lap it in Elysium.
Milton.
For science' sake thou dared'st to brave,
Well might he love to call thee child,
Who dewed with tears poor Lewis' grave.
And blackly waved the forest trees,
And every warbler in his nest
Shrank from the midnight's mournful breeze.
The music of his favorite throng,
Oh! W---! the power was thine
To soothe him with a sweeter song.
Was swelling every downy breast,
Didst thou not catch the varied lay,
And steal of every tone the best?
Some pebbly brook's melodious roll?
Thy soul-born cadence meets the soul.
Where love's sweet-breathing blossoms glow—
The dew that from some brimming flower,
Drops in the fountain-vase below.
Such strains as float upon thy breath,
Each jealous hand had dropt unstrung,
And feared to close his lips in death.
The dew upon that minstrel's grave,
To every tenant of its shade,
Such more than earthly warblings gave.
But when thy spirit seeks her home,
Let o'er the dust which still remains,
Thy native rose and laurel bloom.
In search of philosophick lore,
The music of his groves shall boast,
And scorn our brighter plumes, no more.
Alexander Wilson, who was accompanied by the gentleman here addressed, in one or more of his ornithological excursions.
The unfortunate Capt Lewis, explorer of the Missouri, who died by his own hand at a hut not far from Nashville. Wilson visited his humble grave, and left money to have it fenced from the wild beasts.
'Tis said that the birds of the New World, though more brilliant in plumage, are inferior to those of the other continent in song.
On hearing the praises of Charlotte, the fair departed daughter of Philenia.
Beneath the forest's whispering shade,
Where brambles twine and mosses creep,
The lovely Charlotte's grave is made.
Shall gleam in beauty through the gloom,
The turf that hides her golden hair
With sweetest desert-flowers shall bloom.
Upon the hallowed scene shall fling,
The mocking-bird shall sit all night
Among the dewy leaves and sing.
Salute a soul more free from stain,
More true—and years shall pass away
Ere it may warm the like again!
Nor smile, nor speech, like those of earth,
Sweet blighted one, and well I deem
Thine was no mortal's usual birth—
A form like thee was born of thought
And Nature thence her model caught.
Who see that dark-eyed mother now,
And view despite of grief and care
The charm upon her lip and brow.
Wrapt in a spell her children true,
And the sweet tears her daughters weep
Embalm the beauties they bedew!
Shall trickle to thy memory long!
And should thy gentle spirit hear
It may not scorn a stranger's song.
Written after passing an evening with E. W. R. A*******, Esq. who has the finest person I ever saw.
Or some gay creature of the element
That in the colours of the rain-bow lives,
And plays i' th' plighted clouds.
Milton.
Who that has seen the breathing stone,
Or loved the Rhodian art,
With pleasure-quickened heart,
Or who that ever felt that fire
Which prompts the minstrel's lays
Can sink to rest, nor strike the lyre
One moment to thy praise?—
Thus ere his guilt, sweet Paris strayed
Through wondering grots and groves,
Ere yet his fair Idalian maid
Weeps him untrue—but loves.
Thus from the bath young Phaon came,
With that divine infusion
All glowing, to the Lesbian dame,
Like a bright dream's illusion.
Like thine around his yellow hair
The fond light loved to play,
Like thine his lip allured the air
More fresh when breathed away.
Like thee he towered, his blue eye beamed
Like thine; a matchless grace
So o'er his form soft floating, seemed
To veil its powerfulness.
And yet not so—had Phaon shone
So fair, Apollo's pride
Had never such a rival borne
And Sapho had not died.
SONG.
I saw the furtive glances steal
From her blue, timid, drooping eye,
And felt the soft appeal.
I thought, when absent, of her charms;
By every soft endeavour,
I flew to win her to my arms,
But—she was gone forever.
In throbs beneath her modest zone
And snowy undulating vest,
Where Love had fixt his throne.
I hastened from that gentle heart
Each lurking pain to sever,
By every fond persuasive art—
'Twas cold and still forever.
Nor half thy threatening danger knew,
And all too late was my return
To bring the needful dew.
But oh! about my aching brow
I feel the darting fever,
Bride of my soul, I hasten now
To meet thee—and forever.
THE BUTTERFLY.
The moon in pensive smiles arrayed,
Beheld her beams that bright from heaven
On the faint heaving ocean played.
Fair Boston's heights with gentle ray,
Soft o'er the grassy islets resting,
That gem the bosom of her bay.
Each mazy shroud and towering mast
From her dark breast sweet music flowing
A gallant bark her shadow cast.
His eye was raised, a bright tear fell,
Light o'er his harp his hand was flitting
His lip apart.—Twas Adriel.
Warm with the kisses late imprest,
And lip, and soul, and heart were sighing
The song its writer loved the best.
A restless butterfly was borne,
Languid he roamed, he cared not whither,
Now his loved roses all were gone.
Such soul entrancing numbers float.—
'Twas Hope and Memory embracing,
That lent a spell to every note.
With a wild sweetness all her own,
While wispered Hope, “the absent treasure
For her true minstrel sighs alone.”
Its thoughtless course the insect took,
Now fluttered in his ringlets gleaming,
Now panted on his music-book.
Some pitying one to warn him! but,
While nothing but his bliss he heeded,
The cadence died, the book was shut.
Mocking the toils of India's loom
Availed not: Pleasure's soft dominion
He fondly sought, and met his doom.
SONG.
The jonquille bud is seen;
Soft beams among the dew drops play,
The infant leaves are green.
The violet opes her azure eye,
The willow waves her locks,
The honeyed columbine on high
Hangs blushing from the rocks.
Seems fairer, lovelier, still—
When will thy distant form appear
Beneath the blue crowned hill?
Oh, dearer than the vital air
That keeps my soul with me,
Can all the fath and love I bear
Be dull and lost to thee?—
My country's sons are cold,
That, here, young Love lays down his bow
To barb his darts with gold,—
But, Errol, no!—thy cheek, thine eye,
Thy lip disdaining art,
Thy changeful brow—thy bursting sigh,
Each, all, declare a heart.
Has spread her spell of charms
Soft o'er the varying pulses there,
And lures thee to her arms.
Yet, couldst thou doom these eyes to tears
That draw their light from thee,
Ye winds, receive my doubts and fears!
He comes, he comes to me!
SONNET.
And has my Errol then forgotHis Orra dear who loves to moan
From all apart—her every thought
Still fixt on him and him alone?
The violet o'er my mossy couch
Bares her blue bosom to the light,
The blossomed trees, at every touch,
Shower o'er my head their petals white.
But ah! I braid my auburn hair
And shade my zone with flowers in vain,
My heart will utter what is there
And tears unbidden speak its pain,
Flow on, my tears, ache still, my brow,
Ye fall and throb unheeded now.
MORNING HYMN.
Herald forth the star of day,
Lucid night tears trembling, gleaming,
Drop from every tender spray,
Buds unfurling,
Tendrils curling,
Murmuring meet the love-fraught breeze,
Music thrilling,
Brooklets trilling,
Mingle midst the blossomed trees.
Charms us from the couch of rest,
But a fairer day is dawning
O'er the desert of my breast.
Soft assurance
Of endurance
Friendship to my soul has given,
Hope streams flowing,
Joy beams glowing,
Soothe her with the calm of heaven.
Pouring forth my raptures tide;
When there's nought to seek beside.
Still improve me,
Let me love thee
Dearer when thy bounties flow,
And when strictest
Thou afflictest
Uncomplaining meet the blow.
On visiting, after an interval of nine years, the beautiful beach which skirts the village of Chelsea.
So faint the billows beat the sandy shore,
Was now a solemn murmur wild and deep,
Low mingling with the winds that o'er its surface sweep.
A cool and cloudless sky, of lightest hue,
Dyed the deep bosomed ocean with its blue.
The azure sands, moulded by recent storm,
Of curling billows yet retained the form,
And sparkling in the setting sun-beams wide
Seemed like a mass of waters petrified.
Save where the sea-bird silent sought her food
And snowy shells the fair expanse bestrewed,
Sands, waves, and sky, which only bound the view
Shone one wide waste sublime of beauteous blue.
And the wild scene, with fearful pleasure eyed;
The pupil spread, the open lip, confest
The feelings new that swelled his infant breast,
“Look! mother, look! 'tis deeper than the sky!”
Th' expanding soul spoke in that eager cry.
'Twas thus I gazed ere childhood yet had past,
When o'er the noble walk I wandered last.
Wandered, L*******, ever loved, with thee,
I thought, and memory gave thee back to me,
Thou cam'st embodied from her deep recess
In all thy melancholy loveliness.
In loveliness—why didst thou die unknown—
Whose native loveliness had graced a throne?
In loveliness conspicuous while thy breath
Struggled to leave thee—lovely ev'n in death.
Oh! how I looked upon that dark blue eye
Which still retained its speaking energy!
Thy parted hair was damp with chilly dew
And every moan thou utteredst fainter grew.
One beauteous hand upon that gentle breast,
Purpled by death, the folded covering prest,
Till softly clasping both, thou raisedst thy head,
It fell—the spirit had forever fled.
That saw thee blighted in thy blooming years!
A day that oped eternity to thee,
A day that gave me evermore to prove
If I with gratitude repaid thy love.—
Yes, thou didst love me! in my infancy;
How often have I sat upon thy knee;
And while with gentle hand thou smooth'dst my hair,
Caught from thy lips the sweetly warbled air.
And when perchance, for childish foible chid,
Upon thy lap my tearful face I hid,
Thy tender arms the sad offender prest,
And let me sob upon thy virgin breast.
And oft companion of thy morning's walk,
I saw thee rob the rose's mossy stalk,
And proudly pluckt, and in thy basket threw,
When drooped the branch or low the blossoms grew:
And thou wouldst oft pursue the murmuring bee,
And rifle all her burthening sweets for me.
And still in years of riper childhood kind,
Thou prais'dst the feeble efforts of my mind;
And strove whene'er I read to give the tone,
And modulate my accents to thine own.
What taught thy lovely lips to breath, so well,
So plaintively the tender moving tale?—
The tear that when thou mused'st would sometimes start
Betrayed, a sadness lurking at the heart.
But all was silenced by thy funeral knell—
Never to be forgot,—farewell—farewell.
STANZAS.
By one so deeply dear to me?
Memory would answer, no!
Did not this chilling silence prove
How cruelly has changed the love
Which I have valued so?
But through my wintry bosom gleam
To make it darker still?
Just bidding from its icy bed,
The dormant floweret rear its head
Its tender leaves to kill.
Of many a melancholy dream,
Impulsively I frame—
But were the truth that thou art cold
By unperverted reason told,
If sad conviction came—
The heart when yet 'tis thine to dwell—
That hour—thou shouldst forsake!
All interwoven as thou art,
I'd tear thee from that throbbing heart,
Which bleeds too oft to break.
STANZAS.
Tells me I am sad and lorn,
And intrusive recollection
Will but utter, “thou art gone.”
Now my parting tears are wept;
Thousand thoughts I fain had told thee
Wake, and wonder why they slept.
At thy unexpected sight,
Could not, with a thought of parting,
Bear to cloud its new-born light.
Ev'n this moment place thee here,
'Twould but sigh forth, still forgetting,
“I am blest and thou art dear.”
TO --- ---.
Seek thou the beauteous maid whose raven hair,Like wreath of jet curls o'er her forehead fair;
Renders obscure the rivalled pupil's play;
Whose rich, ripe, ruby lips, of deepest glow,
With frequent smile their polished treasures show,
In contrast sweet of crimson and of snow;
Whose Parian neck supports her faultless face
Like roses blushing o'er a marble vase.
And if, perchance, upon her bosom fair,
A wild tress wanton, through neglect or care,
Contrast in fullest power to give delight
Behold, while deepest black and purest white
In soft alliance, all their charms unite.
Gaze thou in extacy! but be it mine
To look upon the dark blue eye benign,
That heavenward raised, in liquid brilliance pure,
Seems of itself a heaven in minature!
Soft sunny locks, that twinkle o'er the brow,
While azure veins just tinge the temple's snow.
The fresh and rosy mouth, with ready smile
That seeks the sense of sorrow to beguile,
Though the sad bosom swells with smothered fears,
And the soft lid can scarce contain its tears.
While a deep plaintive voice, in tenderest tone
Thrills on the ear like winds that murmuring moan;
Oh! soul, that hath its origin on high
Best warms the temple deckt with heavenly dye!
TO --- ---.
To banish thought in mirth's light dream,
My heart is sad at core:
The little space from sorrow free
Is quickly filled, and gaity
Runs wildly trickling o'er.
All floating in that balmy flow
So soft and warm it beats;
A word—a look—with deeper pain
Piercing it through and through again,
But faint resistance meets.
I know that joy becomes me ill,
Yet, if 'tis meet thou shouldst reprove,
Oh! do it with a look of love.
TO Mrs. --- ---, my beloved and venerated friend.
Time, a very cold night.
(Can there a nobler union be?) allied,
In vain to weave a tributary lay.
When sad imagination will not soar,
The learn'd can gild their strains with classick lore,
But thy uncultured friend to find a theme,
Must wildly banquet in some waking dream:
And when the painted vision will not glow,
Has only left to number out her woe.
But Memory sketched thy last endearing smile,
Some dreaded hour of anguish to beguile,
And now her true and pitying hands unroll
The lovely picture to my sinking soul;
And, like the sunbeams in a misty day,
Brighten the clouds they cannot chase away.
Ah! why wilt thou so dull and cold remain,
I'll tune thee o'er with more attentive care—
Come, rest against my heart and warm thee there.
I would expose thee to the air's soft sigh,
Did summer spread a mild and mellow sky.
These aching eyes, through seas of humid light,
Could gaze refreshed upon its azure height,
And bid these restless pains, and thee, good night.—
'Tis yet perverse, but as the traveller, worn,
Presses, for lack of softer couch, a stone;
Lady, I hang, apart from solace dear,
O'er this reluctant, for the hour is drear.
And piercing winds at every crevice scream;
And, like the prisoner bird of useless wing,
'Tis only mine to shiver and to sing,
Swell to some absent one, beloved the throat,
And listen to the echo of the note.
But what is cold, or heat, or calm, or storm?—
Could there be granted me one bosom warm,
Heedless of all beside, this raptured ear
Would but that friendly bosom's beatings hear;
Count every tender throb, and almost know
The thoughts that rapid as its currents flow—
Kind heaven permitted, once, that pleasure high.
Rise, gratitude, and hush th' impatient sigh!
STANZAS.
Though many a bramble cross my way,
If, but a violet, blossoms by,
Its fragrance shall my pains repay.
Has frowned from morning's earliest beam,
Yet sometimes, bursting from its shroud,
Their smiles, though faint, a lovely gleam.
At slightest, gentlest, breath, my heart!
Ah! happy if thou yet canst feel,
Although forever doomed to smart.
TRUE POLITENESS.
That every mind alike is white,
In early infancy,
As block without a spot or stain
From alabaster quarry ta'en,
And wrought as easily:
Easy as making bricks of clay,
Model the shapeless treasure,
And make it Heaven's fair image man,
Or reptile vile as ever ran—
(Twere better, crept) at pleasure.
As well to make a panther's eye
Emit a dove-like ray
As form the heart: or bid the hair
Of dames Caffrarian, on the air
In long light tresses play,
At open window as I stood,
Through my soul's chambers flitting,
I watched an urchin group that played,
A little distant in the shade,
In merry circle sitting.
Adjusted to a thinking train,
So thought not which was best;
But said, may those, who know the way,
Fill every dark abode with day!
And let the subject rest.
To climb the grassy slope essayed,
But soon as she had won
About a quarter of the height,
Became afraid and holding tight,
Sat crying in the sun.
A ball or kite that they were making,
But did they help her thence?
Truly for that they'd no intent,
But laughed and leapt for merriment
Produced at her expense.
To lend her aid, she might cried
Till all her tears were wasted:
But a sweet boy came singing by
With ruddy cheek and smiling eye,
And to her succour hasted.
There is no danger here at all,”
He said in soothing tone;
The while his sun-burnt arm he placed
Around the little trembler's waist,
“Why did you come alone?”
Continued thus his artless talk,
“Have you not got a brother?
No matter, dry your tears, I'll stay
And go home with you all the way,
If he will tell your mother.”
Uncombed and crisp, his plenteous hair,
Adorned his hatless head:
And 'tis not like a single word,
In all his life he ever heard
About such matters said.
Reader, behold a simple fact,
I would but cannot pause,
Upon conclusions to reflect;
Too much enamoured of th' effect
To think about the cause.
STANZAS.
As rock that guards some barren isle,
And ever bears an aspect bold,
Unmoved though heaven frown or smile.
That rages 'gainst its beaten breast,
And the soft sea-bird in its cave
By parent bosom gently prest.
With the wild ocean-spray would be,
When wandering day-beams lend it light,
A meeter simile for me.
It sparkles back a kindred ray—
And all its lustre dashed away.
Thine influence, sweet tranquillity,
But to endure whole months of woe
For every throb of ecstacy.
Feel undismayed thy cold embrace,
In thy dark bed resign my breath,
For such the only resting place.
BALLAD.
The grass-field seemed a sea,
The squirrel gray no more at play
Sought the low hazel tree.
And black ran the river below,
“Now, dearest maid,” her true love said,
“Fear'st thou with me to go?”
But the winds are growing loud,
Through many a clustering cloud,’
His sounding axe I hear,
Thy mantle is warm, if approaches the storm
His log-built cottage is near.
And see the mad waters below,
In foamy flake as they seek the lake
As white as drifting snow.
That loves the moanful lay,
An hour like this has more of bliss
Than renovating day.”
The storm that bends the tree,
When safely prest to faithful breast
That beats for only me.’
When midnight stars are bright,
And a brighter rose on her soft cheek glows
As they reach the rocky height.
Her graceful hand she drew,
Fell from her bonnet blue.
Her foot the grass among
A ground-bird's nest unwary prest,
And aside she startled sprung.
That seemed so firm and fair!
Its stay of stone stern time had torn
And death was lurking there.
Entwined in mazy wreath,
Suspended hold the mingling mould
But a fragment has faln beneath.
That fell not with the stone!
Oh! Henry brave thou couldst not save
She's gone, forever gone!
Who snatched thee from thy doom,
Ah! better far couldst thou with her
Thou lovedst have shared the tomb!
Mid the wild rocks echoing dread
And reason frighted fled.
To the brink of that fatal height,
The winds were hushed and the torrent gushed
In the beams of morning bright.
The bramble vine and thorn,
A ringlet fair of light brown hair
Shone sweetly in the sun.
Remained not long of thee;
But should the wild and playful child
But climb the neighbouring tree,
Plucked from the flutterer's breast,
Full many a thread that deckt thy head
By tender nestling prest.
ELEGY.
Written after leaving the chamber where the once lovely subject lay faded and almost dying.
Ere yet a tear had dimmed thine azure eye,
As thought portrays a minstrel of the sky,
Thy soul-refreshing form moved softly bright,
As some fair, fleecy cloud, borne by noon's breathings light.
That brow unpencilled by a touch of care,
I saw thee pass the morning of thy charms,
Like sunny fruit, that ripening looks more fair.
The eye grew brighter which that form carest,
Like summer fields in swelling verdure drest.
But—oh! a blight more cruel never fell!
Scarcely the gaze recoiling vision bore,
While thought bechilled pronounced a last farewell,
Thou pearl of purest beam, and shrank to see
Fell Death's corrosive breath consuming thee.
Half opening, fraught with redolence the air;
Faint is that smile, which once so sweetly sought
The rounded cheek, to hide in dimples there.
So o'er some ruined temple, sadly stray
The last, few, lingering gleams of brighter day.
And Friendship, hovering o'er thy cold, cold bed,
The only vestige left of all that's fled.
But dove, relentless stricken in thy nest,
Still will thine image flutter in my breast.
Still, constant memory, thy hues will trace
Serenely glowing in their dawning day;
And dwell, though parted, still upon that face,
Which lured the youth immersed, from Pleasure's sea,
And bade him kneel to virtue, love, and thee.
TO ---
When I soothed my soul's excess,
In a moment-dream indulging,
Coldly call it “thoughtlessness.”
The consuming pains I bore,
When Hope's sweet stream frozen over
Met my panting lip no more,
And thy praise no pleasure gave—
Rude and chilly I believed thee,
As the bark-o'erwhelming wave.
Or heaven-sent to my relief,
Thou this o'ercharged heart detected,
In its wildest burst of grief.
Bitter from my bosom's mine,
And the rending sobs that forced them,
Tore a passage, ev'n to shine.
Then the gem so long concealed,
Glittered through its incrustation,
All its preciousness revealed.
Genuine pity's generous sigh,
While the just-born seraph trembled
In the darkness of thine eye.
Left undrawn by either's care,
Loose and careless hung around us,
As the winds had blown them there.
Quick the just-wove chain she flings,—
And my heart, its next throb, finds them
Tangled with its tenderest strings.
I will thank thee for thy care,
Oh! the heart that's learned to love thee
Still can bleed, and still can bear.
Written in the pocket-book of Mrs. --- the evening before her departure.
Rest upon thee all the way—
I restrain me from expressing
All my heart would bid me say.
And the forest's moaning tree,
And the mountain's craggy steepness,
Separate thee far from me.
Lady—but I will not tell—
Frowning Fate, to none severer,
Disapproves it—fare thee well!
Many a slow-winged hour to bless.
Still a stranger's heart shall treasure
Thy peculiar loveliness.
As in mockery of her power,
Bright amid the few pale roses
Strown o'er pensive Memory's bower.
To Mrs. ---, my beloved and venerated friend.
Spring advances soft and fair,
Coronet of opening roses,
Blushing in her sunny hair.
Sweets to every blossom bring,
Zephyr hovers o'er, and sighing,
Soothes her with his purple wing,
Heedless of the hopeful year,
Wastes its fervour in repeating
All that's distant, all that's dear.
Loving what it may not share,
Every vernal breath returning,
New regret awakens there.
Which thine image should efface—
Lady, Oh! in thought caressing,
Meet once more my sad embrace.
STANZAS.
With joy as oft as care,—
No! Heaven knows I envy not
Because I must not share.—
Delights it never knew,
'Twill only pant and sadly say
“Would I were happy too.”
I fain would all forget,
Unless it be indulged too long,
There's pleasure in regret.—
But oh! begin thy strain,
Be it half earthly, half divine,
Uniting joy and pain.
The soul, the heavenly part,
Delights to mingle with the streams
That swell the earthly heart.
A star-light sky and deep,
And thinks of her whose tears suffuse
The eyes that ache to sleep.
That words may not express,
Like leafy branches murmuring low,
When the dark winds caress.
Prepare thy flower-like breath—
As the last note of mournful thrill,
Just struggled ere its death.
Ah! make it still more dear,
And let me hold thy hand the while
And feel the same I hear.
From the French of C. A. Demoustier.
No sooner was Venus delivered of Cupid, than Jupiter reading in his sweet and perfidious countenance the mischief that he would one day cause, proscribed him in his cradle. Venus, to conceal him from the wrath of Jupiter, took her son in her arms, and feeble yet, sought with her tender burthen the forests of the Isle of Cyprus. There she forgot the brilliant pleasures of the celestial court, and gave herself up to the delights of maternal love.
Through all the day 'twas her's to proveThat soft but anxious transport blending,
And still with thousand fears contending,
Known but to those who dearly love.
Upon her lap the urchin played
Smiling sweetly when carest:
His lip her ivory bosom prest
And every care was overpaid.
Reposed he, “winds be hushed!” said she,
“Young roses, now your fragrance shed!
Breath, Zephyr, breath around his head!
The poppy wreaths designed for me.
O'er him, (ah! far more dear!) dispense,
Sweet slumber—how he smiles! to wake,
Were sweet, forever, for his sake—
How fair is sleeping innocence!
And can that fragile hope be he
Whose laws must govern all the earth?
Whose power, the moment of his birth,
Was doomed to combat Fate's decree?—
Heroes and kings must wear his chains,
And every mortal prove his pains—
Even the gods—and he is mine!—
But why thus alter? Suffers he?
Ah! what can hurt him? He will cry
No—his eyes open, with a sigh
He wakes, he wakes to smile on me.”
TO ---
I hoped the tale might not be true—
Believe me, stranger, as thou art,
Reluctantly I say adieu:
Yet surely have no reason why
Thy destiny should cost a sigh.
I know thy speaking eyes are blue,
But there are many curls as light,
And many eyes as brilliant too—
Though truly there is seldom seen
A more engaging face and mien.
But when the rapid, flowing thought
Falls from thy lip in playfulness,
With spoils of classic blossoms fraught,
How much of soul is in the glow.
That dyes so oft that brow of snow.
Of youth and bashfulness extreme,
So often in th' uncultured face,
As such as see thee once, may deem—
No, thou hast grasped the hand of time,
And breathed the air of many a clime.
Of many a maid thou'st heard the sigh,
The tender fair, the light brunette,
Alike have felt thine azure eye.
The Turkish dame has seen that face—
And coldly met her lord's embrace.
To pleasure's throb, or sorrow's smart,
Bids the pure flood of darting flow
Rush in warm currents from thy heart.
Come, manhood, age, like mine-warmed rill,
Mid rocks and snows, 'twill never chill.
Those fields with flowers and clusters fair
Bloom but to bless a despot's eyes,
And war and crime are lurking there.
One tyrant hurls another down,
Because—himself would wear the crown.
Now cruel Winter's loosed her zone,
Stay—we have climes where Nature's sigh
Is soft and healthful as thine own—
Where our young Eagle spreads her wing,
And cities from the desert spring.
The subject of the following is poor, and condemned to toil for her support; but Nature certainly meant otherwise: seldom, in any station, are seen such beauty and feeling.
And I the cause of all that woe?—
Poor Mary, how o'er either cheek
The gushing rivulet did flow!
By word, or deed, or look of mine,
For worlds, I had not caused to smart
That unoffending heart of thine.
Its duties rough, for such as thou—
And soon the glimmering beams must fade,
That sometimes come to cheer thee now.
Scatter for thee few blossoms may;
And heaven forsake whoe'er would tear
With ruthless hand one leaf away.
Would hold o'er thee a full control—
The darting blush—the nerves that move
That quivering lip, declare the whole.
Should some fell sinner ply his art,
While yet a recent wound is there,
Where, Mary, where might stray thy heart?—
But oh! would he in heaven despise?
A lowly maiden gave him birth,
A trembling bosom hushed his cries—
Who'rt doomed to cross in cobweb vest,
No! he will be thy timely shield,
Or take thee bleeding to his breast.
THE SQUIRREL.
A varied wreath on either side,
As o'er the lovely Richelieu,
The wild woods only saw us glide.
In sighs along its surface fair,
Or languid rising gently played
In the young boatman's auburn hair.
With silvery clouds of softest sheen,
As he had feared his glowing gaze
Too ardent for the tranquil scene.
To breathe a thought of future care,
And sleepy Memory whispered not,
Or faintly dwelt on theme most fair.
Save the low murmur of the shore,
It seemed as one from airy throng,
Had dropt a plume in flying o'er.
But while he strove to reach the prize—
It lived, it moved, it leapt, and lo!
Sparkled a pair of jetty eyes.
Upon the boat, to rest awhile,
Though fear his panting bosom wrings,
For he was wet, and worn with toil.
Curious we asked, “how came he here?”
“Why tempt the dangerous stream, unused
To toil so painfully severe?
Of sportsman, as he sought his prey;
Perhaps beside him on the ground,
Bedewed with blood his brother lay.
Canst thou a pleasure but obtain,
To think upon inflicted pain!”
He shook his furry dress of gray,
And quick as glance from anxious eyes,
He lightly leapt and swam away.
Written on the margin of the little river St. Charles.
Elastic from its sorrows' pressure?
Glows there a lip that cannot sing
On such a day a song of pleasure.
Sweet as the breath of those we love,
The tender air upon my cheek
Seems shaken from the wing of dove!
St. Charles, each little wave of thine!
That glows and trembles in its bliss,
Like bride that seeks yon holy shrine.
Thy spires amid the tender dye
Of mounts that rise on every side
Beam like the light of Love's blue eye!
Built on a rock as bleak and bare,
While warm as those beneath her breast,
Dearest affections flourish there.
Like infant on caressing mother,
Oh! keep me in thy beauteous arms
And every sigh of sorrow smother.
The most striking objects in a view of Quebec, from this spot, are three tall spires covered with tin, which, from the salubrity of the air, always retains its brightness; it has a fine effect when the sun shines, contrasted with the soft violet colour of the distant mountains.
“'TIS MIDNIGHT.”
Yet, if 'tis pain forbids,
'Tis pain so woven with delight,
I well could wait till morning bright,
With light unwearied lids.
So deathly still and drear,
Of yon black wood, wild Fancy's power
Would call the spectre here.
“On such a night as this”
And thought when morning swept away
The trembling dews, advancing gay,
To see her smile were bliss.
That pleasure found in fear,
Throbbed o'er old tale of magic art,
And almost saw “the infant's heart”
In bubbling caldron near.
The painless, joyless hour,
If't could excite I loved the book,
And while my frame with terror shook,
Could bless it, forceful power.
Is filled, dear thought, by thee,
Ah! should I—must I bid farewell!
To thee? Too blissfull, far, to dwell
With one so sad as me—
Thou'rt innocent as dear!
And wild and hopeless as thou art,
While thou canst hide thee in my heart,
Its waste will seem less drear
ROSETTE.
Frowning upon the scene around it,
While low and distant music flows
From the gray City's height that crowned it.
Or hold her healthful breath to hear
The mingling echos wild and deep
Of Montmorency murmuring drear.
In Orleans' dark shrubs sweetly weaving
While all around the little isle
St. Lawrence' bosom ceased its heaving.
In smooth and silent grandeur by,
To rival heaven that lends his dye.
And looks, and seems again retreating?—
'Tis young Rosette, she comes alone
And holds her heart to still its beating.
Should any of these wanderings know—
I'll see the moon's reflection clear
Marred by the rising breeze—and go—
Her kerchief o'er her neck she drew,
But, dimpling o'er the liquid plain
Advances swift, a light canoe.
And flight would now avail her naught;
If Frederick—the eve's so light,
He has ere now a glimmer caught.
Where reason only bids us move—
Sweet the excuse that bids us stay
For the approach of those we love!
Of sea-bird that has heard his mate!
He gains the rock with joy elate!
Impetuous to his panting heart;
The other flung the curls, that shade
His forehead wet with toil, apart.
And fans her cheek grown rosier bright—
The lustre of his ardent eye
Blends sweetly with the beams of night.
“Wilt thou be wafted quickly o'er,
And shall to-morrow's sun, dear maid,
Salute thee mine forevermore?”
To tear the artless maid away,
But thousand new emotions prove
Too wild and powerful to obey.
Will furrow that smooth brow of thine!
And art thou then, poor trembler, lost—
Must guilt profane so fair a shrine?
Each secret thought ascended free,
But loved thee for its purity.
A little pendant cross of jet
That moment caught her tender glance,
And those fair eyes with tears were wet.
A mother—none could dearer be—
And memory, to the summons swift,
Murmured, “wear this for love of me.”
But when its treachery thou fearest,
Oh! look upon this jewel oft,
And think of her who loved thee dearest.
My orphan daughter, but for thee—
Yet heaven, if thou must ne'er come there,
Will seem a scene of care to me.”
When strangers o'er the river go,
In winter, where the ice is riven
In chasms 'neath the moonlight snow.
[SONG. The sad sable robe evermore shall adorn me]
My locks long and wild in the dark winds shall wave.
I saw him, he parted, he looked not upon me,
And cold was his hand as the dew on the grave.
And sapped the warm glow of that cheek, but my pride?
Like the hopes they expressed, sweetly fair and half blooming,
The last flowers he plucked on this cruel breast died.
Shall drop their soft tears on this earth-pillowed head.
The damp breeze of midnight shall seek me unfearing,
The moaning branch whisper “he loved thee—he's dead.”
[SONG. I wish that all my heart has told]
Had not the power to move thee,
For could I find that thine was cold
I should no longer love thee.
Thy lip will not repeat it,
The darting blush and drooping eye
Betray that thine would meet it.
It is not hope detains me,
The thought, thou wouldst but mayst not hear,
Still soothes, and still restrains me.
Dispel thy soft brow's sorrow,
And we may both forget awhile,
And gleams of solace borrow.
Oh! nevermore confessing,
I'll only listen when you speak,
Nor ask another blessing.
[SONG. I have no need to ask thee why]
Thine eye on me thou fixest so:
Thou meanst that unresisted sigh
Should utter more than I may know.
Which falling from thy lips appear,
As yet thou never hast revealed
A single thought I should not hear.
Re-echoed ever at my heart,
And spare that heart at least the pain
Of bidding thee forever part.
[SONG. How bright those eyes of deepest blue]
How bright those eyes of deepest blue,How fair those locks of lightest hue!
But, ah! those eyes look not on me—
Why should I note their brilliancy?
That mien, how lofty with the proud!
That manly voice, how stern and loud!
Yet, when he soothed the sufferer's moan,
How plaintive breathed its tender tone!
That voice was softened ne'er to me—
Why do I love its melody?
Oh! breath not, Fancy, on the flame!
Oh! Memory! murmur not his name!
I'll bid the thought forever part,
I'll tear the image from my heart—
Oh! heart again be lone and drear,
Thou mayst not hide a form so dear.
[SONG. My own Maria! dearest maid]
Oh! listen and arise!
The midnight air that sought thy bed
Was freighted with my sighs.
The zephyr-shaken tree,
The lily strains her tender neck,
To mingle breaths with thee.
The warbler quits her nest,
And gloomy night-mists only stay
In my hope-sickened breast
That trickling cold remain,
Look on my cheek without its hues,
And they'll return again.
'Tis thou hast caused, my bride—
But! bless me with thy blue-eye's light,
I'll think on naught beside.
[SONG. 'Tis in vain thy hand hath crowned me]
On my brow the chaplet dies,
And the flowers that breathe around me
Wither in my feverish sighs.
Mock in vain thy rosy wreath,
And my eyes retain their brightness,
But to light the bed of death.
All thy soothing comes too late;
And the bitter cup I've tasted
Bids me smile upon my fate.
But I've wished and wept too long;
Thou hast only come to hear me
Breathe my latest earthly song.
[SONG. When thou see'st the river brighten]
At the morning's gentle mien,
Think'st thou ne'er of what could heighten
Once the joy of such a scene?
On the smooth hill cast its shade,
Canst thou think with bosom painless
Of a lone and absent maid?
O'er the mountain's purple swell,
Does no pensive form entwining
Still about thy bosom dwell?
Cease, my heart, such hopes to treasure
Sadly, treacherously, sweet—
Never more attuned to pleasure
May thy trembling pulses beat.
Welcome to the louring storm,
When no more the wild bird soaring
Views the heavens' altered form,
When the harmless boatman frighted
Whirling in the foam you see,
From the rocky shore, benighted,
'Tis the time to think of me.
TO Mrs. --- ---.
Who from her earliest hour has known
The frowns of Destiny alone?
Who every morn,
And wastes the blossom of her years
Gloomy and lorn?
And scattered hopes, and fragile form,
Exposed to one perpetual storm,
Can ne'er requite
Thy more than friendship's tenderness—
That firm-fixt star that burns to bless
My deepening night.
Of what thy pity hath avowed,
Than if the incense of the crowd
Had met its flow;
Though Fate to deepest, worst, distress
Had dared to doom thy nobleness,
Without a glow.
When life's rude wars are most severe,
As diamonds in the dark appear
In all their worth;
But pluck off Fortune's painted wing,
How many a crawling worm we fling,
On shrinking earth.
CUPID THE RUNAWAY.
From the Greek of Moschus,
Venus' accents woo the ear!
“Gentle stranger, hast thou seen,”
Thus proclaims the beauteous queen:
“Hast thou seen my Cupid stray,
Lurking near the public way?
Bring him back, and thou shalt sip
A kiss at least from Venus' lip,
'Tis a boy of well known name,
Thou canst know him by his fame:
Fair his face, but overspread,
Cheek and brow, with rosy red,
And his eyes of azure bright
Sparkle with a fiery light.
Small and snowy are his hands,
But their tender power commands
Even Pluto's empire wide—
Acheron's polluted tide
Loses at their gentle waving
Half the terror of its raving.
At his dimpled shoulders move
Plumy pinions like a dove.
When among the flowers he's flitting,
Like a swallow swift he darts,
Perching on their beating hearts.
From his back a quiver fair,
Golden like his curly hair,
Pendent falls in purple ties,
Scattering radiance as he flies.
He the slender dart can throw,
Singing from his polished bow,
Far as heaven: nor will he spare
Even me, his mother there.
And whene'er a victim bleeds,
Laughing, glorying in his deeds,
Still with added fires to scorch,
He, a little hidden torch,
Deeming not his mischief done,
Kindles at the glowing sun.
If the urchin thou shouldst find,
Let not pity move thy mind,
Suffer not his tears to grieve thee,
They but trickle to deceive thee.
If he smile upon thee, haste,
Heed him not, but bind him fast,
Should he pout his lips to kiss,
Oh! avoid the treacherous bliss!
Turn thy head, nor dare to meet
Of his breath the poison sweet
And presenting thee his arms,
Graceful kneel, and sweetly say,
“Take my proffered gifts, I pray,”
Do not touch them, still disdain,
All are fraught with venomed pain.
Just as the twig is bent the tree's inclined.”
Great bard, thou warblest true; but minds and trees,
Though bent, retain their native properties.
Prune, sun, support,—the poplar still remains
Barren and weak, despite of all thy pains.
Bow the young walnut, even to the ground,
Still aromatick odours breathe around,
And if, perchance, its generous growth should find,
Too strong to burst, the envious withes that bind,
Still, many a strong and healthful branch will rise,
Whose ripening fruit shall glad the autumn skies.
PARTING STANZAS.
Thy peaceful heights o'erlook, Castine,
The joyful vessel heaves in sight;
To bear me hence her sunny sail
Is swelling snowy bright.
From tree to tree the robin flies,
And many a merry yellow bird
Prepares to weave the mossy nest,
While the soft joys that swell his breast
From every spray are heard.
Of spring's first leaves bedecked, Castine,
The blossomed strawberry, wet with dew,
Spreads o'er the springing grass its wreaths,
Where all around the violet breathes,
Like distant mountains blue.
The rocky islet crowned with spray,
Or (objects ever dear to me)
Thou, lady, twining o'er thy bowers,
The pliant woodbine's embryo flowers,
To bless th' impatient bee.
Of azure eye and golden curl,
Waving in long, luxuriant flow,
Thou bidd'st with fond maternal care,
The coral bracelet glow.
As memory possesses power,
The early thought confused to trace;
Young Fancy, in my bosom drew
(The sky supplied her pencil's hue)
Just such a form and face.
Nor, cool Castine, thy healthful breeze,
Nor warbling brooklet, whence I drew
The healing draught, can calm the heat,
That bids my fevered temples beat,
And wastes my heart—Adieu.
TO H. C.
The winter sunbeam never know,
With joy the pensive traveller sees
The moon's pale lustre on the snow.
Where Love's warm sun may ne'er appear,
With heavy snow-drifts clustering drear.
Is friendship mild, which you despise,
As that rich burst of rosy light,
Which charms and dazzles happier eyes.
A LETTER.
O'er St. Lawrence' moonlight bed,
Sad regret, my heart suffusing,
Bids it dwell on moments fled.
To itself, that bosom true
Tinges every object near it
With its own delightless hue.
Hush the ruder thoughts of day,
And the muse that's flitting o'er me
Bids me waft thee one poor lay.
To thy soft embrace awhile,
Linger still and still beguile.
To her warm but guiltless breast,
And o'er thy soft fields I wander
While the isle is steeped in rest.
Sparkle in the full moon's light,
And the high palmetto waving
Graceful woos the breeze of night.
Languid with excess of bliss,
Over flowers that drooping, sighing,
Give a tear for every kiss.
But the mocking-bird alone,
Every meaner model failing
Pours forth music all his own.
Matchless minstrel of the west,
Eyeing heaven's blue arch he's searching
For, of all his songs, the best.
Sweetly bursts the liquid trill,
Harks—and thinks he's dreaming still.
Still their vigils o'er thy head,
Brother dear, I see thee sleeping
Softly on thy silken bed.
When a lingering fever's flame
Through life's mazy channels darted,
Feasting on thy wasted frame.
Healthful dews about thy brow,
And thy lip's expression saying
“All things smile upon me now.”
Art thou falsely brought to view?
'Tis too dear to doubt—relieve me
From the thought, and say 'tis true.
To --- --- enclosing a lock of hair.
Which brightens at the thought, I take—
Wert asked for thy sad wearer's sake
Ev'n when it beats no more, may show
The feelings of that heart, whose streams
Gave thee the needful strength to grow.
And thou'lt reflect a lustre glad,
But, hold thee from that beam away,
Again thy tint is dull and sad.
And seldom meet a cheering glow—
Poor ringlet, freighted with the sigh,
My lip ev'n now is breathing, go.
TO --- ---.
And care not; whatsoe'er it be,
That wakes the long and frequent sigh,
Fair youth, I can but pity thee.
The chill of sorrow oft have known,
While with another it may moan.
A secret, silken, soothing tie
From each to either bosom's bower,
Is wafted by an airy sigh.
Aught but the mildest smiles of Fate—
What is it then can pain thee so,
And such untimely gloom create?
And left thy bosom lone and drear?
Or has some maid of faithless mould
Defeated hopes and wishes dear?
With scorn their perfidy repay—
If Love's bright chaplet galls thy brow,
Oh! throw the thorny flowers away.
They lighten not the soul opprest—
The sufferer vainly hears of peace,
The heart that's bleeding will not rest.
Nor will I ask—whate'er it be,
That wakes the long and frequent sigh—
Still, from my soul, I pity thee.
Souvent en egarant d'arbre en arbre ces lianes traversent les bras des rivieres, sur lesquels ils jettent des ponts et des arches de fleurs.— Chateaubriand.
STANZAS.
Not e'en a lonely star will shine,The cold rain dashes on the pine,
The horse's hoof upon the hill
But seems to say, “how still, how still,”
And all around me either sleep,
Or sit in thoughtful silence deep
Perchance they muse on days to come,
On blissful love or happy home,
Perchance sweet retrospection cast
O'er many a lovely scene that's past.
But Memory whispers not to me
Of pangless, careless infancy,
And Hope's bright eyes but faintly shine,
To light this lonely heart of mine.
But, light imagination, thou
Must be my only solace now,
Then bear me on thy quivering wing
Far, far, from earth: and let me sing
Of sweet Affection's soothing smile,
Of beauteous Virtue, born on high,
And Honour, in her majesty,
Till every soul-oppressing pain
Is lost in the extatick strain.
ERROL'S DREAM.
I bade the beauteous fair goodnight,
And tore me from her spelly sight,
I passed the wood and moonlight hill,
But all her charms pursued me still,
Still, still, in all its blooming grace
I gazed upon that angel face,
And the last, lovely look it wore
Still darted to my bosom's core.
I sought my couch, and, heat-opprest,
Soon sank my weary form to rest;
But my charmed soul at pleasure roved,
And fondly dwelt on all it loved.
Through fragrant meads and groves I strayed,
Conducted by my joyous maid!
In all her native beauty's pride,
Throw back her long and curly hair
With innocent and playful air,
And bending o'er the warbling wave
The ivory of her forehead lave.
The sweetest flowers I brought her now
To deck her bosom and her brow,
Now, of her smiles and beauty proud,
I led her through a wondering crowd,
Marked every youth's enraptured eye,
And saw each maiden check a sigh.
But, while my heart swelled high, she took
With a half sad, half sportive look,
Those blossoms, which the winds carest
So lately, withered from her breast,
And still on them and still on me
Her bright eye fixt alternately.
The glowing scenes of Fancy shift
That moment, in transition swift,
As some damp day-thought comes to blight
Hopes that have gained too proud a height.
Low lying on a lonely bed,
While one pale lamp its glimmer shed—
A form appeared, all friendless, lone,
Deserted—e'en to me unknown,
Till a faint voice in accents low,
But softly sweet its tone of woe,
Ah! with what trembling haste I knelt!
And hoping, fearing, bent to see
Who the sad sufferer might be.
On her pale face the pale beam fell;
'Twas her I lately loved so well,
Disease her glossy locks had shorn,
The roses of her cheek were gone,
And those sweet lips so fresh before
In smiling beauty oped no more.
Her voice, her eye, though lustre-reft,
Still spoke her soul—no more was left.
While doubting mine with generous pride,
She strove that soul's dear thoughts to hide,
And said, “Oh! Errol, seek a bride,
Who all the splendour of her charms
Preserves and treasures for thy arms.
I wish not to retain thee now,
And Fate has cancelled every vow.”
But that pale cheek, and streaming tear,
And trembling hand, were far more dear,
Than all the cheeks and all the eyes
That wake an Eastern monarch's sighs.
And all I witnessed, all I felt,
While by that wasted form I knelt,
But to my bleeding bosom proved
How deeply and how true it loved.
On hearing of the death of a beautiful child.
I last in the church of the village beheld,
In her long amber locks the light zephyrs were sighing
That blew from the deep-azure bay as it swelled.
I had thought as I looked on her innocent face,
That some wandering seraph from heaven had strayed
Allured by the calmness that breathed through the place.
And while I am bound in the spell of her smiles,
The wounds that most pain it relinquish their smart,
And I care not a sigh for the world or its wiles.
To gild any longer life's care-shrouded day,
And now, as my praises had fal'n like a blight,
The kiss of thy mother grows cold on thy clay.
Sad mother, and pluck every sting from thy pain,
But while thou art yet in the newness of grief
All words that would seek to dispel it are vain.
To the eye of the soul though its glories appear,
How few but would shrink from attempting its wave,
And retain what they love for the woes that are here.
And light, love, and music, and beauty she's gone,
Oh! the heart just bereft of an earth-hope like this,
Though thousands console, must be bleebing and torn.
HYMN.
For, God benignant! thou
From every ill canst shield me,
So sternly threatening now.
Black doubt and fear no more
Inflame with poisonous breathing,
My bleeding bosom's core.
My wounds their throbbing cease,
And sweetly o'er them stealing
Descends the dew of peace.
I may not hope to win—
But soft the brow reposes,
That never ached with sin.
Oh! while thy hand appears,
Let all conspire to pain me—
I'll drink with hope my tears.
Judith, Esther, and other poems | ||