 | Poems of many years (1844) |  |
TO THE MEMBERS OF
“THE CONVERSAZIONE SOCIETY,”
ESTABLISHED AND STILL CONTINUED IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE
1
THE BOOK OF YOUTH.
3
TO ---,
FIVE YEARS OLD.
Delighted soul! that in thy new abode
Dwellest contentedly and knowest not
What men can mean who faint beneath the load
Of mortal life and mourn an earthly lot;
Dwellest contentedly and knowest not
What men can mean who faint beneath the load
Of mortal life and mourn an earthly lot;
Who would believe thou wert so far from home?
Who could suppose thee exiled or astray?
This world of twilight whither thou art come
Seems just as welcome as thy native day.
Who could suppose thee exiled or astray?
This world of twilight whither thou art come
Seems just as welcome as thy native day.
That comely form, wherein thy thoughts are pent,
Hiding its rebel nature, serves thee still,
A pliable and pleasant instrument,
Harmonious to thy impulses and will.
Hiding its rebel nature, serves thee still,
A pliable and pleasant instrument,
Harmonious to thy impulses and will.
4
Thou hast not spent as yet thy little store
Of happy instincts:—Thou canst still beguile
Painful reflection and ungrateful lore
With many a placid dream and causeless smile.
Of happy instincts:—Thou canst still beguile
Painful reflection and ungrateful lore
With many a placid dream and causeless smile.
And when the awful stranger Evil bends
His eye upon thee, Thou wilt first essay
To turn him from his dark pursuits and ends
By gracious dalliance and familiar play:
His eye upon thee, Thou wilt first essay
To turn him from his dark pursuits and ends
By gracious dalliance and familiar play:
As well might kindly words arrest the roll
Of billows raging o'er a wintry sea,—
O Providence! remit to this one soul
Its destined years, and take it back to Thee.
Of billows raging o'er a wintry sea,—
O Providence! remit to this one soul
Its destined years, and take it back to Thee.
12
[Six years, six cycles of dead hours]
Oh! that I were, as I was, in the days of my youth, when the
secret of God was upon my Tabernacle! Job xxix. 4.
Six years, six cycles of dead hours,
Six falls of leaves, six births of flowers!
It is not that, you know full well,
That makes my labouring bosom swell,
'Tis not the memory of lost Time,
Since last I heard that matin chime,
That brings to sense the sleeping sorrow,
To bid this long-left scene good-morrow,—
It is the curse to feel as Men,
And be not now as we were then.
The snowy down on yonder hill
Through thousand summers glistens still,—
Yon stream will ne'er to time surrender
Its rapid path of diamond splendour,—
Yon orb, but now who swept the East,
With train of ruby' and amethyst,
Rides on, unweariedly as ever,
O'er frowning rock, and glittering river;
Those trees, I own, are somewhat higher,—
The ivy round the village spire
In fuller-clustering leaf has grown,—
We cannot call that cot our own,—
But what has changed in this sweet glen
As we from what our hearts were then?
Six falls of leaves, six births of flowers!
It is not that, you know full well,
That makes my labouring bosom swell,
'Tis not the memory of lost Time,
Since last I heard that matin chime,
That brings to sense the sleeping sorrow,
To bid this long-left scene good-morrow,—
It is the curse to feel as Men,
And be not now as we were then.
13
Through thousand summers glistens still,—
Yon stream will ne'er to time surrender
Its rapid path of diamond splendour,—
Yon orb, but now who swept the East,
With train of ruby' and amethyst,
Rides on, unweariedly as ever,
O'er frowning rock, and glittering river;
Those trees, I own, are somewhat higher,—
The ivy round the village spire
In fuller-clustering leaf has grown,—
We cannot call that cot our own,—
But what has changed in this sweet glen
As we from what our hearts were then?
Say you, the glow of Hope is bright,
Or, if it be a meteor light,
That hurtles through the thickening sky,
'Tis wise to catch it ere it die?
Tell you me, 'tis a joy to feel
Our toil increase a fellow's weal?
That, 'mid these fainting, fading, bowers,
There linger still some amaranth flowers,
And honest will, and honest prayer,
Will find them lurking everywhere?—
Say on, I can but add, Amen,—
We are not now as we were then.
Or, if it be a meteor light,
That hurtles through the thickening sky,
'Tis wise to catch it ere it die?
Tell you me, 'tis a joy to feel
Our toil increase a fellow's weal?
That, 'mid these fainting, fading, bowers,
There linger still some amaranth flowers,
And honest will, and honest prayer,
Will find them lurking everywhere?—
Say on, I can but add, Amen,—
We are not now as we were then.
14
Oh, Brother! when I gaze upon
These tombs of little blisses gone,—
When, through the dense and steamy air,
Which we with men are wont to share,
A breeze of distant Youth has stole
In freshness on my fever'd soul,—
I feel like one who long has lain
With madness gathering in his brain,
And, bursting from the strong distress,
Wakes to a terrible consciousness.
Then blame you that my pulse beat now?
Blame you the agony on my brow?
Time was, when fear was all a stranger,
Ere knowledge showed the way to danger—
When love was firm,—when faith was sure,
And head and heart alike secure;—
But now, . . . Remember you a flower,
Which we with care, from sun and shower,—
It was our mother's,—loved to guard,
And how we joyed in our reward,
When first we watched its bloom appear,
When it was old so many a year;
And how we heard, with tearful eye,
The good old gardener's prophecy,—
For he was deep in nature's lore,—
That that bright plant would bloom no more?
The flowers fell off,—the stalk was gathered,—
The root grew dry,—the lank leaves withered,—
And, sad to lose its only pride,
The poor Agave sunk and died:
our one, our only bloom is gone,
But, Brother, still we linger on.
These tombs of little blisses gone,—
When, through the dense and steamy air,
Which we with men are wont to share,
A breeze of distant Youth has stole
In freshness on my fever'd soul,—
I feel like one who long has lain
With madness gathering in his brain,
And, bursting from the strong distress,
Wakes to a terrible consciousness.
Then blame you that my pulse beat now?
Blame you the agony on my brow?
Time was, when fear was all a stranger,
Ere knowledge showed the way to danger—
When love was firm,—when faith was sure,
And head and heart alike secure;—
But now, . . . Remember you a flower,
Which we with care, from sun and shower,—
It was our mother's,—loved to guard,
And how we joyed in our reward,
When first we watched its bloom appear,
When it was old so many a year;
And how we heard, with tearful eye,
The good old gardener's prophecy,—
For he was deep in nature's lore,—
That that bright plant would bloom no more?
The flowers fell off,—the stalk was gathered,—
The root grew dry,—the lank leaves withered,—
15
The poor Agave sunk and died:
our one, our only bloom is gone,
But, Brother, still we linger on.
Between the cradle and the shroud,
If chance, amid the pilgrim croud,
Though strange the time and strange the place,
We light on some familiar face,
Once loved and known, as friend knows friend,
In whom a thousand memories blend,
Which whilom slumbered dull and dim,
But rise in light and cling to him;
Though not a line of old as wont,
Though care has knit the ample front,
And vice unstrung the well-toned frame,
Still something,—something is the same.
But if we ever hope to find
Some traces in that life-worn mind
Of its pure self, its simple being,
Such as it was, when, unforeseeing,
We thought that Nature's laws would fail,
Ere Sin could make its boldness quail;
Such as it was, ere sensuous things
Had clipped the bird of Eden's wings,
Ere stifled groan and secret sigh
Replaced the tear so soon brushed by,—
'Tis vain,—alas, for human shame!
There nothing, nothing is the same.
If chance, amid the pilgrim croud,
Though strange the time and strange the place,
We light on some familiar face,
Once loved and known, as friend knows friend,
In whom a thousand memories blend,
Which whilom slumbered dull and dim,
But rise in light and cling to him;
Though not a line of old as wont,
Though care has knit the ample front,
And vice unstrung the well-toned frame,
Still something,—something is the same.
But if we ever hope to find
Some traces in that life-worn mind
Of its pure self, its simple being,
Such as it was, when, unforeseeing,
We thought that Nature's laws would fail,
Ere Sin could make its boldness quail;
Such as it was, ere sensuous things
Had clipped the bird of Eden's wings,
Ere stifled groan and secret sigh
Replaced the tear so soon brushed by,—
16
There nothing, nothing is the same.
Oh! that the painter's favourite scheme
Were not alone a painter's dream!
Oh! that the Paradise he feigns,
Where Innocence with Childhood reigns,
And cherub forms and infant guise
Inclose the heart divinely wise,
Were not alone a Poet's creed,—
No symbol,—but a truth indeed!
That all this circling life might close
Its wearied course where first it rose,
And that our second life might be
A new, eternal, infancy,
Keeping the bliss we lose as men,
And being aye as we were then!
Were not alone a painter's dream!
Oh! that the Paradise he feigns,
Where Innocence with Childhood reigns,
And cherub forms and infant guise
Inclose the heart divinely wise,
Were not alone a Poet's creed,—
No symbol,—but a truth indeed!
That all this circling life might close
Its wearied course where first it rose,
And that our second life might be
A new, eternal, infancy,
Keeping the bliss we lose as men,
And being aye as we were then!
37
[Back again, back again!]
By eating the fruit that grows on the banks of the river of Delight,
in the Anostum, in the country of the Meropes, men gain a blessed
course of life, without one moment of sadness;—when they are in
years, by little and little they wax young again, recovering their
former vigour and force, and thence they turn still backward, even to
their first infancy, becoming little babes again, and then they die.
Antonio de Torquemada.
Back again, back again!
We are passing back again;
We are ceasing to be men!
Without the strife
Of waning life,
Or weary fears
Of loveless years,—
Without the darkened eye,
Without the paling brow,
Without a pulse of pain,
Out of our maturity,
We are passing now
Back again!
Clap your hands! clap your hands!
Now are broken all the bands
Of dull forms and phantom power,
That could prevent us doing
What joy would wish to do,—
For out of manhood's ruin,
We are growing, hour by hour,
Happy children too!—
From out the din
And storm of sin,
From out the fight
Of wrong and right,
Where the wrong
Is all too strong,
We glide our backward course along:
From out the chilly weather,
In which we laid, of old,
Our hearts so close together,
To keep them from the cold:—
From the folly of the wise,
From the petty war of gain,
From Pleasure's painèd votaries,
We are hasting back again,
Into other, healthier, lands,—
Clap your hands,—
Back again!
Faery fruit! faery fruit!
Can our charmèd hearts be mute,
When they feel at work within
Thine almighty medicine?
Joy through all our hearts is tingling,—
Joy with our life-blood is mingling,—
Before us rise
The dancing eyes,
That cannot speak
Of aught but light,
Unknowing gloom,—
The rounded cheek,
For ever bright
With cool, red, bloom;—
Our faded leaves are closing,
Our petals are reposing
Within their undeveloped stem;—
It is beautiful to see
Archetypes of infancy,
For we are growing like to them.
The wisdom of the common earth,
And reason's servile royalty,
Dust to dust,—the nothing-worth,—
Tread it down triumphantly,
To a just oblivion,—
Freely-springing hearts and pure,
Who are putting on
Consecrated vestiture
Of a new, old, communion!—
We are passing back again;
We are ceasing to be men!
Without the strife
Of waning life,
Or weary fears
Of loveless years,—
Without the darkened eye,
Without the paling brow,
Without a pulse of pain,
Out of our maturity,
We are passing now
Back again!
38
Now are broken all the bands
Of dull forms and phantom power,
That could prevent us doing
What joy would wish to do,—
For out of manhood's ruin,
We are growing, hour by hour,
Happy children too!—
From out the din
And storm of sin,
From out the fight
Of wrong and right,
Where the wrong
Is all too strong,
We glide our backward course along:
From out the chilly weather,
In which we laid, of old,
Our hearts so close together,
To keep them from the cold:—
From the folly of the wise,
From the petty war of gain,
From Pleasure's painèd votaries,
We are hasting back again,
Into other, healthier, lands,—
Clap your hands,—
Back again!
39
Can our charmèd hearts be mute,
When they feel at work within
Thine almighty medicine?
Joy through all our hearts is tingling,—
Joy with our life-blood is mingling,—
Before us rise
The dancing eyes,
That cannot speak
Of aught but light,
Unknowing gloom,—
The rounded cheek,
For ever bright
With cool, red, bloom;—
Our faded leaves are closing,
Our petals are reposing
Within their undeveloped stem;—
It is beautiful to see
Archetypes of infancy,
For we are growing like to them.
The wisdom of the common earth,
And reason's servile royalty,
Dust to dust,—the nothing-worth,—
Tread it down triumphantly,
To a just oblivion,—
Freely-springing hearts and pure,
40
Consecrated vestiture
Of a new, old, communion!—
Our home! our home!
Our native air,—our brothers' song,
That we have lost so long!
We are worthy now to come,
Where dwelleth the Divine;—
Through the narrow door of Death
Pass;—we breathe eternal breath,—
Father! father! we are thine!
Our native air,—our brothers' song,
That we have lost so long!
We are worthy now to come,
Where dwelleth the Divine;—
Through the narrow door of Death
Pass;—we breathe eternal breath,—
Father! father! we are thine!
41
THE BOOK OF FRIENDSHIP.
43
FROM ITALY.
It is a happy thought, I ween,
That, with my heart and fancy free,
Though seas and nations lie between,
I still am side by side with Thee.
That, with my heart and fancy free,
Though seas and nations lie between,
I still am side by side with Thee.
Though strange in this illustrious land,
Distraught by many a pleasant care,
One simple trace of thy dear hand
Begets me wings and takes me there.
Distraught by many a pleasant care,
One simple trace of thy dear hand
Begets me wings and takes me there.
I sit within thy small still room,
I feel thy low-embreathèd tone
Come towards me, in the evening gloom,—
I live for thee and thee alone.
I feel thy low-embreathèd tone
Come towards me, in the evening gloom,—
I live for thee and thee alone.
And, where yon lime's colossal bower
Draws out its long impleachèd aisle,
I walk with thee the noontide hour,
Listen thy laugh and watch thy smile.
Draws out its long impleachèd aisle,
I walk with thee the noontide hour,
Listen thy laugh and watch thy smile.
44
Thou too, from out the planet croud,
Of which thou art the life and sun,
When answered jest and frolic loud
Goad the light moments as they run,—
Of which thou art the life and sun,
When answered jest and frolic loud
Goad the light moments as they run,—
Wilt send thy heart a silent way
On embassy of love to me,—
And, trust me, be it night or day,
I shall receive it royally.
On embassy of love to me,—
And, trust me, be it night or day,
I shall receive it royally.
Thus, though in outward space apart,
I see thee, hear thee, know thee true;
For, versed in Friendship's sacred art,
The Spirit has its senses too.
I see thee, hear thee, know thee true;
For, versed in Friendship's sacred art,
The Spirit has its senses too.
95
THE BOOK OF REFLECTION.
109
THE FLOWER-GARDEN.
O pensive Sister! thy tear-darkened gaze
I understand, whene'er thou look'st upon
The Garden's gilded green and colour'd blaze,
The gay society of flowers and sun.
I understand, whene'er thou look'st upon
The Garden's gilded green and colour'd blaze,
The gay society of flowers and sun.
Thou thinkest of the withering that must come,
The quenching of this radiance all around,
The hastening change in Nature's merriest home,
The future blackness of the orphaned ground.
The quenching of this radiance all around,
The hastening change in Nature's merriest home,
The future blackness of the orphaned ground.
Thou thinkest too of those more precious blooms,
The firstling honours of thy Life's fresh field,
The childly feelings that have all their tombs,
The hopes of youth that now no odours yield:
The firstling honours of thy Life's fresh field,
The childly feelings that have all their tombs,
The hopes of youth that now no odours yield:
Still many a blessèd sense in living glee,
Waves its bright form to glorify thy breast,
But this fair scene's perverse morality
Tells thee, they all will perish like the rest:
Waves its bright form to glorify thy breast,
But this fair scene's perverse morality
Tells thee, they all will perish like the rest:
110
Yet pluck them, hurt them not; whate'er betides,
Touch not with wilful force those flowers or thine,—
Let Death receive them his inviolate brides,
They are the destined vestals of his shrine.
Touch not with wilful force those flowers or thine,—
Let Death receive them his inviolate brides,
They are the destined vestals of his shrine.
And if those children of the insensate earth
Go down in peace to a prolific grave,—
If Nature raises in continuous birth
The plant whose present grace she will not save,—
Go down in peace to a prolific grave,—
If Nature raises in continuous birth
The plant whose present grace she will not save,—
So some deep-grounded root or visible seed,
When these Heart-blossoms fade, may still remain,
In a new season of thy Being, decreed
To rise to light and loveliness again.
When these Heart-blossoms fade, may still remain,
In a new season of thy Being, decreed
To rise to light and loveliness again.
147
THE BOOK OF SORROW.
149
THE WORLD'S EXILE.
Well, I will tell you, kind adviser,
Why thus I ever roam
In distant lands, nor wish to guide
My footsteps to the fair hill-side
Where stands my sacred home.
Why thus I ever roam
In distant lands, nor wish to guide
My footsteps to the fair hill-side
Where stands my sacred home.
My home! I seem to write that word,
In characters more clear
Than other words,—more slowly round
I draw my pen, to keep the sound
Still lingering in my ear.
In characters more clear
Than other words,—more slowly round
I draw my pen, to keep the sound
Still lingering in my ear.
For were my wearied life allowed
To choose that quiet bourne,
I should be met by straining eyes,
Welcoming tears, and grateful sighs,
To hallow my return.
To choose that quiet bourne,
I should be met by straining eyes,
Welcoming tears, and grateful sighs,
To hallow my return.
But between me and that blest place,
There lies a bar, I feel,
More hard to pass, more girt with awe,
Than any power of injured law,
Or front of bristling steel,—
There lies a bar, I feel,
More hard to pass, more girt with awe,
Than any power of injured law,
Or front of bristling steel,—
166
Or the proud world's anathema,
Or high imperial ban;
I know it would be sacrilege
For me to touch that threshold's edge,—
I am an unclean man!
Or high imperial ban;
I know it would be sacrilege
For me to touch that threshold's edge,—
I am an unclean man!
Not that, in things of Man's esteem,
I bear a mark of shame,
Wealth fairly won, and never turned
To sordid use or wrong, has earned
My honourable name.
I bear a mark of shame,
Wealth fairly won, and never turned
To sordid use or wrong, has earned
My honourable name.
But where has been my walk of life?
Have I not grown half grey
Within the lazar-house, and there
Have fed upon the envenomed air,
Unconscious day by day?
Have I not grown half grey
Within the lazar-house, and there
Have fed upon the envenomed air,
Unconscious day by day?
How long ago the poisonous rain
Distilled its deadly cold
Upon my warm and panting youth,
That had no instinct but for truth,
No thought of self or gold!
Distilled its deadly cold
Upon my warm and panting youth,
That had no instinct but for truth,
No thought of self or gold!
How the hard leprous scales defiled
The bloom so fresh before,
How soon they taught my virgin eyes
To unlearn the glorious mysteries
They saw so clear of yore!
The bloom so fresh before,
How soon they taught my virgin eyes
To unlearn the glorious mysteries
They saw so clear of yore!
167
And in their place came vexèd thoughts,
And hopes without a goal,
Unjust regards, and false esteems,
And worship of fantastic dreams,
To paralyse my soul.
And hopes without a goal,
Unjust regards, and false esteems,
And worship of fantastic dreams,
To paralyse my soul.
Perchance, if I were placed once more
Within the ancient pale
Of Home and homely things, once more
Beheld beside the rustic door
The bowery rose down-trail,—
Within the ancient pale
Of Home and homely things, once more
Beheld beside the rustic door
The bowery rose down-trail,—
And saw the bed at whose low side
I prayed, a thankful boy,
Where I have read, by stealthy light,
Some marvellous tale, till past midnight,
In deep and trembling joy;
I prayed, a thankful boy,
Where I have read, by stealthy light,
Some marvellous tale, till past midnight,
In deep and trembling joy;
The casement too, with light wood latch,
Where 'twas my happy wont
To push the ivy half away,
And let the unchecked moon-stream play
Over my thirsty front;
Where 'twas my happy wont
To push the ivy half away,
And let the unchecked moon-stream play
Over my thirsty front;
And when I felt a parent's kiss
Lie warm upon my cheek,—
Such sympathies so long foregone
Would make, in their sweet guerison,
The veriest savage meek.
Lie warm upon my cheek,—
Such sympathies so long foregone
Would make, in their sweet guerison,
The veriest savage meek.
168
The passion of that influence
Could not be vain to me,
The tide of love would be so strong,
I might perchance be borne along,
And be one moment free.
Could not be vain to me,
The tide of love would be so strong,
I might perchance be borne along,
And be one moment free.
That could not last,—the Mammon King
Would be indeed too blind,
Thus to give up his long-won prey,
And loose the chains, in one short day,
It took him years to bind.
Would be indeed too blind,
Thus to give up his long-won prey,
And loose the chains, in one short day,
It took him years to bind.
The heart, that with its luscious cates
The world has fed so long,
Could never taste the simple food
That gives fresh virtue to the good,
Fresh vigour to the strong.
The world has fed so long,
Could never taste the simple food
That gives fresh virtue to the good,
Fresh vigour to the strong.
What witchery, to a blunted spirit,
Can give the rapid sense
Of all that's true, and just, and kind,
And beautiful, that lights the mind
Of dauntless innocence?
Can give the rapid sense
Of all that's true, and just, and kind,
And beautiful, that lights the mind
Of dauntless innocence?
The very health of these pure lives,
To my distempered sight,
Would wear a rude unseemly guise,—
Oh! shame that darkness dare despise
The Ministers of light!—
To my distempered sight,
Would wear a rude unseemly guise,—
Oh! shame that darkness dare despise
The Ministers of light!—
169
I could not join their honest mirth,
Nor share their artless plays,
Each earnest laugh would come to me,
Freighted with bitterest mockery,
Out of my early days.
Nor share their artless plays,
Each earnest laugh would come to me,
Freighted with bitterest mockery,
Out of my early days.
The plain old songs, all known by heart,
The merry-chorused round,
The imperfect notes, that childhood sings
For its own glee, would now be things
Of faint and rapid sound.
The merry-chorused round,
The imperfect notes, that childhood sings
For its own glee, would now be things
Of faint and rapid sound.
The evening hymn, when every voice
After our father prayed,
Oldest with youngest richly blent,
Followed the simple instrument
My gentle Mother played.
After our father prayed,
Oldest with youngest richly blent,
Followed the simple instrument
My gentle Mother played.
That herald of their happy rest,
Closing their happy day,
Would chase from me all thought of sleep,—
Alas! I might not even weep,
For the bliss I had thrown away.
Closing their happy day,
Would chase from me all thought of sleep,—
Alas! I might not even weep,
For the bliss I had thrown away.
But discontent and dark unrest
Would thicken all the air,
Envy, of thwarted conscience born,
Envy, that cloaks itself in scorn,
Would haunt me everywhere.
Would thicken all the air,
Envy, of thwarted conscience born,
Envy, that cloaks itself in scorn,
Would haunt me everywhere.
170
I might blaspheme the holy joys
From which my soul is riven,
And wroth to find my heart so dumb,
While theirs were sweetly-voiced, become
A Demon in that heaven.
From which my soul is riven,
And wroth to find my heart so dumb,
While theirs were sweetly-voiced, become
A Demon in that heaven.
At last, I feel, I might grow mad,
For my distorted brain
Would faint beneath the hideous rack—
Force me in ten-fold misery back
To the waste world again.
For my distorted brain
Would faint beneath the hideous rack—
Force me in ten-fold misery back
To the waste world again.
Then let me linger where I am,
An exile if you will,—
But, Friend, remember, if I flee
To my old home, I there must be
A greater exile still.
An exile if you will,—
But, Friend, remember, if I flee
To my old home, I there must be
A greater exile still.
171
THE BOOK OF DEATH.
173
THE BROTHERS.
'Tis true, that we can sometimes speak of Death,
Even of the Deaths of those we love the best,
Without dismay or terror; we can sit
In serious calm beneath deciduous trees,
And count the leaves, scarce heavier than the air,
That leave the branch and tremble to the ground;
Or out at midnight in a gliding boat
Enjoy the waning moon and moralize,
And say that Death is but a Mediator
Between the lower and the loftier Life.
Thus it may be with those, who only know
The great Invader, as he sometimes comes
Dismantled of his full ferocity,
Taking almost a grace of gentleness
From the surrounding atmosphere of Love,
Seeming to pity what himself inflicts,
When with soft touch he draws away the chair
From the familiar circle, and lays down
The suffering burden on an easy bed,
More like a weary traveller seeking sleep
Than the weak victim of a Tyrant's will.
For then Affection has a thousand moods,
With which to soothe the black necessity,
And form his rigid features to a smile;—
There are the tender dues of every hour,
The pillows nightly smoothed by hands just kissed,
The active care that guards the wakening eye,
The cautious thoughtfulness of earnest love,
The sedulous record of each smallest word,
The looks whose pain is steeped in balmy tears,
The tones, that growing weaker day by day
Keep strong in love as ever, to the last,—
All after-treasures of consoling wealth,
For the heart's casket of departed things.
But when, like the Malay who, mad for blood,
And raving onward, deals on either side
Precipitate blows of unaccounted rage,
The Evil seems to meet us; when he strikes,
In some unwonted, strangely-cruel, way,
Which even in fiction would have foully jarred
Against the regular calm of daily thought,
And broken, like a crash of lawless war,
On our mind's peace; and when, to point the sting,
Some simplest instrument of common use
Conveys the poison, then the Demon wears
His native horror,—Death is Death indeed!
To read some twenty words in black and white,
And be made wretched for one's life to come!
To be laid senseless by a certain form
Of syllables pronounced in a low voice!
To see a cloud of gathering agony
Upon the forehead of a trusty friend,
And almost ere the name has passed his lips,
The name of some one that we both adore,
To know that One is dead, is gone, is dead,
When, how, we do not know, we do not ask,
Wrapped up in that immense idea of “dead,”
And sensible to nothing else or more!
I know not which is worse,—this stunning shock,
This sudden transformation of our being
Into one whole of pain, or that thick coil
Of expectation, presages, and fears,
Which winds itself so close about our heart,
When first the barely-possible event
Of such a loss takes substance in the mind,
And then, as every languid-lingering day
Brings fear more nigh to desolate certainty,
Tighter and tighter draw the racking bonds,
Till anguish can no longer be contained,
But bursts into loud passion, to sink down
Into dumb stupor.
Even of the Deaths of those we love the best,
Without dismay or terror; we can sit
In serious calm beneath deciduous trees,
And count the leaves, scarce heavier than the air,
That leave the branch and tremble to the ground;
Or out at midnight in a gliding boat
Enjoy the waning moon and moralize,
And say that Death is but a Mediator
Between the lower and the loftier Life.
Thus it may be with those, who only know
The great Invader, as he sometimes comes
Dismantled of his full ferocity,
Taking almost a grace of gentleness
From the surrounding atmosphere of Love,
Seeming to pity what himself inflicts,
When with soft touch he draws away the chair
From the familiar circle, and lays down
The suffering burden on an easy bed,
177
Than the weak victim of a Tyrant's will.
For then Affection has a thousand moods,
With which to soothe the black necessity,
And form his rigid features to a smile;—
There are the tender dues of every hour,
The pillows nightly smoothed by hands just kissed,
The active care that guards the wakening eye,
The cautious thoughtfulness of earnest love,
The sedulous record of each smallest word,
The looks whose pain is steeped in balmy tears,
The tones, that growing weaker day by day
Keep strong in love as ever, to the last,—
All after-treasures of consoling wealth,
For the heart's casket of departed things.
But when, like the Malay who, mad for blood,
And raving onward, deals on either side
Precipitate blows of unaccounted rage,
The Evil seems to meet us; when he strikes,
In some unwonted, strangely-cruel, way,
Which even in fiction would have foully jarred
Against the regular calm of daily thought,
And broken, like a crash of lawless war,
On our mind's peace; and when, to point the sting,
Some simplest instrument of common use
Conveys the poison, then the Demon wears
His native horror,—Death is Death indeed!
178
And be made wretched for one's life to come!
To be laid senseless by a certain form
Of syllables pronounced in a low voice!
To see a cloud of gathering agony
Upon the forehead of a trusty friend,
And almost ere the name has passed his lips,
The name of some one that we both adore,
To know that One is dead, is gone, is dead,
When, how, we do not know, we do not ask,
Wrapped up in that immense idea of “dead,”
And sensible to nothing else or more!
I know not which is worse,—this stunning shock,
This sudden transformation of our being
Into one whole of pain, or that thick coil
Of expectation, presages, and fears,
Which winds itself so close about our heart,
When first the barely-possible event
Of such a loss takes substance in the mind,
And then, as every languid-lingering day
Brings fear more nigh to desolate certainty,
Tighter and tighter draw the racking bonds,
Till anguish can no longer be contained,
But bursts into loud passion, to sink down
Into dumb stupor.
Reader! the hard fates
Of those, who in these tributary lines
May find some shield from a forgetting world,
Tried with this double strain of Misery,
The souls of those who loved them; Reader! pray
That this exceeding sorrow may not fall
Back to its hell, barren of holy fruit,—
That through these two deep rents which woe has made
In their most sacred feelings, they may see
Into the peaceful Heaven that lies beyond.
Of those, who in these tributary lines
179
Tried with this double strain of Misery,
The souls of those who loved them; Reader! pray
That this exceeding sorrow may not fall
Back to its hell, barren of holy fruit,—
That through these two deep rents which woe has made
In their most sacred feelings, they may see
Into the peaceful Heaven that lies beyond.
There were two Brothers, of near kin to me,—
We've played together many a summer eve,
In that short maidenhood of Life when eve
Can find the heart no heavier than at morn,
And day and darkness are all one in joy;
They grew together from the self same stem,
Of little different heights, together drank
The dews of love and close domestic care,
Together sprouted out their vigorous green
As Nature's secret will devised the way.
And when the birthright Beauty, bold and free,
Of high-born English boys, was ripening fast
Upon them, home, its halls, and groves, and fields,
Were silent of those two accustomed voices,
Nearly at the same time,—how soon to be
Silent of them for ever! They went forth
Into the distances of land and sea,
One far away, then nearer, then more far,
The roving comrade of the roving waves,—
The other, by the duty of the sword,
Taken to pleasant places, where the arm
Of British power extends its guardian strength
O'er stranger lands too weak to stand alone.
Thus after various changes, wanderings,
And hard experiences of manly life,
In that delicious spot, whose central charms
Embrace the eastern and the western earth,
The fairest of the fair Ionian isles,
The Brothers met once more;—the other's face
Each looked upon, nor knew it was his brother's;—
For in our mortal spring the craftsman Time
Is active to destroy and recreate,
Both in the inner and the outer Man;
But joyous recognition soon came on,
First by degrees, then in a rapid flash,
And the old chain of kind fraternity
Was linked afresh, and, for some few short days,
The Nature of that island-paradise
Witnessed their love, witnessed their social sports,
And interchange of happiest memories.
Beneath the olive-grove's fine-fretted vault,
They spoke together of the beechen shades,
Spread in broad masses round their distant home;—
On that cliff-platform, where the large sea-bird
Floats level by, and the sail-studded strait
Lies like a lake within that crescent coast
And the full breast-work of Albanian hills,
They talked of that dear terrace whose smooth length
Is stretched before their childhood's lordly home,
Above the lawny green befringed with flowers,
And sleepy stream and swelling meads beyond.
Into the gulf of the absorbing past,
Those lightly-pinioned hours past one by one;
And then the Soldier and the Sailor stood,
For the last time, together on the deck,
While slow the sails expanded their white breasts
In the caresses of the lover breeze.
We've played together many a summer eve,
In that short maidenhood of Life when eve
Can find the heart no heavier than at morn,
And day and darkness are all one in joy;
They grew together from the self same stem,
Of little different heights, together drank
The dews of love and close domestic care,
Together sprouted out their vigorous green
As Nature's secret will devised the way.
And when the birthright Beauty, bold and free,
Of high-born English boys, was ripening fast
Upon them, home, its halls, and groves, and fields,
Were silent of those two accustomed voices,
Nearly at the same time,—how soon to be
Silent of them for ever! They went forth
Into the distances of land and sea,
One far away, then nearer, then more far,
180
The other, by the duty of the sword,
Taken to pleasant places, where the arm
Of British power extends its guardian strength
O'er stranger lands too weak to stand alone.
Thus after various changes, wanderings,
And hard experiences of manly life,
In that delicious spot, whose central charms
Embrace the eastern and the western earth,
The fairest of the fair Ionian isles,
The Brothers met once more;—the other's face
Each looked upon, nor knew it was his brother's;—
For in our mortal spring the craftsman Time
Is active to destroy and recreate,
Both in the inner and the outer Man;
But joyous recognition soon came on,
First by degrees, then in a rapid flash,
And the old chain of kind fraternity
Was linked afresh, and, for some few short days,
The Nature of that island-paradise
Witnessed their love, witnessed their social sports,
And interchange of happiest memories.
Beneath the olive-grove's fine-fretted vault,
They spoke together of the beechen shades,
Spread in broad masses round their distant home;—
On that cliff-platform, where the large sea-bird
Floats level by, and the sail-studded strait
181
And the full breast-work of Albanian hills,
They talked of that dear terrace whose smooth length
Is stretched before their childhood's lordly home,
Above the lawny green befringed with flowers,
And sleepy stream and swelling meads beyond.
Into the gulf of the absorbing past,
Those lightly-pinioned hours past one by one;
And then the Soldier and the Sailor stood,
For the last time, together on the deck,
While slow the sails expanded their white breasts
In the caresses of the lover breeze.
I am a student of the Heart of Man,
And thus 'tis not in curious wilfulness,
That I would know, whether some deeper sense
Than of mere pain at parting did not pass
Athwart their spirits, as they turned away?
Whether did not a stern presentiment
Of many-folded evil hanging round
The personality of their two lives
Cast a dense shade upon the paths that led
Over the Future's hope-illumined plain,
And make the words of sweet encouragement
Faint on their mutual lips, and string their hands
With a convulsive force in that last grasp,
And dim with sudden mist their tearless eyes?
To tell the sum of this sad tale, few words
Are best and all-sufficient;—to display
The forms of pain and death and misery,
With an elaborate anatomic skill,
And mould the stark realities of ill
Into fantastic shapes of speech and thought,
Is not the Poet's function, must not be:—
He knows the fineness of his music-strings,
The tender fibres of all-human love,
And will not strike them with a reckless hand,
As if he beat upon a savage drum.
Enough, that ere the earth its annual round
Had many times accomplished, those bright boys
Had met strange deaths, both strange tho' different:—
The one, from all his comrades singled out
By a mysterious hazard, the sure aim
Of an assassin's hand broke off the bough
Of his full fragrant promise,—he is laid
In that warm foreign dust,—rude soldier tears
Have dropped upon his decorated tomb.
The other, ere this wound unhealable
Had lost the first intenseness of its sore,
Perished without a trace, without a sign,
In the huge ocean-deserts of the North,
He, and his fellows, and their dwelling-place,
One doom for all,—one darkness undisturbed,—
One desolation for affection's shrine.
We all have read and loved the lovely plaint,
In which the Lyrist, whose most grateful blooms
Spring from the root of purest womanhood,
Has hymned the “Household's” widely scattered “Graves;”
There's not a verse but has been wept upon;—
And I could wish this not dissimilar theme
Had found such skill to work it to such end;
But my faint strain expects no stranger tears,—
It is the homage of a kinsman's grief
Written for kindred, nor has other claim:
They will inform the vague imperfect frame
With inward-flowing music of their own,
The melodies of mournful recollections,
The supplement of personal interest,
The sympathies that come far out to meet you,
And other judgment I acknowledge none.
And thus 'tis not in curious wilfulness,
That I would know, whether some deeper sense
Than of mere pain at parting did not pass
Athwart their spirits, as they turned away?
Whether did not a stern presentiment
Of many-folded evil hanging round
The personality of their two lives
Cast a dense shade upon the paths that led
Over the Future's hope-illumined plain,
And make the words of sweet encouragement
Faint on their mutual lips, and string their hands
With a convulsive force in that last grasp,
And dim with sudden mist their tearless eyes?
182
Are best and all-sufficient;—to display
The forms of pain and death and misery,
With an elaborate anatomic skill,
And mould the stark realities of ill
Into fantastic shapes of speech and thought,
Is not the Poet's function, must not be:—
He knows the fineness of his music-strings,
The tender fibres of all-human love,
And will not strike them with a reckless hand,
As if he beat upon a savage drum.
Enough, that ere the earth its annual round
Had many times accomplished, those bright boys
Had met strange deaths, both strange tho' different:—
The one, from all his comrades singled out
By a mysterious hazard, the sure aim
Of an assassin's hand broke off the bough
Of his full fragrant promise,—he is laid
In that warm foreign dust,—rude soldier tears
Have dropped upon his decorated tomb.
The other, ere this wound unhealable
Had lost the first intenseness of its sore,
Perished without a trace, without a sign,
In the huge ocean-deserts of the North,
He, and his fellows, and their dwelling-place,
One doom for all,—one darkness undisturbed,—
One desolation for affection's shrine.
183
In which the Lyrist, whose most grateful blooms
Spring from the root of purest womanhood,
Has hymned the “Household's” widely scattered “Graves;”
There's not a verse but has been wept upon;—
And I could wish this not dissimilar theme
Had found such skill to work it to such end;
But my faint strain expects no stranger tears,—
It is the homage of a kinsman's grief
Written for kindred, nor has other claim:
They will inform the vague imperfect frame
With inward-flowing music of their own,
The melodies of mournful recollections,
The supplement of personal interest,
The sympathies that come far out to meet you,
And other judgment I acknowledge none.
184
ON THE DEATH OF ------
I'm not where I was yesterday,
Though my home be still the same,
For I have lost the veriest friend
Whom ever a friend could name;
I'm not where I was yesterday,
Though change there be little to see,
For a part of myself has lapsed away
From Time to Eternity.
Though my home be still the same,
For I have lost the veriest friend
Whom ever a friend could name;
I'm not where I was yesterday,
Though change there be little to see,
For a part of myself has lapsed away
From Time to Eternity.
I have lost a thought that many a year
Was most familiar food
To my inmost mind, by night or day,
In merry or plaintive mood;
I have lost a hope, that many a year
Looked far on a gleaming way,
When the walls of Life were closing round,
And the sky was sombre grey.
Was most familiar food
To my inmost mind, by night or day,
In merry or plaintive mood;
I have lost a hope, that many a year
Looked far on a gleaming way,
When the walls of Life were closing round,
And the sky was sombre grey.
For long, too long, in distant climes
My lot was cast, and then,
A frail and casual intercourse
Was all I had with men;
But lonelily in distant climes
I was well content to roam,
And felt no void, for my heart was full
O' the friend it had left at home.
My lot was cast, and then,
A frail and casual intercourse
Was all I had with men;
185
I was well content to roam,
And felt no void, for my heart was full
O' the friend it had left at home.
And now I was close to my native shores,
And I felt him at my side,
His spirit was in that homeward wind,
His voice in that homeward tide:
For what were to me my native shores,
But that they held the scene,
Where my youth's most genial flowers had blown,
And affection's root had been?
And I felt him at my side,
His spirit was in that homeward wind,
His voice in that homeward tide:
For what were to me my native shores,
But that they held the scene,
Where my youth's most genial flowers had blown,
And affection's root had been?
I thought, how should I see him first,
How should our hands first meet,
Within his room,—upon the stair,—
At the corner of the street?
I thought, where should I hear him first,
How catch his greeting tone,—
And thus I went up to his door,
And they told me he was gone!
How should our hands first meet,
Within his room,—upon the stair,—
At the corner of the street?
I thought, where should I hear him first,
How catch his greeting tone,—
And thus I went up to his door,
And they told me he was gone!
Oh! what is Life but a sum of love,
And Death but to lose it all?
Weeds be for those that are left behind,
And not for those that fall!
And now how mighty a sum of love
Is lost for ever to me . . . . . .
. . . No, I'm not what I was yesterday,
Though change there be little to see.
And Death but to lose it all?
Weeds be for those that are left behind,
And not for those that fall!
186
Is lost for ever to me . . . . . .
. . . No, I'm not what I was yesterday,
Though change there be little to see.
TWO VISITS TO A GRAVE.
I stood by the grave of one beloved,
On a chill and windless night,—
When not a blade of grass was moved,
In its rigid sheath of white.
On a chill and windless night,—
When not a blade of grass was moved,
In its rigid sheath of white.
The starry armament looked down,
From the glassy waste the while,
Perchance they could not seem to frown,
But they did not seem to smile.
From the glassy waste the while,
Perchance they could not seem to frown,
But they did not seem to smile.
Long time had past since they laid him there,
But I heeded not of time,
I knew the stone, tho' blank and bare,
Unmarked by line or rhyme.
But I heeded not of time,
I knew the stone, tho' blank and bare,
Unmarked by line or rhyme.
Madly I wept that I had been
Over the wild wild sea,
When he had found in this last scene,
A home and a privacy.
Over the wild wild sea,
When he had found in this last scene,
A home and a privacy.
193
The gloomy stillness of the hour
Came coldly to my heart,
And Faith and Hope grew weak in power
To soothe the sinner's smart;
Came coldly to my heart,
And Faith and Hope grew weak in power
To soothe the sinner's smart;
I almost cursed the good great God,—
And vowed that I would be
Even as he beneath the sod,
Tho' I had not lived as he.
And vowed that I would be
Even as he beneath the sod,
Tho' I had not lived as he.
I left the tomb,—I ceased to weep,—
But grisly forms of pain
Came thronging from the fields of sleep,
And forced me back again.
But grisly forms of pain
Came thronging from the fields of sleep,
And forced me back again.
That morn the hoar-frost still was there,
In place of balmy dew,—
Unshaken was the silvered hair
Of the old church-yard yew.
In place of balmy dew,—
Unshaken was the silvered hair
Of the old church-yard yew.
I heard a company of birds
Their grateful carol troll,
And a sense of prayer, too much for words,
Arose within my soul.
Their grateful carol troll,
And a sense of prayer, too much for words,
Arose within my soul.
The web of early mist was gone,
Fresh-wove in nature's loom,
For the sun, like a bold free spirit, shone
Clear on the glistening tomb.
Fresh-wove in nature's loom,
For the sun, like a bold free spirit, shone
Clear on the glistening tomb.
194
I worshipped, as the gold flood poured
On the scene, before so dim;
And when the Beautiful I adored,
My thoughts were still of him.
On the scene, before so dim;
And when the Beautiful I adored,
My thoughts were still of him.
I thought, I prayed, and thus became
More full of sweet content,
Watching the sun-beams gently frame
The earth to merriment.
More full of sweet content,
Watching the sun-beams gently frame
The earth to merriment.
I was not happy, but I prayed,
At heart, that I might not be
As he who in that grave was laid,
Till I had lived as he.
At heart, that I might not be
As he who in that grave was laid,
Till I had lived as he.
199
SONNETS.
201
XIV. ON A NOBLE CHILD,
EARLY DEAD.
Farewell to thee, thou swift-departed Stranger,Weary with little stay,—farewell to thee!
There hung a picture in thy nursery
Of the God-boy, who slumbered in the manger,—
And oft I feared, lest Thou should'st meet the danger,
For pride of wealth or lusted empiry,
Of losing that which I so loved to see,
Thy likeness to that picture, lovely Stranger.
Thou hast gone back all pure,—thy every feature
Faithful to what the limner's sacred eye
Pourtrayed the Son of God; most blessed creature!
Thy brow unknit by passion, pain, or scorn,
Thine is the special privilege to have borne
The Cross of Love without the Agony.
235
SONGS.
237
II. FROM THE VENETIAN OF BURATTI.
I.
Pleasant were it, Nina mine!
Could our Hearts, by fairy powers,
Renovate their life divine,
Like the trees and herbs and flowers.
Could our Hearts, by fairy powers,
Renovate their life divine,
Like the trees and herbs and flowers.
So might we, in fond accord,
As the fresh ripe Hearts appear;
Each the other's Love reward,
With the first-fruits of the year.
As the fresh ripe Hearts appear;
Each the other's Love reward,
With the first-fruits of the year.
Fragrance from that wondrous plant
Might your giddy sex restrain,—
Such refreshment would enchant
The most faithless back again.
Might your giddy sex restrain,—
Such refreshment would enchant
The most faithless back again.
But in restless pleasure using
One poor Heart, from year to year,
We shall both our Hearts be losing,—
Worn to nothing,—Nina dear!
One poor Heart, from year to year,
We shall both our Hearts be losing,—
Worn to nothing,—Nina dear!
239
II.
Oh! what a May-day,—what a dear May-day!
Feel, what a breeze, love,
Undulates o'er us,—
Meadow and trees, love,
Glisten before us,—
Light, in all showers,
Falls from the flowers,
Hear, how they ask us, “Come and sit down.”—(Bis.)
Feel, what a breeze, love,
Undulates o'er us,—
Meadow and trees, love,
Glisten before us,—
Light, in all showers,
Falls from the flowers,
Hear, how they ask us, “Come and sit down.”—(Bis.)
Well, let us rest with them,—well let us rest with them,
Two other blossoms,
Quiet and lonely,
While from their bosoms
Nightingales only
Secrets revealing,
We shall be stealing
Things that most surely the world doesn't know.—(Bis.)
Two other blossoms,
Quiet and lonely,
While from their bosoms
Nightingales only
Secrets revealing,
We shall be stealing
Things that most surely the world doesn't know.—(Bis.)
Guess, my own Nina,—guess, my own Nina,
What they are singing!
That a deep passion,
Rooted and clinging
I' the right fashion,
Never can measure
Fulness of pleasure,
But when together alone,—all alone!—(Bis.)
What they are singing!
That a deep passion,
Rooted and clinging
I' the right fashion,
Never can measure
Fulness of pleasure,
But when together alone,—all alone!—(Bis.)
240
Fare you well, old world!—fare you well, old world!
This one is ours,
Shepherds,—May-weather,—
We and the flowers
Blooming together,—
Where, never jealous,
Nightingales tell us
What they know, oh! how much, better than we!—(Bis.)
This one is ours,
Shepherds,—May-weather,—
We and the flowers
Blooming together,—
Where, never jealous,
Nightingales tell us
What they know, oh! how much, better than we!—(Bis.)
VI.
[Grief sat beside the fount of tears]
Grief sat beside the fount of tears,
And dipt her garland in it,
While all the paly flowers she wears
Grew fainter every minute.
And dipt her garland in it,
While all the paly flowers she wears
Grew fainter every minute.
246
Joy gamboled by the other side,
In gay and artless guise,
And to her gloomy sister cried,
With laughter in her eyes—
In gay and artless guise,
And to her gloomy sister cried,
With laughter in her eyes—
“Oh! prithee leave that stupid task,
That melancholy fountain;
I go in Pleasure's sun to bask,
Or dance up Fancy's mountain.”
That melancholy fountain;
I go in Pleasure's sun to bask,
Or dance up Fancy's mountain.”
“Insolent fooler!—go—beware,”
Said Grief, in moody tone,
“How thus you frivolously dare
Approach my solemn throne!”
Said Grief, in moody tone,
“How thus you frivolously dare
Approach my solemn throne!”
And then, on Joy's fair wreath she threw,
With sideward glance of malice,
Some drops of that embitter'd dew
Fresh from a poison'd chalice.
With sideward glance of malice,
Some drops of that embitter'd dew
Fresh from a poison'd chalice.
But Joy laugh'd on;—“In vain, in vain
You try to blight one flower;
That which you meant for fatal bane
Shall prove my brightest dower:—
You try to blight one flower;
That which you meant for fatal bane
Shall prove my brightest dower:—
“Friendship and Love on every leaf
Shall wear the pearly toy,
And all, who shrink from tears of Grief,
Shall pray for tears of Joy.”
Shall wear the pearly toy,
And all, who shrink from tears of Grief,
Shall pray for tears of Joy.”
247
VII. A LAMENT.
I hear them upbraid you,—they mingle your name
With lightness and folly and almost with shame;
And they, who have crouched at the bend of your brow,
With familiar indifference prate of you now.
With lightness and folly and almost with shame;
And they, who have crouched at the bend of your brow,
With familiar indifference prate of you now.
Where now is the fountain of beauty and joy,
That thrilled through the heart of the care-hating boy?
With love, and with music, that fountain plays on,—
But the spirit, that basked in its freshness, is gone.
That thrilled through the heart of the care-hating boy?
With love, and with music, that fountain plays on,—
But the spirit, that basked in its freshness, is gone.
Oh! were it stern Science that led you away,
Or a flow of dark feeling that made you less gay,
I should mourn that so early the shadows were cast,
But the path might have led into sunlight at last.
Or a flow of dark feeling that made you less gay,
I should mourn that so early the shadows were cast,
But the path might have led into sunlight at last.
Not so, now the world, with its gilding and glare,
Has bid you to pleasure, and prisoned you there;
And the blazoned saloon, and the mirth-breathing hall,
And silver-sweet flatteries, hold you in thrall:
Has bid you to pleasure, and prisoned you there;
And the blazoned saloon, and the mirth-breathing hall,
And silver-sweet flatteries, hold you in thrall:
248
For the friends of your boyhood—the innocent few,
Whose hearts knew you well, and whose hearts you too knew,
From their home in your breast have been forced, one by one,—
And in that bleak place can I linger alone?
Whose hearts knew you well, and whose hearts you too knew,
From their home in your breast have been forced, one by one,—
And in that bleak place can I linger alone?
I too must begone,—with those who have seen
The manifold promise of what you have been,
Though they who so loved will still gaze from afar,
If it be but to weep, when they see what you are.
The manifold promise of what you have been,
Though they who so loved will still gaze from afar,
If it be but to weep, when they see what you are.
THE END
| Poems of many years (1844) | |