English Songs, and Other Small Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Day breaks! O'er yon bars of deep purple,
(Cloud-purple,) comes soaring the Dawn;
O'er mountains that lift their black shoulders
'Twixt Night and the Morn:
And yonder, high-tossing his antlers
In play or in scorn,
Stands the stag, and beside him outstretching
His limbs is the fawn.
How lightly he springs o'er the heather!
How lazily slumber the kine!
How still are the old giant forests!
And, above, how divine
Is the Sun! —He awakes in a glory:
His path is array'd
With hues like the flush of the rainbow:
He scatters the shade—
He has scatter'd the dews and the vapours,
Where'er he has trod;
And now he uncloudeth his beauty, —
All over a God!

He moves; —he goes forth on his journey
From morning to night:
All 'round him the circle of azure
Is swimming in light.

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Below, all the waters are sparkling;
All earth is awake:
The lark in the ether is singing,
The thrush in the brake;
But He hastes, —high away to the zenith;
Clouds—shadows—they fly:
High, —higher, —he touches—he treads on
The arch of the sky!
'Tis Noon! He outpoureth his splendour:
The might of his ray
Strikes dumb the bold Spirits that laugh'd
In the dawn of the day:
The soldier is conquer'd; his weapons
Beside him are laid:
Toil ceases: the horse and the rider
Are seeking the shade!

Doth he pause? —No: already his Lustre
Is far in the West:
But he calms the fierce beams, as he neareth
The isles of the Bless'd.
Still swift, —like the eagle pursuing
The falcon in flight,
He rusheth adown the deep azure,
Now followed by Night.
Shapes rise from the Ocean to greet him:
They curtain his bed;
Gold-ting'd, like the eye of the topaz;
Blush-colour'd; blood-red;
Such blue as the amethyst hides
In the depths of her breast: —
And thus, —in the bosom of beauty,
He sinks to his rest!

xix

AUTUMN VERSES.

The Summer past, what dreams are over!
The incense of the air hath fled:
The carpets of the golden meadows
Are torn by tempests, shred by shred:
The rose hath lost her fragrance;
The lily hangs her head, —
Dead, —dead!

Sounds are in the earth and ether,
Sobs and murmurs half divine;
Blasts beyond Man's puny power
Rock the branches of the pine:
Yet one sweet thought bloometh
Through the stormy time, —
That thy heart is mine,
And mine—thine!

Shout, ye Winds and Thunders!
Pour your floods of gloom!
All must end in sunshine!
That is still your doom; —
When the maidens May and April,
In their verdant loom,
Weave bud and bloom.

So, through wild November,
And December's snow,
I will dream of beauty,
Till the violets blow:
And, should pain beset me,
In this world below,
Thou art near, I know, —
I know! —I know!

I AND MY DREAM.

Once I wandered with a Dream.
Where e'er I went, by wood or stream,
On sunny days, in stormy weather,
My dream and I were still together.
When I was young my dream was young,
And when I on my mother hung
With school-boy eyes that ran in streams,
How mournful was my dream of dreams!
So ran Time!

And when, at last,
I grew into a youth, and cast
My cradle pleasures half aside,
And rose from tears to blushing pride,
Ever did my dream and I
Together like two lovers wander,
And sometimes sigh and sometimes ponder,
Graver than in infancy; —
My dream, men told me, never true!
Yet, —so it was, we grew, and grew,
Each loving now a sterner theme,
More subtle thoughts, more bold opinions,
Whilst higher in the heavenly blue,
On airier, more ambitious pinions,
Would rise—and rise—my dream!

My dream, they said, was never true.
And yet I dream'd of Truth—of things
Beyond the circling of the spheres,
Of haunts wherein the angel sings
For ever to Almighty ears.
Beyond the clouds, —beyond the thunder,
Beyond the planets over head,
Impetuous, daring, wild with wonder,
My dream and I together fled: —
Fled, —but soon return'd to earth,

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Our gentle home, our place of birth,
Where still the unlearned poet dreams
Of humble wrongs and household themes.
Not starry-crowned, nor hid in steel,
Not wandering on infernal shore,
His simple Muse, content to feel
What is and was, asks nothing more
When her voice doth echo truly, —
Nothing, save to touch us duly
With the sadness of her story: —
This is all her glory!

And men say that thou art vain? —
Child of folly? —sinful Pain? —
No: they err, who thus arraign.
No: —the God who giveth reason,
Armed for a severer theme,
In our sunny, soaring season,
Crowns us with a dream; —
Bids us then drink in the sound
Of the wild wind whispering round, —
Bids us read the rose's leaf
For its moral, sweet and brief, —
Bids us listen, as we walk
By the murmuring of the sea,
To the soft, sweet Muse's talk
Of all that was and is to be.
True? —ay, true as are the flowers,
True as spring or winter rain,
True as are the starry hours
Are the children of the brain.
Heed not from what cell unknown
The wild Imagination springs,
Nor where the Phoenix burns alone,
Nor where the dying cygnet sings;
The splendour of the stars is here,
The music of the rain and wind,
The song of birds, at eve and morn,
The perfume with the violet born; —
Here, too, the Soul's creations, —clear
Unto the willing mind.

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The beauty and the worth of things
Take not their common outward shape
At all times, but will oft escape
In subtler, airier forms and sounds,
From the heart's profounder springs.
And these, like visions shown of old
To Prophets in the Hebrew days,
Reveal not to the vain and cold
Their nature, nor to vulgar gaze
Appear with kind familiar eyes,
But shine alone on good and wise.

—You and I were born together,
O my love, my Dream!
You and I have sail'd together
Adown Life's stream.
Through the sun and stormy weather
We have laugh'd and wept together:
Never did the wrath of June
Harm us with its burning noon:
Never did the Winter's rime
Chill us in our braver time.
Tell me, —O ye worldly Sages,
Toiling all for golden wages,
Lawyers subtle, grave physicians,
Skilful reckoners, sound logicians,
What deem'd ye, in age or youth,
The one great philosophic Truth? —
What was still your aim? —
Love? —or power? —wealth? —or fame?
Tell me, —now that day is closing,
And your minds are calm, —reposing
From the weary task of Life;
After all the storm and strife
And the struggle in the stream,
Tell me, —who hath aught beside him
Truer than a dream?

xxiii

TO EDITH. 1845.

Like thy first Sister, when her years were few,
And Nature through her gentlest instinct taught,
(Till Time the Soul's bright pinions outward drew,
And Reason with Imagination wrought,)
May'st thou take note—as a good child should do,
Of all things best in her, of deed and thought;
May'st thou be prudent, wise, sweet-temper'd, true,
Trustful, but by no specious error caught!

God bless thee! May thy blameless life be hung
With garlands of delight! May Peace, the dove,
Dwell in thine heart, thro' long and prosperous days!
May Truth e'er warn thee with an angel's tongue!
May Earth's best children meet thy love with love;
And Heaven smile on thee, in a thousand ways!

MAN AND BEAST.

In the field the beast feedeth,
And the bird upon the bough:
Man manly thoughts breedeth;
You may read them on his brow:

There, —behind his eyes, are growing
Wonders, shortly to be born.
See you not his fancies flowing
Over, like the light of morn?

Sometimes, as a cloud doth travel
O'er the blue, sweet, summer air,
Sadder, graver thoughts are floating,
Shadowing what were else so fair.

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Shadowing? deepening all the meaning
That doth stream from out his brain
Day and night, and soar and traverse
All the worlds of joy and pain.

Thought must bloom, whate'er his leisure;
You may read it on his brow: —
All this time the beast is feeding,
And the bird upon the bough!

TO THE AUTHOR OF EOTHEN.

If I may choose (out of our travell'd bands)
Friend or companion, to make bright the way;
Or draw the grandeur out from Orient lands,
Where Libanus mounts up and meets the day;
Or face, midst trackless, boundless, burning sands,
The Desert Silence, —as it pants for prey;
Be thou—(O, author of Eothen)—mine;
Who show'st, whate'er the region, stern or gay,
Whate'er the scene, —life, death, sublime decay,
For all fine things, an apprehension fine.

'Tis well to ride abroad on the untamed waves;
To shoot the desert with the camel's speed;
To muse o'er discrown'd Egypt's wondrous graves,
And trace her story downwards, deed by deed;
Yet, half the lustre of our life were hid,
Our travel idle, meditation nought,
Without such friend to give back thought for thought,
From waste and sea, mountain and pyramid!

xxv

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO ROBERT BROWNING.

St. John's Wood, June, 1839.

Browning, my friend, when will you come and taste
Our clear suburban air? —We are not graced
Often by poets in this humble “Wood;”
Yet, when they come, by Phœbus! we're subdued
To gratitude, which words but ill express.
We welcome them, —with shouts, —with songs! We dress
The fatted calf, and dainties rich beside:
We shower forth summer sweets, our garden's pride;
And in June evenings, strawberries, mark! and cream,
Which soothe the sense like an Arcadian dream.
Come then, and taste; and laugh; and gather flowers!
Make close acquaintance with the sunshine hours!
Leave learned volumes: leave the sharp goose-quill:
Leave perilous thinking, and all kinds of ill.
Waste not thy soul on books! If Learning be
That delving, toiling, struggling Thing we see,
Abandon it. Let's make sure friend of Time;
And wander thro' the fields, and talk in rural rhyme.

I wander forth—in dreams! —until you come.
Hush! Hark! —I hear the hum
Of bees afar, borne on the golden air.
O, Summer! who dost make our earth thy care,
I feel thy balm upon my forehead, —soft:
I hear thy child the lark, —aloft, —aloft,
Who never doth grow old: —He wins—he hath won
New inspiration from the eternal Sun!
I tread amongst a thousand sweets unseen,
Born of the flowery slopes, and woods, and meadows green.
How fresh the daisied grass! I hear and bless
The tiny people in each cool recess:

xxvi

I scent the south-wind thro' the woodbines blowing:
I see the river-waters rippling, —flowing, —
Flashing along the valley to the sea:
I hear the kine lowing around the lea;
And in the fruit-tree nigh the blackbird's song;
While, hid in leaves, the thrush (of all the throng
Sweetest) lets loose her silver words, and sends
A message to the linnets near, her friends;
And the birds answer; and in hedgerow by
The field-mouse listens with a glittering eye,
Then rustles through the weeds, and straight is lost.
—Come! let us seek, at whatsoever cost,
The meads and breathing uplands of the Morn,
Where every sound is soft, and sweet, and unforlorn!

London, 1846-50.

I have descended, since the above was writ,
From my clear dwelling, and have come to sit
My life out in this wilderness of stone.
Alone? No, not alone;
But banded round by some few friends, whose truth
Shines still upquench'd as in our burning youth;
And by some later hearts who not disdain
To show me love, which I smile forth again.
I dwell here: but we two will take a flight
(When you come this way) to some aery height,
Whence we may gaze upon the Town below,
And drink the vernal breezes, as they flow
From their fresh fountains, somewhere near the sun:—

—What news! —I hear that you are gone, —have won
A bride, and dwell upon Italian ground, —
Near Fiesole or Florence, —where the sound
Of Arno, murmuring from his mountain springs,
Comes daily by your door,
And sings, and sings,
At times, (midst every-day familiar things,)
Of the mighty dead, —once “pacers of the shore:”
Whose words have fill'd the echoing regions round,
Whose names are with the Stars, for evermore!

xxvii

Well! —I must send you, still, across the sea,
A friend's good wishes, —kind as kind may be,
For happiness, for health, for wealth, for fame, —
Though you 're not one to play the golden game
With Fortune, —rather you will pause and bean
The laurel 'round the forehead of some friend,
Dreaming you are not hid in noble bays,
Ay, praised by poets, —who too seldom praise!

All good be Thine! thou'lt win a name of might,
So thou wilt but obey thy Genius duly;
Live; labour; do thy true Soul's bidding truly,
Thro' morn, and noon, and eve, and thoughtful night!
Clear be thy dreams! thy lines like arrowy light!
Pour out thy rich sweet numbers! Freely sing!
Soar freely, like the eagle strong of wing!
Or, if needs be, descend
Amongst the poor and those who have no friend!
Into their cellar-homes seek thou thy way,
And lift their dark Romances into day!

On lowly seat, without a fire,
The poor girl-labourer sews and sings;
No fear has she: her sole desire
To hear the sound of Angel wings, —
To hear, and with the Angels fly
Unto her only home, —the sky.

Upon the damp ground, fierce and drear,
The worn-out workman father lies:
His children cowering, hungering, near;
His wife with sad, sick, watchful eyes!
No hope, no love, the sufferers feel;
No fear, —save for the morning's meal.

But, see! —An angel from above
Doth (ever in female shape) descend;
To show that here still liveth Love;
To show the friendless still a friend.
Ah, poor and old! —while she is there,
Sick! —Sufferers! —do not quite despair!

xxviii

High in our list of duties,—high,—confess'd,
Is that which bids us nurse and (wisely) use
The power which in us soars above the rest.
Turn, then, thine heart unto the gracious Muse,
And tell us all she prompts, of dark and bright:
Out of her gloom bring forth clear shapes of light;
Translate for us her wild mysterious sounds;
Lead us beyond the proser's narrow bounds,
And show us how to reach the topmost height!

I, in my London home, droop o'er the fire,
Perplex'd by many a vague and vain desire;
Imprison'd by the long day's ceaseless toil,
“Of wearisome law-winding, coil on coil.”
Such toil fills up my life. Sometimes, indeed,
When May casts off her cold, and summer seed
Springs from the ground, sweetening the smiling air,
My room can boast a flower,—one nursed with care
In some warm greenhouse, blue, blush-hued, or white,
Or redder than the sunset, when the light
Of June along the evening ridges glows,—
Geranium, lily, or the imperial rose.
Still am I a prisoner here:—But Thou,—whose sign
And symbol are the liberal Laurel wreath,—
Claim'st for thyself and thine
The right to breathe
The free air of the unconquered Apennine;
The right to think—the right to move—to rest,
Just as thou deemest best;
And, more than all, the poet's power to roam,
Yet never, never leave thy happy Tuscan home.

Oh: o'er what scenes and space thy thoughts may run
O'er all the years of Time—
The wondrous worlds of History—Fable—Rhyme—
O'er all that Grief hath borne, and Love hath done—
O'er all that Science, Valour, Worth, have won
In every clime,
From Western Ocean to the Orient Sun!
—And, then, that inner world, more wondrous still,
Lies open to thy subtle searching skill;

xxix

And thou may'st well assume the Master's part,
And once more force the living human heart
To obey thy will;
Yield up its secrets; bare its winding ways,—
Its good,—its ill,—its passions all ablaze;
Such as we read in Sebald, led astray
By the fierce, loose, magnificent Ottima.
And thou may'st pierce the caves where Fancy lies,
And trace the Imagination as she flies
From point to point, leaving on every height
Her golden words and rich Aurorean light.
Touch'd by her power, the slumberous Giant Soul,
Prone in the desert, quits his ancient sleep,
Transported into song beyond control,
And sends her thoughts afar, in echoes deep,
Over the sands and plains and wastes below:—
For he who learns thus, not content to know,
Burneth to spread his knowledge wide around;
Nor rests until he multiplies the sound,
Repeating still the high heroic theme,
Till future ages hear, and bless a poet's dream!

Would I could rise (with thee) on airier wing,
And scale the enchanted regions ere I die,
And hear that true song which the Muses sing
At morning, on their mountains near the sky,
And there through starry evening listening lie,
While the deep melodies are born, that flow
From heavenly lips, teaching the world below!—
But idle wishes these!
Although they serve to please
And soothe the humours of a wayward mind.
My life is nearly spent, and left behind:
And what remains is brief, and weak, and old:
Therefore I call on Thee, a Spirit bold,
And able to maintain the poet's gage,
To stamp thy fame, in lines of burning gold,
Upon the page
Of everlasting admant, where lie
The few great names which Memory

xxx

Has rescued from the oblivious deep Abyss!
—Spurn not good counsel, even in verse like this.
Summon thy spirit! Grasp thine arms,—(the best);
Plunge in the strife,—and Fate will do the rest.

THE SURGEON'S TALE.

'Twas on a dark December evening;
Loud the blast, and bitter cold:
Downwards came the whirling waters;
Deep and black the river roll'd:
Not a dog beneath the tempest!
Not a beggar upon his best!
Wind and Rain, and Cold and Darkness,
Swept through every desert street.

Muffled to the teeth, that evening
I was struggling in the storm,
Thro' pestilent lanes and hungry alleys:
Suddenly,—an Ancient Form
Peered from out a gloomy doorway,
And with trembling croak, it said—
“In the left-hand empty garret
You will find a woman—dead.

“Never stepped a finer creature,
When she was a simple maid;
But she did like many others,—
Loved a man, and was betrayed.
I have seen her in her carriage,
Diamonds flaming in her hair;
And I've seen her starving (starving,
Do you hear?) and now—she's there!”

Up the worn and slippery stair
With a quickened pulse I sprung;

xxxi

Famine, filth, and mean despair
Round about the darkness hung:
No kind vision met my glances,
Friend or helper of the poor,
So the crazy room I enter'd,
And look'd down upon the floor!

There,—on the rough and naked boards,
A long, gaunt, wasted figure lay,
Murder'd in its youth by Hunger;
All its beauty—wrinkled clay!
Life's poor wants had left her nothing;
Clothes nor fuel,—food nor bed;
Nothing,—save some ragged letters
Whereon lay the ghastly head.

“Nothing!”—yet what more could Pity
Crave, for one about to die,
Than sweet words from one she worshipp'd,—
(Sweet, though every word a lie)!
In the morning of her pleasure,
In the midnight of her pain,
They were all;—her wealth, her comfort;
Treasured,—ay, and not in vain.

And with her they now lie mouldering;
And a date upon a stone
Telleth where (to end the story)
Love's poor Outcast sleeps alone!
Mourn not; for at length she sleepeth
The soft slumber of the Dead;
Resting on her loved love-letters,
Last, fit pillow for her head!

xxxii

SONG.

[Sing a low song!]

Sing a low song!
A tender cradling measure, soft and low,
Not sad nor long,
But such as we remember long ago,
When Time, now old, was flying
Over the sunny seasons, bright and fleet,
And the red rose was lying
Amongst a crowd of flowers all too sweet.

Sing o'er the bier!
The bell is swinging in the time-worn tower:
He's gone who late was here,
As fresh as manhood in its lustiest hour.
A song to each brief season,
Winter and shining Summer, doth belong,
For some sweet human reason,—
O'er cradle or the coffin still a song.

FLOWERS.

Dear friend, love well the flowers! Flowers are the sign
Of Earth's all gentle love, her grace, her youth,
Her endless, matchless, tender gratitude.
When the sun smiles on thee,—why, thou art glad:
But when on Earth he smileth, She bursts forth
In beauty like a bride, and gives him back,
In sweet repayment for his warm bright love,
A world of flowers. You may see them born
On any day in April, moist or dry,
As bright as are the Heavens that look on them:
Some sown like stars upon the greensward; some
As yellow as the sunrise; others red
As day is when he sets; reflecting thus,
In pretty moods, the bounties of the sky.

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—And now, of all fair flowers, which lov'st thou best?
The Rose? She is a Queen,—more wonderful
Than any who have bloomed on Orient thrones:
Sabæan Empress! in her breast, though small,
Beauty and infinite Sweetness sweetly dwell,
Inextricable. Or dost dare prefer
The Woodbine, for her fragrant summer breath?
Or Primrose, who doth haunt the hours of Spring,
A wood-nymph, brightening places lone and green?
Or Cowslip?—or the virgin Violet,—
That nun, who nestling in her cell of leaves,
Shrinks from the world in vain?

Yet, wherefore choose, when Nature doth not choose?
Our mistress, our preceptress,—She brings forth
Her broods with equal care; loves all alike;
And to the meanest as the greatest yields
Her sunny splendours and her fruitful rains.
Love all flowers, then. Be sure that wisdom lies
In every leaf and bloom; o'er hills and dales,
And thymy mountains; sylvan solitudes;
Where sweet-voiced waters sing the long year through:
In every haunt beneath the eternal Sun,
Where Youth or Age sends forth its silent prayer,
Or thoughtful Meditation deigns to stray.

THE WIFE'S SONG.

Forget not! Thou didst breathe a vow,
That aye with the dewy evening star
Thy heart would seek its home, and thou
Wouldst love and bless us from afar.
Behold, the evening star doth shine,
Thy flower, the rose, is dewy wet:
I and thy children (thine and mine)
Forget thee not:—dost thou forget?

xxxiv

Forget not, husband of my heart!
The words thou left'st have been a charm:
They dried our tears when we did part,
They kept—they keep us still, from harm.
“To love and soon return to me,”—
Those words they soothe my spirit yet.
Ah! she who gave her life to thee
Forgets thee not:—dost thou forget?

SONG.

[If Life be ever pleasant]

If Life be ever pleasant,
'Tis in merry hours like this,
When the wine is old and sound,
And the laugh is running round;
When each maiden mouth discloses
Buds of pearl in beds of roses,
Roses that we fain would kiss.

If Life be ever gloomy,
'Tis as when we, long ago,
Saw the friend we loved so well,
Swiftly borne to debtor's cell;
And not one of us could lend him
Gold or silver, or befriend him;
Scarce had time to soothe his woe.

Ah! Life has many changes,
Sunny seasons, winter rains;
So let's pluck the Summer flower,
Bravely front the frowning hour,
Cherish all who'd fain befriend us,
Whether good or ill attend us,
Long as life remains.

xxxv

A PARTIE CARRÉE.

Boys, 'tis little I care to dine
Where the host is vain and the guests are fine,
Where the wines are warm and the dishes cold,
And the mutton is young, and the spinsters old.
Better a humble meal, I say;
So give me an honest Partie Carrée.

Draw the curtains, and shut the door!
Here we are, jolly good fellows four;
The turbot is firm, and the joint is brown,
Cut from a six-year-old South-down:
Tender the grouse, and not forgot
A tart of the delicate apricot.

Now for a glass of the foaming wine,
One should drink (a little) whene'er we dine:
And, pr'ythee, admire this amber star;
Sir, this is “London particular”
After the cloth's away, I trow,
There's nought like a bottle of black Bordeaux.

So, let a simple life be mine,
Always with three brave boys to dine.
At supper, indeed, one would rather sip
Nectar drawn from a tender lip;
But at dinner, spread at the close of day,
Give me a hearty Partie Carrée.

LOVE SONG.

Sit near, sit near! I kiss thy lips,
Ripe, richer than the crimson cherry.
Girl, canst thou love me in eclipse?
Tell me, and bid my soul be merry.

xxxvi

My light is dim, my fortune fled;
I've nothing,—save my love for thee.
Give back thy love, or I am dead—
A word,—while I can hear,—and see!

Sit nearer,—near! I kiss thine eyes;
There,—where the white lids part asunder.
I love thee,—dost thou hear my sighs?
Love thee beyond the world, thou Wonder!

My Life is spent: I've nothing left
To tender now, save Love's dear duty:
Ah, let me—of all else bereft—
Feed, until death, upon thy beauty!

STANZAS.

[Let who will go mad for glory]

Let who will go mad for glory,
Kingly power, a gaudy tomb,
But be mine, a humbler story,
Happy life, and a quiet doom;
Whilst I live, no hate, no fears;
When I die,—a few soft tears!

What care I for the cry that ringeth
Through the camps of conquer'd foes;
What for the bloody fame that springeth
From a brave man's dying throes:
Pastoral music,—sweet rose bowers,
Words of love, be mine—be ours!

Love me, then, and let thy beauty
(Brighter for a touch of pain)
Bind me to a life—long duty,
Stronger far than iron chain.
For my fame,—ah! let it rest,
Hid, for ever, in thy breast!

xxxvii

FINIS.

My soul is sinking
To deep repose.
Friends, come around me
At Life's dark close.
No bell be sounding,
No tears abounding;
I leave behind me
The world's sad woes.

Soft smiles attend me
Whene'er I fly—
Good prayers befriend me,
From earth and sky.
Sweet hearts be near me;
Kind angels hear me:
A sound?—They call me:
I die,—I die!

THE COMPLAINT OF AN OUTLYING CHRISTIAN.

Winter is all around,
With its hunger, and cold, and pain;
Last night the frost,—to-day the sleet,—
To-morrow the roaring rain!

Our hut it had many a cranny,
That let in the wind and cold,
On you and me and our children three,
And our mother, so starved and old.

xxviii

But now we are driven abroad,—
Forced out from our wretched Home:
'Twas bad,—but there's worse in the fierce wide world;
So let's gather our rags and roam.

Now the clouds are our only roof,—
The earth is our only bed;
No friend—or he stands aloof!
Not a penny to buy us bread!

The bird has her nest on high,
The tiger below his den;
And they each have a friend, in the bird or brute,
But I am alone,—with men;

With men that oppress and prey,
And cozen, and rob, and lie,
And laugh, whilst their brothers pine and starve:
They are merry,—then why not I?

Come on! We have sought for work
In vain,—not a man would hire;
We begged for a crust,—in vain,
And lay down with our throats on fire.

So now let us cheat and prey,
And plunder and lie,—and then
We shall haply have food to eat,
And may thrive like our fellow-men.

As it is, we have struggled and toil'd
(How hard!) through our whole life long;
And all we at last have gain'd
Is—but matter for one poor song!

xxxix

SONG.

[Winds were gentle, branches bending]

I.

Winds were gentle, branches bending
Burthen'd with their crowns of dew,
Angel thoughts and shapes ascending
To the sky's autumnal blue,
When I first saw—you!

II.

Never since that gracious morning
Have I felt so soft a clime,
Even when the Sun, adorning
Earth in Summer's sweetest time,
Sings his golden rhyme.

III.

Hearts were gentle, eyes were gleaming,
Like the branch with burthened dew;
Life was filled with beauty,—Tell me
(You, to whom all love is due,)
Wherefore should there be an ending
To a time so true?

THE MOTHER'S SONG.

Sleep!—the ghostly winds are blowing:
No moon's abroad; no star is glowing:
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing
To the land where you and I are going!
We are going afar,
Beyond moon or star,
To the land where the sinless angels are!

I lost my heart to your heartless sire;
('Twas melted away by his looks of fire;)
Forgot my God, and my father's ire,
All for the sake of a man's desire:—
But now we'll go
Where the waters flow,
And make us a bed where none shall know.

The world is cruel; the world's untrue:
Our foes are many; our friends are few:
No work, no bread, however we sue!
What is there left for us to do,—
But fly—fly,
From the cruel sky,
And hide in the deepest deeps—and die!

DIRGE.

[Farewell! Day is done!]

Farewell! Day is done!
Love died at the set of sun!
Joy we found;—but it is lost;
And Life is weary, and tempest-toss'd.

Farewell! World of Gold!
Nought of ours was bought or sold:
Hearts were given, sweet for sweet:
But our Summer is now in its winding-sheet.

All that God, the giver, gave,
Sleepeth now in a virgin grave;
A flower above, and the mould below;
And this is all that the mourners know.

Farewell! The torches burn;
But Hope, the Seraph, will not return:
Love died at the set of sun;
And darkness falls, and the Day is done!

2. PART THE SECOND.

I.—A SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR.

Hark!
The Old Year is gone!
And the young New Year is coming!
Through minutes, and days, and unknown skies,
My soul on her forward journey flies;
Over the regions of rain and snow;
And beyond where the wild March-trumpets blow:
And I see the meadows, all cowslip-strewn;
And I dream of the dove in the greenwood lone;
And the wild bee humming:—
And all because the New Year is coming!

The Winter is cold, the Winter is gray,
But he hath not a sound on his tongue to-day:
The son of the stormy Autumn, he
Totters about on a palsied knee,
With a frozen heart and a feeble head:
Let us pierce a barrel and drink him dead!
The fresh New Year is almost here;
Let us warm him with mistletoe boughs, my dear!
Let us welcome him hither, with songs and wine,
Who holdeth such joys in his arms divine!

What is the Past,—to you, or me,
But a thing that was, and was to be?
And now it is gone to a world unknown;
Its deeds are done; its flight is flown!

Hark to The Past! In a bitter tone,
It crieth “The good Old Year is flown,”—
The sire of a thousand thoughtful hours,
Of a thousand songs, of a thousand flowers!
Ah! why, thou ungrateful child of rhyme,
Rail'st thou at the deeds of our father Time?
Hath he not fed thee, day by day,
With fancies that soothe thy soul alway?
Hath he not 'wakened, with pleasant pain,
The Muse that slept in thy teeming brain?
Hath he not—ah! dost thou forget
All the amount of the mighty debt?

Hush, hush!—The little I owe to Time
I'll pay him, some day, with a moody rhyme,—
Full of phantasmas, dark and drear,
As the shadows thrown down by the old Old Year,—
Dim as the echoes that lately fell
From the deep Night's funereal bell,
Sounding hollow o'er hill and vale,
Like the close of a mournful tale!

. . . . In the meantime,—speak, trump and drum!
The Year is gone! the Year is come!
The fresh New Year, the bright New Year,
That telleth of hope and joy, my dear!
Let us model our spirit to chance and change,
Let us lesson our spirit to hope, and range
Through plonsuros to come,—years unknown;
But never forget the time that's flown!

II.—LONDON.

Oh, when I was a little boy,
How often was I told
Of London and its silver walls,
And pavements all of gold;
Of women all so beautiful,
And men so true and bold,
And how all things 'tween earth and sky
Were therein bought and sold.

And so I came to London:
'Twas on a summer's day,
And I walked at times and rode at times,
And whistled all the way;
And the blood rushed to my head,
When Ben, the waggoner, did say—
“Here's London, boy, the Queen of towns,
As proud as she is gay.”

I listened, and I looked about,
And questioned, and—behold!
The walls were not of silver,
The pavement was not gold;
But women, oh, so beautiful,
And—may I say—so bold,
I saw, and Ben said—“All things here
Are to be bought and sold.”

And I found they sold the dearest things;
The mother sold her child,
And the sailor sold his life away
To plough the waters wild;
And Captains sold commissions
To young gentlemen so mild,
And some thieves sold their brother thieves,
Who hanged were or exiled.

And critics sold their paragraphs;
And poets sold their lays;
And great men sold their little men
With votes of “Ays” and “Nays;”
And parsons sold their holy words,
And blessed rich men's ways;
And women sold their love—(for life,
Or only a few days).

'Twas thus with all:—For gold, bright Art
Her radiant flag unfurled;
And the young rose let its unblown leaves
Be cankered and uncurled;
For gold against the tender heart
The liar's darts were hurled;
And soldiers, whilst Fame's trumpet blew,
Dared death across the world.

And so, farewell to London!
Where men do sell and buy
All things that are (of good and bad)
Beneath the awful sky;
Where some win wealth, and many want;
Some laugh, and many sigh:
Till, at last, all folks, from king to clown.
Shut up their books, and—die!

III.—MY OLD ARM-CHAIR.

Let poets coin their golden dreams;
Let lovers weave their vernal themes;
And paint the earth all fair.
To me no such bright fancies throng:
I sing a humble hearthstone song,
Of thee,—my old Arm-chair!

Poor—faded—ragged—crazy—old,—
Thou'rt yet worth thrice thy weight in gold;
Ay, though thy back be bare:
For thou hast held a world of worth,
A load of heavenly human earth,—
My old Arm-chair!

Here sate—ah, many a year ago,—
When, young, I nothing cared to know
Of life, or its great aim,—
Friends (gentle hearts) who smiled and shed
Brief sunshine on my boyish head:
At last the wild clouds came,—

And vain desires, and hopes dismayed,
And fears that cast the earth in shade,
My heart did fret;
And dreaming wonders, foul and fair;
And who then filled mine ancient chair,
I now forget.

Then Love came—Love!—without his wings,
Low murmuring here a thousand things
Of one I once thought fair:
'Twas here he laughed, and bound my eyes,
Taking me, boy, by sweet surprise,
Here,—in my own Arm-chair.

How I escaped from that soft pain,
And (nothing lesson'd) fell again
Into another snare,
And how again Fate set me free,
Are secrets 'tween my soul and me,—
Me, and my old Arm-chair.

Years fade:—Old Time doth all he can:
The soft youth hardens into man;
The vapour Fame
Dissolves; Care's scars indent our brow;
Friends fail us in our need:—but Thou
Art still the same.

Thou bring'st calm thoughts; strange dreamings; sleep;
And fancies subtle (sometimes deep);
And the unseen Air
Which round thy honoured tatters plays,
Bears with it thoughts of other days,
That quell despair.

Let the world turn, then,—wrong or right;
Let the hired critic spit his spite:
With thee, old friend,
With thee, companion of my heart,
I'll still try on the honest part,
Unto the end!

IV.—IL PENSEROSO AND L'ALLEGRO

(NIGHT.)

Old Thames! thy merry waters run
Gloomily now, without star or sun!
The wind blows o'er thee, wild and loud,
And Heaven is in its death-black shroud;
And the rain comes down with all its might,
Darkening the face of the sullen Night.

Midnight dies! There booms a sound,
From all the church-towers thundering round:
Their echoes into each other run,
And sing out the grand Night's awful “ONE!”
Saint Bride,—Saint Sepulchre,—great Saint Paul,
Unto each other, in chorus, call!

Who speaks?—'Twas nothing—the patrol grim
Moves stealthily over the pavement dim:
The debtor dreams of the gripe of law;
The harlot goes staggering to her straw;
And the drunken robber, and beggar bold
Laugh loud, as they limp by the Bailey Old.

Hark,—I hear the blood in a felon's heart!
I see him shiver—and heave—and start
(Does he cry?) from his last short bitter slumber,
To find that his days have reached their number,—
To feel that there comes, with the morning text,
Blind death, and the scaffold, and then—WHAT NEXT?

Sound, stormy Autumn! Brazen bell,
Into the morning send your knell!
Mourn, Thames! keep firm your chant of sorrow:
Mourn, men! for a fellow man dies to-morrow.
Alas! none mourn; none care:—the debt
Of pity the whole wide world forget!

(MORNING.)

. . . 'Tis dawn,—'tis Day! In floods of light
He drives back the dark and shrinking Night.
The clouds?—they're lost. The rains?—they're fled
And the streets are alive with a busy tread:
And thousands are thronging, with gossip gay,
To see how a felon will die to day.

The thief is abroad in his last new dress,
Earning his bread in the thickest press;
The idler is there, and the painter fine,
Studying a look for his next design;
The fighter, the brawler, the drover strong;
And all curse that the felon should stay so long.

At last,—he comes! With a heavy tread,
He mounts—he reels—he drops—he's dead!—
The show is over!—the crowd depart,
Each with a laugh and a merry heart.
—Hark! merrily now the bells are ringing:
The Thames on his careless way is springing:
The bird on the chimney top is singing:
Now, who will say
That Earth is not gay,
Or that Heaven is not brighter than yesterday?

V.—WITHIN AND WITHOUT.

A LONDON LYRIC.

(WITHOUT)

The winds are bitter; the skies are wild;
From the roof comes plunging the drowning rain:
Without, —in tatters, the world's poor child
Sobbeth abroad her grief, her pain!
No one heareth her, no one heedeth her:
But Hunger, her friend, with his bony hand,
Grasps her throat, whispering huskily—
“What dost Thou in a Christian land?”

(WITHIN)

The skies are wild, and the blast is cold;
Yet riot and luxury brawl within:
Slaves are waiting, in crimson and gold,
Waiting the nod of a child of sin.
The fire is crackling, wine is bubbling
Up in each glass to its beaded brim:
The jesters are laughing, the parasites quaffing
“Happiness,” — “honour,” —and all for him!

(WITHOUT)

She who is slain in the winter weather,
Ah! she once had a village fame;
Listened to love on the moonlit heather;
Had gentleness—vanity—maiden shame:
Now, her allies are the Tempest howling;
Prodigal's curses; self-disdain;
Poverty; misery: Well, —no matter;
There is an end unto every pain!

The harlot's fame was her doom to-day,
Disdain, —despair; by to-morrow's light

The ragged boards and the pauper's pall;
And so she'll be given to dusty night!
. . . Without a tear or a human sigh,
She's gone, —poor life and its “fever” o'er!
So, let her in calm oblivion lie;
While the world runs merry as heretofore!

(WITHIN)

He who yon lordly feast enjoyeth,
He who doth rest on his couch of down,
He it was, who threw the forsaken
Under the feet of the trampling town:
Liar—betrayer, —false as cruel,
What is the doom for his dastard sin?
His peers, they scorn? —high dames, they shun him?
—Unbar yon palace, and gaze within.

There, —yet his deeds are all trumpet—sounded,
There, upon silken seats recline
Maidens as fair as the summer morning,
Watching him rise from the sparkling wine.
Mothers all proffer their stainless daughters;
Men of high honour salute him “friend;”
Skies! oh, where are your cleansing waters?
World! oh, where do thy wonders end?

VI.—A PANEGYRIC ON ALE.

ADDRESSED TO W. L. BIRKBECK, ESQ.

I have a Friend who loveth me,
And sendeth me Ale of Trinitie:
A very good fellow is my true friend,
With talents and virtues without end;
Filled with Learning's very best seed;
Ready to think (or drink, at need);
In short, a very good fellow indeed:

But the best of all is, as it seems to me,
That he yieldeth the Ale of Trinitie.

Oh, Trinitie Ale is stout and good,
Whether in bottle it be or wood:
'Tis good at morning, 'tis good at night;
(Ye should drink whilst the liquor is bubbling bright:)
'Tis good for man, woman, and child,
Being neither too strong, nor yet too mild:
It strengthens the body; it strengthens the mind;
And hitteth the toper's taste refined.

Once, —once, I believed that the famous Cam
Was a riddle, a cheat, an enormous Flam,
Vamp'd up by tutors of Hall and College;
(Who've a great deal of learning and little knowledge;)
But now—I acknowledge, with tears of shame,
That the river it meriteth thrice its fame;
For, with it, —though seemingly poor and pale
Men manufacture—THE MIGHTY ALE!

Alma Mater! Thou mother kind,
Who trainest the youthful human mind
(By circles, and squares, and classic stories),
Until it arrives at Earth's high glories,
Who, —who, amongst all thy children, dare
With the bright Trinitie boys compare?
Mingling their ale with bookish learning,
They acquire by such means keen discerning,
And thus (in a circle arguing) steer
Between the extremes of books and beer.
Other men, —somehow or other, —pine
Whether they trust to Greek or wine.

Oh, in truth, it gladdens the heart to see
What may spring from the Ale of Trinitie, —
A scholar—a fellow—a rector blithe,
(Fit to take any amount of tithe)—
Perhaps a bishop—perhaps, by grace,
One may mount to the Archiepiscopal place,

And wield the crosier, an awful thing,
The envy of all, and—the parsons' King!
O Jove! who would struggle with Learning pale,
That could beat down the world by the strength of Ale!
For me, —I avow, could my thoughtless prime
Come back with the wisdom of mournful time,
I'd labour—I'd toil—by night and day,
(Mixing liquor and books away,)
Till I conquer'd that high and proud degree,
M.A. (Master of Ale) of Trinitie.

Ale! Ale, —if properly understood,
Promoteth a brotherly neighbourhood.
Now, what can be better, on winter night
When the faggot is blazing bright,
And your friend is perplex'd how to kill the time,
With “Useful Knowledge,” or idle rhyme,
To step in and say, —“Neighbour, I think
Your Trinitie Ale must be fit to drink?
Let's try it.” He answers, “With all my soul:”
And in the capacious tumblers roll:
Hark, —to the music rich and rare!
Note, —how it stealeth the sting from Care!
Behold, —both Pride and Prudery bend,
And each man groweth a warmer friend.
I repeat it, that Ale, —if understood,
Promoteth a brotherly neighbourhood.
Why, sometime since, we were enemies all
In our small village, —the short, the tall;
The old, the young; the dull, the bright;
Churchman, Simeonite, Puseyite:
But now, we are knit into one firm band,
By Sir John Barleycorn's high command:
No more envy, no more strife,
But tipplers honest and friends for life.

It would do good both to your head and heart,
Could you see how each playeth his social part,
In a bumper—a song—or a round of wit.
Jolly philosophers! here we sit. —

Ten reformed tea-totallers, all
Pull'd up before Chief-Magistrate Hall,
Merely for moistening a dry lip;
And again before Justice Broderip;
Ten bold widowers, each forlorn
Until he had been at Highgate sworn;
Ten thick squires, with brains made clear
By the irresistible strength of beer;
Ten plurality Vicars, (sent
By Heaven, —to take commutation rent);
Ten prebendaries; Canons ten;
(All very fat virtuous men):
And, last of us, I—who offer to thee
(I, —scribe of this choice society),
With grateful glee,
Postage free,
These rhymes for thy dozens of Trinitie.

VII.—THE PEARL-WEARER

Within the midnight of her hair,
Half-hidden in its deepest deeps,
A single, peerless, priceless pearl,
(All filmy-eyed,) for ever sleeps.
Without the diamond's sparkling eyes,
The ruby's blushes, —there it lies,
Modest as the tender dawn,
When her purple veil's withdrawn, —
The flower of gems, a lily cold and pale!
Yet, —what doth all avail?
All its beauty all its grace?
All the honours of its place?

He who plucked it from its bed,
In the far blue Indian ocean,
Lieth, without life or motion,
In his earthy dwelling, —dead!
And his children, one by one,
When they look upon the sun,
Curse the toil, by which he drew
The treasure from its bed of blue.

Gentle Bride, no longer wear,
In thy night-black odorous hair,
Such a spoil. It is not fit
That a tender soul should sit
Under such accursed gem!
What need'st thou a diadem? —
Thou, within whose eastern eyes,
Thought (a starry Genius) lies? —
Thou, whom Beauty has arrayed? —
Thou, whom Love and Truth have made
Beautiful, —in whom we trace
Woman's softness; angel's grace;
All we hope for; all that streams
Upon us in our haunted dreams?

O sweet Lady! cast aside,
With a gentle, noble pride,
All to sin or pain allied!
Let the wild-eyed conqueror wear
The bloody laurel in his hair!
Let the black and snaky vine
'Round the drinker's temples twine!
Let the slave-begotten gold
Weigh on bosoms hard and cold!
But be thou for ever known
By thy natural light alone!

It is recorded of a pearl-diver, that he died (from over-exertion) immediately after he had reached land, having brought up with him, amongst other shells, one that contained a pearl of surpassing size and beauty.

VIII.—A FAREWELL TO HOME.

The Autumn winds are sounding wild;—
Sad Nature, mourn'st thou for thy child,
From the fresh air and green fields driven,
And all the beauteous face of Heaven,
Into the wilderness of stone;
Destined there to dwell alone,
Toiling upwards, day by day,
For the Fame that lives for aye,
And for Fortune (golden sun),
And all else that must be won?

Evening falls: the sky is wild;
And cloud on mountain cloud is piled,
And the black Tempest, o'er the plain
Comes moaning in his wrath of rain,—
Comes chiding, like an angry friend,
That I should leave thee, Old Grove End!
Ah, well! Time was, when thou and I
Were all in all, beneath the sky,
Unto each other; when I played
Upon thy grass; beneath thy shade;
Before thy hundred branching vines;
And where Ayr's wanderer rose entwines
The gray wall in its thorny arms,
And loved and laughed on all thy charms!
Farewell!—Farewell each path and lawn,
Each tree whose music met the dawn,—
Laburnums, with your drops of gold;
Broad Plane; Dark Mulberry, rich and old,
Rough-visaged, raining blood-red fruit,
(Which ladies' lips did sometimes suit,
As sweet tunes match the sweeter lute:)

Farewell, twin Poplars,—mine no more,—
Whom I in boyhood taught to soar;
(Why stand ye murmuring, morn and eve?
Is it for me ye strive to grieve?)
And thou, wild Giant Plant, who clingest
Column and trelliced arch about,
And shadows in thy vast leaves bringest,
Shutting the fiery West all out;
And you, ye myriad-coloured flowers,
Sweet playmates of the sunshine hours,
Farewell!—Farewell the dreams of youth;
When life was joy; when hope was truth;
When days were cloudless; Time too brief;
And my pillow was the poppy leaf:
When all the world was frank and true;
When Heaven was one eternal blue;—
Farewell!—and Thou,—nurse, guardian, friend,
Farewell for ever,—Old Grove End?

IX.—THE RAKE'S PROGRESS.

(A FAINT IMPRESSION OF HOGARTH.)

The Old Man is dead!—Toll heavily ye bells!
The Son, the heir is coming, hark!—the music how it swells!
That roar and shock of merriment strikes sadly on the heart:
Joy is here, almost ere Death has yet had leisure to depart:
And the last of that dark funeral (the holy rite scarce done,)
Cries out—“The Father's buried, friends: Long life unto the Son!”

From out the miser mansion is swept the black array:
The windows are unbarred, and straight in dances merry Day;
The cold grim hearth is blazing: the cellars shed their wine;
The chests give up their hoarded souls, and the Rake saith—“All is mine;”
Yet the first debt that he pays is with an oath,—for virtue won,
(And lost,alas!)—and so begin the triumphs of the Son

The Rake dawns forth in scarlet: his ears are deaf with praise;
The fencer and the fiddler, and the jockey court his gaze:
The poet mouths his stanzas; the bully, with a curse,
Swears how he'll cut a throat for him, and only asks— his purse.
O, Steward of the needy, be careful of thy prize;
Above thee beams the firmament: Thy way is to the skies:

No, no: his doom is earthly; coarse, earthly are his joys,
Black wine, and wild-eyed women round him stun the night with noise;
And one, a painted Thais, doth fire a painted world;
And others round the dizzy room in drunken danco are whirled:
Foul songs are met by fouler jibes; mad screams by curses bold;
Till even the drowsy watchman wakes, and—claims his bribe in gold.

But pleasures are not endless, however far we range;
And summer friendship faileth, and golden seasons change:
And then the fierce-eyed creditor comes clamouring for his debt;
And all who fed upon the Rake are eager to forget.

The bailiffs are upon him,—ah! he's saved: A gent! heart
Redeems him:—'tis a Magdalen who plays an angel's part.

For once the rescue serveth: But blacker days may be;
And how to live he ponders, and still riot with the free:
He sells his youth, his manhood: takes sour Old Age to wife,
And thus (for a nauseous respite) twists a serpent round his life:
That sting will drive him frantic—ay! the dice are in his hands;
And the terrible eye of Morning sees him beggared where he stands.

What followeth in the story? Why, horror and the jail;
Where food is not, and fire is not, and every friend doth fail;
Where each jailer is a robber, and each prisoner 'round a foe;
Where nothing linketh heart to heart,—not even the common woe.
One hope he had:—'tis vanished! He sits down with vacant stare,
And the game of Life abandons, with the quiet of despair:—

And then—The Madhouse opens! Look round;—he cannot: Blight
And frenzy hang about his brain, and blind his staring sight:
In vain pope, king, sit crowned; in vain the martyr raves;
In vain the herds of idiots sit chattering o'er their graves:
He heareth not; he seeth not: all sense is dimmed by pain:
Ambition, Pride, Religion, Fear, scream out to him in vain.

And yet,—Oh, human Virtue!—Thou never canst escape:
Thou comest here, as everywhere, in woman's angel shape:
The loved—the lost—the ruined One—She leaves him not at last;
But soothes and serves about him, till the damps of death are past:
His limbs she then composes,—weeps,—prays,—(they heed her not;)
Then glides away in silence,—like a benefit forgot!

X.—THIRTEEN YEARS AGO.

BEGGAR-GIRL.

Thirteen years ago, mother,
A little child had you:
Its limbs were light; its voice was soft;
Its eyes were—oh, so blue!
It was your last, your dearest;
And you said, when it was born,
It cheered away your widowhood,
And made you unforlorn.

Thirteen years ago, mother,
You loved that little child;
Although its temper wayward was,
And its will so strong and wild:
You likened it to the free bird
That flies to the woods to sing,
To the river fair, the unfettered air,
And many a pretty thing.

Thirteen years ago, mother,
The world was in its youth:
There was no past: and the all to come
Was Hope, and Love, and Truth:

The dawn came dancing onwards,
The day was ne'er too long;
And every night had a faëry sight,
And every voice a song.

Thirteen years ago, mother,
Your child was an infant small;
But she grew, and budded, and bloomed at last,
Like the rose on your garden wall:
Ah! the rose that you loved was trod on,
Your child was lost in shame;
And never since hath she met your smile
And never heard your name!

WIDOW.

Be dumb, thou gipsy slanderer;
What is my child to thee?
What are my troubles—what my joys?
Here, take these pence and flee!
If thou wilt frame a story,
Which telleth of me or mine,
Go, say you found me singing, girl,
In the merry sun-shine.

BEGGAR GIRL.

Thirteen years ago, mother,
The sun shone on your wall:
He shineth now through the winter's mist;
Or he shineth not at all.
You laughed then, and your little one
Ran round with merry feet;
To-day you hide your eyes in tears;
And I—am in the street!

WIDOW.

Ah, God!—what frightful spasm
Runs piercing through my heart!
It cannot be my bright one,
So pale—so worn:—Depart,
Depart—yet, no; come hither!
Here,—hide thee in my breast!

I see thee again—again! and I
Am once more with the bless'd!

BEGGAR GIRL.

Ay,—gaze!—'Tis I, indeed, mother;
Your loved,—your lost,—your child!
The rest of the bad world scorn me,
As a creature all defiled;
But you—you'll take me home, mother?
And I—though the grave seems nigh,
I'll bear up still; and, for your sake,
I'll struggle—not to die!

XI.—A DIRGE.

(FOR MUSIC.)

Strew boughs—strew flowers,
Through all the hours,
On yon low tomb!
Unblown, yet faded,
Unloved, unknown,
Here Beauty sleepeth beneath a stone;
Once how fair, but now degraded!
Hither she came, alone—alone,
From the South Sea bowers,
Where summer dowers
The world with bloom:
Mingle with music the strange perfume!

Let the tears of the Hours
Now fall like rain,
And freshen the flowers,
Again, again!
The sweetness they borrow
Shall ne'er be vain,
While human sorrow
Is falling in showers,
That yield no comfort to human pain!

XII.—THE FATE OF THE OAK.

The owl to her mate is calling;
The river his hoarse song sings;
But the Oak is marked for falling,
That has stood for a hundred springs.
Hark!—a blow, and a dull sound follows;
A second,—he bows his head;
A third,—and the wood's dark hollows
Now know that their king is dead.

His arms from their trunk are riven;
His body all barked and squared;
And he's now, like a felon, driven
In chains to the strong dock-yard:
He's sawn through the middle, and turned
For the ribs of a frigate free;
And he's caulked, and pitched, and burned;
And now—he is fit for sea!

Oh! now,—with his wings outspread
Like a ghost (if a ghost may be),
He will triumph again, though dead,
And be dreaded in every sea:
The Lightning will blaze about,
And wrap him in flaming pride;
And the thunder-loud cannon will shout,
In the fight, from his bold broad-side.

And when he has fought, and won,
And been honoured from shore to shore;
And his journey on earth is done,—
Why, what can he ask for more?
There is nought that a king can claim,
Or a poet or warrior bold,
Save a rhyme and a short-lived name,
And to mix with the common mould!

XIII.—THE HISTORY OF A LIFE.

Day dawned:—Within a curtained room,
Filled to faintness with perfume,
A lady lay at point of doom.

Day closed:—A Child had seen the light;
But for the lady, fair and bright,
She rested in undreaming night.

Spring rose:—The lady's grave was green;
And near it often-times was seen
A gentle Boy, with thoughtful mien.

Years fled:—He wore a manly face,
And struggled in the world's rough race,
And won, at last, a lofty place.

And then—he died! Behold, before ye,
Humanity's poor sum and story;
Life,—Death,—and all that is of Glory,

XIV.—ON A STRANGER'S GRAVE NEAR VENICE.

Low lies the grave wherein a Stranger sleeps!
Nought comes to mourn beside that humble ground;
Save when, in melancholy Autumn, creeps
The sullen Adriatic round and round;
Or when the sea-bird, with his wings unbound,
Screams out a dirge, and toward the mountains sweeps
Or when a dead man floats across the deeps;
Or clouds, blown landward, pass without a sound!

All gloom forsakes the spot whereon she died:
The merry marriage-bells send forth their chimes;
And joy flies upwards as in ancient times:
Ah, no!—One tender heart, to hers allied,
In sorrow sweeter than the poet's rhymes,
Sings a lament, above the stranger's grave,
Its murmurs mingling with the ever-murmuring wave

XV.—MUSIC.

Hark! Music speaks from out the woods and streams;
Amidst the winds, amidst the harmonious rain:
It fills the voice with sweets, the eye with beams;
It stirs the heart; it charms the sting from pain.

Great Memory hoards it 'midst her golden themes;
The wise man keeps it with his learned gain;
The minstrel hears it in his listening dreams;
And no one, save the fool, doth deem it vain.

Whatever thing doth bring a joy unstained
Unto the soul, if rightly understood,
Is one more ingot to our fortune gained,
Is wisdom to the wise, good to the good:

“Sing then, divine one!”—Thus a lover sighed
To one who sate beside him fair and young,
Preluding with coquettish conscious pride,
And checked the half-born music on her tongue:

Sing maiden,—gentle maiden!
Sing for me; sing to me;
With a heart not overladen,
Nor too full of glee.
Give thy voice its way divine;
Let thine eyes, sweet spirits, shine;
Not too bright, but also tender,
Softness stealing half their splendour.

Sing,—but touch a sadder strain,
Till our eyes are hid in rain.
Tell of those whose hopes are wrecked
On that cruel strand,—neglect;
Widow poor and unbefriended;
Virgin dreams in ruin ended;
All the pleasure, all the pain
That hideth from the world's disdain.

Sing,—an airier blither measure,
Full and overflown with pleasure;
Sing,—with smiles and dimpling mouth,
Opening like the sunny South,
When it breathes amongst the roses,
And a thousand thousand sweets discloses.

Sing,—fair child of music, sing
Like love—hope—sorrow—any-thing;
Like a sparkling murmuring river,
Running its blue race for ever;
Like the sounds that haunt the Sun,
When the god's bright day is done;
Like the voice of dreaming Night,
Tender, touching, airy, light,
Not a wind, but just a breeze
Moving in the citron trees;
Like the first sweet murmur creeping
O'er Love's lips, (when pride is sleeping),
Love's first unforgotten word,
By maiden in the silence heard,
Heard, hoarded, and repeated oft,
In mimic whisper, low and soft,—

Yet, what matter for the strain,
Be it joy, or be it pain,
So thy now imprisoned Voice,
In its matchless strength rejoice;
So it burst its fetters strong,
And soar forth on winged Song!

XVI.—TO THE EYES OF A YOUNG ACTRESS.

Where now are those dark Eyes—(sweet eyes!)—
In tears?—in thought?—in sleep?
Those lights, like stars in the stormy skies,
Which gently shine, when all else weep?
O dark unconquered Eyes!
Are ye from human anguish freed?
Or do ye sometimes mourn indeed,
In pity, or superior pain,
For some deep secret hid from all the world, in vain?

O melancholy Eyes, which love to dwell
On Juliet's passion,—Belvidera's woe,—
Where was the light which now ye wear so well,
(That tender, touching lustre!) lone ago?
Did it lie dreaming in your orbs unknown,
As in the rose's bud the unblown perfume,
Till evil fortune (now for ever flown,)
Struck out your dazzling doom?
For what too dangerous purpose were ye born?
To lead the youthful poet far astray?
Or, was't to turn to tears the proud and gay,
With looks that in their beauty mock the morn?

Long may ye shine; as dark, as bright, as young,
(Shall age e'er harm ye?)—as complete in power,
As when from out Verona's midnight bower,
Upon the moonlight first your glances hung,
And filled with love the rich enamoured air,
And made the fair, more fair!

Long may ye shine; undimmed by storm or cloud;
Uninjured, unconsumed by grief or pain;
Your high heroic spirit never bowed,
Your love ne'er lost, your tears ne'er shed—in vain!

Long may She live and shine—and have no fear
Of fatal Fortune or the touch of Time,
To whom belongs your beauty without peer,
To whom belongs this slight and careless rhyme!

XVII.—AN INVOCATION TO MUSIC.

See where, upon the blue and waveless deep,
Comes forth the silent Moon!
Now, Music, wake from out thy charmed sleep;
And bid thy sweet soul weep
Her life away in some immortal tune!
Or, let thy soaring spirit run
Aloft upon some wild enchanted air,
Before whose breath despair
Dies, like a mist before the uprisen sun!

Come forth, lost Spirits of the world of sound!
Leave, leave awhile your aye-sweet tasks above;
And rear your starry heads with music crowned,
And once more weave an earthly song of love!
Weave it around the gentle heart,—
Handel, Haydn, great Beethoven,
And thou, sweet, sweet-souled Mozart!
Ah! sure to sing and love must be the angel's part.
Therefore, pour your skyey treasures—
Grand, unknown, immortal measures,
Such as ne'er the blooming Earth
Heard since first she burst to birth,
And in endless ether hung,
While the stars of Morning sung!

XVIII.—TO A FRIEND IN AUTUMN.

Friend! the year is overgrown:
Summer like a bird hath flown,
Leaving nothing (fruits nor flowers)
Save remembrance of sweet hours;
And a fierce and froward season,
Blowing loud for some rough reason,
Rusheth from a land unknown.

Where is laughing May, who leapt
From the ground when April wept?
Where is rose-encumbered June?
July, with her lazy noon?
August, with her crown of corn?
And the fresh September morn?
Will they come back to us,—soon?—soon?

Never! Time is overgrown!
All that e'er was good is flown!
All things that were good and gay
(Dance, songs, smiles,) have flown away;
And we now must sing together
Strains more sad than autumn weather;
And dance upon a stormy ground,
Whilst the wild winds pipe around,
A dark and unforgotten measure,
Graver than the ghost of pleasure;
Till at last, at Winter's call,
We die, and are forgot by all!

XIX.—LOWLY PLEASURES.

Methinks I love all common things;
The common air, the common flower;
The dear kind common thought that springs
From hearts that have no other dower,
No other wealth, no other power,
Save love; and will not that repay
For all else fortune tears away?

Methinks I love the horny hand
That labours until dusk from dawn;
Methinks I love the russet band,
Beyond the band of silk or lawn;
And, oh! the lovely laughter drawn
From peasant lips, when sunny May
Leads in some flowery holiday!

What good are fancies rare, that rack
With painful thought the poet's brain?
Alas! they cannot bear us back
Unto happy years again!
But the white rose without stain
Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers,
When youth was bounteous as the hours!

E'en now, were I but rich, my hand
Should open like a vernal cloud,
When't casts its bounty on a land
In music sweet but never loud:
But I am of the humble crowd;
And thus am I content to be,
If thou, sweet Muse, wilt cherish me!

XX.—TO OUR NEIGHBOUR'S HEALTH

Send the red wine round to-night,
For the blast is bitter cold:
Let us sing a song that's light;
Merry rhymes are good as gold.

Here's unto our neighbour's health!
Oh! he plays the better part;
Doing good,—but not by stealth:
Is he not a noble heart?

Should you bid me tell his name,—
Show wherein his virtues dwell;
'Faith, (I speak it to my shame,)
I should scarce know what to tell.

“Is he—?—” “Sir, he is a thing
Cast in common human clay;
'Tween a beggar and a king;
Fit to order or obey.”

“He is, then, a soldier brave?”—
“No; he doth not kill his kin,
Pampering the luxurious grave
With the blood and bones of sin.”

“Or a Judge?”—“He doth not sit
Making hucksters' bargains plain;
Piercing cobwebs with his wit;
Cutting tangled knots in twain.”

“He is an Abbot, then, at least?”—
“No, he is not proud and blithe:
Leaving prayer to humble priest,
Whilst he champs the golden tithe.

He is brave, but he is meek:
Not as judge or soldier seems;
Not like Abbot proud and sleek:
Yet his dreams are starry dreams,—

Such as lit the World of old
Through the darkness of her way;
Such as might, if clearly told,
Guide blind Future into day.

Never hath he sought to rise
On a friend's or neighbour's fall;
Never slurred a foe with lies:
Never shrunk from hunger's call:

But from morning until eve,
And through Autumn into Spring,
He hath kept his course, (believe,)
Courting neither slave nor king.

He,—whatever be his name,
For I know it not aright,—
He deserves a wider fame;
Come,—here's to his health, to-night!”

XXI.—TO A POET ABANDONING HIS ART.

Friend! desert not thou the Muse!
Shun not—scorn not her control!
Thou the yellow dross may'st lose,
But thou'lt gain the wealth of soul.
What is gold, unless it bring
More than gold has ever brought?
What is gold, if to it cling
Narrower vision, meaner thought?

They who bid us bend the spirit
To a base or poor desire,
Little know what they inherit
Who unto the skies aspire.
Let them (if the body claim
All their sordid hope and care,)
Leave the poet to his fame,
His shadowy joy,—his finer air.

Some there be, who feel no pain,
So the baser mark they shun,
Shouting, when their end they gain,
“Joy is joy,—however won.”
To us diviner dreams are given;
To us a sweet-voiced angel sings,
“What were Earth without its Heaven?—
The Soul without its wings?”

XXII.—IGNORANCE IS BLISS.

Rains fall; suns shine; winds flee;
Brooks run; yet few know how.
Do not thou too deeply search
Why thou lov'st me now!

Perhaps, by some command
Sent earthward from above,
Thy heart was doomed to lean on mine;
Mine to enjoy thy love.

Why ask, when joy doth smile,
From what bright heaven it fell?
Men mar the beauty of their dreams
By tracing their source too well.

XXIII.—MENS DIVINIOR.

Love is born in joy,
And is bred in sorrow,
Cloudy-dark to-day,
Sunshiny to-morrow;
Changing through each season,
Without any reason.

Reason!—let it bend
To an instinct finer;
True as are its rules,
There is “mind diviner”
Shining o'er its summing,
Like an angel's coming;

Thoughts that pass the stars,
Love more sweet than flowers,
Faith that stedfast shines
Through the endless hours;
Brightening every season,
True,—yet passing reason.

Measure, if thou wilt,
Light, and air, and ocean;
Leave us, undefaced,
Our divine emotion,—
Poet's, prophet's story,
And the world of Glory.

You, whose poor-house balance
Weighs out want and crime;
You, whose sordid ledgers
Crush the poet's rhyme,
Leave us tears and laughter,
And the hope of hopes,—Eternal bright Hereafter!

XXIV.—HENRI QUATRE.

Bold Henri Quatre! gay sovereign! champion strong!
Whose life was one wild scene of love and war,
Here wast thou (thou the heir of all Navarre)
Nursed to the music of a peasant's song;
And well it was, indeed, when thou wast young,
That fearless Truth and social Nature taught
Thee lessons, unto monarchs seldom brought;
And duties, which to men and kings belong.

Be sure, when princes learn,—'midst equal mates,
Frequent denial, scant and rugged fare,
Frank intercourse with social joy and care,
Their virtue from such wholesome lessons dates.
These fit them to breathe well God's human air,
And teach them how to sway the hearts of states.

XXV.—A CATALOGUE OF COMMON-PLACES.

“What is Earth?” the poet saith.
It is a place of birth and death;
A school wherein the schoolmen teach,
And never practise as they preach;
Where Greek and Latin stamp the scholar;
Where Fame is reckoned by the dollar;
Where Scandal and false Innuendo
Taint all that women and e'en men do;
Where Lie the first is peerless reckoned,
Until thrust out by Lie the second:
Where Candour, Worth, and Thought are sleeping;
Where Cant is upwards, upwards creeping;

Where Age is drivelling; Youth pedantic;
Religion frozen, or else frantic;
Where great Palaver despot reigneth;
Where Wisdom to the moon complaineth;
Where folks who winds and waters measure,
And chattering Savans take their pleasure,
And meet each year from hall and college,
Stunning the soul with scraps of knowledge;
Where Strength is right; where Truth is wrong;
Where Genius shrinks into a song;
Where struggling Girlhood toils and dies;
Where Childhood pines; where Hunger cries,
And none respondeth to its call;
And yet—blue Heaven is over all!

XXVI.—AN EXTRAVAGANZA

BY VICTOR HUGO.

Enfant! si j'étais roi, je donnerais l'empire, &c.

I'd give, Girl, (were I but a king,)
Throne, sceptre, empire—everything;
My people suppliant on the knee;
My ships, that crowd the subject sea;
My crown, my baths of porphyry,
For one sweet look from thee!

Were I a God, I'd give—the air,
Earth, and the sea; the angels fair;
The skies; the golden worlds around;
The dæmons, whom my laws have bound;
Chaos, and its dark progeny;
All space, and all eternity,
For one love-kiss from thee!

XXVII.—LOVE AND LIGHT.

It is not in the quality of Love
To be relieved from human error quite;
Nor quite unsullied is yon orb above,
That fills the o'erhanging heavens with warmth and light,
And, from its vast and ever-burning fountains,
Sheds on the slumbering earth those summer showers,
Which clothe her meads with green, and bid her mountains
Shoot forests forth, in joy. And yet, O Love! O Sun!
What a world were ours,
Did ye not both your radiant journies run,
And touch us with your brightness, pure and kind!

XXVIII.—THE TWIN-BORN.

Hope!—is he for ever glad?
Sorrow!—is she always sad?
(Sorrow—is not that her name,
Who hath won so sad a fame?)
Doth he ever smiling look?
Doth she gaze, as on a book,
Always on the pictured past,
While her eyes are flowing fast?
Sit by me!—sit by me!
Let us watch, and we shall see
If such changeless things can be,
Where all is mutability.

So, glad Spirit, as I speak,
Thou hast tears on thy young cheek,
Like the fresh dew on the rose!
And sweet Sorrow (though she knows

She must turn to tears again,)
Smileth in a pause of pain.
Thus each telleth, in sweet guise,
That Grief must leave the saddest eyes;
That even Hope itself must fly,
With a sob and with a sigh;
But that each returneth soon,
As constant as the moon!

XXIX.—A COMMON THOUGHT.

All faces melt in smiles and tears,
Stirr'd up by many a passion strange,
(Likings, loathings, wishes, fears,)
Till death:—then ends all change.
Then king and peasant, bride and nun,
Wear but one!

Spring, all beauty, aye laughs loud;
Summers smile, and Autumns rave;
But Winter puts on his white shroud,
And lies down in his grave;
And when the next soft season nears,
He disappears!

Merry Spring for childish face;
Summer for young manhood bold;
Autumn for a graver race;
Winter for the old!
After that,—what seasons run?
Alas! not one!

Then all the changing passions fade;
Then all the seasons strange have pass'd;
And over spreads one boundless shade,
Which must for ever last:
Then Life's uncounted sands are run,
And—all is done!

XXX.—A PHANTASY.

I hear thy breath: 'tis soft and near,
'Tis sweeter than the close of day,
When June o'ertakes the maiden May
Amidst the unblown eglantines,
And round her scented bosom twines.
I hear thy step, 'tis light and near:
Tell me where dost hide, my dear?

Voice.
—Far away, far away!

Underneath what drooping showers
Of lilac and laburnum flowers?

Voice.
—Far away!

My love, my lady Lily, fair,
(Fairer than the crowned rose is,)
Is it in the cowslip lair,
Where the sweet South wind reposes,
That thou dost lie
All the spring-time long, and sigh,
With the river by thy side,
Murmuring like a one-day's bride?
Hush!—Give answer, Spirit sweet!
Ah, I hear thy tender feet
Rustling in the grass unmown:
Nay, at times, when all alone
On the moonlit moor I walk,
I can see thee, with a star
On thy forehead, from afar.
Shall I ever dare to talk
With thy sweet ghost all alone?
What, though men do swear to me
Thou art all a phantasy,
Thou wilt live with me, as true
As the stars are to the blue.
Time may all alter: Youth be dead;
And the Spring may hide her head;

And the friend, now near my heart,
May desert his better part;
But Thou ever wilt remain
In my heart and in my brain,
Truer, to the inward eye,
Than many a gross reality.

XXXI.—ON A LADY SLANDERED.

Her doom is writ: her name is grown
Familiar in the common mouth;
And she who was, when all unknown,
Like a sunbeam bursting from the south,
Is overshadowed by her fate;
By others' envy, others' hate!

I loved her when her fame was clear;
I love her now her fame is dark:
Twice—thrice—a thousand times more dear
Is she, with Slander's serpent mark,
Than Beauty that did never know
Shadow,—neither shame nor woe.

Let who will admire—adore
Her whom vulgar crowds do praise;
I will love my Love the more
When she falls on evil days!
Truer, firmer will I be,
When the f truth-like fail or flee.

Bird of mine! tho' rivers wide,
And wild seas between us run,
Yet I'll some day come, with pride,
And serve thee, from sun to sun;
Meantime, all my wishes flee
To thy nest beyond the sea!

Mourn not! let a brighter doom,
Breed no anguish in thy mind:
If the rose hath most perfume,
It hath still the thorn behind:
If the sun be at its height,
Think what follows,—certain night.

Murmur not! whatever ill
Cometh, am I not thy friend,
(In false times the firmer still)
Without changing, without end?
Ah! if one true friend be thine,
Dare not to repine!

XXXII.—TO A SLEEPER.

Sleep, maiden,—gentle maiden,
Through the calm night!
Be thy tender heart unladen
Of its burthen quite!
And, when golden Morning streaming
Wakeneth thee from happy dreaming,
With its oriental light,
Rise,—and let thy humble prayer
Thank the God who made thee fair;
Fair and happy, fit to dwell
On a throne or in a cell.

Shun the fevers of the mind,
Envy, Hate, Ambition blind,
Too much Love, (if love thou must,)
And the passions born of dust.
Learn to soothe another's smart;
Learn to rule thy own warm heart:
For, of all the treasures sent
Down wards from the azure air,
Know, there's nought that may compare
With the sweetest sweet,—Content!

XXXIII.—A DIRGE.

Here she lies, whom Fortune dowered
With the virgin wealth of Youth,
Beauty, and the love of Truth,
Golden Honour, spotless Fame,
Twenty-times transmitted name!
Here she lies, deserted, dead!
Dead, alas, and on her head
The cold and crumbling earth is showered!
Not a stone is at her feet;
Not a bud, with Summer sweet,
Sleepeth on her winding-sheet.
Yet what do such poor wants avail?
The sad-eyed widow, Pity pale,
Weepeth when her story's told;
How her love was left for gold;
How, desert' and doomed to fade,
(Underneath the green grass laid,)
She left him whose sordid pride
Left her for a meaner bride!

XXXIV.—A LAMENT.

Sweet friend, let's mourn in music
The passing of the year;
Fresh Autumn's spicy breezes;
The sunny Summer clear;
And Spring, so sweet and beautiful,
When thoughts were never drear.

As dreams that warmed our slumber,
Dissolve in morning gray;
As friends that loved our childhood,
All shrink and turn to clay;

So our some months' companion
Fadeth at last away.

He fadeth, he departeth,
Beyond all human ken;
Bearing the sins, and agonies,
Hopes, fears, and joys of men;
Loathed, dreaded, loved, lamented;—
Never to come again!

What sounds of life and laughter
Were poured into his ear;
What thoughts, delights, and fantasies,
He passed in his career,
We know not: Once so cherished,
The deeds of Time have perished,
Like the flowers upon his bier.

XXXV.—STANZAS.

That was not a barren time,
When the new World calmly lay,
Bare unto the frosty rime,
Open to the burning day.

Though her young limbs were not clad
With the colours of the spring,
Yet she was all inward glad,
Knowing all she bore within,
Undeveloped, blossoming.

There was Beauty, such as feeds
Poets in their secret hours;
Music mute; and all the seeds
And the signs of all the flowers.

There was wealth, beyond the gold
Hid in oriental caves;
There was—all we now behold
'Tween our cradles and our graves.

Judge not, then, the Poet's dreams
Barren all, and void of good:
There are in them azure gleams,
Wisdom not all understood.

Fables, with a heart of truth;
Mysteries, that unfold in light;
Morals, beautiful for youth;
Starry lessons for the night.

Unto Man, in peace and strife,
True and false, and weak and strong,
Unto all, in death and life,
Speaks the poet in his song.

XXXVI.—SONG, AFTER LABOUR.

Labour's strong and merry children,
Comrades of the rising sun,
Let us sing some songs together,
Now our toil is done.

No desponding, no repining!
Leisure must by toil be bought.
Never yet was good accomplished,
Without hand and thought.

Even God's all holy labour
Framed the air, the stars, the sun;
Built our earth on deep foundations;
And—the World was won!

XXXVII.—THE SAILOR'S LAMENT FOR THE SEA.

Merry Ocean! Honest Ocean!
Wherefore did I fly from thee?
Thou, whatever wind came fawning,
Ever wast a friend to me:
Joy was on thy morning billows,
Quiet on thine evening wave;
In the South a world of pleasures,
In the North—at least a grave.

But amongst these sullen moorlands,
Nothing that I seek I find;
Neither hope, nor pain, nor pleasure,
Not even a tranquil mind.
Once I had a dream:—wherever
I was sailing—near or far,
I could always see it sparkle
In the distance, like a star!

But at last it faded: Helen—
Ah, why do I name her name
Even now I feel my forehead
Flushing with its ancient shame;
She it is whose falsehood bringeth
Darkness of the heart on me;
She it is whose falsehood drives me
To thy stormy arms, O Sea!

Once—no matter—I remember
I did love my father's field,
Every daisy, every berry
That the autumn hedge did yield:
But such things delight no longer;
There is change in them or me:

So, once more, I'll mate my Spirit
With the spirit of the Sea.

Come, old comrades! Hearty seamen!
Are ye not fatigued with shore?
Shall we not go forth together
One long venturous voyage more?
Come! Let's on, where waters soothe us;
Where all winds can whistle free:
Hearts! there's nowhere shed or shelter
Like our own true home—the Sea!

XXXVIII.—THE POET AND THE FISHER.

[_]

(DUET.)

P.
—O Fisher dost ever love to stand
By waters streaming!

F.
—O Poet, who dost lie, at Love's command,
In azure dreaming!

P.
—What is it bids us face, 'midst rain and wind,
The wild Spring weather?

F.
—What strange and unknown tie doth help to bind
Such souls together?

F.
—What know'st thou, Poet, of the tedious time
The fisher loseth?

P.
—What know'st thou, Fisher, of the precious rhyme
The bard abuseth?

F.
—I only know that Health and Pleasure thrive
In any season.

P.
—Enough: we'll let our April friendship live
Without a reason.

XXXIX.—TO D. MACLISE, R.A.

I

On!—from honour unto honour; (let nor praise nor pelf allure!)
Onwards, upwards be thy course, and let thy foot be firm and sure.

II

There is Raffaelle still before thee; Titian, Michael, Rembrandt, all;
Now for a vigorous effort; knit thy sinews and thou shalt not fall.

III

In thy land is Hogarth's glory; side by side with Reynolds' fame;
Much to spur thee, nought to daunt thee:—DARE! and thou shalt do the same.

IV

On the Earth are lands untrodden; (somewhere underneath the sun;)
Azure heights yet unascended; palmy countries to be won.

V

In the Heart's diviner regions, there are thoughts that stir the soul,
Till it shoots the bounds of darkness, past where stars and planets roll.

VI

In the cottage as the palace, in the clown as in the king,
Infinite endless passions reign, and with them change and conduct bring;—

VII

Love, whose strength doth vanquish sorrow; Freedom, wealthy with his crust;
Truth the servant; Faith the martyr; Hope that soareth from the dust.

VIII

Life in all its sunny aspects,—All the moods of vice and pain
Lie before thee:—Oh! be certain, nothing need be sought in vain.

XL.—SONG.

[Come,—let me dive into thine eyes!]

Come,—let me dive into thine eyes!
So dim, so deep, so filled with love!
Touched with soft azure, like the skies,
When evening veils the light above.

Come,—let me gaze upon thy hand!
No ring?—all's fair and virgin white!
Thy heart? I would I could command
Thy heart to open on my sight.

Yet, no: I'll trust those stars of blue,
And ask them now my doom divine:
No need: thy lips give answer true;
They move,—they murmur,—“I am thine!”

XLI.—FOR MUSIC.

Now whilst he dreams, O Muses, wind him round!
Send down thy silver words, O murmuring Rain!
Haunt him, sweet Music! Fall, with gentlest sound,—
Like dew, like night, upon his weary brain!
Come, Odours of the rose and violet,—bear
Into his charmed sleep all visions fair!
So may the lost be found,
So may his thoughts by tender Love be crowned,
And Hope come shining like a vernal morn,
And with its beams adorn
The Future, till he breathes diviner air,
In some soft Heaven of joy, beyond the range of Care!

XLII.—SONG.

[Let us sing and sigh!]

Let us sing and sigh!
Let us sigh and sing!
Sunny haunts have no such pleasures
As the shadows bring!

Who would seek the crowd?
Who would seek the noon?
That could woo the pale maid Silence
Underneath the moon?

Smiles are things for youth,
Things for a merry rhyme;
But the voice of Pity suiteth
Any mood or time.

XLIII.—A LOVE SONG.

Laugh not, nor weep; but let thine eyes
Grow soft and dim, (so love should be);
And be thy breathing tender, quick,
And tremulous, whilst I gaze on thee.

And let thy words be few or none;
But murmurs, such as soothe the air
In summer when the day is done,
Be heard, sweet heart, when I man there.

And I—oh! I, in those soft times
When all around is still and sweet,
Will love thee more a thousand times
Than if the world was at thy feet!

XLIV.—SONG.

[Love me if I live!]

Love me if I live!
Love me if I die!
What to me is life or death,
So that thou be nigh?

Once I loved thee rich,
Now I love thee poor;
Ah! what is there I could not
For thy sake endure?

Kiss me for my love!
Pay me for my pain!
Come! and murmur in my ear
How thou lov'st again!

XLV.—SONG.

[Sing no more! Thy heart is crossed]

Sing no more! Thy heart is crossed
By some dire thing:
Sing no more! Thy lute has lost
Its one sweet string.
The music of the heart and lute
Are mute—are mute!

Laugh no more! The earth hath taught
A false, fond strain:
Laugh no more! Thy soul hath caught
The grave's first stain.
The pleasures of the world are known,
And flown—and flown!

Weep no more! The fiercest pains
Were love, were pride:
Weep no more! The world's strong chains
Are cast aside.
And all the war of life must cease,
In peace,—in peace!

XLVI.—A SONG;

ON AN OLD SUBJECT.

Like a rose sprang Jeanie,
From a blue May hour,
Friendship all her pride,
Virtue all her dower.

Like a rose spread Jeanie,
Whom warm skies illume;
Like its breath, in sweetness;
Like its dye, in bloom.

Like a rose fell Jeanie,
Smit by winter cold;
Loved—destroyed—derided:
So,—her tale is told!

Oh, too tender woman!
Heed her shame—her pain:
Let's not tell her story
A thousand times in vain!

XLVII.—SONG.

[I love him; I dream of him]

I love him; I dream of him;
I sing of him by day;
And all the night I hear him talk,
And yet—he's far away!

There's beauty in the morning;
There's sweetness in the May;
There's music in the running stream;
And yet—he's far away!

I love him; I trust in him;
He trusteth me alway:
And so the time flies hopefully,
Although—he's far away!

XLVIII.—QUESTION AND REPLY.

Tell me what thou lovest best?
Vernal motion? Summer rest?
Winter, with his merry rhymes?
Or the grand Autumnal times?
Dost thou Saxon beauty prize?
Or, in England, love-lit eyes?
Or the brown Parisian's grace?
Or the warm-soul'd Bordelaise?
Or the forehead broad and clear
Which the Italian Damas wear,
Braiding round their night-black hair,
Circe-like?—Or the Spanish air,
Where the Moor has mixed his blood
With the dull Castilian flood,
Giving life to sleepy pride
Tell me, where wouldst thou abide,
Choosing for thyself a season,
And a mate,—for sweet Love's reason?

Nought for country should I care,
So my mate were true and fair:
But for her—O! she should be
(Thus far I'll confess to thee)—
Like a bud when it is blowing;
Like a brook when it is flowing,
(Marred by neither heat nor cold);
Fashioned in the lily's mould,—
Stately, queen-like, very fair;
With a motion like the air;
Glances full of morning light,
When the morn is not too bright;
With a forehead marble pale,
When sad Pity tells her tale;
And a soft scarce-tincted cheek,
(Flushing but when she doth speak;)

For her voice, 't should have a tone
Sweetest when with me alone;
And Love himself should seek his nest
Within the fragrance of her breast!

XLIX.—TO THE SOUTH WIND.

O sweet South Wind!
Long hast thou lingered 'midst those islands fair,
Which lie, enchanted, on the Indian deep,
Like sea-maids all asleep,
Charmed by the cloudless sun and azure air!
O sweetest Southern Wind!
Pause here awhile, and gently now unbind
Thy dark rose-crowne'd hair!

Wilt thou not unloose now,
In this, the bluest of all hours,
Thy passion-coloured flowers?—
Rest; and let fall the fragrance from thy brow,
On Beauty's parted lips and closed eyes,
And on her cheeks, which crimson like the skies;
And slumber on her bosom, white as snow,
Whilst starry Midnight flies!

We, whom the northern blast
Blows on, from night till morn, from morn till eve,
Hearing thee, sometimes grieve
That our poor summer's day not long may last:
And yet, perhaps, 'twere well
We should not ever dwell
With thee, sweet Spirit of the sunny South;
But touch thy odorous mouth
Once, and be gone unto our blasts again,
And their bleak welcome, and our wintry snow;
And arm us (by enduring) for that pain
Which the bad world sends forth, and all its woe!

L.—SONG.

[The rain is falling]

The rain is falling;
The wind is loud;
The morning is hiding
Behind a cloud;
The stars are scattered
By dawn of day;
But where is my lover?
Afar—away!

The East is brighter;
The wind is still;
The sun is rising
Beyond the hill;
It cometh—it shineth;
The dawn is day;
And the step of my lover—?
It comes this way.

Ah, the sky—it changeth,
The rain—the sun,
As the hope that we cherish
Is lost or won.
What care for the shadows,
If hearts be gay?
What use in the summer,
If friends decay?

The bloom of the seasons
Will come, will fly;
And the heavens will alter,
We know not why:
But the mind that we temper
Is our domain;
And the Truth of the Spirit
Should conquer pain.

LI.—THE POOR HOUSE.

I

Close at the edge of a busy town,
A huge quadrangular mansion stands;
Its rooms are all filled with the parish poor;
Its walls are all built by pauper hands;
And the pauper old and the pauper young
Peer out, through the grates, in sullen bands.

II

Behind, is a patch of earth, by thorns
Fenced in from the moor's wide marshy plains;
By the side, is a gloomy lane, that steals
To a quarry now filled with years of rains:
But within, within! There Poverty scowls,
Nursing in wrath her brood of pains.

III

Enter and look! In the high-walled yards
Fierce men are pacing the barren ground:
Enter the long bare chambers;—girls
And women are sewing, without a sound;
Sewing from dawn till the dismal eve,
And not a laugh or a song goes round.

IV

No communion—no kind thought
Dwells in the pauper's breast of care;
Nothing but pain in the grievous past;
Nothing to come but the black despair—
Of bread in prison, bereft of friends,
Or Hunger, out in the open air!

V

Where is the bright-haired girl, that once
With her peasant sire was used to play?
Where is the boy whom his mother blessed,

Whose eyes were a light on her weary way?
Apart—barred out (so the law ordains;)
Barred out from each other by night and day.

VI

Letters they teach in their infant schools;
But where are the lessons of great God taught?
Lessons that child to the parent bind—
Habits of duty—love unbought?
Alas! small good will be learned in schools
Where Nature is trampled and turned to nought.

VII

Seventeen summers, and where the girl
Who never grew up at her father's knee?
Twenty autumnal storms have nursed
The pauper's boyhood, and where is he?
She earneth her bread in the midnight lanes:
He toileth in chains by the Southern Sea.

VIII

O Power! O Prudence! Law!—look down
From your heights on the pining poor below!
O sever not hearts which God hath joined
Together, on earth, for weal and woe!
O Senators grave, grave truths may be,
Which ye have not learned, or deigned to know.

IX

O Wealth, come forth with an open hand!
O Charity, speak with a softer sound!
Yield pity to Age—to tender Youth—
To Love, wherever its home be found!
. . . But I cease,—for I hear, in the night to come,
The cannon's blast, and the rebel drum,
Shaking the firm-set English ground!

LII.—PASTORAL.

The girl I love is lowly born;
She is not rich, she is not fair;
And yet her presence is to me
Like the breath of the morning air.

'Tis fresh with thoughts all innocent;
'Tis fragrant with the words of love;
And her eyes shed blessings, like the Dawn
Opening Heaven above.

For these and other things I love
The lowly love-born child of earth:
Scorn not: How many love for less
Than a thousandth part her worth!

LIII.—THE PALE QUEEN.

I am the Queen anointed,—crown'd;
My forehead is all with roses bound,
But pale, all pale!
With rosemary boughs and slips of yew,
With violets shrunk, and lilies, too,
But pale, still pale!
I am the Bride whose arms are wound
About my lover without a sound;
I whisper soft,
And he flies aloft,
But pale, all pale!
Whatever I will—whate'er I say,
Wherever I look—all things obey:
From the iron clown to the kings of clay,
My words ne'er fail:

I wither the bud, and the passion bloom;
I strip the rose of her young perfume;
I breathe—and the flower doth bear no fruit;
I come—and the singer's voice is mute;
The harp unstrung, and lost the lute:
And trumpets wail
My coming, although no battle's near,
And burst on the self-slain soldier's bier,
And hill and dale
And fountains lone, and the running river,
Sea and sea-shore,
Hard rocks, and mountains cold and hoar
From all their echoing peaks cry out for ever,
“Hail! hail! hail!”

And now, pale youth, I come to thee,
Whose home is under the willow tree,
And thou may'st dream
Where it dips its hair in the fond fond stream:
But, arise!—arise!
What can come of human sighs,
Lover's sorrow—weeping eyes—
When all that cometh quickly flies?
Arise, and leave thy buried bride,
And come with me to the water's side,
Where lilies gay
Lie sleeping on the shining tide,
Which flies away
Unto the ocean far and wide,
Day after day!
The weeping stars will be ever o'er thee,
And she thou lov'st is gone before thee,
So, ne'er delay:
The Past is lost, the Present lone,
So we will fly to a world unknown;
And be as thou wishest, sad or gay,
Thro' summer and spring, and winter day:—
Come on! We will seek thy wasted bride:
Behold,—I am Death, the amorous-eyed,
Who reign for aye!

LIV.—THE STARS.

[_]

“Without haste and without rest.”

I

They glide upon their endless way,
For ever calm, for ever bright,
No blind hurry, no delay,
Mark the Daughters of the Night:
They follow in the track of Day,
In divine delight.

II

And, oh! how still beneath the stars
The once wild noisy Earth doth lie;
As though she now forsook her jars,
And caught the quiet of the sky.
Pride sleeps; and Love (with all his scars)
In smiling dreams doth lie.

III

Shine on, sweet orbed Souls, for aye,
For ever calm, for ever bright:
We ask not whither lies your way,
Nor whence ye came, nor what your light.
Be, still,—a dream throughout the day,
A blessing through the night!

LV.—THE LAST STAVE.

Without friends, and without money,
Without power, without fame,
Earth is but a bitter garden;
Life is but a losing game:
There's a heart within my bosom,
(Ah, I know it, by its pain,)
Swiftness should be in my sinews,
And within my head,—a brain.

Tell me how, with these good servants,
Song of mine, how we may fare;
We have but a paltry lodging,
'Neath this hedge, in open air.
Fain would I behold a dinner;
But such visions now are rare:
Peace! I see the hawthorn banquet:
Come; we'll join the sparrows there.

What avail are sages,—muses,
If they bring not comforts nigh?
Ha! they force me upwards—onwards—
Through the clouds—beyond the sky—
Comets—planets—whirl around me—
Storms and rains are rushing by,—
Orb on orb gives out its music,—
I am breathless—God, I die!

LVI.—THE RISING OF THE NORTH.

I

Hark,—to the sound!
Without a trump, without a drum,
The wild-eyed, hungry Millions come,
Along the echoing ground.

II

From cellar and cave, from street and lane,
Each from his separate place of pain,
In a blackening stream,
Come sick, and lame, and old, and poor,
And all who can no more endure;
Like a demon's dream!

III

Starved children with their pauper sire,
And labourers with their fronts of fire,
In angry hum,
And felons, hunted to their den,
And all who shame the name of men,
By millions come.

IV

The good, the bad come, hand in hand,
Linked by that law which none withstand;
And at their head,
Flaps no proud banner, flaunting high,
But a shout—sent upwards to the sky,
Of “Bread!—Bread!”

V

That word their ensign,—that the cause
Which bids them burst the social laws,

In wrath, in pain:
That the sole boon for lives of toil,
Demand they from their natural soil:—
Oh, not in vain!

VI

One single year, and some who now
Come forth, with oaths and haggard brow,
Read prayer and psalm,
In quiet homes; their sole desire,
Rude comforts near their cottage fire,
And Sabbath calm.

VII

But Hunger is an evil foe:
It striketh Truth and Virtue low,
And Pride elate:
Wild Hunger, stripped of hope and fear!
It doth not weigh; it will not hear;
It cannot wait.

VIII

For mark, what comes:—To-night, the poor
(All mad) will burst the rich man's door,
And wine will run
In floods, and rafters blazing bright
Will paint the sky with crimson light,
Fierce as the sun;

IX

And plate carved round with quaint device,
And cups all gold will melt, like ice
In Indian heat!
And queenly silks, from foreign lands,
Will bear the stamps of bloody hands,
And trampling feet:

X

And Murder—from his hideous den
Will come abroad and talk to men.

Till creatures born
For good, (whose hearts kind Pity nursed,)
Will act the direst crimes they cursed,
But yester-morn.

XI

So, Wealth by Want will be o'erthrown,
And Want be strong and guilty grown,
Swollen out by blood.
Sweet Peace! who sitt'st aloft, sedate,
Who bind'st the little to the great,
Canst Thou not charm the serpent Hate?
And quell this feud?

XII

Between the pomp of Croesus' state,
And Irus, starved by sullen Fate,—
'Tween “thee” and “me,”—
'Tween deadly Frost and scorching Sun,—
The Thirty tyrants and the One,—
Some space must be.

XIII

Must the world quail to absolute kings,
Or tyrant mobs, those meaner things,
All nursed in gore,—
Turk's bowstring,—Tartar's vile Ukase,—
Grim Marat's bloody band, who pace
From shore to shore?

XIV

Oh, God!—Since our bad world began,
Thus hath it been,—from man to man
War, to the knife!
For bread—for gold—for words—for air!
Save us, O God! and hear my prayer!
Save, save from shame,—from crime,—despair,
Man's puny life!

LVII.—THE SEA FIGHT.

I

The Sun hath ridden into the sky,
And the Night gone to her lair;
Yet all is asleep
On the mighty Deep,
And all in the calm gray air.

II

All seemeth as calm as an infant's dream,
As far as the eye may ken:
But the cannon blast,
That just now passed,
Hath awakened ten thousand men.

III

An order is blown from ship to ship;
All round and round it rings;
And each sailor is stirred
By the warlike word,
And his jacket he downwards flings.

IV

He strippeth his arms to his shoulders strong;
He girdeth his loins about;
And he answers the cry
Of his foemen nigh,
With a cheer and a noble shout.

V

What follows?—a puff, and a flash of light,
And the booming of a gun;
And a scream, that shoots
To the heart's red roots,
And we know that a fight's begun.

VI

A thousand shot are at once let loose:
Each flies from its brazen den,
(Like the Plague's swift breath,)
On its deed of death,
And smites down a file of men.

VII

The guns in their thick-tongued thunder speak,
And the frigates all rock and ride,
And timbers crash,
And the mad waves dash,
Foaming all far and wide:

VIII

And high as the skies run piercing cries,
All telling one tale of woe,—
That the struggle still,
Between good and ill,
Goes on, in the earth below.

IX

Day pauses, in gloom, on his western road:
The Moon returns again:
But, of all who looked bright,
In the morning light,
There are only a thousand men.

X

Look up, at the brooding clouds on high!
Look up, at the awful sun!
And, behold,—the sea flood
Is all red with blood:
Hush!—a battle is lost,—and won!

LVIII.—THE WRECK.

I

O whither are we driven, o'er the waters so free,
With the vapours all around, and the breakers on our lee:
Not a light is in the sky, not a light is on the sea!
Ah, me! ah, me!

II

We are hurried to our doom: Oh, how wild and how strong
Are the billows on whose bosom we are beating along;
And the Tempest he is calling, (hark, how terrible his song!)
For thee! for me!

III

The thunder is awakened: He is talking to the Night:
And see what cometh flooding down in cataracts of light;
'Tis his paramour, the Lightning; she withereth my sight;
Ah, me! ah, me!

IV

Oh, how the Storm doth follow us: and hearken to the Wind!
He is round us; he is over us; he's hurrying behind:
He is tearing me (the maniac, so cruel and so blind,)
From thee, from thee!

V

Stay, stay, I hear a sound amidst the washing of the tide:
It glideth by our vessel, now, wherever we do glide;
'Tis the whale—It is the shark! ah, see, he turns upon his side:
Let's flee, let's flee!

VI

Ha! the billows they are rising; we are lifted up on high:
We are all amongst the clouds: we are rushing from the sky,
Down, down, into the waters—Ah, have pity! for I die;
O Sea! Great Sea!

[The boat strikes.]

LIX.—THE TIME OF CHARLEMAGNE.

I

There was freedom in the forest;
There was plenty on the plain;
Lusty peasants, noble heroes,
In the time of Charlemagne:
Right was right, and wrong was evil;
Truth was never then too plain;
All the heart came forth in music,
In the time of Charlemagne.

II

Every man was free to follow
Bird, or wild beast to its den;
Every man maintained his quarrel
With the sword and not the pen:
Manly thoughts and simple habits
Brought us health, and banished pain:
We have changed,—(for worse or better!)
Since the time of Charlemagne.

III

Beauty won her bloom from Nature;
Wives were constant, maidens true;
Men were bold, strong, clear, unbending,
As the brave bright steel they drew.

None did rise but by his merit;
None did sell his soul for gain;
Words did never hide man's meaning,
In the time of Charlemagne.

IV

What a king! He fought, and vanquished
Lombard, Saracen, Saxon, still
Ruling every race he conquered
With a deep consummate skill.
Once, alone, false Fortune checked him,—
Once, on Roncesvalles' plain:
Save that day, all else was cloudless
Through the time of Charlemagne.

V

But—he died! and he was buried
In his tomb of sculptured stone;
And they robed and placed his body
Upright on his golden throne:
With his sword, and with the Bible
Which through life he did maintain,
All strewn o'er with gems and spices,
Sate the dead king Charlemagne!

VI

Since his time, the world is altered:
Yet,—let's hope to see, again,
All the sword's old valour, mingled
With the wisdom of the pen:
Till those days shall come, dear Poets,
Let us not perplex our brain;
But, content, love truth and valour
Though in time of Charlemagne.

LX.—THE APPROACH OF WINTER.

Winter cold is coming on;
No more calls the cuckoo:
No more doth the music gush
From the silver-throated thrush:
No more now at “evening pale,”
Singeth sad the nightingale;
Nor the blackbird on the lawn;
Nor the lark at dewy dawn:
Time hath wove' his songs anew.
No more young and dancing measures:
No more budding flowery pleasures:
All is over,—all forgot;
Save by me, who loved them not.

Winter white is coming on;
And I love his coming:
What, though winds the fields have shorn,—
What, though earth is half forlorn,—
Not a berry on the thorn,—
Not an insect humming;
Pleasure never can be dead;
Beauty cannot hide her head!
Look! in what fantastic showers,
The snow flings down her feathered flowers,
Or whirls about, in drunken glee,
Kissing its love, the holly tree.
Behold! the Sun himself comes forth,
And sends his beams from south to north,—
To diamonds turns the winter rime,
And lends a glory to the time!
Such days,—when old friends meet together,
Are worth a score of mere spring weather;
And hark!—the merry bells awake;
They clamour blithely for our sake!

The clock is sounding from the tower,
“Four”—“five”—'tis now—'s dinner—hour!
Come on,—I see his table spread,—
The sherry,—the claret rosy red,
The champagne sparkling in the light,—
By Bacchus! we'll be wise to-night!

LXI.—A CHRISTMAS REMINISCENCE.

Do you still remember
When you and I were young,
How the merry cricket talked,
How the throstle sung?
How above our spring-tide
Azure heaven hung?
Ah! the times were merry times,
When you and I were young!

Speed was in my footsteps;
Hope was in mine eye;
And the soul of Poesy
Was my dear ally.
Earth was then as beautiful,—
Ay, as is the sky,
When I look'd beside me,
And saw—that you were nigh.

If my dreams were sinful,
God forgave the crime;
For I look with calmness
Back upon my prime.
Have you quite forgotten
All that sunny time,
When we whispered secrets—
Not to be told in rhyme?

Well,—our springs are over,
(Oh, sweet days of yore!)
Autumn wild surrounds us,
And I see an aspect hoar,
Like angry Winter, frowning
From that twilight shore,
Where our steps are hastening,—
To return no more!

Mourn not: we inherited,
With our gift of birth,
Good and evil mingled—
Tears amidst our mirth.
Thou shalt be remembered,
For thy gentle worth;
And I'll dream that regions
Shine beyond the earth.

LXII.—A FAREWELL TO DECEMBER.

Old December!
Art thou gone?—then fare thee well!
Many a good do I remember
Of thee, that I fain would tell;
Many a dream beyond all trouble;
Many a feast where beer did bubble;
Many a jolly beauty toasted;
Many a mighty turkey roasted;
Laughing, quaffing, blusterous weather,
(Winds and rain, a song together);
Friendship glowing,—wine a-flowing,
Wit, beyond the proser's knowing!
Ah, December!
I remember
Thee and thine, perhaps too well.

Let the trim tea-totaller talk
Of his May and April walk,
All amongst the insipid flowers,
Dawdling with the vacant Hours;
I—amidst the blazing night,
Have seen vast and deep delight,—
Pleasure, such as left its traces
On a thousand brightening faces,—
Brightening at the touch of Truth,
(Like Age remembering its own youth);
For, be sure,—that noble Wine
Is Truth!—and, doubly thus, divine.

Wine!—It opes the heart's red sluices,
Letting forth those generous juices,
Which so fertilize our clay,
That the Night transcends the Day:
Virtues then spring up like flowers;
Joy comes gladdening all the hours;
Justice takes an aspect bland;
Friendship puts forth its kind hand:
Every thing both great and good
Is then confess'd, and understood:
No more fear beside the flask;
No dull spite in wisdom's mask:
No mean, simmering, simpering blushes:—
The great Soul all-radiant rushes
Forth, at once, on the social ground,
And laugheth as the glass runs round.

For these reasons, old December!
(For these reasons, and some more
Which I do not now remember),
I'll still love thee, as of yore.

When I knew no woes nor pains,
And the blood ran racing through my veins,
Stinging every nerve with pleasure,
I could tread the merriest measure,
Dancing till I met the Day;

And could drain my cup alway;
And could whisper—soft and low—
Under the mystic mistletoe.
So it was;—and so, old friend,
When this year shall near its end,
If gray Age and Fate permit,
I will face thee in thy wit—
In thy wit and wine array'd.
What care I how many a maid
Laugheth in thy frosty train;
I will dare their worst, again.
Let who will forsake the wine,
At my right-hand it shall shine
Like a blessing,—as, in truth,
'Tis to age as well as youth.

Now, farewell! and for my sake,
Bid thy fellow Months be kind,
And not a merry Spirit take,
Nor one of true or gentle mind.
In requital,—Friends, remember!
We will all assemble round,
When next the winter strews the ground,
And drink a health to old December!

END OF PART THE SECOND.

3. PART THE THIRD.

LXIII.—THE SEA.

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SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the Sea! I'm on the Sea!
I am where I would ever be;
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love (oh! how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.

I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I lov'd the great Sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open Sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outery wild
As welcomed to life the Ocean-child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought, nor sighed for change;
And Death, whenever he come to me;
Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea!

LXIV.—INDIAN LOVE.

Tell me not that thou dost love me,
Though it thrill me with delight:
Thou art, like the stars, above me;
I—the lowly earth, at night.

Hast thou (thou from kings descended)
Loved the Indian cottage-born;
And shall she, whom Love befriended,
Darken all thy hopeful morn?

Go,—and, for thy father's glory,
Wed the blood that's pure and free:
'Tis enough to gild my story
That I once was loved by thee!

LXV.—THE HOME OF THE ABSENTEE.

The weed mourns on the castle wall,
The grass lies on the chamber floor,
And on the hearth, and in the hall,
Where merry music danced of yore!
And the blood-red wine no longer
Runs,—(how it used to run!)
And the shadows within, grown stronger,
Look black on the mid-day sun!

All is gone; save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:
'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;
And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

The Gardens feed no fruit nor flowers,
But childless seem, and in decay;
The traitor clock forsakes the hours,
And points to times—oh, far away!
And the steed no longer neigheth,
At morn, with a shrilly sound;
And the blood-hound no longer bayeth,
Startling the silence 'round!

All is gone; save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:
'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;
And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

The Lord of all the lone domain,
An undeserving master flies;
And leaves a home where he might reign,
For alien hearts and stranger skies:

And the peasant disdains the story,
He loved to recount of yore;
And the Name, that was once a glory,
Is heard in the land no more!

All is gone; save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:
'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;
And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

LXVI.—PAST TIMES.

Old Acquaintance! shall the nights
You and I wore out together,
Be forgot like common things,—
Like some dreary night that brings
Nought, save foul weather?

We were young, when you and I
Talked of golden things together,—
Of love and rhyme, of books and men:
Ah! our hearts were buoyant then
As the wild-goose feather!

Twenty years have fled, we know,
Bringing care and changing weather;
But hath th' heart no backward flights,
That we again may see those nights,
And laugh together?

Jove's eagle, soaring to the sun,
Renews the past year's mouldering feather:
Ah, why not you and I, then, soar
From age to youth,—and dream once more
Long nights together?

LXVII.—KING DEATH.

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SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

King Death was a rare old fellow!
He sate where no sun could shine;
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And poured out his coal-black wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

There came to him many a Maiden,
Whose eyes had forgot to shine;
And Widows, with grief o'erladen,
For a draught of his sleepy wine.
Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

The Scholar left all his learning;
The Poet his fancied woes;
And the Beauty her bloom returning,
As the beads of the black wine rose.
Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

All came to the royal old fellow,
Who laugh'd till his eyes dropped brine,
As he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them in Death's black wine.
Hurrah!—Hurrah!
Hurrah! for the coal-black Wine!

LXVIII.—A SERENADE.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Awake!—The starry midnight Hour
Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight:
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower;
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!
Awake! Awake!
Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake!—Soft dews will soon arise
From daisied mead, and thorny brake;
Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes,
And like the tender morning break!
Awake! Awake!
Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake!—Within the musk-rose bower
I watch, pale flower of love, for thee;
Ah, come, and shew the starry Hour
What wealth of love thou hid'st from me!
Awake! Awake!
Shew all thy love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake!—Ne'er heed, though listening Night
Steal music from thy silver voice:
Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,
And bid the world and me rejoice!
Awake! Awake!
She comes,—at last, for Love's sweet sake!

LXIX.—THE ONSET.

A BATTLE SONG.

Sound an alarum! The foe is come!
I hear the tramp,—the neigh,—the hum,
The cry, and the blow of his daring drum:
Huzzah!
Sound! The blast of our trumpet blown
Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone:
What! shall we shake at a foe unknown?
Huzzah!—Huzzah!

Have we not sinews as strong as they?
Have we not hearts that ne'er gave way?
Have we not God on our side to-day?
Huzzah!
Look! They are staggered on yon black heath!
Steady awhile, and hold your breath!
Now is your time, men,—Down like Death!
Huzzah!—Huzzah!

Stand by each other, and front your foes!
Fight, whilst a drop of the red blood flows!
Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose!
Huzzah!
Sound! Bid your terrible trumpets bray!
Blow, till their brazen throats give way!
Sound to the battle! Sound, I say!
Huzzah!—Huzzah!

LXX.—SONG FOR TWILIGHT.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Hide me, O twilight Air!
Hide me, from thought, from care,
From all things, foul or fair,
Until to-morrow!
To-night I strive no more;
No more my soul shall soar:
Come, Sleep, and shut the door
'Gainst Pain and Sorrow!

If I must see through dreams,
Be mine Elysian gleams,
Be mine by morning streams
To watch and wander!
So may my spirit cast
(Serpent-like) off the past,
And my free soul at last
Have leave to ponder!

And, should'st thou 'scape control,
Ponder on love, sweet Soul,
On joy, the end and goal
Of all endeavour!
But, if earth's pains will rise,
(As damps will seek the skies,)
Then, Night, seal thou mine eyes,
In sleep, for ever!

LXXI.—THE HUNTER'S SONG.

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SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Rise! Sleep no more: 'Tis a noble morn.
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn:
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady —So, ho!
I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.

Hark, hark! —Who calleth the maiden Morn,
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn
The horn, —the horn!
The merry sweet ring of the hunter's horn.

Now, —Thorough the copse, where the fox is found,
And over the brook, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O'er furrows, o'er meadows the hunters go!
Away! —as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away, —away!
From the burst at the cover, till set of sun,
When the red fox dies and—the day is done!

Hark, hark! —What sound on the wind is borne?
'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn.
The horn, —the horn!
The merry bold voice of the hunter's horn.

Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What's the gulley deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
Oh! —what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse's back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?

Hark, hark! —Now, home! and dream till morn,
Of the bold sweet sound of the hunter's horn!
The horn, —the horn!
Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!

LXXII.—TO MY LYRE.

Sleep, —sleep, my Lyre!
Untouch'd, —unsought, —unstrung!
No one now will e'er inquire
If poet to thee ever sung;
Nor if his spirit clung
To thy witching wire! —
Bid thy soul of music sleep,
As winds lie on the charmed deep,
When the mistress Moon doth chide
The tempest, or the murmuring tide!
Oblivion is a happy lot!
'Tis well to be a thing forgot!
'Tis well that neither Love, nor Woe,
Nor sad sweet thoughts of “long ago,”
Should 'waken again thy self-consuming fire!
Therefore, therefore, —sleep my Lyre!

LXXIII.—THE EXILE'S FAREWELL.

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SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Farewell Old England's shores!
Farewell her rugged men!
Now, sailors, strain your oars!
I ne'er will look again.
I've liv'd—I've sought—I've seen—
Oh, things I love too well,
Upon those shores of green:
So, England! long farewell!
Farewell!

I go, —what matter where?
The Exile, when he flies,
Thinks not of other air, —
Dreams not of alien skies:
He seeks but to depart
From the land he loves too well,
From thoughts that smite his heart:
So, England! long farewell!
Farewell!

O'er lands and the lonely main,
A lonelier man, I roam,
To seek some balm for pain,
Perhaps to find a home:
I go, —but Time nor tide,
Nor all that tongue may tell,
Shall e'er from thee divide
My heart, —and so, farewell!
Old England, fare thee well!

LXXIV.—ON A MOTHER AND CHILD, SLEEPING.

Night, gaze, but send no sound!
Fond heart, thy fondness keep!
Nurse Silence, wrap them round!
Breathe low; —they sleep, they sleep!

No wind! no murmuring showers!
No music, soft and deep!
No thoughts, nor dreams of flowers!
All hence; —they sleep, they sleep!

Time's step is all unheard:
Heaven's stars bright stillness keep:
No breath, no sigh, no word!
All's hushed; —they sleep, they sleep!

O Life! O Night! O Time!
Thus ever round them creep!
From pain, from hate, from crime,
E'er guard them, gentle Sleep!

LXXV.—THE LITTLE VOICE.

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SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Once there was a little Voice,
Merry as the month of May,
That did cry “Rejoice! Rejoice!”
Now—'tis flown away!

Sweet it was, and very clear,
Chasing every thought of pain:
Summer! shall I ever hear
Such a voice again?

I have pondered all night long,
Listening for as soft a sound;
But so sweet and clear a song,
Never have I found!

I would give a mine of gold,
Could I hear that little Voice;
Could I, as in days of old,
At a sound rejoice!

LXXVI.—THE SEA-KING.

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SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Come sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King,
And the fame that now hangs o'er him,
Who once did sweep o'er the vanquish'd deep,
And drove the world before him!
His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone,
And the sea was his park of pleasure,
Where he scattered in fear the human deer,
And rested, —when he had leisure!

Come, —shout and sing
Of the great Sea-King,
And ride in the track he rode in!
He sits at the head
Of the mighty dead,
On the red right hand of Odin!

He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth,
And soared on his victor pinions,
And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee,
When they gaze on their blue dominions.
His whole earth life was a conquering strife,
And he lived till his beard grew hoary,
And he died at last, by his blood-red mast,
And now—he is lost in glory!

So, —shout and sing, &c.

LXXVII.—THE WILD CHERRY-TREE.

Oh, —there never was yet so pretty a thing,
By racing river or bubbling spring,
Nothing that ever so merrily grew
Up from the ground when the skies were blue,
Nothing so fresh—nothing so free
As thou—my wild wild Cherry-tree!

Jove! how it danced in the gusty breeze!
Jove! how it frolicked amongst the trees!
Dashing the pride of the poplar down,
Stripping the thorn of his hoary crown!
Oak or ash—what matter to thee!
'Twas the same to my wild wild Cherry-tree.

Never at rest, like a thing that's young
Abroad to the winds its arms it flung,
Shaking its rich and crowned head,
Whilst I stole up for its berries red—
Beautiful berries! beautiful tree!
Hurrah! for the wild wild Cherry-tree!

Back I fly to the days gone by,
And I see thy branches against the sky,
I see on the grass thy blossoms shed,
I see (and I ravish) thy berries red,
And I shout—like the tempest loud and free,
Hurrah! for the wild wild Cherry-tree!

LXXVIII.—THE COMMON LOT.

Mourn not thy daughter fading!
It is the common lot,
That those we love should come and go,
And leave us in this world of woe:
So, murmur not!

Her life was short, but fair,
Unsullied by a blot;
And now she sinks to dreamless rest;
(A dove, who makes the earth her nest;)
So, murmur not!

No pangs, nor passionate grief,
Nor anger raging hot,
No ills shall ever harm her more;
She goes unto the silent shore, —
Where pain is not.

Weep'st thou that none should mourn
For thee, and thy sad lot?
Peace, peace! and know that few e'er grieve,
When Death, the tyrant, doth unweave
Life's little knot.

E'en Thou scarce wept must fade!
It is the common lot,
To link our hearts to things that fly,
To love without return, —and die,
And be—forgot!

LXXIX.—A BACCHANALIAN SONG.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS.

Sing! —Who sings
To her who weareth a hundred rings?
Ah, who is this lady fine?
The Vine, boys, the Vine!
The mother of mighty Wine.
A roamer is she
O'er wall and tree,
And sometimes very good company.

Drink! —Who drinks
To her who blusheth and never thinks?
Ah, who is this maid of thine!
The Grape, boys, the Grape!
O, never let her escape
Until she be turned to Wine!
For better is she,
Than vine can be,
And very very good company!

Dream! —who dreams
Of the God that governs a thousand streams?
Ah, who is this Spirit fine?
'Tis Wine, boys, 'tis Wine!
God Bacchus, a friend of mine.
O better is he
Than grape or tree,
And the best of all good company.

LXXX.—DARK-EYED BEAUTY OF THE SOUTH.

Dark-eyed beauty of the South!
Mistress of the rosy mouth!
Doth thy heart desert its duty?
Doth thy blood belie thy beauty?
Art thou false? or art thou cold?
Art thou sworn to wed for gold?

On thy forehead sitteth pride,
Crowned with scorn and falcon-eyed;
But beneath, methinks, thou twinest
Silken smiles that seem divinest.
Can such smiles be false and cold?
Canst thou—wilt thou wed for gold?

We, who dwell on Northern earth,
Fill the frozen air with mirth, —
Soar upon the wings of laughter,
(Though we droop the moment after:)
But through all our regions cold,
None will sell their hearts for gold.

LXXXI.—IS MY LOVER ON THE SEA

Is my lover on the sea?
Sailing East, or sailing West?
Mighty Ocean, gentle be,
Rock him into rest!

Let no angry wind arise,
Nor a wave with whitened crest:
All be gentle as his eyes,
When he is caressed!

LXXXII.—THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.

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SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

How many Summers, love,
Have I been thine?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine?
Time, like the winged wind
When't bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hours!

Some weight of thought, though loth,
On thee he leaves;
Some lines of care round both
Perhaps he weaves;
Some fears, —a soft regret
For joys scarce known;
Sweet looks we half forget; —
All else is flown!

Ah! with what thankless heart
I mourn and sing!
Look, where our children start,
Like sudden Spring!
With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time!

LXXXIII.—SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE.

She was not fair, nor full of grace,
Nor crowned with thought or aught beside;
No wealth had she, of mind or face,
To win our love, or raise our pride:
No lover's thought her cheek did touch;
No poet's dream was 'round her thrown;
And yet we miss her—ah, too much,
Now—she hath flown!

We miss her when the morning calls,
As one that mingled in our mirth;
We miss her when the evening falls, —
A trifle wanted on the earth!
Some fancy small or subtle thought
Is checked ere to its blossom grown;
Some chain is broken that we wrought,
Now—she hath flown!

No solid good, nor hope defined,
Is marred now she hath sunk in night;
And yet the strong immortal Mind
Is stopped in its triumphant flight!
Stern friend, what power is in a tear,
What strength in one poor thought alone,
When all we know is—“She was here,”
And—“She hath flown!”

LXXXIV.—A SONG FOR THE SEASONS.

When the merry lark doth gild
With his song the summer hours;
And their nests the swallows build
In the roofs and tops of towers;
And the golden gorse-flower burns
All about the waste;
And the maiden May returns
With a pretty haste;
Then, how merry are the times!
The Summer times! the Spring times!

Now, from off his ashen stone,
The chilly midnight cricket crieth;
And all merry birds are flown;
And our dream of pleasure dieth;
Now, the once blue laughing sky
Saddens into gray;
And the frozen rivers sigh,
Pining all away!
Now, how solemn are the times!
The Winter times! the Night times!

Yet, be merry: all around
Is through one vast change revolving:
Even Night, who lately frowned,
Is in silver dawn dissolving:
Earth will burst her fetters strange,
And in spring grow free:
All things in the world will change,
Save—my love for thee!
Sing then, hopeful are all times!
Winter, Summer, Spring times!

LXXXV.—THE QUADROON.

Say they that all beauty lies
In the paler maiden's hue?
Say they that all softness flies,
Save from eyes of April blue?
Arise thou, like a night in June,
Beautiful Quadroon!

Come,—all dark and bright, as skies
With the tender starlight hung!
Loose the Love from out thine eyes!
Loose the Angel from thy tongue!
Let them hear Heaven's own sweet tune.
Beautiful Quadroon!

Tell them—Beauty (born above)
From no shade nor hue doth fly:
All she asks is Mind, is Love;
And both upon thine aspect lie,
(Like the light upon the moon,)
Beautiful Quadroon!

LXXXVI.—THE RECALL.

Come again! Come again!
Sunshine cometh after rain.
As a lamp fed newly burneth,
Pleasure, who doth fly, returneth,
Scattering every cloud of pain.
As the year, which dies in showers,
Riseth in a world of flowers,
Called by many a vernal strain,
Come Thou,—for whom tears were falling,
And a thousand hearts are calling!
Come again, O come again!
Be the sunshine after rain!

LXXXVII.—THE BLOODHOUND.

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SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor!
Old friend,—we must wander the world once more!
For no one now liveth to welcome us back:
So, come!—let us speed on our fated track.
What matter the region,—what matter the weather,
So you and I travel, till death, together?
And in death?—why, e'en there I may still be found
By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound.

We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea,
And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be;
Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo;
(How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue!)
No joy did divide us; no peril could part
The man from his friend of the noble heart;
Ay, his friend; for where shall there ever be found
A friend like his resolute fond bloodhound?

What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day,
When I fronted the wolves, like a stag at bay?
When downwards they galloped to where we stood,
Whilst I staggered from dread in the dark pine wood?
Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed?
God, God! how I prayed for a friend in need!
And—he came! Ah! 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found
That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.

LXXXVIII.—THE NIGHTS.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Oh, the Summer Night
Has a smile of light,
And she sits on a sapphire throne;
Whilst the sweet Winds load her
With garlands of odour,
From the bud to the rose o'er-blown!

But the Autumn Night
Has a piercing sight,
And a step both strong and free;
And a voice for wonder,
Like the wrath of the Thunder,
When he shouts to the stormy sea!

And the Winter Night
Is all cold and white,
And she singeth a song of pain;
Till the wild bee hummeth,
And warm spring cometh,
When she dies in a dream of rain!

Oh, the Night brings sleep
To the green woods deep;
To the bird of the woods its nest;
To Care soft hours;
To life new powers;
To the sick and the weary,—Rest!

LXXXIX.—THE STORMY PETREL.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

A thousand miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast:
The sails are scattered abroad, like weeds;
The strong masts shake, like quivering reeds;
The mighty cables, and iron chains,
The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack, and hearts like stone
Their natural hard proud strength disown.

Up and down! Up and down!
From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,
And amidst the flashing and feathery foam
The Stormy Petrel finds a home,—
A home, if such a place may be,
For her who lives on the wide wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,
And only seeketh her rocky lair
To warm her young, and to teach them spring
At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

O'er the Deep! O'er the Deep!
Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep,
Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
The Petrel telleth her tale—in vain;

For the mariner curseth the warning bird,
Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard!
—Ah! thus does the prophet, of good or ill,
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still:
Yet he ne'er faulters:—So, Petrel! spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

XC.—TO A NIGHTINGALE, AT MID—DAY.

Thy voice is sweet,—is sad,—is clear,
And yet, methinks, 't should flow unseen,
Like hidden rivers that we hear
Singing amongst the forests green.

Delay, delay! till downy Eve
Into her twilight woods hath flown:
Too soon, musician, dost thou grieve;
Love bloometh best (like thought)—alone.

Cease, cease awhile! Thy holy strain
Should be amongst the silence born;
Thy heart may then unfold its pain,
Leaning upon its bridal thorn.

The insect noise, the human folly
Disturb thy grave thoughts with their din,
Then, cease awhile, bird Melancholy,
And when the fond Night hears,—begin!

XCI.—THE HAPPY HOURS.

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SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

O, the Hours! the happy Hours;
When there shone the light of Love,
And all the sky was blue above,
And the earth was full of flowers!
Why should Time and toil
The worth and beauty spoil
Of such happy Hours?

O, the Hours! the spring-time Hours!
When the Soul doth forwards bend,
And dream the sweet world hath no end,
Neither spot, nor shade, nor showers!
Can we ne'er resume
The love, the light, the bloom
Of those vernal Hours?

Ever do the year's bright Hours
Come, with laughing April, round,
And with her walk the grassy ground,
When she calleth forth the flowers:
But no new springs bear
To us thoughts half so fair
As the by-gone Hours!

XCII.—EARTH AND AIR.

How bountiful, how wonderful
Thou art, sweet Air!
And yet, albeit thine odours lie
On every gust that mocks the eye,
We pass thy gentle blessings by
Without a care!

How bountiful, how wonderful
Thou art, sweet Earth!
Thy seasons, changing with the sun,
Thy beauty out of darkness won!
And yet, whose tongue (when all is done)
Will tell thy worth?

The poet's!—He alone doth still
Uphold all worth!
Then, love the poet;—love his themes,
His thoughts, enriched by sunny dreams,
Which dower with life the songs and streams
Of Air and Earth.

XCIII.—WHEN FRIENDS LOOK DARK AND COLD.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS.

When friends look dark and cold,
And maids neither laugh nor sigh,
And your enemy proffers his gold,
Be sure there is danger nigh.

O, then 'tis time to look forward,
And back, like the hunted hare;
And to watch, as the little bird waiches,
When the falcon is in the air.

When the trader is scant of words,
And your neighbour is rough or shy,
And your banker recalls his hoards,
Be sure there is danger nigh.

O, then 'tis time to look forward, &c.

Whenever a change is wrought,
And you know not the reason why,
In your own or an old friend's thought,
Be sure there is evil nigh.

O, then 'tis time to look forward, &c.

100

XCIV.—SONG OF THE SOLDIER TO HIS SWORD.

My sword! My friend! My noble friend!
Champion fearless! Servant true!
Whom my fathers without end
In their thousand battles drew,—
Come!
Let me bare thee to the light!
Let me clutch thee in my hand!
Oh! how keen, how blue, how bright,
Is my noble, noble brand?

Thou wast plucked from some base mine,
Born 'midst stone and stubborn clay:
Ah! who dreamt that aught divine
In that rugged aspect lay?
Come!
Once we called and thou didst come
Straight from out thy sleep didst start,
And the trump and stormy drum
Woke at once thine iron heart!

Thou wast like the lightning, driven
By the tempest's strength at speed!
Brazen shields and armour riven
Told what thou couldst do, at need.
Come!
Hark! again the trumpets bray!
Hark! where rolls the stormy drum!
I am here to lead the way:
Servant of my fathers,—Come!

101

XCV.—HURRAH FOR MERRY ENGLAND.

Hurrah, for the Land of England!
Firm-set in the subject sea;
Where the Women are fair,
And the men (like air)
Are all lovers of liberty!
Hurrah! for merry England!
Long life, without strife, for England!

Hurrah, for the Spirit of England!
The bold, the true, the free:
Who stretcheth his hand,
With a king's command,
All over the circling sea!
Hurrah! for merry England!
Long life, without strife, for England!

Let tyrants rush forth on the nations,
And strive to chain down the free;
But do Thou stand fast,
From the first to the last,
For “The Right,”—wheresoever it be!
O merry, and noble England!
Long life to the Spirit of England!

Hurrah, for William of England!
Our friend,—as a King should be;
Who casteth aside
Man's useless pride,
And leans on his people free!
Hurrah! for the King of England!
The friend of merry England!

102

Her King is the friend of England;
Her guards are her ships at sea;
But her beauty lies
In her women's eyes,
And her strength in her People free!
So, Hurrah! for merry England!
For the King and the free Men of England!

XCVI.—WHY DOTH THE BOTTLE STAND?

Why doth the bottle stand, boys?
Let the glass run silent round!
Wine should go,
As the blood doth flow,
Its course, without pause or sound.
Scorn not Wine!—Truth divine
And Courage dwell with noble Wine.

Send round the bottle quick, boys!
No reason ask, nor pause!
Wine should run
Like a circling sun,
By its own unquestioned laws.
Scorn not Wine! &c.

Fill to the beaded brims, boys,
Let each glass, like a king, be crown'd!
Drink—“Joy, and Wealth,
And a mighty Health,
To Ourselves and the world around!”
Scorn not Wine! &c.

103

XCVII.—THE NIGHT IS CLOSING ROUND, MOTHER.

The night is closing round, Mother!
The shadows are thick and deep!
All round me they cling, like an iron ring,
And I cannot—cannot sleep!

Ah, Heaven!—thy hand, thy hand, Mother!
Let me lie on thy nursing breast!
They have smitten my brain with a piercing pain:
But 'tis gone!—and I now shall rest.

I could sleep a long long sleep, Mother!
So, seek me a calm cool bed:
You may lay me low, in the virgin snow,
With a moss-bank for my head.

I would lie in the wild wild woods, Mother!
Where nought but the birds are known;
Where nothing is seen, but the branches green,
And flow'rs on the greensward strewn.

No lovers there witch the air, Mother!
Nor mock at the holy sky:
One may live and be gay, like a summer day,
And at last, like the Summer,—die!

104

XCVIII.—PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL?

Peace! what can tears avail?
She lies all dumb and pale,
And from her eye,
The spirit of lovely life is fading,
And she must die!
Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?
Reply, reply!

Hath she not dwelt too long
'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong?
Then, why not die?
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,
And hopeless lie?
Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?
Reply, reply!

Death! Take her to thine arms,
In all her stainless charms,
And with her fly
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,
The Angels lie!
Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?
Reply,—reply!

105

XCIX.—THE WOOD THRUSH.

Whither hath the Wood-thrush flown,
From our greenwood bowers?
Wherefore builds he not again,
Where the white-thorn flowers?

Bid him come! for on his wings,
The sunny year he bringeth;
And the heart unlocks its springs,
Wheresoe'er he singeth.

Lover like the creature waits,
And when Morning soareth,
All his little soul of song,
Tow'rd the dawn he poureth.

Sweet one, why art thou not heard
Now, where woods are stillest?
Oh, come back! and bring with thee,
—Whatsoe'er thou willest;

Laughing thoughts,—delighting songs,
Dreams of azure hours,—
Something,—nothing;—all we ask
Is to see thee ours!

'Tis enough that thou should'st sing
For thy own pure pleasure:
'Tis enough that thou hast once
Sweetened human leisure!

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C.—MIDNIGHT RHYMES.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Oh! 'tis merry when stars are bright
To sing, as you pace along,
Of the things that are dreamt by night,
To the motion of some old song:
For the fancy of mortals teems,
Whether they wake or sleep,
With figures, that shine like dreams,
Then—die in the darkness deep!

Oh! merry are Christmas times,
And merry the belfry chimes;
But the merriest things
That a man e'er sings,
Are his Midnight Rhymes.

'Tis night when the usurers feel
That their money is thrice repaid;
'Tis night when adorers kneel,
By scores, to the sleeping maid;
'Tis night when the author deems
That his critics are all at bay,
And the gamester regains in dreams
The gold that he lost by day.

Oh! merry are Christmas times, &c.

At night, both the sick and lame
Abandon their world of care;
And the creature that droops with shame
Forgetteth her old despair!

107

The boy on the raging deep
Laughs loud that the skies are clear;
And the murderer turns, in sleep,
And dreams that a pardon's near!

Oh! merry are Christmas times, &c.

At night, all wrongs are right,
And all perils of life grow smooth;
Then why cometh the fierce day-light,
When fancy is bright as truth?
All hearts, 'tween the earth and the moon,
Recover their hopes again:
Ah,—'tis pity so sweet a tune
Should ever be jarred by pain!

Yet,—merry are Christmas times, &c.

CI.—A LOVE SONG.

Give me but thy heart, though cold;
I ask no more!
Give to others gems and gold;
But leave me poor.
Give to whom thou wilt thy smiles;
Cast o'er others all thy wiles;
But let thy tears flow fast and free,
For me,—with me!

Giv'st thou but one look, sweet heart?
A word,—no more?
It is Music's sweetest part,
When lips run o'er!
'Tis a part I fain would learn,
So, pr'ythee, here thy lessons turn,
And teach me, to the close,
All Love's pleasures,—all its woes!

108

CII.—THE STRANGER.

A stranger came to a rich man's door,
And smiled on his mighty feast;
And away his brightest child he bore,
And laid her toward the East.

He came next spring, with a smile as gay,
(At the time when the East wind blows,)
And another bright creature he led away,
With a cheek like a burning rose.

And he came once more, when the spring was blue,
And whispered the last to rest,
And bore her away; yet nobody knew
The name of the dreadful guest!

Next year, there was none but the rich man left,
Left alone in his pride and pain,
And he called on the Stranger, like one bereft,
And sought through the land,—in vain!

He came not: he never was heard nor seen
Again, (so the story saith:)
But, wherever his terrible smile had been,
Men shuddered, and talked of—Death!

109

CIII.—SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING.

When the wind blows
In the sweet rose-tree,
And the cow lows
On the fragrant lea,
And the stream flows
All bright and free,
'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me;
'Tis not for any one here, I trow:
The gentle wind bloweth,
The happy cow loweth,
The merry stream floweth,
For all below!
O the Spring! the bountiful Spring!
She shineth and smileth on every thing.

Where come the sheep?
To the rich man's moor.
Where cometh sleep?
To the bed that's poor.
Peasants must weep,
And kings endure;
That is a fate that none can cure:
Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow:
She bringeth bright hours,
She weaveth sweet flowers,
She dresseth her bowers,
For all below!
O the Spring, &c.

110

CIV.—THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BRIDAL.

Now, what shady wreath wilt wear,
Maiden,—Maiden?
Bid them bind the veil with care,
'Round the sunshine of thy hair?
Let thy brow be free from scorn;
Let thine eye have gentle light,
On the gentle marriage morn;
And so—Good Night!

It is now the youth of May,
Maiden,—Maiden!
Choose thou, then, at blush of day,
Buds and blossoms, not too gay;
And, behind their veiling sweets,
Bashful be, 'midst all their light,
When the tender lover greets;
And so,—Good Night!

Soon To-morrow will be here,
Maiden,—Maiden!
Then,—as hopes aye mix with fears,
Mix thou smiles with pearled tears;
So shall he who loves thee feel
Thrice his first sweet pure delight,
And nearer to thy bosom steal;
And so—Good Night!

111

CV.—A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW.

A deep and a mighty shadow
Across my heart is thrown,
Like the cloud on a summer meadow,
Where the Thunder-wind hath blown!
The wild-rose, Fancy, dieth,
The sweet-bird, Memory, flieth,
And leaveth me alone,—

Alone with my hopeless Sorrow;
No other mate I know!
I strive to awake To-morrow;
But the dull words will not flow!
I pray,—but my prayers are driven
Aside by the angry Heaven,
And weigh me down with woe!

I call on the Past, to lend me
Its songs, to soothe my pain:
I bid the dim Future send me
A light from its eyes,—in vain!
Nought comes; but a shrill cry starteth
From Hope, as she fast departeth;
“I go, and come not again!”

112

CVI.—BELSHAZZAR.

Belshazzar is King! Belshazzar is Lord!
And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board:
Fruits glisten, flow'rs blossom, meats steam, and a flood
Of the wine that man loveth runs redder than blood:
Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth,
And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth;
And the crowds all shout,
Till the vast roofs ring,—
“All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!”

“Bring forth,” cries the Monarch, “the vessels of gold,
Which my father tore down from the temples of old;
Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown,
To the Gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone:
Bring forth!”—and before him the vessels all shine,
And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine;
Whilst the trumpets bray,
And the cymbals ring,—
“Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!”

What cometh?—look, look! without menace, or call?
Who writes, with the Lightning's bright hand, on the wall?
What pierceth the King, like the point of a dart?
What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart?
“Chaldeans! Magicians! the letters expound!”
They are read,—and Belshazzar is dead on the ground!
Hark!—The Persian is come
On a conqueror's wing;
And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king!

113

CVII.—A PHANTASY.

Feed her with the leaves of Love!
(Love, the rose, that blossoms here)!
Music, gently 'round her move!
Bind her to the cypress near!
Weave her 'round and 'round,
With skeins of silken sound!
'Tis a little stricken deer,
Who doth from the hunter fly,
Wandering here to droop,—to die,
Ignorant of her wound!

Soothe her with sad stories,
O Poet, till she sleep!
Dreams, come forth with all your glories!
Night, breathe soft and deep!
Music, 'round her creep!
If she steal away to weep,
Seek her out,—and, when you find her,
Gentle, gentlest Music, wind her
Round and round,
Round and round,
With your bands of softest sound;
Such as we, at night-fall, hear
In the wizard forest near,
When the charmed Maiden sings
At the hidden springs!

114

CVIII.—LIFE.

We are born; we laugh: we weep;
We love; we droop; we die!
Ah! wherefore do we laugh, or weep?
Why do we live, or die?
Who knows that secret deep?
Alas, not I!

Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye?
Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?
Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die?

We toil,—through pain and wrong;
We fight,—and fly;
We love; we lose; and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie.
O Life! is all thy song
“Endure and—die?”

END OF PART THE THIRD.

115

4. PART THE FOURTH.

CIX.—THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL.

How gallantly, how merrily
We ride along the sea!
The morning is all sunshine,
The wind is blowing free:
The billows are all sparkling,
And bounding in the light,
Like creatures in whose sunny veins
The blood is running bright.
All nature knows our triumph
Strange birds about us sweep;
Strange things come up to look at us,
The masters of the deep:
In our wake, like any servant,
Follows even the bold shark:
Oh, proud must be our Admiral
Of such a bonny barque!

Proud, proud must be our Admiral,
(Though he is pale to-day,)
Of twice five hundred iron men,
Who all his nod obey;

116

Who fought for him, and conquered,
Who've won, with sweat and gore,
Nobility! which he shall have
Whene'er he touch the shore.
Oh! would I were our Admiral,
To order, with a word;
To lose a dozen drops of blood,
And so rise up a lord!
I'd shout e'en to yon shark, there,
Who follows in our lee,
“Some day, I'll make thee carry me,
Like lightning through the sea.”

—The Admiral grew paler,
And paler as we flew:
Still talked he to his officers,
And smiled upon his crew;
And he looked up at the heavens,
And he looked down on the sea,
And at last he spied the creature,
That kept following in our lee.
He shook—'twas but an instant;
For speedily the pride
Ran crimson to his heart,
Till all chances he defied:
It threw boldness on his forehead;
It gave firmness to his breath;
And he stood like some grim warrior
New risen up from death.

That night, a horrid whisper
Fell on us where we lay;
And we knew our old fine Admiral
Was changing into clay;
And we heard the wash of waters,
Though nothing could we see,
And a whistle and a plunge
Among the billows in our lee!

117

'Till dawn we watched the body,
In its dead and ghastly sleep,
And next evening, at sunset,
It was slung into the deep!
And never, from that moment,—
Save one shudder through the sea,
Saw we or heard the shark
That had followed in our lee!

CX.—SLEEP ON!

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Sleep on! The world is vain;
All grief, and sin, and pain:
If there be a dream of joy,
It comes in slumber, pretty boy!
So, sweet Sleep!
Hang upon his eyelids deep;
Shew him all that cannot be,
Ere thou dost flee!

Sleep on! Let no bad truth
Fall yet upon his youth:
Let him see no thing unkind,
But live, a little longer, blind!
Oh! sweet Sleep!
Hang upon his eyelids deep:
Shew him Love, without his wings,
And all fair things!

118

CXI.—HOME.

(A DUET.)

He.
Dost thou love wandering? Whither would'st thou go?
Dream'st thou, sweet daughter, of a land more fair?
Dost thou not love these aye-blue streams that flow?
These spicy forests? and this golden air?

She.
O, yes, I love the woods, and streams, so gay:
And, more than all, O father, I love thee;
Yet would I fain be wandering—far away,
Where such things never were, nor e'er shall be.

He.
Speak, mine own daughter with the sunbright locks!
To what pale banished region would'st thou roam?

She.
O father, let us find our frozen rocks!
Let's seek that country of all countries,—Home!

He.
See'st thou these orange flowers! this palm, that rears
Its head up tow'rds Heaven's blue and cloudless dome?

She.
I dream, I dream: mine eyes are hid in tears:
My heart is wandering round our ancient home.

He.
Why, then, we'll go. Farewell, ye tender skies,
Who sheltered us, when we were forced to roam!

She.
On, on! Let's pass the swallow as he flies!
Farewell, kind land! Now, father, now,—for Home!

119

CXII.—THE WEAVER'S SONG.

Weave, brothers, weave!—Swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom,
And show us how brightly your flowers grow,
That have beauty but no perfume!
Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes,
The lily, that hath no spot;
The violet, deep as your true love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not!

Sing,—sing, brothers! weave and sing!
Tis good both to sing and to weave:
'Tis better to work than live idle:
'Tis better to sing than grieve.

Weave, brothers, weave!—Weave, and bid
The colours of sunset glow!
Let grace in each gliding thread be hid!
Let beauty about ye blow!
Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both firm and sure,
And Time nor chance shall your work untwine;
But all,—like a truth,—endure!

So,—sing, brothers, &c.

Weave, brothers, weave!—Toil is ours;
But toil is the lot of men:
One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!
There is not a creature, from England's king,
To the peasant that delves the soil,
That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring,
If he have not his share of toil!

So,—sing, brothers, &c.

120

CXIII.—THE EVENING STAR.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

The Evening Star, the lover's star,
The beautiful star comes hither!
He steereth his barque
Through the azure dark,
And brings us the bright blue weather,—Love!
The beautiful bright blue weather.

The birds lie dumb, when the night stars come,
And Silence broods o'er the covers;
But a voice now wakes
In the thorny brakes,
And singeth a song for lovers,—Love!
A sad sweet song for lovers!

It singeth a song, of grief and wrong,
A passionate song for others;
Yet its own sweet pain
Can never be vain,
If it 'wakeneth love in others,—Love!
It 'wakeneth love in others.

CXIV.—SONG OVER A CHILD.

Dream, Baby, dream!
The stars are glowing.
Hear'st thou the stream?
'Tis softly flowing.
All gently glide the Hours:
Above, no tempest lowers:
Below, are fragrant flowers
In silence growing.

121

Sleep, Baby, sleep,
'Till dawn to morrow!
Why should'st thou weep,
Who know'st not sorrow?
Too soon come pains and fears;
Too soon a cause for tears:
So from thy future years
No sadness borrow!

Dream, Baby, dream!
Thine eyelids quiver.
Know'st thou the theme
Of yon soft river?
It saith “Be calm, Be sure,
Unfailing, gentle, pure;
So shall thy life endure,
Like mine, for ever!”

CXV.—LOVE THE POET, PRETTY ONE!

Love the poet, pretty one!
He unfoldeth knowledge fair;
Lessons of the earth and sun,
And of azure air.

He can teach thee how to reap
Music from the golden lyre:
He can shew thee how to steep
All thy thoughts in fire.

Heed not, though at times he seem
Dark and still, and cold as clay:
He is shadowed by his Dream!
But 'twill pass away.

122

Then—bright fancies will he weave,
Caught from air and heaven above:
Some will teach thee how to grieve;
Others, how—to love!

How from sweet to sweet to rove;
How all evil things to shun:
Should I not then whisper—“Love—
Love the poet, pretty one?”

CXVI.—LOVE AND MIRTH.

What song doth the cricket sing?
What news doth the swallow bring?
What doth laughing boyhood tell?
What calls out the marriage bell?

What say all?—Love and Mirth!
In the air, and in the earth:
Very, very soft and merry
Is the natural song of Earth.

Mark the Morn, when first she springs
Upwards on her golden wings;
Hark, to the soaring soaring lark!
And the echoing forests,—hark!

What say they?—Love and Mirth, &c.

With the leaves the apples wrestle;
In the grass the daisies nestle;
And the sun smiles on the wall:
Tell us, what's the cause of all?

Mirth and Love; Love and Mirth, &c.

Is it Mirth? Then why will man
Spoil the sweet song all he can?
Bid him, rather, aye rejoice,
With a kind and a merry voice!

Bid him sing “Love and Mirth!”
To the air, and to the earth, &c.

123

CXVII.—A REPOSE.

She sleeps amongst her pillows soft,
(A dove, now wearied with her flight),
And all around, and all aloft,
Hang flutes and folds of virgin white:
Her hair out-darkens the dark night,
Her glance out-shines the starry sky;
But now her locks are hidden quite,
And closed is her fringed eye!

She sleepeth: wherefore doth she start?
She sigheth; doth she feel no pain?
None, none! the Dream is near her heart;
The Spirit of sleep is in her brain.
He cometh down like golden rain,
Without a wish, without a sound;
He cheers the sleeper(ne'er in vain),
Like May, when earth is winter-bound.

All day within some cave he lies,
Dethroned from his nightly sway,—
Far fading when the dawning skies
Our souls with wakening thoughts array.
Two Spirits of might doth man obey;
By each he's wrought, from each he learns:
The one is Lord of life by day;
The other when starry Night returns.

124

CXVIII.—PERDITA.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY SIGNOR VERINI.

The nest of the dove is rifled;
Alas! alas!
The dream of delight is stifled;
And all that was
Of beauty and hope is broken!
But words will flee,
Though truest were ever spoken —
Alas, for me!

His love was as fragrant ever,
As flowers to bees;
His voice like the mournful river;
But streams will freeze!
Ah! where can I fly, deceived?
Ah! where, where rest?
I am sick, like the dove bereaved,
And have no nest!

CXIX.—HERMIONE.

Thou hast beauty bright and fair,
Manner noble, aspect free,
Eyes that are untouched by care:
What then do we ask from thee?
Hermione, Hermione?

125

Thou hast reason quick and strong,
Wit that envious men admire,
And a voice, itself a song!
What then can we still desire?
Hermione, Hermione?

Something thou dost want, O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy,)
Tears,—amidst thy laughter seen,
Pity,—mingling with thy joy.
This is all we ask, from thee,
Hermione, Hermione!

CXX.—MARIAN.

Spirit of the summer breeze!
Wherefore sleep'st thou in the trees?
Come, and kiss the maiden rose,
That on Marian's bosom blows!

Come, and fawn about her hair!
Kiss the fringes of her eyes?
Ask her why she looks so fair,
When she heedeth not my sighs?

Tell her, murmuring summer air,
That her beauty's all untrue;
Tell her, she should not seem fair,
Unless she be gentle too!

126

CXXI.—THE OWL.

In the hollow tree, in the old grey tower,
The spectral Owl doth dwell;
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk,—he's abroad and well!
Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;
All mock him outright, by day;
But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away!

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,
Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl!

And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom;
And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,
She awaiteth her ghastly groom!
Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree, so still;
But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill!

O—when the moon shines, and dogs do howl!
Then, then is the joy of the Horned Owl!

Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight!
The Owl hath his share of good:
If a prisoner he be in the broad day-light,
He is Lord in the dark green wood!
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate;
They are each unto each a pride;

127

Thrice fonder perhaps, since a strange dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside!

So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl,
Sing, Ho! for the reign of the Horned Owl!
We know not alway
Who are kings by day,
But the King of the night is the bold brown Owl!

CXXII.—KILL THE LOVE THAT WINDS AROUND THEE.

Kill the love that winds around thee,
With its snake-like death-like twine!
Where's the guardian faith that bound thee?
Where are all thy gifts divine?
Where is wisdom? Where is wine?
Where's the sad dark truth of story?
Where the Muse's mighty line?
Where the fame that burned before thee?

What is love, but life deformed
From its grand original aim?
Hero into slave transformed?
Worlds lost at a single game?
Whose the peril-whose the shame,
Should'st thou die in Love's fond slavery?
Rise! Earth's nought without its fame!
Rise! Life's nought without its bravery!

128

CXXIII.—THE LAKE HAS BURST.

The lake has burst! The lake has burst
Down through the chasms the wild waves flee:
They gallop along
With a roaring song,
Away to the eager awaiting sea!

Down through the valleys, and over the rocks,
And over the forests the flood runs free;
And wherever it dashes,
The oaks and the ashes
Shrink, drop, and are borne to the hungry sea!

The cottage of reeds and the tower of stone,
Both shaken to ruin, at last agree;
And the slave and his master
In one wide disaster
Are hurried like weeds to the scornful sea!

The sea-beast he tosseth his foaming mane;
He bellows aloud to the misty sky;
And the sleep-buried Thunder
A wakens in wonder,
And the Lightning opens her piercing eye!

There is death above, there is death around;
There is death wheresoever the waters be;
There is nothing now doing
Save terror and ruin,
On earth, and in air, and the stormy sea!

129

CXXIV.—SING, MAIDEN, SING!

Sing, Maiden, sing!
Mouths were made for singing;
Listen,—Songs thou'lt hear
Through the wide world ringing;
Songs from all the birds,
Songs from winds and showers,
Songs from seas and streams,
Even from sweet flowers.

Hear'st thou the rain,
How it gently falleth?
Hearest thou the bird,
Who from forest calleth?
Hearest thou the bee
O'er the sunflower ringing?
Tell us, Maiden, now—
Should'st thou not be singing?

Hear'st thou the breeze
Round the rose-bud sighing?
And the small sweet rose
Love to love replying?
So should'st thou reply,
To the prayer we're bringing:
So that bud, thy mouth,
Should burst forth in singing!

130

CXXV.—MAUREEN.

The cottage is here, as of old I remember;
The pathway is worn, as it ever hath been:
On the turf-piled hearth there still lives a bright ember;
But,—where is Maureen?

The same pleasant prospect still shineth before me,—
The river—the mountain—the valley of green,
And Heaven itself (a bright blessing!) is o'er me!
But,—where is Maureen?

Lost! Lost!—Like a dream that hath come and departed,
(Ah, why are the loved and lost ever seen?)
She hath fallen,—hath flown, with a lover false-hearted;
So, mourn for Maureen?

And She, who so loved her, is slain (the poor mother,)
Struck dead in a day, by a shadow unseen!
And the home we now loved, is the home of another,
And—lost is Maureen!

Sweet Shannon! a moment by thee let me ponder;
A moment look back at the things that have been;
Then, away to the world where the ruined ones wander,
To seek for Maureen!

131

CXXVI.—WINE.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM

I love Wine! Bold bright Wine!
That biddeth the manly Spirit shine!
Others may care
For water face;
But give me—Wine!

Ancient Wine! Brave old Wine!
How it around the heart doth twine!
Poets may love
The stars above;
But I love—Wine!

Nought but Wine! Noble Wine,
Strong, and sound, and old, and fine.
What can scare
The devil Despair,
Like brave bright wine?

O brave Wine! Rare old Wine!
Once thou wast deemed a God divine!
Bad are the rhymes,
And bad the times,
That scorn old Wine!

So, brave Wine! Dear old Wine!
Morning, Noon, and Night I'm thine!
Whatever may be,
I'll stand by thee,
Immortal Wine!

132

CXXVII.—SING! WHO MINGLES WITH MY LAYS!

Sing! Who mingles with my lays?
Maiden of the primrose days!
Sing with me, and I will show
All that thou in spring should'st know;
All the names of all the flowers;
What to do with primrose hours!

Sing! who mingles with my song?
Soldier in the battle strong!
Sing, and thee I'll music teach,
Such as thunders on the beach;
When the waves run mad and white,
Like a warrior in the fight!

Sing! who loves the music tender?
Widow, who hath no defender!
Orphan!—Scholar!—Mother wild,
Who hast loved(and lost) a child!
Maiden, dreaming of to-morrow!
Let us sing and banish sorrow!
Come!—Sweet music hath a smart,
And a balm for every heart!

133

CXXVIII.—I LOVE MY LOVE, BECAUSE HE LOVES ME.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Man, man loves his steed,
For its blood or its breed,
For its odour the rose, for its honey the bee;
His own haughty beauty
From pride or from duty;
But I love my love, because—he loves me.

Oh, my love has an eye,
Like a star in the sky,
And breath like the sweets from the hawthorn tree;
And his heart is a treasure,
Whose worth is past measure;
And yet he hath given all—all to me!

It crowns me with light,
In the dead of the night,
It brightens my journey by land and sea;
And thus, while I wander,
I sigh and grow fonder,
For my love ever grows with his love for me.

Why didst thou depart,
Thou sweet bird of my heart?
Oh! come back to my bosom, and never flee:
I never will grieve thee,
I'll never deceive thee,
But love thee for ever,—as thou lov'st me.

134

CXXIX.—BABYLON.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS.

(Recitative.)

Pause in this desert! Here, men say, of old
Belshazzar reigned, and drank from cups of gold;
Here, to his hideous idols, bowed the slave,
And here—God struck him dead!

. . . . Where lies his grave?
Tis lost! —His brazen gates? his soaring towers,
From whose dark tops men watched the starry hours?
All to the dust gone down! The desert bare
Scarce yields an echo when we question “Where?”
The lonely herdsman seeks in vain the spot;
And the black wandering Arab knows it not.
No brick, nor fragment now remains, to tell
Where Babylon, mighty city, rose—and fell!

(Air.)

O City, vast and old!
Where, where is thy grandeur fled?
The stream that around thee rolled,
Still rolls in its ancient bed!
But where, oh, where art Thou gone?
Oh, Babylon! Oh, Babylon!

The Giant, when he dies,
Still leaveth his bones behind,
To shrink in the winter skies,
And whiten beneath the wind!
But where oh, where, &c.

135

Thou liv'st! —for thy name still glows,
A light in the desert skies;
As the fame of the hero grows
Thrice trebled because he dies!
Oh, Babylon! Oh, Babylon!

CXXX.—TALK NOT TO ME OF LOVE.

Talk not to me of love!
The deer that dies
Knows more of love than I,
Who seek the skies.
Strive not to bind my soul
With chains of clay!
I scorn thy poor control;
Away, —Away!

Now, wherefore dost thou weave
Thy falsehoods strange?
Sad words may make me grieve,
But never change.
A snake sleeps in thine eye;
It stirs thine heart:
Why dost thou seem to sigh?
Depart, —Depart!

Thy dreams, when Fortune flew,
Did elsewhere range:
But Love is always true,
And knows no change:
More firm in want, in strife,
Ay, firm through crime,
He looketh down on life,
The star of Time!

136

CXXXI.—THE REMONSTRANCE.

Thou'lt take me with thee, my love, my love?
Wherever thou'rt forced by fate, to move?
Over the land, or over the sea,
Thou know'st 'tis the same delight to me.
What say'st thou, dear?
Thy bride is here,
All ready to live and die with thee,

Her heart was in the song;
It murmured in the measure;
It touched the music, all along,
With a grave sweet pleasure.

Thou wilt not leave me behind, behind,
To the malice of Fortune, harsh and blind?
I'll follow thy call, as a bird would flee,
And sing or be mute as thou biddest me.
What say'st thou, dear,
To my fond, fond fear?
Thou can'st not banish thy love from thee!

Her heart was in the song;
It murmured in the measure;
It touched the music, all along,
With a grave sweet pleasure.

What say'st thou, my soldier, my love, my pride?
Thy answer? What, was I not born thy bride?
From my cradle e'er cherished for love and thee,
And dar'st thou now banish or bid me flee?
Smil'st thou at my fear?
Ah, then, my dear,
I know I may love—live—die with thee!

Her heart was in the song;
It murmured in the measure;
It touched the music, all along,
With a grave sweet pleasure.

137

CXXXII.—WHAT SAY THE CLOUDS ON THE HILL AND PLAIN?

What say the clouds on the hill and plain?
“We come, we go.”
What say the springs of the dreaming brain?
“We shrink, we flow.”
What say the maids in their changeful hours?
“We laugh, we cry.”
What say the budding and fading flowers?
“We live we die.”

And thus all things go ranging,
From riddle to riddle changing,
From day into night, from life into death,
And no one knows why, my song saith.

A fable is good, and a truth is good,
And loss, and gain;
And the ebb and the flood, and the black pine wood,
And the vast bare plain;
To wake and to sleep, and to dream of the deep,
Are good, say I;
And 'tis good to laugh and 'tis good to weep;
But who knows why?

Yet thus all things go ranging, &c,

We cumber the earth for a hundred years;
We learn, we teach;
We fight amidst perils, and hopes, and fears,
Fame's rock to reach.
We boast that our fellows are sages wrought
In toil and pain;
Yet the commonest lesson by Nature taught,
Doth vex their brain!

Oh all things here go ranging, &c.

138

CXXXIII.—A DILEMMA.

Which is the maiden I love best?
Twenty now are buzzing round me;
Three in their milk-white arms have wound me,
Gently, —yet I feel no rest!
One hath showered her black locks o'er me,
Ten kneel on the ground before me,
Casting forth such beams of blue,
That I'm pierc'd—oh, through and through!
Bacchus! Gods! what can I do?
Which must I love best?

Tell me—(ah, more gently take me,
Sweet one, in thy warm white arms!)
Tell me, —which will ne'er forsake me
Thorough all life's ills and harms?
Is it she, whose blood's retreating
From that forehead crowned with pride?
Is it she, whose pulse is beating
Full against my unarmed side?
What do all these things betide?
Strong my doubts grow, —strong, —and stronger:
Quick! give answer to my call!
If ye pause a moment longer,
I shall love ye—All!

139

CXXXIV.—THE BEGGAR'S SONG.

I am a merry beggar,
A beggar I was born,
Tossed about the wild world,
From evening till morn;
A plaything of the tempest,
A brother of the night,
A conqueror, a conjuror,
When 'tis merry star-light!

Oh! nothing can withstand me,
Whenever I do stoop,
From the warm heart of the housewife,
To the chicken in the coop;
From the linen of the lady,
To the larder of the knight,
All come when I do conjure,
In the merry star-light!

I pay no tithes to parson,
Tho' I follow like his clerk;
For he takes his tenths by daylight,
I take mine in the dark;
I pay the king no window-tax;
From some it may be right,
But all I do beneath the blue,
Is by merry star-light!

I roam from lane to common,
From city unto town,
And I tell a merry story,
To gentleman or clown:

140

Each gives me bed or victuals,
Or ale that glitters bright,
Or—I contrive to borrow them
By merry star-light!

Oh, the tradesman he is rich, sirs,
The farmer well to pass,
The soldier he's a lion,
The alderman's an ass;
The courtier he is subtle, sirs,
And the scholar he is bright;
But who, like me, is ever free
In the merry star-light?

CXXXV.—TO SOPHIE.

Wilt thou be a nun, Sophie?
Nothing but a nun?
Is it not a better thing
With thy friends to laugh and sing?
To be loved and sought?
To be woo'd and—won?
Dost thou love the shadow, Sophie,
Better than the sun?

I'm a poor lay-brother, Sophie;
Yet, I this may say, —
Thou had'st better bear with love,
Than dwell here, a prison'd dove,
Weeping life away.
Oh! I'd bear love's pangs, rather,
Fifty times a day!

141

CXXXVI.—BUILD UP A COLUMN TO BOLIVAR.

Build up a column to Bolivar!
Build it under a tropic star!
Build it high as his mounting fame!
Crown its head with his noble name!
Let the letters tell, like a light afar,
“This is the column of Bolivar!”

Soldier in war, in peace a man,
Did he not all that a hero can?
Wasting his life for his country's care,
Laying it down with a patriot prayer,
Shedding his blood like the summer rain,
Loving the land, though he loved in vain!
Man is a creature, good or ill,
Little or great, at his own strong will;
And he grew good, and wise, and great,
Albeit he fought with a tyrant fate,
And shower'd his golden gifts on men,
Who paid him in basest wrongs again!

Raise the column to Bolivar!
Firm in peace, and fierce in war!
Shout forth-his noble, noble name!
Shout, till his enemies die, in shame!
Shout, till Columbia's woods awaken,
Like seas by a mighty tempest shaken, —
Till pity and praise, and great disdain,
Sound like an Indian hurricane!
Shout! as ye shout in conquering war,
While ye build the column to Bolivar!

142

CXXXXVII.—THE NIGHT SHADE.

Tread aside from my starry bloom!
I am the nurse who feed the tomb
(The tomb, my child)
With dainties piled,
Until it grows strong as a tempest wild.

Trample not on a virgin flower!
I am the maid of the midnight hour;
I bear sweet sleep,
To those who weep,
And lie on their eyelids dark and deep.

Tread not thou on my snaky eyes!
I am the worm that the weary prize,
The Nile's soft asp,
That they strive to grasp,
And one that a queen has loved to clasp!

Pity me! I am she whom man
Hath hated since ever the world began;
I soothe his brain,
In the night of pain,
But at morning he waketh, —and all is vain!

CXXXVIII.—TO A FLOWER.

Dawn, gentle flower,
From the morning earth
We will gaze and wonder
At thy wondrous birth!

143

Bloom, gentle flower!
Lover of the light,
Sought by wind and shower,
Fondled by the night!

Fade, gentle flower!
All thy white leaves close;
Having shewn thy beauty,
Time 'tis for repose.

Die, gentle flower,
In the silent sun!
Soh, —all pangs are over,
All thy tasks are done!

Day hath no more glory,
Though he soars so high;
Thine is all man's story,
Live, —and love, —and die!

CXXXIX.—THE FAREWELL OF THE SOLDIER.

I love thee, I love thee,
Far better than wine,
But the curse is above me;
Thou'lt never be mine!

As the blade wears the scabbard,
The billow the shore,
So sorrow doth fret me
For evermore.

Fair beauty, I leave thee,
To conquer my heart:
I'll see thee, I'll bless thee,
And then—depart.

144

Let me take, ere I vanish,
One look of thine eyes, —
One smile for remembrance,
For life soon flies!

—And now for the fortune,
That hangeth above;
And to bury in battle,
My dream of love!

CXL.—A BRIDAL DIRGE.

Weave no more the marriage chain!
All unmated is the lover;
Death has ta'en the place of Pain;
Love doth call on love in vain:
Life and years of hope are over!

No more want of marriage bell!
No more need of bridal favour!
Where is she to wear them well?
You, beside the lover, tell!
Gone—with all the love he gave her!

Paler than the stone she lies:
Colder than the winter's morning!
Wherefore did she thus despise
(She with pity in her eyes)
Mother's care, and lover's warning?

Youth and beauty—shall they not
Last beyond a brief to-morrow?
No: a prayer and then forgot!
This the truest lover's lot;
This the sum of human sorrow!

145

CXLI.—THE SONG OF THE OUTCAST.

I was born on a winter's morn,
Welcomed to life with hate and scorn,
Torn from a famished mother's side,
Who left me here, with a laugh, and—died;
Left me here, with the curse of life,
To be tossed about in the burning strife,
Linked to nothing, but shame and pain,
Echoing nothing, but man's disdain;
O, that I might again be born,
With treble my strength of hate and scorn!

I was born by a sudden shock, —
Born by the blow of a ruffian sire,
Given to air, as the blasted rock
Gives out the reddening roaring fire.
My sire was stone; but my dark blood
Ran its round like a fiery flood,
Rushing through every tingling vein,
And flaming ever at man's disdain;
Ready to give back, night or morn,
Hate for hate, and scorn for scorn!

They cast me out, in my hungry need,
(A dog, whom none would own nor feed,)
Without a home, without a meal,
And bade me go forth—to slay or steal!
What wonder, God! had my hands been red
With the blood of a host in secret shed!
But, no: I fought on the free sea-wave,
And perilled my life for my plunder brave,
And never yet shrank, in nerve or breath,
But struck, as the pirate strikes, —to death!

146

CXLII.—THE CONVICT'S FAREWELL.

A boat is rowed along the sea,
Full of souls as it may be;
Their dress is coarse, their hair is shorn,
And every squalid face forlorn
Is full of sorrow, and hate, and scorn!
What is't?—It is the Convict Boat,
That o'er the waves is forced to float,
Bearing its wicked burden o'er
The ocean, to a distant shore:
Man scowls upon it; but the sea
(The same with fettered as with free)
Danceth beneath it heedlessly!

Slowly the boat is borne along;
Yet they who row are hard and strong,
And well their oars keep time,
To one who sings (and clanks his chain,
The better thus to hide his pain,)
A bitter, banished rhyme!
He sings: and all his mates in woe
Chaunt sullen chorus as they go!

SONG.

Row us on, a felon band,
Farther out to sea,
Till we lose all sight of land,
And then—we shall be free;
Row us on, and loose our fetters;
Yeo! the boat makes way:
Let's say “Good bye” unto our betters,
And, hey for a brighter day!

147

CHORUS.

Row us fast! Row us fast!
Trial's o'er and sentence past;
Here's a whistle for those who tried to blind us,
And a curse on all we leave behind us!

Farewell, juries,—jailors,—friends,
(Traitors to the close;)
Here the felon's danger ends.
Farewell, bloody foes!
Farewell, England! We are quitting
Now thy dungeon doors:
Take our blessing, as we're flitting,—
“A curse upon thy shores!”

Farewell, England,—honest nurse
Of all our wants and sins!
What to thee 's a felon's curse?
What to thee who wins?
Murder thriveth in thy cities;
Famine through thine isle:
One may cause a dozen ditties;
T' other scarce a smile.

Farewell, England,—tender soil,
Where babes who leave the breast,
From morning into midnight toil,
That pride may be proudly drest!
Where he who's right and he who swerveth
Meet at the goal the same;
Where no one hath what he deserveth,
Not even in empty fame!

So, fare thee well, our country dear!
Our last wish, ere we go,
Is—May your heart be never clear
From tax, nor tithe, nor woe!

148

May they who sow e'er reap for others,
The hundred for the one!
May friends grow false, and twin-born brothers
Each hate his Mother's son!

May pains and forms still fence the place
Where justice must be bought!
So he who's poor must hide his face,
And he who thinks—his thought!
May Might o'er Right be crowned the winner,
The head still o'er the heart,
And the Saint be still so like the Sinner,
You'll not know them apart!

May your traders grumble when bread is high,
And your farmers when bread is low,
And your pauper brats, scarce two feet high,
Learn more than your nobles know!
May your sick have foggy or frosty weather,
And your convicts all short throats,
And your blood-covered bankers e'er hang together,
And tempt ye with one pound notes!

And so,—with hunger in your jaws,
And peril within your breast,
And a bar of gold, to guard your laws,
For those who pay the best,
Farewell to England's woe and weal!
For our betters, so bold and blythe,
May they never want, when they want a meal,
A Parson to take their Tithe!

149

CXLIII.—THE HIRLAS HORN.

Fill high fill high, the Hirlas horn,
Rimmed with sunlight, like the morn!
Deep, and vast, and fit to drown
All the troubles of a crown;
Deep, and vast, and crowned with mead,
'Tis a cup for kings indeed,
Full of courage, full of worth,
Making man a god on earth!
Warriors, Heroes, Cambrian-born,
Drink,—from the Hirlas horn!

Hide with foam the golden tip;
Make it rich for a prince's lip!
Here's to the fame of Roderick dead!
Bards, why do your harps not shed
Music? Come,—a mighty draught
To dead Roderick's name be quaff'd;
Tell us all the hero won,
All he did, from sun to sun!
Bards, and heroes, Cambrian-born,
Drink,—from the Hirlas horn!

Fill the horn to Madoc's name,
First in the mighty race of fame;
Eagle-hearted, eagle-eyed,
All hearts shuddered when he died!
Yet, why so? for Tudor rose
Like a lion upon our foes;—
Like the wild storm-smitten ocean,
When he puts his strength in motion!
Come, brave spirits, Cambrian-born,
Drink,—from the Hirlas horn!

150

Cambrian people—Cambrian mountains,
Back into your wizard fountains
(Where the Druid seers are dwelling)
Shout unto the crown'd Llewellin!
Patriot! Hero! Monarch! Friend!
Wreathed with virtues without end!
First of men 'tween Earth and Sky!
The sword and the shield of Liberty!
Drink, all Spirits, Cambrian-born,
Drink to the good, great, crown'd Llewellin!
Drink,—from the Hirlas horn!

CXLIV.—COME! LET US GO TO THE LAND.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY SIGNOR VERINI.

Come,—let us go to the land
Where the violets grow!
Let's go thither, hand in hand,
Over the waters, over the snow,
To the land where the sweet sweet violets blow!

There,—in the beautiful South,
Where the sweet flowers lie,
Thou shalt sing, with thy sweeter mouth,
Under the light of the evening sky,
That Love never fades, though violets die!

151

CXLV.—THE LEVELLER.

The king he reigns on a throne of gold,
Fenced round by his right divine;
The baron he sits in his castle old,
Drinking his ripe red wine:
But below, below, in his ragged coat,
The beggar he tuneth a hungry note,
And the spinner is bound to his weary thread,
And the debtor lies down with an aching head.

So the world goes!
So the stream flows!
Yet there is a fellow, whom nobody knows,
Who maketh all free
On land and sea,
And forceth the rich like the poor to flee!

The lady lies down in her warm white lawn,
And dreams of her pearled pride;
The milkmaid sings, to the wild-eyed dawn,
Sad songs on the cold hill-side:
And the bishop smiles, as on high he sits,
On the scholar who writes and starves by fits;
And the girl who her nightly needle plies,
Looks out for the summer of life,—and dies!

So the world goes!
So the stream flows!
Yet there is a fellow, whom nobody knows,
Who maketh all free
On land and sea,
And forceth the rich like the poor to flee!

152

CXLVI.—THE SECRET OF SINGING.

Lady, sing no more!
Science all is vein,
Till the heart be touched, lady,
And give forth its pain.

'Tis a living lyre,
Fed by air and sun,
O'er whose witching wire, lady,
Faery fingers run.

Pity comes in tears,
From her home above,
Hope, and sometimes Fear, lady,
And the wizard,—Love!

Each doth search the heart,
To its inmost springs,
And when they depart, lady,
Then the Spirit sings!

END OF PART THE FOURTH.

153

5. PART THE FIFTH. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

CXLVII.—THE FIGHT OF RAVENNA.

He is bound for the wars,
He is armed for the fight,
With lion-like sinews,
And the heart of a knight;
All hidden in steel,
Like the sun in a cloud,
And he calls for his charger,
Who neigheth aloud;
And he calls for his page,
Who comes forth like the light;
And they mount and ride off,
For the Brescian fight.

Count Gaston de Foix
Is the heir of Narbonne,
But his page is an orphan,
Known,—link'd unto none;
The master is young,
But as bold as the blast;
The servant all tender,—
Too tender to last;
A bud that was born
For the summer-soft skies,
But left to wild winter,
Is trampled and dies!

154

“Come forward, my young one,
Ride on by my side;
What, child, wilt thou quell
The Castilian pride?”
Thus speaks the gay soldier,
His heart in his smile,
But his page blushes deep,
(Was it anger?)—the while:
Was it anger? Ah, no:
For the tender dark eye,
Saith—“Master, for thee
I will live, I will die!”

They speed to the field,
All arrayed for the fight,
And Brescia falleth,
Like fruit in a blight;
Scarce a blow for a battle,
A shout for her fame;
All's lost,—given up
To the sound of a name!
But Ravenna hath soldiers,
Whose hearts are more bold,
Whose wine is all Spanish,
Whose pay is all gold.

So he turns, with a laugh
Of contempt for his foe,
And he girdeth his sword,
For a weightier blow.
Straight forward he rideth
'Till night 's in the sky,
When the page and the master
Together must lie.
Where loiters the page?
Ha! he hangeth his head,
And with forehead like fire
He shunneth the bed.

155

“Now rest thee, my weary one;
Drown thee in sleep!
The great sun himself
Lieth down in the deep;
The beast on his pasture,
The bird on his bough,
The lord and the servant
Are slumberers now.”
“I am wont,” sighed the page,
“A long watching to keep;
But my lord shall lie down
While I charm him to sleep.”

Soon (cased in his armour)
Down lieth the knight,
And the page he is tuning
His cittern aright;
At last, through a voice
That is tender and low,
The melody mourns
Like a stream at its flow;
Sad, gentle, uncertain,
As the life of a dream;
And thus the page singeth,
With love for his theme:

SONG.

1

There lived a lady, long ago;
Her heart was sad and dark,—ah, me!
Dark with a single secret woe,
That none could ever see!

2

She left her home, she lost her pride,
Forgot the jeering world,—ah, me!
And followed a knight, and fought, and died,
All for the love of—chivalry!

156

3

She died,—and when in her last dull sleep,
She lay all pale and cold,—ah, me!
They read of a love as wild and deep
As the dark deep sea!

The song's at an end!
But the singer, so young,
Still weeps at the music
That fell from his tongue:
His hands are enclasped;
His cheeks are on fire;
And his black locks, unloosened,
Lie mixed with the wire:
But his lord—he reposes
As calm as the night,
Until dawn cometh forth,
With her summons of light:

Then—onwards they ride
Under clouds of the vine;
Now silent, now singing
Old stories divine;
Now resting awhile,
Near the cool of a stream,
Now wild for the battle;
Now lost in a dream:
At last—they are threading
The forest of pines,
And Ravenna, beleaguer'd
By chivalry, shines!

Ravenna! Ravenna!
Now ‘God for the right!’
For the Gaul and the Spaniard
Are full in the fight.
French squadrons are charging,
Some conquer, some reel;

157

Wild trumpets are braying
Aloud for Castile!
Each cannon that roareth
Bears blood on its sound,
And the dead and the dying
Lie thick on the ground.

Now shrieks are the music
That's borne on the gust,
And the groan of the war-horse
Who dies in the dust:
Now Spaniards are cheered
By the ‘honour’ they love;
Now France by the flower
That bloometh above;
And, indeed, o'er the riot,
The steam, and the cloud,
Still the Oriflame floateth,—
The pride of the proud!

What ho! for King Louis!
What ho! for Narbonne!
Come soldiers! 'tis Gaston
Who leadeth ye on!
'Tis Gaston, your brother,
Who waveth his hand;
Who fights, as ye fight,
For the vine-covered land!
'Tis Gaston,—'tis Gaston,
The last of his name,
Who fights for sweet France,
And will die for her fame!

‘Come forward! Come’—Ha!
What is doing? He stops!
Why? why? By Saint Denis,
He staggers,—he drops!
'Twas something—'twas nothing—
A shot and a sound;

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Yet the ever-bright hero
Lies low on the ground!
He loseth his eye-sight;
He loseth his breath;
He smiles—Ah! his beauty
Is darkened by death!

No pause—not an instant,
For wailing or woe!
For the battle still rageth;
Still fighteth the foe;
Again roar the cannon;
Again flies the ball;
And the heart of the Spaniard
Spouts blood on the Gaul!
Strong armour is riven,
Proud courage laid low,
And Frenchmen and foemen
Are dead at a blow!

Oh, the bellowing thunders!
The shudders—the shocks!
When thousands 'gainst thousands
Come clashing like rocks!
When the rain is all scarlet,
And clouds are half fire,
And men's sinews are snapped
Like the threads of a lyre!
When each litter's a hearse,
And each bullet a knell;
When each breath is curse,
And each bosom—a hell!

Mourn, Soldiers,—he's dead!
The last heir of Narbonne!
The bravest—the best!
But the battle is won!
The Spaniards have flown,
To their fosse-cover'd tent;

159

And the victors are left
To rejoice,—and lament!
They still have proud leaders,
Still chivalry brave;
But the first of their heroes
Lies dumb in the grave!

They bear him in honour;
They laurel his head;
But, who meets the pale burthen,
And drops by the dead?
The Page? —no, —the WOMAN!
Who followed her love,
And who 'll follow him still
(If it may be) —above;
Who'll watch him, and tend him,
On earth, or in sky;
Who was ready to live for him,
Ready to die!

. . . A Month has flown by,
On the wings of the year;
And a train of sad maidens
Droop after a bier;
No crown on the coffin;
No name on the lid;
Yet the flow'r of all Provence
Within it is hid!
Blanche—Countess, —and heiress,
Once bright as the sun,
Lies dim, by the side
Of the heir of Narbonne!

Oh, Courage! dost always
Pay blood for a name?
True Love! must thou ever-more
Die for thy fame!
'Twere sweet—could it be,
That the lover should dwell

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In the bosom (a heaven!)
He loveth so well:
But, if not—why then, Death,
Be thou just to his worth,
And sweep him at once
From the scorn of the earth!

CXLVIII.—THE FIRE FLY.

Tell us, O Guide! by what strange natural laws,
This winged flower throws out, night after night,
Such lunar brightness! Why—for what grave cause
Is this earth-insect crown'd with heavenly light?
Peace! Rest content! See where, by cliff and dell,
Past tangled forest paths and silent river,
The little lustrous creature guides us well,
And where we fail, his small light aids us ever.

Night's shining servant! Pretty star of earth!
I ask not why thy lamp doth ever burn.
Perhaps it is thy very life,—thy mind;
And thou, if robbed of that strange right of birth,
Might be no more than Man,—when Death doth turn
His beauty into darkness, cold and blind!

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CXLIX.—THE BLOOD HORSE.

Gamarra is a noble steed;
Strong, black, and of the desert breed;
Full of fire, and full of bone;
All his line of fathers known;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within!
His mane, a stormy river flowing;
And his eyes, like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night;
And his pace as swift as light.

Look,—around his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float!
Sinewy strength is on his reins,
And the red blood gallops through his veins;
Richer, redder, never ran
Through the boasting heart of man.
He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer,—was born
Here, upon a red March morn:
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred;
And the last of that great line,
Trod like one of race divine!
And yet,—he was but friend to one,
Who fed him at the set of sun,

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By some lone fountain fringed with green:
With him,—a roving Bedouin,
He lived, (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day),
And died, untamed, upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!

CL.—HIDDEN THOUGHTS.

Some joys we loudly tell;
Some thoughts we keep apart,
Fenced round, and bid them dwell
In inmost heart.

Close in that heart (their den)
The tiger passions sleep:
There too, shut out from men,
Resolve lies deep.

There dreams repose,—so fair,
So frail, that but to sigh
Their names unto the air,
Would force them die.

These give, like violets hid,
A perfume to the mind;
Give light, as once they did,
To poet blind!

163

CLI.—AN EPISTLE TO CHARLES LAMB;

ON HIS EMANCIPATION FROM CLERKSHIP.

Dear Lamb! I drink to thee,—to thee
Married to sweet Liberty!

What, old friend, and art thou freed
From the bondage of the pen?
Free from care and toil indeed?
Free to wander amongst men,
When and howsoe'er thou wilt?
All thy drops of labour spilt,
On those huge and figured pages,
Which will sleep unclasp'd for ages,
Little knowing who did wield
The quill that traversed their white field?

Come,—another mighty health!
Thou hast earn'd thy sum of wealth;
Countless ease; immortal leisure;
Days and nights of boundless pleasure,
Chequer'd by no dream of pain,
Such as hangs on clerk-like brain,
Like a night-mare, and doth press
The happy soul from happiness.

Oh, happy thou! whose all of time
(Day and eve, and morning prime,)
Is fill'd with talk on pleasant themes,
Or visions quaint, which come in dreams
Such as panther'd Bacchus rules,
When his rod is on “the schools,”
Mixing wisdom with their wine;
Or, perhaps, thy wit so fine

164

Strayeth in some elder book,
Whereon our modern Solons look
With severe ungifted eyes,
Wondering what thou seest to prize.
Happy thou, whose skill can take
Pleasure at each turn, and slake
Thy thirst by every fountain's brink,
Where less wise men would pause and shrink:
Sometimes, 'mid stately avenues,
With Cowley thou, or Marvel's muse,
Dost walk; or Gray, by Eton's towers;
Or Pope, in Hampton's chesnut bowers;
Or Walton, by his loved Lea stream:
Or, dost thou wiyh our Milton dream,
Of Eden and the Apocalypse,
And hear the words from his great lips?

Speak,—in what grove or hazel shade,
For “musing meditation made,”
Dost wander?—or on Penshurst lawn,
Where Sidney's fame had time to dawn
And die, ere yet the hate of men
Could envy at his perfect pen?
Or, dost thou, in some London street,
(With voices fill'd and thronging feet,),
Loiter, with mien 'twixt grave and gay?
Or take, along some pathway sweet,
Thy calm suburban way?

Happy beyond that man of Ross,
Whom mere content could ne'er engross,
Art thou; with hope, health, “learned leisure;”
Friends, books; thy thoughts, and endless pleasure!
Yet—yet,—(for when was pleasure made
Sunshine all without a shade?)
Thou, perhaps, as now thou rovest
Through the busy scenes thou lovest,
With an Idler's careless look,
Turning some moth-pierced book,
Feel'st a sharp and sudden woe,
For visions vanished long ago!

165

And then, thou think'st how time has fled
Over thy unsilvered head,
Snatching many a fellow mind
Away, and leaving—what ?—behind!
Nought, alas! save joy and pain
Mingled ever, like a strain
Of music, where the discords vie
With the truer harmony.
So, perhaps, with thee the vein
Is sullied ever,—so the chain
Of habits and affections old,
Like a weight of solid gold,
Presseth on thy gentle breast,
Till sorrow rob thee of thy rest.

Ay: so't must be!—Ev'n I, (whose lot
The fairy Love so long forgot,)
Seated beside this ruby wine,
And near to books and shapes divine,
Which poets, and the painters past
Have wrought in lines that aye shall last,—
Ev'n I, with Shakspeare's self beside me,
And one, whose tender talk can guide me
Through fears, and pains, and troublous themes,
Whose smile doth fall upon my dreams
Like sunshine on a stormy sea,—
Want something—when I think of thee!

CLII.—SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL.

Sit down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
Come,—tell the sweet amount
That's lost by sighing!
How many smiles?—a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying!

166

Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure!

We dream: do thou the same:
We love—for ever:
We laugh; yet few we shame,
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
Then—hope and happy skies
Are thine for ever!

CLIII.—THE FISHERMAN.

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY MR. LEE.

A perilous life, and sad as life may be,
Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea,
O'er the wild waters labouring, far from home,
For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam:
Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life,
And none to aid him in the stormy strife:
Companion of the sea and silent air,
The lonely fisher thus must ever fare;
Without the comfort, hope,—with scarce a friend,
He looks through life, and only sees—its end!

167

CLIV.—COURAGE.

Courage!—Nothing can withstand
Long a wronged, undaunted land;
If the hearts within her be
True unto themselves and thee,
Thou freed giant, Liberty!
Oh! no mountain-nymph art thou,
When the helm is on thy brow,
And the sword is in thy hand,
Fighting for thy own good land!

Courage!—Nothing e'er withstood
Freemen fighting for their good;
Armed with all their fathers' fame,
They will win and wear a name,
That shall go to endless glory,
Like the gods of old Greek story,
Raised to heaven and heavenly worth,
For the good they gave to earth.

Courage!—There is none so poor,
(None of all who wrong endure,)
None so humble, none so weak,
But may flush his father's cheek,
And his maiden's dear and true,
With the deeds that he may do.
Be his days as dark as night,
He may make himself a light.
What! though sunken be the sun,
There are stars when day is done!

Courage!—Who will be a slave,
That hath strength to dig a grave,

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And therein his fetters hide,
And lay a tyrant by his side?
Courage!—Hope, howe'er he fly
For a time, can never die!
Courage, therefore, brother men!
Cry “God! and to the fight again!”

CLV.—A CHAMBER SCENE.

Tread softly through these amorous rooms;
For every bough is hung with life,
And kisses in harmonious strife,
Unloose their sharp and wing'd perfumes!
From Afric, and the Persian looms,
The carpet's silken leaves have sprung,
And Heaven, in its blue bounty, flung
These starry flowers, and azure blooms.

Tread softly! By a creature fair
The Deity of love reposes,
His red lips open, like the roses
Which round his hyacinthine hair
Hang in crimson coronals;
And Passion fills the arched halls;
And Beauty floats upon the air.

Tread softly—softly, like the foot
Of Winter, shod with fleecy snow,
Who cometh white, and cold, and mute,
Lest he should wake the Spring below.
Oh, look!—for here lie Love and Youth,
Fair Spirits of the heart and mind;
Alas! that one should stray from truth;
And one—be ever, ever, blind!

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CLVI.—THE PAUPER'S JUBILEE.

Hurrah! Who was e'er so gay
As we merry folks to-day?
Brother Beggars, do not stare,
But toss your rags into the air,
And cry, “No work, and better fare!”
Each man, be he saint or sinner,
Shall to-day have—Meat for Dinner!!!

Yesterday, oh, Yesterday!
That indeed was a bad day;
Iron bread, and rascal gruel,
Water drink, and scanty fuel,
With the beadle at our backs,
Cursing us as we beat flax,
Just like twelve Old Bailey varlets,
Amongst oakum-picking harlots!

Why should we such things endure?
Though we be the parish Poor,
This is usage bad and rough.
Are not age and pain enough?
Lonely age, unpitied pain?
With the Ban, that, like a chain,
To our prison bare hath bound us,
And the unwelcomed Winter round us?

Why should we for ever work?
Do we starve beneath the Turk,
That, with one foot in the grave,
We should still toil like the slave?
Seventy winters on our heads,
Yet we freeze on wooden beds!

170

With one blanket for a fold,
That lets in the horrid cold,
And cramps and agues manifold!

Yet,—sometimes we're merry people,
When the chimes clang in the steeple:
If 't be summer-time, we all
(Dropsied, palsied, crippled,) crawl
Underneath the sunny wall:
Up and down like worms we creep,
Or stand still and fall asleep,
With our faces in the sun,
Forgetting all the world has done!

If't be May, with hawthorn blooms
In our breasts, we sit on tombs,
And spell o'er, with eager ken,
The epitaphs of older men,
(Choosing those, for some strange reasons,
Who've weather'd ninety,—a hundred seasons,)
Till forth at last we shout in chorus,
“We've thirty good years still before us!”

But, to-day's a bonny day!
What shall we be doing?
What's the use of saving money,
When rivers flow with milk and honey?
Prudence is our ruin.
What have we to do with care?
Who, to be a pauper's heir,
Would mask his false face in a smile,
Or hide his honest hate in guile?

But come,—why do we loiter here?
Boy, go get us some small beer:
Quick! 'twill make our blood run quicker,
And drown tje devil Pain in liquor!
March, so fierce, is almost past,
April will be here at last,

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And May must come,
When bees do hum,
And Summer, over cold victorious!
Hurrah! 'Tis a prospect glorious!
Meat! Small Beer! and Warmer Weather!
Come boys,—let's be mad together!

CLVII.—THE FALCON.

[_]

AFTER A PAINTING BY TITIAN.

The Falcon is a noble bird,
And when his heart of hearts is stirred,
He'll seek the eagle, though he run
Into his chamber near the sun.
Never was there brute or bird,
Whom the woods or mountains heard,
That could force a fear or care
From him,—the Arab of the air!

To-day he sits upon a wrist,
Whose purple veins a queen has kissed,
And on him falls a sterner eye
Than he can face where'er he fly,
Though he scale the summit cold
Of the Grimsel, vast and old,—
Though he search yon sunless stream,
That threads the forest like a dream.

Ah, noble Solkier! noble Bird!
Will your names be ever heard,—
Ever seen in future story,
Crowning it with deathless glory?
Peace, ho!—the master's eye is drawn
Away unto the bursting dawn!
Arise, thou bird of birds, arise,
And seek thy quarry in the skies!

172

CLVIII.—THE PAST.

This common field, this little brook—
What is there hidden in these two,
That I so often on them look,
Oftener than on the heavens blue?
No beauty lies upon the field;
Small music doth the river yield;
And yet I look and look again,
With something of a pleasant pain.

'Tis thirty—can it be thirty years,
Since last I stood upon this plank,
Which o'er the brook its figure rears,
And watch'd the pebbles as they sank?
How white the stream! I still remember
Its margin glassed by hoar December,
And how the sun fell on the snow:
Ah! can it be so long ago?

It cometh back; —So blithe, so bright,
It hurries to my eager ken,
As though but one short winter's night
Had darkened o'er the world since then.
It is the same clear dazzling scene; —
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green;
Perhaps the river's troubled voice
Doth not so plainly say —“Rejoice.”

Yet Nature surely never ranges,
Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown;
But, ever joyful, merely changes
The primrose for the thistle-down.
'Tis we alone who, waxing old,
Look on her with an aspect cold,
Dissolve her in our burning tears,
Or clothe her with the mists of years!

173

Then, why should not the grass be green?
And why should not the river's song
Be merry, —as they both have been
When I was here an urchin strong?
Ah, true—too true! I see the sun
Through thirty wintry years hath run,
For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook,
Usurp the urchin's laughing look!

So be it! I have lost, —and won!
For, once, the past was poor to me;
The future dim; and though the sun
Shed life and strength, and I was free,
I felt not—knew no grateful pleasure:
All seemed but as the common measure:
But now—the experienced Spirit old
Turns all the leaden past to gold!

CLIX.—TO THE SINGER PASTA.

Never till now—never till now, O, Queen
And Wonder of the enchanted world of sound!
Never till now was such bright creature seen,
Startling to transport all the regions round!
Whence com'st thou—with those eyes and that fine mien,
Thou sweet, sweet singer? —Like an angel found
Mourning alone, thou seem'st (thy mates all fled)
A star 'mongst clouds, —a spirit 'midst the dead.

Melodious thoughts hang round thee! Sorrow sings
Perpetual sweetness near, —divine despair!
Thou speak'st, —and Music, with her thousand strings,
Gives golden answers from the haunted air!
Thou mov'st—and round thee Grace her beauty flings!
Thou look'st—and Love is born! O, songstress rare!

174

Lives there on earth a power like that which lies
In those resistless tones, in those dark eyes?

Oh, I have lived—how long! —with one deep treasure,
One fountain of delight unlocked, unknown;
But thou, the prophetess of my new pleasure,
Hast come at last, and struck my heart of stone;
And now outgushes, without stint or measure,
The endless rapture, —and in places lone
I shout it to the stars and winds that flee,
And then I think on all I owe to thee!

I see thee at all hours; beneath all skies;
In every shape thou tak'st, or passionate path:
Now art thou like some winged thing that cries
Over a city flaming fast to death:
Now, in thy voice, the mad Medea dies:
Now Desdemona yields her gentle breath:
All things thou art by turns, —from wrath to love;
From the queen eagle to the vestal dove!

Horror is stern and strong, and Death (unmasked
In slow pale silence, or 'mid brief eclipse);
But what are they to thy sweet strength, when tasked
To its height—with all the God upon thy lips?
Not even the cloudless days and riches, asked
By one who in the book of darkness dips,
Vies with that radiant wealth which they inherit
Who own, like thee, the Muse's deathless spirit.

Would I could crown thee as a king can crown!
Yet, what are kingly gifts to thy fair fame,
Whose echoes shall all vulgarer triumphs drown; —
Whose light shall darken every meaner name?
The gallant courts thee for his own renown;
Mimicking thee, he plays love's pleasant game:
The critic brings thee praise, which all rehearse;
And I—alas! —I can but bring my verse!

175

CLX.—SONG OF WOOD NYMPHS.

Come here, come here and dwell
In forest deep!
Come here, come here, and tell
Why thou dost weep!
Is it for love (sweet pain!)
That thus thou dar'st complain
Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves,
Where nought else grieves?

Come here, come here, and lie
By whispering stream!
Here no one dares to die
For Love's sweet dream;
But health all seek, and joy,
And shun perverse annoy,
And race along green paths till close of day,
And laugh—alway!

Or else, through half the year,
On rushy floor,
We lie by waters clear,
While sky-larks pour
Their songs into the sun!
And, when bright day is done,
We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding corn,
And dream—till morn!

176

CLXI.—FULLER'S BIRD.

“I have read of a bird, which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man; who coming to the water to drink, and finding there by reflection, that he had killed one like himself, pineth qway by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth itself.”—Fuller's Worthies.

The wild-wing'd creature, clad in gore,
(His bloody human meal being o'er,)
Comes down to the water's brink:
'Tis the first time he there hath gazed,
And straight he shrinks—alarm'd—amazed,
And dares not drink.

“Have I till now,” he sadly said,
“Preyed on my brother's blood, and made
His flesh my meal to-day?”
Once more he glances in the brook,
And once more sees his victim's look;
Then turns away.

With such sharp pain as human hearts
May feel, the drooping thing departs
Unto the dark wild wood;
And, there, 'midst briars and sheltering weeds,
He hideth his remorse, and feeds
No more on blood.

And in that weedy brake he lies,
And pines, and pines, until he dies;
And when all's o'er, —
What follows? —Nought! his brothers slake
Their thirst in blood in that same brake,
Fierce as before!

177

So Fable flows! —But would you find
Its moral wrought in human kind,
Its tale made worse;
Turn straight to Man, and in his fame
And forehead read “The Harpy's name;
But no remorse!

CLXII.—THE SONG OF A FELON'S WIFE.

The brand is on thy brow,
A dark and guilty spot;
'Tis ne'er to be erased!
'Tis ne'er to be forgot!

The brand is on thy brow!
Yet I must shade the spot:
For who will love thee now,
If I love thee not?

Thy soul is dark, —is stained; —
From out the bright world thrown;
By God and man disdained,
But not by me, —thy own!

Oh! even the tiger slain
Hath one who ne'er doth flee,
Who soothes his dying pain!
—That one am I to thee!

178

CLXIII.—A HYMN OF EVIL SPIRITS.

The Moon is shining on her way,
The planets yet undimm'd by sleep,
Drink light from the far-flaming day,
Who still is hid beyond the deep:
But here both men and Spirits weep,
And Earth all mourneth unto air,
Because there liveth nothing fair,
Nor great, save on the azure steep.

And on that hill of Heaven, none
Of human strength or thought may climb;
For there bright Angels lie alone,
Reposing since the birth of Time.
They bask beneath his looks sublime;
But nought of ease or hope is here,
Where sleep yields nought but dreams of fear,
And error all the pains of crime.

The Moon is come, —but she shall go:
The stars are in their azure nest;
The jaded wind shall cease to blow;
But when shall we have hope or rest?
Now some are sad, and some are bless'd;
But what to us is smile or sigh?
Though Peace, the white-wing'd dove, be nigh,
It ne'er must be the Spirit's guest!

Behold! The young and blooming Hour
Comes shining through the gate of morn,
And we awhile must quit our power,
And vanish from a world we scorn.
Look! Flattering sin begins to dawn
From man's false lips and woman's eyes,
And hopes and hearts are racked and torn
In God's green earthly paradise!

179

CLXIV.—A THOUGHT ON A RIVULET.

Look at this brook, so blithe, so free!
Thus hath it been, fair boy, for ever—
A shining, dancing, babbling river;
And thus 'twill ever be.
'Twill run, from mountain to the main,
With just the same sweet babbling voice
That now sings out, “Rejoice—rejoice!”
Perhaps 'twill be a chain
That will a thousand years remain—
Aye, through all times and changes last,
And link the present to the past.
Perhaps upon this self-same spot,
Hereafter, may a merry knot
(My children's children) meet and play,
And think on me, some summer day;
And smile (perhaps through youth's brief tears,
While thinking back through wastes of years,)
And softly say—
“'Twas here the old man used to stray,
And gaze upon the sky; and dream
(Long, long ago!) by this same stream.
He's in his grave! Ungentle Time
Hath dealt but harshly with his rhyme;
But We will ne'er forget, that he
Taught us to love this river free.”

180

CLXV.—I LOVED HER WHEN SHE LOOKED FROM ME.

I loved her when she looked from me,
And hid her stifled sighs:
I loved her too when she did smile
With shy and downcast eyes,
The light within them rounding “like
The young moon in its rise.”

I loved her!—Dost thou love no more,
Now she from thee is flown,
To some far distant—distant shore,
Unfetter'd, and alone?
Peace, peace! I know her: She will come
Again, and be mine own.

A kiss—a sigh—a little word
We changed, when we did part;
No more; yet read I in her eyes
The promise of her heart;
And Hope (who from all others flies)
From me will ne'er depart.

So here I live—a lover lone,
Contented with my state,
More sure of love, if she return,
Than others are of hate:
And if she die? —I too can die,
Content still with my fate.

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CLXVI.—THE SEA,—IN CALM.

Look what immortal floods the sunset pours
Upon us—Mark! how still (as though in dreams
Bound) the once wild and terrible Ocean seems!
How silent are the winds! No billow roars:
But all is tranquil as Elysian shores!
The silver margin which aye runneth round
The moon enchanted-sea, hath here no sound:
Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors!

What! is the Giant of the ocean dead,
Whose strength was all unmatch'd beneath the sun?
No; he reposes! Now his toils are done,
More quiet than the babbling brooks is he.
So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed,
And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be!

CLXVII.—SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH.

Softly woo away her breath,
Gentle Death!
Let her leave thee with no strife,
Tender, mournful, murmuring Life!
She hath seen her happy day:
She hath had her bud and blossom:
Now she pales and shrinks away,
Earth, into thy gentle bosom!

She hath done her bidding here,
Angels dear!
Bear her perfect soul above.
Flaming Seraph, —winged Love!

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Good she was, and fair in youth,
And her mind was seen to soar,
And her heart was wed to truth:
Take her, then, for evermore,—
For ever—evermore!

CLXVIII.—THE VAIN REGRET.

Oh! had I nursed, when I was young,
The lessons of my father's tongue,
(The deep laborious thoughts he drew,
From all he saw and others knew,)
I might have been—ah, me!
Thrice sager than I e'er shall be.
For what saith Time?
Alas! he only shews the truth
Of all that I was told in youth!

The thoughts now budding in my brain;
The wisdom I have bought with pain;
The knowledge of life's brevity;
Frail friendship, —false philosophy;
And all that issues out of woe,
Methinks were taught me long ago!
Then what saith Time?
Alas! he but brings back the truth
Of all I heard, (and lost!) in youth.

Truths! —hardly learned, and lately brought
From many a far forgotten scene!
Had I but listened, as I ought,
To your voices, sage,—serene,
Oh! what might I not have been
In the realms of thought!

183

CLXIX.—THE VIOLET.

I love all things the seasons bring,
All buds that open, birds that sing,
All hues, from white to jet;
All the sweet words that Summer sends,
When she recalls her flowery friends,
But chief—the Violet!

I love, how much I love the rose,
On whose soft lips the South-wind blows,
In pretty amorous threat;
The lily paler than the moon,
The odorous wondrous world of June,
Yet more—the Violet!

She comes, the first, the fairest thing
That Heaven upon the earth doth fling,
Ere Winter's star has set:
She dwells behind her leafy screen,
And gives, as Angels give, unseen,
So, love—the Violet.

What modest thoughts the Violet teaches,
What gracious boons the Violet preaches,
Bright Maiden ne'er forget!
But learn, and love, and so depart,
And sing thou, with thy wiser heart,
‘Long live the Violet!’

184

CLXX.—BEAUTY.

Painters—poets—who can tell
What Beauty is —bright miracle?
Sometimes brown and sometimes white,
She shifts from darkness into light,
Swimming on with such fine ease,
That we miss her small degrees,
Knowing not that she hath ranged,
Till we find her sweetly changed.

They are poets false who say
That Beauty must be fair as day,
And that the rich red rose,
On her cheek for ever glows,
Or that the cold white lily lieth
On her breast, and never flieth.
Beauty is not so unkind,
Not so niggard, not so blind,
As yield her favour but to one,
When she may walk unconfined,
Associate with the unfettered Wind,
And wander with the Sun.
No; she spreads her gifts, her grace,
O'er every colour, every face.
She can laugh, and she can breathe
Freely where she will, —beneath
Polar darkness, tropic star,
Impoverish'd Delhi, dark Bahár,
And all the regions bright and far,
Where India's sweet-voiced women are!

185

CLXXI.—SYBILLA.

Sybilla! Dost thou love?
Oh, swear! Oh, swear!
By those stedfast stars above!
By this pure sweet air!
By all things true, and deep, and fair!
By hearts made rich with love,
Made wise by care!

Sybilla! I love thee:
I swear, I swear,—
By all bright things that be!
By thyself, my fair!
By thine eyes, and motions free!
By thy sting, thou honey-bee!
By thy angel thoughts that flee
Singing through the golden air,
I swear, I swear!

Sybilla! dost thou frown?
Beware, beware!
If scorn thy beauty crown,
I fly,—yet where?
Why are thine eyes withdrawn?
Why dost thou turn, thou fawn?
Look on me, like the dawn
On weeping air!
She smiles—Oh, Beauty bless'd,
Take,—take me to thy breast,
And cure all care!

186

CLXXII.—PAST AND PRESENT.

In earlier days, in happier hours,
I watched and wandered with the Sun:
I saw him when the East was red;
I saw him when the day was dead,—
All his earthly journey done!
Looks of love were in the West,
But he passed,—and took no rest!

O'er the immeasurable blue,
Across the rain, amid the blast,
Onwards and onwards, like a God,
Through the trackless air he trod,
Scattering bounties as he passed
By the portals of the West,—
And never shut his eyes in rest!

Oh, how (in those too happy hours,)
How deeply then did I adore
The bright unwearied sleepless Sun,
And wish, just thus, my course to run—
From sea to sea, from shore to shore,
My deeds thus good, thus known, thus bright,
Thus undisturbed by rest or night.

But now,—since I have heard and seen
The many cares that trouble life,
The evil that requiteth good,
The benefits not understood,
Unfilial, unpaternal strife,
The hate, the lie, the bitter jest,
I feel how sweet are night and rest!

187

And, oh! what morning ever look'd
So lovely as the quiet eve,
When low and fragrant winds arise,
And draw the curtains of the skies,
And gentle songs of summer weave;—
Such as between the alders creep,
Now, and soothe my soul to sleep!

CLXXIII.—A MIDSUMMER FANCY.

Come hither! Let thou and I
Mount on the dolphin, Pleasure,
And dive through the azure air!
Would't not be fine—would't not be rare
To live in that sweet, sweet sea, the air?
That ocean which hath no measure,
No peril, no rocky shore,
(But only its airy, airy streams,
And its singing stars, and its orbed dreams,)
For ever and evermore?

Of its wild and its changing weather,
What matter—how foul or fair!
We will ever be found together;
Ah! then, sweet Love, what care,
Whether we haunt on the earth or air?
In ocean or inland stream?
Or are lost in some endless, endless dream?
Or are bodiless made, like the tender sprite
Of Love, who watch'd me but yesternight,
With moon-flowers white on her whiter brow,
And smiled and sighed,
In her sad sweet pride,
As Thou, love, art sighing and smiling now!

188

CLXXIV.—ON SOME HUMAN BONES,

FOUND ON A HEADLAND IN THE BAY OF PANAMA.

Vague Mystery hangs on all these desert places!
The Fear which hath no name, hath wrought a spell?
Strength, courage, wrath—have been, and left no traces!
They came,—and fled;—but whither? Who can tell?

We know but that they were,—that once (in days
When ocean was a bar 'twixt man and man),
Stout spirits wandered o'er these capes and bays,
And perished where these river waters ran.

Methinks they should have built some mighty tomb,
Whose granite might endure the century's rain,
Cold winter, and the autumnal winds, that boom
Like Spirits in their purgatorial pain.

They left, 'tis said, their proud unburied bones
To whiten on this unacknowledged shore:
Yet little, save the rocks and worn sea-stones,
Now answers to the great Pacific's roar!

A mountain stands where Agamemnon died:
And Cheops hath derived eternal fame,
Because he made his tomb a place of pride:
And thus the dead Metella earned a name.

But these,—they vanished as the lightnings die
(Their mischiefs over) in the affrighted earth;
And no one knoweth underneath the sky,
What heroes perished here, nor whence their birth!

189

CLXXV.—AN IRISH SONG.

[_]

AIR—KATHLEEN O' MORE.

He is gone to the wars, and has left me alone,
The poor Irish soldier, unfriended, unknown,
My husband, my Patrick,
The bird of my bosom,—though now he is flown!

How I mourned for the boy! yet I murmured the more,
'Cause we once were so happy in darlin' Lismore,
Poor Ellen and Patrick;
Perhaps he now thinks of poor Ellen no more!

A cabin we had, and the cow was hard by,
And a slip of a garden that gladden'd the eye:
And there was our Patrick;
Ne'er idle whilst light ever lived in the sky.

We married,—too young, and it's likely too poor,
Yet no two were so happy in happy Lismore,
As Ellen and Patrick;
Till they tempted and took him away from our door.

He said he would bring me, ere Autumn should fall,
A linnet of lark that should come at my call:
Alas! the poor Patrick!
He has left me a bird that is sweeter than all.

Twas born in a hovel, 'twas nourished in pain,
But it came in my grief, like a light on the brain,
(The child of poor Patrick,)
And taught me to hope for bright fortune again.

190

And now,—We two wander from door unto door,
And, sometimes, we steal back to happy Lismore,
And ask for poor Patrick;
And dream of the days when the wars will be o'er!

CLXXVI.—A DRINKING SONG.

Drink, and fill the night with mirth!
Let us have a mighty measure,
Till we quite forget the earth,
And soar into the world of pleasure.
Drink, and let a health go round,
('Tis the drinker's noble duty,)
To the eyes that shine and wound,
To the mouths that bud in beauty!

Here's to Helen! Why, ah! why
Doth she fly from my pursuing?
Here's to Marian, cold and shy!
May she warm before thy wooing!
Here's to Janet! I've been e'er,
Boy and man, her staunch defender,
Always sworn that she was fair,
Always known that she was tender!

Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high!
Let them with the champaign tremble,
Like the loose wrack in the sky,
When the four wild winds assemble!
Here's to all the love on earth,
(Love, the young man's, wise man's treasure!)
Drink, and fill your throats with mirth!
Drink, and drown the world in pleasure!

191

CLXXVII.—WILT THOU GO?

Wilt thou go? Thou 'lt come again?
Swear it, love, by Love's sweet pain!
Swear it, by the stars that glisten
In thy brow, as thou dost listen!
Swear it, by the love-sick air,
Wandering, murmuring, here and there;
Seeking for some tender nest,
Yet, like thee, can never rest.
Swear!-and I shall safer be
Amidst Love's sweet mutiny!

CLXXVIII.—THOU HAST LOVE WITHIN THINE EYES.

Thou hast love within thine eyes,
Though they be as dark as night;
And a pity (shewn by sighs)
Heaveth in thy bosom white:
What is all the azure light
Which the northern beauties shew,
If disdain be sharp and bright,
Where the tender love should glow?

Do I love thee?—Lady, no!
I was born for other skies;
Where the palmy branches grow,
And the unclouded mornings rise:
There—(when sudden evening dies)
I will tell of thee, before
The beauty of Dione's eyes,
And she shall love thee evermore!

192

CLXXIX.—RIVER OF THE MORN.

River of the morn!
Fast thou flow'st and bright;
From the sundered East thou flowest,
Bearing down the Night.
Every cloud thy beauty drinketh;
Darkness from thy current shrinketh;
Leaving the Heavens empty quite,
For the conquering Light!

O, the Thought new-born!
Lovely 'tis, and bright:
Like some jewel of the morn,
Nursed in frozen night.
But it trembleth soon and groweth,
And dissolved in splendour floweth,
(Like the flooding dawn, that pours
O'er and o'er the cloudy shores,)
Till blind Ignorance wings her flight
From the conquering Light!

O, ye Thoughts of youth,
Long since flown away!
What ye want in truth,
Ye in love repay!
Though in shadowy forests hidden,
Like the bird that's lost and chidden,
Back again with all your songs,
Ye do come and soothe our wrongs,
Till the unburthen'd heart doth soar
Wiser than before!

193

CLXXX.—SONG SHOULD BREATHE.

Song should breathe of scents and flowers;
Song should like a river flow;
Song should bring back scenes and hours
That we loved—ah, long ago!

Song from baser thoughts should win us;
Song should charm us out of woe;
Song should stir the heart within us,
Like a patriot's friendly blow.

Pains and pleasures, all man dceth,
War and peace, and ill and wrong—
All things that the Soul subdueth
Should be vanquished, too, by Song.

Song should spur the mind to duty;
Nerve the weak, and stir the strong:
Every deed of truth and beauty,
Should be crowned by starry Song!

CLXXXI.—TO THE SNOW DROP.

Pretty firstling of the year!
Herald of the host of flowers!
Hast thou left thy cavern drear,
In the hope of summer hours?
Back unto thy earthern bowers!
Back to thy warm world below;
Till the strength of suns and showers
Quell the now relentless snow!

194

Art still here?—Alive? and blithe,—
Though the stormy Night hath fled,
And the Frost hath passed his scythe
O'er thy small unsheltered head?
Ah!—some lie amidst the dead,
(Many a giant stubborn tree,
Many a plant, its spirit shed,)
That were better nursed than thee!

What hath saved thee? Thou wast not
'Gainst the arrowy winter furred,
Armed in scale,—but all forgot
When the frozen winds were stirred.
Nature, who doth clothe the bird,
Should have hid thee in the earth,
Till the cuckoo's song was heard,
And the Spring let loose her mirth.

Nature,—deep and mystic word!
Mighty mother, still unknown!
Thou didst sure the Snow-drop gird
With an armour all thine own!
Thou, who sent'st it forth alone
To the cold and sullen season,
(Like a thought at random thrown,)
Sent it thus for some grave reason!

If 'twere but to pierce the mind
With a single gentle thought,
Who shall deem thee harsh or blind?
Who that thou hast vainly wrought?
Hoard the gentle virtue, caught
From the Snow-drop,—reader wise!
Good is good, wherever taught,
On the ground, or in the skies!

195

CLXXXII.—INSCRIPTIONS.

I.FOR A FOUNTAIN.

Rest! This little Fountain runs
Thus for aye:—It never stays
For the look of summer suns,
Nor the cold of winter days.
Whosoe'er shall wander near,
When the Syrian heat is worst,
Let him hither come, nor fear
Lest he may not slake his thirst:
He will find this little river
Running still, as bright as ever.
Let him drink, and onwards hie,
Bearing but in thought, that I,
Erotas, bade the Naiad fall,
And thank the great god Pan for all!

II.FOR A TEMPLE OF ÆSCULAPIUS.

In this high nook, built all by mortal hand,
An Epidaurian Temple, here I stand
Sacred to him who drives away disease,
And gives to all who seek him health and ease!
I stand devoted to the God of health,—
To Æsculapius old; built by the wealth
Of grateful men, who owe to his rare skill,
Life, ease, and all that Fortune spares them still!

196

III.FOR A STREAMLET.

Traveller, note! Although I seem
But a little sparkling stream,
I come from regions where the sun
Dwelleth when his toil is done;
From yon proud hills in the West,
Thence I come, and never rest,
Till (curling round the mountain's feet)
I find myself 'mid pastures sweet,
Vernal, green, and ever gay;
And then I gently slide away,
A thing of silence,—till I cast
My life into the sea at last!

IV.FOR AN ANTIQUE DRINKING CUP.

Drink! If thou find'st my round all filled with wine,
Which lifts men's creeping thoughts to dreams divine,
Drink, and become a God! Anacreon old
Once quenched his mighty thirst from out my gold:
Rich was I, red, and brimming;—but he laughed,
And, (tasting sparely,) drained me at a draught.
Bacchanal! If thou lov'st the Teian's fame,
Take courage—grasp me fast—and strait do Thou the same!

197

CLXXXIII.—GOLDEN-TRESSED ADELAIDE.

A SONG FOR A CHILD.—(1831.)

[_]

SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.

Sing, I pray, a little song,
Mother dear!
Neither sad nor very long:
It is for a little maid,
Golden tressed Adelaide!
Therefore let it suit a merry merry ear,
Mother dear!

Let it be a merry strain,
Mother dear!
Shunning e'en the thought of pain:
For our gentle child will weep,
If the theme be dark and deep;
And We will not draw a single single tear,
Mother dear!

Childhood should be all divine,
Mother dear!
And like endless summer shine;
Gay as Edward's shouts and cries
Bright as Agnes' azure eyes:
Therefore, bid thy song be merry: dost thou hear,
Mother dear?

198

CLXXXIV.—ON THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD.

A year—an age shall fade away,
(Ages of pleasure and of pain),
And yet the face I see to-day
For ever will remain, —
In my heart and in my brain!
Not all the scalding tears of care
Shall wash away that vision fair;
Not all the thousand thoughts that rise,
Not all the sights that dim mine eyes,
Shall e'er usurp the place
Of that little angel face!
But here it shall remain,
For ever; and if joy or pain
Turn my troubled winter gaze
Back unto my hawthorn days,
There,—amongst the hoarded past,
I shall see it to the last;
The only thing, save poet's rhyme,
That shall not own the touch of Time!

CLXXXV.—A DREAMER'S SONG.

I dream of thee at morn,
When all the earth is gay,
Save I, who live a life forlorn,
And die thro' a long decay.

199

I dream of thee at noon,
When the summer sun is high,
And the river sings a sleepy tune,
And the woods give no reply.

I dream of thee at eve,
Beneath the fading sun,
When even the winds begin to grieve;
And I dream till day is done.

I dream of thee at night,
When dreams, men say, are free:
Alas, thou dear—too dear delight!
When dream I not of thee?

CLXXXVI.—TO ADELAIDE.

Child of my heart! My sweet, belov'd First-born!
Thou dove who tidings bring'st of calmer hours!
Thou rainbow who dost shine when all the showers
Are past,—or passing! Rose which hath no thorn,—
No spot, no blemish, —pure, and unforlorn!
Untouched, untainted! O, my Flower of flowers!
More welcome than to bees are summer bowers,
To stranded seamen life-assuring morn!
Welcome, —a thousand welcomes! Care, who clings
'Round all, seems loosening now its serpent fold:
New hope springs upward; and the bright World seems
Cast back into a youth of endless springs!
Sweet mother, is it so? —or, grow I old
Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams?

November, 1825

200

CLXXXVII.—TO A LADY ATTIRING HERSELF.

For whom—(too happy for the earth or skies!)
Dost thou adorn thee, with such restless care?
Or veil the star-light beauty of thine eyes?
Or bind in fatal wreaths thy golden hair?

Who, —who, of all that thy light footsteps throng,
And strew thy path with incense and sweet song, —
Who will abandon the bright world for thee?
Love, wealth, ambition, ease,—all earth's delights?
Content, like me, to watch (on golden nights
Like this) thy wondrous Beauty, as it grows
Out of day's silent, close, obscure repose,
And swells into a rich and perfumed flower, —
Mingling with thousands such, in masque or bower;
Yet Queen of all the rest, as is the Rose!

CLXXXVIII.—A FAREWELL.

Farewell!—Now Time must slowlier move
Than e'er since this dark world began!
And thou wilt give thy heaven of love
Unto another, happier man!

And then—I never more will see
Those eyes, —but hide, far off, my pain;
And thou wilt have forgotten me,
Or smile thou see'st me not again.

Live happy, in thy happier lot;
And I will strive, (if't so must be,)
To think 'tis well to be forgot,
Since it may keep a pang from thee.

201

CLXXXIX.—SHE SATE BY THE RIVER SPRINGS.

She sate by the river springs,
And bound her coal-black hair;
And she sang, as the cuckoo sings,
Alone, —in the Evening air,
With a patient smile, and a look of care,
And a cheek that was dusk, not fair:
She sate, but her thoughts had wings,
That carried her sweet despair
Away to the azure plains,
Where truth and the angels are:
She sang, —but she sang in vain!
Ah! why doth she sing again?

She mourns, like the sweet wind grieving in
The pines, on an autumn night;
She will fade, like the fading evening,
When Hesper is blooming bright:
And her song? —it must take its flight!
So pretty a song
Must die ere long,
Like a too, too sharp delight!

She was—like the rose in summer;
She is—like the lily frail;
Yet, they'll welcome the sweet new comer,
Below, in the regions pale!
And the ghost will forget his pain,
As he roams thro' the dusk alone:
And We?—We will mourn in vain,
O'er the Shadow of beauty flown!

202

CXC.—A NIGHT SONG.

'Tis Night! 'tis Night, —the Hour of hours,
When Love lies down with folded wings,
By Psyche in her starless bowers,
And down his fatal arrows flings,—
Those bowers whence not a sound is heard,
Save only from the bridal bird,
Who 'midst that utter darkness sings:
This her burthen, soft and clear,—
Love is here! Love is here!

'Tis Night! The moon is on the stream;
Bright spells are on the soothed sea;
And Hope, the child, is gone to dream,
Of pleasures which may never be!
And now is haggard Care asleep;
Now doth the widow Sorrow smile;
And slaves are hushed in slumber deep,
Forgetting grief and toil awhile!

What sight can fiery morning show
To shame the stars or pale moonlight?
What bounty can the day bestow,
Like that which falls from gentle Night?
Sweet Lady, sing I not aright?
Oh! turn and tell me, —for the day
Is faint and fading fast away;
And now comes back the Hour of hours,
When Love his lovelier mistress seeks,
And sighs, like winds 'mong evening flowers,
Until the maiden Silence speaks!

203

Fair girl, methinks—nay, hither turn
Those eyes, which 'mid their blushes burn;
Methinks, at such a time, one's heart
Can better bear both sweet and smart, —
Love's look—the first—which never dieth;
Or Death—who comes when Beauty flieth,
When strength is slain, when youth is past,
And all, save Truth, is lost at last!

CXCI.—A PRAYER IN SICKNESS.

Send down thy winged angel, God!
Amidst this night so wild;
And bid him come where now we watch,
And breathe upon our child!

She lies upon her pillow, pale,
And moans within her sleep,
Or wakeneth with a patient smile,
And striveth not to weep!

How gentle and how good a child
She is, we know too well,
And dearer to her parents' hearts,
Than our weak words can tell.

We love—we watch throughout the night,
To aid, when need may be,
We hope—and have despaired, at times;
But now we turn to Thee!

Send down thy sweet-souled angel, God!
Amidst the darkness wild,
And bid him soothe our souls to night,
And heal our gentle child!

204

CXCII.—STANZAS.

[Why art thou, Love, so fair, so young?]

Why art thou, Love, so fair, so young?
Why is that sad sweet music hung,
For ever, on thy gentle tongue?

Why art thou fond? Why art thou fair?
Why sitteth, in thy soft eye, Care?
Why smil'st thou in such sweet despair?

Youth, Beauty fade,—like summer roses:
Sad music sadder love discloses:
Dark Care in darker death reposes!

All's vain! the rough world careth not
For thee—for me—for our dark lot:
We love, Sweet, but to be forgot!

We love, —and meet the world's sharp scorn:
We live, —to die some common morn,
Unknown, unwept, and still forlorn!
Why, dear one, why—why were we born?

CXCIII.—SISTER, I CANNOT READ TO-DAY.

Sister, I cannot read to-day:
Before my eyes the letters stream:
Now, —one by one, —they fade away,
Like shadows in a dream:
All seems a fancy, half forgot:
Sweet sister, do I dream or not?

205

I cannot work; I cannot rest;
I cannot sing, nor think, to-day:
The wild heart panteth in my breast,
As though 'twould break away.
Why—wherefore—Ah, girl! ease my woe,
And tell me—why he tarrieth so!

CXCIV.—SEA-SHORE STANZAS.

Methinks, I fain would lie by the lone Sea,
And hear the waters their white music weave!
Methinks it were a pleasant thing to grieve,
So that our sorrows might companioned be
By that strange harmony
Of winds and billows, and the living sound,
Sent down from Heaven, when the Thunder speaks
Unto the listening shores and torrent creeks,
While the swoll'n Sea doth strive to burst his bound!

Methinks, when Tempests come and smite the Ocean,
Until the vast and terrible billows wake,
I see the writhing of that curled snake,
Which men of old believed, —and my emotion
Warreth within me, till the fable reigns
God of my fancy, and my curdling veins
Do homage to that serpent old,
Which clasped the great world in its fold,
And brooded over earth, and the charmed sea,
Like endless, restless drear Eternity!

206

CXCV.—ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

Hither come, at close of day,
And o'er this dust, sweet Mothers, pray!
A little infant lies within,
Who never knew the name of sin,
Beloved,—bright,—and all our own;
Like morning fair,—and sooner flown!

No leaves or garlands wither here,
Like those in foreign lands;
No marble hides our dear one's bier,
The work of alien hands:
The months it lived, the name it bore,
The silver telleth, —nothing more!

No more; —yet Silence stalketh round
This vault so dim and deep;
And Death keeps watch without a sound,
Where all lie pale and sleep;
But palest here and latest hid,
Is He—beneath this coffin lid.

How fair he was—how very fair,
What dreams we pondered o'er,
Making his life so long and clear,
His fortunes flowing o'er;
Our hopes—(that he would happy be,
When we ourselves were old,)
The scenes we saw, or hoped to see—
They're soon and sadly told.
All was a dream! —It came and fled;
And left us here, —among the dead!

207

Pray, Mothers, pray, at close of day,
While we, sad parents, weep alway!
Pray, too (and softly be't and long).
That all your babes, now fair and strong,
May blossom like—not like the rose,
For that doth fade when summer goes;
('Twas thus our pretty infant died,
The summer and its mother's pride!)
But, like some stern enduring tree,
That reacheth its green century,
May grow, may flourish—then decay,
After a long, calm, happy day,
Made happier by good deeds to men,
And hopes in heaven to meet again!

Pray! —From the happy prayer is due;
While we—('tis all we now can do!)
Will check our tears, and pray with you.

CXCVI.—TO A POETESS.

Dread'st thou lest thou should'st die unknown?
Why fear? since all the strength of Fame
And Death have this poor power alone,—
To give thee an uncertain fame.

The critic dull and envious bard
Will quarrel o'er thine ashes dear;
That past,—thy single sad reward
Must be some lonely lover's tear!

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CXCVII.—A PETITION TO TIME.—(1831.)

Touch us gently, Time!
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently,—as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream!
Humble voyagers are We,
Husband, wife, and children three—
(One is lost,—an angel, fled
To the azure overhead!)

Touch us gently, Time!
We've not proud nor soaring wings:
Our ambition, our content
Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are We,
O'er Life's dim unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime: —
Touch us gently, gentle Time!

CXCVIII.—WISHES.

Sweet be her dreams, the fair, the young!
Grace, Beauty, breathe upon her!
Music, haunt thou about her tongue!
Life, fill her path with honour!

All golden thoughts, all wealth of days,
Truth, Friendship, Love, surround her!
So may she smile, till life be closed,
And Angel hands have crowned her!

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CXCIX.—AN EPITAPH.

He died, and left the world behind!
His once wild heart is cold:
His once keen eye is quelled and blind:
What more?—His tale is told.

He came; and, baring his heav'n-bright thought,
He earned the base World's ban;
And,—having vainly lived and taught,
Gave place to a meaner man!

CC.—THE MODERN CYMON.

“The Lunatic, the Lover, and the Poet.”

I

You bid me tell you, why I rise
At midnight from my lonely bed;
And search amongst the coming clouds;
And talk as though I saw the dead:
You speak of madness—of the moon—
I've heard such idle jeers before:
Give me your patience, for my tale,
And you shall deem me mad no more.

210

II

I was not born of noble race:
I know a peasant was my sire;
But, from my mother's breast, I sucked
The milk that filled my blood with fire.
I ran, as wild as doth the wolf,
About the fields, for many years:
But, in my twentieth summer, Thought
Sprang upwards, in a rain of tears.

III

A sudden chance (if chance it were)
Flung me across a marriage train;
And there I saw a wretched girl
Forced onwards, while she wept in vain.
I never saw so fair a thing:
My eyes were hot within my head:
I heard her scream—I saw her forced
(By a brother) towards a brute—and wed.

IV

I sought the hills—I sought the woods;
My heart was bursting in my breast:
At last, tears rushed in rivers forth,
And, for a time, I felt at rest.
Those tears! they washed from off my eyes
The cloudy film that on them lay;
And I awoke, and saw the light,
And knew I did behold the Day.

V

Till then, I had but been a beast,
Had let mere savage will prevail;
Was ignorant—sullen—fierce; till Love—
(You have some fable, like my tale,)
Till Love flew forth and touched my heart:
Then, all at once, my Spirit strong
Swelled upwards, like a torrent damm'd,
And forced its furious way along.

211

VI

I read—I learned—I thought—I loved!
(For Love was all the motive then);
And one, who was a friend, gave help,
And I went forth and mixed with men:
I talked with him they called her lord:
I talked with Her—who was a bride
Through fraud and force and rapine;—God!
She spoke:—I think I could have died!

VII

I heard her words: I saw her eyes,
Where patient mingled with the sad:
I felt her breath upon my cheek;
Its perfume did not drive me mad:
I listened dumbly to her wrongs—
Imprisoned, struck, despised, deceived;
And, in my heart, I heard a voice
Cry out“Revenge!”—and I believed!

VIII

Still, Time wore on; and efforts vain
Were made to bend the Dæmon's will;
To wean him from the wrong to right;
But, he was base and cruel still.
Such deeds he did! Romance hath bared
The truth of many a hellish crime;
But never yet did Fiction dream
Of half that I could tell in rhyme.

IX

Suffice it; all things have an end.
There is an end, where mortal pain
Must stop, and can endure no more:
This limit did we now attain:
For Hope—sweet Patience—Virtue fled!
I did what she could never dare:
I cut the canker from her side;
And bore her off—to healthier air!

212

X

Far—far away! She never knew
That I had blood upon my breast:
And yet, (although she loved me much,)
I know not why, she could not rest.
I strove to cheer her love,—to stir
Her pride—but, ah, she had no pride!
We loved each other;—yet she pined:
We loved each other;—yet she died!

XI

She died, as fading roses die,
Although the warm and healing air
Comes breathing forth and wraps them round:
She died, despite my love and care.
I placed her, gently, in the lead;
I soothed her hair, as it should be;
And drew a promise—what she vowed
Is a secret, 'tween my soul and me!

XII

She died; and yet I have her still,—
Carved, softly, in Carrara stone;
And in my chamber she abides,
Sitting in silence,—all alone;
Alone, save when the midnight Moon
Her calm and spotless bosom seeks:
Then, she unclasps her marble hands,
And moves her marble lips—and speaks.

XIII

And this is why I restless seem;
And this is why I always rise
At midnight still throughout the year,
And look for comfort in the skies:
For then the angel of my heart
Awakens from her sleep of stone;
And we exchange sweet hopes and thoughts,
In words unto the earth unknown.

213

XIV

Now,—tell me; Am I mad? —Who's He
That stares, and gibbers at me there?
I know him:—there's his crookèd claw;
His glittering eye; his snaky hair:
Begone!—he's gone.—Excuse me, Sir:
These fellows often pinch my brain;
(I know full well who spurs them on;)
But—as you see—they teaze in vain.

This and the three following poems belong to Part I.

CCI.—THE POOR SCHOLAR'S SONG.

Death, old fellow! Have we then
Come at last so near each other?
Well,—shake hands; and be to me
A quiet friend, a faithful brother.

All those merry days are gone;
Gone with cash, and health, old fellow!
When I read long days and nights;
And sometimes (with a friend) got mellow

Newton! Euclid! fine old ghosts!
Noble books of old Greek learning!
Ah! ye left huge aches behind;
Head and heart and brain all burning.

How I toiled! For one, now fled,
I wore down the midnight taper,
Labouring,—dreaming; till one day
I 'woke, and found my life—a vapour.

Yet, I hoped (ah, laugh not now,)
For wealth, and health, and fame,—the bubble!
So I climbed up Wisdom's steeps,
And got a fall, boy, for my trouble.

214

Now all's over: No one helped,
No one cheered my strong endeavour;
So I sank, and called on thee;
And Thou'lt be my friend, for ever.

CCII.—RIND AND FRUIT.

You may boast of jewels,—coronets,—
Ermine,—purple, all you can:
There is that within them nobler;—
Something that we call—A Man!
Something all the rest surpassing:
As the flower is to the sod;
As to man is high archangel;
As is to archangel—God!

Running o'er with tears and weakness;
Flaming like a mountain fire;
Racked by hate and hateful passions;
Tossed about by wild desire;
There is, still, within him, (mingled
With each fault that dims or mars,)
Truth, and Pity,—Virtue,—Courage,—
Thoughts,—that fly beyond the stars!

You, who prize the book's poor paper,
Above its thoughts of joy and pain;
You who love the cloud's bright vapour,
More than its soul,—the blessing, rain;
Take the gems, the crowns, the ermine;
Use them nobly, if you can:
But give us—(in rags or purple),
The true, warm, strong Heart of Man.

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CCIII.—THE PROPHET.

I

Day broke:—The Morning of a mighty year
Came forth, and smiled;
And, in its sunny arms, (like waters clear),
It bore—a child.

II

Time flew:—Quick life along his arteries sang;
Love's pulses beat:
And from his burning temples Thought outsprang,
And Truth, complete.

III

Time flew:—The brightness of a Poet's sight
Enlarged his eye;
And Strength and Courage knit his limbs for fight,
To live,—or die.

IV

Time flew:—Sad Wisdom from his heart arose,
And touched his brain;
And he stood up, 'midst all a Prophet's woes,
And spoke,—in vain!

V

He spoke:—Men hearkened to his piercing cry,
With smiles, with scorn;
But the dim Future felt his threatenings nigh,
And shook,—unborn!

VI

He died: and race to race did still succeed;
And suns did shine;
And Centuries passed; and still no eye could read
His awful line.

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VII

You mourn?—Mourn not; nor deem his history vain;
Nor vain his strife:
To breathe, to feel, to hope, are worth the pain
Of Death, and Life:

VIII

And now,—(as generations rise, and far
Like vapours roll,)
Some few begin to gaze, as on a star,
And scan his scroll:

IX

And, in its inspiration, vaguely shown,
We seem to trace
The march of revolutions, come and flown;
And of man's race

X

The history. Amidst blots, of blood and tears,
The verses run,
Until we lose their light in distant years,
And—all is done!