University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I.

They know not least, who have most need, of rest,
That last, kind refuge from o'erwhelming woes;
Thee I invoke then, Sleep, thou friend of those
By ill on ill, and wrong on wrong oppress'd,
The happiness that sometime I possess'd,
Though now bereft me by the craft of foes,
Return in pitying visions of repose,
And bid me for a time again be bless'd;
The while thou mak'st their waking conscience see
Crimes that the noise and glare of day can hide;
Yes, when that Judge impartial giveth thee
O'er his eternal balance to preside,
Repel th' o'erweenings of injurious pride,
And what thou tak'st from them restore to me.

II.

Son of the earth, whatever thy degree,
Placed in this changeable and troublous sphere,
Fix not thy heart on aught that passes here;
Neither permit thou unenjoyed to be
The few propitious minutes as they flee;
Pleasure, because it will be quickly gone
Must still be promptly seized, or left alone.
Despair shall lay his iron hand on thee!
Smile when thou may'st, but hope not it can last.
The northern Empress, as the storm drew on,
Amid the snows her icy palace placed,
A work perfected but to be undone,
Nor let the thought her glory overcast
That it must sink before the coming sun.

III.

Attend then, and while lingers still the light
O'er ocean, I'll describe her beauty's spells.
Her bosom is the silver'd wave that swells
In trembling heavings to the moon-beam bright;
That cloudless beam her glance; her locks have quite
The sea-thread's shine; her teeth pearl'd, tiny shells;
The coral plant her lips, where raptured dwells
The touch for softness, as for hue the sight;
Her voice, her magic song, ne'er heard in vain,
Soon chased the transient glooms that doubt would cast,
Some white-arm'd sea-maid, pillowed on the main,
When evening's crimson clouds are fading fast,
Perhaps may pour forth a resembling strain,
As her's may lure me and betray at last.

IV.

Sophronia, when, with lavish harp, I fling
Thy beauty's praises to the spreading gale,
Say, does my tongue, unmindful, ever fail
The loftier graces of thy soul to sing?
My love with fondness to thy form will cling,
Yet, reverend, bends to bid each virtue hail,
And, though he prize the soft, luxurious vale,
Can path the heights of bright imagining.
He is a wanton yet adventurous boy,
With earthly wishes and a climbing mind,
Tracking rich fancy's land with feet of fire;
But thou would'st have him soar to seek with joy
An atmosphere so subtle, cold, refin'd,
That he must breathe in pain, and soon expire.

V.

That truth survives I know, for I am true;
That love is more than name, for I adore thee;
That it shall live, the flame I cherish for thee,
My heart commands my willing tongue to vow.
And is it strange I should confide that thou,
Who bad'st me think thy heart my sole possession,
Had'st made as sooth, as tender a confession,
And look to have the precious token now?
Nay, never say, 'twas folly to believe thee,
Nor soon forget a jest as thou forgot.
Let not a transient fitfulness deceive thee
To stain thyself with falsehood's cureless blot;
Nor think dissimulation can reprieve thee,
For, cruel girl, I'll now believe thee not.

VI.

Still is this firstling love a welcome guest,
Tho' pale, cold, sickly, as a spring-time flower,
It tells the winter of my heart is o'er,
And glad I hail the stranger to my breast;
There may it rise, by sighing gales caress'd,
Wooed often by the early sun-beams coy,
And freshen'd with the softest tears of joy,
Till worthy to her bosom to be press'd,
She, whose bright glance, with playful witchery,
First taught thy fair yet fragile stem to shoot.
Thou graceful bud of promise! 'tis by thee
I've hope of summer's richness, autumn's fruit,
E'en though by suns too fierce should withered be
Thy flower, or nipped by frosts thy tender root.

VII.

Sit thou with us beneath these summer bowers,
Nor say we waste the day we give to wine—
How ill such saws become that tongue of thine,
To bathe our souls in sunny cups be ours.
That we should taste all ecstasies, the powers
Who gave the means had surely the design;
The wildest sprigs our arbours well entwine,
And variegate our couch the sweetest flowers.
Look, where a tinted rose-leaf, midst our joy,
Hath thrown itself into my brimming glass,
To give the rich, red juice a brighter zest:—
The minutes, thus, thou tell'st us we destroy
In wild unthinkingness, are spent the best,
Shedding a charm on all the rest we pass.

VIII.

How vain is human pride! Not stone and lime,
Or brass, or marble (though the founder's name
Or sculptor's, oft, is lost before the fame
Of what he builded), sooner stoop to time,
Than do those structures of the mind, sublime,
Whence once, perchance, a nation's wisdom came,
Or where undying glory seem'd to flame
Upon the tripod of immortal rhyme!
Ye lights o' th' olden time! now dimly seen,
Still with the mist of ages more o'erspread,
Scarce known, forsaken; like yon river's bed
Your sacred pages to mine eye appear;
The lonely chasm, with whiten'd fragments drear,
Shows where the some-time mighty stream hath been!

IX.

Clelia, thy pillar'd form, supremely made,
A marble structure, with those lamps of pride
Which spread around a downy lustre wide,
The polished hardness in their light allayed,
What boots it, if, unseemly, to degrade
Such loveliness, a soul shall there reside,
Foul as the worship'd reptiles that abide
Within some Indian temple's column'd shade?
Ne'er, on thy heart's ungenial altar, fires
More mild than those of rage or hate have lain:
For young, adoring troops of fair desires,
Its rites the black-robed, impious passions stain;
And cans't thou think too, that my wish aspires
To join thy madly idolizing train?

X.

Emma, to tempt thee forth this festal day
The fields and skies have put themselves in trim;
Full music stirs the woods, while swallows skim,
Mixing, like dancers, in their gliding play.
I bring a wreath, twined when the early ray
First peep'd abroad and made the stars look dim,
When dew fill'd every flower-cup to the brim,
And birds, just roused, prepared the revelling lay.
Come, deck thy brow;—delay no more;—ne'er beam'd
Such general smiles to chide thy doubting stay:
Thou mak'st me sigh those times are vanish'd quite,
When, in the flower-crown'd troop that welcom'd May,
To mingle was a sacred duty deem'd,
And love's endearment a religious rite.

XI.

There are some tears that time can never dry;
Deep, smould'ring griefs no weight of years can smother:
Yet that these lids are moisten'd for another
Need not excite in thee th' upbraiding sigh.
There is no rivalship.—Believe me, I
Regard that buried love but like the mother
Of that I bear for thee;—for, were it other,
No tear of mine should fall when thou wert by.
No scorn of thee doth sully the pure brine,
Which thinking o'er past years can ever make
Steal on mine eye,—to fond remembrance waking;
And, oh! believe, no other heart than thine
Might bid me, thus, that buried love forsake,
Which still I must deplore, e'en when forsaken.

XII.

A boundless love of heaven, in mild repose,
Slumbers upon thy face; the gentle hair
How meekly parted on thy forehead bare;
Pure, as they ought, the ivory lids that close
O'er those rich gems, where, when uplifted, glows
A swimming rapture; the pale face, so fair
In Grecian-moulded calmness! wants the glare
Of lilies, softened like a faint tinged rose;
Thy bosom heaves without an earthly stain;
Those liquid tones, which languish on the ear,
Sink to my heart;—there, ah, how sadly dear!
For could my verse rise like Cecilia's strain,
The hope to call were impious as vain,
Such angel love from heaven to waste it here.

XIII.

Though flatt'ry whispers that I might incline
Some high-born hand to point me to the road
That leads to lofty honour's proud abode,
And seat me there, and link itself with mine;
And though she paint the glare of riches' shine
Doubly illumed, reflecting honour's rays,
The hoarse applauses, and the frequent gaze
That wait the lordling of a noble line,
Alas! 'tis all too poor to purchase thee!
No, let the vain, the foolish, and the proud,
Exchange their happiness for lures like this,
And court the worship of a wretched crowd—
Thou canst, alone, afford substantial bliss,
And thou my honour, wealth, and pride shalt be.

XIV.

I will not praise the often-flatter'd rose,
Or, virgin like, with blushing charms half seen,
Or when in dazzling splendour like a queen,
All her magnificence of state she shows;
No, nor that nun-like lily, which but blows
Beneath the valley's cool and shady screen;
Nor yet the sun-flower that with warrior mien,
Still eyes the orb of glory where it glows;—
But thou, neglected wall-flower to my breast
And muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest flower,
To whom alone the privilege is given
Proudly to root thyself above the rest
As genius does, and, from thy rocky tower,
Lend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven.

XV.

Deplore ye not his fate, though he hath dealt
In woe, and often shed the bitter rain;
He is not luckless though he may complain,
And long with ill and poverty hath dwelt;
The poet who would make another melt
Himself must know well the dissolving vein,
And pathos must be purchased still with pain;
For he can ne'er describe who hath not felt.
Misfortune's torrent, which no courage stems;
Despair's stagnation, and distraction's whirl;
Insults that fire, humilities that freeze;
Are genius' elements;—her purest gems
By such extremes are nurtured, as the pearl
Itself is but the creature of disease.

XVI.

The stars are wandering o'er the fields of blue,
While earth drinks freely of the cup of sleep;—
But I have drain'd love's magic draught so deep,
That sleep's is tasteless.—Emma haste;—each hue
Is deepen'd, but not lost; these trees ne'er threw
A stiller shade; no rude breeze dares to sweep
Breathings from flowers which fragrant slumbers steep.
—But, list!—more balmy than the odorous dew,
Prelusive music of my queen's approach,
Of promises of chasten'd raptures full,
How soft the whispering voice and footsteps light
On the awed silence silverly encroach:—
The young enchantress comes, as wont, to cull
Pleasure's pure flowers, of mystic power, by night.

XVII.

Once more that air—such sounds to peace engage
The cares that threaten our most blissful leisure;
Brightly the faded traces of past pleasure
At the soft glow revive on memory's page.
Wine of the soul! each sorrow to assuage,
Let it flow, harmless, in no stinted measure:
It is th' immortal drink,—the much-sought treasure,
Can give again his days to hopeless age,
And make the time-chill'd soul a youthful lover.
Oh! while those strains my willing ears bewitch,
What forms, half-shown, on glittering wings, pass over!
Pour forth the measured stream deep, fragrant, rich;
It is a grateful off'ring around which
The shades of joys departed love to hover.

XVIII.

O woman, thou, who, for an hour of vanity,
Oft doom'st another to an age of pain,
To mar a heart and cast it back again
Favours, soft creature, nothing of humanity;
And know, 'tis only reasonless inanity
To ask “what tie can bind thee to retain,”
And say, “the bondage of thy rosy chain
Can little harm the most unstable sanity:”
For, as within the gentlest grasp continuing
The butterfly assured misfortune brings,
So love, alack! is such a tender minion,
That if ye hold him, e'en in silken strings,
Ye chafe the fragile plumage from his wings,
And haply, too, for ever, lame his pinion.

XIX.

Though thou art cruel and thy scorn rejects me,
Though thou art lightsome, and wilt feel no care
What fate is mine, the restless love I bear
And heed of thee from utter woe protects me;
Tho' sorely grief may wear and pride may vex me,
I ever will thy devious steps attend,
And be, if not the lover, yet the friend,
A right, from which no force nor craft ejects me;
And when thy fortune's setting beams have left thee,
Or gloomy gathering clouds bedimm'd their shine,
I'll meet the envious fates that would have chafed thee,
And from thy cheeks kiss off the pearly brine,
For, oh! thy happiness shall still be mine,
However of mine own thou hast bereft me.

TO THE DUCHESS OF ANGOULEME.

That breast, where woman's rancour well unites
With woman's folly, what? doth it not hide
Fancy enough to paint their blood who died
Struck for the cause in which it most delights;
Justly, in sooth, thou enviest the sprites
Of Charles and that proud matron homicide,
To whom 'twas given to revel in the tide
Drawn from Coligni's veins! But history writes;
And bodying forth the pictures of her pen,
Enwoven on thy walls, to the fell steel
Thou seest the venerable warrior bow;
Console thee then, and think that though to feel
Thy harder fate denies as they did then,
Thou shalt hereafter feel as they do now!

XXI

Quick, bring some wine; for as when ebbs the tide,
Just like the river's bed are now our souls,
Sordid and muddy, till inspiring bowls,
Like the returning waves, from side to side,
Spread the full, sparkling flow of pleasure wide;
See, see, how brightly in the tinging stream,
My pale cheeks flush and glow, my dull eyes beam,
And in that glass alone I gaze with pride.
Foolish Narcissus, o'er the fountain blue
To pore, and nurse such fancies in thy breast;
I ever shun'd the beverage cold, nor drew
Weak watery pictures to disturb my rest;
Still in the wine cup, to its promise true,
I've found myself, and always thus been blest.

XXII.

With that soft bloom and dress of glossy green,
Thou'rt like some half-blown apple-blossom fair;
The bright and bashful beauties peeping there
Just make us wish a little more were seen;
Thine eyes two dew-drops, brilliant yet serene—
What frown o'ercasts the sunshine on thy face?
Is this a simile too common-place?
Well then, thou art the Fairies' beauteous Queen;
Yes, thou'rt Titania, as the Bard in glee
Has drawn her; pure, unearthly, as if fed
On flowers;—a pretty, conscious majesty
Around thy small and dainty form is shed:
O give thy love, I care not why, to me,
E'en though I gain it with the Ass's Head!

XXIII.

Think'st thou no milder passion ever warms
His bosom; that, although his years be few,
As if besprinkled with the marble dew,
It is insensible to love's alarms?
Thou err'st; for know, that beauty's power disarms
That loftiness of nature: he hath knelt
To genius cloth'd in brightness, yea, can melt
Before the chasten'd glow of virtue's charms:
But angel, e'en 'midst angels, must she be,
With bosom softer than the sacred dove,
With glance like lightning in the summer's even,
Who claims his worship for her deity.
For sacrifice, so worthy thee, O Love,
Tis fit the kindling flame descend from heaven!

XXIV.

Where yonder lilacs wanton with the air,
And no autumnal blasts have blown to fade,
If flowers thou seek'st a festive wreath to braid,
Bend thy search thither, thou wilt find them there;
Not in the arches of the forest, where
The branching oaks extend unmoving shade;
Of spring's minuter verdure disarray'd
The earth beyond their twisted roots is bare;
Save where perchance the hop, with tendril curl'd,
Or ivy, string'd, may seek and twine around
Some stems amidst the forest chiefs that tower:—
So, in the mightier landscape of the world,
The flowers of joy and love are seldom found
At the stern feet of knowledge or of power.

XXV.

Pour, till the wine peep o'er its crystal pale,
And pledge the falter'd name each deemeth best;
Most of your loves are in their bud, and drest
In comely smiles, and never felt an ail;
Oh, my Miranda! yet I not bewail
The troubled turmoils that our love opprest;
By them was given that keener, finer zest
Which can alone with our existence fail.
Love is this purple stream; as cloying sweet
As this, first summon'd from the bending vine,
As little lasting in its tender prime,
It is the trying struggles that refine
And nurse a juice, for highest hearts most meet,
Pure, sparkling, strong, a juice that smiles at time.

XXVI.

France, in thy bosom place some mountain flower,
Whose unprotected and unshrinking form
Can breast the sunshine or endure the storm,
Still arm'd against the change of every hour;
And whether suns shall smile or clouds shall lour,
O may the favoring goddess Liberty
Breathe on its hallowed leaf, and doom to be
Imperishable by the blasts of power.
Let not thine eyelids waste their noble dew
Upon the cold and purple violet,
Nor by th' avenging whirlwind prostrate, yet
The stained lily pity, whose chang'd hue
('Tis with the blood of thine own children wet)
E'en from thy breast its regal crimson drew.

XXVII.

Although the silent sadness of thine air,
Thy mild blue eyes, to earth serenely bent,—
(Eyes that soft, melting Pity might have lent,
Or Resignation, dove-like virgin, wear);
Altho' the prison'd ringlets of thy hair,
In studied but yet modest ornament
(The unobtrusive neatness of content),
Thy cheek, one knows not if 'tis pale or fair;
Thy plaintive melody of voice, but chief
That evenness of soul, that seems to turn
A placid eye on all, my soul so draws,
No sigh of mine shall violate thy grief,
For oh! so much I love to see thee mourn,
That, for a world, I would not give thee cause!

XXVIII.

Far off the rook, tired by the mid-day beam,
Caws lazily this summer afternoon;
The butterflies, with wand'ring up and down
O'er flower-bright marsh and meadow, wearied seem;
With vacant gaze, lost in a waking dream,
We, listless, on the busy insects pore,
In rapid dance uncertain, darting o'er
The smooth-spread surface of the tepid stream;
The air is slothful, and will scarce convey
Soft sounds of idle waters to the ear;
In brightly-dim obscurity appear
The distant hills which skirt the landscape gay;
While restless fancy owns th' unnerving sway
In visions often changed, but nothing clear.

XXIX.

Music, high maid, at first, essaying, drew
Rude sketches for the ear, till, with skill'd hand,
She traced the flowing outline, simply grand,
In varied groups to grace and nature true;
And this was Melody.—Her knowledge grew,
And, more to finish, as her powers expand,
Those beauteous draughts, a noble scheme she plann'd;
And o'er the whole a glow of colouring threw,
Evening's rich painting on a pencill'd sky,
Tints that with sweet accord bewitch the sense,
'Twas Harmony: the common crowd, that press
Around, prefer the charms these hues dispense,
As they, chance-mingled, on the palate lie,
To her white forms of undeck'd loveliness.

XXX.

Fill all your beakers to the very brim,
And drink a measure to the absent fair;
And who disdains to join the festive pray'r
Neglect and sorrow be the meed of him.
The soul that gives her eye's delicious swim
Soft though it be, our happiness is there;
And they who in the dotage do not share
Their eyes or wits with wine or age are dim.
Behold our vines that smile around; see where
The loaded boughs with clust'ring fruit are crown'd;
Yet these, without support and fostering care,
A certain and a fatal lot had found,
And all the inspiration that they bear
With the weak stems been trodden to the ground.

XXXI.

These scenes, that are the dearest to thy heart,
Domestic;—the white house; the garden, neat;
The shingly walk, well-ending in a seat;
The arbour, where a sunbeam dare not dart;
The river, seen through where the branches part.
Heard gently laving just beneath our feet,
Beguiling with its sound the sense of heat,
Or boiling down the mound that's built athwart;
Use blunts their finer zest—quit them, and then
Enjoy the welcome thy return receives,
When all seems freshly sweet, and newly feels.
Thou shalt see all; hear all; approaching men
Whom the cur chides; the dripping water-wheels'
Quick dash; the very chirping in the eaves.

XXXII.

My bowl's a cheerful, home-bred, rustic bowl,
That hates the proud patrician wine to see,
But hearty greets, with marv'lous open glee,
Strong-bodied Ale's brown face and honest soul;
And, in good truth, he is a mirthful fellow,
And tells o'er all our morning's gallant sporting
Through fields and woods; then laughs and talks of courting
The bashful country nymphs, as we get mellow.
We part in time he knows no tricks o'th' town,
And freshly vigorous rise at peep of light,
Now wine, who all restraints has pride in scorning,
Full soon grows riotous and knocks you down,
Gives you a tossing sickness through the night,
Perhaps a quarrel to adjust next morning.

XXXIII.

Days of my childhood, when, where wild flow'rs grew,
From morn I've stray'd till twilight gloom'd again,
When I recall my long since pleasures, then
So sweet, so pure, so simple, and so true,
Mine eyes grow misty with regretful dew,
To think that like a dream they're gone;—I yearn
And sigh for bliss that never can return,—
So lov'd when lost—and so unprized when new!
And well may I weep o'er the joys that smiled
Long past—well linger 'mid the times that were,
I who retain the weakness of the child
Without the simpleness;—my moments are
As wayward, and as wasteful, and as wild,
—But oh! not innocent, nor void of care.

XXXIV.

No walk to day;—November's breathings toss
The vaporous clouds in masses; fitter suit
The intercourse of minds, social dispute,
And wit's pure fire purging the mental dross;—
—So, come, my friend; let those delights engross
The present hour; and when their voice is mute
Then let thy mellow-tongued, persuasive flute,
With its sweet utterance, well supply their loss.—
Thou shalt have tea, not wine; wine shall not sing
With syren pleadings to th' unfetter'd blood;
Snug is the shutter'd room; the fire is good;
Thy flute its tide of softest sounds shall bring:
While quiet pleasure, with a halcyon's wing,
Broods and luxuriates on the gentle flood!

XXXV.

This silent, awful cave, how dimly grand!
Surely the mighty Ocean here has led
Some nymph beloved, and, all to please her, spread
These gorgeous carpets of the golden sand;
Bright, watery mirrors; sea-plants green and red,
In hues beyond the rose's flower or leaf,
Has gemm'd these walls, these deep recesses plann'd;
To hide his secret joys; perhaps her grief:
These are not brine-drops trickling, but her tears,
Nor could the wind so deep a sigh afford;
But lo, how jealous of his bride adored
Vex'd Ocean, pale with foamy ire, appears;
Vain his alarms; she shall not change her lord
For one still fickler to increase her fears.

XXXVI.

Lovers have still their mistresses array'd
In every gift and virtue under heaven,
And still the less they knew the more have given—
Perfections that would crush an earthly maid!
What, loved as soon as seen? I am afraid
That with his own imagination e'en
My sage, sagacious friend has vainly striven,
And that th' excelling graces he has laid
Upon this paragon, which gem her o'er
Like dewy spangles on the downy leaf,
May prove as transient, and deceive as much.
Though smile I must, yet shall I share thy grief
When all these charms,—as we have seen before,
Fall off and vanish on the slightest touch.

XXXVII.

Her heart broke not; but had it for her weal
'Twere best. She breathes, and so do they who lie
Tranced in obliviousness; whom pharmacy
Can hurt no further if it cannot heal—
Oh! see, how Sorrow hath the art to steal
The essence that to life its value gives,
Yet, as in mockery, still the victim lives,
Like those, in restless sleep who move and feel;
Poor earthly ghost! whose soul is in the grave;
Whose eye no ray of hope e'er more can view;
Thou mind'st me, when I look on thy distress,
Of flowers that spring within a darksome cave,
Sickly, devoid of odour or of hue,
The forms of sweetness, faint and colourless!

XXXVIII.

Thine eyes, those stars, where once I might have thought
My being's dearest destinies depended,
Oh! frown not that with me their power is ended,
That form, from Greece's fabled graces caught;
That hue, in nature's delicate richness wrought,
Where heavenly tints with heavenly fairness blended,
Would seem an angel from the skies descended,
Be they by others worship'd, others sought;
For, that the gentle fibres of that breast
Should ache, to hate or cold neglect a prey,
Against the marble of this bosom press'd,
Were most unnatural. 'Tis the better way
That he thy love who never could have bless'd,
Should want the inclination to betray.

XXXIX.

Those rural scenes that ever have been dear,
Though now denied me, fill my fondest dreams:
The silent breathing fields; the sportful streams
To their own music dancing, which appear
Pausing at times, the louder song to hear,
Of birds more sportful still, 'mid dappled beams,
In sunny woods, profuse; the lake that gleams
With stretching lines of light, a mirror clear
For bloom-deck'd Nature's face; the shadeless plain
Heavy with heat, where, murmuring long, the bee
Makes to the shame-faced flowers his courtship free:
A landscape smiling at pleas'd heaven again;
With humble sports and joys now lost to me,
The peasant joys that pay no tax to pain.

XL.

A drowsy mist hangs heavy on the soul
During her short and mournful sojourn here;
Yet sometimes her dull vision turns so clear
As if a glimpse of future life she stole:
Had e'en our hopes by word or holy scroll
Still unconfirm'd remain'd, need we to fear
But that our race must reach some blissful goal
Which shines beyond the tomb's confinements drear.
Our frames seem heaven-design'd; waked by the touch
Of Fancy's wand in Feeling's high-wrought hour,
Or 'mid wild visions in Sleep's shadowy bower,
Who but hath felt his earth-freed mind was such?
And is it probable, an all-wise Power
Denying more, would ever grant so much?

XLI.

Bright Queen of night's lone kingdom, high in air
Thy silvery orb how have I loved to see,
Nor dreamt that mighty potency could be
In aught so mild, so peaceful, and so fair,
Yet, harmless, as thou gild'st my Mira's hair,
Or bid'st thy cold beams kiss her beauteous cheek,
And look'st like her as radiantly meek!
Too well with thine her empire may compare;
For as thy influence the wild waters find
And still submissive on thy state attend,
While, to compell their pride, the angry wind,
The nave of heaven, itself in vain might rend,
So have her magic charms subdued a mind
That tyrant violence could never bend!

XLII.

While Emma careless saw how much I loved,
And met my passion with averted eyes,
Listening reluctant to my vows and sighs,
Through what wild dreams my busy fancy roved!
The colder she, each vision brighter proved;
But when, at length, propitious to my prayer,
I won to answering smiles the yielding fair,
Perversely then the glittering scenes removed;
Thus, when Night frowns along the wintry skies,
And sternly Frost maintains his rigorous sway,
What thousand forms of silvery frost-work rise,
With mimic towers and sparkling forests gay;
But soon, alas! the fair illusion flies
From the warm sunshine of advancing day.

XLIII.

Urge me no more, for know within this breast
There is a gloomy and eternal void,
Dark, undefined, uncertain, unemployed,
With light unvisited, with joy unblest;
An ill so strange, it cannot be exprest,
Except by him, who, ever at his side,
Beheld a fearful chasm still yawning wide,
Grave of his peace, and bane of all his rest!
Urge me no more; 'tis not for me to smile,
Whom leagued mis'ries ever mock and goad;
Whom quiet maddens; pleasure discontents;
Whose pain, nor wit, nor beauty, can beguile;
Whose wearied spirits just can bear the load
Of life, without its cumb'rous ornaments!

XLIV.

Remember, if my wild and stormy soul
Should chafe hereafter, as the ocean waves
Ungovernable, when from forth their caves
Swift rushing winds th' augmenting billows roll,
That this impetuous mood thou didst extol
And love, because with all thy sex to choose,
It, ardent, deck'd thee in celestial hues,
And then adored with passion past control:
And think, though Venus from the sea arose
(If aught of truth by ancient bards is sung),
Yet in his rage when mighty Eurus blows
And to the skies the boiling waves are flung,
E'en she, all-conquering goddess, to repose
The waters cannot charm from whence she sprung!

XLV.

Crito, how well thy boisterous mirth keeps under
The modest men of wit, who must sit dumb;
Thou heedest not the disapproving hum
At thy forced jokes, but still, lest we should blunder,
Out bursts thy laugh, as duly as the thunder,
Like it, to tell us whence the flashes come,
And then so fiercely shake thy sides at some,
That how thy frame endures it is our wonder.
The painter Zeuxis, ancient authors say,
Was doom'd a strange and humorous death to know:
For having drawn a woman old and gray,
He with mad laughter brought the fatal blow;
Crito beware! thou'lt conjure up, one day,
Some stale, old, feeble jest to kill thee so.

XLVI.

When I saw Borrowdale, and wander'd where
The savage rocks begin to beetle high,
Proud, like that Titan race who scorn'd the sky,
Uncouth, enormous, ragged, dark, and bare,
And mark'd the desert heath-flower e'en despair
To clothe the granite flooring grey and dry,
Musing amid the fragments, heap'd that lie,
Fantastic in eternal ruin, there,
Methought that nature in her mood had shown,
On this same spot how far creative chance
Can soar beyond the reach of art, and 'mid
Her labour, in a happy petulance
Had her tired pencil at the canvass thrown
With the same fortune that Apelles did.

XLVII.

From the unbarring to the shut of day,
Aye, oft' times restless in the midnight blind,
His loss I mourn; it lies upon my mind
Like a thick mist, that will not clear away,
But bodes and brings grief's showers. His was a sway
Of soul so gentle, we alone might find,
Not see its strength; a wit that, ever kind,
Would spare the humbled in its freest play.
A silent, boastless stream, smooth, clear, but deep;
His mighty powers attired themselves so plain
They drew no worship though they won the heart:
Now he is gone, we waken from the sleep,
But, as of visiting Gods the poets feign,
We knew him not till turning to depart.

XLVIII.

I'll not believe that lovely Womankind
Have hearts as treach'rous as their brows are fair;
And that their breath, sweet as the summer air,
Is false and perilous as the wintry wind;
That charms inimitable are design'd
To fill the hated office of a snare,
And all our happiness and all our care
Is but upon a bending reed reclin'd.
For oh! 'twere pity, if, like yonder skies,
Of whitest fleeces dash'd with fleecy gold,
Or yonder rainbow, of a thousand dyes,
When we inquire what 'tis such charms enfold,
The worship of our fool'd, adoring eyes
Should prove an aguish heap of vapors cold.

XLIX.

One noon, while shelter'd from the breezeless heat,
I dream'd, when sleeping 'mid a waste of flowers,
That, from their cells, bright, dwarfish forms, the powers
Presiding here, tripp'd forth their guest to greet;
Simplicity, health, peace, contentment, sweet,
All who had banish'd from those quiet bowers
The fierce and gloomier passions, 'mong the towers
And strife of men, that I was wont to meet.
Yet in the peaceful train an urchin, arm'd,
Would threaten with his needly dart my breast,
While smiling, they, as arch he look'd about him,
Thus said and mock'd me when I seem'd alarm'd,
“Love fear'd so now will soon be most carest
And thou, like us, wilt scarce exist without him.”

L.

Oh! he is bless'd, and ten times bless'd, what though
Steep'd to the very lips, and full of grief,
Who, quite forsaken, free to seek relief,
Amid the shades of solitude may go,
And temper disappointment's bitter throe
By memorizing every fitful scene,
Where all his ills and all his joys have been;
Till pleasure strangely takes the place of woe,
Compared with him, who, fasten'd to a stake,
Asks solitude in vain his grief to 'guile,
Who, though his lacerated heart must ache
Within his sore and shrinking breast the while,
By an unfeeling, selfish world's mistake
Is voted happy, and condemn'd to smile!

LI.

'Twas here she slept,—beneath this branching shade;
Here,—on this bank, with thick'ning flowers bespread;
Here,—where mine eyes long linger'd, rivetted
Upon the faint impressure still that staid;
But, hither when, with morn, my footsteps stray'd,
Each ingrate flower had lifted up its head,
And every trace where she had been was fled;
Oh! would that from this heart e'en so might fade
The mem'ry of her form; that, long disused
To happiness, my bosom might obtain
Again the calm that it, 'ere while, possess'd;
And life's first, fairest flow'rs, too rudely bruised,
Lifting, like these, their slender stems again,
Outgrow the traces of the ill that press'd.

LII.

Of nature if I ask or nature's laws,
Or moralize on conquerors and kings,
Or, balancing the tendencies of things,
Construct a chain of consequence and cause,
Or ever make a calculating pause
To sum the profit that an action brings,
Then out at once thy unrein'd laughter flings,
Tickled to death by sages and their saws.
And yet the very man that mocks at me,
Whom paradoxes to derision move,
Whose lip is still in scorn of system curl'd,
Is votary of a strange philosophy,
And preaches too, after his master, love,
That there is but one woman in the world!

LIII.

Friends, when my latest bed of rest is made,
No empty bowls must ring my funeral knell,
But bumpers rouse the gay song's wildest swell,
While soft you lay me in my vineyard's shade;
And press the ripe grapes till they weep and aid
The rites for one that loved them still so well;
A goblet on my grave its place may tell;
And thus would I be mourn'd, and thus be laid.
My vines, close twining round, shall keep away
The rains, for water ever pain'd my sight;
Haply, as mild departs th' autumnal day,
The nightingale, amid their clusters bright,
May sit, and sweetly pour for him the lay,
Whose song, like hers, was heard so oft at night.

LIV.

The heart that disappointments ever freeze
And hard adversity hath made her own,
Welcomes the gloom of surly winter's frown
And is congenial with the chilly breeze;
Though thou may'st wonder, it shall give me ease
To mark th' unnumber'd, feathery store descend,
And watch th' accumulating burthen bend
The thick-clad branches of the leafless trees:
The dark and pitiless storm, howe'er it blows,
But imitates thy cruelty, severe,
And minds me of thy love, cold as the snows
And false as they, which, though they may appear
Pure as the candor that the lily shows,
Chill the warm touch, and turn into a tear.

LV.

Shade of my long lov'd Mira, if that e'er
Departed souls again on earth might roam,
Some vision of thy semblance sure would come
This wither'd and deserted heart to cheer.
And wherefore cannot such things be, when here,
E'en when the animating flame hath died,
Its gross and earthly vehicle may bide,
A soul-less form, past joy, past hope, past fear,
For though this woe-worn frame, as heretofore,
To pass among the ranks of men is seen,
My bosom is a dark, forsaken cave;
Dank, healthless, silent, cold; where pleasure more
Shall never dwell; where life hath only been;
My spirit is inhumed in thy grave.

LVI.

'Tis true her hazel eye, so gently mild,
A gentler than itself hath haply seen,
Her coral lips, with ivory between,
So sweetly smiling, may have been outsmiled;
Perchance, her nut-brown tresses, waving wild
In many an artless ringlet, may bedeck
The graceful roundness of a snowy neck,
Than which, though fair, some fairer may be styled:
'Tis true my friend; but not more true it is
Than that my Mira, still, of woman kind,
Fixed in this heart, to me must dearest prove:
And sickliness of fancy call'st thou this,
Or imbecile fatuity of mind,
Or devilish enchantment? No, 'tis love!

LVII.

Look, how the trumpet of the loud-voiced gale
Has roused the waters from their sullen sleep;
Swift rush the banded billows of the deep,
While o'er them peers, with visage broad and pale,
The moon, in sickly splendor; her black veil
Of vapours, shifted by the winds that sweep
Along the deep-hued azure, see her keep
Her watch on high, list'ning the troubled wail,
Viewing the billows heaving from their bed,
As if they aimed the hurrying clouds to lave;
Like fame presiding o'er the battling brave,
She sits, still prompt her fullest light to shed
On the proud crest of each ambitious wave
That highest in the strife shall raise its head.

LVIII.

The tribes of earth, the dwellers in the main,
Air's light inhabitants, at seasons own
The sway of love; but in man's heart alone
He holds, though oft unseen, continual reign;
Like to that latent fire which will remain
Secret, pervading all things, till 'tis shown
By some collision, when the flinty stone
Can make, in brilliant streams, its presence plain
Dear to the flower, as is the cherishing ray,
So love comes to the soul, in lustrous might;
The plant, gay blushing, gladdens in the day;
And should it be denied the influence bright,
Will strangely wind a forced and crooked way,
Striving to reach at length the needful light.

LIX.

Oh, could we on this night-wind, dearest maid,
Seek some lone islet, with its silver rim
Of beating waves, so not a bark might swim
Thither our bless'd oblivion to invade;
Tranquilly curtain'd in th' unknown shade,
No hated chance our hallow'd loves to dim,
While nature spreads us, in her choicest trim,
Skies never cold, and bowers that never fade:
There would our souls together dwell entwined,
Bright as the flowers, and gentle as the air,
Forgetting in our little world so fair,
The rude and adverse one we left behind;
Yet, should the thought of some steal o'er our mind,
'Twere but to wish them well, not wish them there.

LX.

Until the Fates, Anacreon sung, shall close
My life, and brandish the abhorred shears;
Though age's winter on this head appears
In ever whitening and unsummer'd snows,
I'll cherish here the sacred fire that glows,
Nor blush to say that love my being cheers;
For love adorns accumulating years,
And is adorn'd, as moss becomes the rose.
Grant, Venus, still thy smile; I'll worship thee,
I turn me to thy glory, gently bright,
That seems so mild, yet darts its beam so far,
And recollect, well pleas'd, thou dost delight,
And art, in two fold honour, held to be
As well the evening as the morning star.

LXI.

Though she that was thy joy, thy life's sole light,
Is snatch'd away for ever from thine eyes,
And now forgetting, haply, in the skies
Leaves thee to lonely and unstarred night;
The bitter blow hath miss'd of half its spite,
Grief her own visage, seeing first, denies;
Thou canst not feel thy alter'd destinies,
Nor for a little space believe them quite!
I know too well how slow the shrinking heart
Is to admit that overwhelming woe
Which mortal bosom can but once sustain;
Still some dim, lingering twilight will remain;
As, when the sun's retiring rays depart,
Darkness comes not at once, though daylight go.

LXII.

Few are the isles that Heaven has form'd more fair,
Pouring more luxury of verdure o'er
Than thine oft-sung Ierne; few where more
Man's deeds have poison'd what was made so rare;
Thy softest scenes a murd'rous aspect wear;
We shrink disgusted from the recent gore,
As, at the guilty streaks her forehead bore,
Conrad turn'd shudd'ring from the bright Gulnare.
Falsely, 'mid ornaments of tinsell'd show,
Thy praiseful poets, in their flatt'ring strains,
Have made the emerald's rich, unsullied glow,
A type of thee with thy unwithering plains,
They should have chosen the blood-stone, which would show
At once the greenness and the sanguine stains.

LXIII.

“My roving friend, what! married after all?”
“Aye, aye,” sighs he, “alas! 'tis but too true;
A fluttering fly, to every flower I flew,
From the low violet to the foxglove tall;
The English rose's sweets at length will pall,
To seek the lily fair to France I went,
Ah! none but yellow lilies there they knew,
Or painted tulips without juice or scent;
No slender harebells I in Scotia spied,
But, like their thistles, as I soon was taught,
A pretty face and stout coarse form were blended;
'Mongst flowers of every clime I've roam'd with pride,
Luckless at last in Venus' fly-trap caught,
There may I linger till my life be ended.”

LXIV.

Say must I go, again to meet thee never,
To hear, to touch, to gaze on thee no more?
And from my all, the angel I adore,
Must waves and wilds, without a hope, dissever?
If this must be, give o'er the vain endeavour
To couple consolation with despair,
Where all is dark, which happiness and care,
Which hope and fear, have bid adieu for ever!
The joys thou speak'st, to thee so lovely seeming,
Are but the friends that prosp'rous men await,
And, while my paradise thine eyes were beaming,
Officious throng'd to hail my blissful state,
But now, past hope, past comfort, past redeeming,
With thee they fly, and leave me to my fate!

LXV.

Poppies, that scatter'd o'er this arid plain,
Display the barrenness ye cannot cure,
Though little may your sickly flowers allure,
Their juice deserves because it aids the strain,
For not alone it lulls our harshest pain,
While, in the dang'rous or th' indulgent hour,
The Turk still seeks it, but its wond'rous pow'r
Can bring to bear the poet's barren brain;
And in blest service, like a Knight of old,
It conquers but the monsters of the mind:
Oh! poppy-flow'rs, as rude weeds round ye press,
E'en you look beauteous, 'mong their colours cold;
So, mid the prickly cares of life, we find
The sweetest hours—those of forgetfulness.