 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
“The unforgotten music of sad dreams.”
Old Play.
Old Play.
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THE STARS.
“Look, wretched one, upon the stream that rolleth by the dwelling of thine old age, and thou will behold the very stars that have shone on thee in thy boyhood.”
Let me look on the stars. They bring me back,
With strange persuasiveness, to the old time,
And pleasant hours of boyhood. All returns,
That I had long forgotten. Scarce a scene,
Of childish prank or merriment, but comes,
With all the freshness of the infant year,
As 'twere an atom of some yesterday.
The green, remember'd at the winter night,
For the encounter of the rapid ball—
The marble play, the hoop, the top and kite,
Each, in its regular season, has its time
In the revival of my boyhood, then!—
And, as the years flew by—as I became
Warmer, and more devoted—fix'd and strong—
Growing in the affections, when I ceased
To grow in stature or proportion—then,
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And voices grew into a spell, that hung,
Thro' the dim hours of night, about the heart,
Making it tremble strangely—and blue eyes,
Were stars, that had a power over us,
As fated, dimly at nativity—
And older men, were monitors, too dull
For passionate youth—and reason, and all excellence
(Bating the honied sentences of lips,
That may have vied with coral, and have won)
Were to be gather'd from one source alone,
Whose thought and word were inspiration, life—
That we had bartered life, itself, to lose!—
And that heart-madness that belongs to youth,
That spell upon affection—that deep light,
Which makes all other objects dark, or fills,
Absorbs, or crushes out each other light,
Is on us, as a dream, that binds us down,
And takes our reason from us: When all these,
Have been with us, and carried us away,
To strange conceits of future happiness,
But to be thought on, as delusions all,
Yet such delusions as we still must love—
When these have parted from us—when the sky,
Hath lost the charm of its etherial blue,
And the nights lose their freshness, and the trees,
No longer have a welcome sound for love—
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And all the poetry that shook the leaves,
And all the perfume that was on the flowers,
Sweetness upon the winds, light in the sky,
The green of the carpetted vale, the dew,
That morning hangs on the enamel'd moss—
The hill-side, the acclivity, the plain—
(Sweeter that Solitude was sleeping there)
Are gone, as the last hope of misery—
When the one dream of thy deluded life,
Hath left thee, to awaken—not to see
The pleasant morning, but the gloomy night,
When sight becomes a weariness, and Hope,
No longer gathers from its barren path,
One flow'r of promise—when disease is nigh,
And all thy bones are racking, and thy thought,
Is of foul, nauseous, ineffectual drugs,
Which thou will take, altho' thou know'st in vain—
And not a hand is nigh to quench thy thirst,
With one poor cup of water—and thy thought
Is of the fading sky, and the bright sun,
Which thou art losing—and the sable pall,
And melancholy carriage, and of those,
Who but acquire thee now, when thou art lost,
And only weep for that, which thou dost leave—
And thou hast bid adieu to earthly things,
Fought thro' the last, long struggle with thyself,
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And offer'd up thy pray'r of penitence,
Doubtful of its acceptance, yet prepar'd,
As well as thy condition will admit,
For the last change in thy unhappy life—
Look, if thou canst, from thy closed lattice forth,
And take thy farewell of the calm blue sky;
And if the melancholy stars be there,
Then will the current of thy thoughts, flow back,
To the fair practice of thy innocent childhood,
And, if thou hast been wretched, thou will weep
Over thy recollections—and thy tears,
Shall be, as a sweet pray'r, sent up to Heav'n.
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STANZAS TO IDA.
I.
Sweet Ida, now upon the sea,And far from land, and darting on,
I feel how much I lose in thee,
And cheerless, watch the sun go down.
He sits behind the distant shore,
Which I have left, and where thou art;
And all is dark, my path before—
I lose my light, I leave my heart!
II.
Thou may'st not watch, when I am gone—Thou will not weep my absence now—
Thou art not, like myself, alone,
And hast no chill'd or aching brow.
Many will watch thy weary hours,
And, should disease, with venom'd breath,
Enter thy gay and happy bow'rs,
Will chase away, and conquer, death.
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III.
For me, alas! what hopes arise,What prayers ascend, to bless my fate—
Shall mine be calm and breezy skies,
Or, does the stroke of wo, await!
I sit upon the bounding bark,
And strike my lyre of wo, to thee—
The clouds come down, the night is dark,
And, moans aloud, the sullen sea!
IV.
According, with my loneliness,How sweet its murmurs are, to me!
The voice of storms, the sea's distress,
Than music's song, unless with thee!
O! could I send my thought abroad,
To touch thy soul, or meet thine ear,
Thou'dst see those passions all outlaw'd,
That winds now mock, and waters hear.
V.
On, with the broken lyre, and heart,Thou bark of destiny, away—
Swift as thy shooting prow can part,
The whistling winds and mounting spray.
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The song I pour upon the sea;
And thou wilt hail the morning's light,
And I—oh, Ida, aught but thee.
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DIRGE OF THE LEAVES.
The leaves,
The pleasant and green leaves, that hung
Abroad, in the gay summer winds, are dead—
And earth receives
The last of their brown honors, idly strung,
On the old stems, to which, they fondly clung,
Within her bed—
I marvel that their last dirge be not said!
The breeze, shall sing it, as he leaves the main,
To scour the plain;
And goes to rest among the tall, old trees;
How will he sigh, with pain,
To find his ev'ning couch of luxuries
Wither'd upon the ground, where he hath lain.
The pleasant and green leaves, that hung
Abroad, in the gay summer winds, are dead—
And earth receives
The last of their brown honors, idly strung,
On the old stems, to which, they fondly clung,
Within her bed—
I marvel that their last dirge be not said!
The breeze, shall sing it, as he leaves the main,
To scour the plain;
And goes to rest among the tall, old trees;
How will he sigh, with pain,
To find his ev'ning couch of luxuries
Wither'd upon the ground, where he hath lain.
Oh! then,
With a deep mournfulness, and plaintive fall,
Shall he lament,
That they are cast away, beyond his call,
And he not present at their burial—
Nor, to prevent
The eager frost from coming down that glen.
With a deep mournfulness, and plaintive fall,
Shall he lament,
That they are cast away, beyond his call,
And he not present at their burial—
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The eager frost from coming down that glen.
Thus sings he, in his grief,
The last lament above the wither'd leaf:
‘O! never more,
Unburied honors of the pilgrim year,
Shall ye in all your morning dress of green
Appear!
The summer time is o'er,
That we have seen—
And all your early loveliness, how brief!
I shall forget ye on some other shore,
But o'er your fruitless, melancholy bier,
I leave my tear.’
The last lament above the wither'd leaf:
‘O! never more,
Unburied honors of the pilgrim year,
Shall ye in all your morning dress of green
Appear!
The summer time is o'er,
That we have seen—
And all your early loveliness, how brief!
I shall forget ye on some other shore,
But o'er your fruitless, melancholy bier,
I leave my tear.’
Away!
After that brief lament he spreads his wings,
The licensed rover of far Indian seas—
Now, that the hidden charm that led astray,
No longer clings,
With blossoming odor, wooing his wild flight;
And to the sunset dwelling of the day,
With the sad form of Night,
Speeds on his way that melancholy breeze!
After that brief lament he spreads his wings,
The licensed rover of far Indian seas—
Now, that the hidden charm that led astray,
No longer clings,
With blossoming odor, wooing his wild flight;
And to the sunset dwelling of the day,
With the sad form of Night,
Speeds on his way that melancholy breeze!
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THE LAST LEAF.
I.
It was the last of all the leaves, that Spring in rich array,Had sent, in plenitude of power, to woo his young bride, May—
When the Sun, at morning rose and shone without a single cloud,
And the pale cold Moon, at night, alone, walk'd consciously and proud;
It hung upon a pleasant tree, that now, was stripp'd and bare,
And it—of all its family, the last, and saddest there—
Thus sung it, in a mournful tone, while winds were sighing by,
And the cold, November nights came down, 'neath a bleak and wintry sky.
II.
“I am the last of all my race—I've seen my brethren fade—114
There was a spirit in the air, upon the gentle morn,
When I, and all my brethren there, in dewy green were born,
That shook its fragrant wings around, till light from every bough,
Stream'd o'er the green and mantled ground, that is so lonely now—
And summer leaves, and summer birds, commingling, fill'd the sky,
So bright—ye saw, and deem ye not, 'twas cruel they should die?
III.
“Theirs, were the sunny hours—they grew, when mocker-mimics throng,Our green and mantling branches through, to warble forth each song;
And many a shining insect came, and many a bird, whose note,
Of morning vigor, nought could tame, on evening airs to float,
When thro' our forms at eventide, the icy moon beams come,
And fairy shapes are seen to glide, when human sounds are dumb,
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But which, at whispering intervals, it was our lot to hear.
IV.
“Mine was the fate to see them bloom, in fellowship and pride—Mine was the eye, beheld their tomb—would, with them, I had died!
For, not a bird, now comes to make his shelter in my boughs,
And gentle lovers now forsake the spot that heard their vows—
The roving Zephyrs too, that came, with roset breath and bloom,
Now scorch me with a blast of flame, or chill me o'er with gloom;
And sad, I watch, in lonesomeness, the dark ground bleak and bare,
Or, strew'd with shapes I love not less, than when they comrades were.
V.
“Oh! soon shall come the darker hours, and I shall be with them,The green-eyed leaves, the rose-lipped flowers, long shaken from each stem—
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And whirl'd my brethren from the ground, that long since had been dead—
And well I knew, the boding came, to warn me to prepare,
A fellowship with them to claim, beyond all changes here,
And all the streams of life withdraw, and colder I become,
No breeze shall woo, no sun shall thaw, and now”—the leaf was dumb!
VI.
That night, a Tempest shook the wood, the muttering sky was dread,And he, who heard that last leaf sing, well knew that it was dead—
Yet, came he at the morning's dawn, and stood beneath the tree,
And look'd, in vain, for it was gone, that latest leaf to see;
But in the tree there was a bird, at intervals that sung,
And mournful, were the notes he heard, from that strange warbler's tongue,
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‘The leaf shall meet its race again,’ the burden of that song!
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STANZAS TO IDA.
I.
To leave thee, when my hope is gone,Might well demand a tear,
Did I not know, that there are none,
Who would esteem it dear:—
This mournful thought to memory clings,
That all its hopes may be,
Like healing pow'r, in seal'd-up springs,
That none may find or see!
II.
A bird is on the bough at night,And mournful is its tone;
It tells, that ere the morning's light,
It shall be left alone!
That the young mate, whose purple wing,
Had with it, skim'd the seas,
Is in the sky, a distant thing,
And sporting on the breeze.
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III.
That lone one, left behind, to makeIts fortune, tried in vain,
Will ne'er by bow'r, or cover'd lake,
Find that young wing again!—
On tallest pine-tree perch'd, it looks,
When morning's glance is fair,
And 'mongst the leaves, and in the brooks,
To find its shadow there!
IV.
Across the desert, it has bracedIts sad wing, to pursue
The fitful shadow, seldom traced,
But ever held in view.
Ere morning's buskins brush the dews,
It journies on its flight;—
Where will it gather food, or choose
Its resting place, by night!
V.
The lone one sat within a tree,A pleasant tree, I ween,
For, there the breeze came wooingly,
Among the branches green;
And from a stream, that ran below,
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Like voices, long forbid to flow,
Now glad to be unbound!
VI.
“Thy heart is weary, not thy wing—Why dost thou not pursue
O'er earth and sea, the kindred thing
To which thy birth-plume grew!
Thy plumage will have lost its grace,
Thine eye its sunny light,
Unless thou tak'st thy morning race,
And mak'st thy bow'r at night.
VII.
“The world has many forests, leavesInnumerable, shroud
Thy form; the eye, that for thee grieves
Will look not in the crowd:—
Ascending, in the far blue sphere,
The highest in thy spring,
Go up! the bright, blue heav'n is there.
And meet thy kindred wing.
VIII.
“All day hath it the ocean fann'd.On pinion weariless,
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Do thou be there, to bless!
Its spirit, like thine own, will seek
The ev'ning sun's descent,
And when thy wing grows weary, weak,
Thou shalt be still unspent!
IX.
“And if thy fortune baffle thee,And thou shalt find it not,—
Be glad, for that thy destiny,
Hath so decreed thy lot.
For disappointment shall be hush'd,
And thou no more be sad,
And the weary spirit, once so crush'd
Shall yet be more than glad!”
X.
Thus spoke the spirit of that brook—In accents to my ear,
But vainly, might my bosom, look
For tones of comfort there!
How worse than idle is the strain,
That offers peace to one,
Whom words shall never cheat again—
Whom words have left undone!
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XI.
Give me, if comfort thou would'st give,Dull spirit, from thy store—
Again, in innocence, to live,
My hours of childhood o'er—
Take from me sight, and sense, and speech,
All beings that have breath,
What I have ever learnt, unteach—
Ay, spirit—give me death!
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TO THE SAME.
I.
Dear phantom of my midnight hour,That haunt'st my couch, and fill'st my sleep,
With hopes, that long have lost their pow'r,
And love, whose buried form, I weep!
Before my eye thou stand'st alone,
And on my soul thy looks arise,
So strong, I sometimes think, I've flown,
To join thee, in thy native skies;
But, that amidst those thoughts of heav'n,
The tear has stolen into my eye,
And I have thus been coldly driven,
Back to the earth, I cannot fly!
II.
Sweet spirit, when that earth is still,And all the busy hum of men
Is hush'd in slumber, dost thou fill
My chamber, with thy presence, then?
Tell me, yet tell me not, I dream—
'Tis sweet to think that thou art near,
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With converse, once, and still so dear:—
Let me still think, as I have thought,
That thou sit'st by my couch at night,
And weav'st the visions, kindly wrought,
To soothe my heart, to bless my sight.
III.
Oh! dearer, spirit, as thou art,Thus all immortal, (therefore dead,
Forever, to my watchful heart)—
Than all the living world thou'st fled—
The love thou'st cherish'd, cannot die—
Alas! that broken hearts should beat!
While Hope, though crush'd by Memory,
Builds up his altar of deceit—
Altho' assured thou art no more,
He still uprears his grateful shrine,
And vows, that on that dreamless shore,
Thy heart shall meet again with mine!
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TO THE SAME.
I.
To thee, howe'er in early days,I struck the willing notes of praise,
Nor grudged the grateful strain,
I dare not now attune one song,
To love, remember'd, O! how long,
Thro, happiness and pain!
II.
Thine old dominion o'er my heart,Thou still maintain'st in every part,
As firmly as before;
Yet, ah! the dream of hope which came,
Of old, to warm it into flame,
Shall never warm it more!
III.
Should not the dream, the fear, the pain,The dread of love's unhappy reign,
Be o'er, when Hope has fled;
When thou art lost with all the charms,
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And memory lives instead!
IV.
Alas! my destiny, is stillA greater tyrant than my will,
Since love remains alone—
And o'er my heart, and in my brain,
Exerts a wild and weary reign,
And will not now begone.
V.
Fond wretch! that like a pilgrim, stands,Return'd in age from foreign lands,
Within his ruin'd dome;
And stirs the ashes with his cane,
In hope to find, once more the fane,
That mark'd his childhood's home!
VI.
A greater ruin even than they,For none of those, of yesterday,
Who circled him around,
Are there, to greet him with a tear,
And say, his heart is buried, where
Yon hillock breaks the ground!
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VII.
Thus love within my lonely heart,Stirs the sad rains in each part,
And from his search, discerns—
That Hope is buried long, and cold—
What truth and time, too late, unfold,
And love, too early, learns!
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STANZAS.
I.
Cold, in its solitary cell,My heart reposes, lapt in tears;
Or, rises, for awhile, to tell
How slow, the chain of being, wears;
Impatient of the long delay,
And fill'd with deep and restless thirst,
Why does it linger thus away,
Nor spurn the chain at once, and burst.
Thus frozen in its onward course,
And chill'd with early, fatal blight,
Even love's own power, hath lost its force,
And beauty, were a shade to sight.
II.
To be, is not a pain so deep,But being thus!—and not to be,
Comes on me, with a snail-like creep,
That must not else be taught by me!
Ah would it were, that we could urge
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As barks, upon the restless surge,
Driven, with a tide, unmatched, and strong.
Oh, not for me, the crime in thought—
Yet 'twere a boon I may not fear—
'Twere sure, that howsoe'er unsought,
Death were not shrunk from, were he near!
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TO THYRZA.
I.
Forgive me, if my looks are sad,When thou art free from aught like wo,
I would be, if I could be glad,
And thou, alone, can'st make me so.
II.
Let but thy cheek be pale awhile,And dim thine eye, and cloud thy mien,
And let thy lip forbear to smile,
And be as sad, as I have been!
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SONNETS.
[Come down, ye dark brow'd ministers of thought]
Come down, ye dark brow'd ministers of thought,Ye that are of the mountains, and do tend
Upon the morning, when with clouds o'erwrought,
Her brow doth blacken in the storms, that blend,
With her strong pinions—lifting her along,
From her serener beauties, into gloom.
Descend, ye dark indwellers with the strong,
Ye of the magic mystery and song,
Whose voice is on the ice-crags of the Swiss,
Where Freedom built her ærie, and the bloom
Of her untrammell'd freshness, sent abroad
Life on the nations, till they own'd the God!
There is a spirit that belongs to this—
Him of the lyre and spell, that worships ye unaw'd!
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Strange fancies to my soul—peopling the hour
Of vacancy and midnight, with a pow'r
Of mystery and thought, to which I cling,
With an enthusiast's worship, and my heart
Drinks in the enchantment of thy solemn spells,
Till I become, of thy own world, a part—
And all my thought, at reason's rule rebels,
Each sound that only jars the Zephyr's pinion,
To me, has something, in that strange, sweet time,
Wrought by some minstrel-god, in his dominion
Of spell and song, and fresh, and morning clime—
And when I wake, my cheek and eye's dim light,
Proclaim, I have been wandering all the night!
[Can I not lay me down, at once, and die?]
Can I not lay me down, at once, and die?—Oh! there is peace within the quiet grave!
No hopes to cheat, no aspirations high,
No heart to throb, no anguish'd brain to rave—
I shall not shudder at the approaching ill,
As the young leaf, which doth anticipate,
The coming of the cold, which is its fate,
And shrinks, without a murmur, to its will.
Dreams shall not win me unto happiness,
To crush me, when I waken up, the more;—
Nor shall the visions, that once came, to bless,
Wear different features, then from what they wore:
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I must feel pleasure, when removed from pain.
[Thou wilt remark my fate, when I am dead]
Thou wilt remark my fate, when I am dead—Let not fools scoff above me, and proclaim,
That I had, vainly, struggled after fame,
'Till the good oil of my young life was shed;
And I became a mockery, and fell
Into the yellow leaf, before my time;—
A sacrifice, even in my earliest prime,
To that, which thinn'd the heav'ns, and peopled hell!
I feel my spirit fed upon my form,
As a disease within me, that still grows,
As I incline unto my last repose,
A vulturous, and all undying worm—
Let fools not mock me, when I am no more—
And yet—I ask no friendship, to deplore!
[Ambition owns no friend—yet be thou mine]
Ambition owns no friend—yet be thou mine—I have not much to win thee, yet if song,
However humble, may a name prolong,
My lay shall seek to give a life to thine!
Let this reward thee for thy kindly thought—
'Tis all I ask of thee—thus, when my years
Are ripen'd to their full, or early wrought,
To a short term of being, and my tears,
Haply for me, are staid—and I, at rest,
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Which wrong my name and to it darkly clings,
Shadowing its purity—do thou attest,
Mine eye was on the sun—I could not bend
To the dull clouds, when I might still ascend!
[To-morrow, I shall have no charge in life]
To-morrow, I shall have no charge in life—
The fair sky shall wane from me—the bright sun
Shall lend no heat to cheer me—and the breeze,
That comes so winningly about me now,
Shall only stir the long grass on my grave.
The moon will rest upon me, in her walks,
And I, that loved to watch her, will not see,
One glance of the sweet picture of her smile.
The fair sky shall wane from me—the bright sun
Shall lend no heat to cheer me—and the breeze,
That comes so winningly about me now,
Shall only stir the long grass on my grave.
The moon will rest upon me, in her walks,
And I, that loved to watch her, will not see,
One glance of the sweet picture of her smile.
To-morrow—let me tell it thee to day—
Take this small token, to the gaze of her
Whose name thou here behold'st. I've written on't
Some magical lines. Do thou observe the face
With which she reads them—and if she shed no tear,
It will be well, thou canst not tell me so!
Take this small token, to the gaze of her
Whose name thou here behold'st. I've written on't
Some magical lines. Do thou observe the face
With which she reads them—and if she shed no tear,
It will be well, thou canst not tell me so!
[The barque is ready, for your carriage hence]
The barque is ready, for your carriage hence,My friend—and you are now about to tread
The English shore again. Alas! I sigh,
When aught diverts my thought to my own land;
For in my heart a labor lies conceal'd,
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Eustace—and, tho' I would not be a boy,
They've had much weight upon me, and I feel
A strong forecast, that I shall never more,
Be, on the English shore, a visitor.
I have a sister Eustace, you will find
At Sheffield—bid her be of cheer, I pray,
For I am well. Be sure and send her this—
'Tis a small token, but to her enough—
Since, 'tis the giver's thought, and not his gift,
The token carries with it. Be her friend,
As you have been her brother's—he, I feel,
Will need nor hate, nor friendship from you more.
[Ay, I have heard enough]
Ay, I have heard enough—
Ye men of Rome, yet not as Rome has been!
I've heard enough—ye cannot tell me more,
In all your volubility of speech,
Were your time lengthen'd to eternity!
Ye would depose Manilius!—do it then,
Ye dogs, and leap into his state, at once,
And growl and battle with yourselves, for bones,
That dogs have pluck'd before—ye Jackal troops,
That have a nose for carrion, and can scent
Your bruitage o'er the Tiber, at its swell.
Ye men of Rome, yet not as Rome has been!
I've heard enough—ye cannot tell me more,
In all your volubility of speech,
Were your time lengthen'd to eternity!
Ye would depose Manilius!—do it then,
Ye dogs, and leap into his state, at once,
And growl and battle with yourselves, for bones,
That dogs have pluck'd before—ye Jackal troops,
That have a nose for carrion, and can scent
Your bruitage o'er the Tiber, at its swell.
I'll hear no more from ye—ye are too foul,
And taint my garden air: now get ye gone—
Depose Manilius, send him into exile—
Tell him to shake the dust from off his feet,
Nor curse ye all, 'twere waste of honest breath,
And like the holy blood, so often shed,
T'were less than thrown away, on thankless Rome!
And taint my garden air: now get ye gone—
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Tell him to shake the dust from off his feet,
Nor curse ye all, 'twere waste of honest breath,
And like the holy blood, so often shed,
T'were less than thrown away, on thankless Rome!
[Last night, the moon shone suddenly in streams]
Last night, the moon shone suddenly in streams
Upon my pillow, and my little child,
Who lay, like Innocence, upon my arm,
Turn'd, discontentedly, beneath the glare,
And her sweet violet eye-lids, half unclosed—
'Till I, with cautious hand, removed her face,
And press'd her to my bosom, and she sunk,
Into a breathing slumber—but her voice,
As if her sense were conscious of my care,
Whispered most audibly, yet faintly too,
‘Father’—in her half broken modes of speech!
Upon my pillow, and my little child,
Who lay, like Innocence, upon my arm,
Turn'd, discontentedly, beneath the glare,
And her sweet violet eye-lids, half unclosed—
'Till I, with cautious hand, removed her face,
And press'd her to my bosom, and she sunk,
Into a breathing slumber—but her voice,
As if her sense were conscious of my care,
Whispered most audibly, yet faintly too,
‘Father’—in her half broken modes of speech!
Kind spirits! but it was the sweetest sound,
That ever took my sad heart by surprise—
And, tho' ashamed of such unmanliness,
I felt a lurking weakness in my eye,
And press'd her closer to my breast again.
That ever took my sad heart by surprise—
And, tho' ashamed of such unmanliness,
I felt a lurking weakness in my eye,
And press'd her closer to my breast again.
[It was a picture of much loveliness]
It was a picture of much loveliness—A picture, men would love to look upon,
Tho' seldom so permitted. A sweet child,
That laugh'd in the possession of his prize,
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And nutriment, and life, from a half hid,
And half reveal'd, and delicate, white round,
That seem'd an orb of purity and peace!
Its little lip, and full and glowing cheek
Were of one colour—rich and young and fresh—
And only such, are beautiful! Its eye
Glanced archly on its property—the Imp,
As if it knew such things were not for all!
And then it playfully upturned the dress,
And peep'd beneath, and with its little hands,
Possess'd itself of all, and placed its head
Upon its natural pillow, and look'd up
In that sweet mother's face, and smiled with joy,
And knew not, happy Ignorant! the tears
Upon that mother's cheek, for it, were shed!
[My child, my beautiful child, when I am gone]
My child, my beautiful child, when I am gone,Strangers and time, will have untaught thee all,
Thy father's love; ere thou wilt well have known
Thou had'st a father, tho' his name thou'lt call—
And I shall leave behind me, nought, that may
Teach thee thy loss, unless it be my song—
And that, perchance, will scarcely linger long,
To keep my memory coupled with my lay!
Sad lay! invoked in sorrow, tuned by wrong,
Harsh and unmusical, yet sadly deep—
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O'er wind-harps, with a pinion swift and strong!
Breaking perchance, each string, yet lifting high,
A dying shriek of mournful melody.
[I saw it in my dream. O! could I task]
I saw it in my dream. O! could I taskMy sense again to slumber, nor awake
So long as the fair vision were in sight.—
I will not do it so much wrong, to make
My rude words, show the picture thou dost ask;
But I should feel it poorly, if delight
Be only in my feature—for I feel,
From the devoted counsels of my heart,
That I should look enjoyment, nor appeal
To low discourse of language, to bepaint
My morning vision of calm happiness:—
That dream, which it would madden, to reveal,
And which even song would render spiritless—
It was such deep, such fine, heart-touching tenderness.
[Thou hast enamor'd me of woodland scenes]
Thou hast enamor'd me of woodland scenes,Good shepherd, for thou tell'st them with an air
That might have won a wilder thought to hear,
Than his, who sits beside thee, while he gleans
Thy secret from thee, of sweet happiness—
Inborn content, and quiet humbleness—
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And so attracteth not the gaze of envious eye.
Thy blessings are of that serener kind,
Which, as they call no passions forth, must be
Only the lighter curl that breaks the sea
Into a pleasant murmur—no rough wind
Is there, to rouse the sleeping ocean's form,
And call the whirlwind forth, and usher in the storm.
[Ah! me, that sleeping, like Endymion]
Ah! me, that sleeping, like Endymion,Upon a gentle hill-slope, flow'r-o'erstrewn,
I could be laid, to wait the coming moon,
And her sweet smile, as a rich garment, don.
Let the winds be around me—and the dell,
That breaks into the valley, catch the sound,
And with its many voices, send around
Aerial music, till the wizard spell
Awake the night-nymphs to attend my sleep—
And she, my mistress, from her ocean cell,
Arise on the blue mountains, with a swell
Of those sweet noises from the caverns deep,
Wherein the mermaiden and mermen dwell—
Then, from my bruised couch of hill-flow'rs, let me leap.
[Moonlight is down among the pleasant hills]
Moonlight is down among the pleasant hills,And looking on the waters—let me go—
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Of beauty, all the free empyreal, fills—
The city is behind me—it is bright,
So liberal and and so lavish is the night,
As conscious of her riches, she bestows
Her wealth in wide profusion, where she goes—
Downwards, the shadows of the houses, cast,
Are sick, with the gay loveliness of night,
And as her living beams are rushing past,
How do they shrink before her fairy light.
Let me go forth—for this must be the hour,
When gentle spirits walk, and fairy forms have pow'r.
[Sweetness, and gamesome images, surround]
Sweetness, and gamesome images, surroundThy rest, young pilgrim!—pleasant breezes come,
And bear the odors of the blossoming ground,
And flap their wings above thy cheek's rich bloom!
And, O! that life may glide away with thee,
In infantile enjoyments!—while I pray,
Above thy baby-couch, that thou may'st be
Guarded by angels, innocent as they,
I would deny thee all the hopes that crowd
O'er childhood's pranking hours. Thou should'st not dream
Of aught in store, where childhood could be proud—
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To dazzle thee in the far coming years,
When life may be all bitterness and tears.
[Come, sit thee down beside me—I would rest]
Come, sit thee down beside me—I would rest,Upon this bed of sedge—the rivulet near,
Meanwhile, will send up to the watchful ear,
Some gentle murmurs, like a song, represt,
By tears of the sad heart that pours it out!—
I do remember, it is now about
A score of summers, since I laid me down,
Beside this little streamiet, as I left
The noise and the confusion of yon town,
To which I now return—of wealth, bereft,
But visions, full and flowing, yet to come;—
My heart was glowing then in primal bloom—
This rivulet, glided on, as it doth now—
Yet—mark the life of changes on my brow!
[The spirits that do dress the flow'rs with dew]
The spirits that do dress the flow'rs with dew,And trip it, 'neath the moon, upon the green,
Have been with me, and I have heard and seen
Their gossamer forms—among them, some I knew.
Theirs, were most pleasant duties, for they crept
Beside me, as upon my couch, I slept,
And built fair images to glad my sight—
Then, with sweet songs, they hush'd me to repose;
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Of a rich vision—which, I could not close
My eyes, for looking on; until they won
The slumber, I had frighted, back upon
My heavy lids, and so I past the night—
Ah! me, I would that this long day were done.
[I think, good shepherd, you did dream of this]
I think, good shepherd, you did dream of this—Our fancies are most frolicsome, and oft
They bear our weakened images aloft,
Where they do lose themselves in very bliss.
Beshrew me, but it is a pleasant spot,
For fairies to make merry on, untill
The steeple's clock, from yonder grey brow'd hill,
Doth dissipate their airy sports, I wot:—
Yet, 'till the dawning, they may brush the dew,
And it may be, perchance, in day-light too,
Albeit we see them not—the light of day,
Perchance, may take their lesser light away,
As the stars fade, when the young moon is fair,
And yet, we know, they still are shining there!
Under this head, will be found some two or three pieces in the dramatic blank, belonging, originally to a couple of Tragedies, which in my twenty first year, I committed to the flames. How the passages quoted, were preserved from the fate of their companions, I am unable to say. They fell, at a later period, under my view, and with some little alterations, are now published.
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FAREWELL TO IDA.
I.
Farewell, Farewell! the mournful tie,That bound so long, is broke at last;
And nought is left me but to die—
Or live, and bear alone, the blast.
And either fate 'twere death to gain,
Since from this exile never free:—
Ah! death itself, were less than pain,
Since life has torn me thus from thee!
II.
The words of comfort, they bestow—How worse than idle to my ear!
Since I must feel, where'er I go,
That I have more to hope, than fear!
The worst is known, and all the rest,
Go where I will, I may not fly—
For life assures my lonely breast,
That all that's left me, is to die.
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III.
The truth too well assur'd—once known—I might confide in winds and waves;
And dream that Hope's not wholly gone,
And peace, not only in our graves.
This idle word, even this, dear love,
'Twere less than kind, should reach thy heart—
Alas! our tears can only prove,
We meet, and have but met, to part.
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