 | England |  |
239
CONCLUDING ADDRESS.
TO MARGARET W---
“So now my summer task is ended, Mary,
And I return to thee, my own heart's home,
As to his queen some victor knight of Faëry,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome.
Percy Bysshe Shelly.
And I return to thee, my own heart's home,
As to his queen some victor knight of Faëry,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome.
Percy Bysshe Shelly.
These later hymns I consecrate to thee,
Margaret, who art my house, my home, my all;
If there was ought that made my songs more free,
And bore them high, and would not let them fall,
It was that thou wast near, and held'st me in thy thrall.
Margaret, who art my house, my home, my all;
If there was ought that made my songs more free,
And bore them high, and would not let them fall,
It was that thou wast near, and held'st me in thy thrall.
What though the roaring sea doth shake his mane
Between us; that his voices swell on high,
And drown my feebler notes and gentler plain;
What though the blue-rob'd mountains touch the sky,
And the rude cavern'd crags consume each tender sigh.
Between us; that his voices swell on high,
And drown my feebler notes and gentler plain;
What though the blue-rob'd mountains touch the sky,
And the rude cavern'd crags consume each tender sigh.
What though the winter storms are on the air,
And the fast snows and frozen sleets have come;
What though the loud-tongued torrents foam and tear:
Yet will I hail thee in thy distant home—
Yet shall my vagrant thoughts around thy dwelling roam!
And the fast snows and frozen sleets have come;
What though the loud-tongued torrents foam and tear:
240
Yet shall my vagrant thoughts around thy dwelling roam!
Is there a note more lofty in my song;
Is there a dream more distant from the earth?
Doth ought inspired stray my chords along—
A deeper woe, or more exalted mirth?
'Tis thou, angelic maid, hast given these feelings birth.
Is there a dream more distant from the earth?
Doth ought inspired stray my chords along—
A deeper woe, or more exalted mirth?
'Tis thou, angelic maid, hast given these feelings birth.
The poet's life is love—it is his food,
His being, and the house where he doth dwell:
'Twas this that roll'd like fire in Tasso's blood—
That made sweet Petrarch that he sung so well—
That like the horn of song tun'd Byron's gorgeous shell.
His being, and the house where he doth dwell:
'Twas this that roll'd like fire in Tasso's blood—
That made sweet Petrarch that he sung so well—
That like the horn of song tun'd Byron's gorgeous shell.
Love mellows all he says, and bears him up,
Even to the golden heavens: Love wings his feet,
And robes his head, and revels in his cup;
Love shines through winter's cold and summer's heat—
His morning, evening star—in death, his winding sheet.
Even to the golden heavens: Love wings his feet,
And robes his head, and revels in his cup;
Love shines through winter's cold and summer's heat—
His morning, evening star—in death, his winding sheet.
As shade to glow-worm's glory—as the light
Of sun to moon—as heat unto the spring—
As darkness to the splendour of the night—
As the blue heavens unto the eagle's wing,
Is Love unto the spell that wakes the poet's string.
Of sun to moon—as heat unto the spring—
As darkness to the splendour of the night—
As the blue heavens unto the eagle's wing,
Is Love unto the spell that wakes the poet's string.
241
Blest maid, when I began, the flowers of May,
The grass, the green, were blooming everywhere;
The violets possess'd each silent way,
And happy birds were singing in the air;
The heavens were full of light, and all the earth was fair.
The grass, the green, were blooming everywhere;
The violets possess'd each silent way,
And happy birds were singing in the air;
The heavens were full of light, and all the earth was fair.
I could not hold my Muse—she sprung afar,
And robed herself—and strove to be divine—
And hymn'd aloft beside the morning star:
Then summer came, with visions that did shine,
Among green woods and fields with which they intertwine.
And robed herself—and strove to be divine—
And hymn'd aloft beside the morning star:
Then summer came, with visions that did shine,
Among green woods and fields with which they intertwine.
Song murmur'd still on every verdant bough,
And blossoms shone on every fruitful tree;
And silken mosses deck'd each mountain's brow—
Still did I sing, and still my songs were free,
And still my footsteps trod the hills in liberty.
And blossoms shone on every fruitful tree;
And silken mosses deck'd each mountain's brow—
Still did I sing, and still my songs were free,
And still my footsteps trod the hills in liberty.
Then did the autumn's sunbeams hotly fall,
And the glad harvests met the setting sun:
I heard the harvest singers loudly call
In glee—I saw the golden fruitage won—
My Muse was still aloft—my task was not yet done!
And the glad harvests met the setting sun:
I heard the harvest singers loudly call
In glee—I saw the golden fruitage won—
My Muse was still aloft—my task was not yet done!
But now the bleak December winds are near;
I hear them bellowing to the shaken air:
The leaves are dead, the forests groan with fear,
And stand like skeletons—but late so fair—
And now my chords are mute, I can no longer dare.
I hear them bellowing to the shaken air:
The leaves are dead, the forests groan with fear,
And stand like skeletons—but late so fair—
And now my chords are mute, I can no longer dare.
242
And I shall never feel, what I have felt—
Such raptures ne'er shall swell my breast again—
The mountains, on whose foreheads I have knelt,
The silent shores that gird the heaving main,
Have stolen their hues away from out my spirit's train.
Such raptures ne'er shall swell my breast again—
The mountains, on whose foreheads I have knelt,
The silent shores that gird the heaving main,
Have stolen their hues away from out my spirit's train.
As the dead heath-bells on yon mournful moor—
As the sweet honey-bees that murmur'd there—
As the calm waters, whose low hymns are o'er—
As all our birds, whose songs were everywhere,
Even so my songs have died upon the hollow air.
As the sweet honey-bees that murmur'd there—
As the calm waters, whose low hymns are o'er—
As all our birds, whose songs were everywhere,
Even so my songs have died upon the hollow air.
Beloved maiden!—thy celestial face
Did ever gaze on me—I had no might
That was not thine—no power had I to trace
One thought that shone not on thy forehead bright;
'Twas thou that drove away the shapes and fears of night.
Did ever gaze on me—I had no might
That was not thine—no power had I to trace
One thought that shone not on thy forehead bright;
'Twas thou that drove away the shapes and fears of night.
Can I forget thee!—Can this frozen clay
Forget that thou hast borne it from the mire?
Sooner, far sooner, shall the ungrateful day
Forget the sun—the sun forget its sire,
Than shall thy praises cease on my enraptur'd lyre.
Forget that thou hast borne it from the mire?
Sooner, far sooner, shall the ungrateful day
Forget the sun—the sun forget its sire,
Than shall thy praises cease on my enraptur'd lyre.
I see thee not—I hear thee not, fair maid,
And thou may'st never more rejoice my sight;
And thou may'st never more, in love array'd,
Come gliding forward in the summer light,
To clothe my burning brow with laurels fresh and bright.
And thou may'st never more rejoice my sight;
And thou may'st never more, in love array'd,
Come gliding forward in the summer light,
To clothe my burning brow with laurels fresh and bright.
243
O, loveliest dream that ever lit the earth!
O, brightest dawn that ever woke on high!
Where had'st thou first, O, lovely spirit, birth?
In what blue isles beyond yon laughing sky,
That such celestial calm all round thy form doth lie?
O, brightest dawn that ever woke on high!
Where had'st thou first, O, lovely spirit, birth?
In what blue isles beyond yon laughing sky,
That such celestial calm all round thy form doth lie?
The trees shower'd down their glories on her head—
The brooks sung joyfully where'er she went;
And summer winds among her ringlets play'd;
And summer thoughts from happy nooks were sent,
That fill'd her face and eyes with heavenly languishment.
The brooks sung joyfully where'er she went;
And summer winds among her ringlets play'd;
And summer thoughts from happy nooks were sent,
That fill'd her face and eyes with heavenly languishment.
O, fluttering heart, be still!—O, why so loud
The beatings that disturb this anxious breast?
Will never more most sweet oblivion shroud
That first wild tremor that disturb'd our rest,
When in that solemn dream two lovers were so blest!
The beatings that disturb this anxious breast?
Will never more most sweet oblivion shroud
That first wild tremor that disturb'd our rest,
When in that solemn dream two lovers were so blest!
I never saw an eye so bright as thine—
I never saw a cheek so soft and fair—
I never saw a stature so divine—
So much of grace, so spiritual an air:
Thou could'st bring down from heaven a seraph to despair.
I never saw a cheek so soft and fair—
I never saw a stature so divine—
So much of grace, so spiritual an air:
Thou could'st bring down from heaven a seraph to despair.
When first I saw thee, 'twas in sorrowing:
Alone, and like a star thou greet'dst my sight—
When last I saw thee, thou didst strike the string
Of thy loud harp, amid the festal light,
Within thy father's hall, in all thy beauty bright.
Alone, and like a star thou greet'dst my sight—
When last I saw thee, thou didst strike the string
Of thy loud harp, amid the festal light,
Within thy father's hall, in all thy beauty bright.
244
When, on the harp, thy glancing fingers shone;—
When, through the hall, thy silvery voice arose,
O, how enraptur'd was each heart of stone!
Thou scatter'dst from the earth our human woes,
And every tone fell soft as dew-drop on a rose.
When, through the hall, thy silvery voice arose,
O, how enraptur'd was each heart of stone!
Thou scatter'dst from the earth our human woes,
And every tone fell soft as dew-drop on a rose.
I said—“Whence came that seraph to my sight;
“Such rich embroidery of soul is there;
“She is an angel come to spread the light
“Of distant lands upon our blank despair,
“And all do love alike, she is so very fair.
“Such rich embroidery of soul is there;
“She is an angel come to spread the light
“Of distant lands upon our blank despair,
“And all do love alike, she is so very fair.
“Poets will worship her in many a lay,
“And sing of her aloud, undying praise;
“And, as they wander from the world away,
“Each one, from out his sounding lyre, will raise
“A hymn that will not die among the peaceful ways.
“And sing of her aloud, undying praise;
“And, as they wander from the world away,
“Each one, from out his sounding lyre, will raise
“A hymn that will not die among the peaceful ways.
“For they will speak of one, that was a flower,
“One moment seen, then wither'd from the grass;
“Of one bright bird that fill'd its evening bower
“With song most heavenly that ever was—
“Whose fame from the green earth shall never, never pass.
“One moment seen, then wither'd from the grass;
“Of one bright bird that fill'd its evening bower
“With song most heavenly that ever was—
“Whose fame from the green earth shall never, never pass.
“And I—oh, never from my beating heart,
“Shall these thy tender dreams and memories die;
“Thy glorious image is of mine a part,
“Thou minglest with each laughter every sigh—
“Thou art the beam that wakes my Memnon to the sky.”
“Shall these thy tender dreams and memories die;
“Thy glorious image is of mine a part,
“Thou minglest with each laughter every sigh—
“Thou art the beam that wakes my Memnon to the sky.”
245
I lov'd thee with the passion of all love;
With love like fire, and wildest ecstacy,
As if a blessed angel from above—
I lov'd thee with a love that cannot die,
Love strong as death—a love eternal as the sky.
With love like fire, and wildest ecstacy,
As if a blessed angel from above—
I lov'd thee with a love that cannot die,
Love strong as death—a love eternal as the sky.
Hast thou not heard me, O, thou mournful moon,
Call on her name—have ye not heard me, all
Ye sullen frowning mountains, late and soon?
Hast thou not striv'n, thou angry waterfall,
To drown my groans and sighs that rose above ye all?
Call on her name—have ye not heard me, all
Ye sullen frowning mountains, late and soon?
Hast thou not striv'n, thou angry waterfall,
To drown my groans and sighs that rose above ye all?
I saw thee, like the splendour of a dream,
In sleep, and stretch'd mine hands to meet thee there;
Thy dewy eyes let fall a starry gleam;
I strove to kiss away the tear-drops fair;
I started from my couch—the form had sunk in air.
In sleep, and stretch'd mine hands to meet thee there;
Thy dewy eyes let fall a starry gleam;
I strove to kiss away the tear-drops fair;
I started from my couch—the form had sunk in air.
But yestermorn, as long and long ago,
I saw thy snow-white forehead near mine own;
I saw thy burnish'd tresses' heavenly flow;
Thy large bright orbs, all pensive, looking down;
I clasp'd thee to my heart—alas!—the dream was gone!
I saw thy snow-white forehead near mine own;
I saw thy burnish'd tresses' heavenly flow;
Thy large bright orbs, all pensive, looking down;
I clasp'd thee to my heart—alas!—the dream was gone!
So I arose, and swore to consecrate
My thoughts of thee, and speak aloud thy name—
To pour my passion forth in spite of hate,
And make thy dwelling place the halls of fame;
Alas, that human words should be so poor and tame!
My thoughts of thee, and speak aloud thy name—
To pour my passion forth in spite of hate,
And make thy dwelling place the halls of fame;
Alas, that human words should be so poor and tame!
246
And I have sworn, that ere this body die,
To distant lands thy heavenly light shall go;
(Angels, perchance, will gaze from out the sky;
And weep that love should be so great a woe;
And that to mortal tongue such feeble strains should flow.)
To distant lands thy heavenly light shall go;
(Angels, perchance, will gaze from out the sky;
And weep that love should be so great a woe;
And that to mortal tongue such feeble strains should flow.)
I swore, that where the Alpine mountains soar;
Beyond where the Atlantic billows swell:
Beyond where Niger's cataracts shall roar
To barren depths—beyond Charybdis fell;
Thy blessed name shall go—thy blessed shape shall dwell!
Beyond where the Atlantic billows swell:
Beyond where Niger's cataracts shall roar
To barren depths—beyond Charybdis fell;
Thy blessed name shall go—thy blessed shape shall dwell!
Most matchless maid!—how shall I fitly paint
Thy beauty, who art so exceeding fair?
Thou who, on earth dost seem a holy saint,
Whose every look of angels' seems to share,
How of thy wond'rous charms shall I with truth declare?
Thy beauty, who art so exceeding fair?
Thou who, on earth dost seem a holy saint,
Whose every look of angels' seems to share,
How of thy wond'rous charms shall I with truth declare?
Have the blue heavens a brighter eye than thine?
Can the rich harvests shew thy tresses' pride?
Dare the deep ocean, with his notes divine,
Profane thy voice!—with thee his songs divide?
Have the far mountains ought to match thy holy side?
Can the rich harvests shew thy tresses' pride?
Dare the deep ocean, with his notes divine,
Profane thy voice!—with thee his songs divide?
Have the far mountains ought to match thy holy side?
Thou scarcely seem'st of earth, so high my soul
Exalts thee—thou art scarce of human clay!
I would that all the bells of heaven would toll
Into thy sleep—that all the beams of day
Would do thee homage meet, and at thy footstool lay!
Exalts thee—thou art scarce of human clay!
I would that all the bells of heaven would toll
Into thy sleep—that all the beams of day
Would do thee homage meet, and at thy footstool lay!
247
Thou shouldst have liv'd when earth was bright and young,
And godlike shapes did homage in the shade
To beings that they lov'd, whose praise they sung;
When flowers celestial bloom'd in every glade,
And armour'd kings from heaven to man gave heavenly aid!
And godlike shapes did homage in the shade
To beings that they lov'd, whose praise they sung;
When flowers celestial bloom'd in every glade,
And armour'd kings from heaven to man gave heavenly aid!
They would have brought thee gold, and pearl, and gem,
And, with their shining swords, attir'd thee well—
Clothing thy forehead with a diadem
To shine afar; and given thee halls to dwell,
And walks to meet the sun, in some enchanted dell.
And, with their shining swords, attir'd thee well—
Clothing thy forehead with a diadem
To shine afar; and given thee halls to dwell,
And walks to meet the sun, in some enchanted dell.
And as it is, where shall I meet thy peer?
Where is the human shape to match with thee?
Where is the human clay that is so dear?
Where limbs and features so divine and free,
And smiles to calm the depths, even of eternity?
Where is the human shape to match with thee?
Where is the human clay that is so dear?
Where limbs and features so divine and free,
And smiles to calm the depths, even of eternity?
Hair that, like drooping sunbeams, falleth low;
Eyes, that with every richest light are one;
The glories of the heavens upon thy brow;
A stately presence—a most queenly tone
Of voice—a beaming face that of the earth seems none.
Eyes, that with every richest light are one;
The glories of the heavens upon thy brow;
A stately presence—a most queenly tone
Of voice—a beaming face that of the earth seems none.
And of that precious soul, what shall I say,
But that a cave of diamonds it doth seem,
Where every bright creation spreads a ray—
Where every thought is as a heavenly beam—
Where every cavern'd nook is as a heavenly dream.
But that a cave of diamonds it doth seem,
Where every bright creation spreads a ray—
Where every thought is as a heavenly beam—
Where every cavern'd nook is as a heavenly dream.
248
Margaret, thou never—never wilt be mine;
Thy blessed breast will never bear my head;
Nought of the earth can link with thee, divine:
How can an angel with the world be wed?
How can poor human dust o'er heavenly flowers be spread?
Thy blessed breast will never bear my head;
Nought of the earth can link with thee, divine:
How can an angel with the world be wed?
How can poor human dust o'er heavenly flowers be spread?
With thee I could have been, what never now
I shall be—high and radiant as the rest
Of bards—and fame, perchance, had clad my brow;
And, with the love that springs from thy dear breast,
I might have plum'd my wings unto the gorgeous west.
I shall be—high and radiant as the rest
Of bards—and fame, perchance, had clad my brow;
And, with the love that springs from thy dear breast,
I might have plum'd my wings unto the gorgeous west.
Aided by thee—by thy most saintly voice—
By the dear light that shroudeth all thy frame;
By thy dear eyes, that bid the earth rejoice—
By that fair soul that seems the eye of fame—
I might have walk'd the woods, and won myself a name.
By the dear light that shroudeth all thy frame;
By thy dear eyes, that bid the earth rejoice—
By that fair soul that seems the eye of fame—
I might have walk'd the woods, and won myself a name.
I have a heart to bind the world with fire;
It should have bound thee as the halo'd morn;
I have a soul that heavenward doth aspire:
It should have own'd thy footstool, late and soon,
And been thy slave, to loose the latchets of thy shoon.
It should have bound thee as the halo'd morn;
I have a soul that heavenward doth aspire:
It should have own'd thy footstool, late and soon,
And been thy slave, to loose the latchets of thy shoon.
It cannot—cannot be: and this my dream
Must fall away upon the empty air;
My sighs must linger as an idle theme;
My lofty hopes must lose their aspect fair;
And this, my bounding heart, must pine in sullen care.
Must fall away upon the empty air;
My sighs must linger as an idle theme;
249
And this, my bounding heart, must pine in sullen care.
And I can never wander in the grove
With thee, nor seek a pillow for thy head;
Nor breathe into thy brain the songs of love;
Nor kiss thy blessed cheeks, like roses spread;
Nor bear that queenly shape unto the marriage bed.
With thee, nor seek a pillow for thy head;
Nor breathe into thy brain the songs of love;
Nor kiss thy blessed cheeks, like roses spread;
Nor bear that queenly shape unto the marriage bed.
Love, like the stedfast rocks, hath stedfast root:
Its cavern'd depths are with eternity:
Upon its trees do bloom unfading fruit;
And thus its might is bold, and it is free,
And on its forehead springs the blooms of liberty.
Its cavern'd depths are with eternity:
Upon its trees do bloom unfading fruit;
And thus its might is bold, and it is free,
And on its forehead springs the blooms of liberty.
Farewell!—I dedicate this lengthen'd dream—
This “England,” to be laid before thy feet;
I could have tun'd a lay to be supreme;
But England long hath left her ancient seat,
And I must change with her, and sing in language meet!
This “England,” to be laid before thy feet;
I could have tun'd a lay to be supreme;
But England long hath left her ancient seat,
And I must change with her, and sing in language meet!
To scoundrels I despise, I must give ear:
No more!—my sweet farenell I give to thee;
The flowers from thee shall blossom on my bier:
'Tis thou hast caus'd my being that it be—
'Tis thou hast wing'd my heart, my feet with liberty!
No more!—my sweet farenell I give to thee;
The flowers from thee shall blossom on my bier:
'Tis thou hast caus'd my being that it be—
'Tis thou hast wing'd my heart, my feet with liberty!
Farewell!—My dream is over, and I lay
The offering before thy drooping eye:
Perchance this book will bring a former day
Before thy soul; and thou wilt heave a sigh
O'er one now far away—o'er one who soon must die!
The offering before thy drooping eye:
250
Before thy soul; and thou wilt heave a sigh
O'er one now far away—o'er one who soon must die!
JOHN WALKER ORD.
Guisborough, Cleveland, Yorkshire,
November 30th, 1833.
| England | |