The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard :: :: University of Virginia Library

EARLY POEMS.

THE CASTLE IN THE AIR.

I.

We have two lives about us,
Two worlds in which we dwell,
Within us, and without us,
Alternate Heaven and Hell;
Without the sombre Real,
Within our heart of hearts the beautiful Ideal.
I stand between the portals of the two,
Fettered, at birth, with many a heavy chain,
Whose links I strive to sunder, but in vain,
So strong the False that holds me from the True:
Only in dreams my spirit wanders o'er
The golden threshold of that world of bliss,
And lives the life which Fate denies in this,
Which may have once been mine, but will be—nevermore!

II.

My Castle stands alone,
In some delicious clime,
Away from Earth and Time,
In Fancy's tropic zone,
Beneath its summer skies,
Where all the life-long year the Summer never dies.
A stately marble pile, whose pillars rise
From deep-set bases fluted to the dome,

With wreathèd friezes crowned, and rare device
Of carven leaves, like ragged rims of foam.
The spacious windows front the rising sun,
And when its splendor smites them, many-paned,
Tri-arched, and richly stained,
A thousand mornings brighten there as one.
Before the Castle lies a shaven lawn,
Sloping and shining in the dews of dawn,
With turfy terraces, and garden bowers,
Where rows of slender urns are full of flowers.
Oaks overarch the winding avenues,
Edged round with evergreens of fadeless bloom,
And pour a flood of intermingling hues
In green and golden gloom.
Far-seen through twinkling leaves,
The fountains spout aloft like silver sheaves,
Shaking in marble basins, pure and cold,
A drainless, beaded shower of diamond grain,
Which winnows off in sun-illumined rain
A cloud of misty gold.
And swans are floating round the ruffled tide,
Through beds of bowing lilies, chaste and white,
Like royal ladies, beauteous in their pride,
Sweeping amid their maids with trains of light.
A herd of dappled deer, with startled looks,
In quiet parks within whose shade they browse,
Drink from the lucid brooks,
Their antlers mirrored with the tangled boughs.
My rivers flow beyond, with guardant ranks
Of silver-liveried poplars on their banks,
Whereat my barges ride,
With gilden pennons blown from side to side.
Then comes a dreamy range of distant bowers,
With rounded hills, and hollow vales between,
And folded lawns in everlasting green;

And, last, a line of palaces and towers
That lessen on till mountains bar the view,
Shooting their jagged peaks sublimely up the blue.

III.

My chambers lie apart,
The Castle's very heart,
And all things rich and rare,
From land, and sea, and air,
Are lavished, as in dreams, with waste profusion there.
The carpeting was woven in Turkish looms,
From softest fleeces of Circassian sheep,
Tufted like springy moss in forests deep,
Illuminate with all their autumn blooms.
The chairs were carven out of cedar trees,
Felled on the lofty peaks of Lebanon,
Veined with the rings of vanished centuries,
And touched with frost and sun.
Suspended, silver-ringed, on rods of gold,
The Tyrian curtains capture and enfold
The summer daylight in the slumbrous room,
In depths of purple gloom.
Hard by are cabinets of curious shells,
From far Pacific beaches, wreathed and curled,
And some like moons in rainbow mists impearled,
With coral boughs from ocean's deepest cells;
Medallions, coins antique,
Found in the dust of cities, Roman, Greek:
Clusters of arms, the spoils of hateful wars,
Sharp scymetars of true Damascus brand,
Short swords, with basket hilts to guard the hand,
Chain-armor, dinted casques with visor-bars,
Stout jousting lances, battle-axes keen,
With crescent edges, shields with studded thorns,

Yew bows, and shafts, and curvèd bugle horns,
With tasselled baldricks of the Lincoln green.
And on the walls in long procession, see
The portraits of my noble ancestry,
Thin-featured, stately dames with powdered locks,
And courtly shepherdesses tending flocks,
Stiff lords in wigs and ruffles white as snow,
Haught peers and princes centuries ago,
And dark Sir Richard, bravest of the line,
With all the grimly scars he won in Palestine.

IV.

My books may lie and mould,
However rare and old;
I cannot read to-day,
Away with books—away!
Full-fed with sweets of sense,
I sink upon my couch in honeyed indolence.
Here are rich salvers heaped with nectarines,
Blue-misted plums, and clusters fresh from vines;
And here are drinking cups, and long-necked flasks
In wicker mail, and bottles broached from casks
In cellars delvèd deep, and winter cold,
Superlative and old.
What more can I desire? What book can be
As dear as Idleness and Luxury?
Brimming with Helicon I dash the cup;
Why should I waste my years in hoarding up
The thoughts of eld? Let dust to dust return;
No more for me—my heart is not an urn.
I will no longer sip from little flasks,
Covered with damp and mould, when Nature yields
A riper growth from later vintage-fields;
Nor peer at Beauty in her mortal masks,

When I at will may have them all withdrawn,
And feast my eyes on her transfigured face:
Nor limp in fetters in a weary race,
When I may fly unbound, like Mercury's fawn.
No more contented with the sweets of old,
Albeit embalmed in nectar, since the trees,
The Eden bowers, the rich Hesperides,
Still droop around my path with living fruits of gold.

V.

O what a life is mine,
A life of ease and mirth,
The natural life of Earth,
Of light, and flowers, and wine—
What more could I demand—what else is so divine?
When eastern skies, the sea, the misty plain,
Illumined slowly, doff their nightly shrouds,
And Heaven's bright archer Morn begins to rain
His golden arrows through the banded clouds,
I rise, and tramp away the jocund hours,
Knee-deep in dewy grass and meadow flowers.
I race my eager grayhound on the hills,
And climb with bounding feet the craggy steeps,
Peak-lifted, gazing down the cloven deeps
Where mighty rivers shrink to thready rills.
The ramparts of the mountains loom around,
Like splintered fragments of a ruined world:
The cliff-bound dashing cataracts downward hurled
In thunderous volumes shake the chasms profound.
The savage eagle with a dauntless eye
Wheels round the sun, the monarch of the sky:
I pluck his eyrie in the ragged wood
Of blasted pines, and when the vulture screams
I track its flight along the solitude,

Like some dark spirit in the world of dreams.
When evening comes I lie in dreamy rest,
Where lifted casements front the flaming west,
And watch the clouds, like banners wide unfurled
Hanging above the threshold of the world.
The flocks are penned, the fields are growing dim,
The moon comes rounding up the welkin's rim,
Glowing through thinnest mist,—an argent shell
Washed from the caves of darkness on a swell.
One after one the stars begin to shine
In drifted beds, like pearls through shallow brine;
And lo, through clouds that part before the chase
Of silent winds a belt of milky white,
The Galaxy, a crested surge of light,
A reef of worlds along the sea of Space.
I hear my sweet musicians far withdrawn
Below my wreathèd lattice, on the lawn,
With harp, and lute, and lyre,
And passionate voices full of tears and fire,
And emulous nightingales with rich disdain
Filling the pauses of the languid strain:
My soul is tranced and bound,
Drifting along t t magic sea of sound,
Driven in a bark of bliss from deep to deep,
And piloted at last into the ports of Sleep.

VI.

Nor only this, though this
Might seal a life of bliss,
But something more divine,
For which I used to pine,
The crown of worlds above,
The heart of every heart, the Soul of Being—Love!
I bow obedient to my Lady's sway,

The sovereignty that won my soul of yore:
I linger in her presence night and day,
And feel a heaven around her evermore.
I sit beside her couch in chambers lone,
And oft unbraid and lay her locks apart;
I take her taper fingers in my own,
And press them to my lips with leaps of heart.
Sometimes I kneel to her with cups of wine,
With pleading eyes, beseeching her to taste,
And when she sips thereof I clasp her waist,
And kiss her budding mouth which answers mine
With long-delaying lips, and shake her curls,
And in her coy despite unloose her zone of pearls!
I live for Love, for Love alone, and who
Dare chide me for it? who dare call it folly?
It is a holy thing, if aught is holy,
And true, if Truth is true.
Then let us seize the hours before they fly;
Bright eyes should answer eyes, red lips should meet,
And hearts enlocked to kindred hearts should beat,
Till all that live on earth in love shall live and die.

VII.

My dear and gentle wife,
The Angel of my life,
Who moves its deepest springs,
Has folded up her wings,
And lies in quiet deep,
Like some immortal Dream upon the couch of Sleep.
Nor sound nor stir profanes her bridal room,
Haunted by Sleep and Silence,—happy pair:
The very light itself muffled in gloom
Steals in, and melts into the enamored air
Where Love doth brood and dream, while Passion dies,

Breathing his soul out in a mist of sighs.
Lo, where she lies behind the curtains white,
Pillowed on clouds of down, her golden hair
Braided and wound around her forehead fair,
Like a celestial diadem of light.
Her sweet, voluptuous lips are drawn apart,
As if to grant the kiss so late denied:
Her snowy breast—its covering brushed aside—
Betrays the slow pulsation of her heart.
The rosy hand, that from my fingers slid,
Beneath the sheets is hid,
(Ah, happy sheets, to hide a hand so sweet!)
Nor all concealed amid their folds of snow
The soft perfection of her shape below,
Rounded, and tapering to her little feet.
O Love, if Beauty ever left her sphere,
And sovereign sisters, Art and Poesy,
Moulded in loveliness she slumbers here,
Incarnate, dear, in thee!
It is thy smile that makes the chamber still,
It is thy breath that fills the odorous air;
The light around is borrowed from thy hair,
And all things else are subject to thy will:
And I am so bewildered by this deep
Ambrosial calm, and drowsy atmosphere,
I know not whether I am dreaming here,
Or in the world of Sleep.

VIII.

My eyes are full of tears,
My heart is full of pain,
To wake, as now, again,
And walk, as in my youth, the wilderness of Years.
No more, no more, the autumn winds are loud

In stormy passes, howling to the Night;
Behind a cloud the moon doth veil her light,
And the rain pours from out the hornèd cloud:
And hark, the solemn and mysterious bell,
Swinging its brazen echoes o'er the wave:
Not mortal hands, but spirits ring the knell,
And toll the parting ghost of Midnight to its grave.

HYMN TO FLORA.

Come, all ye virgins fair, in kirtles white,
Ye debonair and merry-hearted maids,
Who have been out in troops before the light,
And gathered blossoms in the dewy shades.
The shrine is wreathed with leaves, the holy urns
Brimming with morning dew are laid thereby;
The censers swing, the odorous incense burns,
And floats in misty volumes up the sky.
Lay down your garlands, and your baskets trim,
Heaped up with floral offerings to the brim,
And knit your snowy hands, and trip away
With light and nimble feet,
To music soft and sweet,
And celebrate the joyous break of day,
And sing a hymn to Flora, Queen of May.

O Flora! sweetest Flora, Goddess bright,
Impersonation of selectest things,
The soul and spirit of a thousand Springs,
Bodied in all their loveliness and light,
A delicate creation of the mind,
Fashioned in its divinest, daintiest mould,
In the bright Age of Gold,

Before the world was wholly lost and blind,
But saw and entertained with thankful heart
The gods as guests—O Flora! Goddess dear,
Immaculate, immortal as thou art,
Thou wert a maiden once, like any here.
Yes, thou didst tend thy flowers with proper care,
And shield them from the sun, and chilly air,
Wetting thy little sandals through and through,
As is the wont of maids, in morning dew,
Roving among the urns, and mossy pots,
About the hedges, and the garden plots,
Straightening and binding up the drooping stalks
That kissed thy sweeping garments in the walks,
Setting thy dibble deep, and sowing seeds,
And careful-handed plucking out the weeds,
Not more divine than we this vernal morn,
Till Zephyrus saw thee in the dews of May;
Flying behind the chariot of the Day,
With love and grief forlorn,
Sighing amid the wingèd, laughing Hours,
Pining for something bright which haunted him,
Sleeping on beds of flowers in arbors dim,
Breaking his tender heart with love extreme,
He saw thee on the earth amid thy flowers,
The Spirit of his Dream.
Entranced with passionate love he called the Air,
And melting softly in the sunny South,
Twined his invisible fingers in thy hair,
And, stooping, kissed thee with his odorous mouth,
And chased thee, flying through thy garden shades,
And wooed, as men are wont to woo the maids,
And won at last, and then flew back to Heaven,
Pleading with Jove, till his consent was given,
And thou wert made immortal,—happy day,
The Goddess of the flowers, the Queen of May.

Happier than we, thy flowers are not like ours,
For thou hast asphodels, unfading flowers,
Where thou dost lie, and dream the hours away,
Lulled by the drowsy sound
Of trees around,
And springs that fall in basins full of spray.
Sweet are thy duties there,
In those bright regions of serener air.
Sometimes to wreathe imperial Juno's tresses,
That cluster round her brow like beams of light;
Or Cytherea's, with bosom bare and white,
Melting to meet Adonis's caresses,
When he lies in his death-sleep, stark and cold;
And oft with Hebe and with Ganymede
Stooping in dews, a task by Jove decreed,
Entwining chaplets round their cups of gold;
And round the necks of Dian's spotted fawns,
Like strings of bells, and Leda's linkèd swans,
That float and sing in Heaven's unwrinkled streams,
Like thoughts in poets' dreams.
And when red Mars, victorious from the field,
Throws down his glittering spear and dinted shield,
Thou dost a-sly with flowery fetters bind him,
And tie his arms behind him,
Smoothing with playful hands his furrowed cheek,
Until, beguiled and meek,
He kisses thee, and laughs with joy aloud.
And when Minerva, lost in Wisdom's cloud,
Muses abstracted in profoundest nooks,
Thou dost unclasp her books,
And press the leaves of flowers within their leaves;
And thou dost bind the same in Ceres' sheaves,
And wreathe Apollo's lyre, and Hermes' rod,
And, venturing near the cloud-compelling God,
Sitting with thought-concentred brows alone,

Bestrew the starry footstool of his throne.
Or, drowsing gloomy Pluto, stern and pale,
With slumberous poppies plucked in Lethe's bowers,
Thou givest to Proserpine a bunch of flowers,
Such as she dropped in Enna's bloomy vale,
That solemn morn in May
When she was stolen away;
And, pressing it to her white lips in fear,
She kisses thee for that remembrance dear,
And then ye weep together. Softened so,
When Cytherea knelt down, and plead with thee,
And Death was drugged, she let Adonis go;
And so gave Orpheus Eurydice.
But ere the darkness fades thou dost up-soar,
And walk the Olympian palaces once more.
And when young Hesper folds the morning star,
And harnesses the wingèd steeds of Light,
And flushed Aurora urges on her car,
Chasing the sullen shadows of the Night,
Thou dost with Zephyrus fly in pomp behind,
Shaking thy scarf of rainbows on the wind;
And when the Orient is reached at last,
Thou dost unbar its gate
Of golden state,
And wait till she and all her train have passed,
And soar again far up the dappled blue,
To wet the laughing Earth with fresher dew,
As now thou dost, in pomp and triumph gay,
This happy, happy day,
Thy festival, divinest Queen of May.

O Flora! heavenly Flora, hear us now,
Gathered to worship thee in shady bowers;
Accept the simple gift, the tuneful vow
We offer thee, that thou hast spared the flowers.

The Spring has been a cold, belated one,
Dark clouds, and showers, and a little sun,
And in the nipping mornings hoary frost;
We hoped, but feared the tender seeds were lost:
But, thanks to thee, they soon began to grow,
Pushing their slender shoots above the ground,
In cultured gardens trim; and some were found
Beside the edges of the banks of snow,
Heedless, and gay, and bold,
Like children laughing o'er a father's mould.
The sward to-day is full, and swells with more;
Earth never was so bounteous before.
Here are red roses throwing back their hoods,
Like willing maids, to greet the kissing wind;
And here are violets from sombre woods,
With tears of dew within their lids enshrined;
Lilies like little maids in bridal white,
Or in their burial-garments, if you will;
And here is that bold flower, the daffodil,
That peers i' th' front of March; and daisies bright,
The vestals of the morn that love its breeze;
Snowdrops like specks of foam on stormy seas,
And yellow buttercups that gem the fields,
Like studs of richest gold on massive shields;
Anemones, that sprung in golden years,
(The story goes they were not seen before,)
Where young Adonis, wounded by the boar,
Bled life away, and Venus rained her tears;
(Look, in their hearts, a small ensanguined spot!)
Here is forget-me-not;
And prim Narcissus, vain and foolish elf,
Enamored (would you think it?) of himself,
Looking for ever in the brook, his glass;
And drooping Hyacinthus, slain, alas!
By rudest Auster, blowing in the stead

Of Zephyrus, then in Love's bright meshes bound;
Pitching with bright Apollo in his ground,
He blew the discus back, and struck him dead.
Pied wind-flowers, oxlips, and the jessamine,
The sleepy poppy, and the eglantine;
Primroses, Dian's flowers that ope at night,
Also that little sun the marigold,
And fringèd pinks, and water-lilies white,
Like floating naiads from the rivers cold;
Carnations, gilliflowers, and savory rue,
And rosemary that loveth tears for dew,
With other nameless flowers, and pleasant weeds
That grow untended in the marshy meads
Where flags shoot up, and ragged grasses wave
Perennial, when Autumn seeks her grave
Among the withered leaves, and breezes blow,
And Winter weaves a winding-sheet of snow.
Flowers, O, what loveliness there is in flowers!
What food for thoughts and fancies rich and new!
What shall we liken them to,
In this broad world of ours?
Mosaics scattered o'er
Creation's palace-floor;
Or Beauty's dials marking with their leaves
The pomp and flight of golden morns and eves;
Illuminate missals open on the meads,
Bending with rosaries of dewy beads;
Or characters inscribed on Nature's scrolls;
Or sweet thoughts from the heart of Mother Earth;
Or wind-rocked cradles, where the bees in rolls
Of odorous leaves are wont to lie in mirth,
Full-hearted, murmuring the hours away,
Like little children at their summer play;
Or cups and beakers of the butterflies
Brimming with nectar; or a string of bells,

Tolling, unheard, a requiem for the Hours;
Or censers swinging incense to the skies;
Pavilions, tents, and towers,
The little fortresses of insect powers
Who wind their horns within; or magic cells
Where happy fairies dream the time away,
Night elfins slumbering all the summer day,
Sweet nurslings thou art wont to feed with dew
From silver urns, replenished in the blue!
But this is idlesse all, away, away!
White-handed maids, and scatter buds around;
And let the lutes awake, and tabors sound,
And every heart its just devotion pay.
Once more we thank thee, Flora, and once more
Perform our rites as we are wont to do;
O, smile upon us, Goddess fair and true,
And watch the flowers till summer's reign is o'er;
Preserve the seeds we sow in winter-time
From burrowing moles, and blight, and icy rime,
And in their season cause the shoots to rise,
And make the dainty buds unseal their eyes;
And we will pluck the rarest, and entwine
Chaplets, and lay them on thy rural shrine,
And sing our choral hymns, melodious, sweet,
And dance with nimble feet,
And worship thee, as now, serene and gay,
The joy of all the world, the merry Queen of May!

ODE.

Pale in her fading bowers the Summer stands,
Like a new Niobe with claspèd hands,
Silent above the flowers, her children lost,
Slain by the arrows of the early frost.
The clouded Heaven above is pale and gray,
The misty Earth below is wan and drear,
The baying Winds chase all the leaves away,
As cruel hounds pursue the trembling deer;
It is a solemn time, the Sunset of the Year.

If I should perish with it none would miss
An idle dreamer in a world like this.
Whate'er our beauty, worth, or loving powers,
We live, we strive, we die, and are forgot;
We are no more regarded than the flowers,
Short life, and long, long darkness is our lot.
One bud from off the tree of Life is naught,
One fruit from off the ripening bough of Thought;
The hinds will not lament, in harvest-time,
The bud, the fruit that fell and wasted in its prime.

Away with Action, and Laborious Life,
They were not made for man,
In Nature's plan.
For man was made or quiet, not for strife.
The pearl is shaped serenely in its shell
In the still waters of the ocean deep;
The buried seed begins to pulp and swell
In Earth's warm bosom in profoundest sleep,
And, sweeter far than all, the bridal rose
Flushes to fulness in a soft repose.

Let others gather honey in the world,
And hoard it in their cells until they die;
I am content to lie,
Sipping, in summer hours,
My wants from fading flowers,
An Epicurean till my wings are furled!

What happy hours, what happy, happy days
Were mine when I was young, a careless boy,
Oblivious of the world, its woe or joy,
I lived for Song, and dreamed of budding bays.
I thought when I was dead, if not before,
(I hoped before,) to have a noble name,
To leave my eager footprints on the shore,
To rear my statue in the halls of Fame.
I pondered over Poets dead of old,
Their memories living in the minds of men;
I knew they were but men of mortal mould,
They won their crowns, and I might win again.
I drank delicious vintage from their pages,
Flasks of Parnassian nectar, stored for ages;
My soul was flushed within me, maddened, fired,
I leaped impassioned, like a seer inspired.
I lived and would have died for Poesy,
In youth's divine emotion:
A stream that sought its Ocean,
A Time that longed to be
Engulfed and swallowed in Eternity.

O Poesy! my spirit's crownèd Queen,
I would that thou couldst in the flesh be seen,
The shape of light and loveliness thou art
Enshrined within the chambers of my heart.
I would build thee a palace, richer far
Than princely Aladeen's renowned of old,

With walls and columns all of massy gold,
And every gem incrusting it a star,
Thy coffers should overflow, and mock the Ind,
Whose boasted wealth would dwindle down to naught,
The rich-ored driftings of the streams of Thought,
Washed lucidly from cloven peaks of Mind.
And I would bring to thee the daintiest things
That grow beneath the summer of thy wings;
Wine from the glorious vineyards of the Greek,
Brimming in cups antique;
The luscious fruitage of enchanted trees,
From magic orchard plots with charmèd gates;
And golden apples of the Hesperides,
Stolen by Fancy from the watchful Fates.
And I would hang around thee day and night,
Nor ever heed or know the night from day:
If Time had wings I should not see his flight,
Or feel his shadow in my sunny way.
Forgetful of the world, I'd stand apart,
And gaze on thee unseen, and touch my lute,
A perfect type and image of my heart,
Whose trembling chords will never more be mute;
And Joy and Grief would mingle in my theme,
A swan and shadow floating down the stream.
And when, forgetful of thy heavenly birth,
It pleases thee to walk the common earth,
In brave array I marshal thee around,
With pomp and music sweet,
And spread my shining mantle on the ground,
For fear the dust should soil thy golden-sandalled feet.

Away, away! The days are dim and cold,
The withered flowers are crumbling in the mould;
The Heaven is gray and blank, the Earth is drear,
And fallen leaves are heaped on Summer's bier,

Sweet songs are out of place, however sweet,
When all things else are wrapt in funeral gloom;
True Poets never pipe to dancing feet,
But only elegies around a tomb.
Away with fancy now! The Year demands
A sterner chaplet, and a deeper lay;
A wreath of cypress woven with pious hands,
A dirge for its decay!

LEONATUS.

The fair boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen.
It was his duty evermore
To tend the Lady Imogen;
By peep of day he might be seen
Tapping against her chamber door,
To wake the sleepy waiting-maid,
Who rose, and when she had arrayed
The Princess, and the twain had prayed,
(With pearlèd rosaries used of yore,)
They called him, pacing to and fro,
And, cap in hand, and bowing low,
He entered, and began to feed
The singing birds with fruit and seed.

The brave boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen.
He tripped along the kingly hall,
From room to room, with messages;
He stopped the butler, clutched his keys,
(Albeit he was broad and tall,)
And dragged him down the vaults, where wine

In bins lay beaded and divine,
To pick a flask of vintage fine;
Came up, and clomb the garden wall,
And plucked from out the sunny spots
Peaches and luscious apricots,
And filled his golden salver there,
And hurried to his Lady fair.

The strange boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen.
Sometimes he used to stand for hours
Within her room, behind her chair;
The soft wind blew his golden hair
Across his eyes, and bees from flowers
Hummed round him, but he did not stir:
He fixed his earnest eyes on her,
A pure and reverent worshipper,
A dreamer building airy towers.
But when she spoke he gave a start,
That sent the warm blood from his heart
To flush his cheeks, and every word
The fountain of his feelings stirred.

The sad boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen.
He lost all relish and delight
For all things that did please before;
By day he wished the day was o'er,
By night he wished the same of night:
He could not mingle in the crowd,
He loved to be alone, and shroud
His tender thoughts, and sigh aloud,
And cherish in his heart its blight.
At last his health began to fail,
His fresh and glowing cheeks to pale,

And in his eyes the tears unshed
Did hang like dew in violets dead.

The timid Leonatus,
The page of Imogen.
“What ails the boy?” said Imogen.
He stammered, sighed, and answered “Naught.”
She shook her head, and then she thought
What all his malady could mean.
It might be love, her maid was fair,
And Leon had a loving air;
She watched them with a jealous care,
And played the spy, but naught was seen.
And then she was aware at first,
That she, not knowing it, had nursed
His memory till it grew a part,
Another heart within her heart!

The dear boy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen.
She loved, but owned it not as yet.
When he was absent she was lone,
She felt a void before unknown,
But Leon filled it when they met.
She called him twenty times a day,
She knew not why, she could not say;
She fretted when he went away,
And lived in sorrow and regret.
Sometimes she frowned with stately mien,
And chid him like a little queen;
And then she soothed him meek and mild,
And grew as trustful as a child.

The neat scribe Leonatus,
The page of Imogen.

She wondered that he did not speak,
And own his love, if love indeed
It was that made his spirit bleed;
And she bethought her of a freak
To test the lad; she bade him write
A letter that a maiden might,
A billet to her heart's delight.
He took the pen with fingers weak,
Unknowing what he did, and wrote,
And folded up, and sealed the note.
She wrote the superscription sage,
“For Leonatus, Lady's Page.”

The happy Leonatus,
The page of Imogen.
The page of Imogen no more,
But now her love, her lord, her life,
For she became his wedded wife,
As both had hoped and dreamed before.
He used to sit beside her feet,
And read romances strange and sweet,
And when she touched her lute repeat
Impassioned madrigals of yore,
Uplooking in her face the while,
Until she stooped with loving smile,
And pressed her melting mouth to his,
That answered in a dreamy bliss—
The joyful Leonatus,
The Lord of Imogen.

SPRING.

The trumpet winds have sounded a retreat,
Blowing o'er land and sea a sullen strain;
Usurping March, defeated, flies again,
And lays his trophies at the Winter's feet.
And lo, where April, coming in his turn,
In changeful motleys, half of light and shade,
Leads his belated charge, a delicate maid,
A nymph with dripping urn.

Hail, hail, thrice hail! thou fairest child of Time,
With all thy retinue of laughing Hours,
Thou paragon from some diviner clime,
Bright ministrant of its benignest Powers,
Who hath not caught the glancing of thy wing,
And peeped beneath thy mask, delicious Spring?
Sometimes we see thee on the pleasant morns
Of lingering March, with wreathèd crook of gold,
Leading the Ram from out his starry fold,
A leash of light around his jagged horns.
Sometimes in April, goading up the skies
The Bull, whose neck Apollo's silvery flies
Settle upon, a many-twinkling swarm;
And when May-days are warm,
And drawing to a close,
And Flora goes
With Zephyrus from his palace in the west,
Thou dost upsnatch the Twins from cradled rest,
And strain them to thy breast,
And haste to meet the expectant, bright new-comer,
The opulent Queen of Earth, the gay, voluptuous Summer!

Unmuffled now, shorn of thy veil of showers,
Thou tripp'st along the mead with shining hair
Blown back, and scarf out-fluttering on the air,
White-handed, strewing the fresh sward with flowers.
The green hills lift their foreheads far away,
But where thy pathway runs the sod is pressed
By fleecy lambs, behind the budding spray,
And close at hand the marten builds his nest.
The forest waves its plumes, the hedges blow,
The south wind scuds along the meadowy sea
Thick-flecked with daisied foam, and violets grow
Blue-eyed, and cowslips star the bloomy lea.
The snake casts off his skin in mossy nooks,
The long-eared rabbits near their burrows play,
The dormouse wakes, and see, the noisy rooks
Sly foraging about the stacks of hay.

What sights, what sounds, what rustic life and mirth!
Housed all the winter long from bitter cold,
Huddling in chimney-corners, young and old
Come forth and share the gladness of the Earth.
The ploughmen whistle as the furrows trail
Behind their glittering shares, a billowy row;
The milkmaid sings a ditty while her pail
Grows full and frothy, and the cattle low.
The teamster drives his wagon down the lane,
Flattening a broader rut in weeds and sand;
The angler fishes in the shady pool;
And loitering down the road, with cap in hand,
The truant chases butterflies, in vain,
Heedless of bells that call the village lads to school.

Methinks the world is sweeter than of yore,
Sweeter to-day, and more exceeding fair;

There is a presence never felt before,
The soul of inspiration everywhere.
Incarnate Youth in every idle limb,
My vernal days, my prime returns anew;
My happy spirit breathes a silent hymn,
My heart is full of dew.

AUTUMN.

Divinest Autumn! who may paint thee best,
For ever changeful o'er the changeful globe?
Who guess thy certain crown, thy favorite crest,
The fashion of thy many-colored robe?
Sometimes we see thee stretched upon the ground,
In fading woods where acorns patter fast,
Dropping to feed thy tusky boars around,
Crunching among the leaves the ripened mast;
Sometimes at work where ancient granary-floors
Are open wide, a thresher stout and hale,
Whitened with chaff up-wafted from thy flail
While south winds sweep along the dusty floors;
And sometimes fast asleep at noontide hours,
Pillowed on sheaves, and shaded from the heat,
With Plenty at thy feet,
Braiding a coronet of oaten straw and flowers.

What time emerging from a low-hung cloud
The shining chariot of the Sun was driven
Slope to its goal, and Day in reverence bowed
His burning forehead at the gate of Heaven,
Thy portly presence was to me revealed,
Slow trudging homeward in a stubble-field;
Around thy brow, to shade it from the west,
A wisp of straw entwisted in a crown;

A golden wheat-sheaf, slipping slowly down,
Hugged tight against thy waist, and on thy breast,
Linked to a belt, an earthen flagon swung;
Over thy shoulder flung
A bundle of great pears,
Bell-shaped and streaky, some rich orchard's pride;
A heavy bunch of grapes on either side,
Across each arm, tugged downward by the load,
Their glossy leaves blown off by wandering airs;
A yellow-rinded melon in thy right
In thy left hand a sickle caught the light,
Keen as the moon which glowed
Along the fields of night:
One moment seen, the shadowy masque was flown,
And I was left, as now, to meditate alone.

Hark, hark, I hear the reapers in a row,
Shouting their harvest ditties blithe and loud,
Cutting the rustled maize, whose crests are bowed,
And soon will be laid low;
And down the pastures, where the horse goes round
His ring of tan, beneath the mossy shed,
And cider-presses work with creaky din,
I see great heaps of apples on the ground,
And hour by hour, a basket on his head,
The ploughman pour them in;
And where the squashes stud the garden vine,
Crook-necked, or globy, golden, wagons wait,
Soon to be urged o'erloaded to the gate
Where drying apples on the stages shine.
And children soon will go at eve and morn
And set their snares for quails with baits of corn;
And when the house-dog snuffs a distant hare
Will overrun the woods with noisy glee;
And when the walnuts ripen, climb a tree,

And shake the branches bare.
And by and by, when northern winds are out,
Great back-log fires will blaze and roar at night,
While chairs draw round, and pleasant tales are told:
And mugs of cider will be passed about,
Until the household, drowsy with delight,
Creep off to bed a-cold!

THE WITCH'S WHELP.

Along the shore the slimy brine-pits yawn,
Covered with thick green scum; the billows rise,
And fill them to the brim with clouded foam,
And then subside, and leave the scum again.
The ribbèd sand is full of hollow gulfs,
Where monsters from the waters come and lie.
Great serpents bask at noon along the rocks,
To me no terror; coil on coil they roll
Back to their holes before my flying feet.
The Dragon of the Sea, my mother's god,
Enormous Setebos, comes here to sleep;
Him I molest not; when he flaps his wing
A whirlwind rises, when he swims the deep
It threatens to engulf the trembling isle.

Sometimes when winds do blow, and clouds are dark,
I seek the blasted wood whose barkless trunks
Are bleached with summer suns; the creaking trees
Stoop down to me, and swing me right and left
Through crashing limbs, but not a jot care I.
The thunder breaks above, and in their lairs
The panthers roar; from out the stormy clouds
Whose hearts are fire sharp lightnings rain around
And split the oaks; not faster lizards run

Before the snake up the slant trunks than I,
Not faster down, sliding with hands and feet.
I stamp upon the ground, and adders rouse,
Sharp-eyed, with poisonous fangs; beneath the leaves
They couch, or under rocks, and roots of trees
Felled by the winds; through briery undergrowth
They slide with hissing tongues, beneath my feet
To writhe, or in my fingers squeezed to death.

There is a wild and solitary pine,
Deep in the meadows; all the island birds
From far and near fly there, and learn new songs.
Something imprisoned in its wrinkled bark
Wails for its freedom; when the bigger light
Burns in mid-heaven, and dew elsewhere is dried,
There it still falls; the quivering leaves are tongues,
And load the air with syllables of woe.
One day I thrust my spear within a cleft
No wider than its point, and something shrieked,
And falling cones did pelt me sharp as hail:
I picked the seeds that grew between their plates,
And strung them round my neck with sea-mew eggs.

Hard by are swamps and marshes, reedy fens
Knee deep in water; monsters wade therein
Thick-set with plated scales; sometimes in troops
They crawl on slippery banks; sometimes they lash
The sluggish waves among themselves at war.
Often I heave great rocks from off the crags,
And crush their bones; often I push my spear
Deep in their drowsy eyes, at which they howl
And chase me inland; then I mount their humps
And prick them back again, unwieldy, slow.
At night the wolves are howling round the place,
And bats sail there athwart the silver light,
Flapping their wings; by day in hollow trees
They hide, and slink into the gloom of dens.

We live, my mother Sycorax and I,
In caves with bloated toads and crested snakes.
She can make charms, and philters, and brew storms,
And call the great Sea Dragon from his deeps.
Nothing of this know I, nor care to know.
Give me the milk of goats in gourds or shells,
The flesh of birds and fish, berries and fruit,
Nor want I more, save all day long to lie,
And hear, as now, the voices of the sea.

HYMN TO THE BEAUTIFUL.

My heart is full of tenderness and tears,
And tears are in my eyes, I know not why,
With all my grief content to live for years,
Or even this hour to die.
My youth is gone, but that I heed not now,
My love is dead, or worse than dead can be,
My friends drop off, like blossoms from a bough,
But nothing troubles me,—
Only the golden flush of sunset lies
Within my heart like fire, like dew within my eyes.

Spirit of Beauty! whatsoe'er thou art,
I see thy skirt afar, and feel thy power;
It is thy presence fills this charmèd hour,
And fills my charmèd heart:
Nor mine alone, but myriads feel thee now,
That know not what they feel, nor why they bow.
Thou canst not be forgot,
For all men worship thee, and know it not;
Nor men alone, but babes with wondrous eyes,
New-comers from the skies.

We hold the keys of Heaven within our hands,
The heirloom of a higher, happier state,
And lie in infancy at Heaven's gate,
Transfigured in the light that streams along the lands.
Around our pillows golden ladders rise,
And up and down the skies,
With wingèd sandals shod,
The angels come and go, the Messengers of God.
Nor, though they fade from us, do they depart—
It is the childly heart:
We walk as heretofore,
Adown their shining ranks, but see them nevermore.
Heaven is not gone, but we are blind with tears,
Groping our way along the downward slope of Years!

From earliest infancy my heart was thine,
With childish feet I trod thy temple aisles;
Not knowing tears, I worshipped thee with smiles,
Or if I wept it was with joy divine.
By day, and night, on land, and sea, and air,
I saw thee everywhere.
A voice of greeting from the wind was sent,
The mists enfolded me with soft white arms,
The birds did sing to lap me in content,
The rivers wove their charms,
And every little daisy in the grass
Did look up in my face, and smile to see me pass.

Not long can Nature satisfy the mind,
Nor outward fancies feed its inner flame;
We feel a growing want we cannot name,
And long for something sweet, but undefined.
The wants of Beauty other wants create,
Which overflow on others, soon or late;

For all that worship thee must ease the heart,
By Love, or Song, or Art.
Divinest Melancholy walks with thee,
And Music with her sister Poesy;
But on thy breast Love lies, immortal child,
Begot of thine own longings, deep and wild;
The more we worship him the more we grow
Into thy perfect image here below;
For here below, as in the spheres above,
All Love is Beauty, and all Beauty—Love!
Not from the things around us do we draw
The love within, within the love is born,
Remembered light of some forgotten morn,
Recovered canons of eternal law.
The painter's picture, the rapt poet's song,
The sculptor's statue, never saw the Day—
Were never in colors, sounds, or shapes of clay,
Whose crowning work still does its spirit wrong.
Hue after hue divinest pictures grow,
Line after line immortal songs arise,
And limb by limb, out-starting stern and slow,
The statue wakes with wonder in its eyes:
And in the Master's mind
Sound after sound is born, and dies like wind,
That echoes through a range of ocean caves,
And straight is gone to weave its spell upon the waves.
The mystery is thine,
For thine the more mysterious human heart,
The Temple of all Wisdom, Beauty's Shrine,
The Oracle of Art!

Earth in thine outer court, and Life a breath.
Why should we fear to die, and leave the Earth?
Not thine alone the lesser key of Birth,
But all the keys of Death.

And all the worlds, with all that they contain
Of Life, and Death, and Time, are thine alone;
The Universe is girdled with a chain,
And hung below the Throne
Where Thou dost sit, the Universe to bless,
Thou sovereign Smile of God, Eternal Loveliness!

TO A CELEBRATED SINGER.

Oft have I dreamed of music such as thine,
The wedded melody of lute and voice,
Immortal strains that made my soul rejoice,
And woke its inner harmonies divine.
And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled seas,
And Enna hollows all its purple vales,
Thrice have I heard the noble nightingales,
All night entranced beneath the bloomy trees.
But music, nightingales, and all that Thought
Conceives of song are naught
To thy rich voice, which echoes in my brain,
And fills my longing heart with a melodious pain!

A thousand lamps were lit, I saw them not,
Nor saw the thousands round me like a sea;
All things, all thoughts, all passions were forgot—
I only thought of thee!
Meanwhile the music rose sublime and strong,
But sunk beneath thy voice, which rose alone,
Above its crumbled fragments to thy throne,
Above the clouds of Song.
Henceforth let Music seal her lips, and be
The silent ministrant of Poesy.
For not the delicate reed that Pan did play

To partial Midas, at the match of old,
Nor yet Apollo's lyre with chords of gold,
That more than won the crown he lost that day,
Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set free
(O, why not all!) the lost Eurydice,
Were fit to join with thee;
Much less our instruments of meaner sound,
That track thee slowly o'er enchanted ground,
Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves,
Or glean around its sheaves.

I strive to disentangle in my mind
Thy many-knotted threads of softest song,
Whose memory haunts me like a voiceless wind
Whose silence does it wrong.
No single tone thereof, no perfect sound,
Lingers, but dim remembrance of the whole,
A sound which was a Soul,
The Soul of Sound diffused, an atmosphere around:
So soft, so sweet, so mellow, rich, and deep,
So like a heavenly soul's ambrosial breath,
It would not wake, but only deepen Sleep
Into diviner Death!
Softer and sweeter than the jealous flute,
Whose soft, sweet voice grew harsh before its own,
It stole in mockery its every tone,
And left it lone and mute.
It flowed like liquid pearl through golden cells,
It jangled like a string of golden bells,
It trembled like a wind in golden strings,
It dropped and rolled away in golden rings:
Then it divided and became a shout,
That Echo chased about,
However wild and fleet,
Until it trod upon its heels with flying feet.

At last it sank and sank from deep to deep,
Below the thinnest word,
And sank till naught was heard
But charmèd Silence sighing in its sleep!

Powerless and mute beneath thy mighty spell,
My heart was lost within itself and thee,
As when a pearl is melted in its shell,
And sunken in the sea.
I sank and sank beneath thy song, but still
I thirsted after more the more I sank,
A flower that drooped with all the dew it drank,
But still upheld its cup for Heaven to fill.
My inmost soul was drunk with melody,
Which thou didst pour around,
To crown the feast of sound,
And lift in light to all, but chief to me,
Whose spirit, uncontrolled,
Drained all the fiery wine, and clutched its cup of gold!

ARCADIAN IDYL.

Walking at dew-fall yester-eve I met
The shepherd Lycidas adown the vale.
“What ho, my piping wonder!” I exclaimed,
Seeing his eyes were bent upon the ground,
Counting the pebbles, lost it seemed in thought.
“What cheer, dear Lycid? Why are you so wrapt?
Has Galatea, white-handed maid, been false?
Or have the Muses quite forsaken you?”
“O, no, Theocritus,” he said with smiles,
“White-handed Galatea has not been false,
Nor have the Muses yet forsaken me.

You know my friend, the man I love so much,
The Spartan Poet, brave and beautiful,
I have been crooning over to myself
A song about his singing and my own.”
“O, let me hear it,” I replied with glee,
“Fresh from your brain, with all its fire and faults;
There 's nothing like a poet's first rude draft.
Go on, go on,” said I. And he began.

“Great is Apollo with his golden shell,
The gift of Hermes in his infancy,
And great is Hermes' self, light-fingered god:
But greater far than both illustrious Pan,
Who taught the shepherd swains of Thessaly
The cunning and the wonder of his pipe.
Hear me, great Pan! O, let thy spirit breathe
From out these oaten stops, and I will pile
Three square stones, altar wise, and offer up
A lamb to thee, the firstling of my flock.

We love in others what we lack ourselves,
And would be every thing but what we are.
The vine uplifts its trailing parasites,
And clasps the great arms of the stooping oak,
Till both are wedded with a thousand rings.
I have a friend as different from myself
As Hercules from Hylas, his delight.
True Poets both, but he by far the best.
His songs are full of nobleness and power,
Magnificent as when the Ocean chants
White-haired in echoing caverns; mine are low
As Spring's first airs, and delicate as buds.
He loves the rugged mountains, stern and wild,
Lifting their summits in the blank of dawn
Crested with surging pines, the wild, waste seas

That urge their heavy waves on rocky crags,
And the unmeasured vastness of the sky,
With all its stars, intense, and white, and cold.
But I am soft and gentle as a fawn
That licks the hand that feeds it; or the dove
That nestles in the breast of Cytherea.
My heart is full of sweetness like a rose,
And delicate melodies like vernal bees
Hum to themselves within its folded leaves.
I would be Pleasure's Poet till I died,
And die at last upon her burning heart.
But he, selected for his majesty,
To Wisdom turns, and worships her afar,
Awed by her calm, large eyes, and spacious brow.
And yet, in sooth, his heart is soft enough
With all its strength, enthroned in loveliness
Like Etna looming from its base of flowers.
And he will wed his love ere Summer dies,
While I must live a pensive bachelor,
A state I am not fond of,—no, by Jove.
But never mind it, I will still sing on,
And be the ablest nightingale I can,
And he may be the eagle if he will.
I cannot follow him, I know right well,
None half so well; but I will watch his flight,
And love him, though he leave me for the stars.”

Thus sang the shepherd Lycidas to me,
And when the sickle of the Moon was drawn
From out its sheaf of clouds, and Hesper lit
His harvest torch, we parted for the night.

THE SOUTH.

Fall, thickly fall, thou winter snow!
And keenly blow, thou winter wind!
Only the barren North is yours,
The South delights a summer mind;
So fall and blow,
Both wind and snow,
My Fancy to the South doth go.

Half-way between the frozen zones,
Where Winter reigns in sullen mirth,
The Summer binds a golden belt
About the middle of the Earth.
The sky is soft, and blue, and bright,
With purple dyes at morn and night;
And bright and blue the seas which lie
In perfect rest, and glass the sky.
And sunny bays with inland curves
Round all along the quiet shore;
And stately palms in pillared ranks
Grow down the borders of the banks,
And juts of land where billows roar.
The spicy woods are full of birds,
And golden fruits and crimson flowers;
With wreathèd vines on every bough,
That shed their grapes in purple showers.
The emerald meadows roll their waves,
And bask in soft and mellow light;
The vales are full of silver mist,
And all the folded hills are bright.
But far along the welkin's rim
The purple crags and peaks are dim;

And dim the gulfs, and gorges blue,
With all the wooded passes deep;
All steeped in haze, and washed in dew,
And bathed in atmospheres of Sleep.

Sometimes the dusky islanders
Lie all day long beneath the trees,
And watch the white clouds in the sky,
And birds upon the azure seas.
Sometimes they wrestle on the turf,
And chase each other down the sands,
And sometimes climb the bloomy groves,
And pluck the fruit with idle hands.
And dark-eyed maidens braid their hair
With starry shells, and buds, and leaves,
And sing wild songs in dreamy bowers,
And dance on dewy eves,
When daylight melts, and stars are few,
And west winds frame a drowsy tune,
Till all the charmèd waters sleep
Beneath a yellow moon.

Here men may dwell, and mock at toil,
And all the dull, mechanic arts;
No need to till the teeming soil,
With weary hands and aching hearts.
No want can follow folded palms,
For Nature doth supply her alms
With sweets, purveyors cannot bring
To grace the table of a King;
While Summer broods o'er land and sea,
And breathes in all the winds,
Until her presence fills their hearts,
And moulds their happy minds.

TRIUMPHANT MUSIC.

Ay, give me music! Flood the air with sound!
But let it be superb, and brave, and high,
Not such as leaves my wild ambition bound
In soft delights, but lifts it to the sky.
No sighs, nor tears, but deep, indignant calm,
And scorn of all but strength, my only need;
From whence but Music should my strength proceed?
From some Titanic psalm?
Some thunderous strand of sound, which in its roll
Shall lift to starry heights my fiery soul!

Strike on the noisy drum, and let the fife
Scream like a tortured soul in pain intense,
But let the trumpet brood above their strife,
Victorious in its calm magnificence.
Nor fear to wake again the golden lute,
That runs along my quivering nerves like fire;
Nor let the silver-chorded lyre be mute,
But bring the tender lyre,
For sweetness with all strength should wedded be,
But bring the strength, the sweetness dwells in me!

Play on! play on! The strain is fit to feed
A feast of Gods, in banquet-halls divine;
Not one would taste the cups of Ganymede,
But only drink this more ambrosial wine!
Play on! play on! The secret Soul of Sound
Unfolds itself at every cunning turn;
The trumpet lifts its shield, a stormy round,
The lute its dewy urn,

But in the lyre, the wild and passionate lyre,
Lies all its might, its madness and desire!

Again! again! And let the rattling drum
Begin to roll, and let the bugle blow,
Like winter winds, when woods are stark and dumb,
Shouting above a wilderness of snow.
Pour hail and lightning from the fife and lyre,
And let the trumpet pile its clouds of doom;
But I o'ertop them with a darker plume,
And beat my wings of fire;
Not like a struggling eagle baffled there,
But like a Spirit on a throne of air!

In vain! in vain! We only soar to sink,
Though Music gives us wings, we sink at last;
The peaks of rapture topple near the brink
Of Death, or Madness pallid and aghast.
But still play on, you rapt musicians, play!
But now a softer and serener strain;
Give me a dying fall, that lives again,
Again to die away.
Play on! but softly till my breath grows deep,
And Music leaves me in the arms of Sleep!

A HOUSEHOLD DIRGE.

I've lost my little May at last,
She perished in the spring,
When earliest flowers began to bud,
And earliest birds to sing.
I laid her in a country grave,
A green and still retreat,

A marble tablet o'er her head,
And violets at her feet.

I would that she were back again,
In all her childish bloom;
My joy and hope have followed her,
My heart is in her tomb.
I know that she is gone from me,
I know that she is fled,
I miss her everywhere, and yet
I cannot think her dead.

I wake the children up at dawn,
And say a simple prayer,
And draw them round the morning meal,
But one is wanting there.
I see a little chair apart,
A little pinafore,
And Memory fills the vacancy,
As Time will—nevermore!

I sit within my quiet room,
And think and write for hours,
And miss the little maid again
Among the window flowers,
And miss her with her toys beside
My desk in silent play;
And then I turn and look for her—
But she has flown away.

I drop my idle pen, and hark,
And catch the faintest sound:
She must be playing hide-and-seek
In shady nooks around;

She'll come and climb my chair again,
And peep my shoulder o'er;
I hear a stifled laugh,—but no,
She cometh nevermore!

I waited only yester-night,
The evening-service read,
And lingered for my idol's kiss
Before she went to bed;
Forgetting she had gone before,
In slumbers soft and sweet,
A monument above her head,
And violets at her feet.

[How are songs begot and bred?]

How are songs begot and bred?
How do golden measures flow?
From the heart, or from the head?
Happy Poet, let me know.

Tell me first how folded flowers
Bud and bloom in vernal bowers;
How the south wind shapes its tune,
The harper, he, of June.

None may answer, none may know,
Winds and flowers come and go,
And the selfsame canons bind
Nature and the Poet's mind.

SILENT SONGS.

If I could ever sing the songs
Within me day and night,
The only fit accompaniment
Would be a lute of light.

A thousand dreamy melodies,
Begot with pleasant pain,
Like incantations float around
The chambers of my brain.

But when I strive to utter one,
It mocks my feeble art,
And leaves me silent, with the thorns
Of Music in my heart!

[There's a new grave in the old churchyard]

There's a new grave in the old churchyard,
Another mound in the snow,
And a maid whose soul is whiter far
Sleeps in her shroud below.

The winds of March are piping loud,
The snow comes down for hours;
But by and by the April rain
Will bring the sweet May flowers.

The sweet May flowers will deck the mound
Greened in the April rain;
But blight will lie on our memories,
And our tears will fall in vain.

SONG.

We love in youth, and plight our vows
To love till life departs;
Forgetful of the flight of time,
The change of loving hearts.

To-day departs, to-morrow comes,
Nor finds a weed away;
But no to-morrow finds a man
The man he was to-day.

Then weep no more when love decays,
For even hate is vain;
Since every heart that hates to-day,
To-morrow loves again.

SONG.

You know the old Hidalgo,
(His box is next to ours,)
Who threw the Prima Donna
The wreath of orange-flowers:
He owns the half of Aragon,
With mines beyond the main;
A very ancient nobleman,
And gentleman of Spain.

They swear that I must wed him,
In spite of yea or nay,
Though uglier than the Scaramouch,
The spectre in the play;

But I will sooner die a maid
Than wear a gilded chain,
For all the ancient noblemen
And gentlemen of Spain!

SONG.

The walls of Cadiz front the shore,
And shimmer on the sea:
Her merry maids are beautiful,
But light as light can be.

They drop me billets through the post,
They meet me in the square,
They even follow me to mass,
And lift their veils at prayer.

But all their smiles and wanton arts
Are thrown away on me:
My heart is now an English girl's,
And she is o'er the sea.

My English love is o'er the sea,
But ere a month is flown,
The Spanish maids will be as far,
And she will be my own.

THE TWO BRIDES.

I saw two maids at the kirk,
And both were fair and sweet:
One in her wedding robe,
And one in her winding-sheet.

The choristers sang the hymn,
The sacred rites were read,
And one for life to Life,
And one to Death was wed.

They were borne to their bridal beds,
In loveliness and bloom;
One in a merry castle,
And one in a solemn tomb.

One on the morrow woke
In a world of sin and pain;
But the other was happier far,
And never awoke again.

[I sympathize with all thy grief]

I sympathize with all thy grief,
As though it were my own and more,
For all my loving days are o'er,
While thine still last, though dark and brief.

If any prayer of mine could save
The well belovèd from her fate,
I would not cease to storm the gate
Of Heaven till Mercy shut her grave.

But prayers on prayers are all in vain,
The destiny of man is fixed,
The bitter cups of Death are mixed,
And we must drink, and drink again.

All words are idle: words from me—
Are doubly so: my soul for years
Has used no other speech than tears:
But these I freely offer thee.

A SERENADE.

The moon is muffled in a cloud,
That folds the lover's star,
But still beneath thy balcony
I touch my soft guitar.

If thou art waking, Lady dear,
The fairest in the land,
Unbar thy wreathèd lattice now,
And wave thy snowy hand.

She hears me not, her spirit lies
In trances mute and deep;
But Music has a golden key
That opes the gate of Sleep.

Then let her sleep, and if I fail
To set her spirit free,
My song will mingle in her dream,
And she will dream of me.

[The yellow Moon looks slantly down]

The yellow Moon looks slantly down,
Through seaward mists, upon the town;
And ghost-like there the moonshine falls
Between the dim and shadowy walls.

I see a crowd in every street,
But cannot hear their falling feet;
They float like clouds through shade and light,
And seem a portion of the Night.

The ships have lain for ages fled
Along the waters, dark and dead;
The dying waters wash no more
The long, black line of spectral shore.

There is no life on land or sea,
Save in the quiet Moon and me;
Nor ours is true, but only seems,
Within some dead old World of Dreams.

[Along the grassy slope I sit]

Along the grassy slope I sit,
And dream of other years;
My heart is full of soft regrets,
My eyes of tender tears.

The wild bees hummed about the spot,
The sheep-bells tinkled far,
Last year when Alice sat with me,
Beneath the evening star.

The same sweet star is o'er me now,
Around the same soft hours,
But Alice moulders in the dust
With all the last year's flowers.

I sit alone, and only hear
The wild bees on the steep,
And distant bells that seem to float
From out the folds of Sleep.