Hours at Naples, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ye clear waves, with your murmuring, murmuring flow,
Whence do you come—and whither do ye go?
You seem in gentle haste, as though to escape
Some fast pursuer, which my thoughts can shape
Fantastically and grotesquely now
Into some Sea-God, with his furrowed brow—
Into some rough old Sea-God's rugged form,
Chief of the tides, and ruler of the storm—
Lord of the depths, and master of the wave,
Liege of the rock, and monarch of the cave!
Who, shaking back the deep locks from his face,
Drives the light dancing waves with idle chace;

Or, we might dream you onwards, onwards come
To seek the shore as Exiles would their home—
But like a keen fond hope, whose darling aim
Is ever missed—ye, vainly, wander tame
Like shepherdless flocks, although in sooth ye reach
That which appears your goal—the shell-strewn beach;
But when ye reach it—still do ye recoil
And but repeat your task—renew your toil
As though by disappointment faintly crossed,
And while your end was gained, yourselves were lost.
So in confusion sweet, ye seem to track
Your own light watery footsteps softly back.
Bear with ye—Oh! ye wanderers—bear my thoughts,
Mournful and faint, as Echo's dying notes!—
But bear them with ye wheresoe'er ye go,
So that no more unto myself they flow!
Whither they may escape I little care—
To lose them—to forget them—is my pray'r,
For heavy are they, sad and full of gloom,
And make this Earth a universal tomb!

Oh! could erazure be serenely made
Of their dull traceries—painfully displayed
Along this altered aspect—that no more
May wear that lightsome look which once it wore,
Then might I hail the glory and the grace
That lives on Nature's ever-changing face,
Nor feel my hopeless, restless self the while
Almost a blot upon her beam-bright smile—
A dull deep silence in that song of praise
Which she doth ever in her gladness raise—
Lone in her populous and stirring scenes,
Whence the sick heart but dubious solace gleans;
Dead in her life—and dark within her light,
A spot upon her garments sheen and white,
A drop of gall in her deep cup of bliss—
And could it be I was reserved for this?

Be still, vain thoughts; let soul, and ear, and eye,
Drink in this slumberous monotony,
This quiet of the Ocean—hushed and calm,
That through the Existence sheds a blessed balm—

Aye! even despite of many griefs, through mine,
And I will rouse me now and not repine.
Yet could ye, could ye, little wandering waves,
O'er whose light wreaths no rough'ning storm-gust raves,
Could you but take my keen thoughts for your guests,
And lull them as in ever-rocking nests,
'Mid your blue ripples, and soft rufflings mild,
Till they, that were like vultures fierce and wild,
As calm and still as halcyons even might grow,
Forgetful of their fond and feverish woe;
Or could you but far hence those vain thoughts bear,
Oh! could ye waft them swiftly—any where!
E'en to the Horizon's aëry harbour dim,
Where fails the eye to mark its shadowy rim—
Or to the Ocean's wide and wond'rous waste,
Where Sea and Sky together seem embraced—
I care not where they may their dwelling find,
So they are banished from my weary mind!

The hour's enchanting—the transcendent sky
Is blue as Homer imaged Pallas' eye;

Blue—blue, and bright even painfully! I turn
My dazzled eyes away, that throb and burn,
Fatigued by Beauty—Beauty ev'n will tire
Eyes that have quenched in tears their pristine fire.

I sit me down beside this lovely Sea,
Fain to partake its pure tranquillity;
How fair it is, how calm and smooth it lies,
As 'twould not break the image of the Skies,
So brightly painted on its polished breast,
In all the placid loveliness of rest!
How fair it is!—how gently should those wild,
Those fierce concussions of jarred thought sink mild
Before such happy influences as here
With tenderest power and soft prevailings dear
Come consentaneously upon the Soul!—
Still warbling—shining on, and warbling roll
Ye waves of beauty then, and wile away
The ills that cloud my spirit night and day,
Till those sad visitors, dark Grief and Pain,
(Wont, if we once receive them, to remain)

And sick Depression with its half formed tear!
And vain and passionate Regret—pale Fear—
And paler far Suspense—lie down and sleep,
And Memory, hushed and lulled, forgets to weep!
Oh! could we keep our Spirits pure and fair,
That Heaven might be serenely mirror'd there
As now upon this glad and glassy tide
Stamped with its face, with its complexion dyed,
Nor break its blessed Image in our Soul,
Where Pride's stern billows dark and threat'ning roll,
Where Passion's stormy rufflings troublous spread,
And terrors dire awake, and tumults dread—
Then were we happy—then most truly blest—
Then were our lot Earth's brightest and Earth's best.
But mark how few do thus—Alas! how few,
Though all believe 'tis Peace that they pursue
The while anxieties of every kind
They seek to plant within the unquiet mind,
And rashly court to their own bitter grief
Those ills from which they most should pray relief,

Till all their Being's fountains, which should be
Preserved in clear transparent purity,
Are clouded o'er, disturbed, and dimmed, and stained,
And no fair trace of Heaven is there retained!
Wrapped round with gloom and darkness as a vest,
With vile or troublous images impressed,
How are the Soul's unfathomable deeps
Lost to the peace the very Ocean reaps
From time to time—when winds forget to blow,
And the Elements their hour of stillness know.

Beautiful—beautiful—the purple floor
Of Ocean is, as 'twere strewed brightly o'er
With gems of old monarchic pomp; 'tis lit
As if by melting stars—I pondering sit—
And let the Beauty that around me glows
Sink through my gladdened spirit—from the rose
These hours seem coloured, and too clear and bright
Are they to be insulted in their flight,
(Around them scattering visions of delight)

By Sorrow's trembling accents and her tears,
By Care's vain bodements and uneasy fears?
No! we should chase our sorrows, and aside
Should cast our inner weight, and closely hide
Our cares within their secret, silent nest,
At Nature's feast to move a fitting guest;
Where all appear to triumph and rejoice,
Shall we uplift a harsh discordant voice?
Where all are smiling, shall we coldly frown,
And dash the cup of proffered gladness down,
And spurn the flowers presented by her hand,
With kind allurement and persuasion bland?
To throw the ashes of despair instead
Upon the heavy and dejected head!
And come into her glorious presence, drest
As in a sombre and a mourning vest,
As though to insult her with a proud neglect,
And brave her with a pomp of disrespect!

Paven with myriad Golden Lightnings keen
Art thou—blue, bluest Mediterranean, seen!

On this sweet day of sunlight, what a wealth
Of splendours, without stain, or stint, or stealth,
Hast thou accumulated here—bright Sea!
Challenging Earth with sweet rivality,
Earth, that might tremble at the match despite
Her ever-beauteous fixtures of Delight!
Despite the wond'rous glory, and the pride
Of her rich treasures scattered free and wide,
Her violet-covered banks and sunny glades,
Her verdurous pastures and her bowery shades,
Her broad savannahs and her boundless woods,
And soaring mountains capped with snow-white hoods.
Yes! still despite of these, of all, bright Sea,
Thou bravely battlest for supremacy—
Thou that art varying ever thine array,
And altering thy fine aspect night and day;
Thou—whom no swiftly-passing minute leaves
Unto the next unchanged, since ever heaves
In ceaseless motion thy fair glittering breast,
Restless—yet in a rapture of deep rest!

For ofttimes dost thou in thy strife ev'n seem
Like one who lightly stirs him in his dream—
Who feels the blessedness of Slumber's balm,
And feeds upon the consciousness of calm!
While every vein with soft enjoyment glows,
And every pulse is telling of repose,
Each breath is bliss—each sense is sooth'd with sleep,
And heavenly languors through the lulled frame creep!
So dost thou seem at times even in thy strife,
As but luxuriating in glowing life.
And though thou'rt changing—changing evermore,
Thy bright inconstancy we still adore;
And even between thy most discrepant moods
There are bless'd links and sweet similitudes;
Or when thou'rt ploughed by sudden rising gale,
Or when smooth summer clouds above thee sail—
Fair decked with all the beauty of the stars,
Or warring midst the Elements wild wars,
Or brightened by the Rainbow's coloured sheen,
When peace presides o'er all the pleasant scene,

Or blazoned by the Lightning's bickering flame,
Ever art thou Another and the Same!

All golden, golden melodies that dream
Or sense can compass here commingling seem
To crave attention with persuasion such
As Hope might use to soften and to touch
A heart that had perceived her dangerous power,
And shrunk from her delirious rapturous shower
Of quick emotions and enchanted dreams—
For still with these her magic empire teems!
Oh! let this soft and odorous-breathing air
Make sweet erazure of the lines of care
Drawn o'er this aching forehead, and no more
Let hoarded fears and doubts—a gloomy store
Crush down the heart, which doth their freight contain,
That vainly tries to battle with its pain!
And let not now uneasy thoughts distract
The mind, too long by their harsh discord racked;
Nor fatal Reminiscences destroy
The Soul's new Quiet ripening into Joy,

Though imperceptibly, mid this bright scene
Of splendour, where high Nature is the Queen!
This wide and wonderous and eternal court,
Where those who own her Sovereign Power resort.
Yes! blow, kind winds! and make erazure sweet
Of Grief's dull characters, and gently cheat
These languid lips into a lingering smile,
Though the stern Mistress harshly shall revile
And roughly shall endeavour to retain
Her shaken empire of puissant Pain!
In pity, gentle winds, prevailing blow
With all the grateful freshness ye bestow,
With all your soft small harmonies, and wealth
Of odours and delights—and so by stealth
Shall ye now win me from myself!—Alas!
The happiest fortune that can come to pass
For me, in these my melancholy years,
To Grief's dark truths devoted, and to tears;
For Fancy and gay Hope, and all their dreams,
So bright, so glad, so lit by Heaven-caught beams,

Have long deserted one whom ruthless Fate
Hath bowed to Earth with Sorrow's leaden weight.
Yes!—win me from myself!—for me were this
The best of benefits—the brightest bliss,
The most victorious and the proudest feat
That could be compassed, since doth ever beat
With all too much of trouble and distrust
My weary heart—unto itself unjust,
And almost—if, indeed, it so could be—
Unjust unto this world of misery!—
For ever and anon even here we find
Fair shows, and sunny scenes, and natures kind—
Nay, bright realities—not harsh—not stern,
But these to meet—ah! whither shall I turn?
For Life's realities to me seem still
All that is gloomy—bitter—hard and chill.
And ever doth my stubborn heart refuse
All comfort, save the indulgence which it wooes
In its own desolate and dreary grief—
From which it seeks not, nor expects relief;

But win this weak heart from itself at last,
And wean it from all memory of the Past,
And wrest away each form stamped there before,
And wring regret's black drop from out its core.
Aye! win me from myself—the dearest boon
That may be given, is sweet Oblivion,
To marked and mourning Spirits, that essay
Vainly to battle with the opposing clay
That clogs, and curbs, and checks them every way.
Nature! thou soothest thy children best in truth,
Nay! it is thou alone who knowest to soothe;
Thou only who canst medicine the o'er-wrought mind,
And minister to morbid thoughts enshrined
Deep in the bosom's hushed and haunted cell,
Where vain regrets and mournful fancies dwell
O'er the heart's wounds—the spirit's achings sore,
And the brain's tempest-throbbings—thou canst pour
A soothing and a most sufficient balm,
And bless us with a bright and breathing calm.
The o'erwhelming Passion-hurricanes that shake
The Spirit to its centre, when they wake

In all the deadly outburst of their power,
In the full sweep of their prevailing hour,
Thou canst, with silent and with 'suasive skill,
Chain down to peace—and soften and make still.
And thou, too, canst uplift the fardels cold,
That crush the very Soul's soul, and enfold
In healing bands, that fevered, wildered brain,
That makes a dim Religion of its Pain!

Bright glowing Italy! thou want'st a charm
Unto my yearning heart—which can disarm
Thine aspect of its dazzling pomp and might,
Its glory, and its witchery, and its light,
By calling from its depths those treasured forms,
How well preserved 'mid all Life's fearful storms.
The forms it worshipped in the days of old,
When it and they seemed cast in one bright mould,
One mould celestial—perfect and supreme—
And this was but the mockery of a dream!
But yet this mockery of a dream outweighs
All that shines forth in Beauty's proudest blaze,

And challengeth Reality to show
Aught that may match with its display below.
The forms, the scenes beloved in th' earlier times,
Still haunt us through all changes and all climes.
Yes, Italy! for me thou want'st one charm,
To entrammel, and to enrapture, and to warm,
The charm of the Old Associations dear,
Which bid us most our Father Land revere,
Where in glad childhood's cloudless faith we moved,
And saw and worshipped, and believed and loved;
Where, in the light of lovely thoughts, we walked,
And dwelt with visions, and with Angels talked,
Uncurbed in Fancy, as unchecked by Fear,
And Earth was as a fair seraphic sphere!
And, therefore, while I gaze and muse apart,
That true magician, the all skilful heart,
Can strip thee of thy dazzling glory's might,
And bid a shadow fall upon thy light,
And cloud thy splendour's overpowering pride,
And half thy loveliness obscure and hide;

And yet thou art most lovely and most fair,
And glorious is thy sky, thine earth, thine air;
There is a witchery in thy wildest scene,
And still thou seem'st Heaven's Bride and Earth's crown'd Queen.
How doth that Heaven with its own precious hues
Thy lovely aspect radiantly suffuse,
And seal thy forehead with its living Sun,
As a bright symbol that thou'rt wooed and won;
So dost thou seem its gorgeous Bride to stand
Forth singled, Beauteous One—from every land.
For where else doth the eternal boundless sky
Shine down with such o'erpowering majesty?
As when of old the dread Olympian Jove
Sought, passion-swayed, to win his Danae's love,
And in his proudest splendours shone arrayed,
His glorious blaze revealed, his light displayed,
When in his full celestial state he came,
And put on all the God, her soul to inflame;
So Heaven appears, with all its radiant powers,
To greet thee with a stream of golden showers;

A myriad and a myriad dyes and beams
Still flash upon thy woods, and hills, and streams.
Scarce, as we look upon the dazzling scene,
In all its glorying glow and sparkling sheen,
Can we distinguish clearly land from sky,
All seems commixed in boundless majesty;
One universal outstretched Heaven appears,
To charm us wheresoe'er we look, and rears
Triumphant Beauty here, an eye that drinks our tears!
And yet I err, for though I sit beside
Blue-rolling seas, upon whose glassy tide
All glories shine retraced, of Heaven and Earth,
Which they bring forth in yet diviner birth—
Upon a shore as fair as river-banks,
Where brightly bloom, in starred and rainbowed ranks,
The dewy children of the golden hours,
The lovely marvels of resplendent flowers.
Cannot dejected Memory fairer show,
Recalling days of old, when with the glow
Of Summer, and the royal, royal Rose
Mingled the glow of Hope, whose brightness throws

All else into the shade—and whose decay
Steals all its fairest radiance from the day.
On light-swift pinions, Hope, sweet traitress! flies,
And half the etherial beauty of the Skies,
And glory of the Sun, away it bears,
And Earth thenceforward a changed aspect wears—
Aye! the third part of Heaven's rare splendours seem
To share its wane, and wither beam by beam!
As when, of old, the Serpent drew away
A third part of Heaven's lights to dark decay.
Now cares incessant trouble my repose,
And dim despondencies and pallid woes,
And sickening fears, do ofttimes darkly steal
Delight away—forbidding still to feel
That loveliness which to behold must be
Inevitable—when we dwell with thee,
Maternal Nature! in a land like this,
With beauty overflowing and with bliss!

But doubts and woes, despondencies and fears,
And care's vile troublings, and regret's vain tears,

Shall all give way to thee ev'n now, awhile,
Sweet Memory! with thy pensive song and smile.
Yes! thou shalt gently every thought enchain,
And come with thousand shadows for thy train!
Now shalt thou make my heart's dulled pulses thrill!
Days of my fair and fairy Childhood, fill
With rapturous reminiscences my Soul—
Days, when my Heart was not a living Coal,
My Brain was not a razed and withered Scroll,
My Life was not a tempest—and a toil,
My Thought was not a wrung and ravelled coil,
My Soul was not a sun-scorched wilderness—
My Being not a burthen of Distress.
Old Days! come back upon my Spirit now,
Flush the re-kindling cheek and smoothe the brow,
And thence unnumbered dark revealings chase,
And softer, tenderer meanings lightly trace;
With pleasurable tears mine eyes shall fill,
My pulse confess a pleasurable thrill,
And full of gentle strength, and trust, and joy,
(The dearer for long seasons of annoy,)

Shall sweet Sensations bless my heart once more,
And Life and gladness for awhile restore!
Those sweet sensations, neither cold nor dull,
But quick and fine, and fresh and beautiful,
That take on this material Earth no name,
But whisper to the Spirit whence they came!
Vague, strange, and indistinct, in truth they are,
And with our mortal Natures seem at war.
But oh! that precious indistinctness even
Makes them more mind us of our distant Heaven.
They are not wholly joy, nor wholly fear,
Not wholly clouded, and not wholly clear—
Not wholly pleasure, and not wholly pain,
But of all these partaking, they enchain,
With countless links, the Soul o'er which they reign.
England! I still must turn to thee—to thee,
When I would walk the World of Memory!
When I would 'midst its bowers of Beauty stray,
And bask in its sweet dream-light, where each ray
Is precious, consecrated, mystic, clear,

Though trembling as the gleams from some far sphere,
A sunny smile—and a transparent tear
Together mingling there, together met—
Form that loved light—which flows from Suns long set.
England!—thine air, thy sky, thy well-known ground,
For me with recollections blest, abound;
And fates and feelings ne'er to be forgot,
Are linked with many a scene and many a spot
In thy maternal bosom, pure and fair,
Which blights shall never blot—nor tempests tear.
Heaven's favoured and Earth's honoured land art thou,
And mayst thou ever be as thou art now.
Ever—oh! best of tests!—mayst thou thus prove
As hallowed by thy children's yearning love.
England, thou mayst not boast of skies so blue
As here are bent in lustre ever new,
In splendour ever fresh and ever pure,
Above our heads, to enchant and to allure.
But Native Land—my own bright Land beloved,
At whose dear mention all my soul is moved,

How true it is that Love's transpiercing eyes
See Heaven far clearer through familiar skies!
A mystery of sweet consciousness is there—
They seem more open to our gaze and prayer,
And less estranged from the encircled earth,
When thus we view them from our place of birth.
Love! Love! what is there that thou canst not do,
Thou only perfect, only bright and true?
Thou canst make Earth as holy as a shrine—
In its own self, as 'twere almost divine!
And even make Heaven more heavenly through thy Power,
In the sweet strength of thine enchanted hour!
All things beneath thy touch become more fair,
And the deep hues of thy own Beauty wear;
All Nature craves from thee a costly gift,
Or ere she can the expanding heart uplift,
And light with fervent admiration's flame—
Yea! still she calls for aid upon thy name,
Since all without thee is but cold and tame.
Thou, even thou, immortal Power! canst lend
Beauty sublime and Glory without end

To things least lovely—think, oh! think but then
What charms must Love impart to that which men
Look on with swelling hearts and raptured eyes,
Though unendeared by fond and fast-bound ties,
Affections and associations old,
And wonted habits closely-clinging fold,
Even such a scene as this, now brightly spread
Around me, who on ground enchanted tread,
And breathe an air itself a Paradise,
And gaze on glorious and magnific skies,
And scent a thousand odorous balmy gales,
That tell of fragrant haunts, delicious tales;
For now the orange-flower in bowered retreats
Is budding forth—a treasury of rich sweets,
And sheds its perfumed tidings far around,
Till the Ocean's deep pulsations ev'n seem bound
In rapture and voluptuous glad amaze,
While winds a thousand and a thousand ways
The enthralling fragrance passing richly o'er
The terraced slopes, the palaced streets—the shore—

And floating o'er the bosom of the bay,
As there alone it were content to stay.
Then think—Oh! think but then what charms supreme
Must Love impart to every mount and stream,
To every fountain and to every flower,
To every 'broidered bank and every bower,
In such a Land as this—a fairy Land,
Where Nature smiles for ever bright and bland.
But yet, in sooth, I cannot envy those
Who claim this Land of Rainbow and the Rose;
Something there is more dear and holy yet
Than dazzling suns in pomp that rise and set,
And make Creation like one Glory round
Their burning throne, whose splendour hath no bound—
Than flashing skies, that scarce seem to require
That Sun to illume their depths of azure fire!
Than waves of beauty, and than woods of balm,
And glowing hours of dream, and light, and calm—
Than groves like those Hesperian gardens old
That flamed with ever-clustering fruits of gold—

Than deep dyed flowers, and perfume-breathing trees,
And singing fountain, and soft genial breeze.
Something more dear and sacred far than these
There surely is, howe'er they may inspire
And light the spirit with poetic fire—
The inviolate altar, and the hallowed hearth,
The free fair home—that dearest spot of Earth,
The unsullied and the consecrated sod,
By step of slave or foeman yet untrod—
The privileges pure, the established rights,
The sacred bond, which still all hearts unites—
The happy household blessings shared by all,
The glorious freedom that ne'er knew a thrall—
The firm yet tolerant faith—the enlightened views—
The unbroken peace that wears Heaven's own deep hues:
These things beyond a doubt are nobly worth
All the outward-glittering pomps of Heaven and Earth.
And where may these so certainly be found
As, England, on thy fair and favoured ground?
Therefore it is, I little envy those
Who claim these skies of gold, this land of rose,

These airs of incense, and these waves of light,
That thrill the senses, and that thrall the sight;
Therefore it is, that while I wondering gaze
On all this pride and show, and pomp and blaze,
My thoughts, like passage birds, fly back to thee,
My own dear country o'er the deep blue sea.
What though ten thousand and ten thousand things
Charm and enchant them here—they keep their wings!
Those wings that bear them homeward evermore
From this delicious but divided shore;
Those wings that ever waft them back to thee,
My Land! the dear, the happy, and the free!
To thee and to mine own delightful home
In thy calm bosom, and while still I roam
More steadfastly transfixed my thoughts become
In love to thee, my England—and not less
To that sweet home of heart-stored happiness!
Where all my soul's most cherished treasures dwell,
Loved with affection words are weak to tell,
That home in home!—that Shrine within a Shrine—
That thrice-prized mine, amidst Earth's richest mine—

That star set in my England's star-bright skies—
That Paradise within a Paradise!

My child!—my child!—I am not near thee now
To part the hair that clusters o'er thy brow,
And plant ten thousand kisses there—to view
Thy faëry joys, and ah! to share them too;
To watch thy golden slumbers when thou'rt laid
In Innocency's vesture pure arrayed,
Like a tired bird within its warm sweet nest,
And all thy raptures are composed to rest!
And oh! to soothe thy little sorrows still,
For infancy is not exempt from ill!
Though soon effaced from its transparent thought
The shadows there, by some slight grievance brought,
While its expanding and upspringing mind
Still forward flies, and leaves all pain behind.
My child!—the music of thy laughter now
I dream of—but I hear not—o'er thy brow
Wander ten thousand meanings new and sweet,
I may not see them—may not guide thy feet

To spots of pleasantness, now that the Spring
That calls to life each bright and blooming thing
Is bursting over England's golden fields,
Till every bank a wealth of blossoms yields
For Childhood's dimpled hands!—'tis glorious here
In this warm azure Italy—most clear,
Most exquisite the pure and perfumed air,
The sky unshadowed, and the sunshine fair;
And fair the almond-blossoms clustered close
Upon the loaded bough—while many a rose
Trails its resplendent wonder, richly bowed
Beneath its beauty as beneath a cloud
Along the trellised walk or fountain side,
A dazzling trophy—Nature's loveliest pride.
But oh! my child, my child! I fain would be
Now wandering 'midst our English haunts with thee,
Amongst those cowslip-scattered fields so bright,
They flash one glistening lake of living light,
One deep and shining galaxy of gold,
A glory and a luxury to behold,

While their massed sunshine-hoards wave to and fro,
Beneath the softest breezes that may blow!
And load the air with sweets that greet the sense
With sudden gusts of witching redolence.
My feelings and my fancies are with ye,
Haunts of my early days—far o'er the Sea!
They are with ye—old woods of deepest shade,
Where in my childhood's joyous hours I played
With ye—ye winding paths and hawthorn lanes,
Where oft I listened to the bird's blithe strains,
When most those strains of joy appeared to agree
With mine own Spirit's unbroken melody!—
With ye, ye violet-clustered banks, that pour
A flood of sweetness from your fragrant store—
With ye, ye fair fields, where the daisy-flower,
The humblest offspring of the sunny hour,
Is breaking like a star from the deep moss
Which silvery dews so sparklingly emboss.
Oh! happiest haunts of joyaunce and delight,
To Memory's tearful vision far too bright:

My feelings and my fancies are with ye,
But I am distant—barred by Land and Sea—
And but rejoin ye—when upon the wings
Upborne, of my unchained imaginings
But oh! so well ye are painted on my mind
So clearly there, by unseen hand designed,
That I 'mongst ye can find my wand'ring way,
Lit by a light beyond the light of day!—
Can pierce, unchecked, your old beloved retreats,
And joyously retrack my well-known beats;
My former paths can, step by step, retrace,
And haunt in spirit each familiar place;
Nay—can at once those different scenes recall,
And gather in one glowing Picture—all!—
And shed abroad the presence of my thought,
The rapture-kindled and the joy-o'erfraught;
O'er all those loved and lovely haunts distinct,
But by the Heart so well and closely linked,
Till, while the dear illusion gains and grows,
One Picture and one Passion they compose!

One outstretched view—one vision they become,
And I remain with pleased amazement dumb!
Oh! Memory! thy sweet Omnipresence gives
A tenfold joy which the o'erwrought Soul receives;
Rapt in that rich imaginative trance
Which sees a world of wonders at a glance;
No limits can the dreaming sense surround,
The exalted fancy knows no stubborn bound;
The glowing, soaring, and creative mind,
By no dull bars is circled or confined,
All is contained within its wide embrace—
Tamer of Time and Sovereign over space!—
It maketh its own Circumstance and Place;
It biddeth the outward, actual world obey,
Or shrink to nothing underneath its sway;
Or it uprears a sweet world of its own,
Where love and gladness can have part alone;
But when with Memory and Affection twined,
It may not leave its earthly sphere behind,
And but sublimes, etherializes all,
Which thus is bound in its triumphant thrall;

Even so 'tis now with me—and it is well—
And long in such glad mood I fain would dwell.
Now, I at one blest Vision can behold
A hundred happy haunts beloved of old;
A hundred glowing prospects seem to be
Conjoined in one enchanted Unity;
A hundred smiling scenes appear to arise
Before my lighted and enraptured eyes;
A hundred lovely landscapes do unite
Into one Paradise of perfect Light!
Their various beauties blending into one,
Like scattered Stars immingling to a Sun!
Their charms distinct, at once divinely grow
To one Perfection—ne'er beheld below
Save by thy fine and vision-haunted eye,
Bright Fancy—Victor o'er Reality;
So do an hundred separate leaves compose
The full and finished beauty of a Rose.
Sweet Memory! thy bright omnipresence 'tis
That yields the Spirit thus a tenfold bliss!

My own fair Home in England! fairer far
Than loveliest image, or of Rose or Star;
Lovely as Love itself—thou the Unforgot!
How well I knew each path of thine—each spot—
How well I know, distinctly to recall
Thy various scenes—thy different features all.
No little knoll is there—no tiny nook,
On which even now I cannot clearly look!
And nothing that belongs to thee but brings
To me a joy that round my heart's core clings.
And oh! no trivial circumstance and slight,
But yields me some warm transport of delight:
How well I know each dim and dewy bed
Where the rathe snowdrop hangs its fragile head;
Or where the frail anemone's meek flower
Looks meet to grace a fairy's favourite bower;
Or where the primrose constellations shine,
On the mossed bank, or by the path's mazed line,
In paly brilliancy soft, calm, serene,
And throw a new enchantment o'er the scene;

Or where the daffodils, in proud array,
Blaze back the sunshine and bepaint the day,
And where the rarer lily of the vale,
Transparently—etherially pale,
Clad—a sweet amazon in silvery mail—
And armed with shield of emeralds dark and deep,
Doth all the air in softest fragrance steep;
Or, dearer yet than these—than all beside,
Where the surpassing violet doth abide!
As the branched veins of Cytherea, blue,
And with her musked sighs, pure perfume too.
Even precious as the ambrosial-streaming hair,
Whose cloud of Beauty veiled her shoulders fair.
The violet! why the very name exhales
An odour, and breathes forth delicious tales—
The violet! why the very thought appears
To sun away the shadows of dark years,
To give me back a world of Love and Hope,
And make me half forget to doubt or droop;
To bid the Actual and the True look fair,
The Time—the Clime—a charm familiar wear;

To bring—since my chained step may move not free,
My own bright happy England unto me!
Nor let that place of beauty be forgot,
That gentle—that frequented favourite spot,
Where the may-flower boughs, clustered sweet and close,
And perfumed every zephyr as it rose;
Nor the dear gardens with their shading bowers
And rainbow-beds of choice and odorous flowers,
Where the light summer-fly and honey-bee,
Sang out their matin tunes so joyously!
Be none forgot—but all fair-imaged forth—
Oh! Dream of Gladness, what art thou not worth?
In their own native beauty—and in all
The charms that fancy to her aid can call?
Oh Love and Memory, ye are wond'rous powers,
And fair ye make this cloudy world of ours;
But your consummate Visions may not last—
They droop before the Truth's cold cutting blast;
They die beneath the Present's crushing tread,
And leave a heart as drooping—or as dead:

And so my fleeting Happiness departs,
Nor Fancy's self, with all her gentIest arts,
Can now that withered Happiness restore,
It was a rapture, but is now no more!

Sea! lovely awful Sea—when the Earth is scared
Unto our prejudiced and sick regard,
As 'twere by sorrows we have suffered there,
Gladly we turn to thee, thou ever fair—
Thou ever glorious—yea we turn to thee,
As thou our mighty Comforter couldest be;
Our gracious Counsellor and our pitying Friend,
On whom we might with fearless trust depend,
And our sublime Companion!—as though thou
From thy stupendous state couldst deign to bow,
And lower thy voice of billows and of storms,
And soften thy severe and glorious forms,
To commune with a mortal yet more frail
Than thy light foam-wreaths driven before the gale—
And petty as the sand-grains on thy shore,
By new-piled heaps so quickly covered o'er.

But yet—thou wond'rous and thou awful sea,
The Earth-sick turn their weary eyes on thee;
And truly, when thou will'st to smile serene,
They look upon a deep and lovely scene.
The weary ones of Earth to the Ocean turn,
And struggle to forget to weep and mourn!
Oh! ever lovely—howsoe'er it show,
In sweeping tempest or in measured flow;
Oh! ever lovely is that rolling main,
And ever triumphing in beauty's reign;
Oh! ever lovely—whether veiled in gloom,
And darkly yawning like an opening tomb,
Or blazoned with thy sweet reflections pale,
Fair Moon! what time thou dost through Sky Land sail!
Oh! ever lovely—but how beauteous now,
When the blue Heaven might earthwards seem to bow
In very love and peace—when sea and shore
Are flooded with one stream of brightness o'er,
And o'er thy sunshine-fretted surface plays,
Proud Ocean—this rich restless crown of rays!

The Angel of Consolations deign to be,
Imperial Element! even now to me,
Since thou hast thus serenely laid aside
Thy startling awfulness and haughty pride,
Yet ever awful—whatsoe'er thy mood,
Thou never-fathomed, never-understood—
Thou glorious mystery—mighty and profound,
Outstretched, sublime, without a bar or bound,
We gaze with wonder and delight on thee,
In thy triumphant greatness proud and free,
And own that thou, transcendant Ocean! art
A grand creation—matchless and apart.
Oh! ever awful—in thine every state,
Whether the Tempest-Genii round thee wait,
And marshall forth their terrors at thy word,
And watch the pleasure of their Sovran Lord;
Or the light Zephyrs their soft wings unfurl,
And scarcely dare thy slumbering waves to curl.
Oh! ever awful—on thy billowy throne,
Though not thus wholly for thyself alone,

But to the mind thy mighty aspect brings,
A deep, deep thought of dread and glorious things.
Thou seemest the noblest image here below,
Of all the Soul doth seek to view and know,
Of Glory, and of Majesty, and Power;
And are not these thy attributes and dower,
However in faint degree to thee they are lent,
Compared with that thou seemest to represent?
Oh! for awhile, yet lovely awful sea,
The Angel of my Consolations be!

How perfect is the dazzling water's hue,
Whose exquisite and most etherial blue
Is caught from Heavens without a cloud, whose smile
From this vain world all shades of care should wile;
How lustrous, on this clear and glowing day,
The watery Empire's splendour of display!
The Beauty of the far-extended scene
Brings Dreams of Beauty, smiling and serene,
Unto the enkindling and delighted thought,
A world of glowing dreams, unwooed—unsought—

And many a gleaming vision pure and fair
Floats by upon the blue enchanted air!—
Arrayed in loveliest hues to inspire and bless,
As Loveliness attracted Loveliness!—
As though Enchantments from Enchantments sprung,
And evermore a new-born brightness flung—
The Beautiful brought forth the Beautiful—
And nothing there might be of dark or dull!

Oh! this delicious, calming, soothing sound,
That calleth forth responses sweet around!
This most antique and perfect melody—
This everlasting Anthem of the Sea—
Whose glorious tones in the Elder ages sent
A hushing awe with solemn gladness blent
Through the rapt Listener's raised and chastened soul,
While on his ear the sounds of beauty stole,
That still, as deeply they unfailing float,
(A Hymn in every organ-pealing note!)
To all suggest exalted thoughts and pure—
They that the same for ever shall endure!

Till that dread hour, when every sound shall be
Even thine, thou proud and never-silenced Sea!
Lost in that deep and dreadful Trumpet-call,
Which shall in awful triumph roll o'er all!
Yea! even thy voice of thundering might shall then
Fail, like the smothered voice of fear-struck men,
And not one murmur from thy breast arise
Of all thy dread and echoing melodies!
But let me list now to thy voice, which still
Delights the sense, and with prevailing skill
The hollow ear of Night can richly fill,
And charm its rugged sternness all away,
Heightening the heavenly Harmonies of Day
With its unparalleled enchantment too,
Old as Creation's self—yet ever new!
These seem but the echoes of that glorious voice—
While thou dost in auspicious mood rejoice
What time we hear them—lingering by thy side
And watching thee—in thy triumphant pride!
Thus in the peaceful hours of this sweet morn
The various sounds from the inland places borne,

Softened by distance down, appear to be
Reverberations low—Oh! voiceful Sea!
Of thine unceasing chaunt's deep harmony!
All blent and all united to a strain,
Which soothes the soul and stills the restless brain.

I must not cast unheeding eyes on all
The beauty here spread round me, though a pall
Of inly-woven gloom may half obscure
To me fair Nature's various portraiture!
I should not cast unmindful thoughts on things
Which ought to stir Life's deepest, purest springs,
(And force a sense of sacred loveliness
Even where all other feelings by distress
Were crushed, and changed, and darkened, and o'erborne,
By cares distracted, and by sufferings torn!
By trials wasted, and by troubles worn!
Till long-endured and never-ceasing care
Assume the harsher features of Despair!)
Nor do I thus—but in a softened mood—
Though still at times vain fancies will intrude,

I linger 'mid the bright perfections here,
And chase afar the phantoms of my Fear.
Yes! carefully and curiously I look
On this fair prospect—tears, meanwhile, that shook
My heart to shed but some few hours ago,
Now softly and with soothing influence flow—
Most watchfully I think—and bind among
My heavier feelings pure thoughts fresh and strong,
Which though from the Earth upspringing, seem to shine
Tinged with the finer hues of Heaven—divine!
Among my shadowy memories, Hopes I bind,
Which shall not all be scattered on the wind;
Most studiously and strenuously I strive
From mine own dreams the darkening shades to drive,
And still in some slight measure do succeed,
And feel from many a galling fetter freed!

There is a Joy in Sorrow—and in Woe
A luxury, which all feeling natures know—
There is a Joy in Sorrow!—and she hath
Some lovely blossoms scattered o'er her path.

Those who have never wept and mourned below
Nor borne a dark reverse, nor felt a blow,
Have but imperfect knowledge of Delight,
Howe'er it seem for ever in their sight!
Oh, Sorrow!—bright the prospects thou'st reveal'd,
And deep the blessings are 'tis thine to yield,
For not of this World are they—not of this—
Thy hints of happiness—thy beams of bliss—
They come from other and serener spheres,
Unchill'd by falsehood, and uncheck'd by fears—
In thy deep mines are costly jewels found,
In thy dark skies resplendent stars abound.
Oh, Sorrow! thy chief blessing to the mind
Is when thou lead'st it to leave Earth behind—
When thou dost wrench it from all worldly things,
And bidd'st it soar upon immortal wings!—
For all can prove but Vanity below,
And gilded hollowness and empty show—
And though some loudly boast that they are blest,
Oft aches a gloomy void within the breast;

And still entangled 'midst their very joys,
And bound to Pleasure's glare, and Folly's noise;
And by their countless earthly ties enchained,
And closely to the World's vain service trained;
Absorbed in things that swiftly pass away,
And firmly, deeply fettered to their clay,
Without one lofty dream, one bright desire,
To dwell amidst far happier things and higher,
Without one glorious movement in the Soul
To rise above cold Destiny's controul—
One breathing of a splendid discontent—
With rich expectancies profoundly blent
They walk upon their smooth unchanging way,
Nor from the accustomed paths attempt to stray.
But thou canst teach far loftier things below,
And noblest benefits canst thou bestow,
Oh! mighty Sorrow! and 'tis thine to yield
A golden harvest from no earthly field!
There is a charm in Sorrow, when we spring
Out of ourselves on thought's exulting wing—

There is a charm in Sorrow, when we rise
Out of ourselves full gladly—with the Skies
To hold a tongueless conference—and to learn
Such truths as make the aspiring Spirit burn
And pant to increase its knowledge' heav'nly store,
And many a deeper secret to explore!
There is a charm in sacred Sorrow still!
For those who long have borne with mortal ill,
And bowed to mortal suffering and dark Care,
And breathed Dejection's dull and heavy air—
And battled with a harsh and bitter fate,
And writhed beneath stern Misery's leaden weight—
Out of themselves with more delight can spring,
And soar away from every mortal thing,
With more of gladness and with more of zeal,
While to their Soul the inspiring glow they feel—
Than those who find a thousand charms on Earth,
And mingle most in its delight and mirth!
Yea! we who deeply and who dearly know
The shadowy paths and hidden depths of Woe,

Who long have been afflicted, often tried,
And much oppressed and grieved—can cast aside
Ourselves at once, more joyously than those
Who thus dismiss not dim regrets and woes—
Who thus no miseries and no griefs dismiss,
But bright realities of glowing bliss—
But busy schemes, and hopes of restless aim,
And all that most the entrammelled thoughts can claim,
The affections and the passions of the heart—
Too dear and lovely to be laid apart—
The glad emotions of the unclouded mind,
Which they would little wish to leave behind—
The engagements and light pleasures of the day,
Which they can scarce desire to put away.
Sorrow! a glorious privilege is thine,
Known to the votaries of thy Shadowy Shrine!
Thou hast a privilege and advantage still,
And those who climb thy steep and rugged hill
Behold a prospect wonderful and wide,
Which far surpasseth Nature's noblest pride;

But few would follow in thy solemn train,
Few would endure thy yoke of gloom and pain,
To prove the advantage and partake the good,
To snatch the meed and share the exalted mood!

Yet who can doubt that one rich glimpse and taste
Midst this World's glare, and noise, and strife, and haste—
Of things eternal and of things sublime,
Things not terrestrial, not confined to time—
Not of this petty life—this mortal birth—
Not of these Elements—this changeful Earth—
But of the everlasting Worlds above,
The Worlds of deathless joy and endless love,
Where change can never come, nor death intrude,
Nor evil enter, nor foul sin delude;
Where bliss is not precarious or confined,
But ample and eternal as the mind—
Is deeply, brightly, exquisitely worth
All the vain pleasures and delights of Earth,
All its poor comforts and its passing joys,
Its glare and strife, its hurry and its noise—

And that bright glimpse, that sweet and sacred taste,
Most precious 'mid Life's wild and sterile waste,
Can never be so rapturously enjoyed,
So utterly unchecked, and unalloyed,
As when the escaping and the exulting mind
Leaves blights and shadows and regrets behind—
The cloud—the storm—the dungeon and the chain—
The rod of punishment—the rack of pain—
Then—then indeed it is we gladly spring
Out of ourselves at once with conquering wing,
Out of ourselves at once in some blest hour
Of peace renewed and renovated power;
Out of ourselves at once—nor stay to throw
One glance behind upon our World of Woe!
Out of ourselves, to mingle and unite
With the deep Universe of life and light;
Out of ourselves, to mingle and to blend
With things that have no limit and no end!
Then—then we fling undoubtingly away
The vain and vile enthralments of our clay,

And throw, unhesitating, throw aside
Our poor Mortality's encumbering pride;
While other feelings, and while different ties,
And fairer prospects opening to our eyes—
And new resources, and affections new,
And fresh impressions and emotions too—
New aims, hopes, interests, objects, and desires,
And purer fervours and more hallow'd fires
Fill and engage the whole enraptured Soul,
While scenes divine before its view unroll!

Loveliness dwells on every side!—around
Is matchless Beauty spread without a bound—
Beauty and Loveliness on every side!
Immortal Nature in her state and pride!
And all that is most smiling and most bland
Salutes the Stranger in this peerless Land!
And all that is most witching and most fair
Arrests the Wanderer's footsteps every where!
Yet Nature here, even here, 'tis certain, hath
Her more appalling forms of gloom and wrath,

And her more awful hints—and sterner moods—
While 'mid her own most glorious scenes she broods!
Broods 'mid her own enchantments—yet, the while,
Plots fearful mischief with a Circe's guile.
The ground is hollow where the Wanderer treads,
A Hell beneath its Heaven-like surface spreads—
And direst terrors slumbering there are hid,
Like Serpents foul, the fairest flowers amid.
And let us turn our dazzled eyes to where
Yon angry Mountain darkens up the Air—
A fearful Eminence!—Yea, turn and look
At those dense clouds of sunshine-blotting Smoke—
Those black and blasted sides, that threatening brow,
So stern and gloomy and terrific now—
And own that where the brightest Scenes are spread,
There oft-times frown the darkest Forms of dread!

Yet all is girt with peace, and nought disturbs
That exquisite placidity which curbs
To its most sweet Dominion all around,
While floats a freshness from the dewy ground,

A laughing light lives in the Sea and Sky,
A breathing beauty o'er the scene doth lie—
A fettering fragrance streams upon the air,
And all seems gladly—innocently fair!
Then let us taste the rapture and the charm,
Nor shrink with cold distrust and vain alarm—
Enjoy these bright hours in their tranquil flow,
Nor image fearful scenes of future woe—
Nor cast a look of sorrowing, sick dismay
Back to the horrors of a by-gone day.
Oft-times we join in festal mirth, and yet
Unnumbered Dangers round our paths are set;
A thousand winged Deaths are hovering round,
With treacherous Fates all elements abound,
And hideous Perils gird us night and day,
To ruin and o'erwhelm us and betray!
Still, still 'twere surely weak and most unwise
To close 'gainst every charm our careful eyes,
Because the hidden ill may there be veiled
By which we yet may darkly be assailed,

Then shall we turn in shrinking doubt and fear
From all the lavish splendours scattered here,
Because concealed the glorious show beneath
May dwell the forms of Danger and of Death?
No! let us pluck and wreathe the Time's fair flowers,
We count by years a Life that is of hours.

The stilliness and balminess around
Hath tranquillized my restlessness!—no sound
That is not ministrant to gentlest peace
Is heard on this fair shore—so should you cease
To heave in vain distrustfulness, my heart!
To throb in fond disquietude and smart,
And rock with troublous beatings—you would bring
Your sorrows here too rashly, and would cling
Too madly to your dull and moody cares,
And slight the glory Nature's aspect wears.—
Ah! surely such a glad and lovely spot
Cannot be fitting haunt for one whose lot
Is Grief—and whose dejected wayward will
Is to abide by that dark sentence still,

And in that heavy Shadow to remain,
And abject bend before the powers of Pain!
One who hath made that bitter choice, in sooth,
Despite that still, inspired, and smiling Youth
A faint soft light about her pathway flings,
And throws a beauty o'er all earthly things;
Since still doth Youth, 'midst Fate's o'ershadowing glooms,
Bind these reluctant brows with some few blooms,
Some scattered flowers, that, dim and pale of hue,
Are fainting for the sunshine and the dew,
With parched cups and colours half effaced,
Such flowers as could but shine amid a waste;
With broken stems, and with wan drooping leaves,
Such flowers as only weeping Sorrow weaves
To shed a pensive smile round recent Graves!
So dull and scentless, and so fallen away
From what they were ere Grief's o'er-clouding day.
But shall I then, thus abjectly consent
To dwell, beneath the yoke of Sorrow bent;
And shall I make so harsh and dire a choice,
And turn away from Hope's dear whisp'ring voice?

And say with dark Distrust, or passionate Pride,
“By my own shadowy Lot will I abide.”
No! Resignation's self should watch and wait
To snatch a kind reprieve from frowning Fate—
It is not Resignation to bow down
In still prostration underneath that frown,
'Gainst every brighter dream the eyes to close,
And court the long continuance of our woes,
Without an effort and without a hope,
Content 'mid dull Dejection's shades to droop,
And thus in dark ungracious mood to say,
“I will not more be won from Grief away,”
To embrace with shadows and with memories dwell,
And fear the touch that yet might make us well;
The stricken heart with stubborn Will to steel
'Gainst each soft touch that yet might soothe and heal—
And still to murmur, in a proud despair,
“Weeping—aye! endless weeping be my share;”
And still to each kind questioning to reply,
“'Tis Weeping—endless weeping till I die!”

To encourage and to foster in the breast
The impassioned Anguish and the sick Unrest;
To enthrone even as an idol in the Soul
That Grief to which we dedicate the Whole;
And to enshrine for ever in the heart
The Pain from which we thus refuse to part!
This is not Resignation!—'tis a tide
Of impious Passion and impetuous Pride—
'Tis our Humanity's presumption still
That must assert a choice—and have a Will!
Our fiery Stubbornness—through weal or woe—
That will not thus far and no farther go.
Our mortal Nature's weak and helpless ire,
That leads us thus to heap our funeral pyre,
And sacrifice ourselves to our distress
In luxury of delirious recklessness.
This is not Resignation—this is not
What thou serenely counsellest—sweet Spot!
With all thy soft Air-breathings light and free,
And Water-voices from the sounding Sea!

And I will list to these—and lull my mind,
And strive to be in humble truth resigned,
Nor deeper seek to plunge the envenomed dart
Which Mercy's self would pluck from out my heart—
Nor boast that Resignation must be mine,
Because my Soul to suffering I consign,
And dare to dedicate my darkened years
To vain regrets and unavailing tears!
Nor rashly cry, with fixed obdurate will,
“Let me abide by Grief's dark sentence still!”

Naples, 1834.

LINES ON MORNING.

WRITTEN AT NAPLES.

'Tis Morning! she is a glad Reveller here:
What time she speeds on her illumed career!—
And makes all the Earth her Image!—while she seems
Reflected from these rosy-running streams!
And painted on the beauty of the flowers,
And kindling 'mid the rich sheen of the bowers—
On Earth etherial, as amidst the sky
A Light—a Life—a Power—a Majesty!
But yet within that sky how wondrous fair—
How overpowering in her splendour there!
While on her Forehead's Royalty is shown
One Jewel—One—in its own self a Crown!
One Jewel—but how exquisite a one,
The World-awakening—space-enlightening Sun!
And where else glows that Sun so clearly bright?—
Within the Heaven a living Heaven of Light!

Morning! thou art a lovely reveller here;
What time thou speedest upon thy glad career;
Oh! wheresoe'er in watchful mood we turn,
Her breath is breathing, and her glances burn.
She makes all the Earth her Image—while she flies—
And to One Glory kindles all the skies!
And fair and wide her boundless magic flings,
As in an extacy of joy she springs
O'er the flushed waters of this brightened sea,
Which seems her Giant-Worshipper to be;
While every wave is smiling back her smiles,
And rolling golden round an hundred isles.
Lo! how in freedom and in might she speeds
(While nought delays her, and while nought impedes)
Along the mountains, with a foot of fire,
Buoyed by an Energy that ne'er can tire;
Earth, Air, and Ocean, answer to her call,
And bless her Presence Beatifical!
And hail her in all homage and all love,
While she doth in this light of Beauty move!

There's not a little wreath of passing cloud
That is not to her golden service vowed;
And not a lowly flower that doth not wear
Her colours now—that burn upon the air,
And blaze along the Earth, free, clear, and far,
Till all like roses—crimsoned roses are!
And not a chrystal fount that murmuring plays,
But, like a fount of fire, defies the gaze!

The Enchantress Morning—how as she proceeds
On her sweet progress, and unpausing speeds—
Brightening and brightening—fair and fairer still,
O'er Land and Sea, o'er wood, and vale, and hill—
How doth she—as with winged haste she springs
Assert her Empire o'er all earthly things,
And touch them as with keen Ithuriel spear,
Till traced in bright distinctness they appear.
Forth at her stroke they unresisting start,
Distinguished, and developed, and apart;
Forth at her stroke they start—broad, clear, and plain,
In true revealment of themselves again!—

In their own shapes and forms stand boldly out,
Nor leave the mind to wonder and to doubt!
While in her sweepy sway and mystic might,
Walks frowningly abroad the solemn Night—
And spreads o'er all the mantle of her gloom,
Dark as the clouds and shades of mortal doom.
These things may be distorted—masked—disguised—
By the foiled Watcher vainly scrutinized!
A thousand different objects they may seem,
Vague and confused as visions of a dream;
A thousand new appearances assume,
While opening seem the portals of the tomb,
To cast forth haunting shapes, uncouth and grim,
And shadows that 'mongst circling shadows dim,
As in a sea of floating darkness, swim;
Such groupes fantastical are gathering round,
Such wildering mockeries the sense confound!
Here frown a host of phantoms in our path,
There throng embodied forms of threat'ning wrath;
Here dread and overwhelming barriers rise
Before the doubting and deluded eyes;

There startling prospects lenthening out extend,
Still on and on—that never find an end!
And Nothing is, but as 'tis masked and marred
By Conquering Night—the shadowed and the starred;
All contrasts, contradictions, and extremes,
Are mingling seen, as in a sick man's dreams.
But when the enkindling and outshining Morn
Is like a new-created Angel born—
A new-created Angel brightly given
Unto the enraptured and rejoicing Heaven,
How are those forms, so changed and so disguised,
At once disclosed, arranged, and harmonized;
At once, when touched by her Ithuriel spear,
Made to stand forth—in revelation clear!
At once unveiled in that transcendant blaze,
And opened out before the observer's gaze,
Bare to the bright sky, to the sunshine bare,
Exposed in all their true proportions there.
Oh! could the Morning, with triumphant sway,
Thus—as by stroke of magic—clear away

The endless mists and shadows frowning round
Man's Universal Heart—deep, dark, profound;
Could she command that masked and hidden Heart
Forth in revealment of itself to start—
Aye! could she show, uncovered and revealed,
All that for ages there hath lain concealed,
(And much is there that is perforce even bowed
Beneath the veil, the shadow, and the cloud;
Much that weak language never could disclose,
That outward action but distorted shows.
Though Myriads share the Feeling and the Thought,
By none to light and observation brought,
Those Thoughts and Feelings of long centuries wear
The Chain of Silence, and her dull yoke bear!)
How new—how awful—and how deep and strange
The World around were—in that startling change!
How wond'rous—how o'erpowering would it be,
Could the Great Heart of Our Humanity
At once be laid in all its workings bare;
Yet who to gaze on that dread Sight would dare?

Yet who would dare to gaze on the unveiled Deep,
The exposed Abyss—could any Power but sweep
The Shadows and the covering mists aside,
And open forth the astounding Prospect wide,
And with a stroke of more than Magic chase
The clouds that clasp—the deep folds that embrace?
And thus to curious observation yield
That mighty and immeasurable field?
Earth's countless, myriad mansions of the Dead—
Her crowded sepulchres—unbounded spread—
At one wild instant open'd to the sight
With all their hideous secrets bared to light,
Might ne'er such awful fearful mysteries show
'Mongst all that lurks their lampless domes below!
That Under-World—discovered to the view
(As at the Judgement-hour—when graves burst through
Shall give their tenants up in countless throngs,
Men of all climes, and births, and stamps, and tongues)
Might ne'er a more o'erpow'ring sight present
Than would that World Unknown—if thus were rent

Its shrouding veils of gloom—dense, deep, and black,
And its dread curtains were e'en thus drawn back!
But Morning! not thy keenest brightest ray
Shall ever clear those covering clouds away—
Disperse those shadows—or display that scene.
For that a ray must shine—far, far more keen!
Far, far more keen, more dazzling, and more bright
Than any that compose thy crown of light.
Those hidden depths thou never canst illume,
Thou never canst pierce through those folds of gloom!
Alone the Almighty and All-Seeing Eye
Can dart through those dense shrouds of mystery!
And doubtless it is right—'tis doubtless well
That skill nor power should those thick shades dispel.
What spectacles of awe should we behold!
What unimagined scenes should be unrolled!
The old laurelled Wars by fervent Poets sung,
When kingly Chieftains mixed the Hosts among—
When marshalled Nations trampling trod the field,
And every breast with stern resolve was steeled,

When slaughtered victims pressed the ploughed up ground,
While clattering arms and thundering wheels rang round,
And the scythed chariots drove with deadly haste
Through those thinned ranks—by headlong ruin chased,
Those mighty Wars, that left on Earth's changed face
A terrible and sanguinary trace;
Depopulating Realms—at one fierce blow
(So copiously the crimson tides did flow
In their fast-swelling and unebbing stream,
Appalling Earth with a new Deluge-dream!)
Uprooting even whole Races of Mankind
Before their fearful shock—fierce, desperate, blind—
And in their hideous and unnatural sway
Heaven's bright Creation—in its fair array
Heaven's bright Creation—that hath proudly stood
Since Heaven approved—and blessed—and called it good!
Dark plunging as with mad and savage aim
(While fiery throes convulsed its startled frame)
Into a Chaos—gloomier than before,
All peace disturbed, all glory darkened o'er,

All Hármony deranged—all charm defaced—
All Energies destroyed—all forms displaced!
Those mighty Wars, so stormy and so dread,
Which black Destruction's gloom so widely spread.
With all their horrors, all their tumults dire,
(Such horrors as inspired the Homeric Lyre)
With all their dreadful sounds and ghastly sights,
Their barbarous revels and their murderous rites,
Were but as harmless sport—as infant's play
The pastime of a summer's holiday;
With those compared that darkly fiercely rage
In man's deep hidden heart—age after age,
Could the rapt bard from these withdraw the veil
And paint their truth—in terrible detail,
How would those wars, that shook the world of old
By lips and lyres inspired, so proudly told
In insignificance obscurely sink—
And fade, and vanish, and to nothing shrink.
Aye! could the Bard those fields of Battle sing,
And sound their terrors on his echoing string,

Their fiery struggles and tempestuous shocks—
Their deadly strife, (whose wrath all picturing mocks)
The laurelled Wars with all their fame of yore
Would wane—those dark unlaurelled Wars before!
Alas! those hideous conflicts—wild and deep—
That—storm-like through the inmost bosom—sweep;
Broil kindling broil—and feud engendering feud,
Still evermore with fiercer zeal renewed.
Alas! the ills that spring from those wild broils,
The waste—the blight—the ruins and the spoils;
The hopes obscured—the fair dreams overthrown,
The gloom—the desolation left alone.
Alas! the fearful wounds—the desperate scars,
Which they must bear who fight in those stern wars!
The heavy sufferance and the long despair,
Which oft—too oft, is their appointed share;
The aching weariness—the hollow void,
The aims defeated—and the bliss destroyed;
The unblazoned doom—the Untrophied Solitude,
The dark regrets, unbidden, that intrude!—

No deadly Conflicts may with these compare,
Save those which once, Heaven's glorious regions fair,
With uproar fierce and boundless fury shook,
When hostile arms the Apostate Angel took—
When wildly raged the accursed and rebel Host,
With haughty threat and with blaspheming boast,
Against the Embattelled Seraphim who rose,
In radiant league, to overthrow their fated foes;
While stormy Discord, with gigantic stride,
Made way through those bright courts and mansions wide—
And startling Clamour, with distracting sound,
Stirred fiercely all the Elysian Air around.
Those dark and dreadful wars can match alone
With the awful feuds to man's locked bosom known;
The stern and savage conflicts that take place
In that sealed span—a span out-sweeping Space!—
Where mighty Powers are met in stern array,
And struggle sore for Conquest and for Sway;
With deep and ardent aim—impelled—inspired,
With strong and strenuous purpose armed and fired—

Still battling step by step—and hour by hour,
Disputing inch by inch—Power ranged 'gainst Power—
Without cessation battling wildly on,
A field contested still—now lost—now won;
Now these confused and check'd, in doubt retreat—
Now once again the adverse forces meet;
Now those in turn seem scattered and subdued,
And hotly pressed, and hurryingly pursued,
While still fresh Legions to the Combat pour,
And but embroil the embroiled Confusion more—
Add to the tumult and the struggle aid,
And o'er the prospect cast a sterner shade,
Till wild disorder, wrath, and fevered strife,
Seem the conditions of this painful Life—
And in the bosom's torn and tortured core
Wake new and worse commotion evermore.
The impetuous passions and the imperious will,
Raise their unhallowed standard boldly still,
While myriad lesser instincts of the Soul
Flock round that standard as its folds unroll;

Allies by myriads, though of elfin size,
Yet full of might and fearful influence, rise,
And round the Banners of that Battle crowd;
Wrapped in a dense impenetrable cloud,
Surrounded by a close and guarded wall,
That hides from view those mystic conflicts all;
And it is well—of trouble and of care
Each hath enough in his own lot to bear,
Each hath his own ordained and ample share!
And dire and painful 'twere indeed to view
The fiery sufferings borne by others too.
Oh! if these mighty Wars resemble those
'Twixt Heaven's bright Seraphim and Heaven's foul foes,
Would that a farther likeness they might claim,
And evermore be found to end the same!—
Would that the dark and Evil Powers might fall,
And sink, and droop beneath a conquering thrall—
Would that the treacherous and rebellious Host
Might flee away—for ever crushed and lost!
And by the arms of Faith and Truth o'ercome,
For ever bend unto a hopeless doom!

But who shall rashly with presumption say
That here, where Evil hath so dire a sway,
Such glorious palmy triumphs oft befall,
Though helps divine be proffered unto all—
Too oft—too oft the impious hosts of Sin
Usurp the Empire and the Victory win!
Make theirs the Mastery—and the advantage gain,
And far and wide extend their fatal reign;
The brighter, purer, holier Powers expell,
And make the ruined Soul their lasting Hell,
For where these darkening dwell, where these remain,
There must be found a Hell of wrath and pain.

Great Nature's mighty jars, when dark and wild,
Dense thunder-clouds on thunder-clouds are piled,
Till frowns the Firmament—a solid night,
And forth the Giant tempest stalks in might;
When rave her hurricanes with headlong shocks,
And prone to Earth, the old trees, that stood like rocks
Through countless Winters, loudly-crashing fall,
And bear their blighted foliage for a pall;

When, fierce and high, her stern Volcanoes throw
Their flame-wrought banners, waving to and fro,
And light the World as to its ruin so!
When her triumphant Seas impetuous wake,
As o'er their stated bounds they sought to break,
And whelm all Nature in Destruction dire,
While sweep their bellowing Surges high and higher;
When in the terrors of their licensed hour,
Her swallowing Earthquakes tumble town and tower,
And change at once the outward face of things
With alteration such as time scarce brings
Great Nature's mighty jars, though stern and dread—
And though around a chilling awe they spread,
Are but as dim-drawn traceries, faint and slight,
Of those that in the fury of their might,
In man's dark viewless bosom fiercely rage
Through lapse of seasons, and through every age.
Yea! they are but feeble shadowings forth, and frail
Of those that there, distractingly prevail!
There—Hurricanes of more o'erpowering wing
To instantaneous life impetuous spring;

There Tempests of more dire and dangerous force
Sweep all before them in their lawless course;
And yet more terrible Volcanoes glow,
And scatter round them Wrath and wasting Woe;
And wilder Surges darkly swell on high,
And roll in threatening gloom thick-thundering by—
Nor might the mountain-rocking Earthquake spread
A fierce confusion half so deep or dread
As do the fiery Passion heart-quakes there,
That swallow all things in a stern despair.
Oh! let the Veil—unriven—unraised remain,
And spare the Vision—that were sad—and vain!
If the clear promptings of our own deep hearts
Can teach us not to act our human parts,
Then neither would the hearts of others, shown
(With all their mysteries—all their dreams—made known)
Suffice to lead us on our Earthly way,
Or prompt the parts that we through Life should play!
No! we should study closely evermore
The secrets of our own sealed bosom's core—

We have the Teacher and the Prophets there—
Would we but mark them with assiduous care,
And brood above their lessons day by day,
Nor turn with thoughtless disrespect away—
Then let the unlifted curtain, dark and deep,
'Twixt us and others' hidden Spirits sweep.

Morning! thou lovely and thou radiant Time,
Fairer than ev'n thyself, in this fair Clime!
Thou'rt still the sweetest portion of our day,
Howe'er the rest may shine with cloudless ray!
Deep sultry Noon may passionately glow,
And golden glories o'er all Nature throw,
And burning Sunset flush the Earth and Sky
With one supreme and dazzling crimson dye,
What time that Sun puts all his splendours on,
As though his Empire then were newly won!—
And dwells surrounded—conscious and elate—
With all his gorgeous Royalties—and State!
Morning thou still art—sweetest, fairest, best—
Heaven's whisp'ring Messenger—Earth's welcomed guest!

And oh! how lovely in this loveliest Land,
Where thou bring'st hoards of treasure in thy hand—
And sowest the common ground—the common air,
With diamond wealth and pearly riches rare—
Where each Elysian spot—each flowery place,
Breathes back new Beauty on thy beauteous Face!

LINES ON A FINE PROSPECT AT NAPLES.

This is a Prospect that must brightly preach
The purest truths the ennobled Soul can reach—
That Thought by Thought its upward march must lead
Unto a free and soaring height indeed!
It speaks with tongues than trumpet-tongues more clear,
Though to that Soul appealing—not to the ear—
And pours instruction through its depths the while
How sweetly, when a Sunbeam and a Smile

Are its chief bright auxiliaries—and bear
These lovely lessons deep, and pure, and rare,
To the rapt Mind's recesses, where they shine
Like glittering torches in some shadowy Mine,
Thus fair illumined with its treasures all,
And sparkling like some proud Enchanter's Hall—
That Sunbeam and that Smile so warmly smite
The wakened sense with kindlings of delight!
And what are those deep lessons?—what may be
Those lofty truths, which Sky, and Land, and Sea,
Join in unveiling to the Spirit now—
To which it doth with trusting reverence bow?
Those truths are such as lift the inner weight
From off the Soul—and light and elevate—
And link it unto dreams of loftier birth
Than any that belong to this chill Earth!
For oh! can we with watchful ardour gaze
On this enchanted and enchanting maze
(A maze of Beauties and of wonders rare,
But not without a plan profound and fair—

So that the different features of the Scene
One Unity harmonious and serene
With all their various hues of change compose,
And smoothly fair the View consistent shows—
So that these scattered splendours mingling bright
Form fixed Configurations of Delight!—)
Can we indeed with careful gaze look down
On this bright Prospect—sweetly made our own—
Nor feel—through all our thrilled Existence feel
The more than Knowledge which such scenes reveal,
And rapturously acknowledge—doubting not
The hallowed Admonitions of the Spot,
And say unto ourselves with prayer-stilled voice,
“Rejoice, my Soul!—awake thee to rejoice!”
Yea! such proud Scenes in tones o'erpow'ring speak
(To those that love Instruction's hints—and seek)
With all their triumphs of surpassing show,
Their fine free harmonies—above—below—
Of dread Omnipotence on Nature's Throne—
Yet not of dread Omnipotence Alone!—

Of perfect Wisdom—that can have no bound
Of Judgements strong, infallible, profound—
Of Mercy, and of Goodness, and of Love—
Such as alone can have their source Above—
Since here they have no likeness—here no match
On this dark Earth, where Sinners weep and watch!—
Oh! Thou—whose Heavenly and Omnific hand
Formed these fine Scenes, and fashioned this fair Land,
Arched these rich Skies, and armed them with all hues,
Their warm vermilions, and celestial blues,
And made them shine in beauty through all hours
With varying Glory of Still-conquering Powers—
And reared these lovely Hills in graceful pride
Above the azured chrystal of the Tide—
And spread these gilded and transparent Seas,
And wrought yet myriad wonders fair as these.
Oh! Thou—from whom all gifts of Good arise,
'Tis Thou that art Beneficent as Wise—
Almighty as Beneficent—and Just
As thou'rt Almighty—worthiest of all trust,

Deserving of all homage and all zeal,
Each throb of Gratitude the heart can feel—
Each strain of Adoration it can raise—
Each glow of Piety—each gush of Praise—
Thy mighty Works are telling still of Thee,
And the great Heavens are lightening up the Sea—
Ten thousand blazing truths have they impressed
On the broad tablet of its beamy breast,
And from its depths, its billows, and its springs,
That Sea responds with countless glorious things,
The Hills unto the Plains unceasing cry,
And the glad Plains with punctual zeal reply.
The breezes whisper to the listening flowers—
The floating dews give warning to the bowers—
Till all the encircling and enkindled Space
Which thought can travel, or the eye embrace,
Is as a radiant temple without bound—
And thy great Works thy Worshippers are found,
A Congregation of the Faithful met
To pour the praise they never shall forget,

A Congregation without spot or stain,
To laud the Eternal King and bless His reign!
No schisms—no doubts—no wandering flights are there—
The Atmosphere is all one breathless prayer—
Their hallowed Energies are still unspent,
And still to one deep service they are bent!—
And shall a wanderer, shall a stranger come,
And pass the doors—and press beneath the Dome—
Cold, dumb, and uninspired—where all proclaim
The living thunders of the Eternal Name—
Move listlessly along the Holy Ground,
Nor heed the sweetly solemn rites around,
Amongst those Worshippers the only thing
Untouched—unwakened—and unworshipping?
And must that Wanderer and that Stranger be—
Of All thy Works—the one most blessed by Thee—
The one the most indebted to thy Grace—
Even Man, most bound to seek his Maker's face,
Crown'd with thy Love, instructed by thy Word,
And made thy proud Creation's mighty Lord.

Bright glows the Sun—the Sun of ruddy Morn,
These scenes of boundless Beauty to adorn—
The waves of other Seas may toss and hiss,
But only sing and smile the waves of this!—
The clouds of other Skies dark signs unfold,
But these glow, steeped in purple and in gold—
The weeds of other Lands, uncouth and wild,
May by the path in tangled knots lie piled,
But even the very weeds of this are bright,
And chain the ravished Sense, and charm the Sight—
The gales of other Airs may roughly blow,
And shake the troubled foliage to and fro,
But these still softly 'midst the flushed boughs wind,
And shed abroad the scents which there they find,
But these still gently 'mid the flower-beds wake,
And but the incense from their sweet leaves shake.
The hours of other climes may harshly change,
But these still bring delights as sweet as strange.
Morn, Noon, and Even, and the star-gemm'd Night,
Vie with each other in their glorious flight!

And now while brightly glows the Morning ray,
How shines and smiles the Sun-enamoured Bay,
Like an embodied flood of golden Day!
Aye! here no roughened breakers foam on high,
And hurl back threatenings at the threatening Sky;
No angry surges that resounding sweep,
Make one wide scene of terror of the Deep,
The breakers, and the surges, and the foam,
Which cloud tumultuous tides with wrath and gloom,
These Waters of Enchantment may not know,
So smooth and shining in their equal flow,
The maddening Whirlwind and the darkening Storm,
Which other Seas so hideously deform,
Surely shall still be charmed away from these—
Thus gently courted by the amorous breeze,
Thus brightly painted by the admiring Sun,
From earliest dawn, till his proud course is done.
Yea! other Seas may frown and chafe—but this
'Tis buried in too deep and full a bliss!
Too bright the Heavens it hath to mirror back,
Too sweet the airs that its clear surface track,

Too warmly sheltering are the Hills that stand
Round these glad shores—a watchful guardian band,
Those Hills—not haughty as their brethren are,
That pile their snows against the whitened star,
But of a milder rise of gradual slope
Than those high soaring towards Heaven's radiant cope—
And of a gentler and less proud ascent,
More meekly reared beneath the Firmament,
As though at first ambitiously they rose
To leave their fair Earth in its green repose,
And then repented them and stopped midway—
Won by the beauties round in proud display—
And sunk half back upon their Mother's lap,
Which flowery folds and verdurous shades enwrap!

Oh! what a Paradise of Wonders asks
The Eye and Soul!—Oh! how the Spirit basks
In rapturous Admiration 'mid this wealth
Of Loveliness, that seems to infuse new health,
New vigour now throughout Existence' whole,
And make each pulse a sense, each sense a Soul!

Most lofty and most pure, and most unblaimed,
The Admiration thus by Nature claimed
In all her Glory—and not claimed Alone,
For her sole Self—but for a Mightier One!
Heavens of outshining Splendour—Seas of Light—
Islands of Beauty—Mountains of fair height—
Vineyards of rich luxuriance—Airs of balm—
Shores of ambrosial peace and dreamy calm—
And fields of teeming culture!—ye conspire
To enchant—to o'erpower—to teach us how to admire!
Well may ye lead the quick aspiring Mind,
Fresh as the day-spring—free as the arrowy Wind—
From strength to strength—from tow'ring thought to thought,
Till to the Heights of Contemplation brought!—
Well may ye kindle every glorious dream,
And teach the Soul victorious truths Supreme
Until—by ye first challenged and first charmed,
First touched and thrilled, first wakened and first warmed,
At length 'tis raised by Rapture and by Love,
Ev'n your bright Excellencies far above,

And darts away upon its franchised wings,
High, high o'er temporal and terrestrial things,
And leaves e'en your transcendant forms behind,
While the unwearied and uplifted mind
Soars far o'er Earth its miseries and its jars,
To mix with Heaven's crown'd Seraphs and its Stars,
And back at last in rapturous mood returns,
(While fervently with unquenched zeal it burns!)
To lend a thousand thousand glories more,
To ye—ye scenes—that wakened it to adore!

QUEEN JOANNA'S RUINED PALACE AT NAPLES.

Fair walls, in ruins rising o'er the tide,
Dismantled—but with something of the pride
Of other days—ye start from out the wave
That threatens to become your shining grave,
As might some Palace of the Ocean King,
Built by the Sea-Powers—and those shapes that fling

Bright Sea-flower-wreaths upon their locks of green,
So stand'st thou—hanging o'er the Watery Scene.
But then thou art in ruins!—dull Decay
Is sternly mouldering stone by stone away,
And that at once to mind profoundly brings
A heavy thought of fragile Human things,
That tell too plainly the old common tale
Of fleeting works upreared by hands as frail!

The Sunset streams through the dim fractured frames
O' the ruinous windows like quick-rushing flames,
With all its ruddy showers and kindling lights,
Whose crimsoned glow the sense too keenly smites,
Like Banners of Imperial Victory,
Like mantles of emblazoned Regality,
Those clear and coloured splendours richly stream,
And sparkling break and brighten, beam by beam,
Like glittering, quivering, and resplendent waves,
Forth issuing from the shades of frowning caves,
Like lamps outshining in a solemn tomb,
(By contrast so redoubling its dun gloom,)

Like chrystals in a cavern deep and dark,
Which glisten brightly till we scarce can mark
Their shape—still shifting as a subterfuge—
Like shining lightnings amid cloud-wreaths huge!
Like gilded arrows stored in quivers old,
Like glowing Sunflowers set in dusky mould;
Like radiant jewels shrined in casket dim,
Like bubbles sparkling o'er some dark cup's brim;
Like ambered sheaves in shadowy places piled,
Like sparkling swords in rent sheaths' dust defiled,
They charm and rivet the half dazzled sight,
Like meteors 'mid the Solemn Shades of Night;
Or while they weave their beams in glittering wreath,
Like young fresh smiles upon the face of Death!

The ruined Palace still adorns the Scene,
But where is the enthroned and worshipp'd Queen?
These mouldering Walls some show of pride retain,
But where is she—with all her courtly train!
Gone—with her pomps—her passions and her woes—
Gone with the extinguished Star—the withered rose,

The perished rainbow—and the vanished dew,
And the winged breeze that once exulting blew!
Joanna! I have seen thy pictured face,
All bright with beauty and poetic grace.
And I have read thy deep and clouded tale,
And fain o'er both would draw Oblivion's veil;
For the Annals fraught with darkening Mystery,
But little with that lovely face agree;
And that sweet face—by contrast, shadows more
A story that was all too dark before!

INDIAN SONG OF FESTIVAL.

'Tis an Indian hour of Jubilee,
Let the glad and the lovely assembled be!
Come forth—all ye children of Beauty now,
With glittering gems upon bosom and brow,
Come with Coronals and with Carkanets,
While the Day God over our dimm'd World sets.
Those Carkanets and those Coronals
Shall deck this fairest of Festivals!

How the jewels wreathed round the Maiden's brows
Illume their soft sheen with their coloured glows;
How the gems clasped over her gentle heart
With a fitful lustre, now heave and start
To a keener radiance—now softly fade,
As though faintly touched by a tender shade.
'Tis that every hue and that every ray,
Responds to her innocent pulse's play!
And in delicate language, mystic and sweet,
The quivering gems their rich story repeat,
And with every sparkle and tremour tell
How those pulses sink, or those pulses swell.
Lamps are gleaming o'er bower and o'er bannered bark,
O'er bamboo-work tower and flower-filled ark,
While the Dusk is now melting fast into the Dark.
Come forth—Oh! ye Children of India's Sun,
Doth the gong not your wakening Senses stun?
Tromp and cymbal announce too the revelry.
Come forth!—come ye forth to the Jubilee,
'Tis the first sweet Hour of a festal Night—
Who would fly from Pleasure, and frown on Delight?

THE SONG OF THE WANDERING TROUBADOUR.

List ye unto my Minstrelsie—
A Warrior Troubadour,
A Child of Song and Chivalry,
Wanderer o'er Sea and Shore!

Oh! I have been where turbanned throng
Of the East's Beauties daze the eye!
Where days all Sun, and nights all Song,
Make Life—Festivity!

There, in the cool Chenaur tree groves,
Nightingales die on their own notes—
Die for their bright and blushing Loves,
With the sweet sounds in their throats!

There, dark-eyed Hourii breathe through flowers
Their Souls—all Love and Light—
Fair as those blossoms of the Bowers,
And Beautiful and Bright!

So Beautiful—so Bright, are they,
That the rich Rose is shamed,
With all her pomp of proud array,
The flower of flowers most famed!

The Sovereign—the Sultana Rose—
Whose State is all her own—
A Queen with Heaven-anointed brows,
Self-dowered with Globe and Crown.

List all unto my roundelay,
Each Country and each Clime,
That laughs out to the light of day,
Hath heard my rondeau-rhyme.

I know thy splendid Court—Allemaine!
Full courtly dames smile there
With the diamond coil, and the red gold chain,
Wreathe they Stomachere and hair!

In far-famed fair romantic Spain
I have chaunted wonderous charms,
And on its stormy Battle-plain
Sung forth of War's alarms.

Nor sung alone—but with good sword
Dug my ensanguined way
Where belted Knight and armoured Lord
Have pressed the Empurpled Clay.

List, Gallants!—to my Minstrelsies,
I have traversed many a clime,
And passed through far and fair Countries
With roundelay and rhyme!

And last the Troubadour hath come
From gay and glowing France—
Where all is mirth, and light, and bloom—
The feast—the song—the dance.

And last the Troubadour hath come
From gay France, o'er the Sea—
But joy be thine—mine Island-Home!
None dear as thou can be!

Not Turkey-Land, nor proud Allemaine,
Nor any Sun-kissed Coast—
Not vine-clad France, nor Spanish plain,
Charms like thy charms can boast!

List, list ye to my Minstrelsies!—
Thus, girdled by the wave,
And severed far and wide from these,
None boasts of Sons so brave!

Now list all to my fervent lay!
Though warmer, lovelier Skies,
And Suns of clearer, brighter ray,
And bowers of richer dyes.

Though sweeter dews, and softer days,
And gales of tenderer air,
May win for those far Lands more praise,
None boast of Maids so fair—

None boasts of Daughters fair as thine,
Proud Empire of the Wave!
And all unmatched—unpeered they shine—
Thy Beautiful—thy Brave!

The Rose.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Ispahan! do I breathe thy spiced Zephyrs once more?
Long, long, have I wandered o'er far foreign shore,
But again through thy fields paved with Jonquilles I roam,
And I claim thee my City—my Country—my Home!

Ispahan!—'tis with tears that I hail thee and greet,
Yet with songs in my heart and with wings on my feet;
For the present is joy, while the past perished years
Wake the sadness of sighs—and the trouble of tears.

Thus with softened dejection and tempered delight,
I hail thee once more—ever glorious and bright—
And again through thy sweet Jonquille-fields though I tread,
For my Brethren I weep—ah! I weep for my Dead.

I must mourn—I must moan o'er the turbanned death-stone,
And give deep thoughts to ties that are frittered and flown—
Yet, my fair Ispahan! thou art not the less dear,
Since the Dead, not the Living, are all I love here.

In my young golden days of delight and of love,
My haunt was the glowing Pomegranate-lined grove,
Where the Bulbul sings still in the Sun-brightened day,
Though at night to the Cypress he wingeth his way!

Ah! 'tis thus in Life's weary and desolate night,
That we turn from the paths whose twined shades ev'n were bright,
And bend our lone footsteps in deep pondering mood
To the sunless, and scentless, and dark-shadowing Wood.

To the Wood where the Death-trees, the Cypresses frown,
Where the graves of our friends make us think of our own;
And lone in the Shadow of Memory we dwell,
And to Life's young delights bid a mournful farewell.

Yet though thus solemn thoughts in my bosom will rise,
And bring sighs to my lip—and a tear to mine eyes—
Those fond sighs they are stingless, those tears they are sweet,
I have songs in my heart—I have wings on my feet.

'Twill be joy—'twill be joy, each familiar old place
With the yearnings of unchanged affection to trace,
And to rest these tired eyes upon objects well-known,
And call back all the years and the hopes that are flown.

'Twill be joy—'twill be joy, to these scenes to return,
And the long-unconned lessons of love to relearn!
To relume each warm feeling—relink each sweet tie,
And behold all the things most beloved ere I die!

Though those feelings be faded—these ties may be torn,
Yet still Memory's dear magic shall cheer the forlorn—
So the dimmed shall be cleared—and the broken renewed—
And at one glorious Vision, the whole Past reviewed!

100

But the things most beloved, shall I see them indeed—
Shall they rise to my call—shall they come at my need?
Ah! the things most beloved—and regretted the most—
Are the things that for ever are vanished and lost.

Yes! the bower and the path still the same may remain,
But the friends of my youth, what shall bring them again?
Can even Memory restore them—the scattered—the flown—
Can even Memory now make them once more all my own?

Or if their dim forms for a moment she bring—
In a moment they are gone—on too swift-rushing wing—
Nor can fond prayers arrest them, nor wild plaints detain,
And the pleasure is lost in the cold-crushing pain.

Oh, Hope! I have known thee and found thee a reed—
And 'tis well from thy dangerous delights to be freed;
But for Memory, sweet Memory—it is but a glass,
And the forms it reflects, all too rapidly pass.

101

There bright images traced—for a while may appear
To the Life—to the Truth—soft, harmonious, and clear;
But like clouds from the Spring-skies they vanish, alas!
Ah! if Hope's but a reed—Memory! thou'rt but a glass!

Thus, ye Silent—ye Sleeping—my thoughts turn to ye,
Who lie hid beneath Death-stone and solemn Death-tree!
Whose hearts (altered hearts!) have forgotten to beat
At the approach of their loved Friend's swift hastening feet.

Forgotten by them are those glad glowing hours,
When together we met in our Kiosques and Bowers;
Clustered flowers mark the feet, and carved turbans the head,
For my Dear Ones I weep—Ah! I weep for my Dead!

Forgotten—forgotten—are all that they loved!—
Lo! how can they lie there, so untouched and unmoved?
How can they lie there, thus unfeeling and cold,
When their loved friend rejoins them, the cherished of old?

102

They are banished for ever—and darkly are laid
In the deep wormy pit—in the stillness and shade—
And the Dead have no hold—and the Dead have no home,
Save on my changeless bosom—save in the grave's gloom.

My brethren—my comrades—still, still must I love,
Your remembrance no change and no chance shall remove
From a lone, world-worn heart that loves ye laid in death,
Oh! far better than All that have Being and Breath.

And thou—my Nouzhetos!—like winged Perii fair,
Thou art still at my heart—still thy deep home is there,
Though I know thy dark eyes have lost all their glad light,
That thy beauties are Nothing—thy dwelling is—Night!

Mine own sweet Native Land—thou art dear unto me,
Though the Shadow of all thou wert once wont to be,
Though a charm is for ever withdrawn from thee now,
And a change in thine aspect I sorrowing avow!

103

Oh! how glorious thou wert in Youth's free tearless eyes,
When Earth seemed the reflection of Sun-lighted Skies!
Oh! how worshipped thou wert by this wild bounding Heart,
And still glorious my Country, still blessed thou Art!

But to eyes that have once known the dimness of tears,
No scene shines so bright but some shade there appears;
But to hearts that have once felt the sharp stings of Care,
Wheresoever is Love—Sorrow's cloud too is there!

My Brethren! the joy and the pride of my Soul!—
Shadows, Night-born from Morn's mighty Rising may roll,
But the Shadows of Death are eternal on Earth,
Yea—Departed—ye have darkened my threshold and hearth.

And with Ye half the sweet light seems banished of Day,
Ye have borne with Ye half Life's dear blessings away;
Though that light and those blessings fall not to your share,
For you know them not, seek them not, need them not—there.

104

They are lost to the Dead—to the Living they are lost—
And alas! 'tis the Living must mourn them the most!—
And for me—every Scene that was loveliest of yore,
Must more deepen the strife in my heart's wounded core.

Yet—ye sweet Jonquille-fields—and ye Pomegranate bowers,
That have touches, and traces, and tones of past hours,
Tho' no more ye may hold Earth's bright Hopes to mine Eyes,
Breathe ye should—breathe ye shall—of hopes shrined in the skies.

For in Bowers far more lovely—in fields far more bright,
All o'erflowing with rapture—magnific with light,
With all blessings—charms—transports—for souls, hearts, and eyes,
Shall I meet with my Dead—where Death cannot disguise!

Then, ye bright Jonquille-fields and ye Pomegranate groves,
Once the scenes of my Joys and the haunts of my Loves,
Tho' Grief's heavy remembrance your sweet prospect mars,
Breathe ye may—breathe ye do—of Hopes shrined 'mid the Stars!

105

Ye remind me of prospects that yet shall unfold
To the eye of my Soul—in resplendence unrolled—
The sublime golden mounts, and the starry-flowered plains,
And the Bowers where the Sunshine that fadeth not reigns!

There shall spread forth the Landscapes, still cloudless and bright,
All ecstatic of transport—prolific of light,
With all joys, pomps, and triumphs for sense, souls and hearts,
Where the bloom ne'er decays—whence the bliss ne'er departs.

Ispahan! oh, thy child hath returned to thy clime—
A weak war-beaten Wanderer—the toy of old Time;
And again through thy bright Jonquille-fields though I tread,
For my Brethren I weep—oh! I weep for my Dead.

I weep—yes! I weep—yet 'tis strange that the while
My flushed lip is upwreathed by a fond lingering smile,
And my charmed senses kindle—my cheered pulses beat—
I have songs in my heart—I have wings on my feet.

106

A MOUNTAINOUS VIEW.

'Twas a Scene of dark terrors—wild graces commixed!
Of a rugged, yet Regal Magnificence too—
And the eye of the Traveller at once was transfixed
By the noble and exquisite charms of the view.

There steeply arose the bleak broad-frowning hills,
Uplifting their heads to the roof of the skies—
'Midst the clouds—'midst the stars—'midst the storms and the chills,
Amongst Evening's grey shadows, or Morn's purple dyes.

And the Scene was not wanting in fair fertile spots,
All arrayed in the beauty and gladness of smiles,
So laugh 'mid the Desert the green grassy plots,
So bloom in the Ocean the bright bowery isles.

107

But those bleak rocky hills—hung o'er fount and o'er grove,
Those Giants of Granite—those strong Sombre Powers,
Were like Life's sternest Ills rising steeply above
The charm and the bloom of its best happiest hours.

Aye! our Sorrows are Mountains! each Grief threatening swells,
Like those walls and dread gates that round Paradise lowered,
While our joys are like sweet sunken sunny-flushed dells,
Too oft by their terrible neighbours o'erpowered!

Still our Sorrows are Mountains that ruggedly rise
To oppress all around them with far stretching shade,
Like these dark Hills that now are displayed to mine eyes—
In their cold frowning barrenness sternly displayed.

And yet to these Hills we may well think 'tis given,
By the first and the last of the Sun to be crowned,
And though bared to the blast, they are the nearer to Heaven
Thus they shield all that's fairer, but frailer around.

108

So in Life too, perchance, even the worst Forms of Ill
May thus soar to the Sunlight—the first and the last,
And in stern savage Grandeur may shield the Soul still,
Though it seem by the Strength of their Shadows o'ercast.

There are Tempests more dire than those Shadows can be,
With a thousand foul mischiefs that fearfully teem!
While the bolt and the blast are winged fiercely and free,
And dark dangers crowd thick as in Fever's wild dream.

There's a fatal Fertility worse—oh! far worse
Than the bare destitution, the bleakness, the dearth—
'Tis a splendid destruction, an exquisite curse,
From which Evils unnamed and unnumbered have birth!

The fierce Storms of the Passions—the Tempests of Thought,
Impetuous and chainless—that know not repose—
With distraction abounding—with deep horrors fraught,
These are worse than the shadowy oppression of woes.

109

The dark fruitfulness gendering a host of vain things—
Proud Prosperity's children—that spring up unchecked,
Where the poisonous weed by the perfum'd flower springs—
This is worse than the waste by no lovely blooms decked.

And our Sorrows—like Mountains though broad shades they throw,
May ward off these wild tempests and shocks from the Soul,
Our Passions—our Thoughts may be tempered by Woe,
And the storms overhead may less fatally roll.

And these Mountain-like Sorrows may spread all around
A calm temperate climate—not scorched like the wild;
There no growths of redundance impure may abound,
Stained and foul—by their own rank luxuriance defiled!

Thus our Sorrows—like Mountains tho' rugged and bare,
May yet cause a fertility glorious and pure;
Blessed streams may flow thence, fresh and sparkling and fair,
And a Harvest of stainless luxuriance ensure!

110

Oh! our Sorrows—like Mountains may radiantly win
Heavenly Sun-gifts to gild them and proudly to crown—
Those Sun-gifts undimmed by the low mists of sin—
That bright from their Source come triumphantly down!

Then still let those Stern Forms in supremacy rise,
And uprear their dread masses abrupt and immense,
Like huge Giant Steps from the Earth to the Skies—
They may yet prove our Shelter—our Strength—our Defence!

A CHINESE LOVE SONG.

Oh! bright Yeang-tcheou!—Oh! thou radiant one,
With the lustrous, and loving, and almond-shaped eyes,
'Midst the depths of whose darkness there reigneth a Sun
More Royal than that which hath Rule in the Skies.

111

Now while wandering lone 'mongst thy columned halls,
Where coloured lamps and rich vases outshine—
Or by shadowing trees and by bright waterfalls—
O speak! have I one thought—nay, all thoughts of thine?

Say! weepest thou beside those clear founts, mine own!
Which free through thy Father's proud gardens play,
Whilst I, where Caucasia's mountains frown,
In unceasing grief pine my life away?

Could thy Sire but my desolate Spirit behold,
His haughty heart might be softened at last;
Too ruggedly stern, and too rigidly cold,
Through the long-lamented and bitter Past!

Ah! why did he stamp my dark sorrowful doom,
And make me a wanderer—a wretch on the Earth?
Because that I bear not the Peacock's proud plume,
Nor boast the wrought breast-badge of rank and of birth?

112

Because the stained ball I am forbidden to bear,
And the costly pearl beads that high station proclaim—
Because these proud honours fall not to my share,
And that low is my class—undistinguished my name?

And yet tho' our dread Monarch ne'er raised me thus high,
Nor sunned my poor fortunes with favours so rare,
I will bless him, revere him, and serve till I die,
With my leal heart of love—my doom'd heart of despair!

And though thus unadvanced by our Sovereign's rich grace,
Though poor my estate, and depressed my degree,
My mind is not sordid—my soul is not base,
But even lofty as loving—bold, faithful, and free!

That proud Spirit no sorrow could wholly o'erwhelm,
To my shoulders the far-streaming war-flag I slung,
Hung high the dyed horse-hair, spear-fixed to my helm,
And mingled the Host of armed Warriors among.

113

Many—many have sunk down in death while I stood—
Oft that flag hath waved free o'er the wild battle field—
Oft my red-fluttering plume hath grown redder with blood—
The foe shrunk from the monster that scowled from my shield.

And yet why do I live—Ah! why, why am I spared,
Since I live to repine, and exist to regret?
While my heart to the Vulture of Anguish lies bared,
While the Star of my hope and my gladness is set!

Oh! Being most radiant—most beauteous, most fair,
As if like the Air-flower—the precious and bright,
Thou but livedst all on the Light and the Air—
Oh! alone on the delicate Air and the Light!

Oh! thou Child of a high and a haughty birth,
Our fortunes seem severed for ever to be;
Yet still while I breathe on this desolate Earth
My Life is my Country's—my Soul is for thee.

114

Young, bright Yeang-tcheou!—Oh! mine earliest Love,
Thou peerless Chinese with the almond-shaped eyes!
When my deep heart Death's fiery pang must prove,
'Tis for Glory and Thee that thy Lover dies!

Oh! bright Yeang-tcheou!—Oh! thou radiant one,
Full of lustre and love are thy soft sleepy eyes—
In the depths of those dark eyes there reigneth a Sun
More Royal than that which hath Rule in the Skies!

AN EASTERN NIGHT.

[_]

(ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE KEEPSAKE.)

Here the manguasteens swell—the magnolias bloom,
Chenaur-tree, banana and palm, shield Earth's flowers;
The tired musk-deer lie stretched 'neath the gum-tree's sweet gloom,
The rich Paradise-birds wing their way to the bowers!

115

The sweet winds whispering breathe while the faint twilight fades,
And the fire-flies are gleaming like gems thro' the trees,
And the humming birds'hues, shine like stars thro' the shades,
As they float to their cinnamon nests on the breeze!

Flowers filled with all odours now scent the rich airs,
Where aloes, annanas, and orange-trees blow;
The fierce forest-kings slumber sound in their lairs,
Heaven above mirrored seems by a Heaven below.

Bright glow the champaka and pomegranate flowers,
Like stars that have fallen to Earth with a blush!
And the wild bulbul's strains are prolonged thro' these hours,
Till the zephyr streams by one rich musical gush!

Oh! how this deep beautiful music of night
Is stirring up echoes like spirits around—
Till the stars—those great, glorious Creations of Light—
Are listening like lovers to love's tenderest sound.

116

'Tis the time when blown roses commence their sweet reign,
'Tis the time when dew-diamonds light palm and pine bough,
'Tis the time when the Moon seems to weep o'er the Main,
Tears trembling with light, while Heaven's crown wreathes her brow.

'Tis the time when the Love-God, the arch Manmadin,
Fills the air with his arrows, his soul searching darts,
When the Moon through the Heavens doth her bright course begin,
Straight this God begins his, through young passionate hearts!

'Tis the time for sweet thoughts—all seems thinking around,
The stars float in the skies like deep warm reveries;
Nature seems e'en to shrink from a ray or a sound,
Silence broods o'er the groves, heavens, savannahs, and seas.

117

'Tis a beautiful Night!—Oh! the Sun hath bequeathed
To the Moon his Sultana, all, all, but his blaze;
His Life, Being and Soul he hath burned in and breathed
Through the hush of an hour that requires not his rays.

Oh! we hailed him with joy on his mighty noon-throne,
While the World, like his Worshipper, blush'd at his gaze,
And he trod through the Firmaments, lofty and lone,
Till all seemed to be lost in the burst of his blaze.

Oh! we worshipped him then—and we worship him now—
'Tis his Spirit walks Earth in the reign of this Night;
Our eyes saw his Noon-pomp—Day's Crown on his brow,
Now our Souls feel his Soul's flame, its strength, and its light.

'Neath this shadowy Bannyan's green Forest of Bowers,
How sweet thus to commune with Nature and Night—
To pass in such place the Stars' exquisite hours,
Where those very Stars seem more o'erwhelmingly bright.

118

The flamingoe hath folded the fires of his wings,
Their crimsoning shadows no more flush the fountain,
He is gone to his rest like all beautiful things,
Save the Stars and the Moon, with her throne on Night's Mountain.

That Mountain of Darkness which still seems to rise
While our straining orbs strive to pierce Space with their gaze,
Yet reach but their glorious boundaries—the Skies—
Oh! one Night of Beauty! thou art worth endless days.

My heart now feels dying off into the Past
With its faint broken music—its Shadows, and Stars—
And I feel I could wish my dimmed Life but to last
While this Night is thick-rolling her thousands of cars.

The golden-coloured Champac flowers.

The Indian Cupid.

119

REMEMBER ME! REMEMBER ME!

[_]

(ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE KEEPSAKE.)

When the sweet bulbul thrills the perfumed breeze,
And crescent-crowned gleam those pomegranate trees,
And thy Caique shoots through the slumbering Seas,
Remember me! Remember me!
I passionately pray of thee!

When thou hast left this bright and blessed shore,
Perhaps to breathe its heavenly airs no more,
And home seems dearer than 'twas e'er before,
Remember me! Remember me!
I passionately pray of thee!

When the last flash of daylight is declining,
When Persian bowers are round thy head entwining,
When Persian eyes are all about thee shining,
Remember me! Remember me!
I passionately pray of thee!

120

When thou hast met with careless hearts and cold,
Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold,
Not changeless, like the loved and left of old,
Remember me! Remember me!
I passionately pray of thee!

When this World's griefs shall come to cloud thy brow,
When this World's smiles shall charm thee not as now,
When Light—Life—Love—and all are dimmed below,
Remember me! Remember me!
I passionately pray of thee!

When thy proud Soul its faults and follies mourns,
And the altered heart in thy struck bosom burns,
And Memory unto the pale Past returns—
Then most, Oh! most, Remember me!
I passionately pray of thee!

121

ON THE LATE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA.

Oh! thou! pale glorious Daughter of the Eagle!
Thou Ermined Child of Empire—scarce of Earth,
So bright of aspect—and of Soul so regal,
More Royal in thy Death than in thy Birth!

Thou stood'st sublime—even more and more exalted
As Glory ebbed around—and Grandeur waned—
Stood'st—when shocks Earthquake-like thy Realm assaulted
To Earth—but not to Circumstance enchained!

Thou stood'st when Pomp decayed and Power departed—
When strength a Nation's Hosts and Councils left—
Majestical—though bowed—though broken-hearted,
Imperial still—though baffled—and bereft.

122

The Summer-sunbursts of thy blush are vanished,
The Summer-lighnings of thy Smile are fled,
And thou, the Queen of sceptered Queens, art banished
Unto the funeral mansions of the Dead.

But though the Sunbursts of that Blush are faded,
And though the Lightnings of that Smile are past,
The Martyr's palms with Beauty's myrtles braided—
These wreathe a crown that even on Earth shall last!

The Martyr's palms with Beauty's myrtles twining,
These shall not droop—though Empire's pride departs!
And these thy radiant Memory streams enshrining
How holily within our deepest hearts!

123

SONG.

[Another hour—another hour]

Another hour—another hour,
And fixed had been my hapless fate—
Escape no more within my power,
Nay—even Retreat had been too late.

Another word—another word,
And heart were crushed, or sense were gone,
'Twere the last strain upon the chord—
The last drop on the out-worn Stone!

Another look—another look,
And power were passed, or life were lost!
The weakness from my Soul I shook,
And left thee when I loved thee most!

124

Another thought—another thought,
And all, even now, were void and vain—
The work unwrought—the task untaught,
And I thy veriest Slave again!

THE LOVER'S DEBT.

Blessings about thee ever be!
Thou that hast brightly thus for me
Unlocked a Joy-fount deep and free!

'Midst Visions of Delight I move,
And seem to tread yon fields above—
I live—I breathe—I love!—I love!

Gentlest Creatress!—thou hast wrought
For me a good surpassing thought—
Supplied a treasure—yet unsought!

125

With passionate Gratitude I burn—
Fain would I seek and strive to learn
To make thee some well-matched return.

But how—oh, how can I repay
A gift so rich—so glorious—say?
Is there indeed on Earth a way?

Ah me! there can but be one fee
Worthy to erase this debt to thee—
To teach thee ev'n as thou hast taught me!

MY HEAVENLY COUNTRY.

My Heavenly Country!—'tis to thee
My thoughts now ever gladly flee!
Far from the tumult and the toil—
The storm—the shadow—and the soil—

126

Far from the trouble and the tears
Of mortal yokes and mortal years,
My Heavenly Country!—bright and fair,
All Love and Peace—and Light and Air,
Oh! for thy raptures and thy rest—
Thy hallowed calm so deep—so blest;
Thy myriad Harps with thrilling tones,
Angelic throngs and starry thrones;
Thy golden cities—glittering towers—
And never fading changeless Bowers.
Oh! for thy long and cloudless days,
The bliss that droops not nor decays—
The unfaltering strength—the unfailing youth,
The Light—the Certainty,—the Truth!
Oh! for thy shining chrystal streams,
Thy blessed breezes—brilliant beams;
Those beams uncrossed by mist or cloud,
Which mantling Night may never shroud.
Oh! for thy Crowns and for thy Palms,
Thy glorious breathings—precious balms

127

All wounds to soothe—all hearts to heal,
Which here the Soul is quick to feel.
Oh! for the triumph—for the trance—
The glories crowding on the glance.
And for thy Scions and thy Shoots—
Thy deathless growths—thy flowers and fruits;
Thy living founts—thy swelling strains—
Thy radiant paths—thy dazzling plains.
Oh! for thy visions and thy views,
Thy roseate lights, thy rainbow hues,
Thy pure and perfect atmosphere,
Serene, and exquisite, and clear.
Ah, for what Prospects do I pine?
My Heavenly, Heavenly Country—thine!
Bless'd Prospects those—not dale nor wood
Not of the mount nor of the flood,
Not of the rock nor of the field,
There things more glorious shine revealed.
When shall they spread before my gaze,
In all their pomp, in all their blaze;

128

When shalt thou charm my longing ken,
My Heavenly, Heavenly Country—when?
And bless this wrung and darkened Soul,
Which then shall reach its radiant Goal!
My Heavenly Country! 'tis to thee
That I am fain, how fain, to flee,
To rest me from a thousand woes,
And win at last the bright Repose
Which only can be known and found
On thy divine and distant ground,
For I confess that all things here
Are doubt, and weariness, and fear,
And disappointment and distrust,
And chaff and clay, and dross and dust,
And desolation and decay,
And dark despondence and dismay;
Privation, failure, and constraint,
And wrongs, and sufferings, and complaint;
Illusion and Infirmity,
And Mockeries that for ever flee;

129

And Insufficiency and dearth,
And groundless trust and graceless mirth;
And strife and grief, and change and gloom,
Pursuing ills—impending gloom;
Disquietude and sharp distress,
And bitterness and heaviness;
Monotony and cheerless waste,
And heartless hope and helpless haste;
And yearnings vain and torturing cares,
And respites brief and long despairs;
And Slavery and Subjection vile,
And woes, and wants, and tears, and toil;
Deep trials and temptations dire,
And vain expectance and desire;
Yea, all doth seem thus void and vain—
Distraction to the heart and brain;
Yea, all things here thus gloomy seem,
And all—the Shadow of a Dream!
All, all but Pain and Vanity,
Save thee—My Heavenly Country—thee!

130

THE OLDEN TIMES.

The olden Times—the olden Times,
When lofty thoughts were not deemed crimes
Nor follies—glorious deeds!
When Valour and when Honour strove
To glorify Romance and love,
And sow Fame's splendid seeds!

The days of old—the days of old,
When triumph decked the true and bold,
And Earth pealed out their name,
When haughty feats of proud Emprize
Were done for Beauty's sovereign eyes,
And brought not scoff nor blame.

131

When Crowned Enthusiasm upreared
Her Altars, and sublimely steered
Her blazing way through Earth!
While with the wild-fire speed of Thought
The Nations the Inspiration caught,
And mighty Dreams had birth!

When the fair fee—the appointed meed
Was little thought of near the deed
Which could itself reward!
When one brave impulse nobly fired,
One glorious instinct—keen-inspired,
The Warrior—Lover—Bard.

The days of old—the days of old,
Like dust dispersed—like embers cold,
They shall revive no more!
But oh! could they one token send—
One splendid Inspiration lend,
To ours those Days of Yore!

132

How would each weak and worldly aim,
Each senseless cause, each selfish claim,
In their true light appear;
And every poor and paltry Dream,
Each narrow strife, each nameless scheme,
Their own dark colours wear!

The olden Times—the olden Times,
When, through all regions and all climes
A glorious Spirit moved!
And men with generous dealing dealt,
And proudly thought, and strongly felt—
Atchieved—believed—and loved!

133

OH! THEY WHOSE LIFE.

Oh! they whose life doth early close,
'Tis little, little that they lose!
In losing this dark world beneath,
'Tis little that they lose by Death!

Envyings, repinings, groans, and sighs,
Doubts, vanities, infirmities;
And blame, and wrong, and toils, and tears,
And failing hopes and waning years!

And heavy griefs and haunting cares,
And faulterings, faintings, and despairs;
Pangs, miseries, sufferings, and regrets—
The dream that mocks—the light that sets.

134

The whirlwind and the crushing shock,
The contact with the treacherous rock;
The livelong piecemeal mouldering there,
The drop by drop—that worst shall wear.

These—these things 'tis that they must lose,
Whose measured Life doth early close,
To whom its dark years are denied,
And things yet worse than those beside.

The snares of sin—the clouds—the chains—
The stings of conscience, and the stains;
The deep temptations evermore,
The fearful trials—sharp and sore.

Oh! little—little 'tis they lose,
Save pains and fears, and sins and woes,
Who early are withdrawn by Death
From this tempestuous World beneath.

135

And yet around the grave we creep
And weep—and wipe our eyes—and weep
And sorrow o'er the bless'd, the freed—
We that are worms and dust indeed!

HOPE.

The drowning Seaman grasps the empty air
Above him in its hopeless clearness spread,
Clutches the wave with desperation there—
Still striving—struggling on—till he is dead.

So Hope, when nought substantial meets its grasp,
Strains any Shadow fleeting faintly by,
Nor knoweth wholly to withdraw its clasp,
Till sweeping Ruin saith, “Despair and Die!”

136

THE FIRST VIOLET.

Sweet flower!—and sweeter far to me
Since that my childhood joyed in thee;
A Beauty bathes thy beauteous head,
From Youth's own years of gladness shed.

Not yet are spread before our eyes
The splendours of the vernal skies.
But flower!—enchanted flower!—through thee
All Spring at once hath come to me!

A magic charm for me thou'st wrought,
A world of sumless treasure brought—
Thou hast wafted on thy perfumed wing
At once the whole sweet wealth of Spring!

137

Yea! thou hast given, in rich excess,
At once Spring's whole deliciousness;
And verdure laughs around, and bloom
And freshness, splendour, and perfume.

But, lovely flower, not all thine own
The Preciousness about thee thrown,
A light and odour bathes thy head,
From years of long-lost rapture shed!

TO THE VIOLET AT NAPLES.

Sweet Violet! ever with fresh delights teeming,
Deep, deep, 'midst the moss droops thy delicate head;
Thou might'st seem like some lovely One slumbering and dreaming,
And thy leaves still are folded, yet Morn blushes red.

138

Morn blushes red o'er the vineyard and mountain,
The grove and the garden, the shore and the sea,
Enkindling the pathway, illuming the fountain,
And painting the stems of the green leafing tree.

Wake, Violet! wake! hath some fairy spell bound thee
While all things are wakening—while Morn blushes red,
The sweet Orange-trees whitening and blossoming around thee,
Hang their crown-wreaths of Silver and Pearl o'er thy head.

Ah! Spring scarce seems Spring, Flower of Beauty! without thee,
For what with thy breath and thy hue may compare—
Such an Atmosphere streams of Enchantments about thee,
So rich is thy vesture, thy fragrance so rare.

Art thou matched by the lilies in all their pure splendour,
Or the roses that shine like the golden-winged hours?
No! thy tint is more beauteous, thy scent is more tender—
Thou art fairest and first of the fair train of flowers.

139

Thou art dyed of one hue with the clear Heavens above thee,
Where their blue is the richest, their glory most bright;
This Earth seems to greet thee, those proud Heavens to love thee,
Thou flower of all Beauty—thou flower of delight.

Wert thou snatched from those skies by some mystic translation,
Since thou seem'st like their own lovely offspring to be?
Or, say, at the first hour of flowery creation,
Did some Seraph's sweet eyes pour their blue light on thee?

Like a Seraph's sweet eye thou art celestially shining,
When all thy deep charms are disclosed to the view,
And oh! in Spring's chaplet no flower is entwining
So perfect as thou—ever lovely and new.

But flower—darling flower!—I will own that Affection
Hath lent thee a charm which nought else could have given;
I look on thee still with a fond predilection,
Till my heart wears thy hues—and those hues are of Heaven!

140

In the days of my childhood, the bright, the enchanted,
I made thee my treasure, and joyed in thee still;
I knew the dear spots by thy sweet breathings haunted,
And felt, as I neared them, my heart bound and thrill!

Oh! think with what fullness of innocence glowing
Was the heart that could thrill at so slender a call,
Which could prize that pure treasure of Nature's bestowing
Beyond all Earth's pomps—its proud pageantries all.

Oh! the hues that it wore must have been fair and shining,
Let it wear them again then—the hues of that hour—
But, alas! the dark dyes of strife, sin, and repining,
Have too deeply o'erclouded the heart's canker'd flower.

Yet Memory—the Enchantress—the Embracing—the Enthralling,
Can the dreams e'en of Innocence bring once again
The pure hallowed feelings so sweetly recalling,
That Sin seems exorcised—and Sorrow—and Pain!

141

THE FELON'S GRAVE.

A FRAGMENT.

It was a Felon's Grave—the spot seemed drear,
And something stern and chilling lowered around—
The dark and sombre Presence lingered near,
A troubling Shadow lengthened o'er the ground.

There reigned the mysteries of a withering awe,
There ruled the horrors of a sickening fear—
These warned the heedless wanderer to withdraw,—
These checked the pious offering of a tear!

There spread no pensive peace—whereunto clings
The Heart so oft beneath Life's changeful Skies—
No solemn sense of high and holy things,
No atmosphere of sweet Humanities!

142

And yet although the spot seemed drear and wild,
Some reconciling features marked the scene,
Where Earth embosomed her frail, erring Child,
And Nature shed her influences serene.

That grave was roofed by the eternal Sky,
'Twas open to the Sun and to the Shower—
'Tis true there rose no deck'd memorials nigh,
There sprung up from the sod no tribute-flower.

That Grave was roofed by the resplendent Sky!
And Nature round displayed her pride and power—
Creation's Grand Cathedral wide and high
Rose o'er it—glorious through each changeful hour.

That Grand Cathedral not by frail hands built,
Whose chrystal walls have yet known no decay,
Whose splendid Dome with living Suns is gilt,
Whose lamp's the everlasting Torch of Day.

143

Whose never-closing Gates lift up their heads,
That through the King of Glory's Pomp may pass—
Which o'er the Universe still streams and spreads
The Eternal Pomp, which all things share and glass!

Yes! in that Grand Cathedral 'twas enshrined,
The grave of one so branded, and unblessed!
The admired—the abhorred—the good and guilty find
Alike their last long Home in Earth's deep breast!

Nature repulseth not with disrespect
The meanest or the vilest of mankind;
Maternal Earth may spurn not nor reject
The veriest outcast to her arms consigned.

The World without may cast no shade of blame
On mortal Man—the Living or the Dead—
Passive, Creation's universal frame,
Whate'er the curse piled on the Culprit's head!

144

The same reception waits the worst and best,
Though widely different were the paths they trod;
Earth frowns not on her helpless clay-cold Guest,
But leaves him to his Judge and to his God!

'Twere well if Man himself thus acted too!
All here is but perplexity and doubt!—
He boasts he reads his brother's history through,
And knows as little as that World without!

The Actions and the Conduct he may scan,
But ne'er their springs detect—their cause assign.
Be strict, be rigorous to thyself—Oh! Man!
But leave thy brother to his Judge and—thine!

Canst thou his trials and temptations know,
And pierce the inmost counsels of his breast?
Can Skill or Science the veiled motives show,
Canst thou adjust the scales—apply the test?

145

And if by Human laws condemned to pay
The forfeit of his crime or of his fault,
Should'st thou uncharitably then essay
To magnify that fault—that crime to exalt?

No, no! let Human pity sorrowing draw
The curtain then o'er criminal and crime—
No longer subject unto Earthly law!
No longer brought before the bar of Time!

To dread Eternity's tribunal borne,
There shall the Child of Earth his doom receive—
And all Earth's children at the appointed morn
Must there appear—where shall be no reprieve!

Then doth not meek indulgence best become
Poor erring mortals towards their fellow men?
And most when frowns between the sacred tomb—
Oh! surely most must it become them then!

146

This rude, lorn Grave—which for its tenant's sake
I shunned at first with shudd'rings scarce suppress'd,
Not in itself was't such as should awake
Dismay and horror in the stranger's breast!

From mine own knowledge of the truth there sprung
A gloomy feeling and a chilling awe—
A heavy cloud around its precincts hung,
But nothing there to appal or shock I saw.

The dreariment that darkly seemed to brood
Around that spot from mine own thoughts arose,
And took its colour from mine own sad mood,
There was but quiet silence, and repose!

And when with calmer gaze I looked around,
New feelings soon those feelings chased away;
A voice spoke from the green and dewy ground,
And bade me yet a little while delay.

147

Nature's immortal finger there did trace
Deep solemn truths to touch and teach the heart;
I felt her glorious Presence in the place,
And stood in silence and in thought apart—

And stood in silence and in thought, and felt
How holy Charity indeed is blest—
'Tis well to feel the softened Spirit melt,
And gently bow to Mercy's mild behest.

The sickening fear with all its horrors passed,
The withering awe with all its mysteries fled,
No more I shrunk, bewildered and aghast,
From that lone Presence-chamber of the Dead!

Ev'n, as I said before, the Grave was shrined
In such a lofty Temple and august,
It could not fail at last to impress the mind
With deep and hallowed feelings—clear and just.

148

'Twas fair surrounded like some honoured Grave
By many lovely and outshining things;
There, roll'd uncheck'd the Sunset's golden wave—
There, fluttered Morn's empearled and rainbowed wings.

'Twas visited like Innocency's Tomb,
By tenderest Ambassage of breeze and star—
'Twas watched thro' dreamy Midnight's purple gloom
By the pale Moon—borne high on rolling car.

Yea! through the lonely Night's most lonely hours
(When nought the scenery's solemn show can mar)
'Twas watched—as though by deep mysterious powers—
By Moonlight pale—and Passion paler far!

For there, one, sorrowing and deploring knelt,
Who loved the lost one with a perfect love,
No transient sentiment it was she felt—
In that alone could she live—breathe—and move.

149

Daughter of Sorrows! mourner tried and true—
Thy heavy anguish is as still, as deep,
Though thy chang'd cheek presents Death's shadowy hue,
Thou dost not murmur, and thou canst not weep.

Thine is no pomp of woe—no laboured grief—
Oh, no! 'tis Nature's own—and Nature's all—
It seeks no sympathy—asks no relief—
Content to abide by its own crushing thrall!

'Tis Nature's all, in sooth—and Nature's own—
Even like this solemn Sanctuary of death,
Where rose no carven monumental stone,
Where hung no chiselled scroll—no sculptured wreath.

Her Grief is even as her Love had been,
Deep as her Life—and single as her Soul!—
Silent as 'tis profound—and calm as keen—
It is her being's all—her feelings whole!

150

Sorrows there are, so buried in the breast,
They prompt no sigh, and they permit no tear;
The Soul by deadening ills is stunned to rest,
There dwells no wild suspense, no watchful fear!

They wrestle briefly with the inward storm,
Whose anguish thus all words are vain to speak—
Misery then earthwards weighs the Heavenliest form,
And plucks the young rose from the loveliest cheek.

They wrestle briefly with the inward storm,
Whose Souls must thus, with speechless suff'ring ache—
For ever gnawed by Grief's undying worm—
The Heart's core crushed—the Heart shall quickly break!

It was a Felon's grave—what did she there?—
That gentle, stricken, uncomplaining thing?
How could his death cause her young heart's despair,
And blight her smiling Season's opening Spring?

151

Who can reveal that pale young mourner's tale,
There kneeling speechless in her hopeless woe—
Or what would such slight chronicle avail—
The Heart's profounder History who can know?

To us that tale might seem mysterious still
Without the clue to guide us through its maze,
And would perchance but with fresh wonder fill,
Since the deep truth lies veiled from mortal gaze.

That Heart's strange workings nothing may unfold,
Strong Feeling's young beginnings none descry,
Eternal shadows still round these are rolled,
Eternal shadows round them darkening lie!

To her perhaps the Culprit might have shown
Alone his better nature—swayed by Love—
His Spirit's bright and sunny side alone,
For few or none in utter darkness move.

152

On her he might with gentlest fondness smile,
For her become the being that he seemed,
Few—none are hopelessly and wholly vile—
O'er darkest minds some softening rays have beam'd.

Or she might still have hoped on to the last—
That by such love as her's he must be moved—
Must be reclaimed—and weaned from that dark Past—
Cease, Dreamer! she was Woman—and she loved!

And Love was surely sent unto our Earth
To be for all of Heaven a voice and sign—
And oh! when once he springs to radiant birth,
He cannot die—ev'n from that birth divine!

153

THE GEORGIAN SULTANA.

She was a Georgian!—fair, and sweet, and young,
That strayed among the fountains and the flowers;
Yet listless strayed those flowers and founts among,
Though these adorned and graced the Imperial Bowers.

The young Sultana, with a vacant air,
Wandered 'mid those fair founts and fragrant flowers,
As though her heart and feeling were not there,
But even with far off scenes and bye past hours.

Still the more curious—the more scarce and choice
The growths around, the less that eye they won;
At length she lifted up a languid voice
And murmuring spoke, while still she wandered on.

154

“Yes, all is beautiful and glorious here,
What can I ask or need—what more require?
A smile of other days or even a tear—
A freer air in freedom to respire!

“Since though where'er I turn—all proudly round
A thousand splendid objects are descried,
Old memories seem to start up from the ground
And say, ‘thy heart is formed for Love, not Pride.’

“Since though the Imperial Crown now binds my brow,
And though my form in dazzling robes is drest,
Though diamonds o'er my listless heart may glow,
And rubies burn along my ermined vest,

“I feel I loved light wreaths of Georgian flowers
Wove round my thoughtless head in sweet old days,
One little dewdrop hung in Georgian bowers,
Better than jewelled crowns, with all their blaze!

155

“Oh! sweet affections—Oh! enchanted dreams—
Oh! glowing visions—ever bright and new—
Oh! bless'd delights, that past like meteor-gleams—
Oh! deep and darling hopes, that smiled and flew!

“Where are ye all?—or where—Oh! where am I?
I yet might find ye—in my own sweet Land;
But here—I nightly groan—I daily die!—
But haunted by your memories—parted band!”

'Twas thus she wailed among the founts and flowers,
And murmuring wandered—wandered murmuring on!—
A Voice of Grief in those delightful bowers,
A very Shadow in that dazzling Sun!

Well might'st thou mourn! thou Slave of a proud Fate!
Young fettered Gazelle!—poor imprisoned Dove!—
To thy true heart how dull seemed pomp and state,
For ever parted from thy Land of Love!

156

Yet change that mournful mien—that sorrowing strain,
And join at length the lightsome, festive throng;
Why should thy youthful days be vowed to pain?
Why should'st thou drag a hopeless life along?

No! deck that lovely form with curious art,
With studious care and skill come forth arrayed,
And learn to act the proud Sultana's part,
Devote thy thoughts to pomp and to parade!

Ah! wretched counsel!—could'st thou alter so—
Wert it a prosperous change—a happy cure?
Oh! no! 'twere but another kind of woe,
Less lovely, and less sacred, and less pure!

Dull Vanity and Pride have their own pains,
With nothing or to exalt them or redeem!
At times at least thou scap'st thy galling chains,
Winged on a thought, and wrapped within a Dream!

157

But their's are chains that ever, ever bind,
That cankering close round the corroded breast,
And rust themselves into the tainted mind—
Oh! could'st thou change—Say! would'st thou thus be blest?

SONG.

[Oh! bright are the gems richly twined in thy hair]

Oh! bright are the gems richly twined in thy hair,
Like quick rays of light, wreath'd with clear threads of gold—
Scarce the eye may undazzled rest momently there—
Oh! bright are those gems and those locks to behold!

Yes! rich are the jewels that shine midst thy hair,
And fair are the flowerets that laugh round thy brow;
But thine eye dazzles deeper, thy cheek shows more fair—
Then what need of these foolish adornments hast thou?

158

Oh! cast them away from thee—cast them away,
Let the World see how little to them thou mayst owe;
Let thy Lovers behold how in simplest array
Thou surpassest divinely all beings below!

Oh! rash—and unthinking! 'tis better by far
We should deem that around thee some borrowed light's thrown!
And think our proud Sun but a Glory-touched Star,
Fed and lit with a splendour that is not its own!

159

ON A PICTURE OF THE INFANT SAVIOUR.

Was the hand not inspired that thus brightly could trace
That pure Form—all a Heaven of deep Beauty and Love?
Oh! that heavenliest Form, and that heavenliest Face—
All the King and the God—all the Child and the Dove!

Oh! thou Beauteous Omnipotence! ne'er from this hour
Be thine Image of Loveliness swept from my thought—
'Tis all Majesty, Holiness, Mystery, and Power—
To one Glory Supreme—Beatifical—wrought!

Oh! thou Beauteous Omnipotence! ne'er from my mind
Shall this Vision of Grace and of Power be effaced—
How mysteriously mixed—how harmoniously twined
Are the Might and the Meekness, there gloriously traced.

And remembering this Form, can I ever forget
That our God's chosen title—all titles above,
Writ in rays of the bright Sun that never shall set,
Is the God of All Grace—and the God of All Love?

160

A MEMORY'S MEMORY.

Sweet Evening was hovering o'er hill and o'er vale,
The Night's loveliest Sister—soft, shadowy, and pale,
And gently and gradually won her mild way,
And usurped the proud throne of the gay glaring day!
And Nature was girt with a hush of repose,
And still seemed new perfections and charms to disclose,
While she lowered, by degrees, her rich sphere-jewelled veil,
And bound on, her dark zone—lit by dewy gems frail.
Then were deepening all hues of the Earth and the Sky,
Night-flower-odours were breathing through Zephyr's last sigh;
And that last sigh was dying and dying away,
Like the colouring of clouds which melts down with the day.
In tranquillity every light leaf seemed to brood,
In the green dewy hush of the hill-skirting wood,

161

And the Darkness grew ever more dense and profound,
And shed something of solemn sweet dreaminess round.
One light Bark was on the blue far distant sea—
Even that seemed in enchanted quiescence to be,
Like a Star on the breast of the Billows it shone—
Oh! the Heavens had their thousands—the Seas had that one!
Yet it charmed the quick eye from the others afar,
For a sweet Human Feeling was linked with that Star.
(Oh! how many a fond Heart, Love's long vigil might keep,
Till that Star of its gladness gleamed out on the deep;—
In its small sacred sphere what a priceless freight lies
Of affections, and feelings, and dear hallowed ties.
Oh! many a fond Heart might light Hope's kindling spark
At the bright reappearance of that fragile bark,
But the glory of Stars, in their regions above,
May win awe, worship, homage, but not our Heart's Love!)
The fair new-risen moon poured her young light around,
And just yellowed the Horizon—just silvered the ground,
Then I mused on a moment long melted and gone,
But that once like a moment of Paradise shown—

162

A moment when Life was divested of care,
(When the deep Sphery Music of Heaven thrilled the air,
And its pure Light Empyreal transcendantly played
Through the Sunshine that brightly Creation arrayed,
Yet was thrown by that clear Spirit-light into shade!)
'Twas when Joy and wild Hope were possessing my heart,
'Twas a moment too sure and too swift to depart,
And to leave no sweet likeness nor relique behind,
And yet then something seemed of that time to remind,
Though how different—and oh! how that difference was felt,
For the heart in my bosom did sorrowingly melt,
As I sadly contrasted the time that was fled
With the pale actual Time that then flew o'er my head.
Still that moment of Evening and Shadows became,
To my deep sorrowing Heart, which no hopes could inflame,
Strangely dear, with its soft gloom, beneath and above,
'Twas a moment to feel—'twas a moment to love!
All around was so peaceful, so breathless, so deep,
'Twas a moment to wish,—'twas a moment to weep;
'Twas a moment to suffer,—a moment to sigh—
Oh! a moment to dream,—or a moment to die!

163

For Life seem'd then like Nature, profoundly oppressed
With a languor of silence—a burthen of rest!
And gentle and soft the transition had been
To the cold dreamless sleep from the calm dreamy scene.
And yet surely I do that deep moment some wrong,
For to it did a force and a feeling belong
Which made Life, if more hushed, more concentered and still,
More like to the Life of free Spirit and Will!
For it shook Earth's vile dust from its bright wings away,
And was almost unconscious of chains and of clay;
For it gathered its strength like a tempest its might,
In that full brooding stillness—in Silence and Night.
And while Thought after Thought rose distinctly and clear,
It felt its own Power, and it ruled its own Sphere.
Oh! I wrong'd that deep moment—I did it much wrong—
It was full as 'twas calm—as 'twas silent 'twas strong;
'Twas a moment to think,—and a moment to trust,
And a moment to fling down the fetters of dust;
'Twas a moment to give to the Past—yet not grieve;
'Twas a moment to Love—and a moment to Live.

164

Since that time I have thought, I have felt, I have mourned,
But, alas! such a moment hath never returned;
Ne'er hath Memory my Spirit so witchingly bound,
Nor exerted a sway so serene and profound;
And if, then, I lamented and sorrowed in vain,
O'er a moment of bliss that might ne'er come again,
And if then with a lingering devotion I turned
To a moment for which I so fervently yearned—
Ah! since then but too oft have I fruitlessly longed
For that time's sweet return which I slighted and wronged!
And now, now, would I gladly be fettered once more
By those bright links which Memory wove round my Heart's core.
And though then that heart mourned o'er lost moments of bliss,
Oh! that moment of Memory was bliss matched with this!—
For her light wanes and sinks, and grows feeble and weak,
And in vain for its past lovely brightness we seek.
Yet I know few things brighter or fairer below
Than that Memory's pale Memory, like moonlight on snow!

165

Few things dearer I find in this dull World of care
Than that Memory so faint, of a Memory so fair!
And still amid Life's endless strife and loud stir,
To that Dream of a flown Dream I fondly recur,
And woo its wan images, clouded and changed,
To the Heart from all other enjoyments estranged.
Yes, I woo to my Heart,—by despondency bowed,
That shade of a shade, and that cloud of a cloud;
And it taketh the place, and it acteth the part
Of a hope, and a charm, and a joy to that Heart;
And its softness can soothe, and its witchery can win,
From the bleak World without, and the blank World within;
And it seems to my tearful and long-wearied sight
Like a fair lovely vision of gentle delight;
And it weareth the dyes—and it beareth the guise
Of a happy illusion serene, to these eyes.
Thus—thus as we farther and farther advance
On Life's gloomy march—while sweet forms that by chance
Crossed our paths, to enchant and to gladden and cheer,
Fade away to leave all things more dismal and drear.—

166

Even at last we are taught—oh! hard lesson and dire—
While we view, spark by spark, smile by smile, thus expire,
To cling as the wretch in the sinking wreck clings,
To the things we ne'er trusted before, the frail things
That but offer a longer continuance to woes
That without their vain aid might more speedily close;
And we wind the Heart's fibres round any faint dream,
Lest that poor Heart should break—happiest doom we might deem!—
When the true glowing joys it once knew are destroyed,
And its Hope is a blank, and its World is a void;
When its trust is betrayed, and its freshness is gone,
And 'tis left on this cold Earth bereaved and alone;
Then a Memory's pale Memory, with Shadows allied,
Sufficeth the heart that disdained in its pride
All that Life might desire—all that Youth should adore,
All that Earth's wealth could furnish and proffer of yore.
Ah! the rose, whose deep beauty the garden adorned,
In its freshness and fulness of sweetness we scorned,
But when hues, fragrance, brightness, and freshness depart,
The pale, dull withered leaves we hoard up next our Heart.

167

Thus, alas! the divinest of joys I have known,
The divinest of moments, whose bliss was full blown,
I scarce prized in possession—scarce blessed on their flight,
But even took as a tribute—received as a right,
And but saw all their charms when for ever removed,
Too estranged for enjoyment—too late to be loved.
Yet the moments to Memory then fervently given,
Had a glow and a bloom—such the clouds wear in Heaven
When the deep mellow Sunset is flushing its face,
And the Giant of Light doth repose from his race.
Still I deemed I was wretched, and darkly complained
Of the gloom and the sorrow around me that reigned;
And I felt I was Grief's hapless Victim and Slave,
And turned my dark thoughts to the Sleep of the Grave;
And my Heart seemed to cry with a faint bitter cry,
“'Tis a moment to dream—and a moment to die!”
But now, now I would gladly return to that time,
For it shared the deep fervour of feeling's fresh prime,
And while Fancy swift fluttered her many hued wings
O'er the soft and the half-saddened aspect of things,

168

And the Earth seemed a haunted and hallowed abode,
By beloved apparitions thronged brightly and trod.
I felt—oh! I felt—though I owned it not then,
A delight that I fear I may ne'er feel again!
And 'tis now, I with grief and with fond shame confess
That I then little knew of the truth of distress;
And I feel that deep moment when Earth could appear
Like a sweet haunted Region—a love-hallowed Sphere—
And when Memory seemed almost as strong and as bright
As Reality's fulness—a Power and a Light—
Aye! I feel that deep moment was happy and blessed,
That 'twas such as would now be, like Rapture possessed!—
That while Earth appeared linked to the calm Heaven above,
'Twas a moment to Live—and a moment to Love!
And to give to the days of the past—yet not grieve,
A sweet moment to Love—a bright moment to Live!

169

LOVE AND FREEDOM.

'Twas a warrior sheathed in shining arms,
Equipped for the Battle's stern alarms,
A Warrior Youth of the Sunbright East,
With the lance in his hand—the mail on his breast.

He mournfully leant, as in sorrowing mood,
Beside a young Maiden—by anguish subdued,
Whose quivering lip, and whose forehead pale,
Told Love's story at once—and her own sad tale!

But the fire sprang sudden and fierce to his eye—
He put on the frown, and he forced back the sigh,
And he grasped his weapon with firmer hold,
While he spoke in proud accents, far-thrilling and bold.

170

“I go from the bowers of an ignoble rest,
Now foremost in fight be my Egret crest;
Ere noon hath faded, ere twilight's fall—
Haste!—bring me my banner and Atabal!

“We will never faulter—and never fly;
We will greatly conquer or greatly die.
Dost thou dare to weep, dost thou dare to show,
Haidée!—this passion of Woman's woe?

“Let Pride in place of Affection spring,
Or at least but forbear my Heart to wring!
Wouldst thou see me a coward and traitor prove—
Oh! love me better—or cease to love!

“I have thought I loved thee—nay, none shall say
That I worshipped thee not by night and day;
But my Love shall yet deeper and warmer be,
When it burns in a Soul that is chainless and free!

171

“For oh! what is Love if it doth not spring
From Earth to Heaven upon Liberty's wing:
I call it not loving thee, dark-eyed Haidée,
Till I love thee thus—who can feel but the Free!”

OH! HOW AT TIMES.

Oh! how at times the reckless Heart
Will bid each lingering Hope depart,
And turn in harsh and angry mood,
From every still remaining good.

With stubborn agony it keeps
Its vow, and its own Life-drops weeps;
It strains to break—it strives to die—
In that stern, stubborn agony!

172

SUNSHINE AND MOONLIGHT.

Bright Virgin-Queen upon thine Opal Throne!—
Sweet Conqueress of the Night!—whose sable zone
Is cast around thy soft and lovely Form,
Thus proudly placed beyond the cloud—the storm—
Beyond the reach of Earth-stain or of blight,
As though by contrast with thy peerless light
Only to make thee shine more fairly bright,
Only to lend thee a more witching power
To enhance thy charms in thy triumphant Hour.
Bright Queen!—Sweet Conqueress!—many turn to thee
When they would waken slumbering Memory,
And fondly deem that thy pure hallowed ray
Revealeth things that shun the glare of Day.
Full many turn to thee, thou gentle Moon,
And ask of thee a favour and a boon—
What time thy delicate and pearly beams
Shine down upon the waves of quiet streams,

173

Thy soft undazzling beams, that gently throw
A dreamy radiance o'er all things below—
With which long dallying those clear waves serene
That wore Heaven's blue—or glassed their banks of green,
Enamelled o'er with graceful wilding flowers,
In the gay Sunshine's light and laughing hours,
Shall change to silver sheen, and chrystal clear,
And that Queen-Virgin's tintless livery wear.

I crave not aid from thee—thou placid Moon!
But worship at the shrine of fervent Noon!
And most when glows the splendid Sky of Day
I feel the solemn Past's deep silent sway—
Oh! 'tis beneath the golden, golden Sun
My web of Memory is most richly spun—
Her aëry tapestries and clear tissues frail
Are then best wrought—nor doth one fine thread fail;
Her floating gossamers then charm my eyes,
And catch a thousand glittering rainbowed dyes;
And if they fluttering float 'twixt me and Heaven,
By them a tenderer, purer, holier light seems given,

174

Even to its lustrous arch and radiant dome,
Where rose-tinged clouds like flowers of beauty bloom.
'Tis then to kindling Life around me start
The forms most dear unto my eyes and heart,
The forms beloved, admired, in other days,
On whose cold dust the Earth now harshly weighs.
Long have they absent—long divided been,
And oh! how welcome to Earth's softened scene.
Far have they wandered—long in darkness strayed
Through endless Wastes of Silence and of Shade—
But then—they gathering round me brightly come,
And call my wearied, wandering Spirit home;
For ah! it is a wanderer too, and strays
Full oft and long in far forbidden ways—
It too hath wandered—and hath walked in gloom,
Although on this side of the frowning tomb.
But 'mid Life's various paths are some as drear,
As full of shade, and mournfulness, and fear,
As any that chill'd fancy can pourtray,
Where the stern Grave yawns deep, and Death hath sway,

175

My Spirit long hath darkly known to roam,
And then it is that loved Ones call it home,
And win it from the wildness and the waste,
And the delusions vain it long hath chased.
Yes! it hath been a restless wanderer too,
And troublous mazes it hath travelled through,
And tracked full many a rude and rugged path,
And past o'er desert-wilds of howling wrath—
But then around, its lost Beloved Ones come,
And claim it for their own, and call it Home,
While that sweet Vision of familiar Forms
Almost atones for Fate's worst, wildest storms.
And oh! 'tis when shines forth the radiant Sun
That Vision is beheld—that Rapture won!
'Tis when the Beauty of his living rays
O'er all the landscape in full glory plays,
Those beams of splendour, that far glitt'ring shed
A brightness on the lowliest weed's meek head,
Upon the dreariest and least lovely spot!—
Oh! wheresoe'er their sparkling smiles are shot—

176

The glorious, the supreme, the matchless Sun!—
How proudly doth he rise his race to run,
How brightly doth he shed his rich Light round,
What time he touches on its measured bound.
'Tis when he flames in full effulgent pride
That lovely Apparitions round me glide—
Beneath the dazzling splendour of his reign
I hail the aëry Phantoms of the brain.
Sunshine to me is haunted—soft and bright,
Sweet Visions glance along the glancing light,
And golden memories of old lovely hours
Fill all my Soul among the noonlit bowers;
Then 'tis I walk as in a circling cloud
By feeling—love and dear remembrance bowed;
Then 'tis I calmly and serenely seem
Wrapped in the deep enchantment of a dream.
Yes! 'tis when Sunshine laughs o'er wood and plain,
I court sweet Memory and her shadowy train;
'Tis when shines forth the golden, golden Sun,
For me her web is ever fairest spun.

177

Let others then thy silvery lustre bless—
Oh! Moon—and unto thee their prayer address,
And ask thee for thy favour and thine aid
When they would call from the deep Realms of Shade
Some parted loved one—some lamented ghost—
Too long lamented, and too darkly lost.
Let others lift to thee their suppliant eyes
When on the air a brooding stillness lies,
When not a sound of living gladness wakes,
And not a smile o'er Nature's aspect breaks.
But let me evermore devoutly turn,
When richest Sunshine doth triumphant burn,
To offer my deep homage to the Past,
And court those Visions that must fade too fast.
I ever blessed that bright victorious blaze!—
Then Worlds of Magic opened on my gaze,
Then Loved Ones were most loved—Hope shone more clear,
Young Joy itself was fairer, and more dear,
And every feeling more intensely glowed,
Till all my Soul with passionate bliss o'erflowed;

178

Therefore it is that now, through grief and ill,
Sunshine to me is haunted, haunted still;
Therefore it is that in the noontide hours
I walk 'mid Visions deep and Mystic Powers;—
'Tis therefore in the Golden, Golden Sun,
My Web of Memory is most sweetly spun!

SOLITUDE.

Where the old gorgeous Heavens in Pride expand
O'er some uncultured, yet some lovely Land—
Or where they frown in stern and stormy gloom
Above Wild Wastes—that yet shall smile and bloom
Unto the Emparadising Eye of Hope—
For which fair Visions spread, bright Prospects ope—
The Emparadising Eye of Hope, Zeal, Love,
Which lends to Earth beneath and Heav'n above
A charm, a glory, and a wond'rous power,
Through every Season, and through every hour—

179

Where ancient Forests stand that still have stood,
By man's bold hand unthinned, a World of Wood,
Till Earth beneath their burthening weight seems bowed,
While huge they stretch—a solid Night of Cloud—
A mighty Darkness—a majestic gloom—
Black, stern, and frowning, as the Shades of Doom—
Or where the awful and triumphant Main
Displays his glorious, wide-unfolding Plain—
Where the Great Waters and their Powers have scope
(They that with Time and Change uninjured cope)
Vast as their stern Sublimities demand,
For Ocean reigns—the grandest of the grand—
Where the Winds peal wild music, dread and loud,
Creation's powerful Organists, and proud!—
And there comes streaming from the wond'rous Stars,
When nought the Beauty of their Mystery mars,
A high, and deep, and Sovereign Consciousness,
That steeps the Soul in its sublime excess;
A Sovereign Consciousness that not dismays,
But awes the Spirit into Prayer and Praise,

180

But with a lovely and a tender awe,
That chains the thoughts and doth the feelings draw,
Till deepens into Happiness august,
Fraught with a perfect peace—a boundless trust—
That strong, and full, and Soul-absorbing sense,
Which gathering grows intense and more intense.—
(It is a Happiness that not from Earth
May draw its mighty and its solemn birth,
'Tis worthy of a Mind and Spirit free,
Worthy the Sons of Immortality!
Worthy the Heirs of the Everlasting Heaven,
The upraised, the blessed, the loved, and the forgiven!
Unmixed with passion, unalloyed by fear!—
The happiness of some diviner sphere,
It well may with its sainted glow, appear!
Oh! blessed beyond the happiness of this—
Being and Feeling then are deepest Bliss—
We draw in joy with every rapturous breath,
And not the frail joy of this world beneath,
Dashed with suspicion—darkened with regret—
And joined with feelings we would fain forget.)

181

Where the green Beauty of bright spicy Isles
Smiles in lone Ocean—deeply, gladd'ning smiles;
Where those sweet knots of fairy Worlds apart
Shine, like enchanted Edens of the heart;
Or where the enormous rocks on some wild shore
Rebellow, echoing to the tempest's roar—
Frown back its stormy shadows, and defy
The thunders of the Sea and of the Sky!
Where the dread Mountains stand, sublime and lone,
Rising through each distinct and differing zone,
(In those great, glorious, wide-extended Lands,
Where the Everlasting Hills in Giant bands
Sweep down from Sea to Sea, outstretched, immense,
In their huge pomp of Stern Magnificence!)
And while Earth at their feet shines bright and fair,
Their cloud-raked foreheads tower all bald and bare,
Uncrown'd of odoriferous flower or herb—
Yet in their haughty barrenness superb.
All Climates, Seasons, Natures, they embrace,
Summer and Beauty live around their base—

182

Above, dim woody Regions intervene,
And deeper features mark the changing scene,
Then growths more scant and stunted, line the ground,
And vegetation seems to languish round.
And where the mighty Mount soars higher still,
The air is edged with an eternal chill;
Till at the farthest point, the loftiest crest,
Perennial Winter dwells, in horror drest;
While icy peaks, and domes of blinding snow,
Glare coldly on the smiling World below.—
Or where mad Cataracts come sweeping down,
Whose deafening trumpets sound—for ever blown
Without a moment's pause, and shake the Skies,
While still from Earth to Heav'n their loud notes rise
Unchanged, as ev'n the Sphere's Dread Harmonies!
The fearful Cataracts, that rush and rave,
And thundering roll—a whitening World of Wave,
Where Nature and where Solitude unfold
Their glorious stores—their treasures spread unroll'd.
By Mountain, or by Forest, or by Sea,
Or Wilderness—or lonely Regions free—

183

Or in far Islands—or 'mid stubborn Rocks—
Or near the Cataract—whose jarring shocks
Disturb the solid Earth—whose deafening roll
Enters the eternal—the immaterial Soul!
There let the Poet-Spirit proudly be,
For there alone shall it be glad and free!
Let the Poetic Spirit hasten there—
Let the rapt Mind to these make swift repair—
There shall it find its proud and lofty sphere,
There shake off worldly care and worldly fear—
There—there it shall cast down the chains of Earth,
And burst at once into sublimer Birth!
And break at once to purer Worlds away,
And blaze to brighter Being—freed from clay,
And live a Spirit's high and glorious life,
With new delights and strange enchantments rife!—
While streams a breathless Consciousness sublime
Of things that own not the controul of Time
Throughout the deep, wide, boundless Infinite,
And the Soul's mighty thoughts are link'd and knit

184

With wond'rous and unutterable things,
And freely rise on glad and fearless wings!
And far doth the unincarcerated Mind
Leave narrow doubts and grovelling griefs behind;
All truths, all glories, and all mysteries high,
Seemed bared then to the Spirit's unseal'd eye,
And the wide Earth and the o'er-roofing Skies
Form one vast Universal Paradise!—
The Dreamer's Paradise—divine—supreme—
And oh! what Worlds may live within a Dream!
Enchanted and Soul-kindling Solitude!
By thee are hearts with Heavenly thoughts imbued;
Thou yieldest a Bliss, pure, hallow'd, and refined,
Attempering and aggrandizing the Mind,
Heightening its aims, ennobling its desires—
Thy peace can purify its wildest fires!—
Its poor ambitions and vain cravings all
Submit to that sublime and gracious thrall;
Thou canst soothe down each harsh unequal mood,
And bless the Soul with pure celestial good.

185

Therefore—where Solitude and Nature reign,
Whose glorious annals are without a stain—
Where the' old and gorgeous Heavens shine down superb
On the deep Waters that ne'er felt a curb—
Where the rough Wilderness doth wide expand—
Where flow bright Streams thro' some uncultured Land—
Where Mountains soar aloft—where Forests frown—
Where tumbling Cataracts roll thundering down—
Or lonely Islands smile amid the Seas,
With emerald slopes, and with far feath'ring trees—
Or rocky Coasts resound with Ocean's roar,
And Peace seems banish'd from the iron-bound shore—
There let the bright Poetic Spirit fly,
From Earth to Heaven—from Time to Eternity!

186

THE DELIGHTS OF IMAGINATION.

Oh! 'tis a deep Delight to conjure round
(What time the Mind unburthened and unbound
Springs to its native strength—its natural sway)
A lovely host of things—that float away
Only to yield their place to lovelier still,
That Earth and Air with joy and beauty fill.
Sweet Beings gaze on us with dream-soft eyes,
Beneath whose lids a depth of sweetness lies,
Fair eyes, that bluely gleam those lids below,
Like half-blown violets breaking from sunn'd snow;
And flute-like voices, faint and murmuring, wake
Soft echoes in our hearts, that answer make
Unto the music which themselves have wrought,
The melodies of Feeling and of Thought!
For those are fairy beings of the heart,
And strong Imagination bids them start,

187

Arrayed in Truth's fair form—Truth's vivid glow,
To wean us from the graves and gloom below;
And if bright Faith illume our mortal years,
Those Beings smile like Visions from the Spheres,
And every beam within their blissful eyes
Then lights our every thought unto the skies;
And every tone within their dulcet strain
Lifts us above our earthly doom of Pain;
For only, while from worldly things apart,
In kindling mood swells high the fervent heart—
May we, the oppressed, the o'erwrought, the o'erwearied, know
Serene Exemption from the stings of Woe!

Imagination!—Fairy of the Soul!—
What golden clouds about thy pathway roll,
And wrap us round as in a dazzling shroud,
A Heavenly Privacy of Sun and Cloud!
Since, oh! thy Clouds are made of Sunshine all—
A Heaven-like Privacy—a splendid thrall—

188

Even Passion, link'd with thee, leaves Earth behind,
And soars on high with more of burning Mind,
With less of dust and darkness—than defiled
Before his wond'rous nature, proud and wild;
With less of dregs and dross—a mightier thing,
More blest with pure, true Wealth—more free of wing—
And though indeed the clay-swathed Child of Earth,
Yet consecrating that—his place of birth,
Until the Universal World he makes
An Universal Shrine, o'er which there breaks
A glorious Light from Heaven—another Light—
Another Sun than that which flames on sight—
A Light intense as clear—and deep as pure,
That while the Soul exists shall still endure!

Imagination!—Sorceress of the Mind!—
Set free by thee, the quick thoughts unconfined
Shoot the dread gulphs that yawn and frown around
(Those gulphs of mystery knowledge fails to sound)
And all about them—o'er those gulphs so dread
As o'er the fair World they encirele—shed

189

Unsparingly their living treasures fair,
Till all is radiance—all is Glory there,
Pure, precious Sungifts—dazzling rainbow dyes—
And many a Vision that sublimely vies
With proud Creation's animated Scene,
(When clouds and shadows frown not dark between
Its pomps immortal and our mortal sight,)
They scatter round them—strong, and full, and bright!—
So burst the freed thoughts from their icy bound,
When thou dost wake them from a trance profound.

When Night gives way to Morning's Beauty—hark,
While thrills the clear air to the mounting lark,
How mingle with his fine and happy strains,
Yet loftier, livelier tones—diviner veins
Of music that those harmonies unchecked,
With finer, fuller breathings intersect!
It is thy voice, Imagination—thine,
That bids new numbers with his strains entwine;
In thine own self art thou a Seraph choir,
Earth is thine instrument, high Heaven thy Lyre.

190

How dost thou with thy matchless minstrelsies
Outsing the rolling Spheres that thrill the Skies,
The full-voiced Spheres, that take up with their Hymn
The Strains of Cherubim and Seraphim!—
When Sunset kindles all the blushing West,
And Earth is wrapped as in a regal vest,
Deep dyed with many crimsons—whose rich shades
(For here the tint flames darklier, there it fades,)
Burn with a changeful Beauty evermore,
Till the bright hour rolls by and all is o'er,
And Earth and Heaven mourn o'er the death of Day,
Veiled—solemn-suited—girdled round with gray!—
How doth thy mighty spell, the deep and warm,
With more than Magic suddenly transform
The lifeless Pageantry of Clouds above,
To living masses that breathe, act, and move.
Perchance there seems to spread a Field of War,
With staff and banner—and with steed and car;
There steel-girt Warriors' arms flash back the day
(The crimson day, that dies in Heaven away!)

191

And so profoundly dost thou rule the Mind,
Till the Sense acts with thee and it, combined
(O'erstepping thus its functions—and thus won,
To mix in that sweet treason thou hast begun)
That not alone by thy rich trammels bound,
Are we thus mocked by sight, but mocked by sound!—
We seem to hear the clanging hosts engage
On that far field, that wide and wond'rous stage,
Till loud the Artillery peals—Death's hollow chime—
The Battle-thunder's tumult pierced sublime
By lofty Battle Music!—rolling proud
Through the deep uproar, swelling long and loud,
And the Air is thrill'd with conquering Harmony,
And living Echoes leap along the Sky,
Then ever and anon, with furious speed,
Rings loud the stamp of the impetuous Steed,
(Who feels the fiery war in every nerve,
With panting chest and vein-swollen neck, whose curve
Is as a living arch of triumph, decked
With glittering trophies, while he bounds unchecked

192

'Mid the confusion, on his haughty course,
With desperate energy and thundering force;)
Then, on the sudden, all is changed; behold
Some stir, some trifling movement unforetold,
Hath instantaneously transformed the scene
From what so lately it had brightly been.
But lo! while that away is swiftly rolled,
Another full as splendid doth unfold,
Though haply more irregularly wild,
While towers and tents appear together piled;
The panting War-horse paws no longer there,
But scaly Dragons cut the crimson air,
And cumbrous Elephants, encumbered more
With weighty trappings, whose raised trunks explore
The troubled element as if in fear,
In all their huge conspicuousness appear;
And mighty monsters, nameless and unknown,
'Mid the confused and changeful scene are shown,
Like the old Behemoth of boundless size,
And join that fiery conflict in the skies!

193

And evermore the bright disorder grows,
Far, far and wide the unmeasured prospect glows,
With all its tints of purple and of rose.
Myriads of Warriors to the combat press,
While fails the eye beneath that rich excess
Of endless glory—yet doth ever seize
Fresh glimpse of objects stranger still than these,
Till all the blazing scene grows grey and cold,
And one dim wreck of splendour we behold!

Oh! the unbounded Empire of the Mind,
The wond'rous treasures in its holds enshrined!
And, oh! the Infinite Sovereignties of Thought!
To which Earth's noblest Kingdoms are as nought;
With all their greatness—all their proud display,
Their wealth, their strength, their glory, and their sway!
The Infinite, dazzling Sovereignties of Thought!—
On Earth what wonders hath great Knowledge wrought!—
How mighty Wisdom hath, with powers profound,
The Secrets of Creation learned to sound—

194

How hath the indefatigable Mind
The treasures reaped, in Nature's bosom shrined.
But Thou! Imagination—though perchance
Thou hast not pierced, with deep and thoughtful glance,
The Mysteries of the Universe Sublime,
Nor to proud Science's heights aspired to climb,
Nor traced Great Nature's high Eternal laws
Up to the point where Angels even might pause!
Thou hast a Universe all, all thine own—
A Shadowy Universe—thy Realm and Throne!
For there thou brood'st in all thy boundless State
(While thy winged Ministers beside thee wait)
A Presence every where! and all around
Thy Regal Canopy, without a bound,
Doth gloriously—immeasurably spread,
In one unbroken splendour o'er thy head.
Gorgeous and Infinite Sovereignties are thine,
And sagest Thought may never pierce a mine
More rich in costly spoils than that which thou,
Imagination, with the star-wreathed brow,

195

Claim'st for thine own, with unexhausted veins,
Bright as the Galaxy in Heaven's lit plains;
Rich as Hesperian fruits—Pactolian sands—
For treasure grows beneath thy gathering hands!
Thy Kingdoms are of Air and living Light,
Clad in immortal Glory!—smooth and bright;
Outstretched like Summer Seas thy realms extend,
Smooth, smooth and bright—on sweeping without end,
Like Summer Seas—clear, glittering Summer Seas—
Yet, oh! far lovelier, far more fair than these,
Without Horizon or surmounting Sky!
Their own sweet Heaven—of Sunny radiancy!
Gorgeous and Infinite Sovereignties are those
O'er which thou reignest in glad and proud repose—
But one stern Foe thou hast—worst Foe to thee—
A Host in strength and power—Reality!
How doth her fatal dire approach destroy
Thy stately triumphs and thy splendid joy;
How do these Glorious Apparitions fade,
Which crowded to thy call, in light array'd—

196

The Visions of another World and Life—
When she appears—with Joy and thee at strife!—
When Dreams that erst so brightly seemed to be,
Fair Crowning Revelations—deep and free,
Of rich mysterious Truths fleet fast away,
Like unreal Ghosts that fly the Light of Day!—
Cold, strong Reality!—she harshly brings
Her frosty fetters for thy bubbling springs;
She scatters far thy proud and priceless stores,
And blights the Beauty of thy golden shores.
How doth she veil at once thy rich Display,
And sweep thy blest illusions all away,
And check the flight of each far-soaring Thought,
Rife with glad hope—with boundless rapture fraught,
And through the dazzling Mazes of its Dream
Lead back the Mind—shorn of each Magic beam;
No more, like some deep Instrument, to raise
Immortal Strains of Gladness and of Praise
To the o'erruling Heaven, (whose Mighty Power
Bestows the transports of its Crowning Hour),

197

Those Strains that scarcely seem to be its own,
Such lofty meaning breathes through every tone.
Aye! listening to itself, it well may deem,
Borne on that Harmony's deep rolling stream,
That those triumphant songs—those conquering lays,
Which high the thoughts o'er Earthly things must raise,
Are the Eternal Melodies that roll
Through the Eternal Mansions of the Soul—
The Music of the Heavens!—the Heavens above—
That almost melt to those deep strains of Love—
The Music of the Heavens!—that thrill and ring—
The Music consecrated to their King!

Imagination! let me know once more
Thy kindling presence as I knew before,
Though dark Reality at length must come
To chase thy glories with her own cold gloom!

198

THE HAPPY LAND OF DREAMS.

When we are wanderers in the Land of Dreams,
The Land of cloudless stars and waveless streams,
The Land of golden temples, chrystal towers,
And bright enchanted fruits and deathless flowers,
How do our floating thoughts appear to be
Mixed to one Strain of perfect Harmony!
Yes, then the quickened, unencumbered mind,
That leaves its cares, and doubts, and fears behind,
Rejoiceth in Itself—and finds a voice
To tell out to Itself it doth rejoice!—
Then freed from Earth's sepulchral wastes and glooms,
A Melody of Thoughts that Mind becomes!
Till while it hearkens to its own sweet strain,
Which gently doth enthrall it and enchain,
It feels the rapture that ne'er knew a bound,
And dreams of Angel-presences around!

199

And who shall say that Angels may not stoop
From Heaven and gather round—a glorious groupe—
To listen to those thoughts, that, pure and free,
Flow to one rich celestial Melody,
Like that bright Saint—haunted by Seraph throng,
That loved the Echoes of a Mortal Song—
We may be circled round by Shapes divine—
While pours the Soul its deep-toned Music fine!

What happy scenes to our rapt senses rise,
While golden slumber on the tired lid lies,
If Fancy and if Feeling strongly reign
O'er the impassioned Heart—the enkindling brain,
Bright Heavenly Hopes with Earthly Memories sweet,
There richly blend, and exquisitely meet.
Yes! Heaven and Earth together mingling seem,
In the dear rapture of that blessed Dream,
When Earth wears hues of beauty to the eye,
Caught from the glorious realms of Light on high,—
And Heaven—the glimpsed and glowing Heaven, the while
A sweet familiar look—an Earth-born smile!

200

Aye—by fair Visions of Elysium blessed
Shall be the Soul—by Love and Faith possessed,
By Fancy and by Feeling finely fraught,
By Virtue tempered, and by Nature taught,
When golden Slumber, in its beauty lies
Upon the lids that shroud the wearied eyes!
And still those Visions shall more clearly glow,
And, crowned by wing'd Imagination, grow
Lofty and beautiful as white-robed Truth,
Pure as the Stars—e'en bright as the Heart's youth.
(For that alone is Youth!—ere one sweet light
Hath been withdrawn into Affliction's night,
Ere one deep feeling hath been crushed away
In quick decrepitude and forced decay!—
Oh! the Heart's youth—how oft doth that depart
While all is young—except, except the Heart!
How oft hath that irrevocably flown
Ere Life's full strength and treasures are our own,
Ere its more ripened Seasons have matured
That frame where dwells the Immortal Soul immured)—

201

Dreams! Summer-sunshine Pageants of the Heart!—
Joy—Glory—Hope—Light—Love—how soon ye part,
That should for ever stay, when actual things
Are full of thorns, and cankers, and of stings—
(Yet oft ye leave—Oh! golden Dreams!—behind
A glowing freshness, living through the Mind,
And freshening o'er the fainting, failing Heart,
That ceased alone beneath your smiles to smart!)—
Lovely in your developements ye are!
Restorers of the emotions pure, which Care
May have subdued, or weakened, or repressed,
Though once of glowing truth, and warmth possessed.
Regenerators of Life's Energies!—
Renewers of the Hope that hidden lies
In the Heart's closest core, for, loath to part,
Hope seeks the inmost chamber of that Heart,
When storms are sternly gathering far around
(What time harsh Disappointment comes to wound)
And dwells therein unknown and unavowed,
Like a young Sunbeam burning in a Cloud—

202

Till something calls it forth—once more to play
In light and life—to rend its shining way,
And burst at once from Darkness into Day!
Oft, oft by happy dreams 'tis thus call'd forth,
Oh! happy Dreams—what words can speak your worth—
What language can your loveliness unfold—
Bright luxuries—never to be bought by gold—
Peace to the troubled and the oppressed are ye,
And rest to those long-toss'd on Life's rough Sea!
Unnumbered fairy-gifts 'tis yours to grant,
Love to the Lorn ye are—Wealth unto Want—
Health unto Sickness—Brightness unto Gloom—
A respite to the Wretch who shrinks from Doom—
Power to the Weak—and Cheer unto the Lone—
And freedom to the Slave, who lives to groan—
Balm unto Pain—Youth unto Age—and Sight
Unto the Blind—and to the Sad—Delight!

Dreams—Dreams—Oh! ye are most precious to the Soul,
When to one Harmony ye wake the whole,

203

A perfect melody of thoughts supreme—
While Heaven and Earth to us become a Dream—
The Sun Eternal, and the Stars Serene—
The Firmaments—the Sea—Creation's Scene—
All Wonders, Glories, Elements, and Powers,
Become the Vassals of its dreaming Hours!
And the Universe within our deep thought lives,
Robed in the splendour which that deep thought gives,
Etherialized into a World of Soul,
While yet the Spirit through whose regions roll,
Those Mighty Visions in their boundless Pride
Becomes as 'twere a Universe beside,—
And acts Creation to Itself—as though
Sun—Stars—Earth—Heaven—might be transmuted so!

Then 'tis that Angels stoop—or seem to stoop—
From yonder Heights, to form a radiant Groupe
Around the Slumberer's place—from realms above,
The Realms of Triumph, Rapture, Life, and Love—
Descending in their Beauty and their Might,
To Sun themselves within these Dreams of Light,

204

To hearken to these thoughts—whose deep, low song
Vies with the strain of the Celestial Throng—
And so their Heaven awhile they deign to find
Within the vast sphere of the Human Mind—
Within the precincts of a Mortal's thought,
With kindling ardour and strong fervour fraught—
Within the dreaming Spirit's glorious trance—
The Spirit bowed before their burning glance!—
And borne on its melodious thought's bright stream,
To find or form a Heav'n within a Dream!

DEATH AND INFANCY.

My Baby-brother!—'tis long, long ago
That I saw—bitter sight of dreariest woe—
Thy little form of pale beauty laid
In Death, and in funeral robe arrayed!

205

I gazed on thee—sweet one!—so pale and chill,
Oh! breathlessly Beauteous—but Beauteous still,
And whispered thy name in thy senseless ear,
I whispered, yet knew that thou couldst not hear!

I kissed those sweet lips that poured no breath,
Nor shrank from that contact with awful Death;
Thy pale little pulseless hand I took,—
Still mine own young nerves neither shrank nor shook.

Oh, Death! though then I first looked on thee,
Thou worest a Heavenly mien to me—
Nor fear chained my pulse, nor checked my breath,
Tho' then 'twas I looked on thee first, O Death.

My childish sorrow 'twas most I felt,
As close by the coffin I weeping knelt;
And thought 'twas the darkest and deadliest doom
Thus soon to be borne to the dull deep tomb!

206

And I trembled not, then though I sorrowed much,
Nor shrank, O Death! from thy sight or touch;
And still the heart in my bosom cried,
“Oh! Child!—sweet Child!—would for thee I had died.”

The Beauty thy lifeless aspect bore
Made my Love yet deeper, my Sorrow more;
And still I thought 'twas the heaviest doom
To be borne thus soon to the Grave's dull gloom!

My Baby-brother—now things I know
That may let me think no longer so—
The World I thought then a World of Light,
I have found a World but of Death and Night!

I sorrowed for thee—for thee I mourned—
While the tears down my cheek fast flowing burned—
Oh! had I known, all that now I know,
For myself I had wept with a wiser woe!

207

My Baby-brother—to thee was given
A cloudless Earth and an early Heaven;
To me—my Baby-brother!—to me—
All that hath taught me to envy thee!

SWEET BOWER!

Sweet Bower! to thee I haste once more—
Long loved—but ne'er more loved before!
For absence—trials—grief and fear—
These—Childhood's cherished things endear!

When conversant with Life's harsh strife,
And all the pangs and pains of Life,
We learn then truly how to prize
All Childhood viewed with loving eyes.

208

'Tis then we feelingly compare
Its joys, so free from doubt and care,
With those maturer joys—which still
Are mingled with too much of ill.

And all that then we prized and loved,
Favoured and cherished and approved,
We doubly love—till won from pain
We learn to love Ourselves again!

This heavy Heart may come no more
Dancing and bounding as before—
But in its thoughtful stillness swells
A Love that ne'er with Childhood dwells.

Too many smiling things divert
Sweet Childhood's light and leaping heart—
Joy, Hope, and Fancy, there abide,
And many a beauteous Dream beside.

209

But Joy, and Hope, and Fancy bright,
And all beside that poured Delight,
Forsake us as we onward move,
And leave—behind—but Love! deep Love!

We lose—in all beside we lose,
Exchanging for sweet pleasures—woes
For hopes—dim fears, for smiles—dark tears,
But gain in thee—Oh! Love—by years!

No more with happy, thoughtless heart,
Can I return as I could part—
And full as happy, thoughtless strain—
Yet, Bower, to thee I come again.

Not now to sing thy starry flowers,
Fostered by Sun and sunny showers—
Those living scents—those laughing blooms—
Thy breezy haunts—thy leafy glooms—

210

No!—Summer other eyes may please,
With beams, and birds, and buds, and bees;
She hath a rival now with me,
A Summer-shine—of Memory!

Those singing birds—those blossomed trees—
Those flowering borders—buds and bees—
For me are now in vain—in vain—
At least they wake but loving pain!

Those birds must vainly strain the throat,
My heart responds with no light note;
These flowers and rays must vainly smile,
My heart is dark as Death the while.

And thou too art not as thou wert,
Changed, but not changed like my poor heart;
Thou art not as thou wert—Alas!—
I am not—that which, once, I was!

211

Sweet Bower! some altering hand hath been
Too busy with thy still bright scene—
Oh! still 'tis bright—that scene; but here—
Within this heart—all, all is drear!

Thou art not changed like my poor heart—
But yet—thou art not as thou wert;
Thou art not what thou wert—Alas!
And I—I am not what I was!

WAKING DREAMS.

Sleep's Dreams are fair, but fairer Waking Dreams,
When lost in its own self the Spirit seems
To wander at its own glad will—far—far—
While here it finds a Cloud, and there a Star—
A gorgeous Cloud of Mystery—a rich gloom,
Flushed like the deepest Sunset's crimson bloom!

212

A glorious Star—unknown, unseen before,
That lights its way to thousand thousands more!
Now doth it meet with some exhaustless Mine,
Where treasures without name or number shine;
Now with some ever fresh and living Spring,
Which all around appears bright wealth to fling!
Yes! fair are Slumber's Dreams, but lovelier still
Those Waking Dreams, which we may shape at will—
Those Waking Dreams, crown'd, heightened, glorified,
By the rich Sunshine kindling round in pride,
Which melts itself through the unconscious thought,
Till the Outward World and that Within are wrought
Together to One Glory—and the whole
Becomes—One Heavenly Universe of Soul!
Moments grow then to bright Eternities,
The thoughts roll on like stars through cloudless skies!
Oh! Waking Dreams—as we in Life advance
More rare becomes the rich ecstatic trance,
Stern, strong Realities around us close,
And those Realities too often—Woes!

213

Our thoughts become absorbed in other things,
Each day some dark and mournful lesson brings,
And we have countless claims upon our time,
And move—poor Exiles of the Enchanted Clime—
The Sweet Enchanted Clime of Fancy then—
Our Country is the World—our Comrades, Men!—
We must resign the Starry Dream-Land fair,
And the bright Beings that we met with there!
Our hours are given to care, our heavy hours,
Not told by diamond Sands—nor marked by folding Flowers.

THE MOURNFUL GUEST.

I passed through the Hall—
Bright and joyous seemed all—
But one Form drew my rapt looks there;
Not all from the grace
Of a matchless face—
But the fixed look of frozen Despair!

214

The look of Despair
That aspect did wear—
It was that chained my long-lingering gaze;
I turned from the rest
To the pale, lorn Guest—
'Twas my pity she won—not my praise!

I might not reveal
What I learned to feel
While I gazed on that joyless brow;
No deep words could tell
What I felt too well,
What I strongly felt then, and now!

But these fond alarms
Sprang not from her charms—
(Though perchance they might fan the fire)
Nor the dazzling display
Of her pompous array—
For all royal was her attire!

215

Not her queen-like grace,
Nor her beauteous face,
Then so drew and so fixed my sight—
'Twas to see her stand there,
With that look of Despair,
Like a shroud around Sunshine and Light!

I turned from the gay
That crowded the way—
To that desolate Being I turned—
In that proud festal room
Fixed and sealed was my doom,
And my heart with Love's fervency burn'd.

With a tremulous tone
Then I asked of one—
Who had followed her steps thro' the Hall—
That pale Being's name
Who had lighted the flame
In a heart that had long scorn'd Love's thrall.

216

How the accents did flow
(Distinctly—though low)—
Of the answer he gave to my words—
Through my Sense to my Soul,
Till they maddened the whole,
And thrilled harshly my heart's quiv'ring chords!

Oh! the pale, mournful Guest
Was the Queen of the Feast—
(Wretched Victim of cold heartless Pride!)—
That lorn Being so fair,
With her sad hopeless air,
It was she, was the Palatine's Bride!

Still she haunts this crushed heart,
Which thro' Life will ne'er part
With that Vision of Sorrow and Love—
Still I see her stand there,
With her look of Despair,
Although now she's a freed Saint above!

217

THE TWILIGHT TIME.

It was a silent and a lovely Time,
Earth, Air, and Sky—steeped in a calm sublime,
Appeared to lie as some vast Picture lies—
Like their own Images in lifeless guise,
Yet in that Stillness void of stir and strife—
In sooth there was Intensity of Life!
Not such as lightly to the Surface springs,
But such as dwells in the deep Heart of Things—
Full—fervent—wond'rous—silent—unrevealed,
And yet not chained, or weakened, or concealed—
But only to be felt and understood
By one exalted to a rapturous mood,
Then is such Silence loftiest Eloquence,
And Revelation glorious and intense
Such deep concentered Stillness! then we know
And feel a Life which through our own doth flow—

218

A Life not such as on the surface plays
E'en like the far-diverging scattered rays—
But like the Sun's deep quenchless heart of flame,
That ever burns—full, perfect, and the same—
This is the Life that strong, deep, mighty, lone,
Flows keen through ours—Ah! is it not our own—
Our own Existence, that released from thrall,
O'erflows the Universe—and quickens all?

Such Beauteous Moments—Beauteous Thoughts awake
And from the Soul its Mortal burthen take—
Then Visions are vouchsafed to watchful Eyes—
Deep Hearts thrill with mysterious Ecstacies!
In the declining Twilight's shadowy hour
There is a Truth—a Beauty and a Power—
There is a solemnizing Influence deep,
That wakes the Heart—yet lulls its Cares to Sleep!
Then 'tis the Soul becomes a Spirit indeed!—
And seems to put aside its Earthly weed,
And shine out in its own sublime array,
The Glory and the Brightness of the Day!

219

Beyond our clouded Destinies we climb—
There is such Might in the still Twilight Time.
Yea! Mighty Soul!—then free and strong thou art,
And quick to feel art thou—oh! fervent Heart!
From heart and Soul are drawn, in that fine hour,
Long-hidden feelings, full of truth and power—
Press'd like the juice from ripe fruits of the Vine,
From out the Soul is Inspiration's Wine!—
The wine of rich Emotions strong and clear,
Intense and pure as Love's first pearly tear,
That sparkling living Wine—a spring unspent—
In no frail Earthly Vessel pour'd and pent!—
There is a solemnizing influence sweet,
In Twilight's lovely hour—so fair and fleet—
Then Fairy-treasures to the mind are given,
And soothed is the opened Heart—long bruised and riven;
And Fairy-dews then quench its fevered thirst,
And calm the doubts and fears it fondly nursed.
Oh! no such power is in that radiant Time—
The glowing hour of rich and rosy Prime,

220

When wakes the World-rejoicing Lord of Light,
To walk in all the rapture of his Might!
What time the Lark mounts fearlessly on high,
To flood the Air with ringing Melody,
And clearly tunes his ever-grateful song,
Whose living lightnings leap the skies along,
(Keen Music-lightnings piercing heart and sense,
Long-flashing—and far-spreading and intense;
Arrows of silver sound—o'erpowering sound,
That but with Ecstacy of Wonder wound!)
That Music of the Monarch-sun which seems
Brought forth from that veiled source which prompts his beams,
As though the Harmony and Light were one—
Together issuing from his burning throne!
Oh! Twilight's hour is still a mightier hour
Of deeper influence and of finer power!—
Then, wond'rous Visitants around us come
That surely never owned a Mortal Home,
Fair as the Moon's young Majesty serene,
Throned amongst Purple glooms—a radiant Queen—

221

So beautiful—so exquisite—so bright,
With such deep looks of never-fading Light,
That we might almost think from Worlds above
Those Heavenly Spirits of undying Love,
The matchless Seraphs—first and fairest—came
To kindle Earth with their own Holy Flame—
They whom no glorious Spirits can excel,
Of all who in the Eternal Mansions dwell—
The Seraphs—whose divine and deathless eyes
Have evermore—Oh, wiser than the wise!—
Streamed with a Fire of Adorations pure—
With Love that hath endured and shall endure;
The Highest of the Heavenly Nations bright—
The purest of the perfect Sons of Light!
Oh! do these haunts our Hearts to quicken there
Deep Feelings such as they supremely share?—
Till spiritualized our thrill'd Hearts grow,
And our Imaginations—as they flow
Through all Creations—till most brightly shed
Around our Light—so dark—our Life so dead,

222

A clear, transparent and transcendant glow—
A glorious Sense of Being here below
Seems then to be!—and o'er ourselves we are raised,
Because we have adored, and loved, and praised!
Then o'er the ample tablet of the Mind
Ten thousand forms of Beauty are designed,
For ever there in lovely might to reign—
Stamped softly, yet for ever to remain—
As brightly traceable—and so our Thought
For after times—with rich delight is fraught,
And never wholly parts with all its gains,
In such deep moments when 'tis freed from chains—
When o'er our clouded Destinies we climb,
Such Power there is in thee—sweet Twilight time.

223

AH, ME! HOW MUCH I PITY THOSE.

Ah, me! how much I pity those
Who know not Love's delicious woes—
Who careless and indifferent move
Through this dark World—but lit by Love!

Who know not how his griefs can be
Worth every vain Felicity!
Who think they walk in shining light,
Wrapped all the while in clouds and Night!

Ah, me! how much I pity those
Who dwell in such abhorred repose,
Who such a Peace ignoble share—
A Peace—the feeling Heart's despair!

224

I pity those who nothing know
But selfish joy and selfish woe:
How narrow their dull world must be;
How little can they hear and see!

For Love is still the Power, the Sense,
Life, strength, Thought, knowledge, spring from thence;
And if deep Love they may not know,
Their Wisdom's nought—their Weal is Woe.

I pity those who dream of Bliss
'Mid shadows where no substance is—
Who want the smiles my Love gives me,
To reach the Adored Reality!

Ah, me! how much I pity those
Who know not Love's too precious woes—
Who want the smiles my Love gives me,
To reach his dear Reality.

225

Those smiles worth all the world—those smiles—
Love's sweetest Lights—his richest wiles—
Worth all the boundless World to me—
Ye Loveless—how I pity ye!

I TURN TO THEE.

I turn to thee when I would weep,
Mother of silent Sorrows deep;—
Pale Memory! I must turn to thee
When I would shed fond tears and free.

For, oh! there is a weight—a chain
Upon my heart—around my brain—
And the stern Present, hard and cold,
Such sweet relief doth still withhold!

226

Let me remember how of yore
I felt unto my Heart's quick core,
While every feeling that I felt,
In tears or smiles did glow or melt!

And thus remembering—not in vain—
(Freed from that weight and from that chain)
Oh! let me pour—unfettered pour—
My long-crushed feelings forth once more.

Mother of Mighty Sorrows deep—
Pale Memory—teach me now to weep—
Let me upon thy bosom rest,
And shed those tears too long suppress'd.

227

THE CHERISHED LOT.

My Lot is fixed—shall I complain
If it be Joy—or it be Pain—
Since oh!—if this or that it prove—
At least it ever must be Love.

And if—oh! Heavenly Providence,
I am doomed to draw but Grief from thence,
I feel I so shall love my Grief,
I shall not wish e'en for relief!

Be but that Bitterness mine all,
Nor let o'er thee its shadow fall,
And well the burthen I can bear—
Though darkening—darkening to Despair!

228

Be all that Bitterness mine own—
So long as Grief is mine alone—
So long as it may touch not thee,
What Grief can harm or trouble me?

Then let me joy my Lot is fixed,
Come weal—come woe—come both commixed,
At least that cherished Lot shall prove
One deathless Destiny of Love!

THOUGHTS ON OTHER WORLDS.

Oh! Thoughts—oh! Dreams—oh! communings supreme
Above all mortal thought—all earthly Dream—
Oh! Glorious Visitants—Etherial Guests—
Whose presence Love's quick consciousness attests,
Bright Contemplation—proud Companionship,
From our raised minds their worldly gloom to strip,

229

To enfranchise and to illumine them—behold
Sovereign are Solitude and Nature old!
Then we exist to nobler purpose far
Than when engaged in Life's tumultuous War—
Companionship and Contemplation proud!
Which none enjoy amongst the Worldling Crowd.
Oh! the deep Truth of Nature and the Light,
The Beauty of Creation and the Might!
The Eloquence and Mystery of the whole—
The life, the force, the feeling, and the Soul.
Nature! thy Scenes—thy Stores are ever new,
Bathed in the freshness of Heaven's living dew,
Anointed with the oil of Gladness still,
What change shall mar thee with Decay's foul Ill?
Thy mighty Fountains still exhaustless play,
Thy glorious Flames are kindling day by day;
Thy wond'rous pulses beat, nor know to pause—
For evermore endure thy steadfast laws;
And when we turn from Vanity and Strife
To thee, and live in thy Stupendous Life,

230

Unnumbered sources of Delight we find
To exalt the Emotions and to melt the Mind—
The Emotions and the Affections to upraise,
And melt the thoughts to gratitude and praise.
Oh! mighty Sources of Supreme Delight,
And endless Contemplation full of Might,
Find we—to exalt, to purify, and bless,
And cheer with high and boundless Happiness,
Great Nature! in thy lofty paths and pure—
A Happiness which shall unchanged endure!
Then—then—even thou and all thou hast are ours—
The Elements and their undying Powers,
The worlds of light and all their phases fair,—
The worlds that sparkle through the azure air,
The mighty Seasons and their mysteries all,
These, these, and thou—even thou our own we call.
Thou'rt then our own—and all that is of thine—
And our deep thought then makes thee more divine!
Yes—when we walk forth in unworldly ways,
And quit the busy scene—the social maze,

231

Nature and all her attributes sublime,
The lore, the treasures, and the works of Time,
All truths, all charms, all mysteries, and all powers,
Are then our own—the Universe is ours!

In such deep moments we are surely blest,
And the great Soul hath gladness for its guest!
But oh! there is a loftier Joy than this
There is a nobler and a deeper bliss;
There is a Joy as pure and more profound,
A Rapture deathless and without a bound,
A trance of Gladness yet more rich and full,
That never can exalt the cold and dull—
A grander, higher, heavenlier Happiness,
Which is but lost in its own dread excess!
It is of other Worlds the mystic sense,
O'erpowering, and absorbing, and intense—
That strange electrifying Consiousness
Whose glorious fulness doth so richly bless!—
The intoxicating Inspirations strong,
Which bear the yielding Soul with them along,

232

And all the Ecstacies that thus are brought
Unto the adoring Heart—the impassioned Thought;
Keen Ecstacies, that never could from Earth
On visible Nature draw their wond'rous birth;
Keen Ecstacies, that lift us, as on wings,
Above the influence of all mortal things—
Beginning and developing in Love,
For things immortal, and for Worlds above.
Of all the Visions that e'er cross'd the brain,
Of all that o'er the Imagination reign—
That ever haunted the deep Human Heart,
Which, which doth still the sweetest strength assert.
Oh! brightest Vision, fairest, most divine
Of all that o'er the raptured Mind can shine,
Deep Vision of the Heavenly Kings of Love—
This reigns supreme all other dreams above!
The Seraphim—the radiant Seraphim,
By these all else seems lifeless—dull, and dim;
The Seraphim—those deathless Beings bright,
For whom Love is the Life and Love the Light!

233

Whose Immortality's of Love alone—
The deepest Worshippers round Heaven's dread Throne,
They pour their Spirit's mighty Melodies
(Like waves exhaustless from unfathomed Seas)
Incessantly that blazing Throne around,
Till ring the Spheres with richer swells of sound!
The Heavenliest of all the Heavenly Things
That bear the immortal Crown and wear the wings!
Their vast Existences—the deep and high,
For ever deepening—heightening gloriously!—
Their keen Intensities of Feelings strong,
All musical—still wreaked on rapturous Song!—
Yet their great Love, so wond'rous and so wide
Seems vain and void, a Mightier Love beside,
The Love Almighty—far beyond all thought—
Oh! who shall sum the triumphs it hath wrought!
Those Beings who but breathe the breath supreme
Of uttermost Adorations—in one Dream—
One burning Dream of zeal undying tranced,
From Ecstacies to Ecstacies advanced—

234

They are but novices, but learners still—
Howe'er they feel the Impulse and the Will—
But faint Reflectors of the Almighty Love,
But panting Emulators of the Dove!
The All Divine and Everlating Son,
The blessed Saviour of a World undone.
Though all their glorious Strength on Praise they wreak,
And strive their Love to show—their Zeal to speak,
Their breathlessness of Adoration deep,
Is poor and light (howe'er their Souls it steep
In rich bright fervours mighty and profound)
Compared with that Almighty Love—the crowned
With Sacrifice astounding and immense,
A Love indeed unbounded and intense.
Though on deep Worship all their Souls they wreak,
Weak is their zeal, and its Revealment weak
With that High Love compared—all truth and light—
Which passeth understanding in its might—
The Love of Him who unto them hath given
The Eternities of Happiness and Heaven,

235

The power to worship, and the will to adore—
And oh! to those less worthy, more, far more,
A Gift beyond all Gifts, whose costly worth
Makes all beside a darkness and a dearth!
That Gift—Himself!—Himself—Oh! sacrifice—
Oh! Gift beyond all measure and all price!

Yet though their Love must of such Love fall short,
Those radiant Worshippers in Heaven's dread Court,
Immeasurably adore—intensely feel,
And kindle with a bright and burning zeal,
While their unfathomable smiles still prove
How bless'd the precious labour of their Love!
Systems and Ages melt like snow-flakes round,
While they by that deep Love are girt and bound—
Their ecstacy of zeal can know no pause
From all Creation, turning to its Cause!—
From all the Universe for evermore
Still to its Author, turning to adore!
Round them unheeded Suns unnumbered shine,
And Scenes are spread—deep, dazzling, and divine!

236

Their Heaven is all within—for there they see
The unshadowed Image still of Deity?

Oh! grandest, loftiest, noblest Happiness!—
Oh! glorious joy—in mystical excess!
Triumph of Bliss—surpassing and supreme!
To which all Earth's delights are as a Dream—
Even those delights the uplifted Spirit knows
When 'tis allowed to escape from worldly woes—
Received into great Nature's glad Repose!
When all itself to her it brightly gives,
And in her Life stupendous—breathes and lives.
Yea! even such bliss is left far, far behind
By the unassisted, self-awakened Mind!—
When borne on high by magic Powers—its own—
It soars beyond the Visible—the Known—
And dreams of other Worlds—ne'er yet made clear
To outward sense—barred still from eye and ear.
Oh! Joy, that doth most richly, purely bless,
Keen, brain-electrifying Consciousness,

237

Profoundest triumph of unfettered thought,
To which its earthlier triumphs are as nought—
Most glorious trance of Bliss—which now can know
Who wear the dull chains of the World below—
Exalted Rapture—fresh from yon bright Skies
When moments grow—divine Eternities!
Each thought becomes a World—a living Star,
And rolls in crowned Magnificence afar!—
While all Creation but appears to be
A Veil 'twixt us and the Infinite Mystery—
Then do we feel, thro' Heart, and Mind, and Frame,
A Joy, that hath in this World's tongues no name!—
Oh! Joy beyond all Joys, in rich excess—
Oh! grand, and deep, and glorious Happiness!

238

PITY AND LOVE.

Child of the Sun!—his brightest Child!
And wouldest thou hear the Stranger's tale—
His wrongs so deep—his griefs so wild—
Ah! no, 'twould make that rich cheek pale!

And oh! bright Offspring of the Sun,
I feel, if thou sweet Pity give,
By thy compassion more undone,
I yet again may love and live.

Then let me the dark truth conceal,
And struggle still, and suffer on,
Again to learn to hope and feel,
Would be again to be undone!

239

“Stranger, your sorrows will not last,
Forget your Fate even now awhile;
The Present must become the Past,
Or if you weep, or if you smile!

“Yet tell me why thou seek'st our shore,
Only to wail, and grieve, and sigh,
While all beside admire—adore
Our Clime, our Earth, our Air, and Sky!”

“Bright Sunlike Daughter of the Sun!
Fair Child of these Enchanted Isles!
May thy young Life by Fate be spun
Into one lustrous web of smiles.

“For me—for me—I can but weep—
Torn from my home—my Heaven of Light;
No joy from thy fair Earth I reap,
Though sweet its flow'ry stores and bright.

240

“For me—for me—I must despair,
Driven from my home—my Heaven of Love;
I sorrowing breathe thy perfumed air—
Shrink from thy very Heavens above!”

“Ah! say, why leave thy native soil,
Thy home—thy Heaven of Love and Light?
Say—did she frown on thee—whose smile
Made it a Heaven thus fair and bright?”

“Lady, I thought her lofty mind
Was formed of lovely thoughts and grand,
I thought her heart was soft and kind,
Even as her beauteous looks were bland.

“But though on me she never frowned,
But oh! far worse—deceiving smiled,
Her fickle faithlessness I found,
Too long had my weak heart beguiled.

241

“And then with tortured Soul I turned
From those false wiles and looks so bland,
And while with jealous wrath I burned,
Forsook my fair, fair Fatherland!”

“Stranger! thy sorrows move my soul,
Too dangerously and deeply move;
Forgive these tears that downward roll,
And show the Pity that I prove.

“Stranger! forgive these swelling sighs,
Thou would'st not my compassion move!—
Never before unto mine eyes
Did Pity seem so like to Love!”

“Lady, I am indeed undone—
Where'er thou art my Heaven is there;
Thy smile must be my own bright Sun,
Thy breath—thy breath my Native Air.

242

“Thou'st healed—to deeplier wound my heart
Thy Pity hath my soul unmanned—
My Native Soil is where thou art—
My Country—and my Fatherland!”

IF GENTLEST SUFFERANCE.

If gentlest sufferance and endurance meek
Of cold neglect, or notice yet more cold;
If fond humility that doth but seek
Thy form—thy worshipp'd features to behold;

If generous, deep, disinterested zeal,
That ever seeks but thy all precious good;
If fond devotion to thy dearer weal,
And thoughts that but on thee unceasing brood;

243

If an unbless'd but uncomplaining Love,
A deep idolatry itself that scorns—
Still feeling the Idol—far its flights above,
While thus its own unworthiness it mourns;

If these can win thee—No, vain dream! begone,
These cannot win thee—cannot touch thy heart;
None are thus taught to Love—and none thus won,
Love's a spontaneous growth—not raised by art.

HOPE!

Once, once, how my Spirit triumphantly rose,
And challenged Life's troubles—defied its worst woes;
But now Earth's desolations have weigh'd down its wings,
Yet Hope's Nightingale still in the Wilderness sings.

244

That Wilderness wild into which it hath sunk,
This World's Wilderness cold, from which long, long it shrunk;
How unlike the bright fields of the glad azure air,
Which it haunted of old ere it struggled with Care!

Once, once, how my Heart swelled, elated with youth,
As open—as ardent—as cloudless as truth;
But each pulse now is check'd by a stern icy hand,
Yet Hope's Star still illumes it, that bright Star and bland.

Once, once, how the Sunbeams of Gladness were mine,
(Ah! in happier eyes still they laugh out and shine),
Yet if Hope, Heav'nly Hope, but remaineth mine own,
I will cease to regret all the dear raptures flown!

245

THE LOVELY LAND.

'Twas a Land where Divinities (such as of yore
The nations combined to exalt and adore)
Might well walk in Beauty, enraptured and glad,
In the smiles of their fair immortality clad!

All blue were its Heav'ns—all clear was its Air—
And ten thousand enchantments and witcheries were there;
But something seemed wanting to perfect the whole,
It was like a fair Form—fair—but lacking a Soul.

There is one thing—all Sungifts and blue Heav'ns above,
That floats round the Land like a Spirit of Love,
That makes Earth one wide mantle of Sunniness wear,
But that one thing, alas! it might not be found there!

246

'Tis the Spirit of Liberty, glorious and bright,
A Spirit of Love, and a Spirit of Light;
Ah! with that such sweet Land were too beauteous and fair,
And the Paradise lost—were restored to us there!

A SWEET VOICE.

A sweet voice, a clear voice, a soft voice, 'twas I heard,
'Twixt a whisper and warble seemed every dear word;
It was soft as the Echo that haunts the lone shore,
Oh! when shall I hear its low music once more!

Strange—how strange—that a whisper like that should destroy
All my peace, all my hopes, all my comfort and joy;
The moment its sweet music first struck my ear,
I felt 'twas the whisper of Fate—full and clear!

247

FAITHFUL LOVE.

Were I borne to some purple and flowering Strand,
Where fair Nature appears in her sweet unworn prime,
Where the Beautiful blends with the glorious and grand,
Where bright is the scenery and lovely the clime;

Where cloudless and fervid shine still the clear skies,
Where the beams of the sun seem more golden and bright,
Aye! where Nature's rich draperies have yet lovelier dyes,
And all is Enchantment, and Glory, and Light!

Oh! were I now borne to so lovely a land,
Would the haunts of my infancy e'er be forgot?
Oh! dull were the fair clime, and bleak the bright strand,
Compared with one favourite and long cherished spot.

248

And canst thou e'er think, my Love!—canst thou e'er think
That a tie yet more sacred could ever be torn?
That rent could the bond be, and shattered the link
Which so long and so fondly my true Heart hath worn.

Though the Brightest of Beings enchanted my sight,
And the Fairest of Faces 'twas mine to behold—
Like Natives of Paradise—Visions of Light—
Brightly cast in a pure and an exquisite mould.

Though all Graces that charm—and all Beauty that warms
To attract and to enthrall me, were radiantly met
From the fairest of Faces—the finest of Forms,
Would I turn to the Loved One I ne'er can forget.

Still! though others may charm for one moment the gaze,
Yet, oh! yet—though like all we deem Angels above—
Dim the cheek's roseate tint—dull the eye's sunny blaze,
With the Memory compared of the features we love!

249

Then fear not, Beloved One!—oh! no, never fear
That the bright charms of others can win me from thee;
I may smile back their smiles, but each thought, sigh, and tear,
All for thee—ever thine—must unchangeably be!

THE DEER OF THE FOREST.

'Twas a deer of the Forest rushed by fleet and light—
In his fair antlered pride—in his free graceful might,
And the Earth echoed not his step's fast beating rain,
And mine eyes sought to follow his swift course in vain.

I might scarce mark his beauteous and delicate form,
As he passed like the lightning that gleams through the storm,
While his eyes dark refulgence rolled, wild and more wild,
As he bravely dashed by, like the whirlwind's wing'd child.

250

'Twas a Deer of the Forest!—I saw him again,
But all ghastly with wounds and all feeble with pain;
How heaved his proud chest, and how panted his side—
Oh! where was his might and his brave fearless pride?

Poor Deer of the Forest!—how many like thee
Go forth in the morning—glad, buoyant, and free,
And ere night fall sore stricken, the spoiler's doomed prey—
Their strength and their joy but the tale of a day!

MINSTREL FAME.

Oh! a dangerous thing is Minstrel Fame,
Its gifts the nothing of a name—
And those dread crowns that twine the Lyre,
Crowns wreathed of asphodel and fire!

251

Deep are the sufferings which it brings
To him who feeleth as he sings—
He who Earth's sympathy would claim—
Feeling for Feeling—finds but Fame.

Those—those who tremble—those who thrill
O'er his impassioned pages, still
Think of themselves, and not the Bard—
And Fame must be his cold reward.

Dark is his Destiny—alas!
While fast his glorious Visions pass;
Too much he feels—too much he knows,
And strives with proud and splendid woes.

Alas! he feels more than the rest,
And wears deep Passion's venom'd vest,
And breathes a nobler, fierier breath,
To sink in one cold, common Death!

252

ONCE! ONCE!

Once—Once—Ah! who on Earth but once must richly have been bless'd,
Though now the Heart beats faintly in the sad and lonely breast;
Once—once they revell'd in bright Hope, they nursed Joy's fairy dream,
But Hopes are borne away by Time—like rose-leaves down a stream.

Oh! the dear Once of our crushed Hearts—when all look'd bright below—
The Once of our long-troubled Hearts—unfired—unfreshened now—
And lit but by a fevered glow—a fitful wavering Light,
That doth but more recall the days—when all was more than bright!

253

Aye—our unfired—unfreshened Hearts!—for sameness, dearth, and gloom,
Make them in cold monotony, their own pale ghosts become—
No fervent hopes, no glorious dreams, to cheer these Hearts forlorn,
At once they are haunted and they're lone—chilled, parched, and deeply worn.

Dark—turbid, clouded, flow the streams—Life's deep and mighty streams,
Once, once so pictured o'er with Hopes, Enchantments, Triumphs, Dreams—
Alas! Once, Once—how beauteously—how brilliantly did Life
Shine with bright Phantasms evermore—with every Promise rife!

Once! Once!—Ah, Folly, let the Soul in resignation rest,
And let the deadened Heart remain unwakened in the breast—

254

Once—Once perchance more bless'd we were—but now we draw more near
To that Eternal Home, where smiles are chased not by a tear!

HAUNTS OF MY CHILDHOOD.

Haunts of my Childhood—I retrace once more
Your smiling paths—and make them all mine own;
But now—o'er every scene so bright before,
The shadows of a sorrowing heart are thrown!

All—every thing is changed—the flowers heaped there,
Once made of Sunshine and of Beauty all,
Something of gloom and dimness faintly wear,
And fade—for me, they fade long ere they fall!

255

The breezes that of old in Music played,
In lovely Music and in loving Mirth,
Now lend a heavier gloom unto the shade,
Free gales—that pierce all hidden spots of Earth!

Whence comes the plaintive sadness of their tone,
Each breathes some mournful message ere it part—
Methinks their mournfulness is scarce their own,
Caught from the Echoes of a sighing Heart!

They gladly run their fleet, far aëry race,
And wake all Nature with their whispery call,
And rifle every solitary place
Of treasured sweets that else were wasted all!

Winds! ye may pierce Earth's keyless holds, and thence
Draw fragrant treasures that enshrouded lie;
But to the heart, quick, fervid, and intense,
Ye pierce not, save to mingle sigh with sigh!

256

Haunts of my Childhood—ye were ever fair,
But fairer still than ever now you seem,
Despite the mournful gloom you faintly wear,
Seen through the cloud of a departed Dream!

Never hath Morning lit a spot more dear
When shining forth in all her rosy grace;
Nor Twilight smiled—faint smile most like a tear—
Mysterious—solemn—o'er a lovelier Place.

Haunts of my Childhood! ye are far more fair—
More Eloquence is from your Silence won,
Because ye faintly catch and dimly wear
The Shadows—the Echoes of a Heart undone!

257

A FAIR SPOT.

Clouds—Clouds I pity ye, wing'd Clouds!—because ye must depart
From this enchanted, lovely scene, this Temple of the Heart!
How often have I envied ye, as ye shot and flew along—
But now wing'd Clouds I pity ye, with a pity deep and strong.

Say, on all your journeyings long, your breezy pilgrimages wide,
Did ye ever mark a fairer spot in Spring's sweet vernal pride?
In Heaven-touch'd mood, ye mourners come—Ah! hither come and kneel,
Forget to doubt and grieve, yet not to love—to love—and feel!

Clouds—Clouds I pity ye, thus borne full rapidly away,
Though proudly ye may shoot along in free and scornful play;

258

But were I you, soft shadowy Cloud, that now in sight appears,
I would melt down o'er this lovely spot in a shower of sparkling tears.

It is a place where ever seems sweet Melancholy shrined,
Yet here the Heart at once must feel both softened and resigned—
Oh! hither hasten, mourners sad! in Heav'n-touch'd mood to kneel,
Forget to groan and weep, yet not to love—to love—and feel!

COLD WORLD!

Cold World! unkind thou art
Unto the feeling Heart—
And leav'st it lorn and lone,
Kinder thou'lt be—Grave-stone!

259

Through rolling years, as hours,
Thou'lt screen from Sun and Showers—
Through circling hours and years,
Save from more wasting tears!

Better thy frozen gloom,
Oh! dark and dreamless Tomb!
Than this World's Meteor-smiles,
This World's vain, hollow wiles!

Cold World! that Tomb shall yet
Crush me and my regret,
And turn—Oh! pitying Skies!
The tear-springs from mine eyes!

Through rolling years and hours,
'Twill screen from outward showers;
Through circling hours and years,
From inward wasting tears!

260

LIFE'S FIRST GRIEF.

Oh! happy times!—Oh! lovely years!
When even the gush of rainbow tears
Was void of wounding pain—
When kindly words and gentle eyes
Could rouse Affection's sympathies,
And bind Love's tender chain!

Too soon those seasons bright did pass,
Stricken in golden youth, alas!—
My heart was in its truth!—
And Love grew cold—and Life grew old,
And heavily its doomed hours rolled—
Stricken in golden youth!

Oh! Love is full of wounding woe
In this dark changeful world below—

261

I joy his reign is o'er!
Could I endure his sway again,
This Heart—long, long resigned to pain—
Would tortured be once more!

Poor Heart! so agonized before,
That would'st be sacrificed once more—
Bound to a Lot accursed—
Then hopeless—silenced—loveless—lone—
Remain—'twas well to be undone
By Life's first Grief and worst!

I WOULD FORGET!

Round me bright faces gently smile
As one on me once smiled—
I would forget now for awhile—
And be awhile beguiled!

262

Round me fair eyes all brightly shine
As thine on me once shone,
I would forget—since why repine?
That I am all alone!

When pleasures come—take pleasures still,
And venomed pains resign,
Oh! Heart—nor strive with stubborn will
To keep cold Sorrow thine!

Round me young faces brightly smile
(As once for me did one!)
I would forget a little while
That I am all alone!

I would forget—I would forget—
Why brood o'er Life's harsh ill?—
Poor Heart—thou throbbing answerest yet
“I would remember still!”

263

I HAVE ADMIRED THROUGH CIRCLING HOURS.

I have admired through circling hours
Thy Soul's fair gifts, thy Mind's rich powers;
But—ever dearest as thou art—
I have adored thy angel heart!

Thy flute-like tones—thy star-bright smiles,
Pure, artless arts—sweet, guileless wiles—
I have indeed admired—approved—
But Oh!—thy meekness 'twas I loved!

Let others bless those smiles so bright,
Those rosy smiles—with deep delight—
Thine eye its loveliest aspect wears
For me when it shines soft through tears!

264

Let others hail that voice so sweet,
When it doth joy's light words repeat—
I love it more—I love it most
When in low broken sighs 'tis lost!

Let others share thy gentle mirth,
Thou best and brightest one on earth—
If my heart thy soft sadness shares,
Be theirs thy smiles—thy sunshine theirs!

Theirs be thy playfulness and mirth,
Though these too have their own sweet worth—
Yet let those smiles on others shine—
Be but thy melancholy mine!

But oh! if hallowed sadness—sweet!—
Thou shunn'st, in Youth's bright hours and fleet,
Nor lov'st those deep leaves dark as death,
Dim Cypress leaves 'midst Joy's fair wreath—

265

Oh! then be gay—Beloved, be gay—
There yet will come a cloudier day—
When thoughtful shades shall veil that brow—
Put on Joy's happiest aspect now!

And I will stand aloof—and bless,
Who cannot share thy happiness;
Yet while Life's breath to me is given,
Thy Happiness shall be my Heaven!

WHEN HEARTS THAT LOVED.

When Hearts that loved when smiles were bright,
In seasons gay of young delight,
Forgot to love—and careless grow
In times of trial and of woe;

266

When those bright smiles are turned to sighs,
Perchance thou mayest be taught to prize
A pure and steadfast love like mine,
That ne'er shall faulter nor decline!
But if even then thou wilt refuse
The love for which my fond heart sues,
With others pass thy changeful hours,
Or choaked with thorns—or crowned with flowers,
For others smile—for others sigh—
With others live—with others die;
And oh! be this wild prayer forgiven,
Be mine—be mine thy Love in Heaven!
Then shalt thou know what Love can be—
A starry Immortality—
A sainted feeling all divine—
Thy Love in Heaven shall still be mine!

267

SONG.

[And would'st thou have me hush these sighs]

And would'st thou have me hush these sighs
And dash the tear-drops from mine eyes?
I know I love too much—but say,
Should'st thou turn from that love away?

And would'st thou have me laugh and smile,
And glad and joyous be the while—
Though fond anxieties and fears
O'ercloud my deep and thoughtful years?

And these I bear for Thee alone.
Oh! mock me not with Mirth's light tone.
I love too much—too much I know—
But oh, Beloved! should'st thou think so?

268

My Heart is heavy with the Love
It is so deeply doomed to prove;
'Tis crushed as by an iron band,
But, lo!—I smile at thy command.

It is an effort, and a task—
But what is there that thou could'st ask
And I would strive not to fulfil?—
The creature of thy word and will!

Forgive me if my fervent Heart,
Wrapt in adoring dreams apart,
Is all too full of Love's rich woe
To let me Love's light homage show!

And would'st thou have this heart less wild?
Oh! when thou bidd'st me smile I smiled,
And softened, and subdued, and still
It yet shall lie if 'tis thy will!

269

I will rebel against my doom—
My Nature strive for thee to o'ercome;
For thee, mine only love—for thee
Almost forget myself to be!

THE WITHERED REED.

And canst thou faithless prove indeed?
What is my Love then?—what am I?—
I am a bowed and withered reed,
My love a rent and shivered tie!

A withered reed—a shivered tie—
Can Life remain when all is fled?
The Soul should live though dust may die—
This Frame yet lives—the Soul is dead!

270

A dead Soul in a living Frame—
Oh! contradiction dark and dread;
Oh! Agony without a name—
What pangs must pierce the Living-Dead!

To live this Death—this Life to die—
Say, must my Fate be this indeed?
Must my Love be a shivered tie,
And must I be a broken reed?

STRANGE IS THE POWER.

Strange is the Power thou hast o'er me,
And yet I love my tyrant still!
My feelings may no more be free,
And even my wishes serve thy will!

271

I nothing ask—I nothing hope,
Save you encourage and inspire;
Your frown condemns me still to droop—
Your smile relumes Hope's sinking fire!

Turn not aside then that dear face,
'Tis all the Sun these eyes can see;
And dark seems the Universal Space
If that bless'd Sun shines not for me!

And deem'st thou 'tis a worthy part
To o'ercloud a Lover's trusting mind—
To crush a Lover's faithful heart—
Art thou so bigotted—so blind?

So bigotted—so blind art thou
As not to see Love's Heavenly Light?
As still to keep cold Pride's dull vow,
And turn from blissful Prospects bright?

272

ONCE FROM GAY FOLLY'S PATHS.

Once from gay Folly's paths you turned,
And filled with tenderest Memories burned—
With thoughts of Times destroyed—
Times when your heart was warm and true,
And but Love's hallowed joy you knew—
To these you turned and sighed!

And Hope once more played round my heart,
Too ready still to take your part,
And deem you pure and good;
Alas! 'twas but a little while
I basked in its delightful smile,
Soon changed your fickle mood.

273

Soon, soon did you relapse again,
And shine the first in Folly's train—
And I again despaired—
And darker shadows frown'd around,
In chains yet heavier was I bound,
And worse, far worse I fared!

Go on—go on in thy career
Of Folly now, nor more appear
What thou appeared'st before!
Be careless still—indifferent—vain,
But be not like thyself again—
Oh, be thyself no more!

All griefs but that I still can bear,
And meekly bow to my Despair—
But there—oh! there I fail;
I loved so well—thou wert so dear—
To see thee like thyself appear,
Yet know thee false and frail—

274

Oh! that is worse than any woe
Which Fortune can inflict below,
'Tis Mockery, Madness, Death!
And well I feel—and know that thou
Who once have broke Love's hallowed vow,
Can ne'er breathe Truth's pure breath!

Well, well and painfully I know
That those who once can hardened grow,
Must hardened still remain;
Remain then thus, and never more
Seem to be as thou wert before—
Seem like thyself again!

275

EVENING THOUGHTS.

From their wild fiery strength my thoughts subside
In these soft hours of tranquil Eventide;—
Deeper and deeper grows the spreading shade,
Though the fair clouds are brightly still arrayed
In those rich tints they ne'er again shall wear,
When sets that Sun which makes them now so fair;
Day shall bequeathe no gem gifts to the Night—
She hath her own proud jewels deep and bright!
I gaze with longing and admiring gaze
Upon those light clouds in their ruddy blaze,
Till, when I turn away at length mine eyes,
The darkened Earth seems coloured like the skies,
With all its lengthening shades of spreading gloom,
And wears the lustre of a living bloom!
So when the eye, the Vision-lighted eye,
Turns inwardly to see the Pageantry

276

And glorious show of Fancy's Pomp—it views,
Even when 'tis turned away—those beauteous hues,
Stamped on Reality's hard forms, and cold,
And seemeth still that glory to behold!
And this soft hour of lovely Even seems
The very hour of Visions and of dreams
Not undelightful—though in sooth they wear
An almost mournful tinge—yet soft and fair,
(Not like the Dreams that round young Morning's throne
Blaze out in dazzling splendours—broad—full blown),
These floating Visions that serenely rise
Before the unslumbering and uncurtained eyes—
They seem with one faint hue of Beauty dyed,
And yet not wholly undiversified;
Each hath some separate charm—some diff'ring grace,
Like the fair stars that throng the depths of space,
Which though at first with their faint silvery flame
They seem to be unvaringly the same,
Prove to the closer watch, the keener eye,
Marked by some delicate diversity!

277

My thoughts from their wild fiery strength subside
In these calm hours of peaceful Eventide,
For still a wild and fiery Strength have they,
Though bowed by Disappointment and Dismay;
Though Sorrow's cold Seal on my Soul is set,
Her cold, cold Seal—(and my dimmed eyes are wet
With many tears)—still they rejoicing feel
A flush of Life—and power—despite that seal,
Despite those tears—and draw from Nature's store
Treasures that make them worship and adore!
Oh! in this World are glorious Pleasures old,
Unfathomable—hidden, and untold—
Unto the lip's weak language still unknown,
Which the Heart makes and keeps still, all its own.
Lyre of the Soul!—in this dull World below,
The rich Strength of thy Strains none, none can know.
The Bird that singeth in the echoing woods,
Mingling its joy with joy of founts and floods,
And leaves and winds—in all their stirring play,
Sings not for Stranger Ears—by night or day,

278

But sings unto itself—and is at once—
Since it nor needs assistance nor response—
Its own orchestra—its own audience too—
While loud it chaunts its Songs of Triumph through.
Lyre of the Soul! so thine immortal Strains
(The mighty language of thy Joys and Pains)
Are not for Stranger senses uttered—No!
Unto thyself doth thy deep Music flow!
Thy glorious Minstrelsy—until that time
When Heaven shall echo to its sounds sublime,
My thoughts! from your tempestuous strength and pride,
In these soft dreamy hours of Eve subside,
And gently float along in musing strain,
Bound each to each, by Feeling's softest chain!

279

MORNING THOUGHTS.

Mount—mount, my thoughts!—and soar into the sky,
With yon ascending lark, whose minstrelsy
So charms the Emparadised and gladdened ear,
A happy music—free, and wild, and clear.
Mount—mount, my thoughts—with yon ascending lark,
Round whom the Heavens seem opening—hark, O! hark,
How gladly and victoriously he sings,
While Joy and Liberty make strong his wings.
Oh! how unlike yon captive in his cage,
To whom each hour must seem a weary age;
Poor Captive! for no crime, no fault confined,
And severed from thy home and from thy kind,
Thou Winged Captive—thus more captive still
Because thou feel'st the power—thou ownest the will:
And Nature gave intensely unto thee
The mighty love of glorious Liberty!

280

Those wings are worse than chains, since thou'rt debarr'd
From their free use—Oh! Fortune harsh and hard!
All Nature gave, is torn from thee away,
Child of the Air, the Cloudland, and the Day!
No fair-crisp'd streams, dyed deep by Summer Evens,
With all the lustre of their crimsoned Heavens—
No playful breezes—wandering lightly by
With many a murmuring tone and odorous sigh,
No floating clouds that in their chainless play
Sail fleetly past and vanish swift away,
Their various treasures offer unto thee
As once, when thou like them wert glad and free.
Oh! that I could unbind thee and release,
And bid this harsh Captivity to cease,
Then would I say to thee—“Be free! depart!
Amongst these clouds and breezes chainless dart,
And mock their merry sport and give them chase
Without a goal but Heaven—a bound but Space!
Pour the clear river of thy lovely strain
Through the green Woods' free Music-Seas again!

281

Go forth—away—depart in joy! be free!
Thou child of Light and boundless Liberty—
Mount as a Soul released from dust and Earth
And bound into the freedom of thy Birth!”

A MORNING WALK.

Delightful 'tis in Morning's lovely hours
To walk forth 'mongst the shadowy groves and bowers,
And list, oh! lark, unto thy echoing strains
That fall upon the soul like Summer rains
Upon the earth refreshed—aye, thus they fall
Freshening and kindling and awakening all
That soul's world-worn emotions—made once more
Lovely and mighty as they were before,
While those sweet strains swell forth and spread and rise
Those earth-electrifying melodies!

282

How poureth forth thy rapture undefiled
In storms of adoration free and wild!
While the rich sunniness of youngest day
Clothes all around in exquisite array,
How dost thou seem in thy glad zeal to be
Buoyed—strengthened by thy joy's intensity!
Oh! the sweet strains, that through the blue vault ring
While thou dost proudly soar and gaily sing—
The Heavenly tumult that thou mak'st of sound!
The rich clear echoes that float swelling round!
The multitudinous music deep and quick,
Forth issuing from that little throat, whence thick
And fast the notes pour out, till all the air
Is shaken by their piercing sweetness rare;
Thou chain'st all things with powerful melody,
With silvery fetters linking Earth and Sky,
When thou dost fearless and rejoicing rise
Into the golden Temple of the skies,
Far from the wastes and wildernesses here,
The tangled wilds—the wildernesses drear—

283

From the cold shadows of the Graves of Earth,
And all the dimness there and all the dearth;
Oh!—freely dost thou soar and boldly range
Beyond this gloomy world of Death and change,
And thou canst lift into those realms above
All who have sense to listen—hearts to love.
Oh! Bird, how glorious is thy wond'rous power,
How precious is thy privilege and dower.

Thou bringest from or to the soul rich dreams,
Sweet dream-like speculations—glowing schemes
And kindling phantasies that crowding rise
And callest around strange shadowy companies,
Shadowy but beauteous—fair ethereal throngs,
Whose Heavenly lips seem joining in thy songs
Thou bringest from or to the Soul—Ah! there
Inhabit all things glorious, all things fair;
From its own wond'rous depths these visions spring,
There—there is hoarded every precious thing.

284

And from the outward world, in truth, may nought
More exquisite—more beautiful be brought
Unto the Soul than lives in its own Thought!
Sweet Bird, how dost thou still with zeal divine
Lay thy transcendant gift on Morning's shrine!
Oh! for thy thrilling throat and soaring wing,
Thou fine—thou thought-electrifying thing.
Oh! rather for thy free, pure, happy heart,
Glad innocent adorer that thou art,
And yet with thee, sweet minstrel, would I change?
Ah! no—though sometimes with despondence strange
I may with thine my heavy lot compare,
And mourn above the griefs I have to bear,
With deep strange exultation oftener far
I think how glorious even those keen griefs are;
For here our very sufferings and our woe,
Our origin sublime must prove and show.

Cloud-land—that exquisite Creation fair,
The aërial Creation bright and rare,

285

Triumphant Bird—thou nobly dost convert
To an aërial cathedral—girt
With solemn mysteries mighty and profound,
Solemn, but oh! how sweet, while wakes around
A reverential sense of holier things
Than this Earth knows—drawn from divinest springs.
Triumphant Bird!—how wond'rous is thy might
Thou Sun-enkindling spark of living light!
For thou dost set his dazzling Throne on fire,
While thou dost like a rushing flame aspire!
Burning with rapture and impassioned zeal,
And teaching all things brightly how to feel.
Winged Pilgrim or a shrine invisible,
Thou knowest thy mystic airy path right well,
And if light clouds obscure the opening day
Still cloud by cloud thou trackest thy certain way,
And leavest them to their breezy mirth and play,
While thou dost press upon thy onward path
Like one who but a sole deep object hath!
Probationer of realms yet unexplored!
Thou in the Heavens hast worshipped and adored,

286

While we their great inheritors must be
Content on Earth to bend the suppliant knee!—
Thou might'st in ashes ev'n a spirit create,
A block of adamant might'st animate!
With thine impassioned and o'erpowering strains,
That bind Creation up in golden chains;
Those cataracts of Harmony sublime,
More mighty than the Ocean's thunder-chime,
Yet delicately fine, and rare, and clear,
No sound of fury—and no sound of fear;
Thy breezy ecstasies my Soul inspire,
To wake once more a half forgotten lyre.
'Tis with keen joy and even severe delight
My thoughts now join thee in thine upward flight;
My heart keeps time and tune now, blessed Bird,
With thy full music, felt as much as heard,
And throbbing joins thy song's delicious din,
Now that so deeply—joyously begin
Thy thick precipitated notes to beat
The Sea-like shadowless Blue with tumult sweet,

287

My spirit soars in Freedom's might again,
The heaviest link seems loosened of life's chain.
Oh! 'tis delightful in young morning's hour
To hail the proud display of Nature's power,
To view her start as into sudden birth,
And the out-shining Heavens, the awakening Earth,
And then to join in those sweet notes of praise
Which Nature's children to her Author raise.

AN EVENING WALK.

'Tis sweet to walk forth in the Evening time,
When Phantasies august and Dreams sublime
Swell in the heart and kindle through the mind,
And the half o'ershadowed Earth seems left behind,
And that dim veil o'er Nature's features drawn,
Permits new scenes upon the soul to dawn,
Then oft that soul looks tremblingly within,
With inborn horror at its inborn sin.

288

Oh! could it, like clear streams at Even, lie
And glance back—star by star—the whole rich sky,
But in itself are darkness, clouds, and gloom,
That spread like shadows of some frowning tomb;
And yet at times, at these deep hours serene,
It harmonizes with the harmonious scene;
At times, while darkens round the world without,
It kindles like a rich star brightening out,
A sun-like star, that turns the shadowy Night
To something lovelier than the Day's best light—
That melts to glory—trembles into power—
In Night's mysterious and congenial hour.

It is in Evening's dreamy time and soft
That Spirits to our Spirits seem to waft
Deep messages of love and glorious cheer,
That raise us high above our earthly sphere;
Yet earthly things grow spiritual even
Beneath the twilight-veiled religious Heaven.
Each breeze hath some soft thrilling tale to tell,
Each leaf is as a mystic chronicle—

289

Then Night flowers 'gin with gentle stealth to blow,
And they too have a language soft and slow,
That sinks into the heart—the heart o'erwrought
By Day with many a quick and busy thought;
And Twilight's deepening now o'er Earth and Sky,
And shineth forth in delicate majesty,
The young clear Morn, like some bright queenly Bride
In argent vesture pure—and pearled pride.
Oft on the starry hosts sublime array
I have gazed up with triumph-touched dismay,
When in the noon of Night their splendours shine
With a deep fulness almost too divine—
With triumph swelling in the silent Soul,
To think that they, which ever glorious roll,
Unharmed by Death and change, were yet arrayed
In all their glory—fashioned, formed, and made
By the same hand that moulded our frail clay,
So soon condemned to ruin and decay,
So liable to accident and wrong,
While glow in changeless pride that deathless throng,

290

And with dismay o'erclouding the deep mind,
To think what chains to this dull Earth still bind
Earth's mortal children—prisoned—checked—confined—
And exiled—darkly far, alas! how far
From these resplendent realms of Sun and Star.
But in the Evening's sweet and placid hour
Bright thoughts are shed in many a golden shower
Upon the softened Soul—pure thoughts and bright,
That thrill us not with overpowering might,
But with a mastery calm and deep controul
The soothed, and gladdened, and consenting Soul;
Not hurrying thoughts, that, while they elevate,
Oppress the mind—quick—keen—importunate—
But such as win us from the world away,
Yet lull the unquiet pulses feverish play,
And still the restless workings of the brain,
And chase Life's busy cares, the fond and vain,
Till the outwearied Spirit, long distressed,
Yields itself all to peacefulness and rest.

291

LINES.

[Ye bright, bright Stars that bind the brow of Night]

Ye bright, bright Stars that bind the brow of Night
As with a Victory-wreath of fulgent light;
Ye full-blown Splendours of the Eternal Skies,
Pure, meek, divine Infallibilities,
That fall not—fail not—nor can miss their way,
That know not what it is to go astray.
Of the Sky-ocean Music-murmuring Shells,
Wherein deep harmony's own Spirit dwells;
Ye worlds of immortality sublime,
Our worn affections from the wastes of time,
Still do ye deeply and serenely draw,
And fill with admiration's richest awe—
Proud truths in glorious characters ye trace,
And on an ample page—the unbounded Space;
Unstained and inneffaceable they are,
Those Heavenly Histories stamped on every Star;—

292

Oh! let us read those histories clear and bright
And steep our Souls in floods of living light!
Oh! let us list to each high starry song,
So shall we faint not on our journeyings long,
Our journeyings long and steep, nor miss our way,
Lit step by step by an immortal ray.
Heaven-kindled-knowledge-kindling Stars of Night,
Ye flood our souls with thoughts of strength and light,
And still we hail when Heaven's Night Scene is fair,
A Wilderness of worlds and wonders there,
Ye glorious worlds that shine in pride and power,
Ye make the noon of night, Earth's most imperial hour!—
Ye bright divine Infallibilities—
Still teach us, guide us, prompt us from the skies!

293

SONNET

WRITTEN BY THE SEA SIDE.—1834.

Ocean, thy foam-crown'd bulwarks round our Land,
Thy mountain-wall of waves—must they be vain,
To shield her from the curse, the scourge, the chain?—
Shall she forget in palmy pride to stand?—
Shall ruin spoil her with its red right hand?
And must thy rolling ramparts, mightiest Main
Prove weak to o'erwhelm her foes, or to restrain?
Out upon those, the abhorred, the Unrighteous band.
Alas! the Children of her bosom they
Who to her heart the envenomed dagger hold,
And to her lips the cup of sore dismay;
By such shall England's golden days be told,
Shall freedom's Land by such be bought and sold.
Ocean! ere they become the traitors prey,
Shroud up the Imperial Isles in thy hoar Surges old!

294

SONNET

ON THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

Honour to those who toweringly aspire,
And wreak their energies on loftiest aim,
Who seek to build a proud and deathless name,
Nor know in steep adventure's paths to tire,
August their aim, and pure their high desire.
Honoured be all who urge so bright a claim,
Whose spirits soar so gallantly for fame,
Whose bosoms glow with such a sacred fire;
But honour most to him who now at the height
And summit of all proudest minds pursue,
Still nobly doth his past atchievements slight,
While aught of excellent remains to do;
Him to whom Fame, whose flight mocks the Eagle's flight,
Can bring no triumphs fresh, no honours new!

295

STANZAS.

[Wouldst thou call to my mind then, those sunny days flown]

Wouldst thou call to my mind then, those sunny days flown,
Wouldst thou seek to remind, too, by words and expressions,
While my deep heart forgets not one thrill it hath known—
My heart, that wild world of affections and passions.

O! remind me not thus—I can never forget,
But lightly—ah, lightly still touch on my sorrow,
There are flowers born to fade—there are stars form'd to set,
But they pass to give place to yet brighter to-morrow.

But in Life 'tis not so—still the bright things depart,
And they leave but the dull or the painful behind, then;
And we turn from the young glowing world of the heart,
To dwell in the deep thoughtful world of the mind then.

296

But spare me now, dear One—and let me move on—
Not fully remembering—nor wholly forgetting;
Alas! when that Sun sank which once o'er me shone,
How much of my Life's light set then with its setting.

Away! it is over for ever—'tis done!
All links have been shattered—all sweet ties disevered,
Still something, perchance, from affliction I won—
From the bondage of breathless devotion delivered.

Too much—'tis too much—if in this mortal life
We thus give all our souls up to passion's devotion,
While we steep our Existence in sorrow and strife,
And make that Existence one trance of emotion.

Let the past in its own gloomy shadows lie veiled,
Ah! my faint hand at least shall not seek to unshroud it;
Once, once I endured, till my bursting heart failed—
Oh, Cruel! thou knew'dst it, though I ne'er avowed it.

297

It was pride—it was doubt—'twas despondence and fear,
'Twas the Excitement of Soul—'twas the woman within me,
That concealed every tremour, and check'd every tear,
Till Love's self might not hope to confession to win me!

No! I cannot forget while I live! but mayest thou
Forget all that's past—and forget I remember!
Although still, shall I, ever remember as now,
E'en till Life's varying Seasons wind up with December!

Then seek not, I charge thee, seek not to remind,
'Twere far better to banish the vain retrospection;
'Twere far better to cast not one fond look behind—
Oh, far better to fly from regret and reflection!

298

STANZAS.

[I listen for thy steps alone]

I listen for thy steps alone,
I listen for thee, dearest one!
With throbbing heart and straining ear,
Lo! I await that step so dear.

I listen for thee tremblingly,
I start, I shrink, I shrink and sigh,
Yet hope lives fluttering in my heart,
Through every pulse, through every part.

Yes, hope's delicious rapturous thrill,
Wakes in mine anxious bosom still,
But when that step indeed draws near,
My hope is changed into a fear!

299

Even so it is with fervent Love,
Such strife the impassioned heart must prove;
It longs, it hopes, it doubts, it dreads,
And fast each fresh emotion spreads.

Each fresh Emotion in the heart,
Through every pulse, through every part,
Full qùickly wins its certain way,
And makes that trembling heart its prey.

Those we most Love, we most must dread
Those o'er whom each fond thought is shed,
For well their fearful power we know,
To steep our souls in Joy or Woe.

I weep, I watch—I start and shrink,
And soon my throbbing pulses sink;
To meet thee, Love, I may not dare,
Yet how thine absence can I bear?

300

It is a wild and wayward war,
I pine for thee still when afar,
And yet when thou indeed art near,
My hope is changed into a fear!

THE HEART.

The heart—the fervent heart, how many woes,
In all their stern variety it knows;
How oft it holds the most unto those things
That pierce it most with keen and killing stings.

The heart—the mighty heart! how doth it cling
To each long-lost, loved, sweet and precious thing,
Nor knoweth to resign each cherished tie,
Until it knoweth to despair—and die!—

301

HOPE, THOU ART GONE.

Hope, thou art gone, with all thy smiles and wreaths,
And what is Life to me?—and what am I?
Life, hour by hour, a million million deaths,
But I the wretched thing that cannot die!

That cannot wholly and completely die,
Although a million million Deaths I prove;
Each pulse a pang, each breath a bursting sigh—
Oh, 'tis not Life nor Death! 'tis Love, all Love!

302

IN THE SWEET SEASONS.

In the sweet Seasons of Expectancy,
How passed each fleeting sorrow swiftly by;
Mine eye look forward—forward even through tears—
To hail the promise of new smiling years.

Lightly I felt each grief—though keenly too,
But joys bright star seemed almost glimmering through,
The clouds that crossed at times youth's brilliant sky
In the sweet Seasons of Expectancy!

303

MANUEL TO INEZ.

Oh! tell not me of burning hearts intense
That beat where Indian suns their beams dispense,
Of Afric's glowing souls and bursting veins—
The passionate natives of Numidian plains.

My spirit is a wild and fiery zone,
Where shines the Sun of Love on his own throne;
I have a burning India, in my thought,
With Passion's kindling ardours all o'erfraught;

I have within my mind, clear, changeless, bright,
A sultry Midsummer of cloudless light;
I have a torrid Clime for my Soul's part—
And oh! a thousand Tropics at my Heart!

304

THE LOVELY SONG.

Oh! sing that lovely song once more,
'Twill make me all I was before;
'Twill raise my drooping heart and cheer—
Sing me again that song so dear.

Oh! do I hear indeed again
That long forgotten sweet old strain?
That once my youthful ear could charm,
That once my youthful heart could warm.

Those lovely notes, these sweet, sweet words,
How do they thrill fond Memory's chords,
Till seem those tones too strangely sad,
That were—that are so wild and glad!

305

ART THOU CONTENT?

I love thee as my soul, I love thee so
That 'tis a fate, a fever, and a grief,
That 'tis to me a burthen and a woe,
And not to love thee, were a blest relief.

I love thee as I love—no! not my Soul,
As it is tainted and debased on Earth;
But as I trust, when Earth's clouds from it roll,
I yet may love it, called to loftier birth!

I love thee thus—oh! more, yet more, I love—
Art thou content, sweet Ruler of my lot?
Loved, worshipped, prized, adored, all things above—
Art thou content?—if thou art, I am not!

306

WHY HAVE THEY TOLD ME THIS?

They tell me thou hast loved me long,
And I, blind fool, I knew it not—
That I have crushed with cruel wrong
Thy heart, and shadowed o'er thy lot.

They tell me none had ever moved
That young and guileless heart before;
That me alone it prized and loved,
Me only, solely, did adore.

That thy deep-thoughted, gentlest mind
Was stored with endless dreams of me;
That to my faults thou still wert blind,
In me could but perfections see!

307

They tell me thou would'st watch for hours,
With breathless, speechless fondness watch;
While from thine eye rained grief's dim showers,
My passing shadow but to catch.

That in the gay and laughing throng
Thou look'dst alone for me—though all
Still followed as thou mov'dst along
In beauty through the illumined hall.

They tell me this—and then, they add,
Oh! dreadful blow of bitterest fate!—
Oh! words—Oh! thought to drive me mad,
That they have told me this too late!

That feeding on thy bright cheek now
Consumption's deadly worm is seen;
That faintness sits upon thy brow,
And death is marked upon thy mien.

308

And then they pity thee!—Alas!—
Could I exchange my lot for thine!
Oh! that with thee I now could pass
To Death's dark vault and shadowy shrine!

They pity thee!—Alas!—I feel
That peace shall soon be gained for thee—
Oh! if they had not hearts of steel
They must—thy would more pity me!

For I deserve their pity most,
Who thus have stamped mine own dire fate;
How utterly, how wildly lost,
Heart—heart—thou sink'st beneath grief's weight!

They tell me thou—so fair—so bright—
Art now so changed from what thou wert,
That, oh!—'twould almost shock my sight,
I feel 'twould wholly break my heart!

309

Vain now my love—most wretched state!—
And once I could thy heart enthrall—
Oh! since they told me this too late,
Why have they told me this at all?

THOU TELL'ST ME.

Thou tell'st me that I love thee not—
And hast thou then indeed forgot
All that for thee I have resigned?—
Oh! cruel—heartless—and unkind!

This thou'st forgotten or disdained
Haply because I ne'er complained;
Since, oh! to give up all for thee
Were worth all life's best joys for me!

310

And deem'st thou that my love is weak
Because that love I may not speak?
Then thou must deem it so! for ne'er
Can I disclose it or declare!

'Twere weak indeed could I impart
To thee this madness of the heart!
'Twere weak, perchance, could I reveal
All that for thee I felt and feel!

311

LOVE'S SLAVERY.

No Self within—no World without—
Life all a shadow and a doubt—
A Riddle and a Mystery—
Self—Life—the World—all—only thee.

And this is mine Existence now—
And dare I breathe this and avow?
Alas! the only bliss I crave
Is to remain Love's veriest slave.

Let Life be still then but a doubt—
No Self within—no World without—
All things I gladly can resign,
So I remain Love's slave and thine.

I know no other joy but this,
I wish to know no other bliss—
I ask of fate but still to be
The slave of Love—and oh! of thee!

312

A CHANGEFUL LOT.

The chain of my wild destiny
Seems formed of opal gems to be,
An endless change—a strife of hues,
Which still each other do suffuse.

Still hour by hour at variance seems,
A different light for ever streams
From each new sun that gilds my days,
Nay—different even their separate rays!

And yet, despite this change and strife,
A light shines down upon my life—
A light, all strife, all change above,
And oh! what can it be but Love?

313

MANUEL'S COMPLAINT.

(FROM INEZ.)

The whirlwind-agonies I know
Are mocked by the weak word of woe—
In the wide Earth's far-sweeping range
I would with any wretch exchange,
Nay—I would even exchange with all,
To be released from this worst thrall!
Still though its doom be stamped and writ,
My heart refuseth to submit!
And dost thou, when I turn away
From all thy consolations, say,
“Full many a hapless sufferer shares
Yet heavier griefs—yet deeper cares!”
'Tis not the griefs—it is the mind,
In which they're bosomed and enshrined,
That barbs the dart, and points the sting,
And stamps the pitch of suffering;

314

That all determines the degree
Of the inly-working misery.
'Tis not the scattered thorns alone,
It is the soil in which they're sown!
'Tis that which gives their rankling power
To blight—to ruin in an hour.
Oh! talk not—tell me not of those
With sharper cares and sterner woes;
Tell me of those with souls of fire,
Those who but passion's breath respire;
With minds of energies intense,
With keen—quick—finely-thrilling sense;
With hearts all burning and o'erwrought,
And Spirits with deep ardours fraught.
But talk not—tell me not of those
With harsher cares and heavier woes;
Oh! let them give me all their care,
So that they take my one Despair!
Oh! let me bear their heavier part,
So that they take my burning Heart!

315

So that they pluck from out my breast
This Heart—that cannot break—nor rest!
Give me their sufferings and their cares,
And let my stormy soul be theirs!
Then seek not—strive not to controul
The passionate movements of that Soul
With those poor consolations vain—
That can but more augment my pain!
Ah! no! but give mine anguish way,
And let my sorrow have full sway—
The whirlwind-agonies I know
Mock every other earthly woe!

316

THE CAPRICE OF SORROW.

Now would I draw my misery near
And hug it to my aching breast—
Something must occupy us here,
And what we dread the most—is rest!

Now would I banish it afar,
And court some sweet delusion new,
And enter in Life's struggling war,
And fresh thorns o'er my pathway strew!

Sorrow is a capricious thing,
And wayward is the wounded heart—
While many moods doth Sorrow bring,
That swiftly come and soon depart!

Therefore it is, that changeful still,
I now would crave bright Hope's return,
And now would court those pangs that kill,
And every brighter prospect spurn!

317

THE SECRET OF THE SOUL.

The Secret of my Soul, Beloved! thou hast—
Is that rich Secret precious unto thee?
Or do I vainly, madly, weakly, waste
My thoughts on one who little thinks on me?

Ah! since thou hast the Secret of my Soul,
Give me at least one passing thought of thine—
Since thou art Sovereign of my Being's whole,
Let something of thy Spirit's love be mine!

318

YEARS FLEET AWAY.

Years fleet away—and all things pass—
And nothing is the same, alas!—
New friends—new hopes—the world is new—
And we ourselves are altered too—
Oh! we are altered most of all,
And darker change o'er us doth fall.
And this the secret heart must know,
Though loath still to allow 'tis so!
Yet one light word—one fleeting word,
Can touch on Memory's magic chord,
And lo! our own Old World will start
To life once more—once more to part!

319

SONNET

ON THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

[_]

(WRITTEN FOR FISHER'S DRAWING-ROOM SCRAP BOOK.)

Oh! what a noble nature's stamp is there!
Through these commanding features—through that eye,
Shines forth a Soul, brave, generous, firm, and high—
A soul girt up to do—and steeled to bear—
Calm, principle-strengthened; free as the unchained air!
On that proud forehead throned sits Victory!
And on that countenance may we descry
All bright expressions loftiests aspects wear.
The Nation's whirlwind cry hath swelled thy name
Up to Heaven's ringing heights, re-echoing round
With wild shouts jubilant, and proud acclaim;
But there's a still small whisper, whose faint sound
To thee more precious is, I deem, than fame,
Judging from that calm mien—clear, eloquent, and profound.

320

STANZAS.

[If thou art changed from what thou wert]

If thou art changed from what thou wert,
And if thou lovest me now no more—
If thou canst bear so false a heart,
Then all my love for thee is o'er!

If thou art changed—I'm altered too—
A mutual Infidelity!
If thou art to thyself not true,
Say, how can I be true to thee?

If thou forget'st all precious ties
And provest thyself weak, worldly, vain—
And scorn'st my sufferings and my sighs,
Thy Lover can I still remain?

321

No! no!—I loved a guileless One—
Kind, constant, gentle, meek, and pure;
My heart's deep Love was hers alone,
And oh! that Love must still endure.

Still must I love—even more and more
The Image in my Soul enshrined!
Still must I cherish and adore
That Idol throned within my Mind!

And yet my Love for thee is o'er!
My very Truth's Inconstancy!
That Image pure I still adore—
I love that still—but 'tis not thee!

322

IT SHALL NOT BE.

No! no! it shall not be,
I will arouse me now,
And set mine own soul free,
And clear my clouded brow.

It shall not—must not be;
I will do battle strong
Against myself and thee,
Dark Memory—now ere long!

It shall not—must not be;
Or if in truth it must—
I may not live to see—
Shrouded in senseless dust.

No! no! it shall not be—
In Life—or Death—'tis o'er!
From Love—Grief—Memory—free,
I will despair no more!

323

SUMMER.

The festal Summer comes to throw
A glory o'er the Earth below;
The World is changed—a radiant change,
Bright, and exquisite, and strange.
Young flowers do make the Earth beneath—
The air around—sweet with their breath;
Nothing doth appear the same;
A living robe of light and flame
Girds the glowing Heavens around,
Ten thousand rainbows stain the ground.
To the most secluded spot
Summer pierces—and hath shot
Through the thickest twilight-woods
Where a depth of shadow broods,
And beneath the trees hath spread,
Fresh moss and thyme for fairies' tread.
Yes, festal Summer comes to throw
A Glory o'er the Earth below,
And light o'er our deep Hearts is thrown,
And joy through our rapt Souls shed down!

324

I LOOK FOR THEE.

I look for thee—for thee I look,
And many another one appears—
And scarce can I their gay smiles brook,
While still I gaze on them through tears.

For thee I look—I look for thee,
And thou comest not to cheer and bless—
Yet some men talk of constancy!—
And some of Love's sweet Happiness!