University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

HEREAFTER

THE COMET

Behold! amidst yon wilderness of stars
(Angels and bright eyed deities that guard
The inner skies, whilst the sun sleeps by night,)
Is one unlike the rest—misshapen—red,
And wandering from its course.—If Sybils now
Breathed their dark oracles, or nations bent,
As once they bent, before Apollo's shrine,
Owning a frenzied priestess' auguries,
What might not this portend—changes and acts
Of fear, and bloody massacres—perhaps
Some sudden end to this fair formed creation,—
Or half the globe made desolate. Behold!
It glares; how like an omen. If that I
Could for a time forget myself in fable,
(Indian or Heathen storied) I could fancy
This were indeed some spirit, 'scaped by chance
From torments in the central earth, and flung
Like an eruption from the thundering breast
Of Ætna, or those mighty hills that stand
Like giants on the Quito plains, to spread
Contagion through the skies. Thus Satan once
Sprang up, adventurous, from Hell's blazing porch,
And like a stream of fire winged his fierce way
Ambiguous, undismayed, thro' frightful wastes,
To where, amidst the jarring elements,
Stern Chaos sate, and everlasting Night
Held her dominion;—yet, even there, he found
The way to Eden.

A VOICE

Oh! what a voice is silent. It was soft
As mountain-echoes, when the winds aloft—
The gentle winds of summer meet in caves;
Or when in sheltered places the white waves
Are 'wakened into music, as the breeze
Dimples and stems the current: or as trees
Shaking their green locks in the days of June:
Or Delphic girls when to the maiden moon
They sang harmonious pray'rs: or sounds that come
(However near) like a faint distant hum
Out of the grass, from which mysterious birth
We guess the busy secrets of the earth.
—Like the low voice of Syrinx, when she ran
Into the forests from Arcadian Pan:
Or sad Œnone's, when she pined away
For Paris, or (and yet 'twas not so gay)
As Helen's whisper when she came to Troy,
Half sham'd to wander with that blooming boy:
Like air-touch'd harps in flowery casements hung;
Like unto lovers' ears the wild words sung
In garden bowers at twilight: like the sound
Of Zephyr when he takes his nightly round,
In May, to see the roses all asleep:
Or like the dim strain which along the deep
The sea-maid utters to the sailors' ear,
Telling of tempests, or of dangers near:
Like Desdemona, who (when fear was strong
Upon her soul) chaunted the willow song,
Swan-like before she perish'd: or the tone
Of flutes upon the waters heard alone:
Like words that come upon the memory
Spoken by friends departed; or the sigh
A gentle girl breathes when she tries to hide
The love her eyes betray to all the world beside.

MELANCHOLY

There is a mighty Spirit, known on earth
By many names, tho' one alone becomes
Its mystery, its beauty, and its power.
It is not Fear,—'tis not the passive fear
That sinks before the future, nor the dark
Despondency that hangs upon the past:
Not the soft spirit that doth bow to pain,
Nor that which dreads itself, or slowly eats
Like a dull canker till the heart decays.
But in the meditative mind it lives,
Sheltered, caressed, and yields a great return;
And in the deep silent communion
Which it holds ever with the poet's soul,
Tempers, and doth befit him to obey
High inspiration. To the storms and winds
It giveth answer in as proud a tone;
Or on its seat, the heart of man, receives
The gentler tidings of the elements.
I—often home returning from a spot
Holy to me from many wanderings,
Of fancy, or in fact, have felt the power
Of Melancholy stealing on my soul,
Mingling with pleasant images, and from
Sorrow dividing joy; until the shape
Of each did gather to a diviner hue,
And shone unclouded by a thought of pain.
Grief may sublime itself, and pluck the sting
From out its breast, and muse until it seem
Etherial, starry, speculative, wise.
But then it is that Melancholy comes,
Out charming grief—(as the gray morning stills
The tempest oft,) and from its fretful fire
Draws a pale light, by which we see ourselves,
The present, and the future, and the past.

MIDSUMMER MADNESS

SONG.

NIGHT.

JULIA.

Let me for once describe her—once—for she
(Julia) hath passed into my memory,
As 'twere some angel image, and there clings,
Like music round the harp's Æolian strings:
A word—a breath revives her, and she stands
As beautiful, and young, and free from care,
As when upon the Tyber's yellow sands
She loosened to the winds her golden hair,
In almost childhood; and in pastime run
Like young Aurora from the morning sun.
Oh! never was a form so delicate
Fashioned in dream or story, to create
Wonder or love in man. I cannot tell
Half of the charms I saw—I see; but well
Each one became her. She was very fair,
And young, I said; and her thick tresses were
Of the bright colour of the light of day:
Her eyes were like the dove's—like Hebe's—or
The maiden moon, or starlight seen afar,
Or like—some eyes I know but may not say.
Never were kisses gathered from such lips,
And not the honey which the wild bee sips
From flowers that on the thymy mountains grow
Hard by Ilissus, half so rich:—Her brow
Was darker than her hair and arched and fine,
And sunny smiles would often often shine
Over a mouth from which came sounds more sweet
Than dying winds, or waters when they meet
Gently, and seem telling and talking o'er
The silence they so long had kept before.

THE LAST SONG.

STANZAS.

ON A ROSE.

SONNET.

On a sequester'd Rivulet.

There is no river in the world more sweet,
Or fitter for a sylvan poet's dream,
Than this romantic solitary stream,
Over whose banks so many branches meet,
Entangling:—a more shady bower or neat
Was never fashioned in a summer dream,
Where Nymph or Naiad from the hot sunbeam
Might hide, or in the waters cool her feet.
—A lovelier rivulet was never seen
Wandering amidst Italian meadows, where
Clitumnus lapses from his fountain fair;
Nor in that land where Gods, 'tis said, have been;
Yet there Cephisus ran thro' olives green,
And on its banks Aglaia bound her hair.

SONNET.

Perhaps the lady of my love is now
Looking upon the skies. A single star
Is rising in the East, and from afar
Sheds a most tremulous lustre: Silent Night
Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow:
But see, it motions, with its lovely light,
Onwards and onwards thro' those depths of blue,
To its appointed course stedfast and true.
So, dearest, would I fain be unto thee,
Stedfast for ever,—like yon planet fair;
And yet more like art thou a jewel rare.
Oh! brighter than the brightest star, to me,
Come hither, my young love; and I will wear
Thy beauty on my breast delightedly.