University of Virginia Library

I

Can I forget the happy happy morn
When first these eyes were blest with thee? I cried,
When age shall make my pulses slow, when Death
Shuts up my sense, and turns my heart to dust,
Its memory shall be graven on my soul
In living fire and light. O happy Morn!
O glorious memory of a matchless time!
Memory of Joy, and unexhausted Hope;
When Fancy, fresh from the Immortal Gods,
With endless rainbows hung this stormy World;
When the great pulse of Nature, beating free,
Was echoed by the living heart within
Full of delight! No other day shall dawn
Like that; its pure and perfect harmony—
Tho' the great Master of all Song should lift
His voice upon Olympus; and the tongues
Of the Pierian Sisters quire accord—
Would seem as mockery to thy faithful dream,
My heart, if told in any tongue but thine;
And faint as alalagmas of a host
Dying among the hills! Glad was that Morn,
That Maymorn; and the vital breezes shook,
From holts in flower and wildbrier wildernesses,
The sweet drops of an early rain, and bore them
Bickering across mine eyes; the parting clouds
Glanced forth enamour'd lights, that momently
Dappled the mountainsides and airy peaks;
And kiss'd the tender green of upland trees,
That sway'd before the warm breath of the Spring,
Seen soft yet clear in all their matin hues,
Clear to the eye, tho' soundless and afar.
And every headland, every promontory,
And towers that frown'd on every steepy isle,
And every hamlet sheening by the sea,
Made gold and azure in the fitful prime.
O happy, happy morn! the purple deeps,
Cloven by blustering winds that blew at dawn,
Were restless still; far off the joyous crests
Of the white surges, lightening in the sun,
Tost like the plumes of an advancing host,
And flung their spray before them; and the voice
Of the proud waters thunder'd on the sands,
And went resounding o'er the long long shores;
And, echoing from the caves and misty peaks,
Peal'd like an endless Pæan manifold!
And, in the pauses of the great seasong,
I heard the foam—gems seething in clear wine—
Amid the pebbles and the rose-hued shells,
Thrill like a lute with silver strings; and die
Like whispers of the Nereids at my feet.
On such a day was Aphrodite born:
And on the ridges of the playful sea
Rose like a Queen. Her tall immortal limbs
Cast off the gleaming freshness of the deep,
Like scales of silver armour; with one foot
She prest the prow of her enchanted pearl;
One hand thrown back amidst her golden hair,
She dash'd the salt drops from her. And I stood
That morn upon the shore of Mytilene,
About a bowshot from the city gates;
And felt again a little child to see
The white froth leaping o'er the sea-worn stones
Of the old walls; under the shade I stood
Of an acacia, which a taller pine
O'ershadow'd; and its lonely beauty crown'd
A little hill matted with flowers and thyme;
A breezy slope that overlook'd the town,
With its long colonnades and carven founts,
Its piled temples and its pyramids,
Right thro' its clustering gardens, to the foot
Of the throned mountains on the other side.
The thunder and the lightning of the sea
Play'd underneath; and the resounding waves
Roll'd shoreward, leaping in their morning strength,
Like lions at their gambols. As I breathed,
The morning, listening to the harmony
Of winds and waters, mingled with the song
Of that lone tree, whose lovely plumes were caught
By the seawind; and stream'd above my head
Murmuring their fragrant sighs; and scattering off
Their lavish flowers—I heard a shout; and lo!
A motley rout of fishers and of slaves,
Starting from forth the shadows of the rocks
And stranded barks, and hollows of the shore,
And pouring out into the sunshine, drew
A merry swarm of children after them,
With many a wife and daughter; and lit up
The barren coast with living hues; and woke
The echoes of the hills.—A sail! a sail!
And eager arms, stretch'd forth, and straining eyes,
Behind the mist of mingled sea and sky
Saw the white canvas like a little cloud.
“Canst thou see aught, mine Atthis, for thine eyes
Are swift?” I said “I better see, to scan
Alcæus by the midnight lamp, than dive
Into the far horizon's sunny dew.”
No sooner had I said, than from a cloud,
A sudden shadow put the sunshine out
That lay upon the waters, paving them
With streets of green, and gold, and amethyst,
And in the middle of the purple gloom
I saw the snowy sail and shining deck
Soar o'er the toppling floods. Ah! woe is me:
Better had sickness stay'd me by the wheel
Of my fond mother; better mighty toil
Had made me blind; ah! better Death had come
That very morn, than I had lived to see
That fatal bark move onward to the shore,
Rigg'd by the Fates, Love sitting at the helm!

II

Above the bare heads of the clustering crowd
Scarce could I see the hands, that reef'd the sail,
And cast the rope ashore. I heard the keel
Grate on the strand; and then there was a hush,
After the tumult and the stir, might seem
A shadow from a cloud; some marvel seem'd
To hold their breath, as when the temple doors
Roll back on some high festal night, and show
The glorious golden shrine. Then converse grew
Doubtful and strange, and spreading whisperingly;
Then murmurs, waxing strong, as when the sea
Seethes with the coming breeze; and then a cry
“'Tis he, 'tis he! and yet 'tis not; I swear
It cannot be.” So, from beneath the shade
Of that acacia, softly I went down,
And near'd the throng of men; and with me went
Mine Atthis; for these momentary acts,
That from the thoughts of others melt as fast
As the light foam of the backsliding wave
In the hot sun, or shadows from before it,
Were soon illumined by the master-thought
Lit up within me, to their smallest lines;
Like shapes by lightning drawn upon the night.
Nearer we came, and nearer; then I saw
An aged man come slowly up, and pass
Amid the sundering crowd toward the sea.
A thin voice said—“I see him not, albeit
I saw him step aboard; he parted with ye;
Why come ye not with him? Tell me, kind hearts,
Hath aught of evil chanced to him, my boy
My only boy? Tell me, O mariners, where,
Where is my Phaon?” Woeful 'twas to see
That aged man thus pleading, and unheard;
Leaning upon his staff with rueful looks;
And moved me to swift tears. And, when he saw
The pity in mine eyes, he turn'd to me;
And clasp'd me by the hand. “It is his bark:
I knew it by the dolphin on the prow.
Hath any robber slain him suddenly,
Or dragon of the deep? In bays and coves,
And by the sleepy mouths of lazy streams,
Death lurks 'mid evil weeds; and once I knew
A serpent leap into a shepherd's mouth,
That lay agape beneath the moon; and woke
To sleep for ever. Or haply he hath found
Some love among the isles? For in my day,
Touching at little shady ports, and lying
To water underneath the orange bowers,
We saw lithe damsels, winding to the shore
To bathe in the cool caves; and heard their songs
Make silver echoes, as they swam to meet
The creamy ripplets running in, and sped
Their noonday sport like Nereids; and sometimes
In starlight dances they would cheat the hours
Till midnight, as we lay at anchor, biding
The morrow and the lading; and there came
Some bridal by, or Summer festival,
Ringing its cymbals; and the young girls flung
The roses from their chaplets at our men,
A laughter-hearted band of village maids,
A clustering garland of all flowers, that seem'd
From far off glancing in and out the shadows,
Like Sea-nymphs more than mortal villagers;
And the sweet moonlight, and the shelly sands,
Made a smooth floor unto our twirling feet,
And roof'd us with clear light, that seem'd like noon,
Only more tender. Those were happy days!
But ah! what do I say? Would it were so;
And nought of sorrow; say, oh! say me comfort.
Let it not be that he is gone before;
And I with these grey hairs must stay and weep
On earth, when earth and life without such solace—
The sad sole joy to me—to dream of her;
Oft as I see his mother's face in him;
Her whom I see no more until I die—
Were worse than silence and eternity.
Oh! the grey seas are faithless; and the skies
Are fickle; and the gusty mountainflaws
Lash their blue smiles to anger oversoon;
And twice or thrice, well I remember me,
Perill'd my life when youth was mine; and fill'd
The heart of poor fond Dora, now at rest,
With eager sighs, that kept her eyes awake
All one long winter night of wind and sea;
Until the dawn between the lattice shone,
And show'd me to her, underneath a rock,
Not many paces from the welcome door,
Bloody and cold. Oh! faithless are the seas!
Ah! for these weary bones, if thou art gone,
My boy, whose love was length of days; whose care
My daily bread; who held my limbs and life
From parting. I was swung with the wild surf
Upon the hidden claws of cruel rocks,
Just as my cold limbs faint with lack of sleep
And nightly toil of baling out the flood,
Were helpless as a child's; and, but that Death,
Hungry before me, with uplifted arm,
Nerved mine to one last agonizing throe,
That left me without breath upon the strand—
(Ah Heaven! the very memory of that strife,
After these long long years, is full of pain,)—
My race had ended so—alas! alas!
Perchance it had been best. Oh! tell me not
Of such great sorrow; let me hear, O friends,
If sorrow needs must be, that there is hope.
No paly flower yet blossoms in my heart
But what is rooted in his precious life.
Oh! such a living ill were worse than death,
And to forget and sleep—forget and sleep.”

III

Vain as a sail beat back by baffling winds,
Flutter'd the hope within my heart, to still
The gathering tempest in that old man's soul.
Vain were my words of cheer; but louder grew
The clamour, and then hush'd; and a clear voice
Rose, as the crowd gave back on either hand.
“Father”—it said—“my father, where art thou?
Thy voice is faint, thine eyes are weak and old,
But speak, and bear thou witness to thy son.”
And in mine ears those sad and simple words
Still tremble, thro' the night of my despair,
Like notes of music that we hear in sleep,
And straightway lapse into a witching dream;
And evermore that music, heard again,
Brings back the dream; and, if again by night
The dream enchant us, brings the music with it.
And, 'mid the circle of their wondering eyes,
I saw a youth, as 'twere the God of Youth,
Gazing towards me, with one foot advanced,
As with the eager speed of his desire;
The other lagging hindward, as with doubt
Stay'd, and the wildering sense of something strange;
And the free smile upon his lips was chill'd
Half-way with anguish; and his tearful eyes,
Half downcast and half turn'd upon the face
Of the old man, seem'd mutely questioning.
Oh! as he stood there, with his right hand forward,
Back'd by the purple sea and one far cloud,
That either side his shoulders lay like wings,
Methought I look'd on Maia's blessed self,
Flown o'er the seas, and lighted there, to bid
The very seaweeds blossom on the sands!
Thus for a little space he stood, with eyes
That hoped and fear'd: and then that fond old man,
Curving above his staff, made haste, and near'd,
Until his dim gaze, fix'd upon the face
Of him who spake, might witness for the truth
Of that familiar voice. It was his voice,
Familiar to his sense, as was the sound
Of the low waves that woke him up at morn
Lapping the grit and shells; as welcome to him
As the fair wind, unto whose summer kiss
They two so oft had lifted up the sail,
While the high capes and peakéd isles were red
With the unrisen sun, as with the smile
Of one a dreaming; and the shadowy gulphs,
And mountain-shaded coves were purple dark.
Ah! sad old man, that eyes, so fond as thine,
Should cheat themselves until they cannot see;
Or waste their last light but to see in vain!
Who is it that is standing there before thee?
Not he, thy lost one, with his bronzed arms
Lean with his toil, but knotted with his strength;
Whose eye had drunk the fire of summernoons,
Though his broad breast was dusky with the sun;
With brows, which days, not years, had scored with care
A face tho' seldom sad not ofttimes merry;
As one, who saw amid the summer light
The frowns of other tempests, and could hear
In stillest calm the tongues of mighty winds.
Upon the shoulder of the youth he laid
His wavering hand; and stood a moment, smit
With overwhelming wonder as he gazed:
Then shook his head, and turn'd aside in sorrow.
That sight, like a warm sunflash on the snow,
Drew from him some few tears; and then he spake.
“Alas! it is not he, but something shaped
For men to worship, rather than a man.
Thou canst not charm me with thy golden hair;
Thy blue eye like the heavens; thy tall fair limbs,
Like marble fancies touch'd with life—so charm me,
As that I should forget the love of one,
My flesh and bone—nay not that voice of thine,
Which sounds, as tho' thy hand that shed his blood
Had stolen away his soul—without his form
Shall witch me for a moment to look on thee,
Or make me think, for all my great old age,
That my long memories, like the mountain shadows
That stream from West to East, have turn'd to doting,
And left me so unmindful of myself
As not remember him. His was a front
Not fair to look on; oh! but very kind;
A hand not smooth and fine, but nerved with truth
To roughest grasp; and he had tender tears;
Tho' quickly dash'd away in his disdain,
As salt spray from the rocks. His eyes would fill
To hear of any evil chance befallen
The lives or fortunes of his daily friends.
And graces such as these were fitter far
To sway the hearts of men, than if his form
Were like a Parian Phœbus moved with life.”
He would have parted, and his steps were turn'd
Sadly away; when that deserted boy,
Heedless of all strange eyes, and scornful lips,
Clasping his hands together in wild grief,
First raised his woful looks to Heaven; and then
Flung himself at the feet of that old man,
With a shrill desolate plaint, soon drown'd in tears;
That, like the drops blown off from storm-beat flowers,
Rain'd on the ground. He cried;—“I am not changed,
Father; but angry Furies, 'twixt us two,
And 'twixt the present and the past, have spread
Their wings of darkness; all my heart of old
Answers unto this voice, which still thou hearest;
Still hearest, tho' those loving eyes are blind.”

IV

His beauty, in my spirit wrought anew
By wakeful fancies toiling night and day,
Grew hourly on my sense; and all my dreams
Flow'd round his living presence; and great Love
Cast on his face the image in my heart,
And made him doubly fearful. Oh! at morn
I've met him in the walks between the vines;
Or down in dells, where torrent waters whirl'd
Thro' rocks unto the sea, where twisted boughs,
Embracing o'er the river's gulphy bed,
Made secret shade; sudden my throbbing pulse
Wax'd full of trouble as a rising sea;
And drown'd my coming voice, and I stood pale
And trembling, as a guilty thing reveal'd
By its own fears. Oh! then, if but a word
Distill'd more sweetly from his tongue—a welcome
More kindly spoken than his wont—a smile
More tender than the others—I became
Transform'd, transfigured, and with mystic strength
Inform'd; as tho' the Spirit of the Spring,
At work within me, put forth eager wings,
And clothed itself with power anew, and moved
The founts of life within me, and awoke
Pulses of bliss, that thro' my tearful eyes
Flash'd like a cloudy beam, and then were changed
To panic fears, and senseless agonies,
If that dear voice and dearer smile should light
Upon another. Then the storm came back,
Lashing the changeful deeps within; and glooming
With tenfold cloud the sunshine of a moment.
Ah Heaven! what nameless trances of delight,
And anguish, what swift hates, what dread suspicions
Follow'd by adoration and new love,
Fierce as the fire, that from cold drops creates
Fresh ardours, and by ruffling winds is blown
Into resistless might: my breath came quick;
A pleasant murmur wander'd in mine ears;
Mine eyes grew dim with joy; back from my brow
I cast my hair; my step grew light and free,
As tho' gay Love had stolen from his wings,
To plume my feet and lift me from the earth.
Ah! then I was delighted and sublime:
My heart rose to mine eyes; and idle words,
Buoyant with musical emotion, danced
Upon my lips like rapture, and leap'd forth
In melody; plain speech began to sound
Wondrous as inspiration; mine own voice
Seem'd in mine ear, as when the Pythoness
Feels the great Oracle begin to stir
Within her, and her natural utterance change.
Elated by his godlike smile, and fill'd
With supernatural glory, I had dared
Deeds worthy of heroic might; and arm'd
My delicate limbs in brazen plates, and led
A helmed cohort onward, sword in hand,
And foremost scaled embattled walls; and Death
Might have come then and robb'd me of my breath,
But never could have quench'd the exulting smile
That play'd upon my lips. But if he frown'd;
Oh! if but once a momentary scorn
Jarr'd that loved voice, my spirit in me fell.
All my wild laughters and ambitious glee
Died, as a spray of early blossoms pale
Shed by a frosty wind: then, nor the sky,
Nor rivers sounding freshly, nor first flowers,
Nor teeming lawns, nor violet-breathing wind,
Nor gushing song of the new nightingale,
Nor all the pomp of the awakening Spring,
Could fetch back comfort; nought but that same voice
Tuned to the selfsame music, all to me.

V

Oh! wherefore was I made, but to be mock'd;
Like some smooth ivory image on a throne,
To whom the vulgar bow the knee, and chant
With adulation; but their noisy hymns
Cannot inform it with one spark of life?
Nor can the glory of a thousand songs,
Echoed from hill to hill, from isle to isle;
Nor all the incense of my worshippers
Change me to that I would desire to be,
The lowliest of the daughters of the isle,
The large-eyed laughing Lesbian girls; that weave
Their golden voices with the lyre; that bind
Their brows with lilies, as the crescent moon
Tufted with paly summerclouds; or beat
The timbrels, foremost in the festal pomps
Of Aphrodite, in beauty scarce below
Divine Thalia, or Euphrosyne,
Or wild Aglaia. Lo! the gusty sweetness,
Like hyacinth odours on a soft springmorn,
Rises and falls along the curving shores,
And mingles with the old song of the seas;
And reaches me far off, under the shade
Of some cool rock o'ermantled with the vine,
Or thymy upland breathing in the waves;
And brims mine eyes with tears, that are no more
Sweet, as of old, when this chain'd heart was free.
Why was I framed to drink into my sense
The essence of things lovely; and to draw
Upon my faithful soul the lineaments
Of all most glorious and most beautiful,
Swiftly as spirits, that tremble o'er the face
Of stilly seas, which unseen influences
Crisp when the winds are low? whose golden floor,
Far down beneath the liquid diamond, takes
The shadows of all things that pass above;
The spacious summercloud, the fisher's bark;
The image of the swimmer's downward face;
The wildbird's plume, the dolphin's pearly scale.
Why was I doom'd to suffer in my heart
The beauty of the Universe, and feel
Powerless to bend the iron strength of Man
With that which takes me captive? O Apollo!
Why hast thou in this tender body set
This eager soul? and pour'd upon my tongue
The echoes of thine own; if I must sing
Of my discomfiture, of thy defeat;
And how one dart of Eros keener is
Than all thy golden arrows? must complain
Only of Man's proud victories over me;
And how one face can witch me more than all
Thy songs can stir my soul? that I—who oft
Have seen the great Gods with undazzled eyes
In twilight valleys, or on morning slopes
Of sunlit hills, and heard their voices speak
In melody, which, like a harpstring keen
And tender, makes the pulses of the air
To throb and burn; and then, diffused and dying
In solemn echoes, like sweet thunder, shakes
The wavering sky, and makes the air to thrill—
Daily am doom'd to faint beneath the brows
And cold blue eyes of one unhonour'd boy?
Wherefore are mine affections, finely edged
Upon the stony temper of his scorn
Thus to be jagg'd and torn? His heedless eyes,
Upon the lonely altar of my heart,
Light up the accustom'd flame at Morn and Even,
But all the flashes of my hungry thoughts
Are, in that cold oblivious bosom drown'd,
Like sudden stars that run along the sky
Of midnight, and being swallow'd up in gloom
Are quench'd and die. Oh! there are human hearts
Within the dungeon of blind Fortune barr'd,
Fated with inexpressive agonies
To writhe and die unpitied; else this love,
Shining thro' walls of maiden fear and pride,
Had witch'd his nature unto sympathy;
As the hot Sun draws up the waters cold,
And of these twain are built 'twixt Heaven and Earth
Elysiums in the air—soft isles of cloud—
Sweet Fairyland; neither too dark nor bright
Tents, where the blissful Gods may lie and dream.
The sun that trembles on an icicle
Hath power to turn it swiftly into tears.
The wildbird mates with him whose song she hears
Pleading for pity, and recks not of his plumes.
Lightning can thaw the adamant of the World.
But love, more swift than lightning, cannot melt
Hard hearts, unlike each other, though in this
Alas! alike, that each may love in vain.
Man only, Man, King of the World, who tames
Wild creatures, and bends all things to his will
By no wise art or crafty charm, can thread
The crazy windings of Love's labyrinth,
Paven and roof'd with old perplexities,
And cobwebb'd o'er with cross-fatalities,
And darken'd with impossibilities.

VI

Say not that ye have loved, who have not been,
Like me, cast in that frail and perilous mould,
Which is at once the type of Majesty
And Desolation (sublime Phantasy,
Which sets our nature lower than the Gods,
Tho' far above the World) who have not been,
Like me, possess'd with fierier thoughts, than suit
My gentle kind; who have not been ordain'd
To suffer and to know, beyond the heart
Of Woman; yet to feel that all my gifts,
Though excellent, can never pay the loss
Of one that, on the aching heart of Man,
Thirsty for drops of consolation, flows
Like cool rills over desert sands; or dew
Upon the trodden dust of public ways:
Beauty! which won the prize in Heaven and made
The Majesty of Hera mad with envy:
Beauty! which Fate hath stolen from my cheeks
To throne within my heart. Take back your gifts,
Dark Sisters, and restore my wasted years.
Give me great Juno's eyes, or Hebe's cheeks,
Or Venus' ivory lids, and dewy lips;
Give me Youth's freshness, and exulting smile;
And let me sit upon the lowly shore,
And mend a fisher's nets, or help to pile
The vintage baskets with the timely grape;
Or drive a flock of goats into the town;
Or whine for alms, a beggar in the sun;
So that that fisher be my love; the hand,
That piles the bunches, sometimes light on mine;
The morning milk I from their udders drew
Be quaff'd by him; or the despised coin
Flung from his hand be glowing with his touch!
Fain would I, all unmindful of renown,
Untwine my distaff, singing to myself,
Like yon poor girl, that sits beneath the porch
Of her own cot, and often smiles; and looks
Toward the waters flush'd with gold of Even;
And hears the seawind gambol in the leaves
Of the old vine that tents her overhead,
Fleckering her red lip and her sunny brow
With shadows cool. She hears the low westwind:
Its rustling murmur mingle with the sound
Of unseen waves, that, fretting on the sands,
And shells, and rocks beneath, make music, meet
To echo her calm thoughts, and humble hopes,
And lowly joy. Ah! happy, happy thou.
Ev'n now thy love, returning from the field,
Will kiss thee on the cheek, and hail thee kindly;
And fold unto his heart the softeyed boy
That at thy footstool lies—why am I thus?

VII

Oh! is not perfume of a wildflower sweeter
Than incense in the temples? Are not breathings
Of hidden violets dearer than the blush
Of Summer in a garden? Is not Love
Mighty and fervent, though in homely weeds,
Better than aught without it? I have seen
Fortunate Anaktoria; her proud step
And arched brows above Junonian eyes;
Her curved crimson lip, that every day
Bathes in new nectars; her voluptuous bosom,
The sumptuous cradle of Elysian dreams.
Who bends not to her presence? Who is not
Loud in her praise? What lot so great as hers?
Sole daughter of a sire, the foremost man
Of thousands; first in riches, first in honour.
A hundred vineyards pour into his vats
Their precious blood; he sails on every sea.
He piles his pleasure-houses of strange marbles;
His walls with carved-work; his pictured roofs
Show us the Gods in Heaven! Oh! she is fair.
Yet can this proud one love? She is a bride
For Kings; the heavens have measured her perfections
By his abundance; and the happy lord
Of her delights will take the Queen o' the Isles,
Dower'd with the treasures of the land and sea.
Oh! she is fair; but can the proud one love?
Sooner a vision, spun of golden clouds,
And floating in the sky, would bow to us;
Than one, who, at the top of all this world,
And swathed in folds of services and pomp,
Moves in a mist of praise! So let her pass.
Have ye seen her who loves to kill with love
The laughing, scornful Cydno? She who turns
From hearts, that she hath poison'd with her smiles,
With looks of wonderment and innocence,
And simple tears, which make her starry eyes
Like veiled sunbeams softer than themselves;
And make sweet Nature sweeter, saving her
For other victories and triumphant wrongs?
Think ye that she can love? Sooner a flower
That wags i' the wind, or busy, painted fly.
Know ye not her who saith, “I love my lover;”
And yet, to pamper her remorseless pride,
Would peril in fierce feats and bloody strife
The constant honour of the man she loves?
And, if she saw his blood upon her hand,
Some drops she sure would shed, that she had lost
One who had served her majesty so well;
Cruel Euphranta? Oh! know ye Atthis,
With the sweet voice and golden hair, who loves
Her little self beyond all things but praise;
Whom vanity unsexes? she would frown,
If Mars should show his plume among her guests,
Dusty with battle; or Apollo light
Among her lovers, and enchant their eyes,
Whose heart, unquiet as a racketball,
Is tost between her honour and vainglory.
And can she love? Oh! no—I know ye all—
Your beauty like the strutting peacock's plumes
Is borne disdainfully; your idle natures
Are busy with the gaudy World; your thoughts
Are harsh and boastful as the peacock's cry.

VIII

Oft have I said;—“He knows not of my pain.”
Needs must I suffer patiently, and die
In silence, steadfast martyr of great Love.
The Gods will listen to a poor man's prayer;
And dower his poverty with urns of gold,
And unremember'd gems: but yesterday,
(So runs the tale along the shore) a fisher
Whose nets and boat—his very life—ay more,
The lives of his poor children—the wild sea
Had torn and swept away one howling night—
Drew up, in borrow'd nets, (when he had pray'd
Kneeling upon the beach to Jove, his heart
Oppress'd with great despair) a carven vessel,
Fill'd to the ears with golden coins, and, under
The gold, a chain, whose links were boss'd with gems;
And rings of pearl and twisted carkanets,
Flushing with stones, that inly seem'd to boil
With blood of Gods or drops of nectarous wine;
Or all afire with amber flames: alas!
Why hears he not my prayer, who pray for life?
For unrequited love is Death! Maybe
The Gods are jealous; for I fear that Phaon
Is shrined in a loftier place than Jove.
Therefore it is to Phaon that I pray.
He hears me not; my prayers are merely sighs.
Ah! sooner will a carven statue bend
Its marble ears, and open stony lips
To the pale glare of superstitious awe,
Or to the grinning of hypocrisy,
Than woman, in the silent sanctuary
Of her own heart, in deep religion bow'd
Before the King of her idolatry,
Can hope to make the cruel Idol see.
But if I die, so shall my doom be sweet.
To die in blisses at the feet of him,
For him who will not be my life; and when
This vexed heart, compact of burning flame,
Is set among the stars, as it shall be,
Its mystic influence, shed upon the earth,
Shall cross with power the fatal beams that deal
Mischance to lovers; and perchance shall shield
His happy Youth from pangs he dooms to me!

IX

But, in those days which dawn'd with hope and joy,
And set in darkness, where wert thou the while,
O Phantasis, O faithful friend of old?
My harp was broken, and my voice was mute,
My soul a garden stricken in its spring
With barrenness; my heart a stormy clime,
Thro' which the tongues of old affections seem'd
Faint and afar; kind loves of kindred cold.
The year was dying, and the sunless days
Were coming on the earth; but well I knew
I could not dream, as I was wont erewhile,
In the drear hours of Winter by the side
Of my own hearth, and make its warmth and light
Image to me the blissful sunny shine.
There was a time—Oh! then I was a child—
(And sure whole ages roll'd 'twixt now and then,)
And like an innocent child, who all the day
Will wander idly, and forget his task,
To look out for the advent of some friend
Beloved dearly, whose bright face, and voice
Of merriment, will send into his heart
Oblivion of all bondage, fear, and care—
There was a time when, in the cloudy months,
And when the world might seem to suffer anguish,
I counted those dull hours of every day,
Wherein no outward beauty cheer'd my sense.
Oh! then, what joy to shape the virgin Spring,
With living touches, more than painter's art,
In some lone sanctuary atween the hills,
Stormproof, and steep'd in odours, brimm'd with light—
Like Aphrodite dropping from her brows
The pearly waters—stepping forth at morn
From forth a sea of sunshine, lily-crown'd,
And scattering round her the half-open blooms.
What joy to mark, in visionary mood,
The black-eyed Summer, panting at all pores,
Back from his forehead cast his glittering locks,
Flowing and dark, as 'twixt the vines he runs,
At noontide, or along the champaign smooth,
To drink the tempest from the icy peaks,
And wrestle with the thunders of the hills.
What tender moments when my fancy seem'd
To look back to the parted year, and see
Slow-footed Autumn, with his teeming horn
Slung from his shoulder, ere he bade farewell,
Beam sweetly on me a last tearful smile;
And flinging down his clusters on the ground
Dower me with all his wealth; then flee away
Thro' the warm gold of the last sunny even.
I was not gladden'd by the nightingale's
Sweet madness; by the rushing of the winds
Over the fresh green of the mountain oaks,
Whose freshness once seem'd breath of a new earth
And heaven; I could not look, while Spring was new,
With eager eyes upon the pearly sheen
Of blossoms, or the first-born crimson rose,
That laugheth out King Summer's messenger.
And now the year was dying, and the last
Was shedding on the turf its breathless leaves.
Its solitary beauty—like the vain,
And melancholy smile of one, who stays
Beside the sickbed of her best beloved,
And tortures her lorn soul and aching eyes,
To image consolation, and call up
Hope in that heart that hath no hope at all,
Save death alone, herself about to die—
Moved me to tears fantastical and sweet,
In very pity for the mournful figures
Of my own brain. I pluck'd with sudden hand
That trustful flower, the last of all the year;
And cared not if I shed its leaves away,
And lingering life it bore; for, if it died
Within my bosom's warmth, where hope was none,
While interchanging our sad sympathies,
Methought it did not die unsatisfied.
Sudden the mist of wandering phantasies
Was rent asunder by the tyrant thought
That brook'd no neighbour; and I fled within,
And cast me down at my dear mother's knee.
“O mother, mother, what is come to me?”
I cried, “hast thou no balm, no spell, to heal
A stricken heart, ev'n as cool mallowflowers
Once charm'd the pain out of my wounded hand?
I cannot share thy joys, or halve thy cares;
Or sing, or speed the loom, or turn the wheel;
Or will, or think, or do, but only feel.
Mother, sweet mother, stay me, or I die!”