University of Virginia Library

ADYTA CORDIS.

POEMS.

I. PAIN AND SOLACE.

A VISION.

II. PREVENTION.

III. THE APPEAL.

IV. THE CUP OF JOY.

V. THE CREED.

VI. LOVE'S SAFETY.

VII. THE LIFE OF FLOWERS.

VIII. TO A GLOW-WORM.

IX. EVENING.

X. A KNELL.

XI. THE VOW.

XII. CONSOLATION.

XIII. THE PORTRAIT.

XIV. THE VEIL.

XV. THE HEART-THIRST.

XVI. FATALISM.

XVII. BEAUTY'S PREDICAMENT.

'Twixt Passion and Indifference Beauty sat;
Prudence to this, Love swaying her to that:
And thus Indifference with his cold mouth spoke:—
“Most easy, Lady! is my quiet yoke:
I lead thee nor to trespass nor desire;
And hold thee temperate in the midst of fire!”
Said Passion, with a voice all tremulous—
His pale cheek crimson'd, eye diaphanous:—
“O, fly me not for him to whom the sun,
Moon, stars, in their blue-bedded union,
Are but a common show; whom flowers and song
Charm to no feeling as he gropes along;
Who, meting all things with a niggard measure,
Still coldly stagnates betwixt grief and pleasure;
And, freezing, in his cell doth sleep and die,
With no heart his in all mortality!
O, turn to me! for I can colour heaven,
And robe the grey morn and the purple even
In more than their own glory; air and skies
Fill with dream'd memories of Paradise;
And bid the earth teem with high thoughts and feelings
That for my listless foe have no revealings!
I with a word can wake heart-melody;
I with a glance can make felicity;
I with a touch can call up ecstasy!”—
And what did lady Beauty in this strait?
As Prudence bade, to where Indifference sate
She turn'd, and seem'd to move: Love nearer flew,
And an invisible chain so round her threw,
That, whilst to reach Indifference she tried,
He drew her deftly to sweet Passion's side;
And fix'd her there a prisoner, rapt and bound.
But long she breathed not on this human ground!
What chanced was sad: in that new, warm controul,
She died amid the sweets of her own soul—
Just as poor bees, in station over-sunny,
Are drown'd i' the hive of their own molten honey.

XVIII. THAT DAY.

XIX. A PLEA FOR ABSENCE.

SONNETS.

I. INDIRECTION.

II. REMEMBER THEE?

And dost thou doubt that I remember thee,
Because no word of thee adorn'd my letter?
Oh, God! by my dark fate which is to be,
And by the sorrows my strong soul that fetter—
My innate gloom of spirit—I do swear
To my rack'd heart, an oath religious there,
That my mad soul unto thy memory sighs,
As the lost traveller to the only star
That lit his path, now dying in the clouds:
O, mournful is the gloom my sky that shrouds,
And my calm hopes betost in tempest are;
Yet 'mid my sadness thoughts of thee remain;
And the deep light of thy unfellow'd eyes
Hath graven fiery records on my brain!

III. “MANY;” YET, BUT “ONE.”

Say, I love “Many”—well, dear soul! I do;
But the bright object of my love is “One:”
I love a thousand flowers, of every hue,
For all are beautiful, though similar none;
I love a thousand stars, for all are bright,
And with their radiant beauty cleave the sight:
Then, though I have, as thy sweet lips complain,
On many a lip of ruby banqueted;
Of many a bright eye the rich-streaming rain
Of light drunk with my soul, then nectar-fed;
'Tis the same spirit I adore in all;
And must, till mine, or Reason's funeral:
'Tis the one deity of Beauty I
In many a matchless temple deify.

IV. A HYMN TO MELANCHOLY.

On the soft rose of her most vernal cheek
My warm lips take their banquet tremblingly:
She is not angry—no; nor doth she speak;
But her soul argues from her rich-ray'd eye,
By of bright tears a starry embassy,
That herald solace—Ah! my Spirit's Woe!
Thy moody fit hath prompted, in an hour,
More than had ever issued from the flow
Of Joy, vine-crown'd with all rejoicing power.
Oh! then I bless thee, god-born Melancholy!
And thou art wisdom, though fools call thee folly:
The brief duration of my lone life's dower
Fleets to extinction; but, heart-led by thee,
I've raised a flower to scent Eternity.

V. THE CHANGE.

That day, since which the earth-saluting sun
Hath seven times gilt the forehead of the sky,
Nature was joyous; and thou, gentle one!
Sat beaming on me with thy heaven-starr'd eye,
Whose radiant glory mine drank flashingly:
Our cheeks held union, like two roses meeting;
Our lips communed, with love's intemperate greeting;
Our sighs convulsed each other, and the hour
Drew half its deadly depths of fearful sweetness,
From the conviction that our passion's flower,
Brief bud and blossom, grew with dying fleetness.
Now all the air is cloud; and I am cheating
My utter sorrow with a dream of thee—
Making a substance of shade memory.

VI. THE GLOW-WORM.

When once I kiss'd thee, my soul's Idol new!
A little glow-worm was our love's sole witness;
Whose pretty lamp gleam'd with its emerald hue,
But shadows broke not, weeting well their fitness:
And since, I often have comparison'd
Its fairy light to thee and thy dear love—
Lit up in twilight late, the broad day shunn'd;
Glowing a glory in the world's dim grove;
Held in thy heart as that within its bush—
This painting leaves with light, that cheeks with blush;
And then, for thy fair self—just such a light
As throbb'd from that sweet summer-lamp of eve,
Came melting from thine eyes on my dark sight,
And did my lit soul with bright chains enweave.

VII. THE RIVER.

When last we gazed upon that happy river,
Whose bliss those mantled boughs bend low to share,
'Twas bright as heaven, and the bounteous giver
Back of their beauty to the things above it;
And we as tranquil as its waters were,
That with the eyes of love look'd down to love it:
But now, the thick mists of the morn are o'er it,
Hanging like fate above its flowing life;
And musing now alone, I thus deplore it—
'Tis with the image of our own lot rife;
For o'er our bosoms hath the mist of sorrow
Swept shroudingly—and thence this grief I borrow:
The river through its sun-pierced veil shall peer,
The morning of our hearts may never clear.

VIII. THE LETTER.

The set sun of my joy again ariseth:
By thy sweet letter is my soul revived;
And as a sudden lamp dark sleep surpriseth,
Thy greeting starts my heart, in slumber gyved.
Thou hast wept o'er the closure of thy page;
And weeping words with weeping tears are blotted—
From the same fount that hath from age to age
Gush'd with the dew to all fond thoughts allotted:
Oh! they do seem the eloquent presage
Of bliss hereafter, sweet, though sorrow-spotted.
On “pity,” “love me,” “cherish,” and “forget,”
Have drops downfallen—the sweet words still seem wet:
Thus, thus on dry tears I moist tears let fall—
Would they were on thy cheek, whose rose would tinge them all!

IX. POSSESSION.

Those lips are mine! for on them I have set
The living seal of passionate possession:
Those brows are mine which like a coronet
Arch o'er her sweet eyes, in their royal session
Of high debate concerning ecstasy,
How it may hold off grief! for on them I
Have breathed the flush'd soul of idolatry:
Mine those debaters high! and mine those tresses
Which hold my falcon spirit in their jesses!
Mine that white hand, inlaid with tracery
Of delicate blue! and mine that globed shrine,
Where Love dwells pantingly!—All, all is mine!—
Nor do I but possess them by a name;
But the true heart-lord of those riches am!

X. RESEMBLANCE.

Sweet lights and shades from outward objects stealing
O'er the receiving tablet of the eye,
Form pictures there, that to the inner feeling
Give colour'd impresses; which Memory
Stores in her galleries of glorious Art,
Holding a magic order in each part;
That when again like combinations strike,
The past springs to the present, seen alike;
Not clearer, present, to the present eye,
Than past, made present by woke memory:
Nay, not so clear; for that sweet face I view,
Soft light and shade to my fix'd sight revealing,
Glows not so real, in its faintest hue,
As that resembled face, eternal in my feeling.

XI. THE WRITTEN PORTRAIT.

Were I a Painter, I would fix thee now!—
Thy dark hair, with its thick-entangled curls,
Hanging like silken clouds by either brow;
Thy forehead peering o'er, more white than pearls;
Thine eyes, with a bright glory just ascended
From the Elysium of thy beating heart;
Thy cheeks, deep-flush'd with roses, all unblended
With the pale lily, whose demurer art
Plays round thy lips, whose exquisite carnation
Closes and opes, as mirth's sweet inspiration
Comes o'er them, like a zephyr whose soft wing
With freshening dew is laden—Lo! 'tis traced:
Thy picture glows in words; a colouring
Whose hues are fire—And shall they be effaced?

XII. “HERE” AND “THERE.”

The trees are Here in equal majesty;
As beautiful, though mellow'd by the year
From pleasure into thought: flowers, too, are Here;
As sweet, and sun-died in their livery:
And Here are gurgling brooks and rivulets;
And hills and vales, more lofty far and deep;
Round which the sun in holier glory sets,
Moon and stars rise, and wild winds wake and sleep,
And glad birds sing as sweetly: rocks are Here,
And the vast deep they gird, which were not There:
Then, why this sense of utter vacancy,
That weighs upon my heart and dims my eye?
She is not Here who blest me in the night!—
Gone like the fairy lamps that lent us light!

XIII. THE RING.

As the blue Girdle of the Universe
Doth all the warring elements enclose
That battle through the sphered Infinity—
Winds, lightning, thunder, light, and heat, and life,
And all the glories in our vision rife
Around the orb on which we dream and die:
So one mind's universe of joys and woes;
Of passions that make all our bliss a curse;
Of smiles, sighs, tears and laughter; and the treasure
(For bane or good, as well or ill applied)
Which lurks within the heart's rich-veined mine—
Seems circled by this gold's enchanted measure,
Which doth engird the deity divine
That breatheth through the Soul's Creation wide.

XIV. THE BANQUET.

Beside the blazing hearth we silent stood,
Both lonely in our feelings and our fate,
And faint in frame and mind: a cloud of blood
Rose to her cheek, and from its bosom darted
Etherial lightning to her eye sedate,
Which then flash'd gorgeously—I stood the same;
Her sweet lips quiver'd like the glow-worm's flame
When the winds rave—yet stood I inward-hearted;
My hands were clasp'd in hers—my soul was dead;
At length her lips, breathing Love's balmy south,
Made fresh my feverish hand—I woke, and fed
Upon the loveliest and the rosiest mouth
That ever gated the rich life of breath—
And there would feed, even when they banquet Death!

XV. THE HELL-MIST.

We walk in hell! for, reeking from the river,
Dense vapours roll upon the atmosphere,
Making a murky horror in the air;
Till, gall'd in sense and sight, all life doth quiver,
And many a gasping heart groans forth a prayer
For death, before such life. Enchantress dear!
Whose wand is beauty, on the lustre clear
Of thy sweet eyes I fix a constant gaze,
Lest in the infernal and condensing maze
I lose all memory of light, and rave;
For darkness wraps the earth as in a grave,
Where they alone are radiant. Near! more near!
Let me not lose the Elysium of one beam;
A real thing in this infernal dream!

XVI. MOTHER AND CHILD.

Sweet rose-cheek'd infant of a blue-eyed mother!
Thou beauteous germ, sprung from a glorious blossom!
That liest on thy parent's streaming bosom,
Fair as a rainbow on the blue-vein'd sky,
Or sunbeams on a bed of roses white.
Art thou the embodied spirit of delight,
That feedest even on woe? Oh! let me smother
Thine infant lids with kisses, as they lie
Half-closed upon thy yearning mother's breast,
From whence thou drainest life in ecstasy!
Couldst thou but know the sorrow which is guest
Of the fond heart that feeds thee, thou wouldst weep
A piteous fountain from thine innocent eye,
And thy nectarious food in the salt crystal steep.

XVII. THE DREAM.

I dream'd the lady whom I love was dying—
Was dead, and in eternal silence lying;
Whilst I, as is my wont, to hide the feeling
That rent my inmost heart of life asunder,
Affected laughter, and awhile pretended
To read some page of wondrous poesy—
(The Northern Ploughman's 'twas) but quickly ended
That fearful struggle at despair-concealing;
And an electric grief fell loud as thunder,
Withering as lightning, on my brain and heart:
Upon the floor, groaning and ravingly,
I dash'd my forehead, and wild shriek'd aloud;
Until, methought, she leapt out of her shroud,
And hail'd me Dead—and we no more did part.

XVIII. THE PICTURE.

The shades of night around thy portrait, Dear!
Are gather'd, till thy semblance waneth dim;
And what awhile ago like thee was clear,
Shews indistinct in feature and in limb:
And such hereafter will the shadows be
On thy sweet image in my memory.
Taper and fire, with artificial light,
Give back thy painted likeness to the sight;
And fancy in far years to come may shed
Brightness on recollection, and again
Stamp thee upon my soul. Ah! darkness fled,
Another morn will on thy picture rain;
But know I not what sun can e'er restore
That morning of my heart which passeth o'er.

XIX. THE MIRTH OF SORROW.

The sorrows of my nature well thou knowest,
Thou who canst feel for those who deeply feel;
And in thy heart's esteem were I the lowest,
That gentle heart should not thus all reveal
Its grief and anger at the fitful mood
Which, wounding those I cherish, breaks the sadness
That else would sink me into listless madness,
And turn to poison what is now my food,
Sweeten'd by these wild startings: solitude
Had seen me at thy feet in silence kneeling,
And weeping on thy lap, Dew of my Years!
What outlet, when forbidding eyes intrude,
For my o'erflowing soul's tempestuous feeling,
But that mad mirth?—It now is calm'd in tears.

XX. THE SORROW OF MIRTH.

Oh! anything but that unfeeling mirth,
Those heartless snatches of unmeaning song!
It is assumption merely, and hath birth
In deepest sadness; and the effort's need
That galls my spirit with indifference seeming,
In its re-action will but prove more strong
The chain that is around thee: let us weed
Our hearts of briars, and leave one sweet flower
To drink the dews of love and the bright beaming
Of thought's internal joy! Shall every shower
That will pour down from life's still-changing sky
Make the rich blossom veil its peerless eye
And stoop its nectar'd beauty to the sod?
Then must it wither soon; and to dull earth be trod!

XXI. THE SYMBOL.

The mystic Circle of Eternity
For ever is around our souls revolving:
Sweet flowers are circular; sweet fruits are orb'd,
And in Time's circle live and are absorb'd,
As we and all things; in the circled sky,
The rounded earth and moon, each planet sphered,
Wheel round the mighty circle of the sun
In orbed motion, true and self-involving:
The myriad fiery cirques that robe the azure,
Beaming a golden glory without measure
From the blue height of their constellate throne,
Bear the same sacred figure. This gemm'd ring,
By Nature's great religion thus endear'd,
Symbols my love—a centre-circling thing.

XXII. TO HER LOVER.

“I am most wretched, Dear! to see you merry;
Smiling, and raising smiles on others' cheeks;
Whilst with a sad face in my heart I bury
A passionate love for thee, which almost breaks
My spirit with its great power: to hear you laugh
And jest amid the free and empty-hearted
And gather seeming pleasure from all eyes,
When from within me hath all sense departed
Of joy, save that which in your fondness lies,
And bliss from thine eyes only can I quaff—
My heart is eaten by its inward sighs;
For all thy gentle vows seem mockeries:
But even then thine eyes to mine will turn
With a soft-lighted love, that cannot falsely burn!”

XXIII. UNRAVELMENT.

I know full well, Sweet! why thou canst not bear
That I should take me to my books and pen,
Though they make light the heavy garb I wear
Of doubt and thought, that folds my spirit within
Her shrouded self: thou lov'st me—that I know;
And so around me do thy feelings grow,
Thou canst not turn thee from the one great theme
For ever of fond hearts the restless dream:
And therefore it disturbs thee to behold
Thy lover, with a perseverance cold,
Pursue the great heart-business of his being—
To win beyond the grave a sense and seeing.
But, oh! content thee: in his absence long
Thou art the breathing soul of half his song!

XXIV. THE WOOD.

Why, here we are alone: the dark trees wave
Their fingery branches in the ceaseless wind;
And grass and moss the tangled pathway pave,
Where daisies lift their heads, in vestal guise,
And open their snow-white and pinky eyes
In beauty which the shadows of the wood
Too chastely cloister. Let me read the mind
Which gushes o'er thine aspect, like a flood,
And thence draw warranty. It is derived!
In that eye-glory is my passion shrived!
Our lips kiss quiveringly; again!—no more!—
Thy very life seems stifled in held breath,
And a dim shadow sweeps thine eyelids o'er—
A nearer greeting were delirious death!

XXV. THE CRONE.

Beldam! Why hither must thy slow feet stray,
To gather dry sticks for thy desolate hearth,
Whose fire thou feedest with that scanty fuel,
To keep thine old blood warm whilst winds are cruel?
Amid the myriad pathways of the earth,
Was there no other for thy groping way
Than this, thou crooked and time-eaten hag!
Wherein thy witch-like presence hath enchanted
Hearts from the brink of bliss on which they panted?
Were diamonds hung upon thine every rag,
And thy crook'd crutch a wand of Fairyland,
To work all alchemy at thy command,
Love's church should ne'er absolve thee, hoary Crone!
Of the foul sacrilege thine eyes have done.

XXVI. THREE DISCOURSES ON ONE TEXT.

XXVII. PROMISE.

I go; but, do not weep!—I will remember
Thine every accent till we meet again;
The bright fire of my love shall ne'er know ember,
But purely burn, like to the soul of wine:
I'll think and dream of thee; I'll ne'er recline
To slumber, but I'll wish my couch were thine;
Nor wake, and sigh not for thee: and by letter
I'll break the distance which our love doth fetter,
And speak to thee in love-born characters;
And on the wide sea-waving of my verse
A rich shower of sweet thoughts of thee shall rain,
And stories of our hearts will I rehearse:
Let this assurance stanch thy bleeding woe—
Thine image follows me where'er I go.

XXVIII. THE SHAME.

“It is a shame that we are forced to part!”—
It is a shame to pluck sweet flower from flower,
That offer incense to each other's heart;
It is a shame that dews on flowerets met
Should be dispersed by the casual wind;
It is a shame the sun should ever set,
And rob the warm world of his kiss of fire;
That ever clouds before the stars should lower,
And hold the earth from her intense desire
Of gazing on her sister spheres above:
But still these shames will be, and more than these,
In this still-changing world; and, therefore, Love
Must bear his sorrows with enduring mind,
Diving in his deep heart for sorrow's ease.

XXIX. A REPLY.

“How canst thou ask to have long letters from me,
When thou art far away? My thoughts and hopes
And dreamings thou still read'st with love-learn'd eye,
And they change not; that no variety
May give relief to my heart-heavy words;
And thou wilt tire of sameness.”—So the birds
Might to the lone Earth sing when spring is gone,
Summer and autumn too, and winter opes
His cold eyes o'er the world: but 'tis their voice,
Piping to her lorn ear at intervals,
That bids her in her lonely plight rejoice
And dream on future greetings. Do not doom me
To restless doubt; but let the dew which falls
From Love's full pen cheer my Life's floweret lone!

XXX. THE EVE OF ABSENCE.

Thou sittest silent amid strangers, Dear!
And I am going far from thy fond heart:
Thy cheeks are pale, and in thine eyes a tear
Starts, and its orbed world is dim with sorrow;
For thou art musing on a blank to-morrow.
But, cheating distance, let us still be near
In waking thoughts and vivid dreams of love;
And from our heart's worn ark send memory's dove
In search of rest from passion's sorrow-flood!
In body, not in soul, we wholly part;
And still our thoughts shall be right spiritual food,
To feed the pining dotage which we bear
Craving within our spirits.—Yet I moan;
Leaving thee sad, 'mid joy; and in a crowd, alone.

XXXI. THE PENCILLED LETTER.

XXXII. THE TOKEN-FLOWERS.

“I have been gazing on those eloquent flowers—
The love-named ‘heart's-ease’ and ‘forget-me-not’—
Which thou didst give me in those last sweet hours
That beam'd quick life before our death of parting.
They are both wither'd!—That the first should die,
To my repining heart is nothing strange;
For never heart's ease fell to passion's lot
In this woe-weary world, where chance and change
Still drug joy's purest cup with misery.
But my soul sighs, and to my eye is starting
A thoughtful tear, to think the last must perish:
Oh! I would have it live until the hour
When thy remembrance, Dear! I cease to cherish—
What an undying thing were then that sacred flower!”

XXXIII. A MYSTERY'S SOLUTION.

XXXIV. PRESENCE.

“To-day, continually—at least, in thought—
Have you been my companion”—O, that thought
Could conjure what is real from the air,
And place it, warm and living, in our arms!
Then had we clasp'd each other; and repair
Made to the shadows of the woods around,
And revell'd in the intermingling charms
Of Nature's outward, Love's internal glory!
Yet there's a spiritual presence—in a sound,
A bird, a flower, a leaf, poetic story—
Of those with whom we've joy'd in them and love
In the sweet past: there glows a memory
Richly round all things, when the sacred dove
Of Thought sits on the heart, brooding eternally.

XXXV. THE IMPOSSIBILITY.

“Ere many years are o'er—when, it may be,
We shall be almost strangers to each other”—
I mark not what doth follow; for there flee
Thoughts toward my spirit which poor eyesight smother
And prostrate outward sense to that within.
We never can be strangers: in our being
Each unto each is an eternal presence,
That mingles with us in all grief, or pleasance,
Breathes in our worship, sins in all our sin,
Beats in our heart, and sees in all our seeing!
And what though death come, like a cloud, between us,
And in the dust of graves our warm veins lie?
This but concerns the veil which here doth screen us
From the soul-filling light of God's own eye.

XXXVI. THE “AMEN.”

“Though thereby I do lose what more I prize
Than all things else most dear to sense, or soul,
Your heart's engrossing love; yet do I pray
That you may brighten on Fame's starry way,
And reach in triumph that sky-templed goal
To which for ever turn poetic eyes!”—
‘Amen! Amen!’—a fervent, loud ‘Amen!’
Bursts from my lips, with all the wild sea's passion
When it leaps high to clasp the thunder-storm!
And even now, whilst from my trembling pen
My mind flows on my page, in fitful fashion,
I seem to live in death in some dim form,
Whose blood is even a voice! Nor art thou wrong'd;
For thus thy being is with mine prolong'd.

XXXVII. FIDELITY.

Whene'er I play thee false, my distant lover!
And drink delight from other eyes than thine,
Thine eyes start in the air, more bright than wine,
And pour into my soul reproof divine;
And then in love-thoughts, like a lark in clover,
My hush'd heart sweetly broods; and I repent me
That e'er to do thee wrong I could content me.
Whene'er I play thee false, my distant beauty!
From other lips than thine sweet nectar pressing,
Between the ruby tempters to my treason,
And mine, the traitors, do thy lips ope, blessing
The air with balm; and back to their dear duty
Recal my senses and their absent reason;
And I am very faithful—for a season.

XXXVIII. THE MORTAL MUSE.

O, thou, my Inspiration! from afar
Lighting my fancy, as the sun the star—
Distance shades not thy glory from my sight;
But through the mediate air I drink thy light,
And with the beam of thy reflected love
Am kindled and instinct! My thought doth move,
In planetary state, through passion's sky,
Around the sun-like centre of thine eye;
And, subtle made by that refining fire,
Exhales in breath, which floateth o'er my lyre
And stirreth the sweet concord of its springs,
Till Poesy opes wide her rainbow-wings;
And, through an universe of smiles and tears,
Wafts to communion with the wild-voiced spheres!

XXXIX. TO “THE CONSTELLATED FLOWER, THAT NEVER SETS.”

Thou lowly flower! be thou exalted ever;
Sphered in the eternal arch of poesy!
For thou art a memorial, failing never,
Of the heart's holiest throb in dreams gone by.
Here, where the accursed tread of men-machines,
Drill'd to the art of slaughter, beats thee down—
(And fit it is not that in martial scenes
Thou shouldst lift up thy love-presiding crown)
Here, where no eye but mine adores thy star;
No foot but mine to crush thy heart refuseth;
Thou to my spirit speak'st of meads afar,
Till with a weight of love my bosom museth;
And with my Lady dear I bless the scene
Where thy white constellations star the green.

XL. LOVE AND POESY.

“I have not poesy; but I have love.”
Thou hast both poesy and love, dear Heart!
For Love is of himself a poesy.
By his creative power a world is wove
Of thoughts and dreams, that to his spectred eye
A presence like reality impart;
Making the joy he loves, by his sweet art!
And what can heavenly Poesy do more?
All is a vision which she doth adore:
Fine Poesy and Love are still the same;
Save that warm Love is happier, and perchance
May substance find whereon to feed his flame,
And purchase sigh with sigh and glance with glance;
But Poesy loves shadows, without place or name.

XLI. TO “THE PEARLED ARCTURI OF THE EARTH.”

O, grace of meadows green and mossy banks!
Eternal Flower! still constant to the Year;
When April with bright hair his forehead pranks,
Or when his locks turn grey in winter drear.
Blest be the hour I taught my Lady's heart
To hold thy beauty in its inmost feeling;
To love thee better that thou humble art,
And op'st thine eye with such a sweet revealing
Of quiet joy! for now she cannot stray
Through field, or grove; or lane, by hedge-rows green;
But she must greet thy pink lips, by the way—
Thy white-ray'd cirques of gold, for ever seen!
And thus her thoughts to me must still be turn'd,
From whom the love she bears thy gem she learn'd.

XLII. OF THE POEMS OF SHAKSPEARE.

What? tear away that poesy divine
Of Venus and her Boy—sweet purple flower!
On whom she doted with a love like thine
For him whose heart beats at that wondrous song?
Of gentle Lucrece and her cruel wrong?
The Passionate Pilgrim's tears?—a rainbow-shower!
And the fair Lover's eloquent Complaint?
As full of fine thought as a hive of honey,
When the sweet bees fulfil their labours sunny!
O, leave such outrage to the dismal saint;
To man and woman that in secret sin,
And fear earth more than heaven: but do not thou
Assume the hypocrite, and basely win
A crown of seeming for thy truth-fair brow!

XLIII. TO ELECTRA.

As that Philosopher of regions cold,
Too idly dallying with the etherial fire
The Trans-Atlantic from its cloudy hold
Taught to unloose, did in its power expire;
The martyr of an infinite desire
To unveil secrets high; so I, approaching
Too nigh the electric force of beauteous eyes,
Suffer the penalty of that encroaching,
And in their fluid light my spirit dies!
Oh! fan it back to life with thy sweet sighs;
Or loose thy long locks o'er me, as the moon
Spreads her soft rays over a flower asleep;
That I may waken from this tranced swoon,
And into life again, rekindled, leap!

XLIV. THE HEART-FAVOURITE.

As in the capitals of Scythian kings
Abode more sacred and distinguish'd grew
The nigher it approach'd the sovereign view,
So nearness to thy beauty honour brings.
The slave that dwells within thy gaze afar
Doth pride him on that distant preference;
And who thy vision quite forbidden are
Holds dark as reptiles in a forest dense.
Oh! then, to what advancement am I raised,
Who in the palace of thy heart abide!
And marvel none that, with a favourite's pride,
On outer suitors I in scorn have gazed:
Yet fear not I, as baser minions do,
Slander the love whence I my greatness drew.

XLV. LOVE-WORSHIP.

When I do hear my Love's most holy name
Blasphemed by vulgar and degenerate lips,
My heart is moved with a pious shame
That words profane should heavenliest shrines eclipse:
Then burn I with a votary's indignation;
And, with the fervour of my faith elate,
Would force those ministers of desecration
With blood my deity propitiate!
Yet would a stream so foul pollute her altar,
Where love is sole-accepted sacrifice;
Therefore my hand refrains, my speech doth falter;
I leave them to the curse of their device:
Who worships spirit needs not war, indeed,
On dull idolaters, to prove his creed.

XLVI. CONTENTMENT.

“If I dared write all I do feel and think,
You would be satisfied.”—What is the chain
That binds thine eloquence to passion's brink?
O, cast it in the flood! It cannot sink
Upon that buoyant tide; but there may rain
Eternal freshness, from its floating pinions,
Over my thirsty heart and feverish brain.
Yet, words are but the fancy's airy minions,
Bearing no substance in their picturings vague;
And I with air could not be satisfied,
Which but contributes pestilence to plague:
But when lips' speech mute lips have ratified,
And our hearts' music is intensely blent,
I'll lay me on thy lap, and cry—Content!

XLVII. THE MANDATE.

O, my sweet spirit! to my sadness come;
Or, from the distant beauty of thy home,
Send me some comfort; for, indeed, my days
In the deep longing for immortal praise
Die mournfully: I tremble, sigh and weep;
And melancholy ghosts still haunt my sleep,
Of men whose tortures were high aspirations;
From which I wake to spectral contemplations
Of the dim future, and draw nothing thence
But unconvincing, shadowy conclusions;
Nor can the present firmer thoughts dispense;
And the dead time recedeth in delusions.
O, come! come sweetly; on my heart to lie,
Balming its depths with thy dear charity!

XLVIII. THE TEAR.

There is a sweet salt in thy kisses, Dear!
That dwells upon the lips like ocean-foam
Dropp'd from the whirling airs: what wandering tear
Hath left the palace of its orbed home;
Straying from crystal, over wan carnation,
Unto thy rich mouth's curving almandine,
Where half its dew is minister'd to mine
In our fix'd greeting's balmy implication?
Be it the herald of a tempest-shower,
Enclouded in the heaven of thy heart;
Or but a summer-drop, which the warm power
Of love doth to the air of sighs impart;
Like a true Bacchant will I drink it up,
Keeping my mad lips glued upon the cup!

XLIX. THE FROZEN HEART.

What frost o' the world hath thus congeal'd to ice
The once warm love-tide of my Lady's heart,
That now she stands upon decorum nice
And fences her true nature with false art?
Some jealous one hath lied into her ear,
Accusing me of treason and deceit;
And this her coldness is still-born of fear?
Or, haply, my best words sound not so sweet
As when my lips, by hers made eloquent,
Sigh'd May-morn love about her, dew'd with gladness;
For now I live with a less fond intent,
My life by death-thoughts being steep'd in sadness?
Yet do I think that, with one favouring minute,
I could unfrost that heart, and bathe my passion in it!

L. THE DELUSION.

Can Love's eye be deceived? There's but one Sun
In Heaven; and he who when that Sun's away
Still sees the Sun, is sure of sense bereaved!
My Lady is afar: and as her own
There's no such face of beauty i' the world;
Yet beams it near me, glorious as a star
Triumphant on the forehead of the Dawn!
Is it delusion, on my false eye drawn?
Or, like a spirit, is she omnipresent,
Flattering the world with her ubiquity
Whose presence even in absence I inherit?
I will not speak: it is; and it is not!
Mine eyes would cheat my heart into a folly;
And what exists not, to create they seek.

LI. LOVE'S WINTER.

The springtide and the budding and the dew
Of our sweet love soon past; but summerless
It went, and immatured; its buds, untrue,
Came not to flower or fruit of perfectness;
And the rich balm of its most vernal state
Hung frozen in a winter desolate:
So was its bursting freshness check'd and blighted;
And cold o'ercasts the sphere where we delighted
To prophesy of summer ecstasies,
Gathering our hopes from warm lips and fond eyes,
Clasp'd hands, and interchanged sympathies
That drew our hearts together. All is o'er!
To the Earth's frost come primaveral skies;
But to Love's winter spring returns no more.

LII. BUD AND BLOSSOM.

My thoughts are with thee, Dear One!—Vale and hill
Are shaded into slumber; and the Night
Seems gather'd in itself—it is so still!
Darkness devours the clouds, in her broad flight
From east to west; and that most silent hour
Which so to Heaven the guilty Spirit bringeth
That from its depths an “Alleluia” springeth,
Now fills grey Time's old glass, and with its power
Lures me to love-dreams of thy babe and thee.
I see her smiling on thy cradle-knee:
Her lips from thy fond bosom just withdrawn;
And thine enamour'd eyes o'er her eyes bent
(A bud and blossom in one sweetness blent!)
Hailing thine own life in its second dawn.

LIII. THE STARS OF SLEEP.

Her eyes have shone through all the blessed night,
Deep-dwelling in my love-infixed soul;
That death-blind Sleep became a thing of sight,
And bright flowers from the desert darkness stole,
And as in Heaven's midnight solitude,
When in her vapourous mantle Air reposeth,
One silver planet, with the sun imbued,
A joy-like light upon the gloom discloseth;
In the hush'd wilderness of clouded slumber,
Those eyes, into my brain's oblivion peering,
Unfolded visions which to name or number
Were to unveil all secrets that should lie
In the heart's Holy-of-Holies, not appearing
To the base conscience of one vulgar eye.

LIV. HEART-REBELLION NEEDED AGAINST THE WORLD.

Hold up thy head, Sweet Friend! Be not cast down!
What is't to us whether men smile, or frown?
Upon each other's life and love we've built
A regal tower, wherein our crown'd hearts dwell
Upon one throne, all unassailable
By the democracy of base Opinion!
Be not self-humbled, Love! Virtue and guilt
Are words misunderstood. The World's dominion
Is one stern tyranny o'er human hearts,
Which they must strive against; or ever lie
In dungeons of great grief, where petty arts
Of petty souls, whose grace is cruelty
Worse than their hate, shall with a thousand stings
Torture away sweet Life, and all the Love it brings!

LV. THE TAINTED.

The contact of base minds and their discourse
Have tainted thy clear spirit, gentle Lady!
And Common Being, with its sluggish force,
Hath overgrown thy Purer Soul's existence;
As in the silence of a spring-bank shady
A bramble hides a wild-flower: and the distance
That ever lay between thee and the grossness
Of the vain world and its self-drawn moroseness,
Is lessening day by day, to my much sorrow.
Yet, from one thought do I that comfort borrow
Which holds me from despairing of thy soul:
Clouds of the world on thy heart's clearness fall;
But wilful memories thou canst not controul,
Of an untold delight, must keep thee spiritual.

LVI. THE MISGIVING.

That such rich strains of powerful poesy,
Feeding, as feed they must, thy living sense
With sumptuous banquetings of memory,
Should not have call'd one word of feeling thence,
Of tongue, or pen, hath left me in amaze
At the inconstancy of fervent blood,
Which ebbs and flows like any moon-ruled flood,
And never runs full-channel for an hour!
Is it my sin, or others' flattering praise,
That hath divested of its urgent power
The Verse which once to drink and to devour
Thine eyes and heart were ever famishing?—
Well! I have other themes; and many a string
To tune thereto, dear Churl!—Love is an idle thing.

LVII. REMINISCENCES.

LVIII. AN EXPOSITION.

How is it, in thine Absence, Dearest One!
That in so many features limn'd I see
Thy features' likeness; but their like in none
When thy sweet Presence is glad life to me?
'Tis thus why thus it is: When thou art vanish'd
From my love-dazed sight, the bright impression
Which there thy beauty makes, thence is not banish'd;
But still upon mine orbs holds throned session,
And upon others' faces soft-reflected
Invests them with a lurement not their own;
Making me covet that were else neglected
By Love which doth disloyalty disown!
But when thine aspect on mine eyes doth ride,
It shineth so, I'm blind to all beside.

LIX. AN AGONY.

O, God! the agony of Memory!
O, sweetness of the Past! no more to be!
The same clear stream between the same green meads
Flows with the self-same voice! O, that clear mirror!
Into whose depths of glory, Heaven's reflex,
We look'd with weeping eyes, that did not weep;
But though our tears within their fountains deep
Were dam'd, our eyelids seem'd as sadly weeping.
All, all the same! save season's difference.
But where, and what is she? O, spectral terror!
That shows her of the Dead! O, pang intense!
O, weavings of the brain and heart complex!
O, Life! that only on its dead joy feeds!
O, God! if Death should be a dreaming Sleeping?

LX. LOVE THAT CALCULATES.

Love is not love, that coldly calculates
The chances of the fire on which it feeds:
Whenever Passion reasons, it abates,
And grows a miser of its liberal deeds.
No niggard is a lover: she who swears
To be forbearing in her heart's sweet alms,
Dishonoureth the livery which she wears;
And breatheth a dull air, whose touch becalms
The spirit on the deep of its great yearning,
Or that part playeth which to Love's discerning
Is seeming, merely—to be full-forgiven,
Because that falsehood is of falsehood born;
And that the world hath on Love's forehead riven
His crown of Truth, with its vile hand of scorn!

LXI. LOVE'S ADMIRATION.

Love's Admiration is not loud, but deep;
By all it speaks not, known; not all it speaketh:
To outward eye it doth nor smile nor weep;
To outward ear is dumb, nor once outbreaketh
In chorus with glad thousands clamouring
In joy's too ostentatious triumphing:
But, fathomless, within its own great heart,
Intense delight unutterably seeketh
Communion with its life-blood—smiles and tears
And gratulation and sublime acclaim
Felt, seen and heard!—a touch of ether-flame,
Poetic vision and high songs o' the spheres!
Love's Admiration is of Love a part;
And burns i' the sacred silence which endears.

LXII. THE RIVALRY.

Ah! Sweet Creatrix of that World of Sound
That vibrates on my ever-listening ear,
And all my sense pervades with such profound
And self-infusing power, that every vein
And every nerve within my quivering frame
Seem in true chorus to repeat again,
Again, and yet again, the gushings clear,
Flowing and pulsing, of its harmony!
The heavenly might of thine enchanted fingers
Hath nowhere its true like, or rivalry;
Save on those lips of thine, when dewy flame,
Ascending from the heart, upon them lingers;
And, drawn into my soul with thy warm breath,
Melts all the heart of life to liquid death!

LXIII. “THE CHORD-OF-THE-DOMINANT.”

“‘O, do!’ and ‘Will you not?’ and such sweet phrases,
So utter'd, strike a chord of my rapt soul,
Which, like the chord-o'-the-dominant, must be
At once resolved into firm repose;
Or else it pants and writhes through all the mazes
Of violated music painfully,
And no calm rest of consummation knows
In haven of contented harmony.
O, cunning of a master-hand control!—
‘O, do!’ and ‘Will you not?’ make perfect tune
In me, of love thy breathing instrument;
The music of thy playing eloquent!
The stricken with the striker doth agree,
And all the intricate notes into each other swoon!”

LXIV. A MOTHER TO HER NEW-BORN CHILD.

“Sweet cry! as sacred as the blessed Hymn
Sung at Christ's birth by joyful Seraphim!
Exhausted nigh to death by that dread pain,
That voice salutes me to dear life again.
Ah, God!—my Child! my first, my living Child!
I have been dreaming of a thing like thee
Ere since, a babe, upon the mountains wild,
I nursed my mimic babe upon my knee.
In girlhood I had visions of thee; love
Came to my riper youth, and still I clove
Unto thine image, born within my brain;
So like!—as even there thy germ had lain!—
My blood! my voice! my thought! my dream achieved!—
O, till this double life, I have not lived!”