 | Eonchs of ruby. A Gift of Love |  |
151
LILIES OF LOVE.
LA CONTADINA.
“Il vago spirito ardente
E'n alto intelletto, un puro core.”—
Petrarcha.
E'n alto intelletto, un puro core.”—
Petrarcha.
“She seemed a splendid Angel newly drest,
Save wings, for Heaven.”—
Keats.
Save wings, for Heaven.”—
Keats.
Her tender Breasts were like two snow-white Doves
Upon one willow bough at calm of even,
Telling each other, side by side, their loves
In soft celestial tones as sweet as Heaven.
And as the soft winds, from the flowery grove,
Sway them thus sitting on that willow-bough,
At every breath—at every sigh of love—
They undulate upon her bosom now.
Upon one willow bough at calm of even,
Telling each other, side by side, their loves
In soft celestial tones as sweet as Heaven.
And as the soft winds, from the flowery grove,
Sway them thus sitting on that willow-bough,
At every breath—at every sigh of love—
They undulate upon her bosom now.
Two dove-like spirits on her eyelids knelt,
And weighed them gently, covering half her eyes,
Whose soul in their own azure seemed to melt
And mingle, as the sunlight with the skies.
Her eyes were like two violets bathed in dew
In which each lash was mirrored dark within,
As in some Lake, reflecting Heaven so blue,
The willow-bough's long languid limbs are seen.
And weighed them gently, covering half her eyes,
Whose soul in their own azure seemed to melt
And mingle, as the sunlight with the skies.
Her eyes were like two violets bathed in dew
In which each lash was mirrored dark within,
As in some Lake, reflecting Heaven so blue,
The willow-bough's long languid limbs are seen.
As God's celestial look is far too bright
For Angel's gaze in Heaven if not kept dim,
And partly shorn of its excessive light
By the broad pinions of the cherubim;
So, these two spirits, one on each fair lid,
Let down the lash-fringed curtain to conceal
And keep but half that heavenly glory hid,
Which it were death to mortals to reveal.
For Angel's gaze in Heaven if not kept dim,
And partly shorn of its excessive light
By the broad pinions of the cherubim;
So, these two spirits, one on each fair lid,
Let down the lash-fringed curtain to conceal
And keep but half that heavenly glory hid,
Which it were death to mortals to reveal.
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GOOD NIGHT.
I.
Now the Nightingale sits singing,By his Rose-bud in the grove,
While the Heavens above are ringing
With his river-song of love.
Like the wild Swan on the ocean,
Circled with her Cygnets white,
Star-engirdled, with soft motion,
Sails the Moon through Heaven to-night.
Good night, my Love! my dearest!
High heaven of my delight!
Of all things brightest, fairest!
My Beautiful—good night!
II.
Go—while thou art softly sleepingBy the clear Elysian streams,
I will be awake here weeping
By the “Ivory gate of Dreams.”
Angels, like the stars in number,
Watchers from their Courts of Light,
Sing around thy peaceful slumber
Through the beautiful good night.
Good night, my Love! my dearest!
High Heaven of my delight!
Of all things brightest, fairest!
My Beautiful—good night!
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III.
While the odorous flowers are closingTheir soft petals in the dew,
Thou wilt be in bed reposing—
I awake in mine for you.
Take, oh, take to your soft bosom!
Faithful nurse of my Delight!
This sweet Lily-bell in blossom,
And preserve her there, Good Night!
Good night, my Love! my dearest!
High heaven of my delight!
Of all things brightest, fairest!
My Beautiful—good night!
IV.
Here we both stand broken hearted,Leaning on each other's heart;
For in parting we seem parted,
Just to think that we must part.
See! the pale, cold moon is waning—
Sinking softly from our sight—
While our souls are here complaining
For the loss of our good night!
Good night, my Love! my dearest!
High Heaven of my delight!
Of all things brightest, fairest!
My Beautiful—good night!
V.
Where the Nightingale sits singingBy his Rose-bud in the grove,
While the Heavens above are ringing
With his river-song of love;
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Out its song for my Delight,
I now hear her voice replying
Unto mine, “My Love! good night!”
Good night, my Love! my dearest!
High Heaven of my delight!
Of all things brightest, fairest!
My Beautiful—good night!
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LOVE.
I.
What is it that makes the maidenSo like Christ in Heaven above?
Or, like Heavenly Eve in Aiden,
Meeting Adam, blushing:—love—
Love, love, love!
ECHO.
Love!
II.
What is it that makes the murmurOf the plaintive turtle dove
Fill our hearts with so much Summer
'Till they melt to passion?—love—
Love, love, love!
ECHO.
Love!
III.
See the Rose unfold her bosomTo the amorous Sun above—
Bursting into fragrant blossom
At his sight!—what is it?—love—
Love, love, love!
ECHO.
Love!
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IV.
Like the peace-song of the AngelsSent to one from Heaven above
Who believes in Christ's Evangels—
Is the voice of one in love—
Love, love, love!
ECHO.
Love!
V.
Christ, who once on earth was sorry,Captain of the host above,
Left his Father's throne of glory
To redeem us by his love—
Love, love, love!
ECHO.
Love!
VI.
Why was he made Mediator—Stooping from the Heavens above?
Was he not our Great Creator?
Angels answer—“God is Love”—
Love, love, love!
ECHO.
Love!
VII.
All the Christian ConstellationsChoiring through the realms above,
Soon would cease their ministrations
Were it not for thee, oh! Love!
Love, love, love!
ECHO.
Love!
157
THE VOICE OF THOUGHT.
Faint as the far-down toneBeneath the sounding sea,
Muffled, by its own moan,
To silent melody;
So faint we cannot tell
But that the sound we hear
Is some sweet roses' smell
That falls upon our ear;
(As if the Butterfly,
Shaking the Lily-bell,
While drinking joyfully,
Should toll its own death-knell!)
Sweeter than Hope's sweet lute
Singing of joys to be,
When Pain's harsh voice is mute,
Is the Soul's sweet song to me.
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SONG TO ISA.
I.
Upon thy lips now liesThe music-dew of love;
And in thy deep blue eyes,
More mild than heaven above,
The meekness of the dove.
II.
More sweet than the perfumeOf snow-white jessamine,
When it is first in bloom,
Is that sweet breath of thine,
Which mingles now with mine.
III.
Like an Æolian sound,Out of an ocean shell,
Which fills the air around
With music, such as fell
From lips of Israfel;
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IV.
Over thy lips now flow,Out of thy heart for me,
Sweet songs, which none can know
But him who hopes to be
Forevermore with thee.
V.
And like the snow-white DoveFrightened from earth at even
On tempests borne above,—
My swift-winged soul is driven
Upon thy voice to heaven!
160
EULALIE.
I.
Her rich cascade of hair,Around her swan-like throat,
Down on her bosom bare,
In wavy gold doth float.
II.
Her lily-lidded eyes,Burning in their own light,
Seem melted from the skies,
They are so Heavenly bright.
III.
Her hands are rosy-white,Like lilies in the sun;
Her countenance makes bright
All that she smiles upon.
IV.
Her words are soft as dewDropt on some flower at even,
As if, (though known to few,)
She spoke the tongue of Heaven.
V.
As when the summer SouthA rose-bud doth dispart,
The lips of her sweet mouth
Seem opened by her heart.
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VI.
As perfume from the rose,Just opening, from her tongue
The soul of fragrance flows
Out of her heart in song.
VII.
Her breath is like the sweetPerfume of flowers at even,
When all the rarest meet,
And every one is Heaven.
VIII.
As joyful hearts of birdsHigh overflow in song,
Her innocent heart in words
Flows golden from her tongue.
IX.
All things to her seem pure,Because her heart is so;
Ah! how can she endure
The real truth to know?
X.
Sweeter than harp or luteIs her sweet song to me;
Softer than Dorian flute
Her Lydian melody.
XI.
As Pæans of wild blissThe birds pour forth in Spring,
So, Heaven the Thesis is
Of all that she doth sing
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XII.
Ah! how my soul doth loveTo hear her sing at even—
Singing, on earth, above
Sweet Israfel in Heaven.
XIII.
Mild as some breeze at noon—Soft as the pale cold light
Rained from the full-orbed moon
Upon the down of night.
XIV.
For when her song doth moveHer trembling lips apart,
The joys of Heaven above
Seem poured into my heart.
XV.
Sweet as the fragrance smellsOf lily-bells at even,
Is that sweet song which tells,
On earth, the joys of Heaven
XVI.
Sweeter than voice of swanUpon some Summer sea,
Piling to Heaven, at dawn,
His clarion melody.
XVII.
For when she sings at night,The stars appear to me
To burn more Heavenly bright
In her sweet symphony.
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XVIII.
Soft words from off the eavesOf her sweet lips now fall,
Like dew drops from the leaves
Of roses—rhythmical.
XIX.
For as the rose-lipped shellThe riches of the sea;
So does her song now tell
Her heart's deep love for me.
XX.
Star of my life's dark night!Thou wert to me first given—
Bright Vesper of delight!
To lead my soul to Heaven.
164
LILY ADAIR.
I.
The Apollo Belvidere was adorningThe Chamber where Eulalie lay,
While Aurora, the Rose of the Morning,
Smiled full in the face of the Day.
All around stood the beautiful Graces
Bathing Venus—some combing her hair—
While she lay in her husband's embraces
A-moulding my Lily Adair—
Of my Fawn-like Lily Adair—
Of my Dove-like Lily Adair—
Of my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
II.
Where the Oreads played in the Highlands,And the Water-Nymphs bathed in the streams,
In the tall Jasper Reeds of the Islands—
She wandered in life's early dreams.
For the Wood-Nymphs then brought from the Wildwood
The turtle Doves Venus kept there,
Which the Dryades tamed, in his childhood,
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To my Dove-like Lily Adair—
To my lamb-like Lily Adair—
To my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
III.
Where the Opaline Swan circled, singing,With her eider-down Cygnets at noon,
In the tall Jasper Reeds that were springing
From the marge of the crystal Lagoon—
Rich Canticles, clarion-like, golden,
Such as only true love can declare,
Like an Archangel's voice in times olden—
I went with my Lily Adair—
With my lamb-like Lily Adair—
With my saint-like Lily Adair—
With my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
IV.
Her eyes, lily-lidded, were azure,Cerulian, celestial, divine—
Suffused with the soul-light of pleasure,
Which drew all the soul out of mine.
She had all the rich grace of the Graces,
And all that they had not to spare;
For it took all their beautiful faces
To make one for Lily Adair—
For my Christ-like Lily Adair—
For my Heaven-born Lily Adair—
For my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
V.
She was fairer by far than that Maiden,The star-bright Cassiope,
Who was taken by Angels to Aiden,
And crowned with eternity.
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Because so surpassingly fair;
And so death then the precious life ended
Of my beautiful Lily Adair—
Of my Heaven-born Lily Adair—
Of my star-crowned Lily Adair—
Of my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
VI.
From her Paradise-Isles in the ocean,To the beautiful City of On,
By the melliffluent rivers of Goshen,
My beautiful Lily is gone!
In her Chariot of Fire translated,
Like Elijah, she passed through the air,
To the City of God golden-gated—
The Home of my Lily Adair—
Of my star-crowned Lily Adair—
Of my God-loved Lily Adair—
Of my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
VII.
On the vista-path made by the Angels,In her Chariot of Fire, she rode,
While the Cherubim sang their Evangels—
To the Gates of the City of God.
For the Cherubim-band that went with her,
I saw them pass out of the air—
I saw them go up through the ether
Into Heaven with my Lily Adair—
With my Christ-like Lily Adair—
With my God-loved Lily Adair—
With my beautiful, dutiful Lily Adair.
It was a beautiful Idea of the Greeks that the procreation of beautiful children might be promoted by keeping in their sleeping apartments an Apollo or Hyacinthus. In this way they not only patronized Art, but begat a likeness of their own love.
167
SONNET.
ON READING MILTON'S PARADISE LOST
Sweet as that soul-uplifting HydromelIdcan Ganymede did give to Jove
In the God-kingdoms of Immortal Love—
Dipt from Heaven's everlasting Golden Well—
Was thy great song, celestial Israfel!
Like that Apollo near the shining portals
Of Heaven, in chariot, with celestial lyre,
Sung for the thronging glorified Immortals,
Which set the souls of all the gods on fire!
So sweet my soul, entranced, seemed suddenly brought
Before the star-crowned, blazing majesty
Of those great Sages of immortal thought,
And Poet-kings of deathless melody,
Who now shake Heaven with thunderous Jubilee.
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THE QUEEN OF LOVE.
LA REINETTE DE MON CŒUR.
A bright enameled Brooch of purest gold
She sported in her sunny-silken hair;
New lilac satin did her limbs enfold,
While round her Moon-like brow more fair
Than Heaven when all the sky is clear,
A Diamond-studded chain of gold she wore,
Starred in the centre with her feronnier
Which shone like Vesper on the heavenly shore.
She sported in her sunny-silken hair;
New lilac satin did her limbs enfold,
While round her Moon-like brow more fair
Than Heaven when all the sky is clear,
A Diamond-studded chain of gold she wore,
Starred in the centre with her feronnier
Which shone like Vesper on the heavenly shore.
A glove of spotless kid enclosed her hand;
A golden Bracelet circled each fair wrist;
The ground on which her tender feet did stand
Was by her Kid-ensandaled feet imprest,
Like letters written by an Angel's hand
In Hieroglyphics of the Heavenly Land:
And all who saw her said she was possest
Of beauty that would make an Angel blest.
A golden Bracelet circled each fair wrist;
The ground on which her tender feet did stand
Was by her Kid-ensandaled feet imprest,
Like letters written by an Angel's hand
In Hieroglyphics of the Heavenly Land:
And all who saw her said she was possest
Of beauty that would make an Angel blest.
An Antique Cameo starred her silver vest,
Fit emblem of her heart it did unfold—
Couched in the valley of her snow-white breast,
Encased in circles of the purest gold.
The rich Design which graced the Gem was this;
A snow-white Dove, perched on a Tulip-Vase,
Was sipping nectar from the Chalice full,
While by her side there stood, with artless grace,
Her mate, drinking, in Art most beautiful—
This Antique Symbol set there to express,
In loftiest Art, her artful artlessness.
Fit emblem of her heart it did unfold—
Couched in the valley of her snow-white breast,
Encased in circles of the purest gold.
The rich Design which graced the Gem was this;
A snow-white Dove, perched on a Tulip-Vase,
Was sipping nectar from the Chalice full,
While by her side there stood, with artless grace,
Her mate, drinking, in Art most beautiful—
This Antique Symbol set there to express,
In loftiest Art, her artful artlessness.
| Eonchs of ruby. A Gift of Love | |