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 | Lectures on art, and poems |  |
290
AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.
All hail! thou noble land,
Our Fathers' native soil!
O, stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore!
For thou with magic might
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phœbus travels bright
The world o'er!
Our Fathers' native soil!
O, stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,
O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore!
For thou with magic might
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phœbus travels bright
The world o'er!
The Genius of our clime,
From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the guest sublime;
While the Tritons of the deep
With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim.
Then let the world combine,—
O'er the main our naval line
Like the milky-way shall shine
Bright in fame!
From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the guest sublime;
While the Tritons of the deep
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Then let the world combine,—
O'er the main our naval line
Like the milky-way shall shine
Bright in fame!
Though ages long have past
Since our Fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,
O'er untravelled seas to roam,
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins!
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?
Since our Fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,
O'er untravelled seas to roam,
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins!
And shall we not proclaim
That blood of honest fame
Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?
While the language free and bold
Which the Bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told
How the vault of heaven rung
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;—
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast;—
Which the Bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told
How the vault of heaven rung
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;—
While this, with reverence meet,
Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat
Round our coast;—
While the manners, while the arts,
That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,—
Between let Ocean roll,
Our joint communion breaking with the Sun:
Yet still from either beach
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
“We are One.”
That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,—
Between let Ocean roll,
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Yet still from either beach
The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
“We are One.”
This alludes merely to the moral union of the two countries. The author would not have it supposed that the tribute of respect, offered in these stanzas to the land of his ancestors, would be paid by him, if at the expense of the independence of that which gave him birth.
293
WRITTEN IN SPRING.
This gentle breath which eddies round my cheek,—This respiration of the waking spring,—
How eloquently sweet it seems to speak
Of hope and joy to every living thing!
To every?—No, it speaks not thus to all
Alike of hope; where misery gnaws the heart,
Her gentle breathings on the senses fall
Like hateful thoughts that make the memory start.
The soul grows selfish where enjoyment flies,
And, loathing, curses what it cannot taste;
This glorious sun, and yon blue, blessed skies,
And this green earth, but tell him of the past;
The frightful past, that other name for death,
That, when recalled, like mocking spectres come,—
In forms of life, without the living breath,
Like things that speak, yet organless and dumb!
For all that seems in this fair world to live,
To live to man, must catch the quickening ray
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Back unto him the life he gave; for they
Are dead to him who lives not unto them.
But unto him, whose happy soul reposes
In love's sweet dream, how exquisite a gem
Seems every dewdrop on these budding roses!
The humblest plant that sprouts beneath his feet,
The ragged brier, nay, e'en the common grass,
Within that soul a kindred image meet,
As if reflected from an answering glass.
And how they seem by sympathy to lend
Their youthful freshness to each rising thought,
As if the mind had just begun to send
Her faculties abroad, uncurbed, untaught,
From all in nature beautiful and fair
To build her splendid fabrics, while the heart,
Itself deluding, seems by magic rare
To give a substance to each airy part.
Sweet age of first impressions! free and light!
When all the senses, like triumphal ports,
Did let into the soul, by day, by night,
The gorgeous pageants pouring from the courts
Of Nature's vast dominions!—substance then
To the heart's faith; but, now that youth's bright dawn
No longer shines, they flit like shadowy men
That walk on ceilings; for the light is gone!
Yet no,—not gone; for unto him that loves,
The heart is youthful and the faith is strong;
And be it love, or be it youth, that moves
The soul to joy, that light will live as long.
And, O, how blest this kind reacting law,
That the young heart, with Nature's beauties glowing,
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Another heart to share its overflowing;
While he that feels the pure expansive power
Of joyous love, must pour his feelings forth
On every tree, and herb, and fragrant flower,
And all that grows upon the beauteous earth.
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THE ANGEL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
“To him that hath shall be given.”
PART I.
In days long past, within a lonely wood,
Far from the sound of levelling axe, there stood
A stately Oak, that seemed itself a grove;
And near it grew, entwining shade with shade,
A slender Ash, that with his branches played,
Though oft at noon, all-motionless with love,
'T would lean upon his breast, as 't were a gentle maid.
Far from the sound of levelling axe, there stood
A stately Oak, that seemed itself a grove;
And near it grew, entwining shade with shade,
A slender Ash, that with his branches played,
Though oft at noon, all-motionless with love,
'T would lean upon his breast, as 't were a gentle maid.
And swift beneath a little brook there ran,
Like some wild creature from the face of man,
So swiftly did it run with smothered voice;
Nor ever was it heard, save only where
Some thwarting pebble sent upon the air
Its tiny moan; or when 't was wont rejoice
For wandering root o'erleaped, that checked its scared career.
Like some wild creature from the face of man,
So swiftly did it run with smothered voice;
Nor ever was it heard, save only where
Some thwarting pebble sent upon the air
Its tiny moan; or when 't was wont rejoice
For wandering root o'erleaped, that checked its scared career.
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But near these loving trees no other grew;
For, made as if for love, kind Nature threw
Around them far a zone of soft, white sand,
Whose very touch nor plant nor hardy brier
Might e'er abide, so scorching was the fire
That lurked within; yet round this charmèd band
Still many a tree and shrub would press, in strange desire.
For, made as if for love, kind Nature threw
Around them far a zone of soft, white sand,
Whose very touch nor plant nor hardy brier
Might e'er abide, so scorching was the fire
That lurked within; yet round this charmèd band
Still many a tree and shrub would press, in strange desire.
In sooth it was a rare and lovely sight,
This quiet sylvan moon, so meekly bright;
For such might seem to musing bard the scene;
A spot where Peace, with all her gentle train
Of blending sympathies, might ever reign:
And cold were he on whom its dreamy sheen
Within that dark green wood shall ever fall in vain.
This quiet sylvan moon, so meekly bright;
For such might seem to musing bard the scene;
A spot where Peace, with all her gentle train
Of blending sympathies, might ever reign:
And cold were he on whom its dreamy sheen
Within that dark green wood shall ever fall in vain.
Nor unbeloved was this secluded place
By some of better world and higher race.
And here, 't was said, a heavenly Stranger came,
If haply he might find some heart content
With Nature's will; that would not murmur vent
For boon withheld of beauty or of fame,
Or pine for aught of good to other creatures sent.
By some of better world and higher race.
And here, 't was said, a heavenly Stranger came,
If haply he might find some heart content
With Nature's will; that would not murmur vent
For boon withheld of beauty or of fame,
Or pine for aught of good to other creatures sent.
Beneath that stately Oak this Stranger kept
His daily watch, and there, too, had he slept,
The Ash had fanned the nightly mist away.
But not, as we, do Spirits need that charm,
That sweet self-losing, that doth oft disarm
The robber grief, bid misery gaunt be gay,
And hate, that cold heart-worm, make powerless to harm.
His daily watch, and there, too, had he slept,
The Ash had fanned the nightly mist away.
But not, as we, do Spirits need that charm,
That sweet self-losing, that doth oft disarm
The robber grief, bid misery gaunt be gay,
And hate, that cold heart-worm, make powerless to harm.
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Such self-oblivion would not him beseem,
Of whose least passing thought no youthful dream
Of man's Elysium might an image give.
The Good and Beautiful in him were joined;
Their conscious union made his happy mind;
And, ever as they moved, fair forms would live,
And sweet according sounds through all his being wind.
Of whose least passing thought no youthful dream
Of man's Elysium might an image give.
The Good and Beautiful in him were joined;
Their conscious union made his happy mind;
And, ever as they moved, fair forms would live,
And sweet according sounds through all his being wind.
'T was on a soft June evening,—when the sun
Was just below the wood, and, one by one,
Seemed through the trees to call his wandering rays,—
That two young Birds, within a hazel-bush,
This converse held. Said one, a lively Thrush,—
“I hardly may deserve this strain of praise;
Such praise, were I a maid, would surely make me blush;
Was just below the wood, and, one by one,
Seemed through the trees to call his wandering rays,—
That two young Birds, within a hazel-bush,
This converse held. Said one, a lively Thrush,—
“I hardly may deserve this strain of praise;
Such praise, were I a maid, would surely make me blush;
“'T is verily too high,”—and here she ducked
Her pretty head beneath a wing, and clucked
Like to a timid hen,—“too high indeed
From one of lineage so renowned in song;
Though thou, I must confess, dost scarce belong
To that proud race, that rarely deign to heed
Aught but their own vain throats, though ne'er so sweet or strong.”
Her pretty head beneath a wing, and clucked
Like to a timid hen,—“too high indeed
From one of lineage so renowned in song;
Though thou, I must confess, dost scarce belong
To that proud race, that rarely deign to heed
Aught but their own vain throats, though ne'er so sweet or strong.”
“Nay,” said a gentle voice, whose gurgling tone
None but the Nightingale might ever own,
“My praise is just: nor can I well divine
Why my own native gift should make me blind
To other gifts, though differing wide in kind.
'T were to be poor indeed, if but in mine
My solitary heart may pleasure never find.
None but the Nightingale might ever own,
“My praise is just: nor can I well divine
Why my own native gift should make me blind
To other gifts, though differing wide in kind.
'T were to be poor indeed, if but in mine
My solitary heart may pleasure never find.
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“And much I marvel if, in truth, there be
A heart so stricken with its own. For me,—
O, what a prison-house such narrow doom!
I know not why,—but peace within me dwells
Whene'er I hear yon distant chiming bells,
That have no life; nor comes there aught of gloom,
If heard the runnel's song, within the darkest dells.
A heart so stricken with its own. For me,—
O, what a prison-house such narrow doom!
I know not why,—but peace within me dwells
Whene'er I hear yon distant chiming bells,
That have no life; nor comes there aught of gloom,
If heard the runnel's song, within the darkest dells.
“But when from living creatures warm with blood,
When from the countless tribes that haunt this wood,
The morning song of waking joy goes up,
O, how doth leap my pulse, my spirits bound!
The many-mingled notes one only sound
Send to my heart,—as gathered in a drop,—
From swift, high-soaring larks' to sparrows' on the ground.”
When from the countless tribes that haunt this wood,
The morning song of waking joy goes up,
O, how doth leap my pulse, my spirits bound!
The many-mingled notes one only sound
Send to my heart,—as gathered in a drop,—
From swift, high-soaring larks' to sparrows' on the ground.”
“I'll seek no more,” the Stranger said in thought;
“In this sweet Bird is all that I have sought.”
And then—so willed he in his heavenly mind—
The little, wondering Bird before him flew,
And, fluttering round and round, her wonder grew
To see his wings, now floating on the wind,
And now to air exhaled and mingled with its blue.
“In this sweet Bird is all that I have sought.”
And then—so willed he in his heavenly mind—
The little, wondering Bird before him flew,
And, fluttering round and round, her wonder grew
To see his wings, now floating on the wind,
And now to air exhaled and mingled with its blue.
And then she marvelled at his waving locks,
That gleamed like sunshine over running brooks.
But, when upon her turned his lustrous eyes,
With silent awe she seemed transfixed to stand,
The while she felt her little breast expand
As if with something that would reach the skies,—
So full they were of love, so beautifully bland.
That gleamed like sunshine over running brooks.
But, when upon her turned his lustrous eyes,
With silent awe she seemed transfixed to stand,
The while she felt her little breast expand
As if with something that would reach the skies,—
So full they were of love, so beautifully bland.
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“Sweet Bird of eve, thy fate is now with me,
And thou my chosen Bird henceforth shalt be;
And I will bless thee. But I may not say
Why thus I choose thee; for a virtue eyed
Too often in the heart may turn to pride,
And then with cold self-love that heart betray
To hard, contracting thoughts, that curse where they abide.”
And thou my chosen Bird henceforth shalt be;
And I will bless thee. But I may not say
Why thus I choose thee; for a virtue eyed
Too often in the heart may turn to pride,
And then with cold self-love that heart betray
To hard, contracting thoughts, that curse where they abide.”
So spake the guardian Angel; then aloft
His wings, now visible, with heaving soft,
That made mysterious music, fanned the air,
And now the clouds, self-parting, downward sent
A rosy dew, that all the earth besprent;
While, upward as he passed, the stars did wear
A thousand gorgeous hues that from his glory went.
His wings, now visible, with heaving soft,
That made mysterious music, fanned the air,
And now the clouds, self-parting, downward sent
A rosy dew, that all the earth besprent;
While, upward as he passed, the stars did wear
A thousand gorgeous hues that from his glory went.
“No, never,” said the Bird, “may thought of pride
This glorious Being from my fate divide;
But rather let my heart still humbler be,
That one so high should deign a thought bestow
On one so poor: and this alone to know,
Betide what may, were bliss enough for me.
O, how with such a boon can mix a passion low!”
This glorious Being from my fate divide;
But rather let my heart still humbler be,
That one so high should deign a thought bestow
On one so poor: and this alone to know,
Betide what may, were bliss enough for me.
O, how with such a boon can mix a passion low!”
And now, as one by crowding joys oppressed,
The happy Bird in silence sought her nest,
That lay embosomed in the spreading Oak.
Then, O, how sweetly closed—like closing flowers
That fold their petals from the nightly showers—
Her senses all! Nor aught their slumber broke
Till came the sun betimes to wake the morning hours.
The happy Bird in silence sought her nest,
That lay embosomed in the spreading Oak.
Then, O, how sweetly closed—like closing flowers
That fold their petals from the nightly showers—
Her senses all! Nor aught their slumber broke
Till came the sun betimes to wake the morning hours.
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PART II.
In childhood's dawn what bliss it is to live,
To breathe, to move, and to the senses give
Their first fresh travel o'er this glorious Earth!
Yet still of earth we seem, and all we see
But kindred things in other shapes to be;
Nor knows the soul her own distinctive birth
Till some deep inward joy from sense hath made her free.
To breathe, to move, and to the senses give
Their first fresh travel o'er this glorious Earth!
Yet still of earth we seem, and all we see
But kindred things in other shapes to be;
Nor knows the soul her own distinctive birth
Till some deep inward joy from sense hath made her free.
And, when in after years she feels the press
From things without,—and not as once to bless,
But forming bondage, while the quick, sore sense
Of freedom still survives,—O, then, how sweet
Again within one pure heart-joy to greet,
And feel it cause our very bonds dispense
Harmonious thoughts, that make the Soul and world to meet!
From things without,—and not as once to bless,
But forming bondage, while the quick, sore sense
Of freedom still survives,—O, then, how sweet
Again within one pure heart-joy to greet,
And feel it cause our very bonds dispense
Harmonious thoughts, that make the Soul and world to meet!
E'en such the charm the Angel's parting word
Left in the bosom of our gentle Bird.
And, though too blest her morn of life had been
To know of clouding grief one fleeting shade,
Yet, O, in what surpassing light arrayed
Seemed nature now! 'T was but the light within
That ever from the heart on all around her played.
Left in the bosom of our gentle Bird.
And, though too blest her morn of life had been
To know of clouding grief one fleeting shade,
Yet, O, in what surpassing light arrayed
Seemed nature now! 'T was but the light within
That ever from the heart on all around her played.
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She loved the world so lovely she had made,
And well the grateful world the gift repaid:
Its all was hers; for e'en the tiny moan
That came so faintly from the brook beneath
Now seemed her breast to heave, and forth to breathe,
And blend in deeper sadness with her own.
No, never round the heart did sadder murmur wreathe.
And well the grateful world the gift repaid:
Its all was hers; for e'en the tiny moan
That came so faintly from the brook beneath
Now seemed her breast to heave, and forth to breathe,
And blend in deeper sadness with her own.
No, never round the heart did sadder murmur wreathe.
So time went on, and tributary strains
From hill and dale, and from the breezy plains,
Came pouring all, to lose themselves in her.
Then, lost in ecstasy, how all night long
Her own sweet tribe would sit to hear her song!
Sure ne'er was known such soul-dissolving stir
In soft Italia's courts, her melting race among.
From hill and dale, and from the breezy plains,
Came pouring all, to lose themselves in her.
Then, lost in ecstasy, how all night long
Her own sweet tribe would sit to hear her song!
Sure ne'er was known such soul-dissolving stir
In soft Italia's courts, her melting race among.
Then went her fame abroad; and from the sea,
And from the far-off isles, wherever tree
Gave shelter to the wing,—from every clime
Endeared to bird, or where the spicy grove
Embalms the gale, or where, the clouds above,
The mountain pine stands sentry over time,—
The winged pilgrims came,—for fashion, or for love.
And from the far-off isles, wherever tree
Gave shelter to the wing,—from every clime
Endeared to bird, or where the spicy grove
Embalms the gale, or where, the clouds above,
The mountain pine stands sentry over time,—
The winged pilgrims came,—for fashion, or for love.
And now the wondering moon would see her light
Flash on the eagle in his downward flight,
Bending his conquered majesty to Song;
And then afar along the snowy host
Of albatross, from off the stormy coast
Of dreary Horn, that veered the clouds among,
Like to a gallant fleet by ocean-tempest tost;
Flash on the eagle in his downward flight,
Bending his conquered majesty to Song;
And then afar along the snowy host
Of albatross, from off the stormy coast
Of dreary Horn, that veered the clouds among,
Like to a gallant fleet by ocean-tempest tost;
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And then it seemed, in one vast, jaggèd sheet,
Some rising thunder-cloud's broad breast to meet,
Upheaving heavily above the sea;
But soon the seeming tempest nearer drew;
And then it broke: then how his files to view
The Western chieftain wheeled,—how loftily!—
The mighty winged prince, the condor of Peru.
Some rising thunder-cloud's broad breast to meet,
Upheaving heavily above the sea;
But soon the seeming tempest nearer drew;
And then it broke: then how his files to view
The Western chieftain wheeled,—how loftily!—
The mighty winged prince, the condor of Peru.
But who describe the ever-growing throng,
Of warring note and plume, that poured along
The tracts of air; or how the welkin rung,
As onward, like the crackling rush of flame,
With flap, and whiz, and whirr of wings, they came?
But hushed again was all; nor wing nor tongue
Stirred in the charmèd air that breathed the Bird of fame.
Of warring note and plume, that poured along
The tracts of air; or how the welkin rung,
As onward, like the crackling rush of flame,
With flap, and whiz, and whirr of wings, they came?
But hushed again was all; nor wing nor tongue
Stirred in the charmèd air that breathed the Bird of fame.
Nor easy were the task in words to paint
The congregated mass, of forms so quaint,
So wild and fierce and beautiful, that now,
Together mixed, o'erspread the enchanted wood.
Suffice to say, that gentler crowd ne'er stood
In princely hall, where all is smile and bow.
In sooth, our polished birds were quite as true and good.
The congregated mass, of forms so quaint,
So wild and fierce and beautiful, that now,
Together mixed, o'erspread the enchanted wood.
Suffice to say, that gentler crowd ne'er stood
In princely hall, where all is smile and bow.
In sooth, our polished birds were quite as true and good.
As if of ancient feud each breast bereft,
Or haply each at home its feud had left,
A high-bred sympathy here seemed to wend
Its oily way, and, like a summer stream,
Made all that on it looked more lovely seem.
So all were pleased, as gently each did bend
To see so smooth and bright his mirrored image beam.
Or haply each at home its feud had left,
A high-bred sympathy here seemed to wend
Its oily way, and, like a summer stream,
Made all that on it looked more lovely seem.
So all were pleased, as gently each did bend
To see so smooth and bright his mirrored image beam.
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Then side by side were seen the tiny form
Of wizard petrel, brewer of the storm,
And giant ostrich from Zahara's plain;
Next the fierce hawk, the robber of the skies,
With gentle dove, of soft, beseeching eyes;
And there, from Belgian fen, the bowing crane,
And dainty Eastern queen, the bird of Paradise.
Of wizard petrel, brewer of the storm,
And giant ostrich from Zahara's plain;
Next the fierce hawk, the robber of the skies,
With gentle dove, of soft, beseeching eyes;
And there, from Belgian fen, the bowing crane,
And dainty Eastern queen, the bird of Paradise.
Yet one there was that seemed with none to pair,
But rather like a flower that grew in air,
Which ever and anon, as there it stood,
Would ope its petal to the passing gale,
And then, with fitful gleam, its hues exhale,—
The little humming-bird. So Fortune wooed
Seems to the dreaming Bard; so bright,—so dim,—so frail!
But rather like a flower that grew in air,
Which ever and anon, as there it stood,
Would ope its petal to the passing gale,
And then, with fitful gleam, its hues exhale,—
The little humming-bird. So Fortune wooed
Seems to the dreaming Bard; so bright,—so dim,—so frail!
'T was passing faith, I ween, such sight to see,—
These strange and motley tribes as one agree;
But one the power that hither bade them hie,—
The magic power of Song: though some would fain
The motive deem but hope of fame to gain
For taste refined;—and what beneath the sky
Could harden e'er the heart to self-applauding strain?
These strange and motley tribes as one agree;
But one the power that hither bade them hie,—
The magic power of Song: though some would fain
The motive deem but hope of fame to gain
For taste refined;—and what beneath the sky
Could harden e'er the heart to self-applauding strain?
Ah, darling self! what transformations come
Aye at thy bidding,—eloquent or dumb,
Or loose or pure, as might beseem the time!
E'en as with man, in purple or in cowl,
So with the feathered race: hence many an owl
Hath doffed his mousing mien for look sublime,
And ruffian vulture smoothed to peace his bloody scowl.
Aye at thy bidding,—eloquent or dumb,
Or loose or pure, as might beseem the time!
E'en as with man, in purple or in cowl,
So with the feathered race: hence many an owl
Hath doffed his mousing mien for look sublime,
And ruffian vulture smoothed to peace his bloody scowl.
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PART III.
Who reaches fame attains that dizzy height
Where seldom foot is sure, or sure the sight:
So runs the adage. Yet we deem not so.
Who reach it worthily still higher aim,
And, looking upward, steadfast stand the same.
But woe to him, self-pleased, who looks below,
To measure in his pride the fearful way he came!
Where seldom foot is sure, or sure the sight:
So runs the adage. Yet we deem not so.
Who reach it worthily still higher aim,
And, looking upward, steadfast stand the same.
But woe to him, self-pleased, who looks below,
To measure in his pride the fearful way he came!
And what is genius but the gift to see
Supernal Excellence, that aye doth flee
The grasp of man, yet ever still in view
To lead him on, revealing as it flies
Ideal forms, at every step that rise
And crowd his path with beauty ever new?
O, who of self could think with these before his eyes?
Supernal Excellence, that aye doth flee
The grasp of man, yet ever still in view
To lead him on, revealing as it flies
Ideal forms, at every step that rise
And crowd his path with beauty ever new?
O, who of self could think with these before his eyes?
No,—rather would he deem a thing of clay
Were thus too blest to dream itself away.
So felt our favored Bird, so passed her days,
Nor e'en did fame one anxious thought awake;
She prized it never for its own vain sake;
Yet well she loved at that pure fount of praise,
A sympathizing heart, her nature's thirst to slake.
Were thus too blest to dream itself away.
So felt our favored Bird, so passed her days,
Nor e'en did fame one anxious thought awake;
She prized it never for its own vain sake;
Yet well she loved at that pure fount of praise,
A sympathizing heart, her nature's thirst to slake.
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And, truth to say, her gentle spirit rose
And grew in strength from each applauded close.
Ah no! not hers the art,—if such there be,—
Herself unmoved, another's breast to sway:
And well she proved that truth will truth repay,
As now to hers, as 't were a mighty sea,
A thousand heaving hearts sent up their joyous spray.
And grew in strength from each applauded close.
Ah no! not hers the art,—if such there be,—
Herself unmoved, another's breast to sway:
And well she proved that truth will truth repay,
As now to hers, as 't were a mighty sea,
A thousand heaving hearts sent up their joyous spray.
Now from his throne of light the Angel bent
Towards Earth his ear, if unaware were blent
In these applauded strains one gush of pride.
And then he smiled, as angels on a child
Are wont to smile; upon her heart he smiled;
For, no, not one small spot was there descried,
Left by the breath of praise,—so treacherously mild.
Towards Earth his ear, if unaware were blent
In these applauded strains one gush of pride.
And then he smiled, as angels on a child
Are wont to smile; upon her heart he smiled;
For, no, not one small spot was there descried,
Left by the breath of praise,—so treacherously mild.
Well pleased he saw, unsoiled of earthly stain,
His high creative gift still pure remain,
E'en as he gave it from the world above;
For he had marked her in her glory's blaze,
And seen the grateful Bird to heaven upraise
Her glittering eyes, in meek, adoring love:
And well in them he read, “No, never mine the praise.”
His high creative gift still pure remain,
E'en as he gave it from the world above;
For he had marked her in her glory's blaze,
And seen the grateful Bird to heaven upraise
Her glittering eyes, in meek, adoring love:
And well in them he read, “No, never mine the praise.”
“Thus far, sweet Bird, thy life of joy is pure.
'T is now thy lot to suffer and endure;
For now await thee other scenes, to try
And prove thee true. But Love the change ordains,
That Love that never sleeps where Evil reigns,
Bending his hateful rule to purpose high,
Till, sin by sin consumed, the good alone remains.”
'T is now thy lot to suffer and endure;
For now await thee other scenes, to try
And prove thee true. But Love the change ordains,
That Love that never sleeps where Evil reigns,
Bending his hateful rule to purpose high,
Till, sin by sin consumed, the good alone remains.”
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So, musing, spake in thought her Angel friend.
And now again to Earth our course we bend.
But here, alas! in silent pain awhile
Our tale would pause; for sad it were to trace
The fall of greatness in our human race,
But sadder here, where no ambitious guile,
Or thought of glory won by others' loss, had place.
And now again to Earth our course we bend.
But here, alas! in silent pain awhile
Our tale would pause; for sad it were to trace
The fall of greatness in our human race,
But sadder here, where no ambitious guile,
Or thought of glory won by others' loss, had place.
'T were but to tell how troop by troop fell off
Of courtly friends, with loud and open scoff,
Or secret sneer, the vice of meaner heart;
The envious these. But most, they knew not why,
Went as they came, or else to roll the eye
As others did, or play the patron's part,
And buy at second hand cheap immortality.
Of courtly friends, with loud and open scoff,
Or secret sneer, the vice of meaner heart;
The envious these. But most, they knew not why,
Went as they came, or else to roll the eye
As others did, or play the patron's part,
And buy at second hand cheap immortality.
Yet some there were,—a scattered, kindly few,
Who felt, and loved, the beautiful and true,—
Awhile did linger in the saddened wood,
Where now nor song, nor other sound, was heard,
Save when the night-hawk thro' the darkness whirred.
At length 'gan these to pine for present good,
And left, as in the past, our solitary Bird.
Who felt, and loved, the beautiful and true,—
Awhile did linger in the saddened wood,
Where now nor song, nor other sound, was heard,
Save when the night-hawk thro' the darkness whirred.
At length 'gan these to pine for present good,
And left, as in the past, our solitary Bird.
But whence the change? Some unknown Power, 't is said,
And strong as dark, had on her fortunes laid
His fatal ban, that daily seemed to drain
The fountain of her song, till all was still;—
E'en as the sandy grave of some small rill,
Erewhile a mighty stream, that, towards the main
From mountain torrents sent, would fain its course fulfil.
And strong as dark, had on her fortunes laid
His fatal ban, that daily seemed to drain
The fountain of her song, till all was still;—
E'en as the sandy grave of some small rill,
Erewhile a mighty stream, that, towards the main
From mountain torrents sent, would fain its course fulfil.
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And soon her fame a cold tradition proved
Of barren words; if ever tongue it moved
Of some kind friend, yet colder grew the heart
That strove in vain its raptures to recall
As when it warmed beneath the magic thrall
Of living sound; 't was but of some vague art
A vaguer chronicle: and so alike to all.
Of barren words; if ever tongue it moved
Of some kind friend, yet colder grew the heart
That strove in vain its raptures to recall
As when it warmed beneath the magic thrall
Of living sound; 't was but of some vague art
A vaguer chronicle: and so alike to all.
Alas! to think that from the mind should pass,
E'en as an image from the insensate glass,
This all-subduing mystery of Sound,
That with a breath can from our stubborn clay
Set free the Soul, and launch her forth to stray,
With wandering stars, through yon blue depths profound,
Where blessed spirits bask in empyrean day!
E'en as an image from the insensate glass,
This all-subduing mystery of Sound,
That with a breath can from our stubborn clay
Set free the Soul, and launch her forth to stray,
With wandering stars, through yon blue depths profound,
Where blessed spirits bask in empyrean day!
'T is even so; the shadow of a dream
Were sooner held,—doth more substantial seem
Than this celestial trance; as if 't were given,
Not to the Memory in her hoarding pride,
But to the Soul, that, while to earth allied,
Free of its thraldom, she might know of heaven.
Ah, how may trance like this with erring flesh abide?
Were sooner held,—doth more substantial seem
Than this celestial trance; as if 't were given,
Not to the Memory in her hoarding pride,
But to the Soul, that, while to earth allied,
Free of its thraldom, she might know of heaven.
Ah, how may trance like this with erring flesh abide?
But did not she, the gentle Bird, repine,
Her glory gone? O, no! “It was not mine,”
Her wise and grateful heart again would say;
“For, were it else, 't were what I might reclaim.
The gift is gone, yet leaves me still the same;
Nay, richer still; and who shall take away
The memory of love,—the love with which it came?”
Her glory gone? O, no! “It was not mine,”
Her wise and grateful heart again would say;
“For, were it else, 't were what I might reclaim.
The gift is gone, yet leaves me still the same;
Nay, richer still; and who shall take away
The memory of love,—the love with which it came?”
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Thus to herself, in murmurs sweet and low,
Spake the meek-natured Bird, as to and fro
She swung upon the slender, topmost spray
Of that lithe Ash that leaned her nest beside;
While oft the moon, who ne'er did sorrow chide,
In soothing mirth would with her shadow play,
And chase it o'er the sand, or in the forest hide.
Spake the meek-natured Bird, as to and fro
She swung upon the slender, topmost spray
Of that lithe Ash that leaned her nest beside;
While oft the moon, who ne'er did sorrow chide,
In soothing mirth would with her shadow play,
And chase it o'er the sand, or in the forest hide.
The little brook, too, like a lowly friend,
On stilly nights would sometimes humbly send
Its loving plaint: and strange to her it seemed
There came no sadness now in that low wail;
In sooth 't was like some gently-moving tale
Of checkered life, where joy through sadness gleamed,
So tempered each by each that neither might prevail.
On stilly nights would sometimes humbly send
Its loving plaint: and strange to her it seemed
There came no sadness now in that low wail;
In sooth 't was like some gently-moving tale
Of checkered life, where joy through sadness gleamed,
So tempered each by each that neither might prevail.
And wherefore is it so, that grief to grief
No pang should add, but rather bring relief?
Yet so it is. And, O, how blest to feel
The pure and mystic bond, thus shadowed forth,
That binds us to our kind,—that from our birth
Makes self a prison-house in woe or weal,
And self-sufficing hearts as alien to the Earth!
No pang should add, but rather bring relief?
Yet so it is. And, O, how blest to feel
The pure and mystic bond, thus shadowed forth,
That binds us to our kind,—that from our birth
Makes self a prison-house in woe or weal,
And self-sufficing hearts as alien to the Earth!
But chiefly is it blest where virtue dwells,
In kind and gentle hearts; and then it wells,
As 't were a fountain, forth on all around,
So that the woods and fields, and all therein
That breathe or bloom, do seem as if akin,
And man to all one common life had bound.
So to our gentle Bird all nature's self had been.
In kind and gentle hearts; and then it wells,
As 't were a fountain, forth on all around,
So that the woods and fields, and all therein
That breathe or bloom, do seem as if akin,
And man to all one common life had bound.
So to our gentle Bird all nature's self had been.
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And now did Nature in return bestow
That healing sympathy which never woe,
So it be innocent, may seek in vain.
“O, never could I in a world so fair,
So full of love, though losing all, despair;
For thou, sweet, loving world, wouldst still remain.”
The guardian Angel heard, and blessed again his care.
That healing sympathy which never woe,
So it be innocent, may seek in vain.
“O, never could I in a world so fair,
So full of love, though losing all, despair;
For thou, sweet, loving world, wouldst still remain.”
The guardian Angel heard, and blessed again his care.
Still was her humble spirit yet unproved
Of one sore test, which few have stood unmoved,—
That stinging pity which a rival's breath
Drops on the wounded heart. But soon it came.
And now began the Thrush to talk of fame;
Then of its loss,—“how bitter,—worse than death,—
To one who held so late a more than royal name.
Of one sore test, which few have stood unmoved,—
That stinging pity which a rival's breath
Drops on the wounded heart. But soon it came.
And now began the Thrush to talk of fame;
Then of its loss,—“how bitter,—worse than death,—
To one who held so late a more than royal name.
“Alas, my friend, as I recall the time
When to our humble plain that name sublime
Drew from each distant land the wondering throng
That hung upon thy breath, and see thee here,
Alone, despised, in this thy hapless sphere
Of fleeting sway, I fain could wish thy song
No praise had ever won,—or praise at least sincere.”
When to our humble plain that name sublime
Drew from each distant land the wondering throng
That hung upon thy breath, and see thee here,
Alone, despised, in this thy hapless sphere
Of fleeting sway, I fain could wish thy song
No praise had ever won,—or praise at least sincere.”
So spake the Thrush: but harmless fell the shaft
As shot in air. Yet when did lack in craft
The spirit of revenge?—if haply, too,
Of that rank, morbid growth which jealous minds
Breed as by instinct, where fit weapon finds
Each self-made wrong, as they together grew?
The smooth, dissembling Thrush had these of many kinds.
As shot in air. Yet when did lack in craft
The spirit of revenge?—if haply, too,
Of that rank, morbid growth which jealous minds
Breed as by instinct, where fit weapon finds
Each self-made wrong, as they together grew?
The smooth, dissembling Thrush had these of many kinds.
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And soon she changed, and spake in blither mood,—
“How pleasant it would be in this lone wood
To hear the converse of some cheerful friends:
And many such she knew, whose chat would cheer
Her dearest friend,—might she invite them here.
And, troth, she would.” So straight aloft she bends
Her charitable flight, and soon is lost in air.
“How pleasant it would be in this lone wood
To hear the converse of some cheerful friends:
And many such she knew, whose chat would cheer
Her dearest friend,—might she invite them here.
And, troth, she would.” So straight aloft she bends
Her charitable flight, and soon is lost in air.
Nor strange the enmity in one so late
A seeming friend. 'T was but the common hate
Which cold, vain hearts deem solace in their need;
These covet fame as if a thing of will,
By suffrage won; so count it grievous ill
If luckier rivals win the voted meed.
Then what but sweet revenge the craving heart can fill?
A seeming friend. 'T was but the common hate
Which cold, vain hearts deem solace in their need;
These covet fame as if a thing of will,
By suffrage won; so count it grievous ill
If luckier rivals win the voted meed.
Then what but sweet revenge the craving heart can fill?
Nor aught with such avails a rival's fall,—
Save that he feel it; then, perchance, the gall
May cease to flow. But, let him brook it well,—
His sad reverse,—as did our gentle Bird,
Without complaining look or fretful word;
Then how afresh this bitter spring of hell,
With hotter-reeking hate, to fiercer flow is stirred!
Save that he feel it; then, perchance, the gall
May cease to flow. But, let him brook it well,—
His sad reverse,—as did our gentle Bird,
Without complaining look or fretful word;
Then how afresh this bitter spring of hell,
With hotter-reeking hate, to fiercer flow is stirred!
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PART IV.
'T was now the hour,—that boding hour of life,
When half-awakened forms of care or strife
Mix with the broken dream,—that shadowy hour,
That like a spectre stands 'twixt night and day,
For good or ill, and with his finger gray
Points to the daily doom no mortal power,
For virtue or for vice, can either change or stay.
When half-awakened forms of care or strife
Mix with the broken dream,—that shadowy hour,
That like a spectre stands 'twixt night and day,
For good or ill, and with his finger gray
Points to the daily doom no mortal power,
For virtue or for vice, can either change or stay.
And never came that hour more winning mild
To mar the fancies of a sleeping child,
Than now it came to our sweet Philomel.
She looked abroad upon the hueless wood,
Then on the sandy plain, where lately stood
That breathing multitude no tongue could tell;
All, all was still and blank, yet all to her was good.
To mar the fancies of a sleeping child,
Than now it came to our sweet Philomel.
She looked abroad upon the hueless wood,
Then on the sandy plain, where lately stood
That breathing multitude no tongue could tell;
All, all was still and blank, yet all to her was good.
For e'en the stillness seemed as if a part
Of that pure peace that wrapt her gentle heart.
Then how like thoughts, or rather like the cloud
Of formless feeling growing into thought,
The dusky mass, as now she sees it wrought
Slow into shapes, that all around her crowd,
As each their hue of life from day's first herald caught,—
Of that pure peace that wrapt her gentle heart.
Then how like thoughts, or rather like the cloud
Of formless feeling growing into thought,
The dusky mass, as now she sees it wrought
Slow into shapes, that all around her crowd,
As each their hue of life from day's first herald caught,—
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The purple rack, that from the eastern sky
Tells to the waking earth that day is nigh.
So mused she undepressed in this lone scene.
But now the sun is up; and soon a train,
Led by the wily Thrush, athwart the plain
Is seen to bend. More gorgeous sight, I ween,
Ne'er made the ethereal bow when bent through morning rain!
Tells to the waking earth that day is nigh.
So mused she undepressed in this lone scene.
But now the sun is up; and soon a train,
Led by the wily Thrush, athwart the plain
Is seen to bend. More gorgeous sight, I ween,
Ne'er made the ethereal bow when bent through morning rain!
The tenants of the wood what this might mean
Quick gathered round to learn; for they had seen
The stranger band afar, like some gray mist,
Loosed from a mountain peak, wreathing its way
Slow up the west; and there anon to play
As with the sun; now, dark, his light resist,
And now, in flickering flakes, fling far each shivered ray.
Quick gathered round to learn; for they had seen
The stranger band afar, like some gray mist,
Loosed from a mountain peak, wreathing its way
Slow up the west; and there anon to play
As with the sun; now, dark, his light resist,
And now, in flickering flakes, fling far each shivered ray.
These were the creatures of that regal clime
Where reigns the imperial Sun; whose soil sublime
Teems through its glowing depths e'en with his light,
There ripening into gems; the while he dyes,
With his own orient hues, the earth and skies,
But most the feathered race,—that so their flight
Might bring his glory back in radiant sacrifice.
Where reigns the imperial Sun; whose soil sublime
Teems through its glowing depths e'en with his light,
There ripening into gems; the while he dyes,
With his own orient hues, the earth and skies,
But most the feathered race,—that so their flight
Might bring his glory back in radiant sacrifice.
“Behold my promised friends; far travellers they,—
E'en from the new-found world,—who fain would pay
Their passing homage to a Bird so famed.”
So spake the insidious Thrush: and then around
Her snaky eyes she cast, as one who found
Full sure revenge. “Nay, wherefore shrink, ashamed
Thy meaner form to show? for what is form to sound?”
E'en from the new-found world,—who fain would pay
Their passing homage to a Bird so famed.”
So spake the insidious Thrush: and then around
Her snaky eyes she cast, as one who found
Full sure revenge. “Nay, wherefore shrink, ashamed
Thy meaner form to show? for what is form to sound?”
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The taunting words came dead upon the ear
Of her they would have smote; the cruel sneer
Touched not a heart so flooded o'er with love,—
That pure, supernal love which now gushed forth:—
“O blessed creatures! whence your glorious birth?
From what bright region of the world above?
Sure never things so fair first breathed upon the Earth!”
Of her they would have smote; the cruel sneer
Touched not a heart so flooded o'er with love,—
That pure, supernal love which now gushed forth:—
“O blessed creatures! whence your glorious birth?
From what bright region of the world above?
Sure never things so fair first breathed upon the Earth!”
So deep, yet passionless, that wondrous love
Which Beauty wakes! Pure Instinct from above!
That, 'mid the selfish needs, and pains, and fears,
That waste the heart, still fresh dost ever live!
O, who can doubt the promise thou dost give
Of higher destiny,—when toiling years
And pain and sin shall flee, and only love survive?
Which Beauty wakes! Pure Instinct from above!
That, 'mid the selfish needs, and pains, and fears,
That waste the heart, still fresh dost ever live!
O, who can doubt the promise thou dost give
Of higher destiny,—when toiling years
And pain and sin shall flee, and only love survive?
Scarce had she spoke, when o'er the wondering crowd,
Grazing the dark tree-tops, there stood a cloud
Of dazzling white; while 'gainst the deep blue sky
Aloft it rose, as 't were some feudal pile,
Where tourneys, held for gentle ladies' smile,
Brought from each polished land her chivalry,
From proud Granada's realm to Britain's gallant isle.
Grazing the dark tree-tops, there stood a cloud
Of dazzling white; while 'gainst the deep blue sky
Aloft it rose, as 't were some feudal pile,
Where tourneys, held for gentle ladies' smile,
Brought from each polished land her chivalry,
From proud Granada's realm to Britain's gallant isle.
But how unlike to them the radiant throng
That from these cloudy towers poured down their song,
Breathing of Heaven in each hallowed word!
“All hail!” they sang,—“all hail, sweet Nightingale!
Who enviest not, who hatest not, all hail!
Who sufferest all, yet lovest all, sweet Bird!
Thy glory here begun shall never, never fail!”
That from these cloudy towers poured down their song,
Breathing of Heaven in each hallowed word!
“All hail!” they sang,—“all hail, sweet Nightingale!
Who enviest not, who hatest not, all hail!
Who sufferest all, yet lovest all, sweet Bird!
Thy glory here begun shall never, never fail!”
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But, lo! a sudden darkness, deep as night,
Fell on the thick, hot air. With strange affright
The winged crowd against each other dashed:
All but our gentle Bird; she fearless stood,
And saw the towery cloud, now changed to blood,
Boil as in wrath; and now with fire it flashed,
And forth the thunder rolled, and shook the appalled wood.
Fell on the thick, hot air. With strange affright
The winged crowd against each other dashed:
All but our gentle Bird; she fearless stood,
And saw the towery cloud, now changed to blood,
Boil as in wrath; and now with fire it flashed,
And forth the thunder rolled, and shook the appalled wood.
Then straight again the quiet sylvan scene
Lay bright and basking in the morning sheen;—
So like a dream had this wild vision fled!
Nor left it aught its fearful truth to note,
Save on the sandy plain one small, dark spot,
Where lay the envious Thrush,—black, stiff, and dead.
Alas, too well deserved her miserable lot!
Lay bright and basking in the morning sheen;—
So like a dream had this wild vision fled!
Nor left it aught its fearful truth to note,
Save on the sandy plain one small, dark spot,
Where lay the envious Thrush,—black, stiff, and dead.
Alas, too well deserved her miserable lot!
A cold, brief look was all the useless dead
Had from her parting friends, who forthwith sped
Each to his tropic home. But what befell
Our gentle Bird? Some say her glorious strain
Within that dreadful cloud was heard again,
Deepening the thunder; then afar to swell
'Mid soft, symphonious sounds, like murmurs from the main.
Had from her parting friends, who forthwith sped
Each to his tropic home. But what befell
Our gentle Bird? Some say her glorious strain
Within that dreadful cloud was heard again,
Deepening the thunder; then afar to swell
'Mid soft, symphonious sounds, like murmurs from the main.
Howe'er it was, one faith had all possessed,—
Her spirit then was numbered with the blest.
And still there are who hold a faith as strong,
Though years have passed, far, far upon the drift
Of ebbless time, that some have now the gift
On a still, starlight night to hear her song,—
As 't were their blameless hearts still nearer heaven to lift.
Her spirit then was numbered with the blest.
And still there are who hold a faith as strong,
Though years have passed, far, far upon the drift
Of ebbless time, that some have now the gift
On a still, starlight night to hear her song,—
As 't were their blameless hearts still nearer heaven to lift.
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GLORIA MUNDI.
I looked upon the fields so beautifully green,
I looked upon the hills and vale between,
By shade and sunshine flecked with day and night;
And then I heard the mountain breezes tread
Their wooded sides, like leafy steps that led
Down to the broad and blue bright river's bed,
Dwindling in distance to a line of light.
I gazed, and gazed,—till all my senses caught
The earthy charm. Then waked the fevered thought:
“Drink, O my spirit, of thy cup of bliss,
That ne'er can fail thee in a world like this!”
I looked upon the hills and vale between,
By shade and sunshine flecked with day and night;
And then I heard the mountain breezes tread
Their wooded sides, like leafy steps that led
Down to the broad and blue bright river's bed,
Dwindling in distance to a line of light.
I gazed, and gazed,—till all my senses caught
The earthy charm. Then waked the fevered thought:
“Drink, O my spirit, of thy cup of bliss,
That ne'er can fail thee in a world like this!”
The charm is gone! Ah, wherefore was it sent,
To leave this vague and haunting discontent?
I saw it rise, like moving meadow mists,
Before my path, as 't were a thing of sight;
E'en as that vapory sea, drinking the light
Fresh from the sun, and showering rubies bright
Where'er it breaks, and purple amethysts.
Ay, so it seemed. And then I saw it paled,
Till, like that mimic sea, 't was all exhaled.
Then from her plumbless depth,—to mock the whole,—
Dark in her mystery, came forth the Soul.
To leave this vague and haunting discontent?
I saw it rise, like moving meadow mists,
Before my path, as 't were a thing of sight;
E'en as that vapory sea, drinking the light
Fresh from the sun, and showering rubies bright
Where'er it breaks, and purple amethysts.
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Till, like that mimic sea, 't was all exhaled.
Then from her plumbless depth,—to mock the whole,—
Dark in her mystery, came forth the Soul.
And now,—O, what to me this marvellous Earth
But one vast show of misery and mirth,
In fearful alternation wheeled through space;
Where life is death; where the dead dust doth grow,
And push to air, and drink the dew, and blow
In fragrant flowers, that in their turn re-sow
Their parent soil for some new living race;
Where crumbled sepulchres uprise in thrones,
And gorgeous palaces from dead men's bones;
Where, like the worm, the proudest lips are fed,
The delicate, the dainty, on the dead.
But one vast show of misery and mirth,
In fearful alternation wheeled through space;
Where life is death; where the dead dust doth grow,
And push to air, and drink the dew, and blow
In fragrant flowers, that in their turn re-sow
Their parent soil for some new living race;
Where crumbled sepulchres uprise in thrones,
And gorgeous palaces from dead men's bones;
Where, like the worm, the proudest lips are fed,
The delicate, the dainty, on the dead.
Ah, glorious vanity! Ah, worse than vain
To him who counts its whole possession gain,
Or fondly seeks on Earth one point of rest,—
E'en though it be the imperial house of Fame,
That still 'mid falling empires stands the same:
Alas! that house of breath but stays his name,—
His restless spirit passes like a guest.
No,—there 's a spark that in the dullest lives;
That once to all its light spiritual gives,
Revealing to the soul a void so vast
Not all in time may fill,—not all the past!
To him who counts its whole possession gain,
Or fondly seeks on Earth one point of rest,—
E'en though it be the imperial house of Fame,
That still 'mid falling empires stands the same:
Alas! that house of breath but stays his name,—
His restless spirit passes like a guest.
No,—there 's a spark that in the dullest lives;
That once to all its light spiritual gives,
Revealing to the soul a void so vast
Not all in time may fill,—not all the past!
And yet there are, who, ever doubting, deem
This inward light the fiction of a dream,
Contemptuous turning to the reasoning day:
While some with outward things e'en hope to close
The too-obtruding gulf, and buy repose
From ear and eye; or with fantastic shows
In pride of intellect around it play.
Vain toil of unbelief! For who may flee
This fearful warrant of his destiny,
That tracks the royal skeptic to his throne,
Marking his fealty to a world unknown?
This inward light the fiction of a dream,
Contemptuous turning to the reasoning day:
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The too-obtruding gulf, and buy repose
From ear and eye; or with fantastic shows
In pride of intellect around it play.
Vain toil of unbelief! For who may flee
This fearful warrant of his destiny,
That tracks the royal skeptic to his throne,
Marking his fealty to a world unknown?
O, rather let me, in the void I feel,
With no misgiving seek my lasting weal:
Things blank and imageless in human speech
Have oft a truth imperative in might;
And so that stream, unnamed, unknown of sight,
Unheard of ear, that thence doth day and night
Flow on the Soul; and she doth feel it reach
Her deepest seat of life, and knows her home
Is whence that dim, mysterious stream doth come;
Where all without is peace, all peace within,—
A home closed only to the rebel, Sin.
With no misgiving seek my lasting weal:
Things blank and imageless in human speech
Have oft a truth imperative in might;
And so that stream, unnamed, unknown of sight,
Unheard of ear, that thence doth day and night
Flow on the Soul; and she doth feel it reach
Her deepest seat of life, and knows her home
Is whence that dim, mysterious stream doth come;
Where all without is peace, all peace within,—
A home closed only to the rebel, Sin.
Then be not in me quenched that inward ray,
Shed on my spirit when this moving clay
First took the wondrous gift, its life. O, never
May things of sense beguile me to the brink
Of that dark fount of Pride, of which to drink
Is but to swallow madness,—when to think
Will only be to doubt, till darkness ever
Wall up the soul. But let Humility,
Born of the obedient will, my guide still be
Through this fair world,—though changing, yet how fair!—
Till all shall be to me as things that were.
Shed on my spirit when this moving clay
First took the wondrous gift, its life. O, never
May things of sense beguile me to the brink
Of that dark fount of Pride, of which to drink
Is but to swallow madness,—when to think
Will only be to doubt, till darkness ever
Wall up the soul. But let Humility,
Born of the obedient will, my guide still be
Through this fair world,—though changing, yet how fair!—
Till all shall be to me as things that were.
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THE ATONEMENT.
Hopeless, alas, of sinful man the lot,
(And who can say of sin, he knows it not?)
If that the thoughts that herald forth the Will
In all their myriad hues may never die!
'T is even so,—with all their good and ill;
For what but they the Ever-conscious I?
(And who can say of sin, he knows it not?)
If that the thoughts that herald forth the Will
In all their myriad hues may never die!
'T is even so,—with all their good and ill;
For what but they the Ever-conscious I?
Then what compunctious, agonizing grief?
Alas! it gives not to the Soul relief,
That in herself no past can know; that never
From the “eternal Now” one thought can sever.
Ah, no!—no partial suicide may drink
Her least of life whose tenure is to think.
What though, as dead, through threescore years and ten
Some evil thought should sleep? there's no amen.
Fresh as new-born that unremembered thought
Again must wake,—nay, even on the brink
Of some far-distant grave, and there its link
Join to the living chain of self, self-wrought,
Which binds the Soul,—her fetter and her life:
Her life the consciousness of fruitless strife.
Alas! it gives not to the Soul relief,
That in herself no past can know; that never
From the “eternal Now” one thought can sever.
Ah, no!—no partial suicide may drink
Her least of life whose tenure is to think.
What though, as dead, through threescore years and ten
Some evil thought should sleep? there's no amen.
Fresh as new-born that unremembered thought
Again must wake,—nay, even on the brink
Of some far-distant grave, and there its link
Join to the living chain of self, self-wrought,
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Her life the consciousness of fruitless strife.
Ay, such, O Man, thy wretched lot had been
Had He forbade not,—He who knew no sin;
Who to his own, the creatures he had made,
Veiling his empyrean glory, came,
E'en in their form; who, not alone in name,
But palpable in flesh, as man, obeyed
The human law; a veritable man;
A second Adam, who again began
The human will, that, to our nature joined,
The obedience of that will should fulness find
In His, the Infinite, uncraving Mind.
O blessed truth! in my soul's need I feel
In thee alone my ever-during weal.
Yet who may hope to reach, or, reached, abide,
Unquenched of life, this awful mystery;—
The sweat of blood, the nameless agony,
That wrought the final doom of Sin and Death,
When tumbled from his throne the Prince of Earth;—
That gave again to Man a sinless birth,
That breathed into his clay a sinless breath?
Had He forbade not,—He who knew no sin;
Who to his own, the creatures he had made,
Veiling his empyrean glory, came,
E'en in their form; who, not alone in name,
But palpable in flesh, as man, obeyed
The human law; a veritable man;
A second Adam, who again began
The human will, that, to our nature joined,
The obedience of that will should fulness find
In His, the Infinite, uncraving Mind.
O blessed truth! in my soul's need I feel
In thee alone my ever-during weal.
Yet who may hope to reach, or, reached, abide,
Unquenched of life, this awful mystery;—
The sweat of blood, the nameless agony,
That wrought the final doom of Sin and Death,
When tumbled from his throne the Prince of Earth;—
That gave again to Man a sinless birth,
That breathed into his clay a sinless breath?
No, not to me, of mortal mould, is given
To scan the mystery which no eye in heaven,
Attempered to all deepest things, may read.
Yet who shall make me doubt the truth I need?
Then down, my Soul! from the four farthest towers
Of the four warring winds, call in thy powers,
Vagrant o'er earth, with all their reasoning pride,
And here beneath the Cross their madness hide;
Down to its kindred dust here cast thy store
Of learned ignorance, to rise no more:
For what may all avail thee, if to thee,
When all of sense like passing air shall flee,—
If to thy dull, sealed ear, come not the cry,
“Where now, O Death, thy sting, O Grave, thy victory?”
To scan the mystery which no eye in heaven,
Attempered to all deepest things, may read.
Yet who shall make me doubt the truth I need?
Then down, my Soul! from the four farthest towers
Of the four warring winds, call in thy powers,
Vagrant o'er earth, with all their reasoning pride,
And here beneath the Cross their madness hide;
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Of learned ignorance, to rise no more:
For what may all avail thee, if to thee,
When all of sense like passing air shall flee,—
If to thy dull, sealed ear, come not the cry,
“Where now, O Death, thy sting, O Grave, thy victory?”
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TO MY SISTER.
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE RECOLLECTION OF A LITTLE BIRD, CARVED BY THE WRITER, WHEN SIX YEARS OLD, OUT OF A GREEN STALK OF THE INDIAN CORN, AS A PARTING GIFT TO HIS SISTER.
'T is sad to think, of all the crowded Past,
How small a remnant in the memory lives!
A shadowy mass of shapes at random cast
Wide on a broken sea the image gives
Of most that we recall.
Yet, haply, not to all
That once have lived doth wayward Memory close
Her book of life,—or, rather, book of love;
For there, as quickened by some breath above,
The pure affections must for aye repose.
How small a remnant in the memory lives!
A shadowy mass of shapes at random cast
Wide on a broken sea the image gives
Of most that we recall.
Yet, haply, not to all
That once have lived doth wayward Memory close
Her book of life,—or, rather, book of love;
For there, as quickened by some breath above,
The pure affections must for aye repose.
And how the rudest toys by childhood wrought,—
The symbols of its love,—there live and grow
To classic forms, on which no after thought,
No learned toil, can with its skill bestow
A truer touch of Art,
To fix them in the heart!
Then not in vain the gift of little worth,
Thus shadowing to the soul the blessed truth,
That all things pure must needs immortal youth
Hold as their heritage, though born of Earth.
The symbols of its love,—there live and grow
To classic forms, on which no after thought,
No learned toil, can with its skill bestow
A truer touch of Art,
To fix them in the heart!
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Thus shadowing to the soul the blessed truth,
That all things pure must needs immortal youth
Hold as their heritage, though born of Earth.
And so, my Sister, doth that childish toy,
Which love for thee had shaped, still with me live;
The life imparted by the loving Boy
Is truer life than now his Art can give:
I see its emerald wing,
Nay, almost hear it sing!
And oft that little vegetable bird
Shall flit between us when we part again;
Its bright, perennial form shall skim the main,
A silent sign,—nor need an uttered word.
Which love for thee had shaped, still with me live;
The life imparted by the loving Boy
Is truer life than now his Art can give:
I see its emerald wing,
Nay, almost hear it sing!
And oft that little vegetable bird
Shall flit between us when we part again;
Its bright, perennial form shall skim the main,
A silent sign,—nor need an uttered word.
324
SONNET.
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.
The Earth has had her visitation. Like to thisShe hath not known, save when the mounting waters
Made of her orb one universal ocean.
For now the Tree that grew in Paradise,
The deadly Tree that first gave Evil motion,
And sent its poison through Earth's sons and daughters,
Had struck again its root in every land;
And now its fruit was ripe,—about to fall,—
And now a mighty Kingdom raised the hand,
To pluck and eat. Then from his throne stepped forth
The King of Hell, and stood upon the Earth:
But not, as once, upon the Earth to crawl.
A Nation's congregated form he took,
Till, drunk with sin and blood, Earth to her centre shook.
325
SONNET.
THOUGHT.
What master-voice shall from the dim profoundOf Thought evoke its fearful, mighty Powers?—
Those dread enchanters, whose terrific call
May never be gainsaid; whose wondrous thrall
Alone the Infinite, the Uncreate, may bound;
In whose dark presence e'en the Reason cowers,
Lost in their mystery, e'en while her slaves,
Doing her proud behests. Ay, who to sense
Shall bring them forth?—those subtile Powers that wear
No shape their own, yet to the mind dispense
All shapes that be. Or who in deepest graves
Seal down the crime which they shall not uptear?—
Those fierce avengers, whom the murdered dead
Shall hear, and follow to the murderer's bed.
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SONNET.
A SMILE.
A smile!—Alas, how oft the lips that bearThis floweret of the soul but give to air,
Like flowering graves, the growth of buried care!
Then drear indeed that miserable heart
Where this last human boon is aye denied!
If such there be, it claims in man no part,
Whose deepest grief has yet a mirthful bride.
For whose so many as the sad man's face?
His joy, though brief, is yet reprieve from woe;
The waters of his life in darkness flow;
Yet, when the accidents of time displace
The cares that vault their channel, and let in
A gleam of day, with what a joyous din
The stream jets out to catch the sunny grace!
327
SONNET.
ART.
O Art, high gift of Heaven! how oft defamedWhen seeming praised! To most a craft that fits,
By dead, prescriptive Rule, the scattered bits
Of gathered knowledge; even so misnamed
By some who would invoke thee; but not so
By him,—the noble Tuscan, —who gave birth
To forms unseen of man, unknown to Earth,
Now living habitants; he felt the glow
Of thy revealing touch, that brought to view
The invisible Idea; and he knew,
E'en by his inward sense, its form was true:
'T was life to life responding,—highest truth!
So, through Elisha's faith, the Hebrew Youth
Beheld the thin blue air to fiery chariots grow.
328
THE CALYCANTHUS.
INSCRIBED TO MY MOTHER.
A little Conjurer before me stood.
Upon his head he wore a purple hood;
And yet no mystic word or sign
Gave tokens of his wizard power.
He seemed a modest, pretty Flower,—
Such as might grace a Poet's line,
Or Painter love in golden locks to wreathe;
Nor seemed he other till my throbbing heart
Felt in his odorous breath his mighty art:
Such breath can only magic breathe!
Upon his head he wore a purple hood;
And yet no mystic word or sign
Gave tokens of his wizard power.
He seemed a modest, pretty Flower,—
Such as might grace a Poet's line,
Or Painter love in golden locks to wreathe;
Nor seemed he other till my throbbing heart
Felt in his odorous breath his mighty art:
Such breath can only magic breathe!
Scarce was my spirit of the truth aware
When straight it cleaved a thousand miles of air.
I trod, methought, my native land;
Where many a long-forgotten pleasure,
Like many a spendthrift's early treasure,
Lay buried 'neath Time's dropping sand;
That ever-dropping sand that never drifts;
Though whirlwinds sweep it, still unmoved that piles
Its grain on grain; still climbing up to miles,—
To where not Himalaya lifts.
When straight it cleaved a thousand miles of air.
I trod, methought, my native land;
Where many a long-forgotten pleasure,
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Lay buried 'neath Time's dropping sand;
That ever-dropping sand that never drifts;
Though whirlwinds sweep it, still unmoved that piles
Its grain on grain; still climbing up to miles,—
To where not Himalaya lifts.
But Time, with all his load, was then as naught;
The wizard Flower had in my vision wrought
The gift to see through mountain years.
O, then how swift upon me thronging
Came every childish hope and longing,
And causeless smiles, and sunny tears
That fell as if in mockery of grief,
Making their rosy journeys from the eye
In laughing dimples for a while to lie,
Then yield a life as bright as brief!
The wizard Flower had in my vision wrought
The gift to see through mountain years.
O, then how swift upon me thronging
Came every childish hope and longing,
And causeless smiles, and sunny tears
That fell as if in mockery of grief,
Making their rosy journeys from the eye
In laughing dimples for a while to lie,
Then yield a life as bright as brief!
Again the tiny Artist toiled apart
Beneath that fervid sun,—nor dreamt of Art.
The gay Pomegranate dropped anew,—
As if to tempt his mimic powers,—
Her gold and crimson solid flowers,
That soon to fairy vases grew;
The giant Pine looked down upon the boat
Carved from his bark, and seemed in murmurs hoarse,
But gentle as the Child, to bless its course,
When that the little craft should float.
Beneath that fervid sun,—nor dreamt of Art.
The gay Pomegranate dropped anew,—
As if to tempt his mimic powers,—
Her gold and crimson solid flowers,
That soon to fairy vases grew;
The giant Pine looked down upon the boat
Carved from his bark, and seemed in murmurs hoarse,
But gentle as the Child, to bless its course,
When that the little craft should float.
And then how long, how full of time, did seem
A single day in this my dreamed-o'er dream!
For all I saw the teeming mind
Had gifted with some wondrous story;
The aged Oak, whose moss-beard hoary
Waved to the fitful evening wind,
Was but the spirit of some Ogre, bound
In other shape, and doomed, for cruel thirst
Of infant's blood, to quit his form accursed,—
Then rooted to enchanted ground.
A single day in this my dreamed-o'er dream!
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Had gifted with some wondrous story;
The aged Oak, whose moss-beard hoary
Waved to the fitful evening wind,
Was but the spirit of some Ogre, bound
In other shape, and doomed, for cruel thirst
Of infant's blood, to quit his form accursed,—
Then rooted to enchanted ground.
Deep mystery! that the Soul, as not content
To see, to hear, should thus her own moods vent,—
Living as 't were in all that lives!
E'en as the ever-changing Ocean,
Whether in calmed rest or motion,
Its own transforming image gives;
Sending its terrors into hearts of stone
Till human wailing swells the dooming roar;
Or, smoothly sleeping near some fearful shore,
Dyes rocks in beauty not their own.
To see, to hear, should thus her own moods vent,—
Living as 't were in all that lives!
E'en as the ever-changing Ocean,
Whether in calmed rest or motion,
Its own transforming image gives;
Sending its terrors into hearts of stone
Till human wailing swells the dooming roar;
Or, smoothly sleeping near some fearful shore,
Dyes rocks in beauty not their own.
Ah, never will return those loving days,
So loath to part,—those fond, reluctant rays
That seemed to haunt the summer's eve.
And, O, what charm of magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers
Those weary, happy days did leave,
When by my bed I saw my Mother kneel,
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss?
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this,—
E'en now that hallowed kiss I feel.
So loath to part,—those fond, reluctant rays
That seemed to haunt the summer's eve.
And, O, what charm of magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers
Those weary, happy days did leave,
When by my bed I saw my Mother kneel,
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss?
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this,—
E'en now that hallowed kiss I feel.
331
ROSALIE.
“O, pour upon my soul again
That sad, unearthly strain,
That seems from other worlds to plain;
Thus falling, falling from afar,
As if some melancholy star
Had mingled with her light her sighs,
And dropped them from the skies!
That sad, unearthly strain,
That seems from other worlds to plain;
Thus falling, falling from afar,
As if some melancholy star
Had mingled with her light her sighs,
And dropped them from the skies!
“No,—never came from aught below
This melody of woe,
That makes my heart to overflow,
As from a thousand gushing springs,
Unknown before; that with it brings
This nameless light,—if light it be,—
That veils the world I see.
This melody of woe,
That makes my heart to overflow,
As from a thousand gushing springs,
Unknown before; that with it brings
This nameless light,—if light it be,—
That veils the world I see.
“For all I see around me wears
The hue of other spheres;
And something blent of smiles and tears
Comes from the very air I breathe.
O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath
Can mould a sadness like to this,—
So like angelic bliss.”
The hue of other spheres;
And something blent of smiles and tears
Comes from the very air I breathe.
O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath
Can mould a sadness like to this,—
So like angelic bliss.”
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So, at that dreamy hour of day
When the last lingering ray
Stops on the highest cloud to play,—
So thought the gentle Rosalie,
As on her maiden reverie
First fell the strain of him who stole
In music to her soul.
When the last lingering ray
Stops on the highest cloud to play,—
So thought the gentle Rosalie,
As on her maiden reverie
First fell the strain of him who stole
In music to her soul.
333
THE SPANISH MAID.
Five weary months sweet Inez numbered
From that unfading, bitter day
When last she heard the trumpet bray
That called her Isidore away,—
That never to her heart has slumbered.
From that unfading, bitter day
When last she heard the trumpet bray
That called her Isidore away,—
That never to her heart has slumbered.
She hears it now, and sees, far bending
Along the mountain's misty side,
His plumed troop, that, waving wide,
Seems like a rippling, feathery tide,
Now bright, now with the dim shore blending.
Along the mountain's misty side,
His plumed troop, that, waving wide,
Seems like a rippling, feathery tide,
Now bright, now with the dim shore blending.
She hears the cannon's deadly rattle,—
And fancy hurries on to strife,
And hears the drum and screaming fife
Mix with the last sad cry of life.
O, should he,—should he fall in battle!
And fancy hurries on to strife,
And hears the drum and screaming fife
Mix with the last sad cry of life.
O, should he,—should he fall in battle!
334
Yet still his name would live in story,
And every gallant bard in Spain
Would fight his battles o'er again.
And would she not for such a strain
Resign him to his country's glory?
And every gallant bard in Spain
Would fight his battles o'er again.
And would she not for such a strain
Resign him to his country's glory?
Thus Inez thought, and plucked the flower
That grew upon the very bank
Where first her ear bewildered drank
The plighted vow,—where last she sank
In that too bitter parting hour.
That grew upon the very bank
Where first her ear bewildered drank
The plighted vow,—where last she sank
In that too bitter parting hour.
But now the sun is westward sinking;
And soon, amid the purple haze
That showers from his slanting rays,
A thousand Loves there meet her gaze,
To change her high, heroic thinking.
And soon, amid the purple haze
That showers from his slanting rays,
A thousand Loves there meet her gaze,
To change her high, heroic thinking.
Then hope, with all its crowding fancies,
Before her flits and fills the air;
And, decked in Victory's glorious gear,
In vision Isidore is there.
Then how her heart 'mid sadness dances!
Before her flits and fills the air;
And, decked in Victory's glorious gear,
In vision Isidore is there.
Then how her heart 'mid sadness dances!
Yet little thought she, thus forestalling
The coming joy, that in that hour
The Future, like the colored shower
That seems to arch the ocean o'er,
Was in the living Present falling.
The coming joy, that in that hour
The Future, like the colored shower
That seems to arch the ocean o'er,
Was in the living Present falling.
335
The foe is slain. His sable charger,
All flecked with foam, comes bounding on.
The wild Morena rings anon;
And on its brow the gallant Don
And gallant steed grow larger, larger;
All flecked with foam, comes bounding on.
The wild Morena rings anon;
And on its brow the gallant Don
And gallant steed grow larger, larger;
And now he nears the mountain-hollow;
The flowery bank and little lake
Now on his startled vision break,—
And Inez there.—He's not awake!
Yet how he'll love this dream to-morrow!
The flowery bank and little lake
Now on his startled vision break,—
And Inez there.—He's not awake!
Yet how he'll love this dream to-morrow!
But no,—he surely is not dreaming.
Another minute makes it clear.
A scream, a rush, a burning tear
From Inez' cheek, dispel the fear
That bliss like his is only seeming.
Another minute makes it clear.
A scream, a rush, a burning tear
From Inez' cheek, dispel the fear
That bliss like his is only seeming.
336
THE TUSCAN GIRL.
How pleasant and how sad the turning tide
Of human life, when side by side
The child and youth begin to glide
Along the vale of years,
The pure twin-being for a little space,
With lightsome heart, and yet a graver face,
Too young for woe, though not for tears.
Of human life, when side by side
The child and youth begin to glide
Along the vale of years,
The pure twin-being for a little space,
With lightsome heart, and yet a graver face,
Too young for woe, though not for tears.
This turning tide is Ursulina's now,
The time is marked upon her brow,
Now every thought and feeling throw
Their shadows on her face;
For so are every thought and feeling joined,
'T were hard to answer whether heart or mind
Of either were the native place.
The time is marked upon her brow,
Now every thought and feeling throw
Their shadows on her face;
For so are every thought and feeling joined,
'T were hard to answer whether heart or mind
Of either were the native place.
The things that once she loved are still the same,
Yet now there needs another name
To give the feeling which they claim,
While she the feeling gives;
She cannot call it gladness or delight;
And yet there seems a richer, lovelier light
On e'en the humblest thing that lives.
Yet now there needs another name
To give the feeling which they claim,
While she the feeling gives;
She cannot call it gladness or delight;
And yet there seems a richer, lovelier light
On e'en the humblest thing that lives.
337
She sees the mottled moth come twinkling by,
And sees it sip the floweret nigh;
Yet not as once, with eager cry,
She grasps the pretty thing;
Her thoughts now mingle with its tranquil mood,—
So poised in air, as if on air it stood,
To show its gold and purple wing.
And sees it sip the floweret nigh;
Yet not as once, with eager cry,
She grasps the pretty thing;
Her thoughts now mingle with its tranquil mood,—
So poised in air, as if on air it stood,
To show its gold and purple wing.
She hears the bird without a wish to snare,
But rather on the azure air
To mount, and with it wander there
To some untrodden land;
As if it told her, in its happy song,
Of pleasure strange that never can belong
To aught of sight or touch of hand.
But rather on the azure air
To mount, and with it wander there
To some untrodden land;
As if it told her, in its happy song,
Of pleasure strange that never can belong
To aught of sight or touch of hand.
Now the young soul her mighty power shall prove,
And outward things around her move
Pure ministers of purer love,
And make the heart her home,
Or to the meaner senses sink a slave,
To do their bidding, though they madly crave
Through hateful scenes of vice to roam.
And outward things around her move
Pure ministers of purer love,
And make the heart her home,
Or to the meaner senses sink a slave,
To do their bidding, though they madly crave
Through hateful scenes of vice to roam.
But, Ursulina, thine the better choice;
Thine eyes so speak, as with a voice;
Thy heart may still in Earth rejoice
And all its beauty love,
But no, not all this fair, enchanting Earth,
With all its spells, can give the rapture birth
That waits thy conscious soul above.
Thine eyes so speak, as with a voice;
Thy heart may still in Earth rejoice
And all its beauty love,
But no, not all this fair, enchanting Earth,
With all its spells, can give the rapture birth
That waits thy conscious soul above.
338
THE YOUNG TROUBADOUR.
The House of Este's bannered pile
Lay glittering in the morning sun,
And many a warlike trophy, won
From swarthy Moor and Arab dun,
Seemed grimly through the air to smile.
Lay glittering in the morning sun,
And many a warlike trophy, won
From swarthy Moor and Arab dun,
Seemed grimly through the air to smile.
And all her knights from Palestine,
As called in jubilant array
From out their tombs, stood, fiercely gay,
In mail and casque, to grace the day
That weds the heir of Este's line.
As called in jubilant array
From out their tombs, stood, fiercely gay,
In mail and casque, to grace the day
That weds the heir of Este's line.
For all along the banquet-hall
Was pedestalled, as if in life,
The mail that each had worn in strife,
To greet Count Julian's lovely wife,
Fair Isabel of Sinigal.
Was pedestalled, as if in life,
The mail that each had worn in strife,
To greet Count Julian's lovely wife,
Fair Isabel of Sinigal.
339
And many a noble, far and near,
And pilgrims from the Holy Land,
And all renowned for voice or hand
In ministrelsy, in many a land,
From every courtly clime were there.
And pilgrims from the Holy Land,
And all renowned for voice or hand
In ministrelsy, in many a land,
From every courtly clime were there.
But one there was, a wandering Boy,
A stranger to his native soil,
Whom penury had doomed to moil,
But grateful, in the Poet's toil,
Who could not pine for other joy.
A stranger to his native soil,
Whom penury had doomed to moil,
But grateful, in the Poet's toil,
Who could not pine for other joy.
With heart and head that seemed as one,
His loved guitar his only store,
From court to court he made his tour,
A gentle, happy Troubadour,
Whose quiet spirit envied none.
His loved guitar his only store,
From court to court he made his tour,
A gentle, happy Troubadour,
Whose quiet spirit envied none.
And with the Bride the Troubadour,
Now honored as her favored page,
Had come his tiny skill to wage
With other bards of riper age
In bridal song and festal lore.
Now honored as her favored page,
Had come his tiny skill to wage
With other bards of riper age
In bridal song and festal lore.
Yet thought not he of rival art;
He sang not for a sounding name;
He loved the Muse because she came
Unasked, and gave him more than fame,—
The pure, sweet music of the heart.
He sang not for a sounding name;
He loved the Muse because she came
Unasked, and gave him more than fame,—
The pure, sweet music of the heart.
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There stood within a lonely dell
A broken fountain, called of yore
The Lover's Fount, where, bending o'er,
A marble Cupid once did pour
The sweetest drops that ever fell.
A broken fountain, called of yore
The Lover's Fount, where, bending o'er,
A marble Cupid once did pour
The sweetest drops that ever fell.
And all who drank of that pure stream,
'T was said, would in its mirror see
The gallant He, or lovely She,
That, in their natal stars' decree,
Would bless them through life's troubled dream.
'T was said, would in its mirror see
The gallant He, or lovely She,
That, in their natal stars' decree,
Would bless them through life's troubled dream.
But long the stream had ceased to flow;
Yet still the marble urchin stops,
As if to watch the feigned drops,
And mock the baffled lover's hopes
Who seeks in faith a bride below.
Yet still the marble urchin stops,
As if to watch the feigned drops,
And mock the baffled lover's hopes
Who seeks in faith a bride below.
Beside this fountain's grassy brink,
The little Bard now sought to train
His wandering thoughts, and build a strain
For knightly ears; but all in vain;
On knightly themes he could not think.
The little Bard now sought to train
His wandering thoughts, and build a strain
For knightly ears; but all in vain;
On knightly themes he could not think.
He sang of Este's martial lord;
He numbered o'er each gallant deed,
And made afresh the caitiffs bleed,
That fell before his barèd steed,
Or oped their cleft helms to his sword.
He numbered o'er each gallant deed,
And made afresh the caitiffs bleed,
That fell before his barèd steed,
Or oped their cleft helms to his sword.
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And yet his soul could not, as once,
The madness catch, and outward glow,
With flashing eye and knotted brow;
A softer mood would o'er him grow,
Do all he could,—a little dunce!
The madness catch, and outward glow,
With flashing eye and knotted brow;
A softer mood would o'er him grow,
Do all he could,—a little dunce!
And then he tried the tournament,
And sang how Julian's mighty lance
O'erthrew the chivalry of France;
Then how he fell beneath a glance
From one bright eye,—which through him went.
And sang how Julian's mighty lance
O'erthrew the chivalry of France;
Then how he fell beneath a glance
From one bright eye,—which through him went.
Ah, now he touched the magic chord
That waked his soul through all her springs;
His true guitar itself now sings,
As if alive its happy strings,
Mingling its life with every word.
That waked his soul through all her springs;
His true guitar itself now sings,
As if alive its happy strings,
Mingling its life with every word.
Ah, now he feels!—for that bright eye
Himself had felt in kindness beam,
And now, his Lady fair the theme,
His spirit trod, as in a dream,
The purple meadows of the sky.
Himself had felt in kindness beam,
And now, his Lady fair the theme,
His spirit trod, as in a dream,
The purple meadows of the sky.
For there alone her virtues took
A bodied form, substantial, true,
That to the inward senses grew,
In angel shapes, distinct to view,
On which 't were bliss enough to look.
A bodied form, substantial, true,
That to the inward senses grew,
In angel shapes, distinct to view,
On which 't were bliss enough to look.
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The trancèd Boy, now starting, stood,
And gently breathed his last address:
“O happy husband to possess
A wife so formed to love, to bless,
A wife so beautiful, so good!”
And gently breathed his last address:
“O happy husband to possess
A wife so formed to love, to bless,
A wife so beautiful, so good!”
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THE BETROTHED.
“O, bless thee, happy, happy, revelling brook!
Whose merry voice within this lonely nook,
In ceaseless gurgle, all day long
Singeth the dancing leaves among;—
I love,—O, how I love thy song!”
So from its joyous fount the almost bride,
Sweet Esther, poured her heart that brook beside.
The mystic word had passed its coral gate,
The little mystic Yes that sealed her fate:
'T is now upon the outward air;
Yet not, like other sounds, to share
The common death; for, haply, there
The formless element that near it flew
Caught the warm breath, and into being grew.
Whose merry voice within this lonely nook,
In ceaseless gurgle, all day long
Singeth the dancing leaves among;—
I love,—O, how I love thy song!”
So from its joyous fount the almost bride,
Sweet Esther, poured her heart that brook beside.
The mystic word had passed its coral gate,
The little mystic Yes that sealed her fate:
'T is now upon the outward air;
Yet not, like other sounds, to share
The common death; for, haply, there
The formless element that near it flew
Caught the warm breath, and into being grew.
Her page-like spirit now, that little word
Ever before her, like some fairy bird,
Flits in her path; to all around,
To every form, to every sound,
Imparting love; till e'en the ground,
The dull, dark ground beneath, the trees above,
And chiming breezes, all, breathe only love.
And with that little word there ever comes
A tune like that the homeward wild-bee hums,
Shaping in sound her winter's store.
The future now seems brimming o'er
With nameless good; nor asks she more
Of jealous Time, than dimly thus to look
Into his bright, unlettered, future book.
Ever before her, like some fairy bird,
Flits in her path; to all around,
To every form, to every sound,
Imparting love; till e'en the ground,
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And chiming breezes, all, breathe only love.
And with that little word there ever comes
A tune like that the homeward wild-bee hums,
Shaping in sound her winter's store.
The future now seems brimming o'er
With nameless good; nor asks she more
Of jealous Time, than dimly thus to look
Into his bright, unlettered, future book.
One only form of all the crowded past
She could not, if she would, from memory cast,—
Nay, from her sight; for wheresoe'er
She turns or looks, afar or near,
That haunting form is ever there.
Her own sweet Poet, too, no other gives,—
E'en on his unread page that image lives;
And, sooth to say, she loves that page the more,—
No, never had it touched her so before:
She loves the woods, the earth, the sky;
For all that in their empires lie
But teem of him,—that dearer I,
On which she may not blush for aye to dwell,—
That other self she cannot love too well.
She could not, if she would, from memory cast,—
Nay, from her sight; for wheresoe'er
She turns or looks, afar or near,
That haunting form is ever there.
Her own sweet Poet, too, no other gives,—
E'en on his unread page that image lives;
And, sooth to say, she loves that page the more,—
No, never had it touched her so before:
She loves the woods, the earth, the sky;
For all that in their empires lie
But teem of him,—that dearer I,
On which she may not blush for aye to dwell,—
That other self she cannot love too well.
345
SONNET
ON THE STATUE OF AN ANGEL, BY BIENAIMÉ, IN THE POSSESSION OF J. S. COPLEY GREENE, ESQ.
Ah, who can look on that celestial face,And kindred for it claim with aught on earth?
If ever here more lovely form had birth,—
No, never that supernal purity,—that grace
So eloquent of unimpassioned love!
That, by a simple movement, thus imparts
Its own harmonious peace, the while our hearts
Rise, as by instinct, to the world above.
And yet we look on cold, unconscious stone.
But what is that which thus our spirits own
As Truth and Life? 'T is not material Art,—
But e'en the Sculptor's soul to sense unsealed.
O, never may he doubt,—its witness so revealed,—
There lives within him an immortal part!
346
SONNET
ON THE LATE S. T. COLERIDGE.
And thou art gone, most loved, most honored friend!No, never more thy gentle voice shall blend
With air of Earth its pure ideal tones,
Binding in one, as with harmonious zones,
The heart and intellect. And I no more
Shall with thee gaze on that unfathomed deep,
The Human Soul,—as when, pushed off the shore,
Thy mystic bark would through the darkness sweep,
Itself the while so bright! For oft we seemed
As on some starless sea,—all dark above,
All dark below,—yet, onward as we drove,
To plough up light that ever round us streamed.
But he who mourns is not as one bereft
Of all he loved: thy living Truths are left.
347
SONNET.
IMMORTALITY.
To think for aye; to breathe immortal breath;And know nor hope, nor fear, of ending death;
To see the myriad worlds that round us roll
Wax old and perish, while the steadfast soul
Stands fresh and moveless in her sphere of thought;
O God, omnipotent! who in me wrought
This conscious world, whose ever-growing orb,
When the dead Past shall all in time absorb,
Will be but as begun,—O, of thine own,
Give of the holy light that veils thy throne,
That darkness be not mine, to take my place,
Beyond the reach of light, a blot in space!
So may this wondrous Life, from sin made free,
Reflect thy love for aye, and to thy glory be.
348
THE MARIGOLD.
INSCRIBED TO MISS M--- E--- D---.
Erewhile it chanced two wandering Rays,—
So then deposed a moon-struck Painter,—
Met on a cloud his upward gaze;
One dazzling bright, the other fainter.
Then came a strain so small and wild,
'T was like the sobs of fairy child
Lost in a rose; and then it streamed
Like distant bells; then,—else he dreamed,—
It language took; and thus it seemed:
So then deposed a moon-struck Painter,—
Met on a cloud his upward gaze;
One dazzling bright, the other fainter.
Then came a strain so small and wild,
'T was like the sobs of fairy child
Lost in a rose; and then it streamed
Like distant bells; then,—else he dreamed,—
It language took; and thus it seemed:
“Ho! brilliant Brother! tell me how”—
“Nay, radiant Sister, tell me rather
How one so well beloved as thou
Could ever leave our royal Father?”
“He left me in the watery bow,
And sank so quick the sea below,
I lost my way, and bent my flight
To this high cloud, lest haply Night
Should quench on earth my feeble light.”
“Nay, radiant Sister, tell me rather
How one so well beloved as thou
Could ever leave our royal Father?”
“He left me in the watery bow,
And sank so quick the sea below,
I lost my way, and bent my flight
To this high cloud, lest haply Night
Should quench on earth my feeble light.”
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“Dear, modest Topaz, say not so;
Beside you star thou seem'st another,—
And brighter of the two, I trow!”
“But say, kind, dazzling Ruby Brother,
Why meet we in a place so drear?”
“O, how miscalled while thou art here,
Whose glory tracks thy very name!”
“Nay, truant flatterer, cease, for shame!”
“Then, gentle Sister, know, I came
To edge this curtain-cloud with flame;
Beside you star thou seem'st another,—
And brighter of the two, I trow!”
“But say, kind, dazzling Ruby Brother,
Why meet we in a place so drear?”
“O, how miscalled while thou art here,
Whose glory tracks thy very name!”
“Nay, truant flatterer, cease, for shame!”
“Then, gentle Sister, know, I came
To edge this curtain-cloud with flame;
“But scarce had I my task begun,
When here I found a group of Azure
Changing my fringe to purple dun;—
They said it was the Sun's good pleasure.
I knew 't was false,—the dastard Rays!—
And gave them battle. Soon my blaze
'Gan curl o'er each devoted head:
Anon they burnt to dusky red,
Then ashy gray,—and then they fled.
When here I found a group of Azure
Changing my fringe to purple dun;—
They said it was the Sun's good pleasure.
I knew 't was false,—the dastard Rays!—
And gave them battle. Soon my blaze
'Gan curl o'er each devoted head:
Anon they burnt to dusky red,
Then ashy gray,—and then they fled.
“And when I turned to join my Sire,
His car was gone, nor 'bove the ocean
Was seen but one faint streak of fire,
Left by its wheels' too rapid motion.
So here I sit, his mourning son,
Paled by the fray, though I had won!”
“Nay, still, bright Brother, droop not so,”
Sweet Topaz said; “for what below,
If we but join, can near us show?
His car was gone, nor 'bove the ocean
Was seen but one faint streak of fire,
Left by its wheels' too rapid motion.
So here I sit, his mourning son,
Paled by the fray, though I had won!”
“Nay, still, bright Brother, droop not so,”
Sweet Topaz said; “for what below,
If we but join, can near us show?
“We'll mingle rays, and down to Earth
Descending with some gentle shower,
There give the world another birth,—
A bright and gorgeous sunny Flower;
So bright, that when the leaden cloud
Of darkling thunder seems to shroud
The land in night, our face so fair
Shall shine upon the murky air
As if a little sun were there!”
Descending with some gentle shower,
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A bright and gorgeous sunny Flower;
So bright, that when the leaden cloud
Of darkling thunder seems to shroud
The land in night, our face so fair
Shall shine upon the murky air
As if a little sun were there!”
“Sweet Topaz, yes,” the Ruby said;
“From thee for worlds I would not vary,
So good and wise thy heart and head;
And we will call the flower Mary;
For once I saw a maiden's eyes
So like the brightness that we prize,
Their light, I'm sure, the name foretold,—
'T was hers,—but still our hue we'll hold.”
“We'll call it, then, the Marigold.”
“From thee for worlds I would not vary,
So good and wise thy heart and head;
And we will call the flower Mary;
For once I saw a maiden's eyes
So like the brightness that we prize,
Their light, I'm sure, the name foretold,—
'T was hers,—but still our hue we'll hold.”
“We'll call it, then, the Marigold.”
“And this our charm no sullen knave,”—
So spake the blending Rays, together,—
“No spirit blue can ever brave
With eastern wind or hazy weather;
For all who look upon us now
Shall feel this name—they know not how—
Linked with a past and pleasant thought;
Some gentle kindness, never bought,—
Some gift of heart, for memory wrought.”
So spake the blending Rays, together,—
“No spirit blue can ever brave
With eastern wind or hazy weather;
For all who look upon us now
Shall feel this name—they know not how—
Linked with a past and pleasant thought;
Some gentle kindness, never bought,—
Some gift of heart, for memory wrought.”
351
A FRAGMENT.
But most they wondered at the charm she gave
To common things, that seemed as from the grave
Of mouldering custom suddenly to rise
To fresh and fairer life; a life so new,
And yet so real,—to the heart so true,—
They gazed upon the world as if a thousand ties,
Till now to all unknown, between them daily grew.
To common things, that seemed as from the grave
Of mouldering custom suddenly to rise
To fresh and fairer life; a life so new,
And yet so real,—to the heart so true,—
They gazed upon the world as if a thousand ties,
Till now to all unknown, between them daily grew.
The life was hers,—from that mysterious cell
Whence sends the soul her self-diffusing spell,
Whose once embodied breath for ever is:
Though ruthless Time, with whom no creature strives,
At every step treads out a thousand lives,
Yet brings his wasting march no doom to this,—
Like heritage with air, that aye for all survives.
Whence sends the soul her self-diffusing spell,
Whose once embodied breath for ever is:
Though ruthless Time, with whom no creature strives,
At every step treads out a thousand lives,
Yet brings his wasting march no doom to this,—
Like heritage with air, that aye for all survives.
352
THE NIGHT-MARE.
ALMAHAYA.Sister Spirit, tell me where
Left you her,—the Lady fair,
Whom the star that ruled her birth
Gave to thee to guard on earth?
ZELICAN.
I saw her but now, as I left my dell
To swing the tongue of yonder bell,
By me pass on the Twilight's steed,—
The pale gray steed, that loves to feed
On toadstools black, in swamps that grow,
And the feathers that fall from the moulting crow.
ALMAHAYA.
She went not alone so late, I trow?
ZELICAN.
Nay, not so; for by her side
A green-eyed Owl, as page, did ride.
ALMAHAYA.
And whither goes she, squired so?
ZELICAN.
To yon church-yard I saw her go.
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But what, I pray thee, doth she there?
ZELICAN.
She goes to comb and curl her hair,
And scent it with the midnight dew
That drips from yonder mourning yew.
ALMAHAYA.
Look!—I see her through the gloom,
Making her toilet on a tomb.
I know her errand. Now 't is clear
She trims her smiles and trims her hair
Thus in the moonless, starless air,
To meet the Fiend that oft doth lie
By day concealed in a pigeon-pie.
I know the Fiend: I've seen his eyes
Gleaming through those fatal pies;
Those pies that each at night become
A new-made grave,—when, dark and dumb,
The Fiend steps out to the Lady fair,
To ride by her side through the startled air,
On his red-hoofed, blue-eyed, black night-mare.
ZELICAN.
Hush, good Sister!—hist, I pray!
Sure I heard his night-mare neigh.
ALMAHAYA.
O, haste thee, then, your charge to save!—
'T is the Fiend himself! In yonder grave
I see his head: and now he looms,
Like a column of smoke, above the tombs;
Now the blue eyes of his snorting mare
Like charnel-fires upon us glare;
She paws the ground;—but, hark! that groan!
354
'T is only a kick she gave to a bone:
I've heard a skull thus near her moan.
ALMAHAYA.
But listen again!
ZELICAN.
'T is the laugh of despair;
For the Fiend is now with the Lady fair.
And see! they mount on the flashing air.
ALMAHAYA.
If I had flesh, 't would creep at this.
What 's that? Dost hear?
ZELICAN.
'T is the adder's hiss
In the jaws of a toad that squats by the yew:
I've seen it so feed till it upward grew
To the size of a church.
ALMAHAYA.
It grows so now!
And the vane on the steeple now brushes its brow.
But, mercy upon us!—O, hear how it roars!
Like ten thousand thunders—
ZELICAN.
The toad only snores,
After supping, good Sister.
ALMAHAYA.
But see that sight!—
Like a spark struck out from the solid night,
Down through the darkness comes a star.
Feel you not its fearful jar?—
'T is tumbling upon us! and with it the mare,—
But not her own rider,—'t is thy Lady fair,
355
O, save her, dear Sister!—she touches again
The earth, and—O, horrible!—how the earth shakes!
ZELICAN.
Sweet Sister, no more. She is saved,—she awakes.
356
A FRAGMENT.
Wise is the face of Nature unto himWhose heart, amid the business and the cares,
The cunning and bad passions, of the world,
Still keeps its freshness, and can look upon her
As when she breathed upon his schoolboy face
Her morning breath, from o'er the dewy beds
Of infant violets waking to the sun;—
When the young spirit, only recipient,
So drank in her beauties, that his heart
Would reel within him, joining jubilant
The dance of brooks and waving woods and flowers.
357
THE MAGIC SLIPPERS.
TO MRS. S---, ON HER PRESENTING THE WRITER A PAIR OF CRIMSON SLIPPERS WROUGHT BY HERSELF.
I know not if a dream it were,
Or daylight scene in sunny air;
But once, methought, as stretched I lay
Beside a little forest Spring,
And musing on the cares that cling
To every heart, no earthly thing,
It seemed, could chase my gloom away.
Or daylight scene in sunny air;
But once, methought, as stretched I lay
Beside a little forest Spring,
And musing on the cares that cling
To every heart, no earthly thing,
It seemed, could chase my gloom away.
Above that little Spring there stood,
Like sentries to the sleeping wood,
Two sister Pines, that night and day
Their vigil kept; and ever there
A soft, low murmur filled the air,—
As if a child his little prayer
Were striving in a dream to say.
Like sentries to the sleeping wood,
Two sister Pines, that night and day
Their vigil kept; and ever there
A soft, low murmur filled the air,—
As if a child his little prayer
Were striving in a dream to say.
358
In sooth, it was a solemn sound;
So pure, so child-like, yet profound,
It seemed to hold me in a spell.
And then, methought, the murmur broke
Its even stream, and strangely took
The form of words, and bade me look
Within that little forest Well.
So pure, so child-like, yet profound,
It seemed to hold me in a spell.
And then, methought, the murmur broke
Its even stream, and strangely took
The form of words, and bade me look
Within that little forest Well.
I looked,—and lo! a crimson flush,
Like to a gentle maiden's blush,
O'erspread the Spring; and then a sigh
Breathed from the Pines. A deeper hue,—
Which now to tiny vessels grew,
Riding at anchor o'er the blue
That dyed that dark, deep, nether sky.
Like to a gentle maiden's blush,
O'erspread the Spring; and then a sigh
Breathed from the Pines. A deeper hue,—
Which now to tiny vessels grew,
Riding at anchor o'er the blue
That dyed that dark, deep, nether sky.
But scarce could I the marvel note,
When straight within each magic boat
There stood two gallant Fairy Skippers;
And then anon they bore away,
Skimming the little azure bay
Swift to the bank where stretched I lay,
And took—the humble form of slippers!
When straight within each magic boat
There stood two gallant Fairy Skippers;
And then anon they bore away,
Skimming the little azure bay
Swift to the bank where stretched I lay,
And took—the humble form of slippers!
And now, in sweetly soothing strain,
Thus came the Piny voice again:—
“O, deem not, man, the gift we send
Of little worth; that gift was wrought
Where kind affections hallow thought,
And give—what wealth has never bought—
In every gentle heart a friend.”
Thus came the Piny voice again:—
“O, deem not, man, the gift we send
Of little worth; that gift was wrought
Where kind affections hallow thought,
And give—what wealth has never bought—
In every gentle heart a friend.”
359
I seized the gift with eager joy;
And then,—as if again a boy,
A careless, happy boy once more,—
How pure, and beautiful, and kind
Seemed all I saw! The very wind
That kissed my cheek then seemed to bind
My heart to all it travelled o'er.
And then,—as if again a boy,
A careless, happy boy once more,—
How pure, and beautiful, and kind
Seemed all I saw! The very wind
That kissed my cheek then seemed to bind
My heart to all it travelled o'er.
360
A FRAGMENT.
Who knows himself must needs in prophecyToo oft behold his own most sad reverse;
E'en like his noonday shadow,—once so true,
In form so fair, that the o'erpassing sun
Seemed, as in love, to robe it with the blue
Of his own heaven. Ah, then on that fair shade,
So pure and beautiful, 't were peace to look!
But now, how changed! distorted, black, and stretched
To strange, unnatural length by that same sun,
As towards the west he travels down to night,
Their common sepulchre. But where is he,—
Ah, where,—with such foreknowledge blessed, or cursed?
361
THE PARTING.
WRITTEN FOR MUSIC, AND INSCRIBED TO MISS R--- C--- D---.
Not “Farewell!” O, speak it never!
Time and Distance in it find
Limit never,—flying ever,—
Leaving darkened Hope behind.
Soon yon quiet vessel's motion,
Soon shall yonder rolling ocean,
Throw my spirit o'er the past
Closing now between us fast.
Time and Distance in it find
Limit never,—flying ever,—
Leaving darkened Hope behind.
Soon yon quiet vessel's motion,
Soon shall yonder rolling ocean,
Throw my spirit o'er the past
Closing now between us fast.
Bid me, then, if aught be spoken,
Bid me cheerily “Good night”;
So that, waking, aye unbroken
Memory link it with the light.
Thus shall every morning cheer me,
Bring thine image ever near me,
With that word that seems to say,
“Part we only for a day.”
Bid me cheerily “Good night”;
So that, waking, aye unbroken
Memory link it with the light.
Thus shall every morning cheer me,
Bring thine image ever near me,
With that word that seems to say,
“Part we only for a day.”
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Yet I know not why I ask thee
Now to play a hollow part:
No, I will not, will not task thee
Thus to veil an aching heart.
Truth and thou were never parted;
Part not now, though, broken-hearted,
Truth thy faltering tongue compel
Bitterly to say, “Farewell!”
Now to play a hollow part:
No, I will not, will not task thee
Thus to veil an aching heart.
Truth and thou were never parted;
Part not now, though, broken-hearted,
Truth thy faltering tongue compel
Bitterly to say, “Farewell!”
Speak it, then, nor stay the sadness
Brimming now within thine eyes:
Weep, O, weep,—nor think it madness
Thus thy burning tear to prize.
Man to woe was ever plighted;
Then be mine with thine united.—
O, 't were bliss, to him unknown,
Mourning for himself alone.
Brimming now within thine eyes:
Weep, O, weep,—nor think it madness
Thus thy burning tear to prize.
Man to woe was ever plighted;
Then be mine with thine united.—
O, 't were bliss, to him unknown,
Mourning for himself alone.
363
ON GREENOUGH'S GROUP OF THE ANGEL AND CHILD.
I stood alone: nor word, nor other sound,
Broke the mute solitude that closed me round;
As when the Air doth take her midnight sleep,
Leaving the wintry stars her watch to keep,
So slept she now, at noon. But not alone
My spirit then: a light within me shone
That was not mine; and feelings undefined,
And thoughts, flowed in upon me not my own.
'T was that deep mystery,—for aye unknown,—
The living presence of Another's mind.
Broke the mute solitude that closed me round;
As when the Air doth take her midnight sleep,
Leaving the wintry stars her watch to keep,
So slept she now, at noon. But not alone
My spirit then: a light within me shone
That was not mine; and feelings undefined,
And thoughts, flowed in upon me not my own.
'T was that deep mystery,—for aye unknown,—
The living presence of Another's mind.
Another mind was there,—the gift of few,—
That by its own strong will can all that's true
In its own nature unto others give,
And, mingling life with life, seem there to live.
I felt it then in mine: and, O, how fair,
How beautiful, the thoughts that met me there,—
Visions of Love and Purity and Truth!
Though form distinct had each, they seemed as 't were
Embodied all of one celestial air,
To beam for ever in coequal youth.
That by its own strong will can all that's true
In its own nature unto others give,
And, mingling life with life, seem there to live.
I felt it then in mine: and, O, how fair,
How beautiful, the thoughts that met me there,—
Visions of Love and Purity and Truth!
Though form distinct had each, they seemed as 't were
Embodied all of one celestial air,
To beam for ever in coequal youth.
364
And thus I learned, as in the mind they moved,
These Stranger Thoughts the one the other loved;
That Purity loved Truth, because 't was true,
And Truth, because 't was pure, the first did woo;
While Love, as pure and true, did love the twain;
Then Love was loved of them, for that sweet chain
That bound them all. Thus sure, as passionless,
Their love did grow, till one harmonious strain
Of melting sounds they seemed; then, changed again,
One Angel Form they took,—Self-Happiness.
These Stranger Thoughts the one the other loved;
That Purity loved Truth, because 't was true,
And Truth, because 't was pure, the first did woo;
While Love, as pure and true, did love the twain;
Then Love was loved of them, for that sweet chain
That bound them all. Thus sure, as passionless,
Their love did grow, till one harmonious strain
Of melting sounds they seemed; then, changed again,
One Angel Form they took,—Self-Happiness.
This Angel Form the gifted Artist saw
That held me in his spell. 'T was his to draw
The veil of sense, and see the immortal race,
The Forms spiritual that know not place.
He saw it in the quarry, deep in earth,
And stayed it by his will, and gave it birth
E'en to the world of sense; bidding its cell,
The cold, hard marble, thus in plastic girth
The shape ethereal fix, and body forth
A Being of the skies,—with man to dwell.
That held me in his spell. 'T was his to draw
The veil of sense, and see the immortal race,
The Forms spiritual that know not place.
He saw it in the quarry, deep in earth,
And stayed it by his will, and gave it birth
E'en to the world of sense; bidding its cell,
The cold, hard marble, thus in plastic girth
The shape ethereal fix, and body forth
A Being of the skies,—with man to dwell.
And then another Form beside it stood:
'T was one of this our world, though the warm blood
Had from it passed,—exhaled as in a breath
Drawn from its lips by the cold kiss of Death.
Its little “dream of human life” had fled;
And yet it seemed not numbered with the dead,
But one emerging to a life so bright,
That, as the wondrous nature o'er it spread,
Its very consciousness did seem to shed
Rays from within, and clothe it all in light.
'T was one of this our world, though the warm blood
Had from it passed,—exhaled as in a breath
Drawn from its lips by the cold kiss of Death.
Its little “dream of human life” had fled;
And yet it seemed not numbered with the dead,
But one emerging to a life so bright,
That, as the wondrous nature o'er it spread,
Its very consciousness did seem to shed
Rays from within, and clothe it all in light.
365
Now touched the Angel Form its little hand,
Turning upon it with a look so bland,
And yet so full of majesty, as less
Than holy natures never may impress,—
And more than proudest guilt unmoved may brook.
The Creature of the Earth now felt that look,
And stood in blissful awe,—as one above,
Who saw its name in the Eternal Book,
And Him that opened it; e'en Him that took
The Little Child, and blessed it in his love.
Turning upon it with a look so bland,
And yet so full of majesty, as less
Than holy natures never may impress,—
And more than proudest guilt unmoved may brook.
The Creature of the Earth now felt that look,
And stood in blissful awe,—as one above,
Who saw its name in the Eternal Book,
And Him that opened it; e'en Him that took
The Little Child, and blessed it in his love.
366
SONG.
O, ask me not why thus I weep;
I may not tell thee why:
The fountain oft is dark and deep
That gushes from the eye.
I may not tell thee why:
The fountain oft is dark and deep
That gushes from the eye.
It should not be, I hear thee say,
While thou art by my side;—
As if the heart could e'er be gay
Of one so soon a bride!
While thou art by my side;—
As if the heart could e'er be gay
Of one so soon a bride!
It is not grief that brings the tear,
Nor dread of coming woe;
But, O, 't is something which I fear
No mortal long may know.
Nor dread of coming woe;
But, O, 't is something which I fear
No mortal long may know.
For when I hear that tone of love,—
Unlike all earthly sound,—
It seems like music from above,
That lifts me from the ground.
Unlike all earthly sound,—
It seems like music from above,
That lifts me from the ground.
And yet I know that I'm of earth,
Where all that live must die:
And these my tears but owe their birth
To bliss for earth too high.
Where all that live must die:
And these my tears but owe their birth
To bliss for earth too high.
367
ON KEAN'S HAMLET.
O thou who standest 'mid the bards of old,Like Chimborazo, when the setting sun
Has left his hundred mountains dark and dun,
Sole object visible, the imperial One,
In purple robe, and diadem of gold,—
Immortal Shakspeare! who can hope to tell,
With tongue less gifted, of the pleasing sadness
Wrought in thy deepest scenes of woe and madness?
Who hope by words to paint the ecstatic gladness
Of spirits leaping 'mid thy merry spell?
When I have gazed upon thy wondrous page,
And seen, as in some necromantic glass,
Thy visionary forms before me pass,
Like breathing things of every living class,
Goblin and Hero, Villain, Fool, and Sage,
It seemed a task not Buonarroti's e'en,
Nor Raffael's hand could master by their art,—
To give the semblance of the meanest part
Of all thy vast creation, or the heart
Touch as thou touchest with a kindred scene.
368
And feignèd look, and attitude, and air,
The Actor's toil; for self will have its share
With nicest mimicry, and, though it spare
To others largely, gives not all its own.
So did I deem, till, living to my view,
Scorning his country while he sought her good,
In Kemble forth the unbending Roman stood;
Till, snuffing at the scent of human blood,
In Cooke strode forth the unrelenting Jew.
But these were beings tangible in vice,
Their purpose searchable, their every thought
Indexed in living men; yet only sought,
Plain as they seem, by genius,—only bought
By genius even with laborious price.
But who, methought, in confidence so brave,
Doffing himself, shall dare that form assume
So strangely mixed of wisdom, wit, and gloom,—
Playful in misery even at the tomb,—
Of hope, distrust, of faith and doubt, the slave?
That being strange, that only in the brain
Perchance has lived, yet still so rarely knit
In all its parts,—its wisdom to its wit,
And doubt to faith, loathing to love, so fit,—
It seems like one that lived, and lives again!
Who, then, dare wear the princely Denmark's form?
What starts before me?—Ha! 't is he I've seen
Oft in a day-dream, when my youth was green,—
The Dane himself,—the Dane! Who says 't is Kean?
Yet sure it moves,—as if its blood were warm.
369
Look! how his purpose hurries him apace,
Seeking a fitful rest from place to place!
And yet his trouble fits him with a grace,
As if his heart did love what makes it bleed.
He seems to move as in a world ideal,
A world of thought, where wishes have their end
In wishing merely, where resolves but spend
Themselves resolving,—as his will did lend
Not counsel e'en his body to defend.
Or Kean or Hamlet,—what I see is real!
370
A WORD.
MAN.
How vast a world is figured by a word!A little word, a very point of sound,
Breathed by a breath, and in an instant heard;
Yet leaving that may well the soul astound,—
To sense a shape, to thought without a bound.
For who shall hope the mystery to scan
Of that dark being symbolized in man?
His outward form seems but a speck in space:
But what far star shall check the eternal race
Of one small thought that rays from out his mind?
For evil, or for good, still, still must travel on
His every thought, though worlds are left behind,
Nor backward can the race be ever run.
How fearful, then, that the first evil ray,
Still red with Abel's blood, is on its way!
371
A FRAGMENT.
I.
O, who hath lived the ills to know
Which make the sum of life below,
That hath not felt, if, 'mid the brood
Of half-wrought beings, hither sent
As if in promised punishment
Of vicious ancestry, there stood
A Form of purest symmetry,—
Where Nature seemed as she would try,
In spite of Vice, to keep on earth
Some vestige of primeval birth;—
Ah, who on such a form hath dwelt,
And hath not in his gazing felt
A sudden stream of horror rush
Back on his heart, to think how soon,
Ere yet perchance she reach her noon,
The Giant Sin may grinning crush
This living flower of Paradise,—
May send its fragrance, born to rise,
Downward, a hellish sacrifice!
Which make the sum of life below,
That hath not felt, if, 'mid the brood
Of half-wrought beings, hither sent
As if in promised punishment
Of vicious ancestry, there stood
A Form of purest symmetry,—
Where Nature seemed as she would try,
In spite of Vice, to keep on earth
Some vestige of primeval birth;—
Ah, who on such a form hath dwelt,
And hath not in his gazing felt
A sudden stream of horror rush
Back on his heart, to think how soon,
Ere yet perchance she reach her noon,
The Giant Sin may grinning crush
This living flower of Paradise,—
May send its fragrance, born to rise,
Downward, a hellish sacrifice!
372
There is a deep, foreboding flush,
That fain would seem a truant blush,
Doth in the smooth and lovely cheek
Of youthful Beauty oft bespeak
The victim of a swift decay;
And, when the light of love doth rise
Effulgent in her lucid eyes,
Full many a heart, that joyous fell
A captive to their radiant spell,
May now in bitter sadness tell
How, like the last protracted ray
Of the last Greenland summer day,
That flashes on the western wave,
They flashed, and sunk,—but sunk into the grave!
That fain would seem a truant blush,
Doth in the smooth and lovely cheek
Of youthful Beauty oft bespeak
The victim of a swift decay;
And, when the light of love doth rise
Effulgent in her lucid eyes,
Full many a heart, that joyous fell
A captive to their radiant spell,
May now in bitter sadness tell
How, like the last protracted ray
Of the last Greenland summer day,
That flashes on the western wave,
They flashed, and sunk,—but sunk into the grave!
II.
So seemed Monaldi to the eye
Experienced in this world of woe;
Too blest for mortal long below,—
Too blest for one who blest would die.
Of lineage proud, his ancient name
Had long in Fiorenza stood
The record of the noblest blood
Which flowed for Fiorenza's fame.
And yet on him did Nature's hand
Such rare and varied gifts bestow,
His virtues rather seemed to throw
A heritless, reflected grace
Through ages back upon his race,
The mightiest of a mighty land.
Nor were the lighter gifts denied
Of manly form or noble mien;
Such form, if ancient Greece had seen,
Like Jason's had been deified,
And virgin hands with flowers had dressed
An altar for the heavenly guest,
As if, to bless their grateful eyes,
Apollo's self had left the skies,
Greeting their pious sacrifice.
[OMITTED]
She had an eye of such a hue,
So ever-varying, ever new,
That none on whom its lustre fell
Could e'er forget,—could ever tell
If like the mild approach of day,
The morning twilight's watery gray;
Or like the noontide's dazzling blue;
Or beamy brown, when evening dew
Prolongs the dim, departing light;
Or the jet, that seems to quench the sight,
Of a starless, still autumnal night.
For oft 't was like an armèd knight,
In steel encompassed, dark and bright,
And fiercely flashed, as if 't would lead
Onward to some immortal deed:
And then it seemed an elfin well,
Imbowered in some sequestered dell,
Where Cupids sport in ceaseless motion,
Bathing as in an amber ocean!
Experienced in this world of woe;
Too blest for mortal long below,—
Too blest for one who blest would die.
Of lineage proud, his ancient name
Had long in Fiorenza stood
The record of the noblest blood
Which flowed for Fiorenza's fame.
And yet on him did Nature's hand
Such rare and varied gifts bestow,
His virtues rather seemed to throw
A heritless, reflected grace
Through ages back upon his race,
The mightiest of a mighty land.
373
Of manly form or noble mien;
Such form, if ancient Greece had seen,
Like Jason's had been deified,
And virgin hands with flowers had dressed
An altar for the heavenly guest,
As if, to bless their grateful eyes,
Apollo's self had left the skies,
Greeting their pious sacrifice.
[OMITTED]
She had an eye of such a hue,
So ever-varying, ever new,
That none on whom its lustre fell
Could e'er forget,—could ever tell
If like the mild approach of day,
The morning twilight's watery gray;
Or like the noontide's dazzling blue;
Or beamy brown, when evening dew
Prolongs the dim, departing light;
Or the jet, that seems to quench the sight,
Of a starless, still autumnal night.
For oft 't was like an armèd knight,
In steel encompassed, dark and bright,
And fiercely flashed, as if 't would lead
Onward to some immortal deed:
And then it seemed an elfin well,
Imbowered in some sequestered dell,
Where Cupids sport in ceaseless motion,
Bathing as in an amber ocean!
Ah, then he wished that life would prove
For ever thus, a dream of love!
But oft,—more oft,—with searing pain,
It seemed a wandering comet's train,
Streaming athwart his burning brain,—
Foreboding with its lurid flame
An evil yet without a name!
And well, Monaldi, mayst thou rue
This vision which thy fancy drew;
For thine was but a fearful bliss,—
A trancing, but a poisoned, kiss!
[OMITTED]
For ever thus, a dream of love!
374
It seemed a wandering comet's train,
Streaming athwart his burning brain,—
Foreboding with its lurid flame
An evil yet without a name!
And well, Monaldi, mayst thou rue
This vision which thy fancy drew;
For thine was but a fearful bliss,—
A trancing, but a poisoned, kiss!
[OMITTED]
375
ON MICHAEL ANGELO.
'T is not to honor thee by verse of mineI bear a record of thy wondrous power;
Thou stand'st alone, and needest not to shine
With borrowed lustre: for the light is thine
Which no man giveth; and, though comets lower
Portentous round thy sphere, thou still art bright;
Though many a satellite about thee fall,
Leaving their stations merged in trackless night,
Yet take not they from that supernal light
Which lives within thee, sole, and free of all.
376
RUBENS.
Thus o'er his art indignant Rubens rearedHis mighty head, nor critic armies feared.
His lawless style, from vain pretension free,
Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea,
High o'er the rocks of Reason's ridgy verge
Impending hangs; but, ere the foaming surge
Breaks o'er the bound, the under-ebb of taste
Back from the shore impels the watery waste.
377
TO THE AUTHOR OF “THE DIARY OF AN ENNUYÉE,”
ONE OF THE TRUEST AND MOST BEAUTIFUL BOOKS EVER WRITTEN ON ITALY.
Sweet, gentle Sibyl! would I had the charm,
E'en while the spell upon my heart is warm,
To waft my spirit to thy far-off dreams,
That, giving form and melody to air,
The long-sealed fountains of my youth might there
Before thee shout, and toss their starry stream,
Flushed with the living light which youth alone
Sheds like the flash from heaven,—that straight is gone!
E'en while the spell upon my heart is warm,
To waft my spirit to thy far-off dreams,
That, giving form and melody to air,
The long-sealed fountains of my youth might there
Before thee shout, and toss their starry stream,
Flushed with the living light which youth alone
Sheds like the flash from heaven,—that straight is gone!
For thou hast waked as from the sleep of years,—
No, not the memory, with her hopes and fears,—
But e'en the breathing, bounding, present youth;
And thou hast waked him in that vision clime,
Which, having seen, no eye the second time
May ever see in its own glorious truth;—
As if it were not, in this world of strife,
Save to the first deep consciousness of life.
No, not the memory, with her hopes and fears,—
But e'en the breathing, bounding, present youth;
And thou hast waked him in that vision clime,
Which, having seen, no eye the second time
May ever see in its own glorious truth;—
378
Save to the first deep consciousness of life.
And yet, by thy sweet sorcery, is mine
Again the same fresh heart,—e'en fresh as thine,—
As when, entranced, I saw the mountain kings,
The giant Alps, from their dark purple beds
Rise ere the sun, the while their crownèd heads
Flashed with his thousand heralds' golden wings;
The while the courtly Borromean Isles
Looked on their mirrored forms with rippling smiles.
Again the same fresh heart,—e'en fresh as thine,—
As when, entranced, I saw the mountain kings,
The giant Alps, from their dark purple beds
Rise ere the sun, the while their crownèd heads
Flashed with his thousand heralds' golden wings;
The while the courtly Borromean Isles
Looked on their mirrored forms with rippling smiles.
E'en in thy freshness do I see thee rise,
Bright, peerless Italy, thy gorgeous skies,
Thy lines of harmony, thy nameless hues,—
As 't were by passing Angels sportive dropped
From flowers of Paradise, but newly cropped,
Still bathed and glittering with celestial dews!
I see thee,—and again what visions pass,
Called up by thee, as in some magic glass!
Bright, peerless Italy, thy gorgeous skies,
Thy lines of harmony, thy nameless hues,—
As 't were by passing Angels sportive dropped
From flowers of Paradise, but newly cropped,
Still bathed and glittering with celestial dews!
I see thee,—and again what visions pass,
Called up by thee, as in some magic glass!
Again I feel the Tuscan Zephyrs brush
My youthful brow, and see them laughing rush,
As if their touch another sense had given,
Swift o'er the dodging grass, like living things;
In myriads glancing from their flickering wings
The rose and azure of their native heaven;—
And now they mount, and through the sullen green
Of the dark laurel dart a silvery sheen.
My youthful brow, and see them laughing rush,
As if their touch another sense had given,
Swift o'er the dodging grass, like living things;
In myriads glancing from their flickering wings
The rose and azure of their native heaven;—
And now they mount, and through the sullen green
Of the dark laurel dart a silvery sheen.
379
O, now, as once, pure playmates of the soul!
Bear me, as then, where the white billows roll
Of yon ethereal ocean, poised above.
How touching thus from that o'erhanging sea
To look upon the world! Now, more to me
Its wrongs and sorrows, nay, a wider love
Grows on my heart, than where its pleasures press,
And throng me round as one whom they would bless.
Bear me, as then, where the white billows roll
Of yon ethereal ocean, poised above.
How touching thus from that o'erhanging sea
To look upon the world! Now, more to me
Its wrongs and sorrows, nay, a wider love
Grows on my heart, than where its pleasures press,
And throng me round as one whom they would bless.
This is thy voice, kind Nature, in the heart;
Who loves thee truly, loves thee not apart
From his own kind; for in thy humblest work
There lives an echo to some unborn thought,
Akin to man, his Maker, or his lot.
Nay, who has found not in his bosom lurk
Some stranger feeling, far remote from earth,
That still through earthly things awaits a birth?
Who loves thee truly, loves thee not apart
From his own kind; for in thy humblest work
There lives an echo to some unborn thought,
Akin to man, his Maker, or his lot.
Nay, who has found not in his bosom lurk
Some stranger feeling, far remote from earth,
That still through earthly things awaits a birth?
O, thus to me be thou still ministrant,
Still of the universal Love descant
That all things crave,—thus visible in thee,
The type and register of what man was
Before sin thralled him, substituting laws
That fain from suffering would his spirit free;
Nay, more, be hope,—the soul's sure prophecy
Of lost, regained, primeval harmony.
Still of the universal Love descant
That all things crave,—thus visible in thee,
The type and register of what man was
Before sin thralled him, substituting laws
That fain from suffering would his spirit free;
Nay, more, be hope,—the soul's sure prophecy
Of lost, regained, primeval harmony.
And now to thee, fair Sibyl, would I turn;
But how to say farewell I may not learn.
We part,—but not forgetting we have met.
May that sweet sadness thou so well dost feign
To thee be ever feigned,—be but the strain
To which the happy soul doth often set
Her happiest moods; for joy and sadness dwell
As neighbours in the heart;—and now farewell!
But how to say farewell I may not learn.
We part,—but not forgetting we have met.
380
To thee be ever feigned,—be but the strain
To which the happy soul doth often set
Her happiest moods; for joy and sadness dwell
As neighbours in the heart;—and now farewell!
THE END.
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