University of Virginia Library

SONGS AND SONNETS.

THE ROSE OF GRANADA.

[There was a gay maiden lived down by the mill]

LIDA.

[Yes, I loved her! Bear me witness]

[When we meet again, shall I behold no shrinking]

[The fever in my blood has died]

[I sit beneath the sunbeams' glow]

[Wheel on thy axle, softly run]

STREET LYRICS.

I.
THE GROCER'S DAUGHTER.

II.
A MYSTERY.

III.
THE TWO BIRDS.

IV.
FLOWERS AT THE WINDOW.

THE AWAKING OF THE POETICAL FACULTY.

All day I heard a humming in my ears,
A buzz of many voices, and a throng
Of swarming numbers, passing with a song
Measured and stately as the rolling spheres'.
I saw the sudden light of lifted spears,
Slanted at once against some monster wrong;
And then a fluttering scarf which might belong
To some sweet maiden in her morn of years.
I felt the chilling damp of sunless glades,
Horrid with gloom; anon, the breath of May
Was blown around me, and the lulling play
Of dripping fountains. Yet the lights and shades,
The waving scarfs, the battle's grand parades,
Seemed but vague shadows of that wondrous lay.

TO ANDREW JACKSON.

Old lion of the Hermitage, again
The times invoke thee, but thou art not here;
Cannot our peril call thee from thy bier?
France vapors, and the puny arm of Spain
Is up to strike us; England gives them cheer,
False to the child that in her hour of fear
Must be her bulwark and her succor, fain
To prop the strength which even now doth wane.
Nor these alone; intestine broils delight
The gaping monarchs, and our liberal shore
Is rife with traitors. Now, while both unite—
Europe and treason—I would see once more
Thy dreadful courage lash itself to might,
Behold thee shake thy mane, and hear thy roar.

TO LOUIS NAPOLEON.

O, shameless thief! a nation trusted thee
With all the wealth her bleeding hands had won,
Proclaimed thee guardian of her liberty:
So proud a title never lay upon
Thy uncle's forehead: thou wast linked with one,
First President of France, whose name shall be
Fixed in the heavens, like God's eternal sun—
Second to him alone—to Washington!
Was it for thee to stoop unto a crown?
Pick up the Bourbon's leavings? yield thy height
Of simple majesty, and totter down
Full of discovered frailties—sorry sight!—
One of a mob of kings? or, baser grown,
Was it for thee to steal it in the night?

TO ENGLAND.

[I. Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale]

Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale
Before thy Shakspeare gave it deathless fame:
The times have changed, the moral is the same.
So like an outcast, dowerless, and pale,
Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale
Spread her young banner, till its sway became
A wonder to the nations. Days of shame
Are close upon thee: prophets raise their wail.
When the rude Cossack with an outstretched hand
Points his long spear across the narrow sea,—
“Lo! there is England!” when thy destiny
Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and thou dost stand
Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land,—
God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be!

[II. Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty]

Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty!
Thou rock of shelter, rising from the wave,
Sole refuge to the overwearied brave
Who planned, arose, and battled to be free,
Fell undeterred, then sadly turned to thee;—
Saved the free spirit from their country's grave,
To rise again, and animate the slave,
When God shall ripen all things. Britons, ye
Who guard the sacred outpost, not in vain
Hold your proud peril! Freemen undefiled,
Keep watch and ward! Let battlements be piled
Around your cliffs; fleets marshalled, till the main
Sink under them; and if your courage wane,
Through force or fraud, look westward to your child!

[III. At length the tempest from the North has burst]

At length the tempest from the North has burst,
The threatened storm, by sages seen of old;
And into jarring anarchy is rolled
Harmonious peace, so long and fondly nursed
By watchful nations. Tyranny accursed
Has broken bounds—the wolf makes towards the fold.
Up! ere your priceless liberties be sold
Into degrading slavery! The worst
That can befall you is the brunt of war,
Dealt on a shield that oft has felt the weight
Of foeman's blows.—Up! ere it be too late!
For God has squandered all his precious store
Of right and mercy, if the time 's so sore
That slaves can bring you to their own base state.

[IV. Far from the Baltic to the Euxine's strand]

Far from the Baltic to the Euxine's strand,
Peals the vast clamor of commencing war;
And we, O England, on another shore,
Like brothers bound, with wistful faces stand—
With shouts of cheer, with wavings of the hand—
With eager throbbings of the heart, to pour
Our warlike files amid the battle's war,
And nerve the terrors of thy lifted brand.
Old wrongs have vanished in thy evil hours;
The blood that fell between us, in the fight,
Has dried away before a heavenly light.
We'll strew thy paths of victory with flowers,
Weep o'er thy woes, and cry, with all our powers,
Thy cause is God's, because thy cause is right!

[V. O, men of England, with an anxious heart]

O, men of England, with an anxious heart
We see you arming for the coming fight.
Pale lips that quiver, in our pride's despite,
Bid you God speed! Be this our tenderer part.
Yours is the frown of war, the martial start
That wakes to glory and resistless might,
When your great standard rises on the sight,
Blazoned with memories; an awful chart
Of grand adventures done in olden days,—
At once a pride and terror. Ill bestead
The soul that shrinks from duty through its dread;
Or seeks another outlet than the ways
Marked down for you, amid the whole world's praise—
The noble ways on which your fathers led.

[VI. Once more old England's banner on the gale]

Once more old England's banner on the gale
Flames like the comet in our western sky;
Beneath its fiery glare are lifted high
Long lines of steel, and clouds of snowy sail.
O, ye who bear it through the eastern vale,
Think how it shone in Cœur de Lion's eye!
Ye who behold it on the waters fly,
Think how it answered Nelson's dauntless hail!
From the Crusader to the Sailor turn,
And mark the lines of glory that appear
Stretched through your chronicles, starred far and near
With names heroical—dread names that burn,
Like deathless lamps, above each funeral urn,
To light you onward in their grand career.

[VII. Faint not nor tremble, birthplace of my sires]

Faint not nor tremble, birthplace of my sires,
Because the dreadful arm of war is bare,
And thy sons bleed with many wounds that glare
In pleading misery on thee. Household fires
Must quench; there 's trouble in the land. Desires
For peace, old longings, that with loathful stare
Take up the sword with such a backward air,
Must vanish now. I know thy soul aspires
Towards all that 's manly, liberal, and great:
Therefore, when you behold your children come,
Gored by the curséd Cossack, wounded home,
Shed not a useless tear; but edge thy hate
With double fury! Sound the mustering drum,
And fill your ranks up to their wonted state!

TO AMERICA.

[I. What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one]

What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one,
Stilt its decrepit strength, renew its age,
Wipe out its debts, contract a loan to wage
Its venal battles—and, by yon bright sun,
Our God is false, and liberty undone,
If slaves have power to win your heritage!
Look on your country, God's appointed stage,
Where man's vast mind its boundless course shall run:
For that it was your stormy coast He spread—
A fear in winter; girded you about
With granite hills, and made you strong and dread.
Let him who fears before the foemen shout,
Or gives an inch before a vein has bled,
Turn on himself, and let the traitor out!

[II. What though the cities blaze, the ports be sealed]

What though the cities blaze, the ports be sealed,
The fields untilled, the hands of labor still,
Ay, every arm of commerce and of skill
Palsied and broken; shall we therefore yield—
Break up the sword, put by the dintless shield?
Have we no home upon the wooded hill,
That mocks a siege? No patriot ranks to drill?
No nobler labor in the battle-field?
Or grant us beaten. While we gather might,
Is there no comfort in the solemn wood?
No cataracts whose angry roar shall smite
Our hearts with courage? No eternal brood
Of thoughts begotten by the eagle's flight?
No God to strengthen us in solitude?

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN SERGEANT.

The world may wait a century to see
Thy equal mourned. When great men die, we say—
“Just here they missed, or there they went astray:
Alas! alas! that sweet morality
Locks not her hand with greatness!” But in thee
Heaven lit a lamp, to show how, day by day,
The highest flame may shed the purest ray,
Burning undimmed into eternity.
There 's much of goodness, much of grandeur, gone
To neighboring slumbers in our ancient earth;—
Here some bewail a hero, some bemoan
A saintly pilgrim; yet I doubt if worth,
Religion, greatness, and their active birth,
Were e'er before so mingled into one.

TO THE MEMORY OF M. A. R.

With the mild light some unambitious star
Illumes her pathway through the heavenly blue—
So unobtrusive that the careless view
Scarce notes her where her haughtier sisters are—
So ran thy life. Perhaps, from those afar,
Thy gentle radiance little wonder drew,
And all their praise was for the brighter few.
Yet mortal vision is a grievous bar
To weigh true worth. For were the distance riven,
Our eyes might find that star so faintly shone
Because it journeyed through a higher zone,
Had more majestic sway and duties given,
Far loftier station on the heights of heaven,
Was next to God, and circled round His throne.

TO THE MEMORY OF S. S.

The world may think I lay this thing to heart:
I do, indeed, and of my grief am proud;
Yet would not draw the wonder of the crowd,
Either to me, or to my rhyming art.
So I will lay thy sacred name apart
From other griefs that haunt me in the shroud;
And will not in affliction be too loud,
Lest men suspect my cunning gives the start
To these true tears. And if nor sigh, nor moan,
Nor cry of anguish, load my heavy line,
It is because this holy grief of mine
Is a dear treasure. I am jealous grown,
To share with men a thing I hold divine,
Making that common which is all my own.

TO BAYARD TAYLOR.

[I. What changes of our natures have not been]

What changes of our natures have not been,
In the long process of the many days
That passed while we pursued our different ways,
Lost to each other! Fields, that once were green
Beneath our tillage, have been reaped. The scene
Of our young labors has grown old, and lays
Its dust upon us. Things that won our praise,
Are tasteless quite, and only move our spleen.
Experience has nipped the bloom of youth;
The flattering dawn of life has gone; in vain
We look for visions of the morn. Stern truth
Glares over us, and makes our view too plain.
I'm sick of life's discoveries; in sooth,
I 'd have the falsehoods of our youth again.

[II. The world seems strangely altered to me, friend]

The world seems strangely altered to me, friend,
Since last I pressed my ready hand in thine.
I feel like one awakening after wine—
For many yesterdays have had an end
Since we two met—and drowsy tremors send
A thrill of shame across this heart of mine,
That I my better feelings could confine
In easy opiates, make my spirit bend
To slothful rest,—a drunkard, and no more!
Yet I will rouse me from this lethargy.
The past is past; the dreaming night is o'er;
Heaven's lamp comes beaming from the East on me,
Touching my eyelids to reality,
And all is sunshine that was dark before.

[How the fixed gaze of unadmiring time]

How the fixed gaze of unadmiring time
Can reconcile us with earth's wondrous sights;
Win down our fancies from their breathless heights,
Teaching 't is easier far to crawl than climb!
Age spreads its marvels; but a creeping rime
Dulls the worn eye; and all the precious lights
Of early feeling deaden in the blights
Of care, and avarice, and infectious crime.
O, God! when use has palled my youthful sense—
When no new wonder daily comes to me
From hill, or vale, or stream—no joy intense
Breaks with the day, or flows in with the sea,
Or opens with the flower—O, take me hence,
Hence, I implore, dear Lord, if not to Thee!

[Dear is the fruit of sorrow, priceless store]

Dear is the fruit of sorrow, priceless store
Comes from the hand of grief, as sages tell;
Seeking for comfort in the woes that swell
Our hearts to bursting; with fore-gathered lore
Lulling the fears that make a gloom before
Our onward tread. Ah, hollow fraud! As well
Speak truth, and say—“We healed mishaps that fell
By their own issue, as with running gore
A wound is healed.”—But, lo! the lasting scar!
We make the best of man's dark destiny
By self-deceit, while hopes and pleasures flee
Before our vision; till the latest star
Fades in the dawn of knowledge, and we see
Earth, like a joyless desert, stretch afar.

[Not when the buxom form which nature wears]

Not when the buxom form which nature wears
Is pregnant with the lusty warmth of Spring;
Nor when hot Summer, sunk with what she bears,
Lies panting in her flowery offering;
Nor yet when dusty Autumn sadly fares
In tattered garb, through which the shrewd winds sing,
To bear her treasures to the griping snares
Hard Winter set for the poor bankrupt thing;
Not even when Winter, heir of all the year,
Deals, like a miser, round his niggard board
The brimming plenty of his luscious hoard;
No, not in nature, change she howsoe'er,
Can I find perfect type or worthy peer
Of the fair maid in whom my heart is stored.

[Spring, in the gentle look with which she turns]

Spring, in the gentle look with which she turns
Her sunny glance on all, indeed I find;
And ardent Summer in the roses burns
Of her twin cheeks, and from her gracious mind—
Like rare exotics nursed in precious urns,
With cultured taste and native grace combined—
Her teeming thoughts arise: too well she learns
This summer sweetness! Generous Autumn, bind
A deathless chaplet round her queenly brow;
For, like thy own, in boundless charity,
Her heart is filled with motives frank and free,
Her hand with alms. Alas! I see it now;
From thee, cold Winter, all her fancies flow,
Who, rich in all, will nothing give to me.

[Either the sum of this sweet mutiny]

Either the sum of this sweet mutiny
Amongst thy features argues me some harm;
Or else they practise wicked treachery
Against themselves, thy heart, and hapless me.
For as I start aside with blank alarm,
Dreading the glitter which begins to arm
Thy clouded brows, lo! from thy lips I see
A smile come stealing, like a loaded bee,
Heavy with sweets and perfumes, all ablaze
With soft reflections from the flowery wall
Whereon it pauses. Yet I will not raise
One question more, let smile or frown befall,
Taxing thy love where I should only praise,
And asking changes, that might change thee all.

[I'll call thy frown a headsman, passing grim]

I'll call thy frown a headsman, passing grim,
Walking before some wretch foredoomed to death,
Who counts the pantings of his own hard breath;
Wondering how heart can beat, or steadfast limb
Bear its sad burden to life's awful brim.
I'll call thy smile a priest, who slowly saith
Soft words of comfort, as the sinner strayeth
Away in thought; or sings a holy hymn,
Full of rich promise, as he walks behind
The fatal axe with face of goodly cheer,
And kind inclinings of his saintly ear.
So, love, thou seest in smiles, or looks unkind,
Some taste of sweet philosophy I find,
That seasons all things in our little sphere.

[Nay, not to thee, to nature I will tie]

Nay, not to thee, to nature I will tie
The gathered blame of every pettish mood;
And when thou frown'st, I'll frown upon the wood,
Saying, “How wide its gloomy shadows lie!”
Or, gazing straight into the day's bright eye,
Predict ere night a fatal second flood;
Or vow the poet's sullen solitude
Has changed my vision to a darksome dye.
But when thou smil'st, I will not look above,
To wood or sky; my hand I will not lay
Upon the temple of my sacred love,
To blame its living fires with base decay;
But whisper to thee, as I nearer move,
“Love, thou dost add another light to day.”

[How canst thou call my modest love impure]

How canst thou call my modest love impure,
Being thyself the holy source of all?
Can ugly darkness from the fair sun fall?
Or nature's compact be so insecure,
That saucy weeds may sprout up and endure
Where gentle flowers were sown? The brooks that crawl,
With lazy whispers, through the lilies tall,
Or rattle o'er the pebbles, will allure
With no feigned sweetness, if their fount be sweet.
So thou, the sun whence all my light doth flow—
Thou, sovereign law by which my fancies grow—
Thou, fount of every feeling, slow or fleet—
Against thyself wouldst aim a treacherous blow,
Slaying thy honor with thy own conceit.

[Why shall I chide the hand of wilful Time]

Why shall I chide the hand of wilful Time
When he assaults thy wondrous store of charms?
Why charge the gray-beard with a wanton crime?
Or strive to daunt him with my shrill alarms?
Or seek to lull him with a silly rhyme:
So he, forgetful, pause upon his arms,
And leave thy beauties in their noble prime,
The sole survivors of his grievous harms?
Alas! my love, though I'll indeed bemoan
The fatal ruin of thy majesty;
Yet I'll remember that to Time alone
I owed thy birth, thy charms' maturity,
Thy crowning love, with which he vested me,
Nor can reclaim, though all the rest be flown.

[Love is that orbit of the restless soul]

Love is that orbit of the restless soul
Whose circle grazes the confines of space,
Bounding within the limits of its race
Utmost extremes; whose high and topmost pole
Within the very blaze of heaven doth roll;
Whose nether course is through the darkest place
Eclipsed by hell. What daring hand shall trace
The blended joys and sorrows that control
A heart whose journeys the fixed hand of fate
Points through this pathway? Who may soar so high—
Behold such glories with unwinking eye?
Who drop so low beneath his mortal state,
And thence return with careful chart and date,
To mark which way another's course must lie?

[Thou who dost smile upon me, yet unknown]

Thou who dost smile upon me, yet unknown,
Mayst have more cause if thou wilt draw more near.
Now Summer's heat unbinds the golden zone
Of virgin buds; then why should chilling fear
Seal up thy heart, and leave thy love unblown,
While Nature whispers in thy timid ear,
“Now is the time”? For Summer's quickly flown,
And Winter's frost rounds up the flying year.
Lady, I pray thee, take unto thy heart
The lesson mother Nature reads to thee;
Nor act towards me a more ungentle part
Than Summer acts towards every budding tree,
That feels her influence through its being dart,
As I would feel thy influence dart through me.

[Fear not, dear maid, the love I give to thee]

Fear not, dear maid, the love I give to thee
Shall feel the palsied touch of Time's decay.
Thou dost confess my love will ever be,
And only fear its strength may waste away,
Dropping its blossoms as the seasons flee;
Or like the evening of a boreal day,
In lingering twilight stretch its sullen ray,
And on the edge of night hang doubtfully.
Grant love eternal, and thou grantest all;
Eternity counts not the passing hour,
Eternity knows naught of wane or fall,
Nor measures days by bloom or fade of flower,
Nor o'er its splendor casts sad evening's pall;
To Time belongs this ever-changing power.

[Where lags my mistress while the drowsy year]

Where lags my mistress while the drowsy year
Wakes into Spring? Lo! Winter sweeps away
His snowy skirts, and leaves the landscape gay
With early verdure; and there 's merry cheer
Among the violets, where the sun lies clear
On the south hill-sides; and at break of day
I heard the blue-bird busy at my ear;
And swallows shape their nests of matted clay
Along the caves, or dip their narrow wings
Into the mists of evening. All the earth
Stirs with the wonder of a coming birth,
And all the air with feathery music rings.
Spring, it would crown thee with transcendent worth,
To bring my love among thy beauteous things.

[O! would that Fortune might bestow on me]

O! would that Fortune might bestow on me
One hour secluded from the prying world!
So that the crowd through which my heart is hurled,
Like a poor wreck upon a stormy sea,
Might rage afar; and under some kind lea,
Bowered with the creeping woodbine, and impearled
With the fresh gems of morning, I might be
For once alone with Nature and with thee.
For unto Nature's ear I would resign
The struggling secrets which my bosom fill—
The o'erfraught mystery of my own sweet ill,
In loving thee beyond the prudent line
Marked out by selfish philosophic skill—
To Nature's ear, dear lady, and to thine.

[Your love to me appears in doubtful signs]

Your love to me appears in doubtful signs,
Vague words, shy looks, that never touch the heart;
But to the brain a scanty hint impart
As to whose side your dear regard inclines:
Thence, forced by reason through the narrow lines
That mark and limit the logician's art—
Catching from thought to thought—my mind combines
In one idea the mystic things you start,
And coldly utters to my heart—that swells
With tardy rapture—“It is thee she loves!”
Alas! alas! that reason only proves
A fact your cautious action never tells,
That I must reach my joy by slow removes,
And guess at love, as at the oracles.

[No gentle touches of your timid hand]

No gentle touches of your timid hand—
No shuddering kisses pressed upon my lip,
'Twixt fear and passion—no bold words that strip
The feigning garb off in which we two stand,
Acting our parts, at the harsh world's command—
No deed that offers to our dust a sip
Of heavenly nectar—no incautious slip,
To wring a tear, yet calmly bear the brand,
For the great love through which we were betrayed!
Love flies with us on sorely crippled wings:
Prudence, and interest, and the bitter stings
Of shrewd distrust, are doled me. I am made
A beggar on your bounty. Lend me aid:
My heart starves, lady, on these wretched things.

[Doubt is the offspring of a self-distrust]

Doubt is the offspring of a self-distrust,
The coward mood of a desponding mind,
The treacherous pathway o'er which fancy, blind
To love's clear pointings, treads, as o'er the crust
Of a most faithless quicksand; 't is the rust
Upon truth's shield, the blemish that we find
Upon a mirror, carelessly designed,
Distorting nature into shapes unjust,
And making all things that within it move,
Move in confusion, falsely and awry.
Doubt is the lees of thought, the dregs that lie
Beyond the bounds which reason reigns above,
Baffling the keenness of his sun-bright eye;—
Yea, doubt is anything—but honest love.

[As at an altar, love, behold me kneel]

As at an altar, love, behold me kneel
Thus at thy feet. Too solemn for a lie
My awful action, and thy bended eye,
Whose searching power I cannot choose but feel.
And here, thus lowly, all that might conceal
My heart from thee I sunder and cast by;
Courting thy notice, begging thee to pry
Through all my nature, till the whole reveal
Itself to thee. Then say if thou dost find
One hint of falsehood, one poor thought to breed
Doubt, or doubt's shadow, in thy candid mind?
Ah, no! I love thee; and my sorest need
Is trust from thee, a patient trust, resigned
To face all ills, and triumph though it bleed.

[I do assure thee, love, each kiss of thine]

I do assure thee, love, each kiss of thine
Adds to my stature, makes me more a man,
Lightens my care, and draws the bitter wine
That I was drugged with, while my nature ran
Its slavish course. For didst not thou untwine
My cunning fetters? break the odious ban,
That quite debased me? free this heart of mine,
And deck my chains with roses? While I can
I'll chant thy praises, till the world shall ring
With thy great glory; and the heaping store
Of future honors, for the songs I sing,
Shall miss thy poet, at thy feet to pour
A juster tribute, as the gracious spring
Of my abundance.—Kiss me, then, once more.

[To win and lose thee! In one hour to sa,]

To win and lose thee! In one hour to say,
“Lo! love is mine!” and ere the dazzled mind
Can know the fulness of its bliss, or find
Its conscious vision lifted o'er the sway
Of raging passion—while the heart, a prey
To aching sense, is shrunken and grown blind
With too much light—to hear from every wind
Hissed in my ear, “Lo! love has flown away!”
As if some careless angel left apart
Heaven's golden doors, and I had seen within
The radiant saints, and heard the holy din
Of choral triumph, ere with jealous start
The gates shot backward, closing my sad heart,
With that bright memory, in a world of sin.

[Here part we, love, beneath the world's broad eye]

Here part we, love, beneath the world's broad eye,
Yet heart to heart still answers as of old;
And though fore'er within my breast I hold
Thy image shut, and ne'er, by look nor sigh,
Betray thy presence to the foes who lie
Ambushed around us, do not deem me cold.
For cowering Love's wide pinions only fold
Closer, to shield him from the storm that's nigh,—
Closer, to warm the fresh and godlike form
That glows with life beneath the shrinking wings.
So my deep love around thee darkly flings
This cloud of coldness, that, beneath it, warm
As the snow-covered currents of the springs,
Our hearts may beat, safe-sheltered from the storm.

[And shall we part without a parting kis?]

And shall we part without a parting kiss?
Must all the love I bore thee, all that thou
Didst swear to me, untrammelled, vow on vow,
Ebb to this lowness, come at last to this?
A thousand fears have crossed my dream of bliss;
And in the very blush and early glow
Of budding passion, I was stricken low
By boding fancies, lest our love should miss
A happy goal by its too eager start.
Yet, come what might, I should have boldly sworn
That if we parted, howsoe'er forlorn
Our future lot, or cruel the present smart,
Or what wild acts of passion might be born
From our despair, that thus we would not part.

[No hope is mine, no comfort mine; for I]

No hope is mine, no comfort mine; for I
Am as an exile, and no pilgrim's grace
Nerves my despair; I never can retrace
The paths I trod, though myriads pass me by,
Journeying, light-hearted, to the happy place
Whence I am driven. Thou, Nature, on whose face
I look for aid, dost close thy weary eye
Against my grief. The moon wanes in the sky,
The flowers dry up and perish, the great sea
Through all its land-locked arteries ebbs, the dew
Lies sickening on the blighted branch; no new
Creation opens with the Spring: to me
There is no crescent moon, no bud, no view
Of refluent tides, no fruit,—nor will there be.

[Imagine, love, that I bent over thee]

Imagine, love, that I bent over thee;
Imagine, love, I brushed thy eyelids dry,
Hushed in my hands thy oft-recurring sigh,
Warmed thee within my arms, and patiently
Talked down thy sorrows, till thy heart in glee
Leaped up and rapturously laughed; while I
Stared in blank wonder at the mystery.
Then, with moist lashes, put thy tresses by—
Marvelling in silence at the happy spell
That brought thee comfort—and thy features dyed
With added crimson, as my kisses fell
Warm on thy lips and forehead. In my pride
I fancy thus, and thou canst do as well;
'T would be no fancy, were I at thy side.

[My lady sighs, and I am far away]

My lady sighs, and I am far away;
My lady weeps, and I cannot be near
To still the sigh, or catch the falling tear
On lips whose office 't is to own her sway,
And curl in scorn when other maidens play
Their love-pranks round me. I am lost in fear,
Haunted with doubts and shadows that appear
To lengthen ever with declining day.
All things seem dubious; the rise and fall
Of my own heart, the wild ideas that move
Like phantoms through my brain, the faith above
My intellectual grasp, do but appall
By their dim aspects, and I doubt them all;—
All seem unreal, except alone thy love.

[If, by an absence of unnumbered years]

If, by an absence of unnumbered years,
I could return, and find thy feelings changed;
If, by the shedding of uncounted tears,
I could wash out what early sorrow stained;
If by a coldness I could wake thy fears,
And make thee chary of what love remained;
Nay, if by hollow pride, and empty sneers—
Galling to thee, though but by cunning feigned—
I could once more upon thy gentle breast
Lay my poor head, with all its aching thought,
And rock my troubled fancies into rest,
Or soothe the sorrows which my cruelty wrought;
I would endure the grief, or act the jest,—
Yea, double both, yet hold the price as naught.

[Hence, cold despair! I do believe that they]

Hence, cold despair! I do believe that they
Who fold a promise, and within the breast
Cherish a faith, shall some time know the rest
Of bliss consummate. This immortal clay
Is tempered in the tears we brush away;
Made fruitful by our smiles; and every test
That love o'ercomes adds plumage to his crest,
And seals the triumph of a future day.
Else would this stormy heart outpour in vain
Its frequent tears; and its wild bursts of joy,
And love unutterable, would but annoy,
Not lighten the full spirit of its pain.
Let us believe these raptures find employ,
And smooth a pathway that may yet be plain.

ON MY LADY'S LETTER.

This slip of paper touched thy gentle hand,
Doubtless was sunned beneath thy radiant eye;
Perhaps had clearer honor, and did lie
Upon thy bosom, or was proudly fanned
Within thy fragrant breath. At my command
A thousand fancies growing, as they fly,
To maddening sweetness, flit my vision by,
And mingle golden vapors with the sand
That times my idle being. Senseless things
Start into dignity beneath thy touch,
Mount from the earth on love's ecstatic wings,
And to my eyes seem sacred. If from such
I draw such rapture, who may say how much,
Wert thou the theme of my imaginings!

[The ghostly midnight settles on my heart]

The ghostly midnight settles on my heart.
The winter rain against my window beats,
The flaring lights along the level streets
Look through a misty halo; torn apart
By every gust, the fog-wreaths twist and start
In wild disorder. Not a passer meets
My straining eye; no song nor whistle greets
My listening ear. This thronged and feverish mart
Sleeps through the night, and Nature rules supreme.
What thoughts are mine? what visions come to me,
Drifting alone amid this tideless sea,
When e'en thy eyes are closed above a dream
In which, perhaps, no trace of me may seem,—
What can I do but dream and dream of thee?

[In this deep hush and quiet of my soul]

In this deep hush and quiet of my soul,
When life runs low, and all my senses stay
Their daily riot; when my wearied clay
Resigns its functions, and, without control
Of selfish passion, my essential whole
Rises in purity, to make survey
Of those poor deeds that wear my days away;
When in my ear I hear the distant toll
Of bells that murmur of my coming knell,
And all things seem a show and mockery—
Life, and life's actions, noise and vanity;
I ask my mournful heart if it can tell
If all be truth which I protest to thee:
And my heart answers, solemnly, “'T is well!”

[I have been mounted on life's topmost wave]

I have been mounted on life's topmost wave,
Until my forehead kissed the dazzling cloud;
I have been dashed beneath the murky shroud
That yawns between the watery crests. I rave,
Sometimes, liked cursed Orestes; sometimes lave
My limbs in dews of asphodel; or, bowed
With torrid heat, I moan to heaven aloud,
Or shrink with Winter in his icy cave.
Now peace broods over me; now savage rage
Spurns me across the world. Nor am I free
From nightly visions, when the pictured page
Of sleep unfolds its varied leaves to me,
Changing as often as the mimic stage;—
And all this, lady, through my love for thee!

[Ah! would to heaven that this dear misery]

Ah! would to heaven that this dear misery,
Which day by day within my heart I nurse,
Shaping the issue of the direful curse,
Against myself, with sad fatality—
This snare of love, which so entangles me,
Might be unknit. For in my dark reverse
Of hopeless passion, I must suffer worse
Than the dull wretch who, ignorant, yet free,
Plods through his daily round of easy cares,
Nor knows the shuddering depths and trembling heights
Of my deep sorrows and supreme delights;
The dizzy summits which my spirit dares,
Winging towards thee, in its audacious flights,
Its gloomy falls to fathomless despairs.

[Sometimes, in bitter fancy, I bewail]

Sometimes, in bitter fancy, I bewail
This spell of love, and wish the cause removed;
Wish I had never seen, or, seeing, not loved
So utterly that passion should prevail
O'er self-regard, and thoughts of thee assail
Those inmost barriers which so long have proved
Unconquerable, when such defence behoved.
But, ah! my treacherous heart doth ever fail
To ratify the sentence of my mind;
For when conviction strikes me to the core,
I swear I love thee fondlier than before;
And were I now all free and unconfined,
Loose as the action of the shoreless wind,
My slavish heart would sigh for bonds once more.

[To-night the tempest rages. All without]

To-night the tempest rages. All without
Is darkness, terror, and tremendous wails
From the mad winds. Fierce rains and savage hails
Dash on my window; and the branches shout,
To see their luckless blossoms strewn about,
Like frantic mourners. God, this night she sails
O'er the chaotic ocean! Fear prevails
Above my cowering spirit; and a rout
Of dark forebodings makes this pitchy night
One solid gloom. Hark, how the rushing air
Clashes my casement! Ah! what heart shall dare
Stand between her and danger, as I might,
Cheering her courage with love's steady light?
God, I am absent, wilt not Thou be there?

[Another shriek like that, O furious wind]

Another shriek like that, O furious wind,
Will madden me! Is there no hand to check
Thy wild career? no power whose awful beck
May lull thy frenzied wrath? For thou art blind
With loosened passion; and, thus unconfined,
Thou dost abuse thy license, to the wreck
Of all creation. Now, how reels the deck
Above my helpless love! How every mind,
Pent in that groaning vessel, paints its thought
Of shameless fear upon each pallid face!
How the infectious passion spreads! till, base
With selfish terror, man is worse than naught,
And manhood but a name. If prayers are aught,
God, stand me near her, in some coward's place!

[Again the tireless winds are rushing past]

Again the tireless winds are rushing past,
Heavy with blinding vapors; and again
The streaming willows lash my window-pane,
Dotting the glass with yellow leaves that fast
Cling to their dripping hold, like wretches cast
Upon my charity. Across the main
My love still sails; and forth, through storm and rain,
My heart goes out to seek her. Ruthless blast,
Chill northern mist, and cutting hail, are ye
Fit comrades for a being who has known
No harsher sounds than the close whispered tone
Of my affection?—cold to no degree
More than my arms clasped round her tenderly?—
No crueller wounds than from my eyes were thrown?

[Thank Heaven, a lull—a lull in the long roar]

Thank Heaven, a lull—a lull in the long roar
Of the spent hurricane; and, lo! afar,
Through the fast-scudding rack, one splendid star—
Brighter to me than star e'er shone before—
Looks downward, like the mystic light that bore
Peace and good will to mortals. Ye that are
The seaman's joy, soft western gales, debar
Your breath no longer; waft her gently o'er
The calming sea: then, if ye will, return
In stormy fleetness, hissing from the East,
With your old rage a thousand-fold increased;
For though the universal ether burn
With your hot flight, too soon I cannot learn
That all the perils of my love have ceased.

[What fancy, or what flight of wingéd thought]

What fancy, or what flight of wingéd thought,
O lady of my heart, hast thou to chime
Accordant with the flow of my poor rhyme?
Have my strange songs a dearer solace brought
Than those remembered lays thy childhood caught,
And treasured safely through disloyal time—
Lays of a sweeter tongue and fairer clime;
Pure as thy dreams, before our passion sought
And won the shadowy realm, and steeped thy sleep
In fiery visions and terrific throes
Of self-consuming love? My songs are foes
To peace and thee; yet thou dost bid me sweep
The torturing strings, although thy eyelids weep:
Find'st thou a pleasure in thy very woes?

[I know art hardens what my love would speak]

I know art hardens what my love would speak,
And bounds my feelings with a rigid line
Of measured rhymes, whose narrow laws confine
My forward passions, making cold and weak
The warm rich currents that forever seek
An outlet from my heart. The loss is thine—
To taste but water where you hoped for wine;
But mine the shameful burning of the cheek—
Mine the cruel sorrow o'er a fruitless deed,
Who boasted nobly how sublime a thing
Should bloom from love, and decorate the Spring
With beauties suited aptly to the seed
From whence it grew;—but grew a sightless weed,
Shaming the hand that makes the offering.

[Yet, love, forgive thy Poet if his lays]

Yet, love, forgive thy Poet if his lays
Faint with a burden which they cannot bear;
And vain regret, and miserable despair,
Are the sole offsprings of my weak essays.
To paint a passion that so strongly sways
My lowly heart, I should be master where
I feel myself but slave, and scarcely dare
Lift up my eyes to what my hand portrays.
Forgive my feeble efforts: and believe
Feeling o'ermasters art; and conquered art,
Like a true slave, works on with heavy heart,
Slighting its ordered task. Then, do not grieve
At my cold words; but say my words deceive,
Reaching at that which words cannot impart.

[O! for some spirit, some magnetic spark]

O! for some spirit, some magnetic spark,
That used nor word, nor rhyme, nor balanced pause
Of doubtful phrase, which so supinely draws
My barren verse, and blurs love's shining mark
With misty fancies!—O! to burst the dark
Of smothered feeling with some new-found laws,
Hidden in nature, that might bridge the flaws
Between two beings, end this endless cark,
And make hearts know what lips have never said!
O! for some spell, by which one soul might move
With echoes from another, and dispread
Contagious music through its chords, above
The touch of mimic art: that thou might tread
Beneath thy feet this wordy show of love!

[There is a sorrow underlies mere grief]

There is a sorrow underlies mere grief,
A gnawing woe beyond the source of tears,
A weary pain with neither hopes nor fears,
A dull, dead load that cannot find relief
In running eyes, whose passions are as brief
As their o'erflowings. For each tear-drop clears
The heart from which it issues, and oft cheers
With sunny dew the gloomiest cypress-leaf.
But, ah! my care sticks ever at the heart,
Haunts every thought, and deadens every sense;
Sighs are in vain, tears come not, and the tense
Cords of existence strain, yet will not part
Their stubborn hold on earth. O! bitter smart,
To call thee mine, who must be ever hence.

[To love thee absent were sufficient pain]

To love thee absent were sufficient pain,
Even though that pain might not outlast a day;
And with to-morrow's sunset I could say,
“Lo! moonrise comes, and love shines out again!”
Or stretch the term a week; I might restrain
This heart until the Sabbath morn should lay
Its peace upon it. Months might glide away;
And I could count the sunshine and the rain,
And sum them up in flowers, to prophesy
Thy fragrant coming. Though a year would be
A weary time, I could wait patiently
To hear Christ's birthday clamored through the sky
By the rejoicing bells: but who shall try
To fix time's measures on eternity?

[Why should I cheat my heart with open lies]

Why should I cheat my heart with open lies,
Summoned by Fancy from her teeming store?—
Why call thee mine alone forevermore,
Yet know what distance parts, what fate defies
Our mutual love? True, we are joined by ties
That girdle earth, and bind fate's functions o'er
To sovereign love: but shall I not deplore
That I no longer look into thy eyes—
Bask in thy presence—fill my aching soul
With love's sweet calm?—Or all my senses thrill
With kisses gathered here and there at will,
As flowers in spring-time, till we touch the goal
Of more than mortal ecstasy, and roll
In joys that make the wondering gods stand still?

[Ah! let me live on memories of old]

Ah! let me live on memories of old,—
The precious relics I have set aside
From life's poor venture; things that yet abide
My ill-paid labor, shining, like pure gold,
Amid the dross of cheated hopes whose hold
Dropped at the touch of action. Let me glide
Down the smooth past, review that day of pride
When each to each our mutual passion told—
When love grew frenzy in thy blazing eye,
Fear shone heroic, caution quailed before
My hot, resistless kisses—when we bore
Time, conscience, destiny, down, down for aye,
Beneath victorious love, and thou didst cry,
“Strike, God! life's cup is running o'er and o'er!”

[In vain to thee I stretch imploring arms]

In vain to thee I stretch imploring arms
Across the hollow waste of barren night;
In vain I task my jaded eyes for sight
Of some fair vision, whose imagined charms
May mimic thine. My bitter knowledge warms
Against my fancy. Love draws no delight
From self-delusion; and a hateful flight
Of stinging truths around my senses swarms,
Forcing thy absence on me. Idle dreams
Trouble my slumbers; but when any ray
Of thy bright presence through the darkness beams,
I start and wake, as though the height of day
Flamed on my eyelids: for it only seems
That I must love, and thou be far away.

[Time shall not dry thy ever-falling tears]

Time shall not dry thy ever-falling tears
For me, thou lone one! sorrowing o'er the ill
That tortures thee, and can do aught but kill.
I will pursue thee through the bitter years,
A loathful shadow, following thee still,
Dragged after thee against my better will;
Struck by the burning hand which God uprears
Against our sin; and doomed o'er vale and hill
To dog thy feet, to trail my blackness o'er
Thy brightest path, to make the flowers assume
A dull, sick look, to wrap in horrid gloom
All things around thee, till the awful store
Of vengeance on our crime be poured no more,
And we together sink into the tomb.

[I do not sorrow that thy love was cast]

I do not sorrow that thy love was cast
On one unworthy of thy purer thought;
Nor that the promise of thy youth was brought
To barren issue by the deadly blast
That plagued the heart to which thy heart held fast,
And in the rarest gift of nature wrought
A noxious canker, mocking thee who sought
To find a sweetness in it. If the past
Were passed indeed; and thou, away from me,
Couldst gather bloom, and for the future nurse
Thy withered youth to beauty; or rehearse,
Some day, the moral of thy grief, and be
From the infection of my influence free,—
'T were well, but I pursue thee like a curse.

[I heard a voice that through the midnight cried]

I heard a voice that through the midnight cried,
“Thy peace is gone, thy sweet content is fled!
Never again,” the phantom prophet said,
“Shalt thou taste joy; for love to thee has died,
And naught of love remaineth, now, beside
His ashes and thy sorrow. Where is sped
The shaft you shot? Has not your bosom bled,
By your own hand transpierced?” O! thou hast lied—
O! viewless phantom, thou hast lied to me!
Love is immortal as this crown of bay,
Which from my brow upon his tomb I lay—
Love is immortal in my memory!
And I will watch his relics, weep and pray,
And from my heart sing his sad elegy.

[Like old King Hamlet sleeping in the flowers]

Like old King Hamlet sleeping in the flowers,
O'er-arched with woodbine and the clustering rose,
I lay supine in odorous repose,
Safe, as I thought, amid my garden bowers:
While with light footsteps tripped the smiling hours,
And my heart fluttered with the rapturous throes
Of such a dream of joy as, haply, flows
Past the closed eyelids of the musing powers
Who rest in Eden—with a dream of thee.
Anon upon me, with accurséd bane,
Fate stole on tiptoe, and through ear and brain
Poured his foul poison. Wild with agony,
I shriek, I wake, I would but cannot flee;
Then helpless fall, no more to dream again.

[No forward step in all my history]

No forward step in all my history,
Through the wide region of my coming life,
But shall resound, above the din and strife
Of every action, with the fame of thee.
No lyric song, no stately tragedy,
No cry of joy nor pain, but shall be rife
With thy sweet self. More close than man to wife
Shall we be joined through all futurity.
Doubt not the issue. While my melody
Shall move the world, in each applauded lay
Men shall behold my love's undimmed display;
And when the troubles of our life shall be
Laid in the dust, the sorrows of to-day
Shall be the glory of thy memory.

[I will not blazon forth thy sacred name]

I will not blazon forth thy sacred name,
Holding thee up for wonder to the mood
Of those poor fools whose darts of malice strewed
Thy path of life, and might thy grave defame;
I will but hint it dimly. Love's pure flame
Will shine as brightly, though the spicy wood
Whereon it feeds be little understood;
For, to all light man's reverence is the same.
And if, in coming time, some lover weep
Over the sorrows of my mournful line—
Some wretch whose fortune has been sad as mine—
Wondering, meanwhile, what gentle name may sleep
Under my phrase, the homage shall be thine,
Though my sealed lips thy mystic title keep.

[As a sad hermit in his cloistered cell]

As a sad hermit in his cloistered cell,
With the lone image of his martyred Lord,
The last, best treasure of a wasted hoard,
Do I alone with thy dear image dwell.
To thee alone my sinking heart shall swell,
To thee alone my scalding tears be poured;
And to such vows as thou didst once accord
I'll shape my faith to thee invisible.
And when Death's hand within my own be pressed—
Welcome as friendship's cordial pressure—I
Will grasp his icy fingers, doubly blest;
And down to happy dreams of thee will lie,
With thy sweet promise cradled in my breast,
With thy sweet image beaming in my eye.

[Only through this, this precious gift of song]

Only through this, this precious gift of song,
Can I hold converse with my lady now.
For many a threat, and many a lowering brow,
Are raised between us; and the ruthless thong
Of slander hisses through the air, to wrong
Her tender nature. To the storm I bow;
But, like a reed, the fiercer tempests grow,
The clearer is my singing. Ah! the throng
Of heedless men, who in my music hear
Only the echoes of their hearts, and see
Their petty loves reflected back from me,
Know not that every tone is meant to cheer
The dismal fortune of thy history,—
Know not, dear heart, I'm whispering in thy ear.

[Fate, of all seasons, chose the happy time]

Fate, of all seasons, chose the happy time
When the bud swells, the golden grasses spring,
The loosened brooks for their new freedom sing,
The blue-bird carols, and the poet's rhyme
Renews its wasted nature; when, sublime
With his own power, day's rich and generous king
Wheels on in state, and all the land doth fling
The flowery tributes of its loyal clime
Before the light of his triumphant smile:—
Ah! then the hand of fell intruding Fate
Struck me the blow that made me desolate;
Nor yet content, with unrelenting guile,
He chose this time, to wreak his fury vile,
And with fair Spring bemocked my fallen state.

[I shall be faithful, though the weary years]

I shall be faithful, though the weary years
Spread out before me like a mountain chain,
Rugged and steep, ascending from the plain,
Without a path; though where the cliff uprears
Its sternest front, and echoes in my ears
My own deep sobs of solitary pain,
It is my fate to scale; though all in vain
I spend my labor, and my idle tears
Torture but me: I know, despite my ill,
That with each step a little wastes away—
A little of this life wastes day by day;
And far beyond the desert which I fill
With my vast sorrow, I have faith to say
That we shall meet; so I press onward still.

[I have not turned for sympathy to friends]

I have not turned for sympathy to friends;
I have not told the story of my wrong,
Nor all the falsehoods that to thee belong,—
That shallow-hearted fickleness which sends
A pang through all my nature, and oft ends
In dreary tears the proudest dream of song.
I have not burst the knitted fetters, strong
With my own truth, because thy flight offends.
What man can say he heard me sigh or groan,
Quail at the sound of thy oft-mentioned name,
Sneer at thy faith, or stain thy taintless fame
With the least breath of slander? No, alone
I 've borne the dreadful secret of thy shame,
Hiding thy guilt as if it were my own.

[Across the waters, through the void of night]

Across the waters, through the void of night,
My spirit sends its last despairing cry.
One moment poised, as in the act to fly,
With arms outstretched, and heart that yearns for flight,
I bend towards thee. O! hear me, ere the bright
And happy impulse fades beneath the eye
Of outraged pride, and self-love sullenly
Resumes his sceptre! Hear me, ere the blight,
With which thy falsehood cankered me, shall fall,
Like God's dread judgment, and the clinging stain
Add to my sorrow,—pain begot on pain!
O, faithless Love! O, perjured heart! O, all
Unworthy, yet all loved! if vain my call,
Rest, dream, forget!—I shall not call again.

[Here let the motions of the world be still]

Here let the motions of the world be still!—
Here let Time's fleet and tireless pinions stay
Their endless flight!—or to the present day
Bind my Love's life and mine. I have my fill
Of earthly bliss: to move, is to meet ill.
Though lavish Fortune in my path might lay
Fame, power, and wealth,—the toys that make the play
Of earth's grown children,—I would rather till
The stubborn furrows of an arid land,
Toil with the brute, bear famine and disease,
Drink bitter bondage to the very lees,
Than break our union by love's tender band,
Or drop its glittering shackles from my hand,
To grasp at empty glories such as these.

[All the world's malice, all the spite of fate]

All the world's malice, all the spite of fate,
Cannot undo the rapture of the past.
I, like a victor, hold these glories fast;
And here defy the envious powers, that wait
Upon the crumbling fortunes of our state,
To snatch this myrtle chaplet, or to blast
Its smallest leaf. Thus to the wind I cast
The poet's laurel, and before their date
Summon the direst terrors of my doom.
For, with this myrtle symbol of my love,
I reign exultant, and am fixed above
The petty fates that other joys consume.
As on a flowery path, through life I'll move,—
As through an arch of triumph, pass the tomb.