 | Abaddon, the spirit of destruction ; and other poems |  |
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THE HEART'S APOCALYPSE.
Εν ελπισι χρη τους σοφους εχειν βιου.
Ανθρωπος ατυχων σωζεται υπο της ελπιδος.
—Menander.
Ανθρωπος ατυχων σωζεται υπο της ελπιδος.
—Menander.
Why wake ye, memories of devoted hours?
Delirious dreamers, sleep forever now!
Through the cold tempest, that around me lowers,
Glance not heaven's glory on my darkened brow!
Hushed hearts, that quail o'er still despair's last vow,
Breathe awful music 'neath a stranger's touch,
And minds, that rocky as their fortunes grow,
Like mountain torrents gush when tasked too much—
They bear long years, but dare not feel their burden such.
Delirious dreamers, sleep forever now!
Through the cold tempest, that around me lowers,
Glance not heaven's glory on my darkened brow!
Hushed hearts, that quail o'er still despair's last vow,
Breathe awful music 'neath a stranger's touch,
And minds, that rocky as their fortunes grow,
Like mountain torrents gush when tasked too much—
They bear long years, but dare not feel their burden such.
Though shook by every gale, yet, rooted, deep,
Youth's hapless love lives through all power of change!
Too pure to shrink, too proud to wail or weep,
It fills all things with memories vast and strange;
Where'er the rainbow bends or sunbeams range,
Or lightning flames or thunder heralds God,
In ruined castle or romantic grange,
It gathers flowers to clothe its native sod,
And o'er the birthplace hangs where young hearts rushed abroad.
Youth's hapless love lives through all power of change!
Too pure to shrink, too proud to wail or weep,
It fills all things with memories vast and strange;
Where'er the rainbow bends or sunbeams range,
Or lightning flames or thunder heralds God,
In ruined castle or romantic grange,
It gathers flowers to clothe its native sod,
And o'er the birthplace hangs where young hearts rushed abroad.
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The wasted heart retains its earliest glow,
As trampled flowers their odour, not their bloom—
Though doomed no more the thrilling bliss to know,
That threw its angel glance beyond the tomb;
Mid all that can man's lion heart illume,
Mid all his boundless hopes, ambitions, fears,
One image steals o'er all its glow and gloom,
Troubling the fountain of forbidden tears,
And fading not, though borne far down the sea of years.
As trampled flowers their odour, not their bloom—
Though doomed no more the thrilling bliss to know,
That threw its angel glance beyond the tomb;
Mid all that can man's lion heart illume,
Mid all his boundless hopes, ambitions, fears,
One image steals o'er all its glow and gloom,
Troubling the fountain of forbidden tears,
And fading not, though borne far down the sea of years.
The worn mind clings to this—this beautifies
The temple it must ruin; all things sink
Into one passion;—life of earth and skies
Becomes a frenzied ecstacy to drink
The poison-cup, from which we vainly shrink,
The deep cup brimmed with deathless destinies!
Hurled on by agony, which cannot think,
We search vast ocean and world-studded skies
For one sweet home to rest from grief that never dies.
The temple it must ruin; all things sink
Into one passion;—life of earth and skies
Becomes a frenzied ecstacy to drink
The poison-cup, from which we vainly shrink,
The deep cup brimmed with deathless destinies!
Hurled on by agony, which cannot think,
We search vast ocean and world-studded skies
For one sweet home to rest from grief that never dies.
Again—and yet again, my earliest love—
Ellen! thou fabled Clara of my song!
My lonely heart, unchanged, is doomed to prove
A sleepless watcher o'er thy nameless wrong—
An unseen visitant, who roams along
Thy desert way, and loves to trace thy tread,
Though downward tending where Oppression strong
No more can bow thy wildly throbbing head,
Nor gore thy bosom fair among the sceptered dead!
Ellen! thou fabled Clara of my song!
My lonely heart, unchanged, is doomed to prove
A sleepless watcher o'er thy nameless wrong—
An unseen visitant, who roams along
Thy desert way, and loves to trace thy tread,
Though downward tending where Oppression strong
No more can bow thy wildly throbbing head,
Nor gore thy bosom fair among the sceptered dead!
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Pale, chilled, and passionless, thine image steals,
With wrought brow, hollow cheek, and faded eyes,
O'er me when most the quickened spirit feels,
The soundless hour of midnight phantasies;
Then pallid Memory on dark wings flies,
Like birds to Tinian's isle from ocean's storm,
To thee and love, romance and May-night skies,
And for an hour it slumbers 'neath the charm,
That, as an angel garb, hath ever wrapt thy form.
With wrought brow, hollow cheek, and faded eyes,
O'er me when most the quickened spirit feels,
The soundless hour of midnight phantasies;
Then pallid Memory on dark wings flies,
Like birds to Tinian's isle from ocean's storm,
To thee and love, romance and May-night skies,
And for an hour it slumbers 'neath the charm,
That, as an angel garb, hath ever wrapt thy form.
Then, in communion with eternal days,
I clothe my soul in sanctities, and yearn
For that restoring hour when scorn or praise
Shall mock no more the heart that cannot learn
To quench the shrine where love's first odours burn;
When courteous speech shall sanction spotted crime,
And tyrants from their sacrifices turn
No more exulting, but, beyond all time,
True hearts, long sundered, clasp in glory's realms sublime.
I clothe my soul in sanctities, and yearn
For that restoring hour when scorn or praise
Shall mock no more the heart that cannot learn
To quench the shrine where love's first odours burn;
When courteous speech shall sanction spotted crime,
And tyrants from their sacrifices turn
No more exulting, but, beyond all time,
True hearts, long sundered, clasp in glory's realms sublime.
We feast on hope as 't were our vital food—
And linger o'er it with a vain delight;
We banquet on the air when tempests brood,
And breathe the rose when at its heart is blight!
Misguided, hopeless pilgrims of the night,
Grasping at shadows in an unknown land,
Victims of visions, gathering wrong from right,
With foes behind us and on either hand,
And led by danger on where giant fiends command.
And linger o'er it with a vain delight;
We banquet on the air when tempests brood,
And breathe the rose when at its heart is blight!
Misguided, hopeless pilgrims of the night,
Grasping at shadows in an unknown land,
Victims of visions, gathering wrong from right,
With foes behind us and on either hand,
And led by danger on where giant fiends command.
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'Would I had been thy brother! life had then
Been pleasant to thee, and thy virgin smile
Had lingered yet—like twilight in the glen,
Revealing a bright spirit!—to beguile
Thy little cares, with deep and patient toil
To build a quiet refuge for thy rest,
To love thee with a hallowed love, and pile
Blessings around—in each myself most blest—
Had been my daily joy—so joy was in thy breast.
Been pleasant to thee, and thy virgin smile
Had lingered yet—like twilight in the glen,
Revealing a bright spirit!—to beguile
Thy little cares, with deep and patient toil
To build a quiet refuge for thy rest,
To love thee with a hallowed love, and pile
Blessings around—in each myself most blest—
Had been my daily joy—so joy was in thy breast.
But thou art fated to endure reproof,
Linked to a serpent evil none can rend—
Doomed to the dismal refuge of a roof
Whence hope was banished by thy nearest friend—
Creating images of woe where blend
All separate features of thy own despair—
And, worse than madness, destined to depend
On him who peopled all thy landscape fair
With grief, repentance, doubt, and cold and crushing care!
Linked to a serpent evil none can rend—
Doomed to the dismal refuge of a roof
Whence hope was banished by thy nearest friend—
Creating images of woe where blend
All separate features of thy own despair—
And, worse than madness, destined to depend
On him who peopled all thy landscape fair
With grief, repentance, doubt, and cold and crushing care!
And I, when vesper lifts its diamond brow,
And zephyrs glide in music through the grove,
Oft sink in anguish o'er thy fate, as now,
And sanctify thy sacrilege of love!
Where'er o'er earth my wayward passions rove,
To thee ne'er faithless, still to Derby's wood
They turn enchanted—and ascend above.
When by that silent forest shore we stood,
Rememberest thou, lost love?—the sun went down in blood!
And zephyrs glide in music through the grove,
Oft sink in anguish o'er thy fate, as now,
And sanctify thy sacrilege of love!
Where'er o'er earth my wayward passions rove,
To thee ne'er faithless, still to Derby's wood
They turn enchanted—and ascend above.
When by that silent forest shore we stood,
Rememberest thou, lost love?—the sun went down in blood!
| Abaddon, the spirit of destruction ; and other poems | |