 | Poems |  |
49
LINES.
Love! a life-long mist of sorrow,
Lifted from my pathway now,
Not a cloud remains in shadow,
On my heart, or on my brow;
Crowned by thee, imperial Passion
Thrills all space with starry light,
And our misery's baffled demons,
Vanish with the waning night.
Lifted from my pathway now,
Not a cloud remains in shadow,
On my heart, or on my brow;
Crowned by thee, imperial Passion
Thrills all space with starry light,
And our misery's baffled demons,
Vanish with the waning night.
'Neath the rays of this new Splendor,
Drooping hopes like flowers expand,
And my soul is wild with music,
Fainting from Elysian-land;
Scarcely can the Angels hymning
Praise, where Bliss and Glory meet,
Utter by the streams of Adenne
Strains more solemn and more sweet.
Drooping hopes like flowers expand,
And my soul is wild with music,
Fainting from Elysian-land;
Scarcely can the Angels hymning
Praise, where Bliss and Glory meet,
Utter by the streams of Adenne
Strains more solemn and more sweet.
50
Solemn! for they come a prelude
To the strife, where still we may
Keep our spirits white and blameless,
As in life's auroral day;
Sweet! because they murmur gently,
Like a voice whose silver tone
Falls as fall the shaded fountains,
In the wild-woods, dim and lone.
To the strife, where still we may
Keep our spirits white and blameless,
As in life's auroral day;
Sweet! because they murmur gently,
Like a voice whose silver tone
Falls as fall the shaded fountains,
In the wild-woods, dim and lone.
Dost thou ask me if I love thee?
Ay! with love our God hath given,
Strong to scorn man's false conventions,
Saintly, like the love in Heaven:
Do I love thee?—ah! divinest,
Human language faints and dies,
While the pale lips strive to falter
What speaks only in the eyes.
Ay! with love our God hath given,
Strong to scorn man's false conventions,
Saintly, like the love in Heaven:
Do I love thee?—ah! divinest,
Human language faints and dies,
While the pale lips strive to falter
What speaks only in the eyes.
There are solemn depths of Passion,
Whose divine, sonorous roll,
Maketh Passion's self to ponder,
Listening to her own great soul;
Depths, undiscovered, untranslated,
Tremulous as a voice of tears,
But sublime as that high chorus,
Pealing from the march of spheres.
Whose divine, sonorous roll,
Maketh Passion's self to ponder,
Listening to her own great soul;
Depths, undiscovered, untranslated,
Tremulous as a voice of tears,
But sublime as that high chorus,
Pealing from the march of spheres.
51
Come, Belovèd! clasp me closer,
Let me feel thy faithful breast,
Panting with a tropic rapture,
Sinking to a trancèd rest;
Sit we here with amorous Twilight
Broken into dusky bars,
And a chastened shower of glory
Raining round us from the stars.
Let me feel thy faithful breast,
Panting with a tropic rapture,
Sinking to a trancèd rest;
Sit we here with amorous Twilight
Broken into dusky bars,
And a chastened shower of glory
Raining round us from the stars.
| Poems | |