Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert)

Let no rude noise, no idle laughter, stain
This sacred bower's retreat, this silent shade:
Hence, frolic joy; hence, pleasure's gilded train,
That smile in summer's ray, in winter's tempest fade!

Hence, sceptred vanity, profane desires!
Hence fell ambition, with uplifted eye,
That, rising still, to loftier scenes aspires!
Hence purple pride of kings, and mobs' unhallowed cry!

But thou, sweet nymph, who fliest the noise of courts
To seek some lonely grot, some hermit's cell,
Where neither lust nor avarice resort,
Where no tumultuous joys, no martial terrors dwell,—

With me into this solemn grove retire,
And by the slowly trickling stream reclined,
To sympathetic numbers tune the lyre,
And hush the voice of care, and soothe my anguished mind.

Here by this limpid fount and moss-grown cave,
Where boughs impending cast a checkered shade,
And sedge-crowned nymphs their sea-green tresses wave,
Gliding with timid foot along the watery glade;

Here, where no mortal footsteps e'er pollute
The sacred stillness of this hallowed bower;
Here, where the idle voice of mirth is mute,
And every gentle gale obeys thy secret power,—

At eve, retiring from the restless crowd,
Thou lay'st thy head upon the mossy couch,
And all around diffused, a magic cloud
Protects thy holy form from Pleasure's wanton touch.

And near thy sister Meditation lies,
Deep wrapt in thought, with look depressed on ground;
And ever and anon she lifts her eyes,
And with mysterious glance in silence rolls them round.

Beneath this grot, which tumults ne'er pollute,
With thee the pensive muses oft retire,
And softly sound the sweetly breathing flute,
Or to pathetic strains attune the golden lyre.

Not to such numbers as the Teian bard
Erst by lascivious Pleasure's impulse sung,
Whilst Cupids breathed out every honeyed word,
And perched on every string the wanton chorus hung,

But notes which Zephyr wafteth through the trees—
Melodious strains of tender harmony,
That hush each rising gale, each stirring breeze,
And lull the soul with sounds of gentlest sympathy.

Drawn by thy voice the Naiads seek thy bower,
And slowly o'er the glassy surface glide:
Thy influence, lovely nymph, thy sacred power,
Can soothe the wretch's woe, and bend the tyrant's pride.

From me the sweet delusive siren Mirth,
And revelling Comus' jovial train, are flown;
Gay Pleasure sternly frowned upon my birth,
But thou with placid smile didst mark me for thine own.

Not with the pangs that rend the tortured heart,
Not with the weight of unrelenting grief,
Of wild despair, the fury's venomed dart,
When every hope is gone, and naught can bring relief.

Thou, heavenly maid, with majesty serene,
With solemn sweetness and with pensive eye,
Immersed in peaceful thought art ever seen,
And now steals forth a tear, and now a tender sigh.

Here by thy altar's flame, thy hallowed shrine,
My soul a faithful votary shall lie;
Here let me oft with placid brow recline,
And by thy influence live, and by thy influence die.

University of Virginia Library

TO MELANCHOLY.