[Poems by Wilde in] Richard Henry Wilde :: :: University of Virginia Library

Who knows not that of late, though patient long,
And loving peace, till peace herself grew vile,
Our country raised at length her battle song,
And hurled defiance to the haughty isle,
That still with open force, or secret guile,
Urges reluctant nations to prolong
The flame that lights their own funereal pile,
Claiming from power the right of doing wrong,
Owning no law save such as suits the strong?

Who knows not, too, how many a gallant band,
Such as e'en Sparta's self were proud to own,
Rushed to the summons, seized the glittering brand,

104

Ere the first spirit-stirring trump had blown,
Eager their country's injuries to atone,
And all her glory, all her danger share:
For who that hears my rude harp's faltering tone,
Had not some brother, friend, or kinsman there,
To claim full oft a wish, a sigh, a prayer?

I too had once a brother! He was there
Among the foremost, bravest of the brave:
For him this lay was framed with fruitless care;
Sisters for him the sigh in secret gave;
For him a mother poured the fervent prayer—
But sigh or prayer availeth not to save!
A generous victim in a villain's snare,
He found a bloody, but inglorious grave,
And never nobler heart was reached by baser [glaive]!

FRAGMENT II

The morn breaks gloriously!—the wind is fair—
The bugle sounds, the boatswain's whistle cheers,
The word is past—for parting all prepare,
And many a lovely cheek is wet with tears:
Brief space such scenes allow for woman's fears!
A few fond words—a kiss—a short embrace—
Thus sever they who meet no more for years!
Perhaps who never meet on earth again!
But mad Ambition only stops to trace
His score of millions spent and thousands slain!
The dreadful reckoning of the human race
With him, war, pestilence, and all his train,
He sees not, or, if seen, regards with cold disdain!

All are embarked!—the signal-gun they fire!—
The gallant pinnace bounds before the wind,
And dances on the waters! Mast and spire
And tower and tree and town are left behind!
And those who watch the bark receding, find
Distance and sorrow's mists obscure her sail:
The bar is past—the fresh'ning breeze is kind—
The pilot parts—round go the laugh and tale,
And joyous thus the song floats far upon the gale!

105

SEA SONG

Sons of the deep! Ye spirits brave,
Whose victories saved a nation's fame,
From whom the ruler of the wave
First learned the pangs of fear and shame!
To you the cup is flowing free,
To you we fill, where'er you roam,
Whether you brave the stormy sea,
Or dare the thunderer on his home.

Skilful and bold—in hardship nurs'd—
By horrour taught—by peril tried—
In danger and in glory first—
Your country's hope, her joy, her pride!
To your loved names, ye gallant few,
Our souls the song of triumph raise,
And after years shall swell for you
“The fondly lingering notes of praise.”

Long may your flag its lustre shed
O'er the wild waters of the main;
Long may the laurel crown your head,
And never, never wear a stain.
To you, with soul-enamouring beam,
Dear woman's melting eye shall turn,
Your deeds shall be the sage's theme,
And o'er the story youth shall burn!

FRAGMENT III

“By heaven!” said Jacques, as carelessly he flung
His tired limbs to earth, “this life for me!
'Tis sweet, when every sinew is unstrung,
Outstretched at length beneath the greenwood-tree,
To rest from every care and sorrow free—
Keenly to feast on coarse and homely cheer,
To mark our soldiers' rude but honest glee,
Then lay us down without a hope or fear,
And soundly sleep till reveillée we hear!”

106

FRAGMENT IV

'Tis many moons ago—a long, long time,
Since first upon this shore a white man trod;
From the great waters to the mountain clime,
This was our home—'twas giv'n us by the GOD
That gave you yours. Love ye your native sod?
So did our fathers too! for they were MEN—
They fought to guard it—for their hearts were brave—
And long they fought!—We were a people then!
This was our country—it is now our GRAVE—
Would I had never lived—or died this land to save!

When first ye came, your numbers were but few,
Our nation many as the leaves or sand;
Hungry and tired ye were—we pitied you—
We called you brothers—took you by the hand;
But soon we found ye came to spoil the land:
We quarrelled—and your countrymen we slew,
Till one alone of all, remained behind—
Among the false he only had been true—
And much we loved this man of single mind,
And ever while he lived to him were kind.

He loved us too, and taught us many things,
And much we strove the stranger's heart to glad;
But to its kindred still the spirit clings,
And therefore was his soul for ever sad;
Nor other wish nor joy the lone one had,
Save on the solitary shore to roam,
Or sit and gaze for hours upon the deep
That rolled between him and his native home;
And when he thought none marked him, he would weep,
Or sing this song of wo[e] which still our maidens keep:

LAMENT OF THE CAPTIVE

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
And, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die:
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews of night are shed;
As if she wept such waste to see—
But none shall drop a tear for me!

107

My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail—its date is brief—
Restless, and soon to pass away:
Yet, when that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The wind bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the print, which feet
Have left on TAMPA's desert strand.
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
Their track will vanish from the sand:
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea,
But none shall thus lament for me!

117

Poems: Fugitive and Occasional

TO IOLE

Multa quidem scripsi: sed quae vitiosa putavi
Emendaturis ignibus ipse dedi.
Tum quoque, cùm fugerem, quaedam placitura cremavi
Iratus studio, carminusque meis.—
Ovid. Tristia. Lib. IV El. X

Sweet Iole! with pure and warm emotion,
I lay these worthless offerings at thy shrine,
And with them a true heart whose fond devotion
Is such as sister saints might feel for thine:
Grant me thy prayers!—and oh! disdain not mine—
But if henceforth none ever hear or see
Our cherished creed avouch'd by word or sign
It is because men call idolatry
The worship we have always deemed divine.
The World's misjudging incredulity
Allows no sacred light on earth to shine
Or understands it not if seen—and we
Must the true faith in our soul's cell confine
Or brave the persecutor's cruelty.

118

SOLOMON AND THE GENIE

“At the sight of so terrible a figure, the fisherman would have fled, but was too much terrified. ‘Solomon, Solomon, the great Prophet!’ exclaimed the Genie, ‘pardon, pardon, pardon! I never more will oppose your will!’ The fisherman hearing this took courage, and said ‘Thou proud spirit what is it thou talkest of? It is 1800 years ago since the prophet Solomon died. Tell me your history and how you came to be shut up in that vessel.’ The Genie, turning to his deliverer with a fierce look, said, ‘thou art very bold to call me a proud spirit. Speak to me more civilly lest I kill thee.’ ‘What’ replied the fisherman ‘would you kill me for setting you at liberty? Is that the way you reward the service I have done you?’ ‘I can't treat you otherwise’ replied the Genie, ‘and that you may be convinced of it listen to my story: I am one of those rebellious spirits, who opposed themselves to the will of Heaven. The other Genies owned Solomon the great prophet, and submitted to him. Sacar and I only resisted. That potent monarch caused me to be seized and brought by force before his throne.’”

Arabian Nights

119

Spirit of Thought! Lo! art thou here?
Lord of the false fond ceaseless spell
That mocks the heart, the eye the ear:—
In human bosoms dost thou dwell
Self-exiled from thy native sphere,
Or is the human mind thy cell
Of torment?—to inflict and bear
Thy doom?—the doom of all who fell.
Since thou hast sought to prove my skill
Unquestioned thou shalt not depart,
Be thy behests or good, or ill,
No matter what, or whence thou art:
I will commune with thee apart,
Yea, and compel thee to my will
If thou hast power to yield my heart
What Earth and Heaven deny it still.
I know thee Spirit! thou hast been
Light of my soul by night and day,
All-seeing, though thyself unseen,
My dreams—my thoughts—and what are they
But visions of a calmer ray—
All, all were thine—and thine between
Each hope that melted fast away
The throb of anguish, deep and keen.
With thee I've searched the earth, the sea,
The air, sun, stars, man, nature, time,
Explored the universe with thee,
Plunged to the depths of woe and crime,
Or dared the fearful height to climb
Where amid glory none may see
And live, the Eternal reigns sublime
Who is, and was, and is to be!
And I have sought, with thee have sought
Wisdom's celestial path to tread,
Hung o'er each page with learning fraught,
Questioned the living and the dead;
The Patriarchs of ages fled—
The Prophets of the time to come—
All who one ray of light could shed
Beyond the cradle or the tomb.

120

And I have tasked my busy brain
To learn what haply none may know;
Thy birth, seat, power—thine ample reign
O'er the heart's tides, that ebb and flow,
Throb, languish, whirl, rage, freeze, or glow,
Like billows of the restless main
Above the wrecks of joy and woe
By ocean's caves preserved in vain.
And oft, to shadow forth I strove
To my mind's eye, a form like thine,
And still my soul like Noah's dove
Returned, but brought alas! no sign:
'Till wearying in the mad design
With fevered brow and throbbing vein
I left the cause to thread the mine
Of wonderful effects again.
But now I see thee face to face
Thou art indeed a thing divine
An eye pervading time and space
And an angelic look are thine,
Ready to seize, compare, combine,
Essence and form—and yet a trace
Of grief and care a shadowy line
Dims thy bright forehead's heavenly grace.
Yet thou must be of heavenly birth
Where naught is known of grief or pain;
Though I perceive alas! where Earth
And earthly things have left their stain:
From thine high calling didst thou deign
To prove—in folly or in mirth—
With daughters of the first born Cain
How little Human Love was worth?
Ha! dost thou change before my eyes?
Another form! and yet the same,
But lovelier, and of female guise
Such as our heart's despair can frame
Pine for, love, worship, idolize,
Like Her's who from the sea-foam came,
And lives but in the heart or skies.

121

Spirit of Change! I know thee too,
I know thee by thine Iris bow,
By thy cheeks ever-shifting hue
By all that marks thy steps below,
By sighs that burn and tears that glow—
False hopes—vain joys that mock the heart
From Fancy's urn, these evils flow
Spirit of Lies! for such thou art!
Saidst thou not once that all the charms
Of life lay hid in woman's love
And to be lock'd in Beauty's arms
Was all man knew of Heaven above?
And did I not thy counsels prove
With all their pleasure, all their pain
No more, no more my heart they move
For I alas! have proved them vain!
Didst thou not then, in evil hour
Light in my soul Ambition's flame
Didst thou not say the joys of Power
Unbounded sway—undying fame
A Monarch's love alone should claim?
And did I not pursue all these,
And are they not when won the same
All Vanity of Vanities?
Didst not to tempt me once again
Bid new deceitful visions rise
And hint though won with toil and pain
“Wisdom's the pleasure of the Wise”
And now when none beneath the skies
Are wiser held by men than me
What is the value of the prize
It too alas! is Vanity
Then tell me!—since I've found on earth
Not one pure stream to slake this thirst
Which still torments us from our birth
And in our heart and soul is nurst
This hopeless wish wherewith we're curst,
Whence came it, and why was it given?
Thou speak'st not!—Let me know the worst
Thou pointest!—and it is to Heaven!

122

[Farewell fair Florence! not I hope forever]

Farewell fair Florence! not I hope forever,
Once more I yet may see thee—Who can tell?
With thee and thine it is a pang to sever
I had not thought to feel again. ... Farewell!

Florence farewell! the memories earthly cherished
That for long years in my hearts core did dwell
By Time and Death and Chance and Change have perished
Thou and thine only now are left! ... Farewell!

Farewell! farewell! ... and if indeed forever—
The thoughts untold that in my bosom swell

123

Can never be forgotten!—never! never!
Blessings on thee and thine! ... Farewell! Farewell!

Farewell! once more—If the enfranchised spirit
May haunt the spots it loved in life so well
'Till Earth dissolve with all it doth inherit
Mine shall be with thee Florence still! ... Farewell!

FRAGMENT

[OMITTED]

'Tis many moons ago—a long long time
Since first upon this shore a white man trod—
From the great water to the mountain clime
This was our home—'twas given us by the God
That gave ye yours—Love ye your native sod?
So did our fathers too, for they were men,
They fought to guard it for their hearts were brave,
And long they fought—We were a people then!
This was our country—it is now our grave—
Would I had never lived or died this land to save!

When first ye came your numbers were but few
Our nation many as the leaves or sand:
Hungry and tired ye were—we pitied you—
We called you brothers—took ye by the hand—
But soon we found ye came to rob the land:
We quarrelled—and your countrymen we slew,
'Till one alone of all remained behind
Among the false he only had been true
And much we loved this man of single mind
And ever while he lived, to him were kind.

He loved us too, and taught us many things,
And much we strove the stranger's heart to glad:
But to it's kindred still the spirit clings
And therefore was his soul forever sad;
No other wish or joy the lone one had
Save on the solitary shore to roam,
Or sit and gaze for hours upon the deep,
That rolled between him and his native home,
And when he thought none marked him he would weep
Or sing his song of woe which still our maidens keep.

124

My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
And ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground to die:
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews of night are shed
As if she wept such waste to see
But none shall drop a tear for me.

My life is like the Autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
It's hold is frail—it's date is brief—
Restless—and soon to pass away—
Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade
The parent tree will mourn it's shade,
The wind bewail the leafless tree
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the print that feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand
Soon as the rising tide shall beat
Their track will vanish from the sand
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race
On that lone shore loud moans the sea
But none shall thus lament for me.

The Indian name of a bay in East Florida called by the Spaniards Espiritu Santo. It was in the neighborhood of that bay that Juan Ortiz was long held in captivity by the Indians, and the verses are founded on his story.

TO ---

Farewell! ... I take no formal leave,
Though lingering round each much loved spot,
For me, I wish no heart to grieve,
Though mine has ne'er one friend forgot.

But who would deem that there could dwell
Beneath the careless mirth they hear
Thoughts, for their depth unfit to tell
Feelings, unbreathed to mortal ear?

125

A fountain sealed—sepulchral lamp—
A sibyls leaf—a funeral urn—
A dim drear vault, where cold and damp
Death and decay's pale vapours burn.

Such is, or such at least may be,
For aught thou knowest, the soul I bear—
No more!—Why should I claim from thee
In weal or woe of mine to share?

I go!—Farewell!—again farewell!
The first slight pang of parting o'er,
With the forgotten past I dwell,
And thou wilt think of me no more.

Like waters of the silvery lake
That o'er the chance-thrown pebble close,
The slight heart-thrill my follies make
Will soon subside to calm repose.

And I shall be as one unknown,
Or if once known remembered not—
Like a fantastic shadow flown,
Or fleeting vision soon forgot.

'Tis wise!—'tis well!—I do not ask
One tear, one sigh from thee or thine:
They chose indifference for their task
Deep sad remembrance, I, for mine!

FORGET ME NOT

Forget me not! where'er we rove
Whate'er may be our varied lot
In stately hall or shady grove
Forget me not! ... forget me not!

Forget me not! O! I could see
Unmoved my name Oblivion blot
So I were but the same to thee
Forget me not! ... forget me not!

Forget me not! on land or main
O! let me never be forgot
In weal or woe—in Joy or Pain
Forget me not! ... forget me not!

126

Forget me not! by every scene
We saw—by each familiar spot—
By all we loved—by all we've been,
Forget me not! ... forget me not!

Forget me not! by every hour
Together passed in wood or grot
By the heart's spell of nameless power
Forget me not! ... forget me not!

Forget me not! though severed far,
By thy dear home—thy nurse's cot
Thy native land—thy natal star
Forget me not! ... forget me not!

THE SIGNS OF LOVE

The sleepless eye,
The frequent tear,
The deep drawn sigh,
Of Hope and Fear
Are they not Love's?

But sighs may feign
And tears betray,
And Guilt and Pain
And slow decay,
Are they not Love's?

Then would'st thou know
The false from true,
Through bliss and woe
Still keep in view,
What signs are Love's?

The silent tear,
The secret sigh,
Unheard by ear,
Unseen by eye,
These, these are Love's!

The looks which hide,
Not those that shew,
What one beside,
Alone should know,
These, these are Love's!

127

Pangs whose kind art
Veils their excess,
That one fond heart
May feel them less:
These, these are Love's!

The powers that reign,
With tranquil air,
O'er untold pain
And mute despair;
These, these are Love's!

The breast that aches
But never swells,
The heart that breaks
Yet never tells,
These, these are Love's!

[The dream of life is over]

The dream of life is over,
The light of love is gone,
O! who would be a rover
On earth like me alone.

My early joys are blighted,
My friends are with the blest,
Deserted and benighted,
I long to be at rest.

My leave of life I'm taking,
I feel this cannot last
Yet though my heart is breaking,
It's sighs are for the past.

I feel my moments flying
But ere I cease to be
My latest prayer when dying
Will be blessings upon thee!

LINES IN AN ALBUM

Dear Record of departed years!
Our thoughts recess—our Memory's fane—
Sacred to all our Hopes and Fears,
To Love and Grief—to Joy and Pain.

128

Recalling many a faded face,
And picturing many an altered mind,
On every page we find a trace
Which those we loved have left behind.

The Heart's Eolian lyre that flings
To every passing breath its tone
Thrilling from wild deep wond'rous strings
A sweet sad music all it's own.

Shrine of past spells—and long lost powers
Map of the soul—affection's chart—
Memorial of fast fading hours—
I hail thee, scripture of the heart!

TO ---

Farewell! ... a word we shrink to speak, or hear,
Of cherished hours the melancholy knell,
Nor heard, nor spoke, without a boding fear
That it may be forever. ... Fare ye well!

Farewell! ... and if forever, will ye not
Think of your friend and the last look he gave?
One thought from you, though by the world forgot
Were as a flower to deck his nameless grave.

Farewell! farewell! ... His pilgrimage of woes
End when, and where, and howsoe'er it will,
Can only bring an aching heart repose
And bid a throbbing brain at length be still.

Farewell! once more ... if e'er his soul finds rest
He might but leave with those he loved a spell
To keep them happy—blessing all and blest
It should be breathed in his last word—Farewell!

[Light be the turf on thy tomb]

Light be the turf on thy tomb!
Bright be the place of thy rest!
Thy spirit has fled in it's beauty and bloom
To its home, the abode of the blest.

The depth of our love and our woe,
And all that this trial hast cost

129

No hearts save those only, can know
Who have owned such a treasure and lost!

We cherish thy memory here,
While in humble affliction we bow,
And Heaven will pardon our sorrow a tear,
Since thou ne'er cost us one until now.

SONNET

Friend of my early days! the same kind soul
Whom as a fair, mild, studious boy I knew,
The tide of feeling bursts from all control
To hail once more those times, those scenes, and you!
Mine was a melancholy youth 'tis true
Born to the orphan's heritage of woe,
Slight leisure love or hope or joy it knew
And soon was quenched the buoyant spirit's flow:
Therefore perhaps, those hours so bright and few
Of happy boyhood on my memory glow
With all imaginations brilliant hue
Sun beams from showers reflected—Even so
Returns the vision of the past anew
Shining through tears the souls celestial bow!

TO ---

Utinam modo dicere possem
Carmina digna Deae.
Ovid.

Seek other bards to hymn thy praise,
It is no theme for lips like mine;
Worthy of purer, holier lays,
A harp and minstrel more divine.

This proud, worn heart may once have known
Some chords that might have claimed thine ear,
Perhaps there lingers yet a tone,
Thou would'st not all disdain to hear.

But I have stirr'd for good and ill,
Too deeply all its secret strings,
Joys maddening note, Grief's freezing thrill
And Disappointment's fiery stings.

130

Extreme and passionate in all,
Love—Hatred—Pleasure—Pain—Disgust—
In stormy flight and endless fall
Above the clouds—below the dust.

No, 'tis too late! ... There was a time
I could perhaps have struck a sound,
Which like the Vespers hallowed chime
Might wake a sacred echo round.

Such strain would well become thy name
A heavenly anthem sweet and calm,
Like incense from the altar's flame
Breathing a more than earthly balm.

But now. ... No more! ... that time is past—
I must not wake one note for thee,
The seal is set—the die is cast
And I fullfill my destiny!

Aye! leave me to my wayward fate,
My praise thy virtues would but stain,
And worth, I may not consecrate,
I prize too highly to prophane.

Then seek somewhere to hear thy praise
It is no theme for lips like mine,
No! it belongs to holier lays,
A harp and minstrel more divine.

LINES FOR MUSIC

Fare thee well! the words are spoken
Can they be unuttered ever? ...
Fare thee well! my heart is broken
But we meet no more wherever!
Never!—never—no, no, never!
No we meet no more forever!

Fare thee well! with bitter anguish
Now I feel that we must sever—
Years like ages, did I languish
Thus to part with thee forever?
Aye! forever ... Ever! ... ever!
Never more to meet, no! never!

131

Fare thee well! thou unforgiving,
Henceforth 'twere a vain endeavour
Faith to find among the living,
Thou hast broke that dream forever!
Ever! ... ever! ... yes!, yes, ever!
Never to return! ... no! never!

THE GUINEA FOWL

On the device of a seal with the legend “Come back!”

There is a sort of feathered scold
Whose note is (if the truth be told)
Much like a vixen's clack,
Morn, noon, and night the sound you hear,
Still ringing in your deafened ear,
“Come back! Come back! Come back!”

When forced to leave a pleasant home,
Upon the world's wide waste to roam,
Our sinking hearts alack!
Feel all their devils doubly blue,
If some of this discordant crew
Cry out, “Come back! Come back!”

But if with travel, toil and pain
Worn out, we're hastening home again,
Our fancy has a knack ...
Of making even discord sweet,
Which seems our own return to greet,
With Wel—“come back, come back!”

My song, much like the throat it mocks,
As shrill as winds and hard as rocks,
(Since rhyme is growing slack)
As it began perforce must end
By crying out with every friend
“Come back! come back! come back!”

LINES ON THE FIRST LEAF OF AN ALBUM

Here Memory, and here too Oblivion dwells:
One o'er the tablet weaves his drowsy spells
The other in the fount her pinion wets
Who writes remembers, she who reads forgets!

132

[I knew that this must end—at first]

I knew that this must end—at first
I said it would be so—
Nor do I grieve to prove the worst
Of long foreboded woe:
I do not shrink from what I bear,
I only feel what thou must share.

I even smile to hear thee chide
My silence—yet suppress
My once free thoughts, because I hide
My pangs, to make thine less:
Though my heart breaks, I do not dare
To add my own to thy despair.

I muse forever on the past
Although I only mourn ...
O'er what I knew could never last
And know can ne'er return:
And thou who sigh'st because I seem
A dreamer—must not know my dream.

I once believed the great relief
Of my full heart would be ...
In every joy and every grief
To share them all with thee;
But I have learned that there are woes
Which I must feel yet ne'er disclose.

Whate'er they are, it matters not
So they are never known—
By me they cannot be forgot,
But must be mine alone:
They will go with me to the tomb,
But shall not cloud thy brow with gloom.

[The future bard of Paradise in youth]

The future bard of Paradise in youth,
Wearied, some half hour on a moss bank slept,
And female beauty, innocence and truth,
Watch o'er his slumbers for an instant kept.

133

He waked—and found—placed there while he reposed,
This sweet Ausonian couplet in his hand—
“Eyes! mortal stars, if thus ye wound me closed,
Open—who could your witchery withstand?”

The circles of their being touched no more—
He never saw her!—Though in after years,
Fair Italy received him on her shore
Aye! and baptised his genius with her tears!

Quenched were those eyes in darkness, want and strife,
He never saw her!—Yet our fancy deems,
To the last moment of his stormy life
A lovely vision haunted all his dreams.

SONNET TO LORD BYRON

Byron! 'tis thine alone on Eagle's pinions
In solitary strength and grandeur soaring
To dazzle and delight all eyes out-pouring
The electric blaze on tyrants and their minions:
Earth, Sea and Air, and Powers, and Dominions,
Nature—Man—Time—the Universe exploring
And from the wreck of Worlds, Thrones, Creeds, Opinions,
Thought, beauty, eloquence, and wisdom storing.
O! how I love, and envy thee thy glory!
To every age and clime alike belonging,
Linked by all tongues, with every nation's story,
Thou Tacitus of song!—whose echoes thronging
O'er the Atlantic, fill the mountains hoary
And forests, with the name my verse is wronging!

[There is a narrow cheerless cell]

Heaven's sovereign spares all creatures but himself
That hideous sight a naked human heart.
Young.

There is a narrow cheerless cell
Silent and sad, and cold and deep,
A living grave, which yet full well
Can its dark dreadful secrets keep.

134

A whited sepulchre—it seems
Goodly enough in outward shew,
And he who marks it, seldom deems,
How much corruption lurks below.

But yet though fair and bright above,
Beneath, the worm hath left her slime,
O'er withered Hope, and ruined love,
Corroding grief and festering crime.

A prison-house—whose tortures shun
The light, yet rend the soul like steel,
A horrid mystery, which none
Can quite suppress, nor quite reveal;

It is the dungeon of despair,
At half its feelings heaven might start,
It's very thoughts would taint the air,
It is, it is—The Human Heart!

[The full levee, the crowded hall]

The full levee, the crowded hall
The gay salon I once could tread,
Mix in the mask, the fête, the ball,
And share them too—those times have fled!

With listless eyes, the giddy throng
So joyous once—so tedious now—
I mark to loathe and scorn—and long
To wear my thoughts upon my brow.

And yet I know and feel full well
The change is not in them but me—
Life has lost Hope's delusive spell
And is—but one sad phantasy.

Fled is the dream that ne'er returns—
Broken charm that ne'er unites—
And my soul faintly dimly burns
Like a past revel's dying lights.

Why should I ghost-like haunt the scene
Of former joys in silent gloom
The mournful shade of what I've been,
The living tenant of a tomb?

135

No! no, to crowds a long farewell
Give me a desert or a cave
The Hermits grot—the friar's cell
Or better still than all—a grave!

REPLY TO SOME MELANCHOLY VERSES BEGINNING “WHY DO WE LIVE?”

Why do we live?
The answer lies
In every flower that springs:
In every star that decks the skies,
In every bird that sings:
In all that makes the Earth so fair,
What would we have which is not there?

Why do we live?
Is there no ear
Such cruel words would wound?
Is there no eye whose ready tear
Would answer to their sound?
We live because our death would throw
On others all our weight of woe!

[In youth's first flush when hearts are light]

In youth's first flush when hearts are light
And hopes are high, and spirits gay,
When all the Earth around seems bright
And life one joyous holiday.

It is not then, when hall or bower
With careless festive steps we tread,
Affection's deepest, purest power,
Upon unsuffering souls is shed.

'Tis when unuttered miseries melt
When our long cherished hopes decay—
When bitter disappointment's felt—
And some desert—and some betray—

O! it is then, one fond true heart
Is tried and proved, and loved and prized,
Like sibyl's leaves the wasted part
But makes the rest more idolized!

136

THE POET TO HIS LYRE

And would they tame thee down my lyre
Checking thy fall and swell
To make thee what—harmonious wire
A modulated shell?
Ah! where were then thy native fire
And thy heart-moving spell?

No! let them teach their tuneful art
To nightingale or dove
Thou canst not be a thing of art
Below it—or above—
Thou'rt but the echo of the heart
The murmur of it's love.

No! as beneath the moonbeam pale
To every breeze that springs,
The sweet wild minstrel of the gale
Her fitful music flings,
So must thy master's strange sad tale
Thrill from thy trembling strings!

AT NIGHT

When life is young
And Hope has flung
O'er all to come her rainbow light
How deeply thrill
Our pulses still
To the light step that comes at night!

When those we loved
Away have roved
And home has lost it's chief delight,
How brisk—how free,
How cheerfully,
Sounds their returning step by night!

When Fortune parts
Two kindred hearts,
And threatens all their joy to blight,
What hopes, what fears,

137

What smiles, what tears,
Wait the light step that comes at Night!

When Love is kind,
And hearts are twined,
In fond affection pure and bright,
How quick the ear,
That waits to hear,
The loved light step that comes at Night!

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM

When the lone exile sees at last
His loved his early home once more,
How rushes on his mind the past
How his full heart at length runs o'er!

Yet every face and spot he knew,
Are seen with mingled joy and pain,
To mark of all he left, how few,
Hearts, hopes, or scenes unchanged remain.

And thus perhaps, in after years,
To turn these leaves will but recall,
Moments of smiles, and days of tears,
Friends, joys, hopes, loves, all lost! all! all!

SONNET

Calm mother of the night! on whose wild brow
Love—Solitude—High thought, and Peace have thrown
Immortal loveliness which shines even now
As in creation's infancy it shone;
When first serenely from thy starry throne
On Earth thou gazed ..., as on thy sleeping child,
And watched its couch in silence, and alone,
And tranquilly upon its slumbers smiled.
Now bowed with years—and more—with crimes defiled,
Its infancy and innocence are o'er
While there eternal Beauty pure and mild,
Lonely and sweet and pensive as before
Falls on our hearts—and all their passions wild
Beneath thine eye maternal throb no more!

138

WRITTEN ON THE LEAF OF AN ALBUM UNDER TWO DOVES BILLING

Ye dear little doves,
Whose innocent loves,
So pleasantly rhyming, our poets delight;
And billing, and cooing,
Wedding or wooing,
Your bills on our billets-doux sweetly unite.

I protest my heart thrills,
At the sight of your bills,
Such accounts, and discounts, I should like to arrange
But say what ye will,
It were much better still,
To exchange both your bills for a bill of Exchange.

SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS

Flow on silver stream to the Ocean!
Through thy margin of osiers and willows
Thou fleest with eager and tremulous motion
To court the embrace of its billows:
'Till sinking at length on their bosom to bliss
In the transport of constant devotion
They welcome their wanderer home with a kiss
Of the deepest and purest emotion.
Thy stream like the loitering Scamander's
Through mazes tow'rd pleasure is winding
But alas! for my poor heart that wanders
Amid objects forever reminding
Sad thought, that Life vainly meanders
Lost hopes, and past joys never finding!

EPIGRAM ON A DULL PREACHER FROM THE ITALIAN OF RONCALLI

On the miseries of life and mankind's wretched lot
A very long lesson you teach:
But sure the worst misery of all you've forgot
The misery of hearing you preach!

139

SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS

My years were short and troubled upon earth,
And all my moments wretched though so few;
The bitter boon Fate gave me at my birth
Ere my fifth lustre ended she withdrew.
Strange lands and unknown seas I wandered through
Seeking for life some palliative or cure,
But that which no kind chance before me threw
Nor travel, toil, nor peril might procure
Nor all that mortal man could dare or do
Devise—attempt—encounter—or endure.
On Lusitania's nursing breast I grew
My home Alemquer and the sea my grave:
A tyrants jealousy the cause that drew
Destruction on my head—it's cause a slave!

EPITAPH ON A POET FROM THE ITALIAN OF RONCALLI

Beneath this stone a poet's bones lie cold:
Innumerable odes he made—and sold—
Think, reader think, how many lies he told!

SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS

‘Campo nas Syrtes deste mar da vida’ &c

To thee sunny isle in this ocean of life,
Last hope of the shipwrecked I fly!
Thou art dear as are moments of bliss after strife
Or bright spots in a storm-clouded sky:
O'er the foes whom I shun there's no conquest but flight
And if place changes fortune, at last I change mine
The victory's sure—and I hail with delight
O'er love and ambition a triumph divine:
I'll while life away, in these calm shady bowers
Where the murmur of waters falls sweet on the ear,
Where the Autumn brings fruits and the Summer gives flowers
And the Nightingale's love song is heard all the year;
Where buried forever past cares, and lost powers,
Content and Repose shall become doubly dear!

140

[Cast up a wreck by Fortune's tide]

Cast up a wreck by Fortune's tide,
The ebbing wave in this lone bay
Has left me by the ocean's side
Mouldering in sure and slow decay;
Love, Hope, Fame, Power, have past away
And with them Joy and Grief and Pride
I live but in my thoughts, and they
Are of the things that long have died!

TO ---

But yesterday, these flowers
Hung blooming on their stem;
But yesterday, my hours,
Were bright and gay like them:

Tomorrow, faded—perished—
They will be flung away;
So the fond hopes I cherished,
Must wither with today!

LINES WRITTEN IN MARY[']S ‘RELIQUIARIUM’

Hail to these venerable wrecks of Time!
Precious and rare memorials of the brave,
The wise—the good—the great of every clime
Where Man is not—or should not be—a slave!

To these most sacred treasures of the heart
In deep, devout humility I bow,
Linger before the shrine, and loath to part
Repeat my ‘ave’ and renew my vow.

An unknown lonely Pilgrim from afar,
By shipwreck on the World's wide desert cast,
My only guide a solitary star,
I reached this Temple's vestibule at last;

And bending thus, as at Loretto's fane,
I pour most fervently my secret prayer,
That after years like centuries of pain,
I too, the Virgin-Mother's Peace share.

141

Offering alas! it is not mine to make—
I have none worthy of Madonna's name,
To meditate and worship, for her sake—
Not to record my piety, I came.

But yet if more than silver, gems, or gold,
Avail the widow's mite, and sinner's tear,
A tribute never to be bought or sold,
The honest tribute of the heart, is here!

[Mary farewell! Like the ill-omened toll]

Mary farewell! Like the ill-omened toll
Of tocsin, curfew hour, or passing bell
That word of fear and misery strikes the soul
With an unutterable pang—Farewell!

Farewell! to one so lov'd, so idolized,
So praised—so flatter'd—humble verse can tell
No novelty—thou know'st how thou art prized—
How much thou wilt be missed & mourned—Farewell!

Farewell! farewell! the parting hour is nigh,
When silently, the bursting heart must swell,
With all that Earth but utters in a sigh,
The exstacy of wretchedness!—Farewell!

Farewell! once more—how many an hour of years
Are in those words! O! that they were a spell
To save thy heart from woe—thine eyes from tears—
And I would die in breathing them!—Farewell!

Farewell! farewell!—if on the loveliest scene
At Twilight's hour, the Day's departing knell,
Should but recall the half of all I've been,
Wilt thou not long for me?—Farewell! farewell!

LOVE AND REASON ON THE DEVICE OF A SEAL REASON GIVING WINGS TO LOVE WITH THE LEGEND “SE VEDE, VOLA”

Venus once bound on Cupid's eyes
A fillet stolen from Fancy's bow,

142

And sent him wandering from the skies
To seek his fortune here below.

With face of sun-shine soul of mirth
He roved through wood and mead and bower
Making a sweeter heaven on earth
Such was of Fancy's spell the power.

Sometimes he thought he chased through air
The loveliest butterflies—and laugh'd
While wounding many a bosom fair
To see them fluttering on his shaft.

Reason who found an infant boy
Blindfold, alone, and far astray
In hopes to give the urchin joy
In pity tore the web away.

Love saw—but with returning sight
Vanished the charm by Fancy given
Earth now for him held no delight
And the boy longed and pined for heaven.

Her own rash kindness Reason blamed
And the fond spell would fain restore,
It might not be—her power it shamed
The fillet would unite no more!

“Go! then,” she cries and o'er him flings
Down pinions of most rosy hue,
“Go say 'twas Reason gave thee wings!”
The urchin smiled, obeyed and flew!

Lovers, who listen to the tale,
Mark well the moral it supplies,
Do not let Reason rend Love's veil
Remember if he sees he flies!

Every one will at once trace the origin of these lines to Moore's Love and Reason and Lord Byron's—“Love has no gift so grateful as his wings.”

[Bright as the diamond of the mine]

Bright as the diamond of the mine
Soft as the azure of the sky,
Of earthly things the most divine,
Is woman's eye.

143

Gay sweet and warm as laughing beams
Sporting around a sunny isle,
Or glittering spray from falling streams,
Is woman's smile.

Melodious as the soft south breeze
The voice of waters, song of birds,
Or ripple slight of summer seas,
Are woman's words.

Delicious as the breath of Spring
At morn upon the mountain's tip,
While flowers their odours round her fling,
Is Woman's lip.

Pure soft and mild as silver light
That smiles upon us from above
Shed by the orbs that rule the night
Is Woman's Love!

“... [Manu,] the great lawgiver of Hindustan's long catalogue of things pure and impure, says the ‘mouth of a woman is constantly pure,’ and he ranks it with the running waters and the sun beams. He suggests that their names should be agreeable, soft, clear captivating the fancy auspicious, ending in long vowels, resembling words of benediction.”

Tod's Rajahst'han. Vol. 1. p. 611

[At home, with other friends, in after years]

At home, with other friends, in after years,
When scenes together trod, thou shalt recall
And Italy returns mid smiles and tears
Florence—Rome—Naples—Baiae—Paestum—all!

With them may come the thought of one whose name
Might never else have crossed thy lips or mind:
One, who with thee and them, found more than fame,
And less than Memory would not leave behind.

FEMALE INFLUENCE

I own I love the boundless sway
To woman's gentle spirit given
It cheers life's dull and dreary way
And smooths the path to hell or heaven.

144

And she too, in her joys and woes
Such is great Nature's mingled plan
Seeks in her turn support—repose—
Affection—Confidence—from man.

The son upon his mother's heart
In all his boyish cares relies,
In every grief she bears a part
And every little want supplies.

The daughter in her sire's embrace
Feels of her wildest whim secure,
How could he frown on such a face
Or chide a thing so sweet—so pure?

Of mutual hearts—maturer years
Marriage, and love—I will not sing
Most know—or may—their smiles and tears
Hopes, Joys, “and all that sort of thing.”

But even in Piety, love shares,
Men's orisons Madonnas claim,
While Joseph hears most female prayers
Or would—but for his luckless name.

SONNET

The friendless captive in his lonely tower
Which air and light and liberty denies,
Forgotten victim of despotic power
Consumes his bitter life in useless sighs:
For him in vain suns rise, and set, and rise,
And moons of tranquil beauty wax and wane,
On the calm azure of the star-lit skies,
For mountain, stream, and wood, and earth and main,
Are hid forever from his grief-worn eyes,
Which drop their fruitless tears like desert rain,
Only to rust the more his cankered chain.
So I heart-prisoned, from whose love hope flies
Reft of all life, save what is wrung from pain,
In darkness nurse the worm that never dies!

ON BREAKING THE CHAIN OF A LOCKET

I've worn it in my bosom night and day
A talisman of bliss ... and now the chain

145

Which bore it breaks—Is it an omen say!
That we too sever ne'er to meet again?

Aye! 'tis the curse of gold to sunder so,
All all the ties that love and nature twine
Take the freed pledge!—'tis yours—yes take it—go!
The severed chain and broken heart are mine!

[What Alchemy's empiric art]

What Alchemy's empiric art
Found not with all its boasted powers
Life's true elixir—is a heart
Blended by mutual love with our's.

Unbounded wealth—perpetual youth—
Eternal life—what are they all
Compared with fond unwavering Truth
Heaven's only relic since the fall.

Who that has loved and been beloved
Would change for all the world can give
The one bright spell his heart has proved
Without which 'tis not life to live.

Birth—Riches—Talent—Glory—Friends,
All man can ask or fate supply
Are nothing 'till affection lends
It's own delicious Alchemy.

Whence has all Joy and Beauty birth?
Who lights the sun the stars the wave?
Whose magic gladdens Heaven and Earth?
Whose eye first pierced beyond the grave?

Love! Love, Almighty love! reply
All those who worship and rejoice—
But absence-tortured votaries sigh
And bitter Memory finds no voice!

[It was as if he had been cast]

It was as if he had been cast
Alone upon a desert shore,
Silent but for the tempest's blast
Deathlike but for the ocean's roar.

146

It is as if at once he found
To minister unto him there
One who made all enchanted ground
A gentle spirit of the air

It was as if his heart had died
And turned his bosom to a tomb
Where young affection hope and pride
Lay wrapped in everlasting gloom.

It is as if an angel came
And rolled the marble weight away
Relighted the extinguished flame
And called it back to life and day.

It was as if the fiery wind
Over his life and thoughts had blown
With withering breath—and left behind
But wrecks the soul's Simoom had strewn.

It is as if Armida's art
Restoring all that was destroyed
Watering with tears the wasted heart
Had filled with flowers the aching void.

See Tasso's Gerusalemme Liberata Book XV

“Watering the heart whose early flowers have died”
Byron

ON A SUN-DIAL NEAR VENICE

with the inscription “Horas non numero nisi serenas.”

Let others in some dreary clime
Of fogs and storms, and snows and showers,
Scan the slow lapse of lingering Time,
I only count unclouded hours.

Beneath calm, pure, and brilliant skies,
Where all is sunshine, mirth, and flowers,
I seize each moment as it flies
And truly tell the cloudless hours.

When Heaven withdraws its cheerful ray
From pleasure's waste and leafless bowers,
I take no heed of night or day,
I only note unclouded hours.

147

Learn then from me this rule of life,
When Fortune smiles or danger lowers
In bliss or woe in peace or strife
Learn but to mark unclouded hours.

ODE TO EASE

“Otia, judicio semper amata meo.”
Ovid.

I never bent at Glory's shrine
To Wealth I never bowed the knee
Beauty has heard no vows of mine
I love thee Ease, and only thee.
Beloved of the Gods and men
Sister of Joy and Liberty
When wilt thou visit me agen
In shady wood or silent glen,
By fading stream or rocky den,
Like those where once I found thee when,
I listened to thy Syren voice
And made thee mistress of my choice?

I chose thee Ease and Glory fled
For me no more her laurels spread
Her golden crown shall never shed
Its beams of splendor on my head,
And when within the narrow bed
To fame and memory ever dead
My wretched corpse is thrown:
Nor stately column sculptur'd bust
Nor urn that holds within its trust
The poor remains of mortal dust
Nor monumental stone ...
Nor willow waving in the gale
Nor feeble fence with whitened pale
Nor rustic cross, memorial frail!
Shall mark the grave I own.
But to all future ages lost
Not even a wreck tradition-tost
Of what I was when valued most

148

By the few friends whose love I boast
In after years shall float to shore
And serve to tell the name I bore.

I chose thee Ease! and Wealth withdrew
Indignant at the choice I made,
And to her first resentment true,
My scorn with tenfold scorn repaid:
And vowed my folly I should rue
In poverty's benumbing shade.
Now noble palace, lofty dome,
Or cheerful hospitable home,
Are blessings I must never know:
My enemies shall ne'er repine
At pomp or pageantry of mine
Or prove by bowing at my shrine
Their souls are abject base and low;
And worst of all I shall not live
To taste the pleasures wealth can give
When used to soothe another's woe.

The peasants of my native land
Shall never bless my open hand
No wandering bard shall celebrate
His Patron's hospitable gate
No war-warn soldier, shattered tar,
Nor exile driven from afar
Nor hapless friend of former years
Nor widows prayers nor orphan's tears
Nor helpless age relieved from cares
Nor innocence preserved from snares
Nor houseless wanderer clothed and fled,
Nor slave from bitter bondage led,
Nor youth to noble actions bred,
Shall call down blessings on my head.

I chose thee Ease! and yet the while
So sweet was Beautys scornful smile
So fraught with every lovely wile
Yet seemingly, so void of guile,
It did but heighten all her charms:
And Goddess, had I loved thee then,

149

But with the common love of men
My fickle heart had changed agen
Even at the very moment when
I wooed thee to my longing arms:
For never may I hope to meet
A smile so sweet, so heavenly sweet!

I chose thee Ease! and now for me
No heart shall ever fondly swell
No voice of rapturous harmony
Awake the music-breathing shell
Nor tongue of witching melody
It's love in faltering accents tell
Nor flushing cheek, nor languid eye
Nor sportive smile nor artless sigh
Confess affection all as well.
No snowy bosom's fall and rise
Shall e'er again enchant my eyes
No dewy lips profuse of bliss
Shall ever greet me with a kiss
Nor sweet low tone pour in mine ear
The trifles Love delights to hear:
But living loveless, hopeless, I,
Unmourned and unloved must die.

I chose thee Ease! and yet to me
Coy and ungrateful thou hast proved,
Though I have sacrificed for thee
Much that was worthy to be loved.
But come again, and I will yet
Thy past ingratitude forget:
O come again! thy witching powers
Shall charm my solitary hours.
With thee to cheer me heavenly queen,
And conscience clear, and health serene,
And friends and books to banish spleen,
My life should be, as it has been,
A sweet variety of joys:
And Glory's crown and Beauty's smile,
And treasured hoards, should seem the while
The idlest of all human toys.

150

BELPHEGOR

The Subject from Macchiavelli

In the great council hall of Hell
There once was held a consultation,
The subject was—'tis strange to tell—
How to encourage population.

'Twas long ago—I can't tell when—
But ere they heard thy name, Gastronomy,
And Malthus had not taught them then
The true political economy.

Causing less talk and discontent
Than Panama's debated mission
An Envoy to the Earth was sent
Belphegor got the new commission.

A devil of parts—and not without wit
Handsome and graceful as Apollo
And then in salary and outfit
He beat all other envoys hollow.

With grave enquiries charged, he came,
To Earth—a Duke, or some such matter—
And when the women heard his fame
Wives, widows, maids, began to flatter.

One vixen dame whose charms and art
Might make the devil himself light-headed,
First caught his eye and then his heart
'Till they in short were fairly wedded.

But now began Belphegor's woes
His spouse's tongue forever wagging
Gave the poor devil no repose
Still teasing—scolding—never flagging.

He ran at last—who would not run
To scape such matrimonial cooing
Through every clime beneath the sun
With his Eurydice pursuing.

At length one day almost o'ertaken
He heard her voice—he knew it well—
And with a dreadful panic shaken
He scampered off direct for Hell.

151

Arrived at Court he told his story
“Learn Sire,” he said, “from my miscarriage
To fill your realm and raise your glory
You've but on Earth to favor marriage.”

DIALOGUE

Written in Mrs. I---'s Album beneath the figure of Cupid sharpening arrows

Fortune.
Cupid! you rogue, what sharpening darts!
Pray are they tipped with Gold or Lead?

Cupid.
How can you ask? You know men's hearts
I aim at them and not the head!

SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS

“Cycnis qui non sine causâ Apollini dicati sint
... cum cantu et voluptate moriantur.”
Cic. Tuscul. Quaest. Lib I

They say the swan, though mute his whole life long,
Pours forth sweet melody when life is flying,
Making the desert plaintive with his song
Wond'rous and sad and sweetest still while dying.
Is it for Life and Pleasure lost, he's sighing?
Grieving to lose, what none can e'er prolong:—
O! no, he hails it's close, on death relying
As an escape from violence and wrong.
And thus, dear Lady! I at length perceiving
The fatal end of my unhappy madness,
In thy oft-broken faith no more believing
Welcome despair's sole comforter with gladness,
And mourning one so fair is so deceiving,
Pour out my soul in notes of Love and Sadness!

EPIGRAM FROM THE ITALIAN OF DE ROSSI

“How very soon your roses die!”
Said Love to Flora with a sneer:
“True” was the blushing nymph's reply
“And yours, do they last all the year?”

152

[No wonder if thy pulses thrill]

No wonder if thy pulses thrill
To harmony almost divine
And yet it caught with all its skill
An eloquence much less than thine.

Yes! when the witching syren sung
Her unpremeditated song
'Twas but thy hearts dear native tongue
Which thou hast pined to hear so long.

Thy soul was as a living lute
Tuned to the music of the spheres
Untouched before it's chords were mute
But now it echoes all it hears.

Thou hast not heard indeed on earth
Sounds that so flashed through all thy frame
But thou hast known them ere thy birth
Even in that Heaven from whence they came.

And when again the angel choirs
(Late may it be and I at rest)
Receive thee home from kindred lyres
Congenial sounds shall hail thee blest!

[It was a just reproof! ... and yet I thought]

It was a just reproof! ... and yet I thought
But no! ... Shall I deserve reproach again?
No by the Gods! ... My nature overwrought
Has yet enough of Pride to hide its pain!

I have borne much in silence once—and now
Shall I at last play woman with my tongue?
No! ... I will shew so smooth, so calm a brow
That none shall dream how sore my heart is wrung.

Even thou thyself shalt deem my feigning true—
A smile—a hollow laugh—a bitter jest
Would but betray me to the vulgar view,
Thy garb Indifference! becomes me best!

Gay with the gay, and solemn with the wise
Dull with the plodding—sportive with the fair—

153

Thou shalt distrust my love or doubt thine eyes
To mark how perfectly my mask I wear!

The hand that would not perish in the flame
If the heart bade it, is unworthy thine—
The mind that shrinks from any pang but shame
Would well deserve thy utmost scorn and mine.

There is no sterner task of soul to teach!—
No matter!—It is taught—The silent spell
Closes upon my murmurs—look—act—speech
Shall all obey thee!—Well—perhaps too well!

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM

Of Human Life from youth to age
This Book an apt sad emblem seems;
Hope promises to fill each page
With Friendship, Love or Pleasure's dreams.

Time wears apace—but day by day,
Hope's promises are all forgot
Some flowers are scattered by the way
But here's a blank—and there's a blot.

At length they fill—revolving years
Add their memorials, sad, or kind,
But some are sullied by our tears,
And some have left a stain behind!

And when in after times we turn
Our Memory or our pages o'er
'Tis but too oft alas! to mourn
O'er all we knew—and know no more!

The hand that traced those lines is old—
The spirit that flashed here has fled—
And these recall warm hearts—now cold—
The changed—the absent—or the dead.

Then why should we embalm the past
Since the fond record only tells
That Love and Hope and Life at last
Are broken charms and baffled spells?

154

I do not know. ... They say that Eve
Some flowers of Eden chose to keep
O'er all she prized and left to grieve,
O'er all she loved and lost to weep!

[Happy is he who sees thee smile]

Beatus qui te videt est
Beatior qui te audiet
Qui te basiat semideus est
Qui te potitur est deus.
Buchanan

Happy is he who sees thee smile,
Still happier he who hears thee speak,
He half a God who dares awhile
Breathing fond vows to flush thy cheek.

Thy hand to press—thy lip to touch—
O thou hast ne'er such favors given—
'Twere bliss too much for man too much
For all except a saint of Heaven!

To clasp thy form and hear thee sigh—
To feel and call thee all his own
Ah! that were happiness too high
For any but a God alone!

[Choose as thou wilt! the land—the main]

Choose as thou wilt! the land—the main
The court, the camp, the mart, the grove,
Power, Glory, Pleasure, Wisdom, Gain,
Rank, Friendship, Wit, Fame, Beauty, Love—

Choose as thou wilt! since all may choose,
And win thy choice—all may be won.
Their fortune none but fools accuse
Who know not how her frowns to shun.

Choose as thou wilt!—but know whate'er
Thy choice may be—or thy success
All are but bubbles of the air
Deceitful forms of happiness!

155

Clouds that have ta'en a heavenly form
And heavenly hues and heavenly charms,
All that a mortal heart can warm—
All that escapes from mortal arms!

[I have deceived myself! ... the dream was sweet]

I have deceived myself! ... the dream was sweet
And bitter the awaking—Let me call
My spirit up, it's destiny to meet
Triumph may hail, but shall not mock my fall!

Conquered, but not subdued—I scorn to yield
Betrayed, but yet unmoved—with steady eye
I gaze in silence on my last lost field,
With neither wish to live nor fear to die.

From my proud hopes of high dominion hurled
My transient reign of Love and Glory o'er
Dethroned—Exiled—from what I thought my world,
The Empire of the Heart exists no more!

What then is left? to bend beneath the shock
Tire Heaven with prayers and be of Hell the jest?
No! welcome first the vulture and the rock!
Prometheus-like in this, as in the rest.

I strove with Heaven for Heaven—the strife was vain—
The fire I stole consumes me—let it burn!—
No tyrant shall wring pleasure from my pain
Scorn yields such wrong it's only just return!

[My hair is gray—the flower of life is past]

Jam mihi deterior canis adspergitur aetas,
Jamque meos vultus ruga senilis arat:
Jam vigor, et quasso languent in corpore vives;
Nec juveni lusus qui placuere, placent.
Nec, si me subito videas agnoscere possis:
Aetabis facta est tanta ruina meae.
Confiteor facere haec annos: sed et altera caussa est,
Anxietas animi, continuus que labor.
Ovid Epis.

156

My hair is gray—the flower of life is past
Time flies and Death approaches. In the wave
My setting sun is sinking overcast,
Hope is no more, and Peace is in the grave!

Long years of passion—grief and care have done
Their work—and left their records on my brow,
My lamp is almost out—my race is run—
Let the scene close!—It matters little now.

The best and worst are past—there lingers yet
But a faint pulse in these poor shrunken veins,
The world and I are even, and the debt
That all must pay is all that still remains.

Would it were paid!—I tire of my road—
'Tis hard to live unblessing and unblest—
Forgetting and forgot—I bear a load
Too far above my strength and fain would rest!

[My Sister! through how many trying scenes]

My Sister! through how many trying scenes
We two have past in long long years gone by,
Even yet though half a life time intervenes
I cannot think of them without a sigh.

Since thine unconscious infant lips were prest
First by a brother's boyish, bashful kiss,
'Till now when he, life-weary longs for rest,
And even thy hopes seek better worlds than this:

What has been done and suffered—felt and thought
In this long, dismal, dark abyss of life,
Where troubled spirits toil on, overwrought,
Amid temptation, sorrow, sin and strife.

How many of the loved and mourned have gone
How many joys and hopes of youth have fled—
How few of all the friends who linger on
Replace the lost—the changed—the cold—the dead.

Yet Hope is left! ... One hope—the best—the last—
Though we plod on o'er thorns unto the grave
However long the day, to come—or past—
Our Sun at length will sleep beneath the wave.

157

Forever? ... No! ... The Ave's evening chime
That strikes the traveller's ear as day-light dies
Although it seems to mourn departed Time
Tells too of Life Eternal in the skies!

The Ave Maria della sera common in Catholic countries. The thought was suggested by the well known lines of Dante:

“Era già l'ora che volge'l disio
A'naviganti, e intenerisce il cuore
Lo di c'han detto a dolci amici addio;
E che lo nuovo peregrin d'amore
Punge se ode squilla di lontana
Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che si muore.”

“'Twas now the hour when seamen's fancies dwell
On Home—and in the traveller's heart arise
Sad thoughts of the dear friends he bade farewell:
And Love's fresh-parted pilgrim starts and sighs
Heart-stricken by the distant vesper bell
Which seems as if it mourned the day that dies!”

RUTH

“And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest I will go; and where thou lodgest I will lodge: thy people shall be my people and thy God my God. Where thou diest I will die and there also will I be buried.”

Nay do not ask!—entreat not—no!
O! no I will not leave thy side:
Whither thou goest, I will go,
Where thou abidest, I'll abide.

Through life—in death—my soul to thine
Shall cleave as fond as first it clave—
Thy Home, thy people, shall be mine
Thy God, my God—thy grave my grave!

[If it be love, in every pulse's tide]

If it be love, in every pulse's tide
To feel a secret pure devoted flame
And with feign'd smiles unceasing torture hide
Deep in the soul—my passion has a name!

If it be love, to live but in one thought,
To breathe but for another—weal or woe

158

Only to feel when from another caught
This, this is Love! ... I feared it must be so!

If it be Love, to worship night and day
One object—On a fond heart's faithful shrine
All our life's hopes and fears and joys to lay
In silent sacrifice—such love is mine.

If it be love, our being to consume
In unknown, fruitless, uncomplaining tears,
And wish in bitterness an early tomb
Then I have cherished hopeless love for years!

[This life is but a horrid dream]

This life is but a horrid dream
To those who squander it like me,
In wild excess and mad extreme,
Mock joy and sad festivity!
Rather than wake to laugh and rave,
Or toss in such distempered sleep,
I would that I were in my grave,
So there were none my fate to weep!

Yet I who wither and repine
Am envied by a glittering throng,
And there are hearts wrapped up in mine
By ties too sacred far for song.
Intense in all things—Love or Grief—
Rage—Pride—Joy—Hatred or Disdain,
O! not to feel were some relief
From this vicissitude of pain!

Yet I endure and shrink not—I
Have done with Hope and Joy and Fear,
The torrent of my heart is dry,
My burning eyes have not a tear.
Come Genius! see thy torments! come!—
View Fate, the tortures of thy slave!
But mark ye! his despair is dumb
Your power he yet can scorn and brave!

159

THE HERON

A Fable from the French of La Fontaine

Along a glassy river's edge
Well stocked with fish and fringed with sedge
A long-legged Heron strayed:
The day was fine the water clear
The Pike and Carp, now there—now here—
A thousand frolics played.

The largest trouts came close to shore
As if to tempt our bird the more
But he, unlucky wight,
Eyes them askance and steps aside
Through laziness perhaps, or pride,
To wait for appetite.

A stated regimen he kept
At certain hours eat drank and slept
As learned quacks prescribe
Full soon his appetite returns
With eager haste he strides and burns
To thin the finny tribe.

Advancing in his former post
The nobler prey he found was lost
Some tenches still remained
But these like Flaccus' city rat
Expecting better cheer than that
He haughtily disdained.

“And shall I then on tenches dine?
What Heron of such parts as mine
E'er stooped to swallow these?”
The tench refused in mighty dudgeon
He passes on, and a lone gudgeon
Is the next fish he sees.

A gudgeon truly eh! cries he
Lord what a pretty mess for me!
As sure as I'm a sinner,
Before I'd ope for him my bill
I'd wait (which God forbid!) until
Tomorrow for my dinner.

160

Yet for far less wide gaped that bill
Since travelling farther onward still
His legs begin to fail
No fish however small appears
Starvation much he shrewdly fears
And gladly eats a snail.

Let us not be too hard to please
They are most wise who take with ease
What Fate to give thinks fit.
What's near your due then ne'er refuse
Seeking too much we often lose
And many thus are bit.

To Herons 'twere in vain to preach
Listen Mankind, 'tis you I teach
From you my tales I draw:
A belle who like most belles you find
Was pretty vain—seemed half inclined
In Hymen's yoke to draw.

But he whose suit she grants must be
Polite, young, handsome, well made free
Not jealous, nor yet cold
Of fortune, wit, and birth possest,
Alas! not one man so much blest
We in an age behold.

Some lovers of importance came,
Urged by her friends to choose, the dame
All offers thus repels;
“Now pray don't name such fools to me
You surely rave!”—Here reader see
A specimen of belles!

One witty was, but unrefined,
Another's nose awry inclined
'Twas that thing, or 'twas this,
'Twas every thing—for belles discover
A thousand faults in every lover
Whom they would fain dismiss.

Some decent matches offered then
Among the middle class of men
But she was pleased to jeer:

161

These folks perhaps think I'm afraid
To lie alone—or die a maid
But I have no such fear.

My slumbers (God be praised!) are sound
No inconvenience I have found—
I miss not love's embrace:
Still to these notions she adhered
Age came her gallants disappeared
Chagrin crept on apace.

A year or two in trouble past
She felt her beauty fading fast
And every fatal day
Saw that some charm of face or air
Or form—which art could ne'er repair
Escaped with time away.

Her mirror plainly said make haste
And wed for you've no time to waste:—
No longer vain or cold,
She took the hint, right glad to patch
With a mean wretch a sordid match
Though ugly cross and old.

NAPOLEON'S GRAVE

Faint and sad was the moon-beam's smile,
Sullen the moan of the dying wave,
Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle,
As I stood by the side of Napoleon's grave.

And is it here that the Hero lies,
Whose name has shaken the Earth with dread?
And is this all that the earth supplies,
A stone his pillow—the turf his bed?

Is such the moral of human life?
Are these the limits of Glory's reign?
Have oceans of blood and an age of strife,
And a thousand battles been all in vain?

Is nothing left of his victories now
But legions broken—a sword in rust,
A crown that cumbers a dotard's brow,
A name and a requiem—dust to dust!

162

Of all the chieftains whose thrones he reared
Was there none that kindness or faith could bind?
Of all the monarchs whose crowns he spared
Had none one spark of his Roman mind?

Did Prussia cast no repentant glance
Did Austria shed no remorseful tear
When England's faith, and thine honor France,
And thy friendship Russia, were blasted here?

No!—Holy Leagues like the heathen Heaven
Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock
And glorious Titan, the unforgiven,
Was doomed to his vulture and chains and rock.

And who were the gods that decreed thy doom?
A German Caesar—a Prussian Sage—
The Dandy Prince of a counting-room
And a Russian Greek of Earth's darkest age.

Men called thee despot, and called thee true,
But the laurel was earned that bound thy brow
And of all who wore it alas! how few
Were freer from treason and guilt than thou.

Shame to thee Gaul! and thy faithless horde,
Where was the oath which thy soldiers swore?
Fraud still lurks in the gown—but the sword
Was never so false to its trust before.

Where was thy veteran's boast that day
“The old guard dies, but it never yields!”
O! for one heart like the brave Dessaix
One phalanx like those of thine early fields!

But no no, no!—it was Freedom's charm
Gave them the courage of more than men
You broke the magic that nerv'd each arm
Though you were invincible only then.

Yet St Jean was a deep, not a deadly blow,
One struggle and France all her faults repairs—
But the mild Fayette and the stern Carnot
Are dupes and ruin thy fate and theirs!

163

[Go! go, thou art false!—thy tears thy smiles]

Go! go, thou art false!—thy tears thy smiles
Thy sainted look, thy solemn vow
Thy thrilling tones, thy lovely wiles,
All all thy charms are worthless now!

'Twas not because thy lips were sweet
As violets bathed in heavenly dew,
I loved their melting kiss to meet
No! 'twas because I thought them true.

Nor did I prize the trembling light
That in thy glances warmly shone,
O no! when I believed them bright
I thought they burned for me alone.

When thy heart changed it broke the best
The dearest, purest, strongest, spell,
'Tis easy now to burst the rest
How easy—thou thyself canst tell!

[Why is it then, the Earth and Sky]

Why is it then, the Earth and Sky,
The promise of returning Spring,
And all that greets the ear and eye
To this worn soul no joy can bring?

Has Life consumed itself?—O no!
It is not that—its currents run
No more apart—they only flow
Silent, intense, and deep in one.

Its source is here—what shores it laves,
Or whither rolls the impetuous tide,
Who knows?—Who knows what kindred waves
Claim tribute from its hope its pride?

But O! until they meet again
(Alas! how could they ever part?)
What chance—what change can calm the brain
What time—what thought can soothe the heart?

The Future?—Will not Hope deceive?
The Present?—O! it must not last!

164

And yet alas! how vain to grieve
Over the unreturning past!

[A sister's kiss—an infant's prayer—]

A sister's kiss—an infant's prayer—
A parent's love—a vestal's vow—
The Evening Star—the morning air—
Are not more pure than thou:
I dare not love thee—but my eyes
Have told thee whom they idolize.

I held and still I hold thee dear,
Of more than mortal worth,
A spirit of another sphere
Too good and fair for earth:
And I would blush to wound thine ear
With aught that Angels might not hear!

But since our pious zeal is faint
My church must be forgiven,
If it allows at least a saint,
To help us on to heaven:
Thou art my saint!—in every prayer
I always see thee smiling there!

TO [---]

An unknown fair one designated to me only as the sixteenth letter.

Lady! the brother of my heart demands
A hymn of praise to offer at thy shrine
But that which were Devotion at his hands,
Becomes mere blind Idolatry in mine:
For unrevealed to me by word or sign,
The fair Divinity I worship stands,
Around a shadow my fond faith I twine
Like to the Gentile of far times and lands.
They to a being whom they deemed divine
“The Unknown God—” a sacred temple raised,
And praised his nameless name, as I do thine,
Unknowing who, or what it was they praised—
Merely like me to murmur and repine,
That all in vain altar and incense blazed!

165

[A Rose between two Hearts—by moonlight given]

A Rose between two Hearts—by moonlight given!
What may so bright an augury forebode?
Type of the opening Spring and Star-lit Heaven
On Grief's gray twilight all in vain bestowed!

Aye! all in vain alas!—the smiling Spring
And the calm lustre of the starry skies
Nor Joy nor Hope nor Peace to Him can bring—
They're but as lovely scenes to sightless eyes!

The givers and the gift can but recall
The fading forms of long departed years
Visions of bliss all vanished—lost—all, all!
And ev'n their memory half-effaced by tears.

Aye! that same flower!—its hue—its scent have brought
Back on my soul a thousand nameless things
A long long train of melancholy thought
And maddening passion's fierce and fiery stings.

Such was the gift! ... Down busy devil!—down!
Consume this soul in secret—if you must—
But though it's pangs no revelry can drown,
Feast like the worm that revels on the dust!

In darkness and in silence feast! ... No more!—
Such thoughts should have no tongue—within their tomb
Let them bleed on, but without running o'er
No eye should mark and shudder at their gloom.

So, to our theme again!—that it may fling
Oblivion o'er a spirit wrung and riven,—
Farewell! sweet emblem of the blooming Spring
Farewell! calm type of the blue starry Heaven!

On Roses, woman's words, and moon-lighted nights,
Unnumbered, soft, sad tender memories dwell
Heart-treasured thoughts—unspeakable delights—
And all I may not utter—Fare ye well!

['Tis the hour when Twilight stealing]

'Tis the hour when Twilight stealing
O'er the Earth and Sea and skies

166

Wakes a high and holy feeling,
And fond thoughts of Home arise:
Love's fresh-parted Pilgrim sighing,
Starts to hear the vesper bell,
Breathing to the day-light dying
One last wild—sweet—sad farewell!

In this hour still and solemn
O'er a shrine in fragments laid
Memory on a broken column
Marks the ruin Time has made:
Well—too well alas! recalling
Hopes and Joys forever fled. ...
O! what burning tears are falling
For the loved—the changed—the dead!

Imitated from Dante's ‘Era già I'ora.’

BARCAROLA

Imitated from the Italian

My Gondola's waiting dearest!
The night is well nigh to it's noon,
And the sea is the calmest and clearest
Ever lit by a summer's moon:
O! come like a white cloud flying
O'er the heavenly blue of the skies
And the ripple that murmurs in dying
Will seem but to echo our sighs!

O come to my Gondola—dearest!
And sail with me side by side
I know there are times when thou fearest
To trust either me—or the tide:
Yet a mother her infant sleeper
Or the moon-beams this dreaming sea
Regard with a love no deeper
Or purer than mine for thee!

[Zoe farewell!—How much is in that word]

Zoe farewell!—How much is in that word
Deep, solemn, chill and sad as Memory's knell
Recalling Joy departed—Hope deferred—

167

Fond dreams—dear thoughts—kind looks—lost friends—Farewell!

Farewell! ... We have not known each other long
Nor much—But what of that?—How soon and well
Fate binds by ties invisible yet strong
All that love those we love, to us. ... Farewell!

Since first we met some few but fatal years
Upon my life and brow have left their spell
Love-Sorrow—Pride—Rage—Hate—Despair and Tears
Have writ their burning annals there—Farewell!

Farewell! among my few unclouded hours
Are those I owe unto your voice and shell
When with bright smiles, sweet words, and tuneful powers,
You chased my evil spirit. ... Fare ye well!

TO A LOVELY BRUNETTE WHOM THE AUTHOR SAW AT HER LATTICE

O! darkly fair!—yet beautifully bright,
I know not how to call thee, sweet unknown!
Whether a Tropic Day or Arctic Night
Or the soft Twilight of a temperate Zone.

Although I have but seen thee from afar,
And haply never may behold thee near,
Let me adore thee as a lovely star,
Altho' my words may never reach thine ear!

No hopeless ship-wrecked mariner could watch
Through dim, death-glazing eyes for morning's ray,
More eagerly, than I have striv'n to catch
That movement of thy lattice, once a day!

Nor always once!—day after day has past
And be it pride, or bashfulness, or scorn,
Thy well-named Jealousie is closed as fast,
As though it had been of the monster born!

Did'st thou observe me? Hence is thy disdain?
Ah! pardon I entreat, my wandering eyes!
They sought with fond Astrology to gain
Some hint from Destiny's high star-lit skies!

168

Alas! oershadowed by a cloudy veil
The skies disclose their oracles no more,
And even the beacon, I was wont to hail,
The taper in thy window gleams no more!

Darkling I tempt my solitary fate
Full of heart throbbing wishes, doubts and fears,
As thou may'st be a widow—maid—or mate
So must my vision end—in bliss or tears!

And yet—if maiden, I should never win—
If widow, both would be too wise to marry—
If wife, twere worse—to love thee were a sin—
And I have quite as much as I can carry!

[Why should her misery o'er my own prevail]

Why should her misery o'er my own prevail?
Hence horrid shadows! from my brain depart! ...
It may not be!—the melancholy tale
Rings in my ear, and weighs upon my heart!

I cannot rest!—I knew there were such woes
But thought them singular, and did not deem,
That such again would break on my repose
With all the tortures of a troubled dream.

Lovely and innocent and good and kind
Young, sensitive, yet wise from early grief,
A faultless body and a spotless mind
Supremely wretched!—'Tis beyond belief!

But truth and that which seems so are not one
And spite of all that wisdom said of old
There still are mysteries beneath the sun
All the hearts secrets have not yet been told!

I may not tell them! ... There are wounds that bleed
And must bleed inwardly, while there is breath
Yet thou may'st bear them Mary, for indeed
Others have borne them and will bear 'till death!

But come what will!—worn out with grief and care
Whether you totter on—or cast them down
You have one fellow sufferer in Despair
One friend to cheer thee though the World should frown!

169

[You call me sad!—you err—I'm gay]

You call me sad!—you err—I'm gay
Who hath yet mark'd my spirits sink
Who hath beheld by night or day
My lip, voice, eye, or visage shrink?

My looks? ... Joy wrinkles just like care
Go trace the marks that Pleasure brings
You'll find them in the face and air
Of Charles, merriest of kings.

You err!—you err!—I sad?—you dream
Sorrow ne'er touched a heart like mine
Wit—Beauty—Love are still my theme
And crown'd with Music, Flowers and Wine!

Boy bring the cup, the vase, the lyre
Awake, awake the soul of song!
Let odours, sound, sight, taste inspire
The pleasures that to sense belong.

What shall they say with ills opprest
Unto their yoke I bowed my neck?
When scaffolds echo to a jest,
And laughter rises from the wreck:

What hearts from living bosoms torn
Have bled with greater pangs than mine?
What ships on Ocean's bosom borne
Held hopes like those all wrecked on thine?

Yet the dark Indian's self-control
As soon shall leave him at the stake
As this stern, sullen, stubborn soul
Shall ever bow or bend or break.

No, no! all, all shall deem me gay
The sound of revelry and mirth
Shall grossly cheat these souls of clay
Who deem me of their kindred earth.

Bring, bring the cup, the vase, the lyre!
Wake Pleasure's maddening syren song!
Mask! quickly mask, that cursed fire,
The torches of the Fury throng!

170

The song! the Dance! away! away!
Rouse Mirth 'till all Night's echoes start!
Who now shall say I am not gay?
Who shall pretend to read my heart?

Charles the II—a sad dog as his face shews.

‘Till even the scaffold echoes with the jest.’
Rogers.

TO ---

... Farewell! and if forever ...—still farewell!—
Howe'er it fare with me—I would not leave
One word, one thought, at which thy veins might swell
Thy temples throb—or even thy bosom heave.

Farewell!—Despite experience—prudence—pride—
My Destiny o'ertakes me once again;
I strove to shun the blow—or turn aside—
Yet I endure, and shrink not from the pain!

Farewell! farewell!—Thine be the peace I lose,
Mine be the grief I would not have thee share—
With Thee be all it was thy choice to choose—
With me the pangs I cannot choose but bear.

Farewell! Thou wilt forget me—be it so!
'Twere better far—I could not bear to dwell
In cold remembrance—every other woe
To that were nothing!—Now farewell! farewell!

[Yes! let us part, while yet we may]

Yes! let us part, while yet we may,
Ere wishes wild and warm begin,
Or Love will lead our souls astray
And we may wander into sin.

Where then would be thy spirits light,
Thy manners innocently gay?
The peaceful slumbers of the night,
The tranquil pleasures of the day?

And where would be the steady beams
That Virtue lends thine eyes of flame?

171

And where the blush that never gleams
To warn us of the bosom's shame?

O! they would fly, forever fly
To seek some purer holier shrine;
But not to light a brighter eye,
Or warm a lovelier cheek than thine!

What then were left?—a hectic blaze
The beacon-fire of vicious guile,
An anxious look—an eager gaze—
A feverish sigh—a languid smile!

Thus thou would'st lose, in beauty's prime,
The purity that won my heart,
And I should live to curse the crime
That taught thee every wanton's art.

Or oh! if less ensnared by ill,
Thy soul should mourn its lost repose,
Should weep our fault—yet love it still,
That were the keenest—worst of woes!

For could I bear to hear thee sigh
And know thy sighs were caused by me,
Or see thee weep, and feel that I
Had wrung those bitter tears from thee?

Think'st thou, that I could witness this,
Nor give thee tear for tear again? ...
And is one moments guilty bliss
Worth a whole Life of fruitless pain?

And yet one hour ... one little hour,
In Love's esteem far far outweighs
The richest gift in Virtue's power
Heaven's sweetest softest note of praise!

And thou wilt hate me, if we part,
And turn my counsel all to jest,
Scorning the cold and languid heart
That might—and did not dare—be blest!

Then Dearest stay!—one moment yet—
Turn, turn, those fatal eyes away

172

And let me, if I can forget,
The light that leads my soul astray!

The flame that burns so brightly now
Like other flames may yet decay;
The heart that broke a former vow
O! will it not again betray?

Then shun, O! shun, the wild'ring fire
Beneath whose dangerous light we range
Seek milder beams that ne'er expire
And calmer hearts that never change!

They'll love thee with so pure a love
With such a holy, heavenly zeal,
As sainted souls in Heaven above
For other saints on earth might feel!

Will that suffice?—What no reply
Nay then my pious rhetorick faints—
Thou know'st my heart—I read thine eye—
Alas! we were not made for saints!

173

[Oh! dearer by far than the land of our birth]

Oh! dearer by far than the land of our birth
Is the land where the hours of our infancy flew
And the dearest and loveliest spot upon earth
Is the spot where our loves and affections first grew.

What home can we have but the home of the heart
What country but that of our friends can we claim
Or where is the powerful spell that can part
The soul from the scenes of it's hopes and it's fame?

Then tell us no more we were born far away
Where Liberty's star never rose or has set
We were nursed where it shines and have caught from it's ray
A warmth which our bosoms can never forget!

And dearer by far than the land of our birth
Is the land where the hours of our infancy flew
And the dearest and loveliest spot upon earth
Is the spot where our loves and affections first grew!

[Forget me not! or grave or gay]

Forget me not! or grave or gay
Joyous or sad whate'er thy lot
Whether to sigh, or smile, or pray,
Forget me not! forget me not!

Forget me not! O! no no no!
I could not bear to be forgot
Whate'er I am—where'er I go
Forget me not! forget me not!

Forget me not!—the world of me
May say and deem—I care not what—
I ask but one fond thought from thee
Forget me not! forget me not!

Forget me not! by night or day
Whate'er deceit may subtly plot
To lead thy heart from mine astray
Forget me not! forget me not!

Forget me not! O let no spell
Remembrance from thy bosom blot

174

By every tone of voice and shell
Forget me not! forget me not!

Forget me not! my dust, my fame
May all in ... cold obstruction rot ...
So—thou wilt but preserve my name
Forget me not! forget me not!

NIGHT REVERIES

O! let no skeptic's reasoning zeal
Awake me from my dream of bliss!
There is—there is—I know—I feel—
There must be other Worlds than this!

What are their joys or why conferr'd
Or how—I will not stop to scan
Nor ask if any heavenly word
Revealed their mysteries to Man.

I need but look on those bright orbs
Which shine so calmly from above,
That single look my soul absorbs
In reveries of hope and love!

I look, and as they roll and blaze
My soul claims kindred with the skies
And they persuade me as I gaze
There's that in me, which never dies!

It is divine to think that Earth,
And earthly thoughts are cold and dim
Compared with those of Heavenly birth
Which lift the enraptured heart to Him!

For here, from youth to age we still
For some pure pleasure thirst and pine,
Our greatest good is mixed with ill,
Ev'n Love is only half divine.

Either it is our cruel fate
To see our young affections crost—
Or find a mutual heart too late,
Only to know how much we've lost:

175

To languish many a dangerous hour
Reading each other's glance and sigh—
To tremble in Temptation's power
Yet neither dare to sin nor fly.

Or else in broken hearted grief
O'er our first cherished passion bend
'Till Death shall come to our relief
The wretches true and only friend!

Or worse—when all is won—to find
Perfection's dream dissolve away—
The charm was only in our mind
Our idol but a thing of clay.

In cold indifference or disgust,
To drag a goading chain along,
And false ourselves,—in falsehood trust—
An interchange of wrong for wrong—

Or when the grave has set its seal
Upon the heart we wronged and wrung,
To find Remorse has clutch'd his steel,
And Conscience found at last her tongue!

[In utter loneliness of heart]

In utter loneliness of heart
Mid well-known scenes and looks I roam
As I were a thing apart
A being without friend or home.

Alone in peopled solitude,
I gaze unconsciously around—
Alas! this seeming vacant mood,
But marks remembrance too profound.

Yet here my boyhood rolled away,
And here too in maturer years,
Successive passions held their sway,
Through agonies of blood and tears.

I have outlived them all!—and now
Though inwardly the bosom bleed
A purer heart—a calmer brow—
A more untroubled mind succeed.

176

[Good-Night! good night!—those few kind words are all]

Good-Night! good night!—those few kind words are all
That mark our partings now. ... It was not so
In times gone by—Why cannot I recall
Those days with all their bliss and all their woe?

Unmarked—unhidden then, our hopes our fears,
Were freely interchanged alone for hours;
We hid not from each other smiles or tears
But the heart's sunshine mingled with its showers!

Now frosty welcomes usher in the morn,
And formal partings close the lingering day
Beneath the World's keen glance like bondsmen born
We toil through hateful tasks, as best we may.

I murmur not! ... I know thy lofty soul
Spurns like my own this yoke—this servile chain,
No! the World's minions let the World control,
We only fear to give each other pain!

Good Night! good night then! ... on thy gentle lids
Light sweet repose, and as thou sink'st to rest
Dream it is he—thy friend—thy brother bids
Good-night!—and whispers[, “Be] thy slumbers blest!”

ON POWER'S IDEAL HEAD OF ROGERS' GENEVRA

Each word, each thought—each single drop of ink
That lips or pens of master-minds let fall
Becomes a germ—to make new millions think:
So said the noble bard —nor is this all—
Not only from the vasty deep they call
Spirits that come—embodied in new forms
But these again at pleasure we recall
Helped by each art that into being warms
The mind's creations.—Shakespeare's stricken deer
Mid Cowper's holiest—Moore's most tender themes,
In Proteus beauty charms the heart and ear:

177

And poor Genevra's innocence which gleams
In Rogers' verse even through her fearful bier
In Power's marble now immortal beams!

Lord Byron

‘I was a stricken deer that left the herd’
Cowper ‘Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer’
Moore

[In this dull world of books and men]

In this dull world of books and men
Where scarcely anything's worth heeding
And not much more than one in ten
Of men or books deserves a reading

'Tis rapture now and then to find
A face or page, so rare in spirit—
So full of grace—so rich in mind
That it bears heaven's own seal of merit.

And if such page be given to song
The heart feels all its beauties nearer.
And if such lovely face belong
To woman—O! how much 'tis dearer!

Yet when alas! we've conned it o'er
And seen how many charms surround it,
How do we wish we'd found before,
Or if not then, had never found it!

[Farewell! my more than father land]

Sey mir gesegnet
Hier in der ferne
Liebliche heimath!
Sey mir gesegnet
Land meiner Träume
Kries meiner Lieben
Sey mir gegrüsst!
Körner

Farewell! my more than father land,
Home of my heart and friends adieu!
Lingering beside some foreign strand
How oft shall I remember you:
How often o'er the waters blue
Send back a sigh to those I leave,
The loving and beloved few
Who grieve for me—for whom I grieve.

178

We part!—no matter how we part—
There are some thoughts we utter not,
Deep treasured in our inmost hearts
Never revealed and ne'er forgot—
Why murmur at the common lot?
We part!—I speak not of the pain
But when shall I each lovely spot
And each loved face behold again?

It must be months—it may be years—
It may—but no! I will not fill
Fond hearts with gloom, fond eyes with tears
Curious to shape uncertain ill:
Though humble, few and far, yet still
Those hearts and eyes are ever dear
Their's is the love no Time can chill
The truth no chance or change can sear!

All I have seen—and all I see
Only endears them more and more,
Friends cool—hopes fade—and honors flee
Affection lives when all is o'er:
Farewell my more than native shore
I do not seek or hope to find
Roam where I will what I deplore
To leave with them and thee behind!

[Lady farewell! ... bear with thee o'er the wave]

Lady farewell! ... bear with thee o'er the wave
Back to the scenes we lov'd in early youth,
My wishes, hopes—aye pray'rs—if aught so grave
From one so frivolous may seem like truth!

Farewell! ... Thou wilt forget both them and me
Before thy vessel cleaves the foaming main—
But of the brief—bright moments passed with thee
I shall a deep remembrance long retain!

[In sad constrained and tedious hours]

In sad constrained and tedious hours
Time lingers on—and day by day

179

Soul—body—hopes—affections—powers
Sink by a slow but sure decay!

And this is life! ... a living death,
Whose loss I well might count a gain,
Since it is but unwilling breath,
And sensibility to pain!

So be it! ... In a few short years
The burning brain's last throb is o'er,
And the heart's ashes quench'd in tears
Emit their caustic fire no more!

So let it be! ... in silent gloom
I see and I abide my fate! ...
If this is life, the closing tomb
Will but shut out a world I hate!

LINES WRITTEN IN LADY ---'S ALBUM

We all have treasures which we fondly cherish
Precious and rare memorials of the past,
Relics of days that do not wholly perish
At least as long as Life and Memory last.

The antiquary hoards his coin and gem
Medal and manuscript and ancient tome:
And jewelled Krees [Kreese]—chibouque with curious stem—
Or fish—or bird the Mariner brings home.

The artist, and enthusiast of art,
Have sketches gather'd wheresoe'er they've been
And Nature's musing votaries do not part
Without mementos of each favorite scene.

The traveller brings from each enchanted spot
Something that may recall it to his view,
A leaf from Virgil's tomb—Egeria's grot—
Fragments of Rome—a flower from Waterloo.

After his pilgrimage the Palmer keeps
The garb, and staff, and cockle-shell he bore,
After her Lover's death the maiden weeps
Over the ring he gave, or tress he wore.

Thus is it ever!—In the heart's affections
In Friendship—Love and Memory we live

180

Life's strongest spells are wishes—recollections—
Joys we have gained or giv'n—or hope to give!

But in the Museums of the Soul like this,
The calmly meditative mind may see
The inborn thirst of past and present bliss,
All we have been—and yet expect to be.

Lady! may thy collection long increase!
Rich with the spoils of each succeeding year,
Proofs of the heart's content—the bosom's peace—
Hope—Love and Joy, unsullied by a tear.

[They say no Love's so deep—so pure]

They say no Love's so deep—so pure,
As that where Death has set his seal
It is not so!—at least I'm sure
Death could not add to what I feel!

No! no!—descended from the skies
And breathing Heaven upon the heart
Love—real—true Love, never dies
The immortal soul's least mortal part!

All other passions bear a stain
Which shews they are not from above:
Of Earth—to Earth they turn again—
From Heaven—to Heaven returns true Love!

There may be times when his bright face
With thoughts pale cast is sicklied o'er
Blindfold, his statue wore such trace—
But drop the fillet—'twas no more.

So all that Death for Love can do
Is rend the Veil that dims his sight
Clear from the brow its pensive hue
And on his smile pour endless light!

‘There is no passion so full of soft[,] tender and hallowing associations as the Love which is stamped by Death!’

Bulwer

‘The Statue of Love by Praxiteles. When its eyes were bandaged the countenance seemed grave and sad: but the moment you removed the fillet, the most serene and enchanting smile diffused itself over the whole face.’

181

[Cease, cease thy song! it tells me much]

Cease, cease thy song! it tells me much
Of those whom this sad heart held dear,
'Tis heavenly sweet!—but ah! not such
As thou should'st breathe or I must hear.

There was a time!—but no 'twere vain—
'Twere folly to confess it all—
Thou must not breathe those notes again
I cannot bear what they recall!

Once they were loved, and even yet
Deep in my inmost soul they dwell:
I cannot if I would forget
The dear, bewildering, dangerous spell.

But let them not be breathed by Thee!
Let me not hear thy witching tone
Lest in my looks my eyes you see
All I have felt but dare not own!

[Come! come to us hither! the goblet is flowing]

Excepto, quòd non simul esses caetera laetus.
Hor.

Come! come to us hither! the goblet is flowing,
And Wit dropping sparks like the sun-shine in showers
And warm hearts have met, and bright glances are glowing,
The moon's shining softly, the summer breeze blowing
And odours and melody round us are throwing
Their spell, 'till our souls seem all music and flowers!

O come to us hither! the moments are flying,
The longest of lives has not many such hours;
The goblet is sinking—the South wind is sighing—
The moon-beams are waning—the night flowers dying—
O come to us hither! we'll take no denying
Your pleasure is all that's now wanting to ours!

[Here all is heartless, hollow, loud]

Here all is heartless, hollow, loud
Vain glittering shew and empty sound:
Society's a lonesome crowd,
Pleasure, the same dull tedious round.

182

One heart to love—one life to press—
One friend to trust—in some wild glen
Were less a waste, O! ten times less,
Than this vast solitude of men.

TO ---

who lent me Taylor's Physical Theory of a future life after reading it

Were each letter a page and a book every line
Half my thoughts on this sheet I might hope to convey
But 'till angels shall teach us the shorthand divine
In limits so narrow what is there to say?

If soul unto soul (with some slight corporeity)
Could impart by mere contact, as Taylor proposes,
A soul-full of meaning in all the variety
Of heart thrilling bliss which in Heaven he supposes

How many sweet dialogues then might I hold
With you dear little spirit, both nightly & daily,
When no thought would have time on the lips to grow cold
But by pressure, from heart, pass to heart, bright & gaily!

What exquisite things we should say by a touch!
By impression ex-pressions quintessence revealing,
Our re-formed existence-informed overmuch
And language exchanged for communion of feeling.

To my notion such things might have been had the Lord
So pleased it, or else, if with due veneration,
Alphonso the Wise had but put in a word
In behalf of us all, at the hour of creation.

You shall hear why I venture to say so, because
I abhor every quibbling and cavilling objection,

183

And the very amendment proposed to the laws ...
Grows out of themselves, by an easy deflection.

For example on earth you no doubt have seen eyes,
Speaking volumes on volumes to all but a dunce,
And perhaps have heard utter'd in two or three sighs,
The whole of Love's Encyclopedia at once.

From a small hand's soft pressure, so slight as to seem
Mere hazard of Friendship, I know there has sprung
Whole years full of thought, 'twixt a doubt & a dream
Too subtle by far for the pen or the tongue.

So there wanted in truth, but a single link more,
Such as Mesmer half guessed at—a magical ring
Like the one that from Solomon Chrystalline bore
By which soul to meet soul over worlds could take wing.

Had we such electro-magnetic attraction
In the sweet sphere of Venus so lovely & bright
Whose air is made up of Caprice & Distraction
I would ask for a tête a tête meeting to-night.

This King is reported to have said that if God had consulted him about making the World he could have given some good advice.

The learned dispute whether this was said theologically or merely as an astronomer. The Jesuit father Andrès in his admirable history of Literature warmly defends the monarch from the charge of impiety: of course it can't be impious to quote him.

V. Storia d'agri Letteratura

The Ring of Solomon is mentioned in the Arabian nights entertainments, & the Lady also, as well as her extraordinary manner of acquiring such tokens: but as it is no where said—not even in the Quatre Facardins,—that she got one from the wise monarch the author must have drawn on the fables of the Talmud or his own fancy for this scandal on the good King.

This line is unintelligible unless what the Italians sometimes call a ‘capriccio’ and the French a ‘distraction’ is intended.

TO JULIA

More than three lustres since the sportive scroll
Retraced fair Julia now at thy command,
Avouched the honest homage of a soul
That held thee sovereign of its fairy land.

Since then the summer-days of life have flown
And years like ages seared my heart and brow,
Yet underneath their ashes still is strewn
More of the past than words shall e'er avow.

All hopes, all thoughts, save of a few fond days
Hallowed by innocence, by friendship cheered,
Whose sole memorials are those careless lays—
All else have perished—even the most endeared.

184

These too ere long must perish!—be it so:
Love, Friendship, Hope, Ambition, all have fled—
Then why should Memory linger?—To bestow
Flowers on the false—the changed, the lost, the dead?

WHO KNOWS?

“Die liebste unter allen Gestirnen. Wann ich Nachts von dir gang, wie ich aus dienen Thore trat, stand er gegen mir über: mit welcher Trunkenheit habe ich ihn oft angesehen! Oft mit aufgehobenen Händen ihn zum Zeichen, zum heiligen Merkmaal meiner gegenwartigen Seligheit gemacht!—und noch—”

Goethe

Some authors tell us gaily—
I mean the most veracious—
Mankind are getting daily
Less Pug—and less Men—dacious
And by reading Watt and Paley
Grow virtuous and sagacious
Good Gracious!

Our Ancestors—sad fellows!
Loved ignorance and yawning
But such pistons pipes and bellows
Our improving age is spawning,
As steam-engines impel us,
That day is sooner dawning—
So they tell us!

On rail-roads—our reliance—
Without any tedious poking,
We shall fly through art and science,
Hissing, fizzing, snorting, smoking;
Setting distance at defiance,
And Time himself provoking—
No Joking!

O'er Experience lightly glancing
Like a steamer on the Ocean—
Our ethic speed enhancing—
Locomotiving Devotion—
And in politics advancing,

185

With a double compound motion,
I've a notion—

Each day our new condition
Will display some strange example—
Some striking proposition—
Or extraordinary sample
Of increasing expedition
On the road so straight and ample
From Perdition.

For instance—maid and lover
Being all, they were appearing
No faults will e'er discover
By seeing or by hearing
But will find fresh Cupids hover
By new Honey—moons so cheering—
How endearing!

High pressure education
Will so increase wives' worth,
That no innocent flirtation
Jealous doubts will e'er bring forth,
But the husband's situation
Make of bachelors a dearth
Heaven and Earth!

No spendthrift heir will borrow
On Post-Obits, whose huge growth,
If Dad should die tomorrow,
Would wake his grief for both—
Unless to soothe his sorrow
He could make—tho' somewhat loath
Matrimony—Matter o'money.

Great men no more will savor
Base flattery—but flee it—
Nor pay with gold and favor
Vile sycophants who knee it—
And if ever they should waver
Will have the grace to see it:
So be it.

186

From one pole to the other,
No rogue will soon be found
Like brothers with a brother
Our neighbors all around
Will live with one another
In peace the most profound
Above ground!

Our jails, as they assure us,
Will be all dilapidation,
Hang-men needless to secure us—
Hulks in utter desolation,
Man—scelerisque purus
And law one long vacation—
O! Creation!

On state-house and state prison
Solemn owls will soon renew—
When the full-orbed moon has risen,
Grave questions, not a few—
Seeking falsehood to bedizen
Too-hoo! Too-hoo! Too-hoo!
To Who?

We shall shew on all occasions
Frank hearts, and honest faces;
Politicians in high stations,
Need not mask to keep their places;
Nor dear friends, and near relations
Waste a Carnival's grimaces,
On good graces.

All simple, all laborious—
We shall be, without hypocrisy,
Good, great, but not vain—glorious—
The Earth one wide Pantocracy—
Philanthropy victorious—
And Congress no Logocracy,
Uproarious!

With all our cares suspended,
And a shirt and loaf of bread each—
The currency amended—
Every trouble we shall head—reach—

187

No Tariffs apprehended,
Or taxes to distress us—
God bless us!

Our wit shall all be Attic—
All gold our circulation—
Melo-comic—not dramatic
Our addresses to the Nation
And our States so Democratic
Will refute Repudiation,
Degradation.

With no Bank-notes—unbankable—
No MONSTERS to affright us—
Newspapers almost frankable—
With Vetos to delight us—
And Presidents unthankable,
Serving twice before they slight us—
O Titus!

But this sweet Arcadian season—
This specific for all woes—
This Age of Perfect Reason,
And Millenium of Repose—
We hope it is no treason—
Are they Poets' dreams?—or Prose?
Who knows?

Alluding to the fancy of the Dutch Innkeeper who upon the appearance of St. Pierres ‘Universal peace,’ put up for a sign a Church-yard with the inscription—‘à la paix universelle.’

The hint of this bagatelle was taken from Guadagnoli's ‘Chi lo sa?’

FORCED CONTRIBUTION

levied in second hand rhyme on a worn out Author, violently suspected of plagiarism, by the most absolute command of the very worshipful and gracious Lady, Georgiana ---

The Saints of Scotland hold it meet
That sinners for some choice transgressions
Should stand, in penitential sheet
At the Kirk-door, and make confessions.

188

So I, between these sheets—once white,
For rhyming in my youth must stand,
No other reason, wrong or right,
But a most orthodox command.

Gray Journals, by my sad fate,
Take warning, and avoid this place,
See, what men come to, soon or late,
By flirting with a Muse—or Grace.

Yet since from this ‘apparent shame’
There's no escape by prayer or tear;
Georgie at least shall share the blame,
I'll tell for spite, who brought me here!

TO ---

“It is not true! words are but air!”

“Die Sprache aber ist unendlich, und nicht bloss in Tönen wird gesprochen. Der Taubstumme redet in Geberden, Liebende mit den Augen, der Kutscher mit der Putsche, der true Hund mit dem wedelnden Schanze, erhabne Menschen nur mit Handlungen, Gemüther mit Gesichtszügen, die Zeit mit Glockenschlägen, der Zeitgeist mit Druckerschwärze, und Sprichmörtern, Dichter, Weltweise und Künstler in Gleichnissen, Bildern und Gestalten, Engel in Lichtstrahlen und Klängen, und Gott redet in der Weltgeschichte. Aber Alle die da reden, musst die verstehen, den Missverständniss ist der Urquell des Bösen und die Schlange des Teufels.”

Rudolph von Fraustadt

It is not true!—‘words are not air,’
That pass and leave no trace behind
Words are the souls of things that were
Works of the mightiest of Mankind.

Of life and empire, sword and crown
Historians, bards, and fame bereft,
Of Egypt's monarch's high renown
What but a hieroglyph is left?

Where now were Hector's deeds of arms
Ulysses craft—Achilles' ire—

189

Where lovely Helen's fatal charms,
But for the breath of Homer's lyre?

Pious Aeneas, where wert thou
With all thy toils by land and wave,
But for the wreath that crowns thy brow
Which Virgil's verse immortal gave?

Where, where were each Ausonian chief
Whose tones through Dante's trumpet tell
Their name and story, bold and brief,
To Purgatory, Heaven and Hell?

Geoffry the brave—the wise—the just—
With all his Holy Wars might rot
The Knight in dust, his sword in rust
If Tasso had not changed his lot.

A timely or untimely word
Decides the fate of men and things
On tempests borne—in thunders heard—
The Oracle of Realms and Kings!

‘Avoid delays!’—‘The Die is Cast!’
From Curio's and from Caesar's tongue
As fell each phrase, a simoom's blast
Its blight o'er Roman freedom flung.

When Mirabeau's tremendous bolt
“Go slave, and tell thy master!” fell,
In tones that startled knave and dolt,
What millions might have heard their knell?

And He—the Man of Fate—the Star—
Lord of the Iron Soul and Crown,
Was not his word once peace or war
Like Jove's or Destiny's his frown?

A word then shapes the fate of Man
Makes or unmakes the great—the wise—
Even with a Word the world began
And at a word the dead shall rise!

Tell me not then, that ‘Words are air,’
Of all things mortal they can claim

190

The highest and the noblest share,
The share of Heaven from whence they came.

For words are not in sounds alone
Or letters framed by Hermes' art
Nature has voices of her own
Their tongue the Sea—the Stars—the Heart.

And to the souls of those whose soul
The Universe's spirit hears
There is a language in the whole
Beyond the Music of the Spheres.

And he who holds its key can read
Far into the abyss of Time
Beyond the reach of craft or creed
To monsters of the Earth's first slime.

And higher than the realms of day,
To stars with systems still unknown,
Track to lone worlds, each wandering ray,
Long ages ere it reached our own.

Aye, and record for humbler skill
The triumph, and the fact attained,
That deeper depths—heights higher still,
Truth upon truth, shall yet be gained.

Then do not say that ‘Words are air,’
Spirits they are, of mortal birth,
Wing'd messengers of Man that bear
To God the voices of the Earth!

And who can say that even at length
Mankind—the living and the dead—
The Heart—the Soul—their weakness—strength—
Hopes fears and mysteries may be read?

What I of others, on such page,
Or they of me, might now be told
'Twere vain to ask—another age
Must pass, before such leaves unfold.

Yet ere I die—unseen—unheard,
Fain would I, one dark leaf explore,

191

Construe one line—translate one word—
Or guess it's meaning, if no more.

And for such knowledge, good or ill,
I fear me much, were Eden mine,
Spite of the past—the Serpent's skill
Its joys might tempt me to resign.

Then tell me not that words are air
Words are the Sons of Heaven that sought
To light in Earthly bosoms fair
The deathless flame of Heavenly Thought!

GEMMA DONATI

He loves me not!—no! he has never loved me!
Yet men have called me fair, and women frown'd,
Curling their lip with well affected scorn,
Or subtler still, join'd in their gallants praise,
With earnest admiration sweetly pale,
Lauding my greatest faults. He loves me not,
And yet I am well-born—Donati's daughter
Has little need to envy rank in Florence,
Nor can the proudest Alighieri deem
Their Dante matched beneath his gentle blood.
I did not come unportioned to his bed,
Though that were nothing: gold he prizes not,
Ev'n his worst foes, in all their bitterest strife,
Have failed to soil his glory with that stain.

But what avails it all? He loves me not,
Altho' I am the mother of his children,
Have loved, and love, and must forever love him,
Spite of his coldness, and our houses' discord,
These civil broils—the poverty and exile
He will not let me share, and last and worst,
The cherished passion of his early youth,
That has survived them all, and even the grave!
Thrice happy Beatrice!—dying young—
Beloved of Dante—in his heart embalmed,
And by his prose and verse to after years,
Perhaps to other ages handed down!

192

Would I were with thee gentle Portinari!
Or thou wert here, and free to share his love,
Who neither can return nor conquer mine!
But let me perish first!—I could not bear
To witness all his tenderness for Thee.
And yet thy soul can ne'er have known for him
The passionate devotion felt by mine.

Had Dante loved me, think'st thou all the world
Would e'er have won or forced me from his arms?
No, never! never!—far too like his own,
In Nature's sternest mould my heart was cast;
O'er ruined hopes, with silent grief and rage,
In violent desperate calm—to brood and break,
May be its destiny—but not to change!

Yes! they may call me proud and harsh and stern,
And gossips hint 'twas Dante's shrewish wife
Taught him Philosophy—of such I reck not—
But none have known, and none will ever know
How deep a love abided in my bosom,
How keen the pang to find it unreturned.

Heaven knows, that often when to them I seemed
Sullen or froward all my soul was tasked,
Far, far beyond its strength, to hide my tears.
Their blame I could endure but not their pity
Nor even his—and therefore have I hid,
In my shut breast, it's self-consuming care,
Rather than loving, seem unloved, or scorned.

O! who can tell how my whole being shook
Convulsively as if the living clay,
Like the inanimate Earth, could quake and shudder,
As the Volcano bids with trembling agony;—
O! who can tell how more than lava flames
Burned in my brain when I was first aware
That Dante loved me not, and I was doomed
To share his bed, a stranger to his heart?
Tormenting doubts reluctantly admitted
Strange phantom shapes—dream horrid and obscure,
Suspicions—hideous shadows of the Truth
Haunted me long and rose almost to phrenzy
Till the bolt fell, and crushed me, to a calm!

193

Strange fits of absence, reverie and gloom
Hung o'er his spirit often from the first,
Nor had I power to chase the cloud away:
He loved not question in these moods of mind,
If sportively I chid him, he repelled
My fondness gravely—Levity displeased him,
Silence and sorrow tacitly reproved.
The lion and the eagle in his blood
Made him impatient of the least restraint
And even watchful tenderness annoyed him.
At times indeed, he half-rebuked himself,
And craved my pardon for his waywardness,
Pleaded his studies—and the state of Florence—
Forese's death—and Guido's banishment,
Or else my kinsman Corso's fiery temper
Pride and vindictiveness, and civil feuds.

But yet some words half uttered in his sleep—
A name too well pronounced—tho' in a sigh
Sufficed to tell these were not all his griefs.
He used to sit and watch Arnolfo's labors
As if St. Reparata's wondrous pile
Wrapt him in contemplation—but the vault
Where Beatrice's relics lay was there
And Portinari's palace full in view.

When our accursed factions in their war
With fierce, blind, cruel, undiscerning fury
Condemned my Alighieri in his absence,
And when our house to pillage & the flames
Was given, and I strove to save what he
With jealous care had ever held most precious
The treasures of his mind—the hallowed page
To which he poured out all his secret soul,
O! what a pang it was to find HER there
The load-star of his verse—his theme—his Muse!
Since then my life has been one long disease
On which Death only can bestow a cure.

My Gabriello! were it not for thee
And Jacopo, Pietro, and thy sister,
Called by her name—I knew not wherefore then,
I had not lingered in the world thus long
To pine in hopeless widowhood of heart,
And leave behind a blighted memory!

194

STAR OF MY LOVE! I

Il y a parmi ces étoiles un amour eternel qui peut seul suffire à l'immensité de nos voeux.

De Stael

Star of my Love! how brightly burns
Thy mild, pure, tranquil flame, tonight,
Though thousands from their chrystal urns
Are pouring floods of silver light,
In thine alone I take delight,
For one who in my absence mourns
Gazes upon thee in thy flight
And every look I give returns
And therefore dost thou seem so bright
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! while thus on high
The heavenly host their vigils keep
Careering through the dark blue sky,
And earth seems sunk in slumbers deep,
There yet are those who do not sleep
But gaze upon thee with a sigh,
And eyes that long, yet scorn to weep,
While gloomy clouds across thee fly
Like thoughts that o'er our fancies sweep
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! I see thee shine
Even now as when thou met'st the gaze
Of one, whose hand was clasped in mine
When last we saw thy glories blaze:
Then as we marked thy beauteous rays
With spirits soft and pure as thine
We asked thine aid in thorny ways
And bowed our hearts before thy shrine
With souls all gratitude and praise
Star of my Love!

STAR OF MY LOVE II

Stern der Liebe! ... der freundlichste der Sterne
Körner

195

Star of my Love! I hail again
Thy light on Nights calm, dark, blue, stream,
An absence grief and care and pain
Are as a half forgotten dream:
For she is here whose glances seem
To purify the earth from stain
And lend a more celestial beam
To Heaven and all it's glorious train—
O how our souls with rapture teem!
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! the holiest shrine
On which fond hearts were ever laid
Thou art, thou must be all divine,
And thou hast heard the vows I made,
When with heart-broken grief I prayed
Benignant Star, one favoring sign,
O! thou hast not denied thine aid
And Heaven has heard my prayers and thine:
Thus then to Thee my thanks are paid
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! most lovely star
Of all in heaven's high temple hung!
Though wandering now asunder far
Thou hast for us an angel's tongue
Thou saw'st the parting pang that wrung
Our bosoms from thy silvery car
For us thy golden Lyre was strung
To Him that made us what we are—
And thus to thee our hymn we sung
Star of my Love!

STAR OF MY LOVE III

Stern meines Lebens,
Schmacht' ich vergebens
Nach deinem Licht?
Du zeigst dich nicht!
[OMITTED]
Stern, willst du dich nicht zeigen?
Körner

196

Star of my Love! unmarked of late,
Again on thee my eyes I bend
Celestial messenger of Fate
What thoughts on thy bright path attend!
Evil or Good dost thou portend?
Pleasure or Pain? or Love or Hate?
Alas! how fondly do we blend
Our Earthly with thy heavenly state
What hopes what fears to thee ascend
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! I gaze on thee
As though upon thy sparkling brow
I saw what thou alone canst see
The look of Her, who even now
Recalls the sad and solemn vow
Long since breathed for—though not to me,
I need not utter when or how. ...
Thou didst receive it silently—
As thus to Thee my heart I bow
Star of my Love!

STAR OF MY LOVE IV

Dum loquor, et flemus; coelo nitidissimus alto
Stella gravis nobis, Lucifer ortus erat.
Ovid Trist.

Star of my Love! most faithless star
That e'er on mortal misery shone!
Years pass—and still thy votaries are
Apart—self-exiled—sad—alone—
And can it be our woes are known
To Heaven, and we still doomed to feel
Pangs which though seraphs breasts were stone
Might stroke upon their hearts like steel,
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! my years decline,
My spirits sink, my hopes decay,
In moody wretchedness I pine
And perish slowly day by day,

197

Ages of pain have rolled away
Since first with mingled love and awe
I gazed upon thy silver ray
Murmuring at Fate's resistless law
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! I ask no more
Omen or sign or aid from thee:
Cast up a wreck, beside the shore
Of dark despair's cold calm dead sea,
All that has been—all that shall be—
Are now unchangeably the same:
Blasted by one accurst decree
Sic Hope,—Love,—Joy,—Ambition,—Fame—
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! I've proved thy power,
It has no strength to help or save!
Star of my Love! I wait the hour
When God shall claim the breath he gave:
I cannot be denied a grave—
And this is all I hope or ask
He whose kind hand redeems the slave
Will end at length my weary task
Star of my Love!

STAR OF MY LOVE V

'S war ein Stern! Jetzt ist er zwar versunken
Körner

Star of my Love! upon the deep
Struggling through Night's dim misty veil
Whilst low winds o'er the waters creep
Still heaving from the by-gone gale,
And solitary sea-birds wail—
Though all below are sunk in sleep—
Beneath the lazy flapping sail,
My lonely midnight watch I keep,
Thy holy light once more to hail
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! too well!—too well!—

198

Those sights and sounds past years recall!
O'er Memory's deep with sullen swell
As troubled passions rise and fall
Though Mystery in her sable pall
Shrouds the dark caverns where they dwell,
What shades—what voices hear her call
And come obedient to her spell!
Alas! for them—for Her—for all!
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! since that marked hour
Worn ever on my heart and brow,
Which gave thee o'er my thoughts the power
No orb in Heaven can claim but thou,
Through every chance and change 'till now
When Fate's most dismal shadows lower,
And to Despair my spirits bow
Blessings or curses may'st thou shower
As I have kept, or broke my vow,
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! with grief and pain
I've numbered many an hour of years
O'er days that never come again
Outpouring all my soul in tears:
Consuming life in doubts and fears
And wearing out my heart and brain
And now what hope my bosom cheers
What soothes me for my long borne chain?
Who loves me now or marks or hears?
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! I did not deem
For me this hour could e'er arrive!
Star of my Love! my cherished dream
Is gone, and I am yet alive!
Why is it that I still survive?
Suspended o'er the ocean stream
I need but loose my hold to drive
My thoughts forever from this theme! ...
And yet, to see her once I strive
Star of my Love!

199

TO MISS ---

Fair daughter of the West! whose cloudless skies
And gorgeous suns I may no more behold,
How have they tinged thy ringlets and thine eyes
Celestial azure hung with molten gold!

Likeness to things of more than mortal birth
We trace—not merely in thy charms alone—
An emanation thou from Heaven to Earth,
The wandering spirit of some starry zone.

So purely, sweetly, innocently bright,
Embodied Hope & Joy, and Peace & Love,
Seeming to others as the Day to Night
Or to this wretched world the realms above.

So wise, so good, so fair, so kind, so just,
Thou beam'st an Angel on this vale of tears
And I bow down before thee in the dust
Stained with the pilgrimage of long long years.

O! I am sick of Earth and all its harms
Its care, pain, woe, fear, hate, strife, guilt & shame,
Come! spread thy wings then, clasp me in thine arms
And bear me to the skies from whence ye came!

5 Jany 1838

[Why is that gaze? Canst thou not tell]

Why is that gaze? Canst thou not tell—
Is it not written on my brow—
By whom—on whom was wrought this spell?
Art thou not conscious when—and how?

250

Other Poems

ON MY BIRTHDAY

Another of my wasted years has gone
And brought me nearer—nothing but the grave
And thus they wax and wane; and one by one
Leave—as they found me—Melancholy's slave.

Each stamps it's wrinkles deeper on my brow
Each sheds it's frost upon my scattered hair
And those who knew me once, and see me now
Speak of me as among “the things that were.”

I've watched thro' night 'till dawn—the lingering sun
It is my Fortieth Sun—at length appears!
And seems to question me[:] “What hast thou done
Thro' this long waste of miserable years?”

Ere his Eighth lustre gallant Surrey died
But dying left behind a deathless name.
And hast thou then no honorable pride?
No noble aspirations after fame?

Horace & Virgil Scipio Caesar lit
With Glory ere thy years their sword or page,
And even while thou livedst Napoleon Byron writ
Their brief and burning annals on the age

“And thou”—Enough!—I know it all—'tis true!
Wasting my head and heart on love and rhyme
While the irrevocable moments flew. ...
I perish and bequeath no name to Time.

251

SONNET SENT TO CARLO BOTTA ON READING HIS HISTORY OF ITALY

Botta! the Muse of History with thy pen
Sheds beauty, light, and wisdom on her pages,
Reviving thus, even in our days again,
Part of the Roman, Greek and Tuscan sages;
Their love of freedom, and their skill in men—
Hatred of force and fraud—the lore of ages—
With style's best virtue graced—most lovely when
Truth scorns both Demagogue's and Tyrant's wages.
There is a fascination in thy story
Beyond mere music from a Syren's tongue,
As though exulting in her ancient glory
Above the tale entranced, Ausonia hung,
Demanding back from Time now faint and hoary,
Days worthy of the land where Dante sung!

[Daughter of Grecian Genius! from whose soul]

Daughter of Grecian Genius! from whose soul
Pure—English—womanly high thought and feeling
Their heart-sprung Poetry's rich treasures roll
Ev'n critic taste and reason's wonder stealing,
As hurrying tow'rd impassion'd meaning's goal,
Expression under Fancy's torrent reeling,
Thy spirit seems to burst from Earth's control
Its Heav'n-born Myths in music's breath revealing!
How sweet, how bright, how lovely, how sublime,
Majestic and exhaustless is the stream,
Pour'd forth by Nature, thus enrich'd by Time,
Shaming the golden tides that poets dream—
The ever-glorious Sea of deathless rhyme
Wherein [sun], sky, and stars reflected gleam!

Anonymous (Italian)

“Qui giace un Cardinale.”

Here lies a cardinal far famed
For doing works of good and evil;
He did his bad work very well,
But spoiled his good work like the devil.

252

Juan Meléndez Valdés ANACREONTIC

I applied myself to science,
To be free from care and strife,
Thinking Wisdom bade defiance
To all the ills of life
Alas! what silly fancies!
I could not nurse them long;
Give me music back, and dances,
Love, friendship, wine, and song!

Has life so few vexations,
That we increase our store?
Or so many recreations,
We need not wish for more?
Fill the cup! let's drain a measure
To my own Dorilla's eyes;
Till Wisdom teaches pleasure,
'Tis no pleasure to be wise.

What heed I if the sun
Be a fixed star or no?
What time the planets run
Their course, why need I know?
Is the moon peopled, land and flood?
What millions may be there?
They never did us harm or good—
About them need we care?

Away with each historian!
And the chiefs whose deeds they tell;
Roman or Macedonian—
What matter where they fell?
While our sportive lambs may wander
In this green valley free,
What's Caesar, Alexander—
King or Khan, to you and me?

The land protects our fold—
I speak the word with awe;
If it's safe, need I be told
Of the “wisdom of the law”?

253

The men who study, suffer
Trouble, and toil, and care;
Each mid-night taper-snuffer
Has a sad and solemn air.

What gains the sallow student?
To doubt his studies tend;
Doubt makes new studies prudent—
In doubts new studies end.
So passes life away
In jealousy and strife,
Disputing night and day—
O enviable life!

Bring wine! my girl, bring wine!
With Love, and Song, and Jest,
While there are eyes like thine,
A fig for all the rest!

LINES WRITTEN BY THOMAS CHATTERTON WHILE MEDITATING SUICIDE IN THE AUTUMN OF 1770

I love to see the fading leaf
I joy to note the withering tree
For cold neglect and scorn and grief
Have wasted me.

I love to hear the sullen wind,
I love to watch the rising wave
Beneath whose swell I soon shall find
A peaceful grave!

I love to see the surges beat
Around this insulated rock
That spurns them proudly from his feet
Nor feels the shock

Here will I watch the gathering storm
And listen to the sea-birds cry
'Till night envelopes every form
From mortal eye

Then shall my spirit take it's flight
To that unknown mysterious shore
Where thousands every day alight
But quit no more.

254

Forgive me heaven! if rash the dead
I cannot beg; I dare not steal:
Even man's obdurate heart might bleed
At what I feel.

Would I could pray! ... it is too late,
Despair has stiffened every limb! ....
Pray for me father! ... mercy's gate
Is free to him.

Bend haughty soul! unbent before
Bow to thy maker stubborn knee!
'Tis done! the last great trial's o'er
Angels of mercy pray for me!

LINES FOR THE MUSIC OF WEBER'S LAST WALTZ

See! the Sun is sinking
Day is closing fast
Twilight's pensive-thinking
Hours will soon be past:
Love's first Pilgrim sighing
Starts to hear the bell
Which to day-light dying
Tolls a last farewell:
Vesper's hymn is stealing
O'er the charmed air
Every form is kneeling
Every sound is prayer.

Thus 'mid all that's dearest
Would I sink to rest
Like that bright Star nearest
To the drooping West:
Let not Love bewail me,
'Twould but wound my ear
When my senses fail me
Be thou only near;
While my eyes are glazing
Take thy hand in mine
And be sure while gazing
Life's last thought is thine!

255

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY

Soft and sweet be thy deathly sleep
Bright and glad be thy heavenly waking
O do not dream that thou seest us weep
Feel not thou, that our hearts are breaking!

Ne'er oh ne'er mayst thou hear us sigh
Known to thee may our griefs be never
But if thou look'st from the starry sky
Think that thou seest us happy as ever.

And we, when we press the holy ground
That covers thy grave at the hour of even
Will fancy thy Spirit is hovering round
And smiling points to it's native heaven.

Full oft when the moon of night is near
And our wearied eye lids have sunk in slumber
We'll dream that thy golden lyre we hear
Softly touched to its sweetest number.

And oh! we'll deem when our bosoms thrill
With the pulse of joy or the pang of sorrow
Our good thou sharest—but not our ill
And Patience or bliss from the thought we'll borrow

And at last, when the hour of death is near
Around our couch thy Spirit shall hover
To whisper Hope in our dying ear
And waft us to peace when life is over.

ON GREENOUGH'S WASHINGTON

Such was the Man!—Simple—Austere—sublime—
By every fortune tried—in all unmoved—
Hero—Sage—Patriot—great without a crime
Who conquered freedom for the land he loved:—
And for himself—took nothing—but a Name
That None 'till then—& no one since has won:
Does not the very marble speak his name?
Who dare thus point to Heaven but WASHINGTON[?]

256

Guido Guinicelli (Italian)

When steel and lodestone touch they cleave
As if in rapturous trance they hung,
Severed—each others clasp they leave
As though to life and love they clung.

Thus too the heart!—but ah beware!
When over the subtle flame has past
Both must its power forever share
And each, to each, be first—and last—

Absent or present, heart and steel
Become as if by lightning riven:
Thenceforth they only know and feel
One spell on Earth—one Star in Heaven!

[Whilst busy Memory fondly strays]

Whilst busy Memory fondly strays
O'er griefs and joys of other times
And many a much loved form pourtrays
And many a beauteous scene displays
Of former years and distant climes.

The burning blush will sometimes rise
For youths first wild romantic schemes
Which now, when Time hath made me wise
Appear if viewed by Reasons eyes
But idle and fantastic dreams.

For I have sought the silent wood
And many a live long summer day
Wrapt in enthusiastic mood
Supremely wise divinely good
Within it's deepest covert lay.

There formed vain schemes of happiness
For life's gay morn or cloudless even,
Encouraged worth relieved distress
Heard every tongue my virtues bless
And smiled mid a domestic heaven!

257

But tho' these follies flush my cheek
Whene'er the past is called to view
Yet still—(I dare my thoughts to speak)
Though knaves or fools should call me weak
I mourn them false yet love them too!

This honest truth I tell full free,
What—if the heartless crowd condemn?
Let not that steal one sigh from thee
They only strive to laugh at me,
While I, sincerely pity them!