The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

The gayest gallants of the Court
Oft fell in love, on mere report,
With eyes they had not seen;
And knelt, and rhymed, and sighed, and frowned,
In talismanic fetters bound,
With flowers and sunshine all around—
And five-score leagues between.
—MS. Poem.

I

Sir Lidian had attained-his sixteenth year;
The golden age of life, wherein are met
Boyhood's last hope and Manhood's earliest fear
In mingled bliss and beauty;—you forget
Your cradle's laughter, and your school-room's tear,
Your maiden medal, and your first gazette;
But never, never, the bright dreams that blind you
When sixteen years are newly left behind you.

II

The daily longings to be very great,
The nightly studies to be very killing,
The blessed recklessness of human hate,
The sonnet-singing, and the sigh-distilling,
The chase of folly, and the scorn of fate,
Friendship's fresh throb, and Passion's April thrilling
For some high lady, whom your elder brother
Declares is old enough to be your mother.

208

III

Sir Lidian had attained his sixteenth year,
And was the loveliest stripling in the land;
His small soft features and his colour clear
Were like a budding girl's; his delicate hand
Seemed fitter for the distaff than the spear;
Locks of bright brown his spotless forehead fanned;
And he had eyes as blue as summer's heaven,
And stood a little more than five feet seven.

IV

No gallant flung a lance so fleet and true
From the trained courser through the golden ring;
No joyous harper at the banquet threw
A lighter touch across the sounding string;
Yet on his cheek there was the hectic hue
And in his eye the fitful wandering
Which chill our praise to pity, that a bloom
So fresh and fair is destined to the tomb!

V

And though he danced and played, as I have hinted,
In dance and song he took but little pleasure;
He looked contented, though his partner squinted,
And seldom frowned when minstrels marred the measure;
When the rich sky by evening's glow was tinted,
More glad was he to wander at his leisure,
Despising fogs, apostrophizing fountains,
Wasting the time, and worshipping the mountains.

209

VI

And yet he had not loved!—his early fancies
Of love, first love, the transport and the pain,
Had been extracted from the best romances,
And were, perhaps, of too sublime a strain;
So when he woke from those delicious trances,
He shut his eyes and chose to sleep again,
Shunning realities for shades, and fleeing
From all he saw to all he dreamt of seeing.

VII

In starlit dells and zephyr-haunted bowers,
Moistened by rivulets whose milky foam
Murmured the sweetest music, where warm showers
That trickled fresh from Heaven's eternal dome
Watered bright jewels that sprung up like flowers,—
In such a scene his fancy found a home,
A Paradise of Fancy's fabrication,
Peopled by Houris of the heart's creation;

VIII

Who never thrummed upon the virginals,
Nor tripped by rule, nor fortunately fainted,
Nor practised paying compliments and calls,
Looking satirical, or looking sainted,
Nor shrieked at tournaments, nor blushed at balls,
Nor lisped, nor sighed, nor drooped, nor punned, nor painted;
Nor wrote a book, nor traded in caresses,
Nor made remarks on other people's dresses.

210

IX

These were his raptures;—these have all been mine;
I could have worshipped once a constellation,
Filled the fine air with habitants divine,
Found in the sea all sorts of inspiration;
Gone out at noon-day with a Nymph to dine,
Held with an Echo charming conversation,
Commenced intriguing with a star, and kissed,
Like old Ixion, a coquettish mist.

X

Now all is over! passion is congealing,
The glory of the soul is pale and dim;
I gaze all night upon a whitewashed ceiling,
And get no glimpses of the seraphim;
Nothing is left of high and bright revealing
But a weak longing and a wayward whim;
And when Imagination takes the air,
She never wanders beyond Grosvenor-square.

XI

Not that I've been more wicked in my day
Than some, perhaps, who call themselves my betters;
I liked to prattle better than to pray,
And thought that freedom was as sweet as fetters;
Yet when my lip and lute are turned to clay,
The honest friend who prints my Life and Letters
Will find few stories of satanic arts,
Of broken promises or broken hearts.

211

XII

But I have moved too long in cold society,
Where it's the fashion not to care a rush;
Where girls are always thinking of propriety,
And men are laughed at if they chance to blush;
And thus I've caught the sickness of sobriety,
Forbidden sighs to sound, and tears to gush;
Become a great philosopher, and curled
Around my heart the poisons of the world.

XIII

And I have learnt at last the hideous trick
Of laughing at whate'er is great or holy;
At horrid tales that turn a soldier sick,
At griefs that make a Cynic melancholy;
At Mr. Lawless, and at Mr. Bric,
At Mr. Milman, and at Mr. Croly;
At Talma and at Young, Macbeth and Cinna,—
Even at you, adorable Corinna!

XIV

To me all light is darkness;—love is lust,
Painting soiled canvas, poetry so led paper;
The fairest loveliness a pinch of dust,
The proudest majesty a breath of vapour;
I have no sympathy, no tear, no trust,
No morning musing and no midnight taper
For daring manhood, or for dreaming youth,
Or maiden purity, or matron truth.

212

XV

But sweet Sir Lidian was far more refined;
He shrank betimes from life and life's defiling;
His step was on the earth, but oh! his mind
Made for itself a heaven! the fool's reviling
He did not seek, or shun; and thus, enshrined
In glad and innocent thoughts, he went on smiling,
Alone in crowds, unhearing and unheeding,
Fond of the fields, and very fond of reading.

XVI

When lords and ladies went to hunt together,
The milkmaid, as he passed, kicked down her pan;
When witty courtiers criticised the weather,
The Countess swore he was a learned man;
For him the proudest bowed beneath a feather,
For him the coldest blushed behind a fan;
And titled dames gave fêtes upon the water,
To introduce him to their angel daughter.

XVII

But happy, happy Lidian! for he never
Watched the caprices of a pretty face;
Nor longed, as I have longed, with vain endeavour
To tear that plaguy wall of Mechlin lace;
His apathy seemed like to last for ever;
When suddenly an incident took place
Which broke the talisman, and burst the bubble,
And gave his friends considerable trouble.

213

XVIII

He laid a bet upon his falcon's flight,
Rode home, as usually he did, a winner;
And sent a dozen pages to invite
Ten dozen Barons to a peacock dinner:
They came, they ate, they talked through half the night;
And the gay crowd grew naturally thinner,
As old Sir Guy, a story-teller staunch,
Began the story of the Lady Blanch.

XIX

How she was born just twenty years before;
And how her father was a Maltese Knight,
Sir Raymond styled, and skilled in knightly lore,
And true in love, and terrible in fight;
And how her mother, Lady Leonore,
Had perished when her offspring saw the light;
And how, because there was no other heir,
She was brought up with most uncommon care;

XX

How she was never, when she was a child,
Restrained in any innocent vagary;
And how she grew up beautiful and wild,
And sang as sweetly as a caged canary;
And how all artlessly she wept and smiled;
And how she danced cotillons like a fairy;
And how she proved what metal she was made of,
By mounting mares her groom was quite afraid of.

214

XXI

How Bishop Bembo mended her cacology,
And gave her all the graces of the Attics;
How Father Joseph taught her physiology,
And Father Jerome taught her mathematics;
And how she picked up something of astrology
From two white-haired long-bearded Asiatics;
And how she had a genius for gastronomy,
And private—not political—economy;

XXII

And how, as soon as she dismissed her tutor,
And sat at tiltings for the men's inspection,
She was besieged by many an anxious suitor
With sighs and sonnets, rhetoric and affection;
And how Sir Raymond stood completely neuter;
And how she gave to all the same rejection,
For being serious, or for being funny,
For want of genius, or for want of money;

XXIII

And how the father of this matchless daughter,
Who for long years had been a great dragooner,
Found Fate as fickle as old Horace thought her,
Which many soldiers find a great deal sooner;
How he was grounded in some shallow water,
And taken prisoner by a pirate schooner;
And how the Bey of Tunis made a slave of him,
And swore one day the sea should be the grave of him.

215

XXIV

And how poor Blanch, when that sad tale was told her,
Speechless and senseless, fell upon her face;
And how 'twas all two knights could do to hold her;
And how, at last, she took her writing-case,
And wrote, before she was a minute older,
To pray that she might fill her father's place,
Suggesting that a maiden, young and handsome,
Was more than worth an ugly old man's ransom;

XXV

And how the Bey behaved himself correctly,
Knowing such beauty was not for a Bey;
And how he shipped her, very circumspectly,
A present for the Sultan's own serai;
And how the Sultan fell in love directly;
And how he begged her, one fine summer's day,
To calm her passion, and assuage her grief,
And share his throne, his bed, and his belief.

XXVI

And how she told him his proposals shocked her,
Crescent and crown heroically spurning;
And how she reasoned with a Turkish doctor;
And how the Muftis marvelled at her learning;
And how the Vizier in a dungeon locked her;
And how three Pachas recommended burning;
And how, in spite of all their inhumanity,
She kept her character, and Christianity.

216

XXVII

How she escaped by preaching to her gaoler;
How Selim tore his beard and wore his willow;
How she put on the trousers of a sailor;
How Zephyr kindly helped her o'er the billow;
How all her friends were very glad to hail her;
How she was married now to Don Pedrillo;
And how she showed, by every look and action,
She loved her lord and master to distraction.

XXVIII

Such was the tale;—a tale to make men weep,
Yet half the guests were laughing in their sleeve;
Some fell a fighting, others fell asleep,
The wild took bumpers, and the wise took leave
But oh, the trance, so passionate and deep,
In which Sir Lidian sate!—you might believe
From his short breathing, and his gushing tears,
His very soul was listening, not his ears.

XXIX

Oh, what a treasure all such listeners are!
He longed to praise, but held his tongue to wonder,
Rapt as a cornet ere his maiden war,
Dumb as a schoolboy when he doubts a blunder,
Pale as a culprit at the fatal bar,
Faint as a lady in a storm of thunder,
And wild of heart, as I sometimes have been,
When you were singing, silver-toned Adine!—

217

XXX

Queen of enchanting sounds, at whose sweet will
The spirit sinks and rises, glows and shivers,
Your voice is now for dearer friends; but still
In my lone heart its every echo quivers,
A viewless melody!—no purer thrill
Do fairies wake from their own groves and rivers,
When they would fling on minstrels' dreams by night
Some bounteous vision of intense delight.

XXXI

You've very often asked me for a song;
I've very often promised to bestow it;
But when my admiration is most strong,
I'm frequently the least disposed to show it;
However, here I swear that I have long
Sighed to be styled your four-and-twentieth poet,
And that your voice is richer far to me,
Than a fat client's, five years hence, will be.—

XXXII

But all this time Sir Guy was in his glory;
He was not used to be respected so;
For though he once was matchless at a story,
Age chills the tongue, and checks the humour's flow;
His talk grew tedious as his hairs grew hoary;
And coxcombs stopt his—“Fifty years ago”—
With questions of their hawking, hunting, baiting,
Or—“Fair Sir Guy, the hypocras is waiting.”

218

XXXIII

Hence, when he saw in what a mute abstraction
His youthful host to his romance attended,
He took unusual pains with every fraction,
Kept his dénouement artfully suspended,
Grew quite theatrical in tone and action,
And went away as soon as he had ended,
Supported to his palfrey by a vassal,
Half drunk with vanity, and half with wassail.

XXXIV

The guests are gone! within that lofty hall
No boastful baron curls his wet mustaches;
The wreaths of flowers are withered on the wall,
The logs upon the earth are dust and ashes;
Where late some lover pledged his amorous thrall,
The wine-cup stands inverted; and the flashes
From torch and taper o'er the bright floor thrown
Fall faint and rare!—Sir Lidian is alone.

XXXV

Alone?—Oh no! the Lady and her grieving
Too truly, deeply, on his soul are wrought;
She has become to him his heart's conceiving,
The very essence of the love he sought,
A present hope, a passionate believing,
A sleepless vision, an embodied thought;
Not fancy quite, nor quite materiality,
Too clear for dream, too lovely for reality.

219

XXXVI

Hark! the wind whistles through the grove of firs;—
The Lady Blanch beneath their shade reposes:
Lo! the dark tapestry in the torch-light stirs;—
The Lady Blanch beneath the curtain dozes:
He gazes on his pictured ancestors,
And even there, the ancient lips and noses
Recall, with most astonishing activity,
The Lady Blanch, her charms and her captivity.

XXXVII

And now she looks into his slumb'rous eyes,
And now she trifles with his flowing tresses;
He speaks to her,—anon her lip replies;
He kneels to her,—she shrinks from his caresses;
Coining all eloquence of smiles and sighs,
Wearing by turns a thousand forms and dresses,
Beauteous in all!—alone?—in bliss or pain,
Sir Lidian ne'er will be alone again!

XXXVIII

Poor youth! the chamber now was wrapt in gloom,
The servants all had gone to rest; but still he
Wandered in silence up and down the room,
Forgetting that the morning would be chilly,
Tossing about his mantle and his plume,
And looking very sad, and very silly;
At last he snatched his harp, and stopped his tread,
And warbled thus before he went to bed.—

220

“O Love! O beauteous Love!
Thy home is made for all sweet things,
A dwelling for thine own soft dove
And souls as spotless as her wings;
There summer ceases never:
The trees are rich with luscious fruits,
The bowers are full of joyous throngs,
And gales that come from Heaven's own lutes
And rivulets whose streams are songs
Go murmuring on for ever!

O Love! O wretched Love!
Thy home is made for bitter care;
And sounds are in thy myrtle grove
Of late repentance, long despair,
Of feigning and forsaking:
Thy banquet is the doubt and fear
That come, we know not whence or why,
The smile that hardly masks a tear,
The laughter that is half a sigh,
The heart that jests in breaking!

O Love! O faithless Love!
Thy home is like the roving star
Which seems so fair, so far above
The world where woes and sorrows are;
But could we wander thither,

221

There's nothing but another earth,
As dark and restless as our own,
Where misery is child of mirth,
And every heart is born to groan,
And every Hower to wither!”

222

MY FIRST FOLLY

STANZAS WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Pretty Coquette, the ceaseless play
Of thine unstudied wit,
And thy dark eye's remembered ray
By buoyant fancy lit,
And thy young forehead's clear expanse,
Where the locks slept, as through the dance,
Dreamlike, I saw thee flit,
Are far too warm and far too fair
To mix with aught of earthly care;
But the vision shall come when my day is done,
A frail and a fair and a fleeting one!

And if the many boldly gaze
On that bright brow of thine,
And if thine eye's undying rays
On countless coxcombs shine,
And if thy wit flings out its mirth,
Which echoes more of air than earth,
For other ears than mine,

223

I heed not this; ye are fickle things,
And I like your very wanderings;
I gaze, and if thousands share the bliss,
Pretty capricious! I heed not this.

In sooth I am a wayward youth,
As fickle as the sea,
And very apt to speak the truth,
Unpleasing though it be;
I am no lover; yet as long
As I have heart for jest or song,
An image, Sweet, of thee,
Locked in my heart's remotest treasures,
Shall ever be one of its hoarded pleasures;—
This from the scoffer thou hast won,
And more than this he gives to none.

December 20, 1821.

224

A SHOOTING STAR.

“An ignis fatuus gleam of love.”—Byron.

A shooting Star!—the dim blue night
Gleamed where the wanderer went,
For it flung a stream of gushing light
Around its bright ascent.
I saw it fade!—in cold and cloud
The young light fleeted by,
And the shrill night-wind whistled loud,
As darkness spread her solemn shroud
Over the midnight sky.

Thou Maiden of the secret spell,
Star of the soul, farewell, farewell!
E'en such has been thy lovely light,
So calmly keen, so coldly bright;
A meteor, seen and worshipped only
To leave a lonely heart more lonely.
The Star hath set!—the spell is broken;
And thou hast left behind no token—
No token, lovely one, to me,
Of what thou art, or art to be;
Except one dear and cherished thought
In Memory's sunless caverns wrought,

225

One moonlight vision, one sweet shade,
Quick to appear, and slow to fade,
A warm and silent recollection,
The fancy's dream, the heart's affection.

Bright be thy lot in other years!—
Fill high the cup of wine;
In all the pain of hopes and fears
I will not bathe with any tears
That laughing love of thine.
Yet often in my waking slumbers
Thy voice shall speak its magic numbers,
And I shall think on that dark brow
On which my fancy gazes now,
And sit in reverie lone and long
To muse on that Italian song.

And thou, perhaps, in happier times,
And fairer scenes, and warmer climes,
Wilt think of one who would not dim
With aught of care that wit and whim,—
Of one who oft, in other years,
Fills high the cup of wine,
Because, in all his hopes and fears,
He will not bathe with any tears
That laughing love of thine!

March 15, 1822.

226

STANZAS

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND.

Bliss to those that love thee!
Bliss to those thou lovest!
May Heaven smile above thee
Wheresoe'er thou rovest!
May no storm come nigh thee
On the tumbling ocean!
May the green wave ripple by thee
With a lulling motion!

The wild voice of thy laughter
Hath fleeted from before me,
But an echo lingers after,
Flinging magic o'er me!
Thy fair smile is not beaming
Its young mirth around me,
But I doat upon it, dreaming,
When the spell hath bound me.

227

I cannot see or hear thee,
Dearest of Earth's daughters;
But my soul is ever near thee,
On the quiet waters.
Bliss to those that love thee!
Bliss to those thou lovest!
And mav Heaven smile above thee
Wheresoe'er thou rovest!

228

L'INCONNUE.

Many a beaming brow I've known,
And many a dazzling eye,
And I've listened to many a melting tone
In magic fleeting by;
And mine was never a heart of stone,
And yet my heart hath given to none
The tribute of a sigh;
For Fancy's wild and witching mirth
Was dearer than aught I found on earth,
And the fairest forms I ever knew
Were far less fair than—L'Inconnue!

Many an eye that once was bright
Is dark to-day in gloom;
Many a voice that once was light
Is silent in the tomb;
Many a flower that once was dight
In beauty's most entrancing might
Hath faded in its bloom;

229

But she is still as fair and gay
As if she had sprung to life to-day;
A ceaseless tone and a deathless hue
Wild Fancy hath given to—L'Inconnue.

Many an eye of piercing jet
Hath only gleamed to grieve me;
Many a fairy form I've met,
But none have wept to leave me;
When all forsake, and all forget,
One pleasant dream shall haunt me yet,
One hope shall not deceive me;
For oh! when all beside is past,
Fancy is found our friend at last,
And the faith is firm and the love is true
Which are vowed by the lips of—L'Inconnue!

230

PEACE BE THINE.

When Sorrow moves with silent tread
Around some mortal's buried dust,
And muses on the mouldering dead
Who sleep beneath their crumbling bust,
Though all unheard and all unknown
The name on that sepulchral stone,
She looks on its recording line,
And whispers kindly, “Peace be thine!”

O Lady! me thou knowest not,
And what I am, or am to be;
The pain and pleasure of my lot
Are nought, and must be nought, to thee;
Thou seest not my hopes and fears;
Yet thou perhaps, in other years,
Wilt look on this recording line,
And whisper kindly, “Peace be thine!”

231

TO ------.

I.

I

We met but in one giddy dance,
Good-night joined hands with greeting;
And twenty thousand things may chance
Before our second meeting:
For oh! I have been often told
That all the world grows older,
And hearts and hopes, to-day so cold,
To-morrow must be colder.

II

If I have never touched the string
Beneath your chamber, dear one,
And never said one civil thing
When you were by to hear one,—
If I have made no rhymes about
Those looks which conquer Stoics,
And heard those angel tones, without
One fit of fair heroics,—

232

III

Yet do not, though the world's cold school
Some bitter truths has taught me,
O do not deem me quite the fool
Which wiser friends have thought me!
There is one charm I still could feel,
If no one laughed at feeling;
One dream my lute could still reveal,—
If it were worth revealing.

IV

But Folly little cares what name
Of friend or foe she handles,
When merriment directs the game,
And midnight dims the candles;
I know that Folly's breath is weak
And would not stir a feather;
But yet I would not have her speak
Your name and mine together.

V

Oh no! this life is dark and bright,
Half rapture and half sorrow;
My heart is very full to-night,
My cup shall be to-morrow:
But they shall never know from me,
On any one condition,
Whose health made bright my Burgundy,
Whose beauty was my vision!

233

TO ------.

II.

I

As o'er the deep the seaman roves
With cloud and storm above him,
Far, far from all the smiles he loves,
And all the hearts that love him.
'Tis sweet to find some friendly mast
O'er that same ocean sailing,
And listen in the hollow blast
To hear the pilot's hailing.

II

On rolls the sea! and brief the bliss,
And farewell follows greeting;
On rolls the sea! one hour is his
For parting and for meeting;
And who shall tell, on sea or shore.
In sorrow or in laughter,
If he shall see that vessel more,
Or hear that voice hereafter?

234

III

And thus, as on through shine and shower
My fickle shallop dances,
And trembles at all storms that lower,
And courts all summer glances,
'Tis very sweet, when thoughts oppress
And follies fail to cheer me,
To find some looks of loveliness,
Some tones of kindness, near me.

IV

And yet I feel, while hearts are gay
And smiles are bright around me,
That those who greet me on my way
Must leave me as they found me,
To rove again, as erst I roved,
Through winter and rough weather,
And think of all the friends I loved,
But loved and lost together:

V

And scenes and smiles, so pure and glad,
Are found and worshipped only
To make our sadness seem more sad,
Our loneliness more lonely;—
It matters not! a pleasant dream
At best can be but dreaming;
And if the true may never beam,
Oh! who would slight the seeming?

235

VI

And o'er the world my foot may roam,
Through foreign griefs and pleasures,
And other climes may be my home,
And other hearts my treasures;
But in the mist of memory
Shall time and space be cheated,
And those kind looks revived shall be,
And those soft tones repeated!

VII

Believe,—if e'er this rhyme recall
One thought of him who frames it,—
Believe him one who brings his all
Where Love or Friendship claims it;
Though cold the surface of his heart,
There's warmth beneath the embers;
For all it hopes, it would not part
With aught that it remembers!

236

TO ------.

III.

“Bientôt je vis rassembler autour de moi tous les objets qui m'avoient donné de l'émotion dans ma jeunesse.”—Rousseau.

I

O Lady, when I mutely gaze
On eyes, whose chastened splendour
Forbids the flatterer's wanton praise,
And makes the Cynic tender,
Believe not that my gaze that night
Has nothing, Lady, in it,
Beyond one vision of delight,
The rapture of one minute.

II

And, Lady, when my ear has heard
That voice, whose natural gladness
Has caught from Heaven, like some sweet bird,
Its tone of sainted sadness,
Believe not that those uttered words
In the far winds have fleeted,
Like echoes from my own poor chords,
Uncherished, unrepeated.

237

III

Within the soul, where Memory shrouds
Whate'er has bloomed and faded,
And consecrates the very clouds
By which her cells are shaded,
Re-echoed from unnoticed strings,
Traced by an unseen finger,
Amid all holy thoughts and things
Those smiles, those words, will linger!

IV

The present is a narrow cave
With gloomy walls to bound it;
The future is a pathless wave
With darkness all around it;
But I did fill the shadowy past,
As Life was loitering through it.
With many a shape, which beams at last
As bright as Boyhood knew it.

V

Those shapes are viewless to the eye,
But still the heart enjoys them;
And Fancy can their hues supply
As fast as Time destroys them;
Until the past, with all its dreams
Of love, and light, and glory,
Is fairer than the future seems
In fabling Mecca's story.

238

VI

And though I weep, as I repair
Some bitter recollection
Of bootless labour, baffled prayer,
Scorned passion, crushed affection,
Yet I would never give away
One tear of such rare sorrow
For all I have of bliss to-day,
Or all I hope to-morrow.

VII

Lady, if I would e'er renew,
When Care's cold night has bound me,
The brightest morn that ever threw
Its youthful radiance round me,
Or deck with bloom, when Hope is bare,
And Pleasure's wreaths are serest,
Of all dead flowers, so dear and fair,
The fairest, and the dearest,—

VIII

If, when my lute in other days
Is silent or unheeded,
I would revive one voice, whose praise
Was all the fame it needed,—
If, when false Friendship has betrayed
Or fickle Love deceived me,
My heart would cling to one soft shade
Which could not so have grieved me,—

239

IX

In bower or banquet, heath or hill,
The form I seek will glisten;
Again the liquid voice will thrill,
The fair face bend to listen:
But whatsoe'er the hour or place,
No bribe or prayer shall win me
To say whose voice, or form, or face,
That spell awoke within me!

240

THE PORTRAIT.

Oh yes! these lips are very fair,
Half lifted to the sky,
As if they breathed an angel's prayer
Mixed with a mortal's sigh;
But theirs is not the song that flings
O'er evening's still imaginings
Its cherished witchery;
No, these are not the lips whose tone
Sad Memory has made her own.

And these long curls of dazzling brown
In many a fairy wreath
Float brightly, beautifully, down
Upon the brow beneath;
But these are not the locks of jet
For which I sought the violet
On that remembered heath;
No, these are not the locks that gleam
Around me in my moonlight dream.

241

And these blue eyes—a very saint
Might envy their pure rays—
Are such as limners learn to paint,
And poets long to praise;
But theirs is not the speaking glance
On which, in all its young romance,
My spirit loves to gaze;
No, these are not the eyes that shine,
Like never-setting stars, on mine.

By those sweet songs I hear to-night,
Those black locks on the brow,
And those dark eyes, whose living light
Is beaming o'er me now,
I worship nought but what thou art!
Let all that was—decay—depart,
I care not when or how;
And fairer far these hues may be,—
They seem not half so fair to me!

242

TO ------.

I

Still is the earth, and still the sky;
The midnight moon is fleeting by;
And all the world is wrapt in sleep,
But the hearts that love, and the eyes that weep.

II

And now is the time to kiss the flowers
Which shun the sunbeam's busy hours;
For the book is shut, and the mind is free
To gaze on them, and to think of thee.

III

Withered they are and pale in sooth;
So are the radiant hopes of youth;
But Love can give with a single breath
Bloom to languor, and life to death.

243

IV

Though I must greet thee with a tone
As calm to-morrow as thine own,
Oh! Fancy's vision, Passion's vow,
May be told in stillness and darkness now!

V

For the veil from the soul is rent away
Which it wore in the glare of gaudy day;
And more, much more, the heart may feel
Than the pen may write or the lip reveal.

VI

Why can I not forego—forget
That ever I loved thee—that ever we met?
There is not a single link or sign
To blend my lot in the world with thine;

VII

I know not the scenes where thou hast roved,
I see not the faces which thou hast loved,—
Thou art to me as a pleasant dream
Of a boat that sails on a distant stream.

VIII

Thou smilest! I am glad the while,
But I share not the joy that bids thee smile;
Thou grievest! when thy grief is deepest,
I weep, but I know not for whom thou weepest.

244

IX

I would change life's spring for his roughest weather
If we might bear the storm together;
And give my hopes for half thy fears,
And sell my smiles for half thy tears.

X

Give me one common bliss or woe,
One common friend, one common foe,
On the earth below, or the clouds above
One thing we both may loathe, or love.

XI

It may not be; but yet—but yet
O deem not I can e'er forget!
For fondness such as mine supplies
The sympathy which Fate denies:

XII

And all my feelings, well thou knowest,
Go with thee, Lady, where'er thou goest;
And my wayward spirit bows to thee,
Its first and last idolatry!

245

TO ------.

I

In such a time as this, when every heart is light,
And greetings sound more welcome, and faces smile more bright,
Oh how wearily—how wearily my spirit wanders back
Among the faded joys that lie on Memory's ruined track!
Where art thou, best and fairest? I call to thee in vain;
And thou art lone and distant far, in sickness and in pain!

II

Beloved one, if anguish would fall where fall it may,
If sorrow could be won by gifts to barter prey for prey,
There is an arm would wither, so thine revived might be,
A lip which would be still and mute, to make thy music free,

246

An eye which would forget to wake, to bid thy morning shine,
A heart whose very strings would break, to steal one pang from thine.

III

If this be all too wild a wish, it were a humbler prayer
That I might sit beside thy couch, watching and weeping there;
Alas, that grief should sever the hearts it most endears,—
That friends who have been joined in smiles, are parted in their tears,—
That when there's danger in the path, or poison in the bowl,
Unloving hands must minister, unloving lips console!

IV

Yet in the twilight hour, when all our hopes seem true,
And Fancy's wild imaginings take living form and hue,
I linger, and thou chidest not, beside thy lonely bed,
And do thy biddings, dearest, with slow and noiseless tread,
And tremble all the while at the feeblest wind that blows,
As if indeed its idle breath were breaking thy repose.

247

V

To kiss thine eyelids, when they droop with heaviness and pain,
To pour sad tears upon thy hand, the heart's most precious rain,
To mark the changing colour as it flits across thy cheek,
To feel thy very wishes ere the feverish lip can speak,
To listen for the weakest word, watch for the lightest token,
Oh bliss that such a dream should be! Oh pain that it is broken!

VI

Farewell, my best beloved; beloved, fare thee well!
I may not mourn where thou dost weep, nor be where thou dost dwell;
But when the friend I trusted all coldly turns away,
When the warmest feelings wither, and the dearest hopes decay,
To thee—to thee—thou knowest, whate'er my lot may be,
For comfort and for happiness, my spirit turns to thee.

248

THE PARTING.

“Alla prigione antica
Quell' augellin ritorna
Ancorchè mano amica
Gli abbia disciolto il piè.”
Metastasio.

I

Farewell;—I will not now
The wasted theme renew;
No cloud upon my cheek or brow
Shall wake one pang for you;
But here, unseen, unheard,
Ere evening's shadows fly,
I will but say that one weak word,
And pass unwelcomed by.

II

Farewell;—but it is strange,
As round your towers I roam,
To think how desolate a change
Has come o'er heart and home;
Where stranger minstrels throng,
Where harsher harps are cherished,
The very memory of my song
Is, like its echo, perished.

249

III

The bird your gold has brought
From its own orient bowers,
Where every wandering wind is fraught
With the sweet breath of flowers,
Will never murmur more
A note so clear and high
As that which he was wont to pour
Beneath his native sky.

IV

Yet 'twere a cruel thing,
If Pity's tears and sighs
Could give the breezes to his wing,
The daylight to his eyes;
His vision is the night,
His home the prison, now,
He could not look upon the light,
Nor sleep upon the bough.

V

Lady, when first your mirth
Flung magic o'er my way,
Mine was the gayest soul on earth
When all the earth was gay;
My songs were full of joy,—
You might have let them flow;
My heart was every woman's toy,—
You might have left it so!

250

VI

But now to send me back
To faded hopes and fears,
To bid me seek again the track
My foot has left for years,
To cancel what must be,
To alter what has been,—
Ah! this indeed is mockery
Fit for a Fairy Queen!

VII

The lip that was so gay
More dark and still hath grown;
The listless lute of yesterday
Hath learnt a sadder tone;
And uttered is the thought,
And written is the vow;—
You might have left this charm unwrought,—
You must not rend it now!

VIII

When first upon my lance
I saw the fair sun shine,
I courted not that fairer glance,—
And yet it turned to mine;
When music's rich delight
From lips so lovely came,
I looked not on those lips that night,—
And yet they breathed my name!

251

IX

When our last words were broken
By passion's bitter tears,
I asked not the recording token
Which I must love for years;
And when between us lay
Long tracks of sand and sea,
The carrier pigeon went his way
Unbegged, unbought, by me.

X

Farewell!—when I was bound
In every Beauty's thrall,
I could have lightly whispered round
That little word to all;
And now that I am cold,
And deemed the slave of none,
I marvel how my lips have told
That little word to one.

XI

Farewell!—since bliss so rare
Hath beamed but to betray,
It will be long ere I shall wear
The smile I wore to-day;
And since I weep not here
To call you false and vain,
I think I shall not shed one tear
For all this world again!

252

THE LAST.

Πανυστατον δη, κ'ουποτ' α θις υστερον. Soph. Ajax.

I

It is the lute, the same poor lute;—
Why do you turn away?
To-morrow let its chords be mute,
But they must sound to-day.
The bark is manned, the seamen throng
Around the creaking mast:
Lady, you heard my first love song,—
Hear now my last!

II

Sigh not!—I knew the star must set,
I knew the rose must fade;
And if I never can forget,
I never will upbraid;
I would not have you aught but glad,
Where'er my lot is cast;
And if my sad words make you sad,
They are the last!

253

III

No more, no more, oh! never more
Will look or tone of mine
Bring clouds that ivory forehead o'er,
Or dim that dark eye's shine;
Look out, dear Lady, from your tower;
The wave rolls deep and vast:
Oh, would to God this bitter hour
Might be my last!

IV

I think that you will love me still,
Though far our fates may be;
And that your heart will fondly thrill
When strangers ask of me;
My praise will be your proudest theme
When these dark days are past;
If this be all an idle dream,
It is my last!

V

And now let one kind look be mine,
And clasp this slender chain;
Fill up once more the cup of wine,
Put on my ring again;
And wreathe this wreath around your head,
(Alas, it withers fast!)
And whisper, when its flowers are dead,
It was the last!

254

VI

Thus from your presence forth I go,
A lost and lonely man;
Reckless alike of weal or woe,
Heaven's benison or ban:
He who has known the tempest's worst
May bare him to the blast;—
Blame not these tears; they are the first,—
Are they the last?

April 2, 1829.

255

A FAREWELL.

λιπουσα δ' Ευρωπης πεδον,
Ηπειρον ηξεις Ασιδ'. αρ υμιν δοκει
ο των θεων τυραννος εις τα πανθ' ομως
βιαιος ειναι;
Æsch. Prom Vinct.

They told me thou wilt pass again
Across the echoing wave;
And, though thou canst not break the chain,
Thou wilt forget the slave.
Farewell, farewell!—thou wilt not know
My hopes or fears, my weal or woe,
My home—perhaps my grave!
Nor think nor dream of the sad heart
Whose only thought and dream thou art.

The goblet went untasted by
Which other lips caressed;
And joyless seemed the revelry,
And impotent the jest:
And why? for it was very long
Since thou didst prize my love or song,
My lot was all unblest:
I cannot now be more forlorn,
Nor bear aught that I have not borne.

256

We might not meet; for me no more
Arose that melting tone;
The eyes which colder crowds adore
Were veiled to me alone:
The coxcomb's prate, the ruffian's lies,
The censures of the sternly wise,
Between our hearts were thrown;
Deeper and wider barriers far,
Than any waves or deserts are.

But it was something still to know
Thy dawn and dusk were mine,
And that we felt the same breeze blow
And saw the same star shine;
And still the shadowy hope was rife
That once in this waste weary life
My path might cross with thine,
And one brief gleam of beauty bless
My spirit's utter loneliness.

And oft in crowds I might rejoice
To hear thy uttered name,
Though haply from an unknown voice
The welcome echo came:
How coldly would I shape reply,
With lingering lip, and listless eye,
That none might doubt or blame,
Or guess that idle theme could be
A mine of after-thought to me.

257

Oh ne'er again!—thou wilt abide
Where brighter skies are found,
One whom thou lovest by thy side,
Many who love thee round;
And those sweet fairies, with their wiles
Of mimic frowns and happy smiles,
Around thy steps will bound:
I would not cloud such scene and lot
For all my aching breast hath not.

Yet, if thou wilt remember one
Who never can forget,
Whose lonely life is not so lone
As if we had not met,
Believe that in the frosty sky
Whereon is writ his destiny
Thy light is lingering yet,
A star before the darkened soul,
To guide, and gladden, and control.

Be mine the talk of men, though thou
Wilt never hear my praise;
Be mine the wreath, though for my brow
Thou wilt not twine the bays;
Be mine ambition's proudest scope,
Though fewer smiles than were my hope
Will meet my longing gaze,
Though in my triumph's sunniest thrill
One welcome will be wanting still.

258

Perchance, when long long years are o'er—
I care not how they flow—
Some note of me to that far shore
Across the deep may go;
And thou wilt read, and turn to hide
The conscious blush of woman's pride;
For thou alone wilt know
What spell inspired the silent toil
Of mid-day sun, and midnight oil.

And this is little, to atone
For much of grief and wrong;
For doubts within the bosom sown.
Cares checked and cherished long.—
But it is past! thy bliss or pain
I shall not mar or make again;
And, Lady, this poor song
Is echoing, like a stranger s knell,
Sad, but unheeded!—so farewell!

259

AN EXCUSE.

Blame not the Minstrel's wayward will:
His soul has slumbered all too long;
He has no pulse for passion's thrill,
No lute for passion's song.
O frown not, though he turns away
Unloved, unloving, even from thee,
And mars with idle jests the lay
Where Beauty's praise should be.

If he should bid the golden string
Be vocal to a loftier theme,
Sad Memory from her cell would bring
The fond forbidden dream;
The dream of her, whose broken chain
Than new forged bonds is far more dear;
Whose name he may not speak again,
And shudders but to hear.

260

And if he breathes Love's hopes and fears
In many a soulless idol's shrine,
The falsehoods fit for vulgar ears
Were never fit for thine.
Take back, take back the book to-night:
Thou art too brightly—nobly fair,
For hearts so worn as his to write
Their worthless worship there.

February 20, 1830.

261

SECOND LOVE.

“L'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois: c'est la première. Les amours qui suivent sont moins involontaires!”—La Bruyère.

How shall he woo her?—Let him stand
Beside her as she sings;
And watch that fine and fairy hand
Flit o'er the quivering strings:
And let him tell her he has heard,
Though sweet the music flow,
A voice whose every whispered word
Was sweeter, long ago.

How shall he woo her?—Let him gaze
In sad and silent trance
On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays
Look love in every glance:
And let him tell her, eyes more bright,
Though bright her own may beam,
Will fling a deeper spell to-night
Upon him in his dream.

262

How shall he woo her?—Let him try
The charms of olden time,
And swear by earth and sea and sky,
And rave in prose and rhyme:
And let him tell her, when he bent
His knee in other years,
He was not half so eloquent,—
He could not speak for tears

How shall he woo her?—Let him bow
Before the shrine in prayer;
And bid the priest pronounce the vow
That hallows passion there:
And let him tell her, when she parts
From his unchidden kiss,
That memory to many hearts
Is dearer far than bliss.

Away, away! the chords are mute,
The bond is rent in twain;
You cannot wake that silent lute,
Nor clasp those links again;
Love's toil, I know, is little cost,
Love's perjury is light sin;
But souls that lose what his hath lost,—
Oh what have they to win?

263

A RETROSPECT.

“The Lady o his love, oh, she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul!”
—Byron.

“Go thou, white in thy soul, to fill a throne
Of innocence and sanctity in Heaven.”
—Ford.

I knew that it must be!
Yea, thou art changed—all worshipped as thou art—
Mourned as thou shalt be! sickness of the heart
Hath done its work on thee!

Thy dim eyes tell a tale—
A piteous tale of vigils; and the trace
Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face,—
Beauteous, and yet so pale.

Changed Love!—but not alone!
I am not what they think me; though my cheek
Wear but its last year's furrow, though I speak
Thus in my natural tone.

264

The temple of my youth
Was strong in moral purpose; once I felt
The glory of Philosophy, and knelt
In the pure shrine of Truth.

I went into the storm,
And mocked the billows of the tossing sea:
I said to Fate, “What wilt thou do to me?
I have not harmed a worm!”—

Vainly the heart is steeled
In Wisdom's armour; let her burn her books!
I look upon them as the soldier looks
Upon his cloven shield.

Virtue and Virtue's rest—
How have they perished! through my onward course
Repentance dogs my footsteps: black Remorse
Is my familiar guest.

The glory and the glow
Of the world's loveliness have past away;
And Fate hath little to inflict to-day,
And nothing to bestow.

Is not the damning line
Of guilt and grief engraven on me now?
And the fierce passion which hath scathed thy brow—
Hath it not blasted mine?

265

No matter! I will turn
To the straight path of Duty; I have wrought
At last my wayward spirit to be taught
What it hath yet to learn.

Labour shall be my lot:
My kindred shall be joyful in my praise;
And Fame shall twine for me in after days
A wreath I covet not:

And, if I cannot make,
Dearest, thy hope my hope, thy trust my trust,
Yet will I study to be good and just
And blameless, for thy sake.

Thou may'st have comfort yet!
Whate'er the source from which those waters glide,
Thou hast found healing mercy in their tide;—
Be happy, and forget.

Forget me, and farewell;
But say not that in me new hopes and fears,
Or absence, or the lapse of gradual years,
Will break thy memory's spell:

Indelibly, within,
All I have lost is written; and the theme
Which silence whispers to my thought and dream
Is sorrow still,—and sin.

266

A BALLAD TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

“Non voglio cento scudi.”—Italian Song.

O say not that the minstrel's art,
The glorious gift of verse,
Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,
Can ever be a curse;
Though sorrow reign within his heart,
And poortith hold his purse.

Say not his toil is profitless;
Though he charm no rich relation,
The Fairies all his labours bless
With such remuneration
As Mr. Hume would soon contess
Beyond his calculation.

Annuities and Three per Cents.,
Little cares he about them;
And Indian bonds, and tithes, and rents,
He rambles on without them;
But love, and noble sentiments,
Oh never bid him doubt them!—

267

Childe Florice rose from his humble bed
And prayed, as a good youth should;
And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,
Into the neighbouring wood;
He knew where the berries were ripe and red,
And where the old oak stood.

And as he lay at the noon of day
Beneath the ancient tree,
A gray-haired pilgrim passed that way;
A holy man was he,
And he was wending forth to pray
At a shrine in a far countrie.

Oh his was a weary wandering,
And a song or two might cheer him.
The pious Childe began to sing,
As the ancient man drew near him;
The lark was mute as he touched the string,
And the thrush said, “Hear him, hear him!

He sang high tales of the martyred brave,
Of the good, and pure, and just,
Who have gone into the silent grave
In such deep faith and trust,
That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save
Spring from their buried dust:

268

The fair of face, and the stout of limb,
Meek maids and grandsires hoary,
Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,
As they passed to their doom of glory;
Their radiant fame is never dim,
Nor their names erased from story.

Time spares the stone where sleep the dead
With angels watching round them;
The mourner's grief is comforted
As he looks on the chains that bound them;
And peace is shed on the murderer's head,
And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.

Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard
In a trance of voiceless pleasure;
For the depths of his inmost soul were stirred
By the sad and solemn measure:
“I give thee my blessing,” was his word,
“It is all I have of treasure!”—

A little child came bounding by;
And he, in a fragrant bower,
Had found a gorgeous butterfly,
Rare spoil for a nursery dower,
Which with fierce step and eager eye
He chased from flower to flower.

269

“Come hither, come hither,” 'gan Florice call;
And the urchin left his fun:
So from the hall of poor Sir Paul
Retreats the baffled dun;
So Ellen parts from the village ball,
Where she leaves a heart half won.

Then Florice did the child caress,
And sang his sweetest songs:
Their theme was of the gentleness
Which to the soul belongs,
Ere yet it knows the name or dress
Of human rights and wrongs;

And of the wants which make agree
All parts of this vast plan;
How life is in whate'er we see,
And only life in man;
What matter where the less may be,
And where the longer span?

And how the heart grows cold without
Soft Pity's freshening dews;
And now when any life goes out
Some little pang ensues:—
Facts which great soldiers often doubt,
And wits who write reviews.

270

Oh, song hath power o'er Nature's springs,
Though deep the Nymph has laid them!
The child gazed—gazed on gilded wings
As the next light breeze displayed them;
But he felt the while that the meanest things
Are dear to Him that made them!—

The sun went down behind the hill,
The breeze was growing colder;
But there the Minstrel lingered still,
And amazed the chance beholder,
Musing beside a rippling rill
With a harp upon his shoulder.

And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,
A sleek Arabian mare,
The Lady Juliana came,
Riding to take the air,
With many a lord at whose proud name
A Radical would swear.

The Minstrel touched his lute again;
It was more than a Sultan's crown,
When the Lady checked her bridle rein
And lit from her palfrey down:—
What would you give for such a strain,
Rees, Longman, Orme, and Brown?

271

He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes,
Of Beauty's melting tone,
And how her praise is a richer prize
Than the gems of Persia's throne,
And her love a bliss which the coldly wise
Have never, never known.

He told how the valiant scoff at fear
When the sob of her grief is heard;
How fiercely they fight for a smile or a tear
How they die for a single word:—
Things which, I own, to me appear
Exceedingly absurd.

The Lady soon had heard enough
She turned to hear Sir Denys
Discourse in language vastly gruff
About his skill at Tennis;
While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff
His mistress wore at Venice.

The Lady smiled one radiant smile,
And the Lady rode away.—
There is not a lady in all our Isle,
I have heard a Poet say,
Who can listen more than a little while
To a poet's sweetest lay.—

272

His mother's voice was fierce and shrill
As she set the milk and fruit:
“Out on thine unrewarded skill,
And on thy vagrant lute;
Let the strings be broken an they will,
And the beggar lips be mute!”

Peace, peace! the Pilgrim as he went
Forgot the Minstrel's song,
But the blessing that his wan lips sent
Will guard the Minstrel long,
And keep his spirit innocent,
And turn his hand from wrong.

Belike the child had little thought
Of the moral the Minstrel drew;
But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought—
Brings it not peace to you?
And doth not a lesson of virtue taught
Teach him that teaches too?

And if the Lady sighed no sigh
For the Minstrel or his hymn,—
Yet when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky,
Or lip the goblet's brim,
What a star in the mist of memory
That smile will be to him!