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.
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.
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,—
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!
