University of Virginia Library

EARLY POEMS.

LINES WRITTEN AT NIGHT, August 9th, 1825.

Oh, thou surpassing beauty! that dost live
Shrined in yon silent stream of glorious light!
Spirit of harmony! that through the vast
And cloud-embroidered canopy art spreading
Thy wings, that o'er our shadowy earth hang brooding,
Like a pale silver haze, betwixt the moon
And the world's darker orb: beautiful, hail!
Hail to thee! from her midnight throne of ether,
Night looks upon the slumbering universe.
There is no breeze on silver-crownèd tree,
There is no breath on dew-bespangled flower,
There is no wind sighs on the sleepy wave,
There is no sound hangs in the solemn air.
All, all are silent, all are dreaming, all,
Save yon eternal eyes, that now shine forth
Winking the slumberer's destinies. The moon
Sails on the horizon's verge, a moving glory,
Pure, and unrivalled; for no paler orb
Approaches, to invade the sea of light
That lives around her; save yon little star,
That sparkles on her robe of fleecy clouds.
Like a bright gem, fallen from her radiant brow.

VENICE.

Night in her dark array
Steals o'er the ocean,
And with departed day
Hushed seems its motion.
Slowly o'er yon blue coast
Onward she's treading,
Till its dark line is lost,
'Neath her veil spreading.
The bark on the rippling deep
Hath found a pillow,
And the pale moonbeams sleep
On the smooth billow.
Bound by her emerald zone
Venice is lying,
And round her marble crown
Night winds are sighing.
From the high lattice now
Bright eyes are gleaming,
That seem on night's dark brow,
Brighter stars beaming.
Now o'er the blue lagune
Light barks are dancing,
And 'neath the silver moon
Swift oars are glancing.
Strains from the mandolin
Steal o'er the water,
Echo replies between
To mirth and laughter.
O'er the wave seen afar
Brilliantly shining,
Gleams like a fallen star
Venice reclining.

TO MISS SARAH SIDDONS.

Time beckons on the hours: the expiring year
Already feels old Winter's icy breath;
As with cold hands he scatters on her bier
The faded glories of her autumn wreath.
As fleetly as the summer's sunshine past,
The winter's snow must melt; and the young Spring,
Strewing the earth with flowers, will come at last,
And in her train the hour of parting bring.
But, though I leave the harbour, where my heart
Sometime had found a peaceful resting-place,
Where it lay calmly moored; though I depart,
Yet, let not time my memory quite efface.
'Tis true, I leave no void, the happy home
To which you welcomed me, will be as gay,
As bright, as cheerful, when I've turned to roam,
Once more, upon life's weary onward way.
But oh! if ever by the warm hearth's blaze,
Where beaming eyes and kindred souls are met,
Your fancy wanders back to former days,
Let my remembrance hover round you yet.
Then, while before you glides time's shadowy train,
Of forms long vanished, days and hours long gone,
Perchance my name will be pronounced again,
In that dear circle where I once was one.
Think of me then, nor break kind memory's spell,
By reason's censure coldly o'er me cast,
Think only, that I loved ye passing well!
And let my follies slumber with the past.

THE WIND.

Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully
Arise the mighty winds, and sweep along
In the full chorus of their midnight song.
The waste of heavy clouds, that veil the sky,
Roll like a murky scroll before them driven,
And show faint glimpses of a darker heaven.
No ray is there, of moon, or pale-eyed star,
Darkness is on the universe; save where
The western sky lies glimmering, faint and far,
With day's red embers dimly glowing there.
Hark! how the wind comes gathering in its course,
And sweeping onward, with resistless force,
Howls through the silent space of starless skies,
And on the breast of the swoln ocean dies.
Oh, thou art terrible, thou viewless power!
That rid'st destroying at the midnight hour!
We hear thy mighty pinions, but the eye
Knows nothing of thine awful majesty.
We see all mute creation bow before
Thy viewless wings, as thou careerest o'er
This rocking world; that in the boundless sky
Suspended, vibrates, as thou rushest by.
There is no terror in the lightning's glare,
That breaks its red track through the trackless air;
There is no terror in the voice that speaks
From out the clouds when the loud thunder breaks
Over the earth, like that which dwells in thee,
Thou unseen tenant of immensity.

EASTERN SUNSET.

'Tis only the nightingale's warbled strain,
That floats through the evening sky:
With his note of love, he replies again,
To the muezzin's holy cry;
As it sweetly sounds on the rosy air,
“Allah il allah! come to prayer!”
Warm o'er the waters the red sun is glowing,
'Tis the last parting glance of his splendour and might,
While each rippling wave on the bright shore is throwing
Its white crest, that breaks into showers of light.
Each distant mosque and minaret
Is shining in the setting sun,
Whose farewell look is brighter yet,
Than that with which its course begun.
On the dark blue mountains his smile is bright,
It glows on the orange grove's waving height,
And breaks through its shade in long lines of light.
No sound on the earth, and no sound in the sky,
Save murmuring fountains that sparkle nigh,
And the rustling flight of the evening breeze,
Who steals from his nest in the orange trees,
And a thousand dewy odours flings,
As he shakes their white buds from his gossamer wings,
And flutters away through the spicy air,
At sound of a footstep drawing near.

FAREWELL TO ITALY.

Farewell awhile, beautiful Italy!
My lonely bark is launched upon the sea
That clasps thy shore, and the soft evening gale
Breathes from thy coast, and fills my parting sail.
Ere morning dawn, a colder breeze will come,
And bear me onward to my northern home;
That home, where the pale sun is not so bright,
So glorious, at his noonday's fiercest height,
As when he throws his last glance o'er the sea,
And fires the heavens, that glow farewell on thee.
Fair Italy! perchance some future day
Upon thy coast again will see me stray;
Meantime, farewell! I sorrow, as I leave
Thy lovely shore behind me, as men grieve
When bending o'er a form, around whose charms,
Unconquered yet, death winds his icy arms:
While leaving the last kiss on some dear cheek,
Where beauty sheds her last autumnal streak,
Life's rosy flower just mantling into bloom,
Before it fades for ever in the tomb.
So I leave thee, oh! thou art lovely still!
Despite the clouds of infamy and ill
That gather thickly round thy fading form:
Still glow thy glorious skies, as bright and warm,
Still memory lingers fondly on thy strand,
And genius hails thee still her native land.
Land of my soul's adoption! o'er the sea,
Thy sunny shore is fading rapidly:
Fainter and fainter, from my gaze it dies,
Till like a line of distant light it lies,
A melting boundary 'twixt earth and sky,
And now 'tis gone;—farewell, fair Italy!

THE RED INDIAN.

SONG.

[Yet once again, but once, before we sever]

LAMENT FOR ISRAEL.

A WISH.

Let me not die for ever! when I'm gone
To the cold earth; but let my memory
Live like the gorgeous western light that shone
Over the clouds where sank day's majesty.
Let me not be forgotten! though the grave
Has clasped its hideous arms around my brow
Let me not be forgotten! though the wave
Of time's dark current rolls above me now.
Yet not in tears remembered be my name;
Weep over those ye loved; for me, for me,
Give me the wreath of glory, and let fame
Over my tomb spread immortality!

A WISH.

Let me not die for ever! when I'm laid
In the cold earth; but let my memory
Live still among ye, like the evening shade,
That o'er the sinking day steals placidly.
Let me not be forgotten! though the knell
Has tolled for me its solemn lullaby;
Let me not be forgotten; though I dwell
For ever now in death's obscurity.
Yet oh! upon the emblazoned leaf of fame,
Trace not a record, not a line for me,
But let the lips I loved oft breathe my name,
And in your hearts enshrine my memory!

SONG.

[The moment must come, when the hands that unite]

TO MRS. HENRY SIDDONS.

O lady! thou, who in the olden time
Hadst been the star of many a poet's dream!
Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,
Weddest the gentle graces that beseem
Fair woman's best! forgive the daring line
That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye
Glance o'er the vain attempt too scornfully;
But, as thou read'st, think what a love was mine,
That made me venture on a theme, that none
Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.
Thou art most fair, though sorrow's chastening wing
Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow.
And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing
The splendour of thy beauty's summer now.
Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness
That dwells not only on the lip, or eye;
Thy beauty, is thy pure heart's holiness;
Thy grace, thy lofty spirit's majesty.
While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide,
Like some calm spirit o'er life's troubled stream,
With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side
Together blossoming; I almost deem
That I behold the loveliness and truth,
That like fair visions hovered round my youth,
Long sought—and then forgotten as a dream.

A SPIRIT'S VOICE.

TO THE DEAD.

On the lone waters' shore
Wander I yet;
Brooding those moments o'er
I should forget.
Till the broad foaming surge
Warns me to fly,
While despair's whispers urge
To stay, and die.
When the night's solemn watch
Falls on the seas,
'Tis thy voice that I catch
In the low breeze;
When the moon sheds her light
On things below,
Beams not her ray so bright,
Like thy young brow?
Spirit immortal! say,
When wilt thou come,
To marshal me the way
To my long home?

TO ------.

SONG.

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

ON A FORGET-ME-NOT

BROUGHT FROM SWITZERLAND.

A WISH.

Oh that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset 'mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.
Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,
While one by one the evening stars shine forth
Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens
Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!

SONNET.

['Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all]

'Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all,
All the fond visions hope's bright finger traces,
All the fond visions time's dark wing effaces,
But very dreams! but morning buds, that fall
Withered and blighted, long before the night:
Strewing the paths they should have made more bright,
With mournful wreaths, whose light hath past away,
That can return to life and beauty never,
And yet, of whom it was but yesterday,
We deemed they'd bloom as fresh and fair for ever.
Oh then, when hopes, that to thy heart are dearest,
Over the future shed their sunniest beam,
When round thy path their bright wings hover nearest,
Trust not too fondly!—for 'tis but a dream!

SONNET.

[Oh weary, weary world! how full thou art]

Oh weary, weary world! how full thou art
Of sin, of sorrow, and all evil things!
In thy fierce turmoil, where shall the sad heart,
Released from pain, fold its unrested wings?
Peace hath no dwelling here, but evermore
Loud discord, strife, and envy, fill the earth
With fearful riot, whilst unhallowed mirth
Shrieks frantic laughter forth, leading along,
Whirling in dizzy trance, the eager throng,
Who bear aloft the overflowing cup,
With tears, forbidden joys, and blood filled up,
Quaffing long draughts of death; in lawless might,
Drunk with soft harmonies, and dazzling light,
So rush they down to the eternal night.

ON A MUSICAL BOX.

Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell
Caged by the law of man's resistless might!
With thy sweet, liquid notes, by some strong spell,
Compelled to minister to his delight!
Whence, what art thou? art thou a fairy wight
Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell,
Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moonlight,
And drink the starry dew-drops as they fell?
Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art singing,
Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow,
Where thou were wont to list the heath-bells ringing,
And sail upon the sunset's amber glow?
When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme,
Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream,
Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play?
Dancing in circles by the moon's soft beam,
Hiding in blossoms from the sun's fierce gleam,
Whilst thou, in darkness, sing'st thy life away.
And canst thou feel when the spring-time returns,
Filling the earth with fragrance and with glee;
When in the wide creation nothing mourns,
Of all that lives, save that which is not free?
Oh! if thou couldst, and we could hear thy prayer,
How would thy little voice beseeching cry,
For one short draught of the sweet morning air,
For one short glimpse of the clear azure sky!
Perchance thou sing'st in hopes thou shalt be free,
Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling;
While thy sad thoughts are wandering with the bee,
To every bud with honey dew distilling.
That hope is vain: for even could'st thou wing
Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood gay,
Thou'dst be a shunned and a forsaken thing,
'Mongst the companions of thy happier day.
For fairy sprites, like many other creatures,
Bear fleeting memories, that come and go;
Nor can they oft recall familiar features,
By absence touched, or clouded o'er with woe.
Then rest content with sorrow: for there be
Many that must that lesson learn with thee;
And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully,
Till, when thy tiny voice begins to fail,
For thy lost bliss sing but one parting wail,
Poor little sprite! and then sleep peacefully!

TO THE PICTURE OF A LADY.

Lady, sweet lady, I behold thee yet,
With thy pale brow, brown eyes, and solemn air,
And billowy tresses of thy golden hair,
Which once to see, is never to forget!
But for short space I gazed, with soul intent
Upon thee; and the limner's art divine,
Meantime, poured all thy spirit into mine.
But once I gazed, then on my way I went:
And thou art still before me. Like a dream
Of what our soul has loved, and lost for ever,
Thy vision dwells with me, and though I never
May be so blest as to behold thee more,
That one short look has stamped thee in my heart,
Of my intensest life a living part,
Which time, and death, shall never triumph o'er.

FRAGMENT.

Walking by moonlight on the golden margin
That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking
Of all the wild imaginings that man
Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with;
Making fair nature's solitary haunts
Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful.
And as the chain of thought grew link by link,
It seemed, as though the midnight heavens waxed brighter,
The stars gazed fix'dly with their golden eyes,
And a strange light played o'er each sleeping billow,
That laid its head upon the sandy beach.
Anon there came along the rocky shore
A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy.
From no one point of heaven, or earth, it came;
But under, over, and about it breathed;
Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure.
It swelled, as though borne on the floating wings
Of the midsummer breeze; it died away
Towards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds,
That one by one melted like flakes of snow
In the moonbeams. Then came a rushing sound,
Like countless wings of bees, or butterflies;
And suddenly, as far as eye might view,
The coast was peopled with a world of elves,
Who in fantastic ringlets danced around,
With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion,
Aimed at the moon. White was their snowy vesture,
And shining as the Alps, when that the sun
Gems their pale robes with diamonds. On their heads
Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove.
They were all fair, and light as dreams; anon
The dance broke off; and sailing through the air,
Some one way, and some other, they did each
Alight upon some waving branch, or flower,
That garlanded the rocks upon the shore.
One, chiefly, did I mark; one tiny sprite,
Who crept into an orange flower-bell,
And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips
Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew,
That glistened, like a pearl, in its white bosom.

SONNET.

[Cover me with your everlasting arms]

Cover me with your everlasting arms,
Ye guardian giants of this solitude!
From the ill-sight of men, and from the rude,
Tumultuous din of yon wild world's alarms!
Oh, knit your mighty limbs around, above,
And close me in for ever! let me dwell
With the wood spirits, in the darkest cell
That ever with your verdant locks ye wove.
The air is full of countless voices, joined
In one eternal hymn; the whispering wind,
The shuddering leaves, the hidden water-springs,
The work-song of the bees, whose honeyed wings
Hang in the golden tresses of the lime,
Or buried lie in purple beds of thyme.

WRITTEN ON CRAMOND BEACH.

Farewell, old playmate! on thy sandy shore
My lingering feet will leave their print no more;
To thy loved side I never may return.
I pray thee, old companion, make due mourn
For the wild spirit who so oft has stood
Gazing in love and wonder on thy flood.
The form is now departing far away,
That half in anger, oft, and half in play,
Thou hast pursued with thy white showers of foam.
Thy waters daily will besiege the home
I loved among the rocks; but there will be
No laughing cry, to hail thy victory,
Such as was wont to greet thee, when I fled,
With hurried footsteps, and averted head,
Like fallen monarch, from my venturous stand,
Chased by thy billows far along the sand.
And when at eventide thy warm waves drink
The sober clouds, that in their bosom sink;
When sober twilight over thee has spread
Her purple pall, when the glad day is dead,
My voice no more will mingle with the dirge
That rose in mighty moaning from thy surge,
Filling with awful harmony the air,
When thy vast soul and mine were joined in prayer.

SONNET.

[Away, away! bear me away, away]

FRAGMENT.

[It was the harvest time: the broad, bright moon]

It was the harvest time: the broad, bright moon
Was at her full, and shone upon the fields
Where we had toiled the livelong day, to pile
In golden sheaves the earth's abundant treasure.
The harvest task had given place to song
And merry dance; and these in turn were chased
By legends strange, and wild, unearthly tales,
Of elves, and gnomes, and fairy sprites, that haunt
The woods and caves; where they do sleep all day,
And then come forth i' the witching hour of night,
To dance by moonlight on the green thick sward.
The speaker was an aged villager,
In whom his oft-told tale awoke no fears,
Such as he filled his gaping listeners with.
Nor ever was there break in his discourse;
Save when with gray eyes lifted to the moon,
He conjured from the past strange instances
Of kidnapped infants, from their cradles snatched,
And changed for elfish sprites; of blights, and blains,
Sent on the cattle by the vengeful fairies;
Of blasted crops, maimed limbs, and unsound minds,
All plagues inflicted by these angered sprites.
Then would he pause, and wash his story down
With long-drawn draughts of amber ale; while all
The rest came crowding under the wide oak-tree;
Piling the corn-sheaves closer round the ring,
Whispering and shaking, laughing too, with fear;
And ever, if an acorn bobbed from the boughs
Or grasshopper from out the stubble chirrupped,
Blessing themselves from Robin Goodfellow!

SONNET.

[Oft let me wander hand in hand with Thought]

Oft let me wander hand in hand with Thought,
In woodland paths, and lone sequestered shades,
What time the sunny banks and mossy glades,
With dewy wreaths of early violets wrought,
Into the air their fragrant incense fling,
To greet the triumph of the youthful Spring.
Lo, where she comes! 'scaped from the icy lair
Of hoary Winter; wanton, free, and fair!
Now smile the heavens again upon the earth,
Bright hill, and bosky dell, resound with mirth,
And voices, full of laughter and wild glee,
Shout through the air pregnant with harmony;
And wake poor sobbing Echo, who replies
With sleepy voice, that softly, slowly, dies.

A PROMISE.

[By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow]

By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow
Through thy sequestered dell unto the sea,
At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:
Not troubling the still fount with drops of woe,
As when I last took leave of it, and thee,
But gazing up at thee with tranquil brow,
And eyes full of life's early happiness,
Of strength, of hope, of joy, and tenderness.
Beneath the shadowy tree, where thou and I
Were wont to sit, studying the harmony
Of gentle Shakspeare, and of Milton high,
At sunny noon I will be heard by thee;
Not sobbing forth each oft-repeated sound,
As when I last faltered them o'er to thee,
But uttering them in the air around,
With youth's clear, laughing voice of melody.
On the wild shore of the eternal deep,
Where we have strayed so oft, and stood so long
Watching the mighty waters' conquering sweep,
And listening to their loud triumphant song,
At sunny noon, dearest! I'll be with thee:
Not as when last I lingered on the strand,
Tracing our names on the inconstant sand;
But in each bright thing that around shall be:
My voice shall call thee from the ocean's breast,
Thou'lt see my hair in its bright, showery crest,
In its dark, rocky depths, thou'lt see my eyes,
My form shall be the light cloud in the skies,
My spirit shall be with thee, warm and bright,
And flood thee o'er with love, and life, and light.

A PROMISE.

[In the dark, lonely night]

In the dark, lonely night,
When sleep and silence keep their watch o'er men;
False love! in thy despite,
I will be with thee then.
When in the world of dreams thy spirit strays,
Seeking, in vain, the peace it finds not here,
Thou shalt be led back to thine early days
Of life and love, and I will meet thee there.
I'll come to thee, with the bright, sunny brow,
That was hope's throne before I met with thee:
And then I'll show thee how 'tis furrowed now,
By the untimely age of misery.
I'll speak to thee, in the fond, joyous tone,
That woo'd thee still with love's impassioned spell;
And then I'll teach thee how I've learnt to moan
Since last upon thine ear its accents fell.
I'll come to thee in all youth's brightest power,
As on the day thy faith to mine was plighted,
And then I'll tell thee weary hour by hour,
How that spring's early promise has been blighted.
I'll tell thee of the long, long, dreary years,
That have passed o'er me hopeless, objectless;
My loathsome days, my nights of burning tears,
My wild despair, my utter loneliness,
My heart-sick dreams upon my feverish bed,
My fearful longing to be with the dead;
In the dark lonely night,
When sleep and silence keep their watch o'er men,
False love! in thy despite,
We two shall meet again!

SONNET.

[Spirit of all sweet sounds! who in mid air]

Spirit of all sweet sounds! who in mid air
Sittest enthroned, vouchsafe to hear my prayer!
Let all those instruments of music sweet,
That in great Nature's hymn bear burthen meet,
Sing round this mossy pillow, where my head
From the bright noontide sky is sheltered.
Thou southern wind! wave, wave thy od'rous wings,
O'er your smooth channels gush, ye crystal springs!
Ye laughing elves, that through the rustling corn
Run chattering; thou tawny-coated bee,
Who at thy honey-work sing'st drowsily;
And ye, oh ye! who greet the dewy morn,
And fragrant eventide, with melody,
Ye wild wood minstrels, sing my lullaby!

TO HARRIET ST. LEGER.

I would I might be with thee, when the year
Begins to wane, and that thou walk'st alone
Upon the rocky strand, whilst loud and clear,
The autumn wind sings, from his cloudy throne,
Wild requiems for the summer that is gone.
Or when, in sad and contemplative mood,
Thy feet explore the leafy-paven wood:
I would my soul might reason then with thine,
Upon those themes most solemn and most strange,
Which every falling leaf and fading flower,
Whisper unto us with a voice divine;
Filling the brief space of one mortal hour
With fearful thoughts of death, decay, and change,
And the high mystery of that after birth,
That comes to us, as well as to the earth.

SONNET.

[By jasper founts, whose falling waters make]

By jasper founts, whose falling waters make
Eternal music to the silent hours;
Or 'neath the gloom of solemn cypress bowers,
Through whose dark screen no prying sunbeams break:
How oft I dream I see thee wandering,
With thy majestic mien, and thoughtful eyes,
And lips, whereon all holy counsel lies,
And shining tresses of soft rippling gold,
Like to some shape, beheld in days of old
By seer or prophet, when, as poets sing,
The gods had not forsaken yet the earth,
But loved to haunt each shady dell and grove;
When every breeze was the soft breath of love,
When the blue air rang with sweet sounds of mirth,
And this dark world seemed fair as at its birth.

THE VISION OF LIFE.

SONNET TO MRS. JAMESON,

WHO WROTE UNDER MY LIKENESS AS JULIET, “LIETI GIORNI E FELICE.”

Whence should they come, lady! those happy days
That thy fair hand and gentle heart invoke
Upon my head? Alas! such do not rise
On any, of the many, who with sighs
Bear through this journey-land of woe, life's yoke.
The light of such lives not in thine own lays;
Such were not hers, that girl, so fond, so fair,
Beneath whose image thou hast traced thy prayer.
Evil, and few, upon this darksome earth,
Must be the days of all of mortal birth;
Then why not mine? Sweet lady! wish again,
Not more of joy to me, but less of pain;
Calm slumber, when life's troubled hours are past,
And with thy friendship cheer them while they last.

TO MY GUARDIAN ANGEL.

Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne above
Hast left, to wander through this dismal earth
With me, poor child of sin!—Angel of love!
Whose guardian wings hung o'er me from my birth,
And who still walk'st unwearied by my side,
How oft, O thou compassionate! must thou mourn
Over the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride,
That thy pure eyes behold. Yet not aside
From thy sad task dost thou in anger turn;
But patiently, thou hast but gazed and sighed,
And followed still, striving with the divine
Powers of thy soul for mastery over mine;
And though all line of human hope be past,
Still fondly watching, hoping, to the last.

SONNET.

SUGGESTED BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE OBSERVING THAT WE NEVER DREAM OF OURSELVES YOUNGER THAN WE ARE.

[Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams]

Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams,
May we return to that sweet land of youth,
That home of hope, of innocence, and truth,
Which as we further roam but fairer seems.
In that dim shadowy world, where the soul strays
When she has laid her mortal charge to rest,
We oft behold far future hours and days,
But ne'er live o'er the past, the happiest.
How oft will fancy's wild imaginings
Bear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen,
But ah! not e'en unfettered fancy's wings
Can lead us back to aught that we have been,
Or waft us to that smiling, sunny shore,
Which e'en in slumber we may tread no more.

SONNET TO HARRIET ST. LEGER.

Whene'er I recollect the happy time
When you and I held converse dear together,
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime;
Your memory lives for ever in my mind
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twined,
And many a noonday woodland wandering.
There's not a thought of you, but brings along
Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky;
'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song,
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody.
And as I date it still, our love arose
'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.

TO THE SPRING.

Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;
Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide
Our mortal year along Time's rapid tide.
Spirit of life! the old decrepit earth
Has heard thy voice, and at a wondrous birth,
Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb,
A thousand germs of light and beauty come.
Thy breath is on the waters, and they leap
From their bright winter-woven fetters free;
Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep,
And greet thee with a gush of melody.
The air is full of music, wild and sweet,
Made by the joyous waving of the trees,
Wherein a thousand wingèd minstrels meet,
And by the work-song of the early bees,
In the white blossoms fondly murmuring,
And founts, that in the blessèd sunshine sing:
Hail to thee! maiden with the bright blue eyes!
And showery robe, all steeped in starry dew;
Hail to thee! as thou ridest through the skies,
Upon thy rainbow car of various hue.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

How passing sad! Listen, it sings again!
Art thou a spirit that, amongst the boughs,
The livelong night dost chant that wondrous strain,
Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows
Out of the clouds to hear thee? who shall say,
Thou lone one! that thy melody is gay,
Let him come listen now to that one note,
That thou art pouring o'er and o'er again
Through the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat,
With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain.
I prithee cease thy song! for from my heart
Thou hast made memory's bitter waters start,
And filled my weary eyes with the soul's rain.

TO ------.

When the dawn
O'er hill and dale
Throws her bright veil,
Oh, think of me!
When the rain
With starry showers
Fills all the flowers,
Oh, think of me!
When the wind
Sweeps along,
Loud and strong,
Oh, think of me!
When the laugh
With silver sound
Goes echoing round,
Oh, think of me!
When the night
With solemn eyes
Looks from the skies,
Oh, think of me!
When the air
Still as death
Holds its breath,
Oh, think of me!
When the earth
Sleeping sound
Swings round and round,
Oh, think of me!
When thy soul
O'er life's dark sea
Looks gloomily,
Oh, think of me!

WOMAN'S LOVE.

A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,
Full of eternal constancy and faith,
And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs
Truth's holy voice, with every balmy breath,
So journeys she along life's crowded way,
Keeping her soul's sweet counsel from all sight;
Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray,
Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or bright:
For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay
Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her heart
Knows well in suffering how to bear its part.
Patiently lives she through each dreary day,
Looking with little hope unto the morrow;
And still she walketh hand in hand with sorrow.

TO MRS. NORTON.

I never shall forget thee—'tis a word
Thou oft nust hear, for surely there be none
On whom thy wondrous eyes have ever shone
But for a moment, or who e'er have heard
Thy voice's deep impassioned melody,
Can lose the memory of that look or tone.
But, not as these, do I say unto thee,
I never shall forget thee:—in thine eyes,
Whose light, like sunshine, makes the world rejoice,
A stream of sad and solemn splendour lies;
And there is sorrow in thy gentle voice.
Thou art not like the scenes in which I found thee,
Thou art not like the beings that surround thee;
To me thou art a dream of hope and fear;
Yet why of fear?—oh sure! the Power that lent
Such gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent;
Still watches one whom it has deigned to bless
With such a dower of grace and loveliness;
Over the dangerous waves 'twill surely steer
The richly freighted bark, through storm and blast,
And guide it safely to the port at last.
Such is my prayer; 'tis warm as ever fell
From off my lips: accept it, and farewell!
And though in this strange world where first I met thee,
We meet no more—I never shall forget thee.

AN ENTREATY.

LINES FOR MUSIC.

THE PARTING.

'Twas a fit hour for parting,
For athwart the leaden sky
The heavy clouds came gathering
And sailing gloomily:
The earth was drunk with heaven's tears,
And each moaning autumn breeze
Shook the burthen of its weeping
Off the overladen trees.
The waterfall rushed swollen down,
In the twilight, dim and gray;
With a foam-wreath on the angry brow
Of each wave that flashed away.
My tears were mingling with the rain,
That fell so cold and fast,
And my spirit felt thy low deep sigh
Through the wild and roaring blast.
The beauty of the summer woods
Lay rustling round our feet,
And all fair things had passed away—
'Twas an hour for parting meet.

SONG.

[When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes]

FAITH.

TO A STAR.

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds
Hang'st, like a dewdrop, in a violet bed;
First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds,
'Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and dead,
As through my tears my soul looks up to thee,
Loathing the heavy chains that bind it here,
There comes a fearful thought that misery
Perhaps is found, even in thy distant sphere.
Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin,
The heritage of death, disease, decay;
A wilderness, like that we wander in,
Where all things fairest soonest pass away?
And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world,
Round which life's sweetest buds fall witherèd,
Where hope's bright wings in the dark earth lie furled,
And living hearts are mouldering with the dead?
Perchance they do not die, that dwell in thee,
Perchance theirs is a darker doom than ours;
Unchanging woe, and endless misery,
And mourning that hath neither days nor hours.
Horrible dream!—O dark and dismal path,
Where I now weeping walk, I will not leave thee.
Earth has one boon for all her children—death:
Open thy arms, O mother! and receive me!
Take off the bitter burthen from the slave,
Give me my birthright! give—the grave, the grave!

SONNET.

[Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil]

Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil
Of life, which I am doomed to till full sore,
Spring'st like a noisome weed! I do not toil
For thee, and yet thou still com'st darkening o'er
My plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade.
Thou nightshade of the heart, beneath whose boughs
All fair and gentle buds hang withering,
Why hast thou wreathed thyself around my brows,
Casting from thence the blossoms of my spring,
Breathing on youth's sweet roses till they fade?
Alas! thou art an evil weed of woe,
Watered with tears and watched with sleepless care,
Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare;
And yet men covet thee—ah, wherefore do they so!

SONNET.

[I hear a voice low in the sunset woods]

I hear a voice low in the sunset woods;
Listen, it says: “Decay, decay, decay.”
I hear it in the murmuring of the floods,
And the wind sighs it as it flies away.
Autumn is come; seest thou not in the skies
The stormy light of his fierce, lurid eyes?
Autumn is come; his brazen feet have trod,
Withering and scorching, o'er the mossy sod.
The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreath
Shrivel in his hot grasp; his burning breath,
Dries the sweet water-springs that in the shade
Wandering along, delicious music made.
A flood of glory hangs upon the world,
Summer's bright wings shining ere they are furled.

SONNET.

WRITTEN AT FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING, AFTER A BALL.

O modest maiden morn! why dost thou blush,
Who thus betimes art walking in the sky?
'Tis I, whose cheek bears pleasure's sleepless flush,
Who shame to meet thy gray, cloud-lidded eye,
Shadowy, yet clear: from the bright eastern door,
Where the sun's shafts lie bound with thongs of fire,
Along the heaven's amber-pavèd floor,
The glad hours move, hymning their early choir.
O fair and fragrant morn! upon my brow
Press thy fresh lips, shake from thy dropping hair
Cold showers of balmy dew on me, and ere
Day's chariot-wheels upon the horizon glow,
Wrap me within thy sober cloak of gray,
And bear me to thy twilight bowers away.

LINES,

IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION.

I'll tell thee why this weary world meseemeth
But as the visions light of one who dreameth,
Which pass like clouds, leaving no trace behind;
Why this strange life, so full of sin and folly,
In me awakeneth no melancholy,
Nor leaveth shade, or sadness, on my mind.
'Tis not that with an undiscerning eye
I see the pageant wild go dancing by,
Mistaking that which falsest is, for true;
'Tis not that pleasure hath entwined me,
'Tis not that sorrow hath enshrined me;
I bear no badge of roses or of rue,
But in the inmost chambers of my soul
There is another world, a blessèd home,
O'er which no living power holdeth control,
Anigh to which ill things do never come.
There shineth the glad sunlight of clear thought,
With hope and faith holding communion high,
Over a fragrant land with flowers ywrought,
Where gush the living springs of poesy,
There speak the voices that I love to hear,
There smile the glances that I love to see,
There live the forms of those my soul holds dear,
For ever, in that secret world, with me.
They who have walked with me along life's way,
And severed been by fortune's adverse tide,
Who ne'er again, through time's uncertain day,
In weal or woe, may wander by my side;
These all dwell here: nor these, whom life alone
Divideth from me, but the dead, the dead;
Those weary ones who to their rest are gone,
Whose footprints from the earth have vanishèd;
Here dwell they all: and here, within this world,
Like light within a summer sun-cloud furled,
My spirit dwells. Therefore, this evil life,
With all its gilded snares, and fair deceivings,
Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings,
Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife.
O thou! who readest of thy courtesy,
Whoe'er thou art, I wish the same to thee!

LINES FOR MUSIC.

A FAREWELL.

WRITTEN AT OATLANDS.

IMPROMPTU.

SONG.

[Never, oh never more! shall I behold]

LINES ON A SLEEPING CHILD.

SONNET.

[I would I knew the lady of thy heart!]

I would I knew the lady of thy heart!
She whom thou lov'st, perchance, as I love thee.
She unto whom thy thoughts and wishes flee;
Those thoughts, in which, alas! I bear no part.
Oh, I have sat and sighed, thinking how fair,
How passing beautiful, thy love must be;
Of mind how high, of modesty how rare;
And then I've wept, I've wept in agony!
Oh that I might but once behold those eyes,
That to thy enamoured gaze alone seem fair;
Once hear that voice, whose music still replies
To the fond vows thy passionate accents swear:
Oh that I might but know the truth and die,
Nor live in this long dream of misery!

SONNET.

[Lady, whom my belovèd loves so well!]

Lady, whom my belovèd loves so well!
When on his clasping arm thy head reclineth,
When on thy lips his ardent kisses dwell,
And the bright flood of burning light, that shineth
In his dark eyes, is pourèd into thine;
When thou shalt lie enfolded to his heart,
In all the trusting helplessness of love;
If in such joy sorrow can find a part,
Oh, give one sigh unto a doom like mine!
Which I would have thee pity, but not prove.
One cold, calm, careless, wintry look that fell
Haply by chance on me, is all that he
E'er gave my love; round that, my wild thoughts dwell
In one eternal pang of memory.

SONNET.

[Is it a sin, to wish that I may meet thee]

Is it a sin, to wish that I may meet thee
In that dim world whither our spirits stray,
When sleep and darkness follow life and day?
Is it a sin, that there my voice should greet thee
With all that love that I must die concealing?
Will my tear-laden eyes sin in revealing
The agony that preys upon my soul?
Is't not enough through the long, loathsome day,
To hold each look and word in stern control?
May I not wish the staring sunlight gone,
Day and its thousand torturing moments done,
And prying sights and sounds of men away?
O still and silent Night! when all things sleep,
Locked in thy swarthy breast my secret keep:
Come, with thy visioned hopes and blessings now!
I dream the only happiness I know.

TO A PICTURE.

Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light,
The burning rays, that mine pour into ye,
Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark as night—
Oh, lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me?
Oh, lips! whereon mine own so often dwell,
Hath love's warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spell
To waken sense in ye?—oh, misery!
Oh, breathless lips! can ye not speak to me?
Thou soulless mimicry of life! my tears
Fall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain;
I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears,
Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain.
Oh, thou dull image! wilt thou not reply
To my fond prayers, and wild idolatry?

LINES WRITTEN AT SEA.

Dear, yet forbidden thoughts, that from my soul,
While shines the weary sun, with stern control
I drive away; why, when my spirits lie
Shrouded in the cold sleep of misery,
Do ye return, to mock me with false dreaming,
Where love, and all life's happiness is beaming?
O visions fair! that one by one have gone
Down, 'neath the dark horizon of my days;
Let not your pale reflection linger on
In the bleak sky, where live no more your rays.
Night! silent nurse, that with thy solemn eyes
Hang'st o'er the rocking cradle of the world,
Oh! be thou darker to my dreaming eyes;
Nor, in my slumbers, be the past unfurl'd.
Haunt me no more with whisperings from the dead,
The dead in heart, the changed, the withered:
Bring me no more sweet blossoms from my spring,
Which round my soul their early fragrance fling,
And, when the morning, with chill icy start,
Wakes me, hang blighted round my aching heart:
O night and slumber, be ye visionless,
Dark as the grave, deep as forgetfulness!
[OMITTED] Night, thou shalt nurse me, but be sure, good nurse,
While sitting by my bed, that thou art silent,
I will not let thee sing me to my slumbers
With the sweet lullabies of former times,
Nor tell me tales, as other gossips wont,
Of the strange fairy days, that are all gone.

LINES WRITTEN AT SEA.

SATURDAY NIGHT SONG AT SEA.

LINES.

['Tis all in vain, it may not last]

AUTUMN.

AUTUMN SONG.

A PICTURE.

Through the half-open'd casement stream'd the light
Of the departing sun. The golden haze
Of the red western sky fell warm and bright
Into that chamber large and lone: the blaze
Touch'd slantingly curtain and couch, and threw
A glory over many an antique gem,
Won from the entombed cities that once grew
At the volcano's foot. Mingled with them
Stood crystal bowls, through which the broken ray
Fell like a shower of precious stones, and lay
Reflected upon marble; these were crown'd
With blushing flowers, fresh and glittering yet
With diamond rain drops. On the crimson ground
A shining volume, clasp'd with gold and jet,
And broken petals of a passion flow'r
Lay by the lady of this silent bow'r.
Her rippling hair fell from the pearly round
That strove to clasp its billowy curls: the light
Hung like a glory on their waves of gold.
Her velvet robe, in many a violet fold,
Like the dark pansy's downy leaf, was bound
With a gold zone, and clasp'd with jewels bright,
That glow'd and danced as with a magic flame
Whene'er her measured breathing stirr'd her frame.
Upon her breast and shoulders lay a veil
Of curious needle-work, as pure and pale
As a fine web of ivory, wrought with care,
Through which her snowy skin show'd smooth and fair.
Upon the hand that propp'd her drooping head,
A precious emerald, like a fairy well,
Gleam'd with dark solemn lustre; a rich thread
Of rare round pearls—such as old legends tell
Th' Egyptian queen pledged to her Roman lord,
When in her cup a kingdom's price she pour'd,—
Circled each soft white arm. A painter well
Might have been glad to look upon her face,
For it was full of beauty, truth, and grace;
And from her lustrous eyes her spirit shone
Serene, and strong, and still, as from a throne.

WINTER.

I saw him on his throne, far in the north,
Him ye call Winter, picturing him ever
An aged man, whose frame, with palsied shiver,
Bends o'er the fiery element, his foe.
But he I saw was a young god, whose brow
Was crowned with jagged icicles, and forth
From his keen spirit-like eyes there shone a light,
Broad, glaring, and intensely cold and bright.
His breath, like sharp-edged arrows, pierced the air;
The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet;
His finger on all murmuring waters sweet
Lay icily,—motion nor sound was there;
Nature seemed frozen—dead; and still and slow
A winding-sheet fell o'er her features fair,
Flaky and white, from his wide wings of snow.

TO MRS. DULANEY.

LINES TO MISS ST. LEGER.

BALLAD.

LINES.

[And I]

And I
Am reading, too, my book of memory:
With eyelids closed, over the crested foam,
And the blue, marbled sea, I seek my home.
All present things forgotten, on the shore
Of the romantic Forth I stand once more;
Once more I hear the waves' harmonious strife;
Once more, upon the mountain coast of Fife,
I see the checker'd lights and shadows fall.
Upon the sand crumbles the ruin'd wall
That guards no more the desolate demesne,
And the deserted mansion. High between
The summer clouds the Ochil hills arise;
And far, far, like a shadow in the skies,
Ben Lomond tow'rs aloft in sovereign height.
O Cramond beach! are thy sands still as bright—
Thy waters still as sunny,—thy wild shore
As lonely and as lovely as of yore?—
Haunts of my happy time! as wandering back
Along my life, on memory's faithful track,
How fair ye seem,—how fair, how dear ye are!
Ye need not to be gazed at from afar;
Deceptive distance lends no brighter hue;
Your beauty and your peacefulness were true.
Not yours the charms from which we wearied stray,
And own them only when they're far away.
Oh, be ye blest for all the happiness
Which I have known in your wild loneliness.
Old sea, whose voice yet chimes upon my ear,—
Old paths, whose every winding step was dear,—
Dark, rocky promontories,—echoing caves,
Worn hollow by the white feet of the waves,—
Blue, lake-like waters,—legend-haunted isle,
Over ye all bright be the summer's smile;
And gently fall the winter on your breast,
Haunts of my youth, my memory's place of rest.

LINES.

[To the smooth beach the silver sea]

To the smooth beach the silver sea
Comes rippling in a thousand smiles,
And back again runs murmuringly,
To break around yon distant isles.
The sunshine, through a floating veil
Of golden clouds, looks o'er the wave,
And gilds, far off, the outline pale,
Of many a rocky cape and cave.
The breath of spring comes balmily
Over the newly blossom'd earth;
The smile of spring, on sea, and sky,
Is shedding light, and love, and mirth.
I would that thou wert by my side,
As underneath the rosy bloom
Of flowering orchard trees I ride,
And drink their fragrant, fresh perfume;
I would that thou wert by my side,
To feel this soft air on thy brow,
And listen to the chiming tide
Along that smooth shore breaking now;
I would that thou wert here to bless,
As I do now, the love and care,
That with such wealth of loveliness,
Have made life's journeying-land so fair.

LINES.

[Here be the free gifts of the morning for thee]

Here be the free gifts of the morning for thee;
Dog-roses, with their thorns all strung with pearls,
And a large round diamond in each rosy cup:
Their leaves are the colour of Aurora's cheeks.
Here is a pale white flower, without a name,
At least to me, who am a stranger here:
It has a delicate almond smell, and grew
Among thick boughs, and leaves that guarded it.
Poor thing! I took it from its shelter for thee.
Here be some lilac heads of clover, sweet
As the breath of love: they lay amongst the hay
In a new-mown meadow, glittering in the sun.
Here are the leaves of the wild vine, that shine
Like glass without, and underneath are white
And soft as a swan's breast. There is an oak branch;
I gather'd it, because it grows at home,
And in this strange land look'd as sad and loving
As a friend's face: when it is wither'd, keep it.
They are all heavy with the tears of the night,
Who weeps, because she may not meet the sun;
And when he comes down from the mountain tops,
Parting the forests with his hands of fire,
He drinks her weeping, kissing all the flowers
With passionate love, which makes them look so blushing.

WRITTEN AT TRENTON FALLS.

IMPROMPTU.

If I miscount the hours, blame Love, not me,
Who makes the time when you are near me, seem
Short as the vision of a vanishing dream,
When you are far—long as eternity.

IMPROMPTU

ON GIVING A FRIEND A CROSS.

We should each other's crosses help to bear,
Yet I, dear friend, lay this upon your breast:
Would Heaven, indulgent, hear my heartfelt prayer,
No heavier one should ever on it rest.

LINES.

AFTER A SUMMER'S WALK, IN WHICH MY COMPANION BENT OVER A CLEAR SPRING WHICH GREW TURBID WITHOUT ANY APPARENT CAUSE.

[Serene and pure the fountain flowed]

Serene and pure the fountain flowed,
Reflecting Heaven's holiest blue,
When over it thine image bowed—
And the clear water turbid grew.
I saw no cloud upon thy brow,
To darken o'er the bright wave's rest,
Say, could it mirror, thinkest thou,
Some evil hid within thy breast?
Were thy lips guileless, thy heart true,
When by the fairy well they bent?
Whence came the darkness, then, that drew
Its veil across the element?
Yet tell me not—by that lone well
'Tis like we ne'er shall stand again,
Then let the troubled fountain's spell
A mystery still to me remain.
Let me not know what I should mourn,
Distrust of joy, and doubt of thee,
Nor this sweet summer day return
Clouded upon my memory:
For o'er the surface of my soul,
Thine image too hath cast a shade,
And stirred beyond my own control
The depths, that make myself afraid.

SONNET.

[I know that thou wilt read what here is writ]

I know that thou wilt read what here is writ,
And yet not know that it is writ for thee;
To this cold page I have entrusted it,
Which tells thee all, and yet is true to me.
For oh! this paper is not like my cheek,
To blush, when o'er it thou shalt cast thine eye,
These words can't falter, like the words I speak,
With trembling accents, still when thou art nigh.
Devoid of pity, doth this leaf receive
The story of my sorrow and my love;
Yet while I trace the words, I half believe,
That latent sympathy will in it move,
All I would have thee learn, to teach to thee,
And hold the rest in safest secrecy.

AN ANSWER.

TO ------.

Oh, turn those eyes away from me!
Though sweet, yet fearful are their rays;
And though they beam so tenderly,
I feel, I tremble 'neath their gaze.
Oh, turn those eyes away! for though
To meet their glance I may not dare,
I know their light is on my brow,
By the warm blood that mantles there.

SONNET.

[There's not a fibre in my trembling frame]

There's not a fibre in my trembling frame
That does not vibrate when thy step draws near,
There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear
Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name.
When thou art with me, every sense seems dull,
And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee;
My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame,
And my bewildered spirit seems to swim
In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily.
When thou art gone, there creeps into my heart
A cold and bitter consciousness of pain:
The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart,
And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again
Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look, and tone;
And suddenly I wake—and am alone.

AN INVITATION.

Come where the white waves dance along the shore
Of some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas;
Whose golden sands by mortal foot before
Were never printed,—where the fragrant breeze,
That never swept o'er land or flood that man
Could call his own, th' unearthly breeze shall fan
Our mingled tresses with its odorous sighs;
Where the eternal heaven's blue sunny eyes
Did ne'er look down on human shapes of earth,
Or aught of mortal mould and death-doomed birth:
Come there with me; and when we are alone
In that enchanted desert, where the tone
Of earthly voice, or language, yet did ne'er
With its strange music startle the still air,
When clasped in thy upholding arms I stand,
Upon that bright world's coral-cradled strand,
When I can hide my face upon thy breast,
While thy heart answers mine together pressed,
Then fold me closer, bend thy head above me,
Listen—and I will thee how I love thee.

AN INVOCATION.

Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cell
Answer me! answer me! oh, let me hear
Thy voice, and know that thou indeed art near!
That from the bonds in which thou'rt forced to dwell
Thou hast not broken free, thou art not fled,
Thou hast not pined away, thou art not dead.
Speak to me through thy prison bars; my life,
With all things round, is one eternal strife,
'Mid whose wild din I pause to hear thy voice;
Speak to me, look on me, thou born of light!
That I may know thou'rt with me, and rejoice.
Shall not this weary warfare pass away?
Shall there not come a better, brighter day?
Shall not thy chain and mine be broken quite?
And thou to heaven spring,
With thine immortal wing,
And I, still following,
With steps that do not tire,
Reach my desire,
And to thy worship bring
Some worthy offering.
Oh, let but these dark days be once gone by,
And thou, unwilling captive, that dost strain,
With tiptoe longing, vainly, towards the sky,
O'er the whole kingdom of my life shalt reign.
But, while I'm doomed beneath the yoke to bow,
Of sordid toiling in these caverns drear,
Oh, look upon me sometimes with thy brow
Of shining brightness; sometimes let me hear
Thy blessed voice, singing the songs of heaven,
Whence thou and I, together, have been driven;
Give me assurance that thou still art nigh,
Lest I sink down beneath my load, and die.

A LAMENT FOR THE WISSAHICCON.

TO THE WISSAHICCON.

My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side,
When once they turn away, thou Pleasant Water,
Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide,
Will shine the eyes of the White Island's daughter.
But often in my dreams, when I am gone
Beyond the sea that parts thy home and mine,
Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine,
And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on.
And when the burthen of existence lies
Upon my soul, darkly and heavily,
I'll clasp my hands over my weary eyes,
Thou Pleasant Water, and thy clear waves see.
Bright be thy course for ever and for ever,
Child of pure mountain springs, and mountain snow;
And as thou wanderest on to meet the river,
Oh, still in light and music mayst thou flow!
I never shall come back to thee again,
When once my sail is shadowed on the main,
Nor ever shall I hear thy laughing voice
As on their rippling way thy waves rejoice,
Nor ever see the dark green cedar throw
Its gloomy shade o'er the clear depths below,
Never, from stony rifts of granite gray,
Sparkling like diamond rocks in the sun's ray,
Shall I look down on thee, thou pleasant stream,
Beneath whose crystal folds the gold sands gleam;
Wherefore, farewell! but whensoe'er again
The wintry spell melts from the earth and air;
And the young spring comes dancing through thy glen,
With fragrant, flowery breath, and sunny hair;
When through the snow the scarlet berries gleam,
Like jewels strewn upon thy banks, fair stream,
My spirit shall through many a summer's day
Return, among thy peaceful woods to stray.

THE DEATH-SONG.

WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING WEST POINT.

FRAGMENT

FROM AN EPISTLE WRITTEN WHEN THE THERMOMETER STOOD AT 98° IN THE SHADE.

Oh for the temperate airs that blow
Upon that darling of the sea,
Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow,
For three days holds supremacy;
But ever-varying skies contend
The blessings of all climes to lend,
To make that tiny wave-rocked isle,
In never-fading beauty smile.
England, O England! for the breeze
That slowly stirs thy forest trees!
Thy ferny brooks, thy mossy fountains,
Thy beechen woods, thy heathery mountains,
Thy lawny uplands, where the shadow
Of many a giant oak is sleeping;
The tangled copse, the sunny meadow,
Through which the summer rills run weeping.
O land of flowers! while sinking here
Beneath the dog-star of the West,
The music of the waves I hear
That cradle thee upon their breast.
Fresh o'er thy rippling corn-fields fly
The wild-winged breezes of the sea,
While from thy smiling, summer sky,
The ripening sun looks tenderly.
And thou—to whom through all this heat
My parboiled thoughts still fondly turn,
Oh in what “shady blest retreat”
Art thou ensconced, while here I burn?
Across the lawn, in the deep glade,
Where hand in hand we oft have strayed,
Or communed sweetly, side by side,
Hear'st thou the chiming ocean tide,
As gently on the pebbly beach
It lays its head, then ebbs away,
Or round the rocks, with nearer reach,
Throws up a cloud of silvery spray?
Or to the firry woods, that shed
Their spicy odours to the sun,
Goest thou with meditative tread,
Thinking of all things that are done
Beneath the sky?—a great, big thought,
Of which I know you're very fond.
For me, my mind is solely wrought
To this one wish:—Oh, in a pond
Would I were over head and ears!
(Of a cold ducking I've no fears)
Or anywhere, where I am not;
For, bless the heat! it is too hot!

AN APOLOGY.

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY AT WEST POINT.

Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world
Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled,
On which the day soared to the sunny west:
The moon sits calmly like a soul at rest,
Looking upon the never-resting earth;
All things in heaven wait on the solemn birth
Of night, but where has fled the happy dream
That at this hour, last night, our life did seem?
Where are the mountains with their tangled hair,
The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair?
Where are the shadows of the solemn hills,
And the fresh music of the summer rills?
Where are the wood-paths, winding, long, and steep,
And the great, glorious river, broad and deep,
And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet,
And the wild torrent's snowy, leaping feet,
The rustling, rocking boughs, the running streams,—
Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but dreams?
And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone,
That from the mountain-side came dancing down?
The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes,
The happy hearts, the human paradise,
The youth, the love, the life that revelled here,—
Are they too gone?—Upon Time's shadowy bier,
The pale, cold hours of joys now past are laid,
Perhaps not soon from memory's gaze to fade,
But never to be reckoned o'er again,
In all life's future store of bliss and pain.
From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart,
Youth flies—love dies—and from the joyous heart
Hope's gushing fountain ebbs too soon away,
Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day,
When from the barren waste of after life,
The weariness, the worldliness, the strife,
The soul looks o'er the desert of its way
To the green gardens of its early day:
The paradise, for which we vainly mourn,
The heaven, to which our lingering eyes still turn,
To which our footsteps never shall return.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO THE YOUNG GENTLEMEN LEAVING THE ACADEMY AT LENOX, MASSACHUSETTS.

LINES TO ---.

When 'twas my hap to meet you, for awhile
Our paths together lay—and each one brought
Heart to feel heart, and thought to answer thought;
And our brief converse has been as a smile
Upon a sorrowful face,—sweet—sad—and now
It dies away, and we must say farewell:
The strain is closing,—the spring leaves to flow,—
And our good fellowship in the past must dwell.
Yet, let there be no parting. In my heart
I hold you, and your looks and words; I pray,
In your remembrance let me keep a part,
And let us still be friends—true friends alway;—
Still holding converse in that inner life,
Where Time and Absence wage with Love no strife.

LINES TO ------.

LINES

ON A YOUNG WOMAN, WHO, AFTER A SHORT AND WRETCHED MARRIAGE, WENT MAD AND DIED.

LINES

ON READING WITH DIFFICULTY SOME OF SCHILLER'S EARLY LOVE POEMS.

When of thy loves, and happy heavenly dreams
Of early life, O Bard! I strive to read,
Thy foreign utterance a riddle seems,
And hardly can I hold thy thought's bright thread.
When of the maiden's guilt, the mother's woe,
And the dark mystery of death and shame,
Thou speakest—then thy terrible numbers flow
As if the tongue we think in were the same.
Ah wherefore! but because all joy and love
Speak unfamiliar, unknown words to me,
A spirit of wishful wonder they may move,
Dreams of what might—but yet shall never be.
But the sharp cry of pain—the bitter moan
Of trust deceived—the horrible despair
Of hope and love for ever overthrown—
These strains of thine need no interpreter.
Ah! 'tis my native tongue! and howsoe'er
In foreign accents writ, that I did ne'er
Or speak, or hear, a woman's agony
Still utters a familiar voice to me.

SONNET.

[If in thy heart the spring of joy remains]

If in thy heart the spring of joy remains,
All beauteous things, being reflected there,
Most beautiful and joyful do appear;
But if that treasure hath been from thee ta'en,
If emptiness, and darkness, in thy heart
Sit silent—from all nature doth depart
Its joy and glory, and all beauty seems
Hollow and strange.—The poet's noble dreams,
The voice of music and of song, the sight
Of evening shadows, and of morning light,
Flowers, and bright faces—youth, and hope, and love,
Who hand in hand over life's threshold move
Like conquerors to a triumph—all things fair,
Shining upon thee darken thy despair.

TO------.

One after one, the shield, the sword, the spear,
The panoply that I was wont to wear,
My suit of proof, my wings that kept me free,
These, full of trust, delivered I to thee,
When, through all time, I swore that by thy side
I would henceforward walk:—I since have tried,
In hours of sadness, when my former life
Shone on me through thick gathering clouds of strife,
To wield my weapons bright, and wear again
My maiden corselet and free wings—in vain!
My hands have lost their strength and skill—my breast,
Beneath my mail throbs with a wild unrest;
My pinions trail upon the earth—my soul
Quails 'neath the heavy spell of thy control.
All that was living of my life seems fled,
My mortal part alone is not yet dead.
But since my nobler gifts have all been thine,
Trophies, or sacrifices, for thy shrine,
Pierce not the breast that stripped itself for thee
Of the fair means God gave it to be free;
Have yet some pity, and forbear to strike
One without power to strive, or fly alike,
Nor trample on a heart, which now must be
Towards all defenceless—most of all towards thee.

SONNET,

WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF THE CASTLE AT HEIDELBERG.

Weep'st thou to see the ruin and decay
Which Time doth wreak upon earth's mighty things?
Temples of gods, and palaces of kings,
Weep'st thou to see them crumbling all away?
Oh I could show thee such a woful ruin
As doth surpass the worst of Time's undoing,
A fortress strong of life, not wrecked by years,
But overthrown by sighs, and sapped with tears;
A noble mansion, wherein youth did dwell,
To which this palace were a lowly cell;
A goodly temple, in whose holiest shrine,
Love had a worship like himself divine;
And all these fabrics fair deserted be—
A weed-grown heap, shunned even by memory.

ON A HOLLOW FRIENDSHIP.

A bitter cheat!—and here at length it ends—
And thou and I, who were to one another
More closely knit than brother is to brother,
Shall not be even as two common friends.
Never again in our two hearts may grow
The love whose root was bleeding torn away;
Sadly and darkly shall our spirits go,
Companionless, through life's remaining way:
What though still side by side—yet never more
Each answering other, as they did before;
Lonelier by far, than those who ne'er have known
Dear partnership of love such as we knew,
Unpitied by our fellows, to whose view
A seeming false must o'er our state be thrown—
Thus shall we henceforth walk, together—yet alone.

EXPECTATION.

FORSAKEN.

TO------.

The fountain of my life, which flowed so free,
The plenteous waves, which brimming gushed along,
Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song,
Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee:
How should they not? from the shrunk, narrow bed,
Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed away
Light, life, and motion, and along its way
The dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread,—
Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblest
Disturb the wells whence that sad stream takes birth,
The swollen waters once again gush forth,
Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest.

IMPROMPTU,

WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF THE SONNENBERG.

Thou who within thyself dost not behold
Ruins as great as these, though not as old,
Canst scarce through life have travelled many a year,
Or lack'st the spirit of a pilgrim here.
Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride,
Love, its warm hearth-stones, hope, its prospects wide,
Life's fortress in thee, held these one and all,
And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall.

SONNET.

[Say thou not sadly, “never,” and “no more,”]

Say thou not sadly, “never,” and “no more,”
But from thy lips banish those falsest words;
While life remains that which was thine before
Again may be thine; in Time's storehouse lie
Days, hours, and moments, that have unknown hoards
Of joy, as well as sorrow: passing by,
Smiles come with tears; therefore with hopeful eye
Look thou on dear things, though they turn away,
For thou and they, perchance, some future day
Shall meet again, and the gone bliss return;
For its departure then make thou no mourn,
But with stout heart bid what thou lov'st farewell;
That which the past hath given the future gives as well.

A RETROSPECT.

Life wanes, and the bright sunlight of our youth
Sets o'er the mountain-tops, where once Hope stood.
O Innocence! O Trustfulness! O Truth!
Where are ye all, white-handed sisterhood,
Who with me on my way did walk along,
Singing sweet scraps of that immortal song
That's hymned in Heaven, but hath no echo here?
Are ye departing, fellows bright and dear
Of the young spirit, when it first alights
Upon this earth of darkness and dismay?
Farewell! fair children of th' eternal day,
Blossoms of that far land where fall no blights,
Sweet kindred of my exiled soul, farewell!
Here I must wander, here ye may not dwell;
Back to your home beyond the founts of light
I see ye fly, and I am wrapt in night.

LINES FOR MUSIC.

AN EVENING SONG.

“'TIS AN OLD TALE AND OFTEN TOLD.”

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed
Those we let fall over the silent dead?
Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom,
Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb?
Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave,
Round which the slender, sunny grass-blades wave?
Whom are ye calling back to tread again
This weary walk of life? towards whom, in vain,
Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised;
The young, the loved, the honoured, and the praised?
Come hither;—look upon the faded cheek
Of that still woman, who with eyelids meek
Veils her most mournful eyes;—upon her brow
Sometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow,
When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly tear,
But patience oftener sits palely there.
Beauty has left her—hope and joy have long
Fled from her heart, yet she is young, is young;
Has many years, as human tongues would tell,
Upon the face of this blank earth to dwell.
Looks she not sad? 'tis but a tale of old,
Told o'er and o'er, and ever to be told,
The hourly story of our every day,
Which when men hear they sigh and turn away;
A tale too trite almost to find an ear,
A woe too common to deserve a tear.
She is the daughter of a distant land;—
Her kindred are far off;—her maiden hand,
Sought for by many, was obtained by one
Who owned a different birth-land from her own.
But what recked she of that? as low she knelt
Breathing her marriage vows, her fond heart felt,
“For thee, I give up country, home, and friends;
Thy love for each, for all, shall make amends;”
And was she loved?—perishing by her side
The children of her bosom drooped and died;
The bitter life they drew from her cold breast
Flickered and failed;—she laid them down to rest:
Two pale young blossoms in their early sleep;
And weeping, said, “They have not lived to weep.”
And weeps she yet? no, to her weary eyes,
The bliss of tears her frozen heart denies;
Complaint, or sigh, breathes not upon her lips,
Her life is one dark, fatal, deep eclipse.
Lead her to the green grave where ye have laid
The creature that ye mourn;—let it be said:
“Here love, and youth, and beauty, are at rest!”
She only sadly murmurs, “Blest!—most blest!”
And turns from gazing, lest her misery
Should make her sin, and pray to Heaven to die.

SONNET.

[Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn]

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn
O'er joys that God hath for a season lent,
Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent,
Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn;
There lies no desert in the land of life,
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem,
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.
Haply no more, music and mirth and love,
And glorious things of old and younger art,
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;
But when these bright companions all depart,
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.

SONG.

[Pass thy hand through my hair, love]

THE PRAYER OF A LONELY HEART.

I am alone—oh be thou near to me,
Great God! from whom the meanest are not far.
Not in presumption of the daring spirit,
Striving to find the secrets of itself,
Make I my weeping prayer; in the deep want
Of utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee;
If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship,
Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee.
I have no fellow, Father! of my kind;
None that be kindred, none companion to me,
And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood,
Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me,
Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot.
Around me grow the trees, each by the other;
Innumerable leaves, each like the other,
Whisper and breathe, and live and move together.
Around me spring the flowers; each rosy cup
Hath sisters leaning their fair cheeks against it.
The birds fly all above me; not alone,
But coupled in free fellowship, or mustering
A joyous band, sweeping in companies
The wide blue fields between the clouds;—the clouds
Troop in society, each on the other
Shedding, like sympathy, reflected light.
The waves, a multitude, together run
To the great breast of the receiving sea:
Nothing but hath its kind, its company,
O God! save me alone!—then, let me come,
Good Father! to thy feet, when even as now,
Tears, that no human hand is near to wipe,
O'erbrim my eyes, oh wipe them, thou, my Father!
When in my heart the stores of its affections,
Piled up unused, locked fast, are like to burst
The fleshly casket, that may not contain them,
Let me come nigh to thee;—accept them thou,
Dear Father!—Fount of Love! Compassionate God!
When in my spirit burns the fire, the power,
That have made men utter the words of angels,
And none are near to bid me speak and live:
Hearken, O Father! maker of my spirit!
God of my soul, to thee I will outpour
The hymns resounding through my troubled mind,
The sighs and sorrows of my lonely heart,
The tears and weeping of my weary eyes:
Be thou my fellow, glorious, gracious God!
And fit me for such fellowship with thee!

ABSENCE.

SONNET.

[But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile]

But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile
The panting breath and hurrying steps of life,
The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife
Of hourly being; the sharp, biting file
Of action, fretting on the tightened chain
Of rough existence all that is not pain,
But utter weariness; oh to be free
But for a while from conscious entity!
To shut the banging doors and windows wide,
Of restless sense, and let the soul abide
Darkly and stilly, for a little space,
Gathering its strength up to pursue the race;
O heavens! to rest a moment, but to rest
From this quick, gasping life, were to be blest!

RETURN.

LINES

WRITTEN IN LONDON.

TO------.

EPISTLE FROM THE RHINE.

SONNET.

[Though thou return unto the former things]

Though thou return unto the former things,
Fields, woods, and gardens, where thy feet have strayed
In other days, and not a bough, branch, blade
Of tree, or meadow, but the same appears
As when thou lovedst them in former years,
They shall not seem the same; the spirit brings
Change from the inward, though the outward be
E'en as it was, when thou didst weep to see
It last, and spak'st that prophecy of pain,
“Farewell! I shall not look on ye again.”
And so thou never didst—no, though e'en now
Thine eyes behold all they so loved of yore,
The Thou that did behold them then, no more
Lives in this world, it is another Thou.

SONNET.

[Like one who walketh in a plenteous land]

Like one who walketh in a plenteous land,
By flowing waters, under shady trees,
Through sunny meadows, where the summer bees
Feed in the thyme and clover; on each hand
Fair gardens lying, where of fruit and flower
The bounteous season hath poured out its dower:
Where saffron skies roof in the earth with light,
And birds sing thankfully towards Heaven, while he
With a sad heart walks through this jubilee,
Beholding how beyond this happy land,
Stretches a thirsty desert of gray sand,
Where all the air is one thick, leaden blight,
Where all things dwarf and dwindle,—so walk I,
Through my rich, present life, to what beyond doth lie.

SONNET.

[Art thou already weary of the way?]

Art thou already weary of the way?
Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o'er;
Get up, and lift thy burthen: lo, before
Thy feet the road goes stretching far away.
If thou already faint, who hast but come
Through half thy pilgrimage, with fellows gay,
Love, youth, and hope, under the rosy bloom
And temperate airs of early breaking day;
Look yonder, how the heavens stoop and gloom,
There cease the trees to shade, the flowers to spring,
And th' angels leave thee; what wilt thou become
Through yon drear stretch of dismal wandering,
Lonely and dark? I shall take courage, friend,
For comes not every step more near the end?

LINES

WRITTEN ON LEAVING BELVOIR CASTLE IN 1842.

Farewell, fair castle! on thy lordly hill
Firm be thy seat and proud thy station still,
Soft rise the breezes from the vale below,
Bright be the clouds that wander o'er thy brow;
O'er the broad lands that form thy wide domain
Short be the winter, long the summer's reign.
Pilgrim of pleasure to thy stately towers,
Fain would I leave among thy friendly bowers
Some votive offering ere on my way,
With many a backward glance, I turn to stray.
May virtue, strength, and honour, guard thy walls,
Love, health, and peace, abide within thy halls,
While graceful mirth and noble courtesy
As now for ever hold their seat in thee;
And still upon thy lordly turrets rest
The grateful blessing of each parting guest!

WRITTEN AT TRENTON FALLS.

TWO PICTURES.

WRITTEN AT TRENTON FALLS IN 1850.

TO------,

WHO FELL FROM A PRECIPICE INTO A MOUNTAIN TORRENT.

A NOONDAY VISION.

I saw one whom I love more than my life
Stand on a perilous edge of slippery rock,
Under her feet the waters' furious strife,
And all around the thunder of their shock;
She stood and smiled, while terror held my breath,
Nor dared I speak, or move, or call, or cry,
Lest to wild measuring of the depth beneath,
From her small foothold she should turn her eye.
As in the tyrannous horror of a dream,
I could not look away, but stony, still,
Fastened my eyes on her, while she did seem
Like one that fears, but hath a steadfast will.
Around her, through green boughs, the sunlight flung
Its threads of glory like a golden net,
And all about the rock-wall where she clung,
The trembling crests of fern with stars were wet,
Bright beads of crystal on a rainbow strung,
Jewels of fire in drops of water set;
And while I gazed, a hand stretched forth to her
Beckoned her on—and holding firm and fast
By this her unseen guide and monitor,
Behind the rocks out of my sight she passed,
And then the agony of all my fears
Broke forth from out my eyes in sudden tears,
And I fell weeping down upon the sod;
But in my soul I heard a voice that said,
Be comforted—of what art thou afraid?
Nor for the hand she holds be thou dismayed,
The hand that holds her is the hand of God.

SONNET.

[What is my lady like? thou fain wouldst know—]

What is my lady like? thou fain wouldst know—
A rosy chaplet of fresh apple bloom,
Bound with blue ribbon, lying on the snow:
What is my lady like? the violet gloom
Of evening, with deep orange light below.
She's like the noonday smell of a pine wood,
She's like the sounding of a stormy flood,
She's like a mountain-top high in the skies,
To which the day its earliest light doth lend;
She's like a pleasant path without an end;
Like a strange secret, and a sweet surprise;
Like a sharp axe of doom, wreathed with blush roses,
A casket full of gems whose key one loses;
Like a hard saying, wonderful and wise.

SONNET.

[I know a maiden with a laughing face]

I know a maiden with a laughing face,
And springing feet like wings;—the light that flies
Forth from the radiant dancing of her eyes
Is full of mischievous and mirthful grace.
I know a maiden you might scarce think fair
The first time that across your path she past,
And suddenly you would be fettered fast
In the thick meshes of her chestnut hair,
And in her floating motions gay and glad,
And in the sparkling triumph of her mirth:
Like summer rain-showers twinkling to the earth,
Through sudden sun-gleams, when the wind is mad,
When all the shrubberies rock in rustling glee,
And clouds of blossoms fall from every tree.

SONNET.

[Thou art to me like one, who in a dream]

Thou art to me like one, who in a dream
Of pleasant fancies is borne sleeping by
The place where a great treasure hid doth lie:
Anon thou wilt awake, and thou'lt exclaim—
“How was it that along this path I came,
And left so great a treasure on my way?
I will make haste to seek it:” shalt thou say—
And then, thou shalt re-measure thoughtfully
The steps thou didst fly over in thy sleep;
But vainly shalt thou wander there, and weep,
For while thou didst pass dreaming, careless, on,
Another followed, and with digging deep,
And diligent seeking, did the harvest reap
That was held to thy hand—and thou wouldst none.

A LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

Oh make not light of love, my lady dear,
For, from that sweetest source doth ever flow
All that is likest heaven on earth below.
Ill it beseems who worthiest love appear,
To scoff at their own worship;—if to you
All that a serving soul, tender and true,
Can bring of best and holiest offering,
Seems but a slight and unregarded thing—
Then are you, with your grace and loveliness,
A wicked phantom, with an evil spell,
Luring warm human hearts to a cold hell,
Where in a barren, blighted emptiness,
Self-love and vanity together dwell;
Companions curst, cruel, and comfortless.

A REJECTED LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

Knowest thou not that of all human gifts
God chooses love?—alone, that may be laid
Upon His altar, who hath all things made,
And find acceptance:—to the hand that lifts
That precious price, the gates of heaven give way,
And wilt thou dare lightly to cast away
My soul's best offering, thou cruel child!
With wanton wealth of youth and beauty wild.
Who shall pray for thee, that there be not laid
On thee, in days to come, the bitter load,
Of love unrecognised and unrepaid?
Ah! who shall comfort thee, for all thy scorn,
When thou shalt wander, weeping and forlorn,
Remembering me, along life's flinty road?

A REJECTED LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

The love that was too poor to purchase you
Is rich enough to buy each noble thing,
That may be reached on the untiring wing
Of patient, strong pursuit; all that is true,
Honest, and brave, and most adorns a man,
I may achieve—and will:—and since I can
So glorify the life that you rejected,
E'en, fairest mistress! for your sake, no prize
That may proclaim me worthy, good, or wise,
Shall by my best endeavour be neglected.
So that this judgment you may yet decree,
When from the height of your sweet excellence,
You sentence pass, on my hope's bold offence—
Such love was worthy to be offered me.

PARTING.

The golden hinges of the year have turned—
Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time
Have come, and gone; and on the threshold stands
The withered Winter, stretching forth his hands
To take my rose from me;—which he will wear
On his bleak bosom, all the bitter months
While the earth and I remain disconsolate.
My rose!—with the soft vesture of her leaves,
Gathered all round the secrets of her heart
In crimson fragrant folds,—within her bower
Of fair fresh green, guarded with maiden thorns.
O withered Winter! keep my blossom safe!
Thou shalt not kiss her with thy blue cold lips,
Nor pinch her in thy bony grip,—nor drop
More than one tiny sparkling diamond,
From thy cold carcanet, upon her cheek:
But lay soft snow fur round her—and above
Her precious head, make thy skies blue and clear,
And set her in the sun;—O withered Winter!
Be tender of my rose, and harm her not.
Alas, my flower, farewell!

LINES.

[In visions countless as the golden motes]

In visions countless as the golden motes
That dance upon the sun's earth-kissing beams,
A phantom haunts my life, an image floats
Through my day-thoughts, and through my midnight dreams,
Clothed in a thousand forms which fancy traces
With quick creation, and as soon effaces.
Sometimes, it slowly sweeps in silence by,
Beneath some long Ionian colonnade,
Through whose far vista I behold it fade,
Girlish in form, in bearing sad and high.
Sometimes, in some removèd chamber lone,
Where the sun's mellow radiance is thrown
Around it, in a thousand varying hues,
That melt and glow, it seems to sit and muse.
Sometimes, upon a gray and stony shore,
The lonely figure strays distractedly,
Or stands, and gazes the wide water o'er,
Stretching its arms above the cruel sea.
And all this while, I never see the face
Of this close haunting shape, that follows me;
And vainly do I strive, and pray for grace,
To know if what I think it is—it be.
Then with an accent by despair made wild,
I call aloud upon thy name, my child,
And I behold thine eyes—and suddenly
I'm in the dark of utter misery.

SONNET.

[Thou who sitt'st listening to the midnight wind]

Thou who sitt'st listening to the midnight wind,
Pale maiden moon! 'tis said, that they who gaze
Too long upon thy melancholy light
Are struck with madness, and that o'er their mind
Thou shedd'st a mildew down, a withering blight.
If this were so, to some thy barren rays
Would be more welcome than the fruitful sun
To those who number none but happy days.
If to be mad were to forget one's grief,
Thy dewy finger-tips touching my brow
Might to my misery bring such relief
As misery such as mine can never know,
Till my distracted thoughts shall cease to run
From what once was—to all that must be now.

LINES

WRITTEN BY THE SEASIDE.

MORNING

BY THE SEASIDE.

With these two kisses on thine eyes
I melt thy sleep away—arise!
For look, my love, Phœbus his golden hand
Hath laid upon the white mane of the sea,
And springing from the fresh brine gloriously,
He glances keen o'er the long level strand.
Now come his horses up, all snorting fire,
The lovely morning hours, hymning their choir
Of triumph, circle round the royal sun,
And the bright pageant of the day's begun.
Come, let me lock in mine thy hand,
And pace we with swift feet this smooth and sparkling sand.
See, how the swollen ridges of the waves
Curl into crystal caves,
Rising and rounding,
Rolling, rebounding,
Echoing, resounding,
And running into curves of creamy spray,
Mark, with white wavy lines, the far-indented bay.
The little bark, that, by the sheltering shore,
Folded her wings, and rocked herself to sleep,
Shakes out her pinions to the breeze once more,
And, like a swallow, dips, and skims the deep.
Hail, welcome day! hail, miracle of light!
Hail, wondrous resurrection from the night!
Hail, glorious earth! hail ocean, fearful fair!
Hail ye sweet kisses of fresh morning air!
Hail thou! my love, my life, my air, my light,
Soul of my day! my morning, noon, and night!

NOONDAY

BY THE SEASIDE.

EVENING

BY THE SEASIDE.

LINES

WRITTEN BY THE SEA.

If thou wert standing by yon tide,
And I were standing by thy side,
Methinks a death I could contrive,
Pleasanter than the life I live.
For I would lay me at thy feet,
And like a snowy winding-sheet,
The foaming fringes of the sea
Should roll themselves all over me,
And draw me but a little way
Into that cradle huge and gray,
And rock me all so tenderly,
And sing one sobbing lullaby,
And then unwind their foldings deep,
And lay me gently, fast asleep,
At thy dear feet, where I would lie
And sleep through all eternity.

LINES

WRITTEN BY THE SEASIDE.

WRITTEN IN A DIARY.

They who go down to the relentless deep,
After long horrible death of cold and drought
Ere the last spark of flickering life goes out,
Give to the bitter waves that o'er them sweep,
The secret of their agony to keep;
Hoping that when the never-satiate sea,
In its huge depths had swallowed them for ever,
To human hands and eyes it shall deliver
The record of their piteous misery.
So I unto these pages do commend
The story of my shipwreck dire for thee,
Where thou shalt read, how long before the end,
I strove, and clung, and prayed, and vainly cried,
Trusting in thee and heaven, until I died.

ARRIVAL IN ROME.

Early in life, when hope seems prophecy,
And strong desire can sometimes mould a fate,
My dream was of thy shores, O Italy!
Of thy blue deep, that even for a while
Will not forsake its spicy pine-girt beaches;
Of the unuttered glories of thy sky,
Of the unnumbered beauties of thy earth,
And all the immortal memories, that rest
For ever like an atmosphere above thee.
Thus towards the south my spirit's flight was turned,
For ever with the yearning of one born there,
And nursed upon its warm and fragrant bosom;
Awhile the sunny dream shut out all else,
And filled the horizon of my contemplations.
Slowly, and by degrees, the toiling years
Breathed o'er the bright illusion, dimming it,—
And gathered close about me sterner things.
The graceful lines, the gorgeous hues, the forms
Of grandeur and of beauty that my thoughts
Had dwelt amidst, as in their proper home,
Melted and faded—broke, dissolved away,
Till the last, lovely, lingering trace had vanished,
And I forgot to hope it might return.
Across an ocean—not thy sapphire waves,
O Mediterranean, sea of memories!
But the dark marble ridges of th' Atlantic,
Destiny led me—not to thy bright shores,
Ausonia, but that wondrous wilderness,
That other world, where Hope supreme beholds
All things unshaped—one huge eventful promise.
Ah, not to thee, thou treasure-house of Art,
Thou trophy-loaded Temple of the Past,
Hung with triumphant spoils of all the ages!
But to that land where Expectation stands,
All former things behind her—and before
The unfathomed brightness of Futurity,
Rolling its broad waves to the feet of God.
Upon that distant shore, a dream more fair
Than the imaginations of my youth
Awhile entranced me; lightning-like it fled,
And I remained utterly desolate.
Love had departed; Youth, too, had departed;
Hope had departed; and my life before me
Lay covered with the ashes of the Past,—
Dark, barren, cold, drear, flinty, colourless.
As through the cheerless gray of waning night,
When its black veils wear thin and part like film,
Beautiful light, like life, begins to glow,
And the great picture of the earth is sketched
Faintly upon the canvas of the dark,
Brighter and brighter growing, as the day
Holds its great torch against God's masterpiece,
Till the whole work in perfect glory shines:
So rose once more that southern vision's splendour
Upon the cheerless twilight of my fate;
The last grim pages of my book of life,
Filled with a mean and grinding martyrdom,
Washed with unceasing tears at length gave back
The nobler legend written on my youth.
Again, again, the glowing shapes returned;
Again, the lovely lines like magic drew me;
Again the splendour of the southern heavens
Shed rosy light and golden glories round me,
And Art and Nature, twins immortal, stood
Upon the threshold of earth's Paradise,
And waved me towards it. And at last I came,—
But with a broken heart and tear-dimmed eyes,
And such a woful weight of misery laden
As well might challenge the great ministry
Of the whole universe, to comfort it.
Thus did I seek thy shores, O Italy!
Land—not of promise—but of consolation;
Not in that season of my life, when life
Itself was rich enough for all its need,
And I yet held its whole inheritance;
But in the bankrupt days when all is spent,
Bestowed, or stolen, wasted, given away,
To buy a store of bitter memories:
In the first hour of lengthening evening shadows,
When Resolution on life's summit stands,
Looks back on all its brightness, and looks forward
Through gathering downward darkness to the grave.
Hail, then, most fair, most glorious, long desired—
Long dreamed of—hoped for—Italy, hail! hail!
I kiss thy earth, weeping with joy, to think
That I, at last, stand on thy sacred soil.

IMPROMPTU.

Sorrow and sin, and suffering and strife,
Have been cast in the waters of my life;
And they have sunk deep down to the well-head,
And all that flows thence is embitterèd.
Yet still the fountain up towards heaven springs,
And still the brook where'er it wanders sings;
And still where'er it hath found leave to rest,
The blessed sun looks down into its breast;
And it reflects, as in a mirror fair,
The image of all beauty shining there.

LINES.

[Upon the altar of my life there lies]

Upon the altar of my life there lies
A costly offering: its price I know;
The worth that it might have, its power and beauty;
Yet it lies there, and darkness covers it.
It has not burned towards heaven in holy flames,
Worshipping God, warming and lighting man;
No fire has quickened it.—Love, like a torch
Quenched in foul mist, passed over it in vain:
A flickering ray of pale uncertain happiness
Played round it once, too weak to kindle it.
Strike, strike then now, ye lightning fires of sorrow!
Devouring flames! ye that have all consumed
Love, Hope, and Happiness, do your whole work!
Light up the gifts that lie on my life's altar,
Kindle the precious sacrifice my soul
Has heaped in vain: so shall it burn towards heaven,
And glorify the Giver of all gifts,
The Sender of all earthly destinies.

LIFE.

At morn—a mountain ne'er to be climbed o'er,
A horn of plenty, lengthening evermore;
At noon—the countless hour-sands pouring fast,
Waves that we scarce can see as they run past;
At night—a pageant over ere begun,
A course not even measured and yet run,
A short mysterious tale—suddenly done.
At first—a heap of treasure, heaven-high;
At last—a failing purse, shrunk, lean, and beggarly.

LINES ON THE ANIO AT TIVOLI.

One river from the mountain springs was born,
Into three several streams its course was torn.
For one a royal path was made; it ran,
Sheltered and screened, through channels paved by man;
A noble flood, a bounteous, beauteous river,
In light and glory rolling forth for ever.
One, to the children of the earth became
A slave unwilling, bound, but never tame.
Round lashing wheels its silver foam was spread,
Through murky chambers its bright waves were led,
Dread clangour of huge engines drowned its voice,
At its dark work forbidden to rejoice;
Close by its fiery foe its white waves boil,
Fierce ruddy flames beside it glow and toil,
Striving and labouring, panting, rushing past,
All stained and sullied it leaps free at last,
And down the huge cliffs with one shouting bound
Joins its fair sister on the level ground
Of a green valley. One sad stream was led
By God, not man, through chasms dark, drear, and dread:
Horrible depths ne'er visited by light,
Caves of despair, dismay, and thickest night;
There in an agony the lonely river
Leapt down, and turned, and writhed, and plunged for ever;
Seeking escape from out the hideous deep,
Where its wild waters were condemned to weep;
But this tormented stream too found its way,
At length to the sweet air of upper day;
And altogether they flow down to rest
One with the other in the Ocean's breast.
So ends all life that is but mortal breath,—
All fates are equal in the lap of Death.

THE SIREN'S CAVE AT TIVOLI.

HADRIAN'S VILLA.

Let us stay here: nor ever more depart
From this sweet wilderness Nature and Art
Have made, not for light wandering feet to stray,
Through their fair chaos half one sunny day;
But for th' abiding place of those whose spirit
Is worthy all this beauty to inherit.
Pervading sunlight vivifies the earth,
The fresh green thickets rock, as though in mirth,
Under its warmth, and shaken by the breeze,
That springs down into them from waving trees,
Whose dark blue branches spread themselves on high,
On granite shafts, that seem to prop the sky.
Around, a rocky screen the mountains spread,
Wood-mantled to their middle, but each head
Gray, bare, and bald, save where a passing veil
Vaporous, and silvery soft, the low clouds trail
Over their craggy brows:—down their steep sides
The light procession of fleet shadow glides,
Garlands of melting gloom, that join and sever,
And climb, and then run down the hills for ever,
Like rapid outspread wings, flying away
Before the golden shafts of the bright day.
Turn from the rocky wall, and lo! a sea
Of level land, like an eternity,
Spreads its vast plain beneath the hazy light,
Till far, far on th' horizon's edge, one bright
And blinding streak betrays the distant verge,
Where earth and ocean in each other merge.
Look from this promontory made of ruin,
Through whose brown broken arches the soft wooing
Of the Spring air in murmurs low is heard,
Answering the voice of that triumphant bird,
Who, hid 'mid fragrant wreaths of hawthorn bloom,
Sings loud and sweet, here, in this wondrous tomb
Of the earth's greatness:—look below, around,
Above,—survey this magic sky and ground;
These crumbling arches, that blue vault of heaven,
These pillars, and these friezes, fallen or riven
From their stone sockets; those fair cypress trees,
Those vine and ivy garlands, Nature's frieze;
These graceful fragments, over which she flings
The still fresh mantle of a thousand Springs;
Hear from it all the strange and solemn story,
Decay and Death reaping all human glory.
Ho, Adrian! Emperor, Conqueror, Priest, and Lord!
Who the great Roman world swayedst with a word!
Thou who didst cast off power without measure,
To dwell in joy, possessing only pleasure!
The wild bee hums in the wild wreaths of thyme
That carpet o'er thy halls and courts sublime;
The nightingale, sweet single chorister,
Fills the void circle of thy theatre,
And northern pilgrims, with slow lingering feet,
Stray round each vestige of thy loved retreat,
And spend in homage half one sunny day
Before they pass upon their wandering way,
Leaving thy royal ruin of delight
Lordly and lonely, lovely, sad, and bright.

THE AUTUMN CYCLAMEN.

A ROOM IN THE VILLA TAVERNA.

Three windows cheerfully poured in the light:
One from the east, where o'er the Sabine hills
The sun first rose on the great Roman plain,
And shining o'er the garden, with its fountains,
Vine-trellises, and heaps of rosy bloom,
Struck on the glittering laurel-trees, that shone
With burnished golden leaves against my lattice.
One towards the north, close-screened with a dark wall
Of bay and ilex, with tall cypress-shafts,
Piercing with graceful spires the limpid air,
Like delicate shadows in transparent water.
One towards the west—above a sunny green,
Where merry black-eyed Tusculan maidens laid
The tawny woof to bleach between the rays
Of morning light and the bright morning dew.
There spread the graceful balustrade, and down
Swept the twin flights of steps, with their stone vases,
And thick-leaved aloes, like a growth of bronze,
To the broad court, where, from a twilight cell,
A Naiad, crowned with tufts of trembling green,
Sang towards the sunny palace all day long.

THE LANDGRAFF.

Through Thuringia's forest green
The Landgraff rode at close of e'en;
Huntsmen and hounds were left behind,
While following fierce a dappled hind;
And though the day grew thick apace,
The brave steed distanced in the chase,
Still by his rider urged amain,
While daylight served, to reach the plain,
Sped through the mazes of the wood;
The crimson light like drops of blood
Sprinkled upon the foliage lay;
And through green arches far away
Some sudden gaps let in the light,
And made the rough old tree-trunks bright.
Fast sped the steed, but still more fast
The fiery steeds of heaven sped on;
Oak, glade, and hazel copse flew past,
But the red sunlight all was gone:
Twilight's dim shadows gathered round,
With light departed every sound;
The sudden strain of some late bird
From the high boughs no more was heard;
And, save the thundering hoofs that ring
Along the path, and fluttering wing
Of bats low flying through the gray,
Deep solemn silence sealed the day:
One after one, the twisted form
Of each huge chestnut tree grew dim,
And with the blackness of a storm,
The coming night looked wild and grim.
With slower step, and head bent low,
The gallant steed went forward now;
Quoth the good Landgraff, in his mind,
“To-night we shall no shelter find,
But thou and I, old horse, shall lie
Beneath the oak tent of the wood;
Keen hunter, even of lineage high,
Finds red-brown moss a pillow good.”
Just then, a sudden ruddy glare,
Streamed from the forest depths of green;
The Landgraff gave a lusty cheer,
Well pleased the light to see, I ween;
And with a hopeful snort, the steed
Sprang on with fresh-awakened speed.
From a low smithy lined with light,
The red glow poured upon the night;
And that which, when beheld afar,
Shone like a friendly twinkling star,
Searched every nook and cranny round;
Showed each brown leaf upon the ground;
Each ivy snake's fine hairy feet,
Climbing the pine-shafts gray and stern—
Great golden oak-boughs spread and meet
Above a sea of golden fern;
The foaming brook all glancing bright,
In golden waves went rolling by;
From the low roof a jet of light
Sprang upwards to the murky sky:
The fierce flames roared, the bellows blew,
Round a red rain of fire-sparks flew;
The sweat fell from the stout smith's brow,
And ever with each stalwart blow,
He cried, “O Landgraff, grow thou hard!”—
Amazed, the wondering Landgraff heard;
And stepping forth out of the night
Into the smithy's ruddy light,
He and his horse together stood,
Like shadowy demons of the wood.
“Good friend,” quoth he, “I've lost my way,
Here in the forest, and I pray
That thou wilt suffer me to rest,
Till by the sky I guess the east.”
The toil-worn workman wiped his brow;
He pointed to a settle low,
And to his humble pallet bed:—
“To all I have, welcome!” he said—
“Thy horse must stable in the wood;
The water of the brook is good;
Here is the black loaf that I eat,
To work and weariness 'tis sweet.”
And then, without another word,
He cried, “O Landgraff, grow thou hard!”—
And struck the iron bar amain—
The furious sparks flew forth again;
And thus he wrought, and thus he prayed,
Till, the stout bar of iron made,
He paused awhile, with panting breast,
And sat him down beside his guest,
Who cried, “Good friend, I prithee say,
Wherefore thus strangely thou dost pray.”
“Oh, sir,” replied the brawny man,
“To pray and pray is all we can;
Our Earl is good, may God reward
His gentleness, and make him hard;
He loves the poor, he grinds us not;
He leaves us all a peaceful lot,
And were there none between his grace
And the poor vassal's down-trod race,
His people's were a blessed case:
But between us poor men and him,
A tribe of barons, hard and grim,
Harrow and drive, and strip and spoil,
The wretched tillers of the soil;
And the great God, who out of heaven
The charge of us, His poor, hath given
To princes, who our rights should guard,
Make towards these fiends our Landgraff hard;
And save us through His mighty hand
From these destroyers of the land:
Because our Earl is mild and good,
This greedy, bloody, wolfish brood
Make us a people most ill-starred,
So, great God, make our Landgraff hard!”
They both sat silent, while the brook
With rippling voice the burden took,
And seemed to echo back the word,
“Oh, great God, make our Landgraff hard!”—
“Hast thou no wife, hast thou no child
To cheer thee in this forest wild?”—
“I had two children and a wife,”
The smith replied, “to cheer my life—
I saw my boy borne past my door
Bound to a stag all streaming gore,
Followed by devilish men and hounds,
Because within the forest bounds
Of Ravenstein a fawn he found,
And lifted dying from the ground.
A forester of Ravenstein
Strove with him once, and fared the worse,
And sware that luckless boy of mine
Should live that fatal day to curse.
I saw him hunted through the wood,
And tracked him by the streaks of blood,
To where the fern banks hide the river;
But after that I saw him—never.
I had a daughter,—God be praised!
She to a distant town is gone,
A fair, fair girl!”—His hand he raised
And wiped the big tears, one by one,
From his brown face—“To let her go
I was right glad—'twas better so.
The wicked Lord of Falconsheight
Met her one morning by the brook;
She told her mother of his look
And loathsome words, as wild with fright
She fled away; that very night,
Like God's good angel, through the glade
A young companion of my trade
Came travelling by—short time he stayed,
And when he went, took hence the maid.
We gave our darling child to him,
And saved her so from shame.”—The dim
Red embers on the anvil showed
The fierce and fiery flush that glowed
Over the swart smith's knotted brow:
“Their mother pined away—and now,
I am alone;” he said, and rose—
Fast flew the sparks, fast fell the blows,
But neither said another word,
Save as the hammer fell with might,
From time to time, through the whole night
The prayer: “Oh, make our Landgraff hard!”
The daylight dawned; the Landgraff rode
From the smith's cottage in the wood,
And through Thuringia, far and wide,
From that day forth was checked the pride
Of the fierce barons,—while the poor,
From wrong and cruelty secure,
Praised the good Earl, whose just command
With might and mercy ruled the land.

THE FELLOWSHIP OF GENIUS.

O hearts of flesh! O beating hearts of love!
O twining hands of human dear desire!—
How, when your glorious mate begins to move,
How shall ye follow those wide wings of fire
That bear him up? Ah! to the chariot wheels,
That wrap the child of genius to the sky,
Breathless ye cling till round the great world reels,
And ye fall fainting down despairingly!
Bleeding and blind ye fall, and still his flight,
Serene and strong, is upward to the light,
Nearer the sun and farther yet from ye,
Kindred alone of his mortality.
Awhile he stood beside ye, and awhile
His tender eyes, and lovely loving smile,
Made you believe he was indeed your brother:
But deep within that being lay another
Fearful as fair, no simple son of earth,
Of all created things the wondrous birth;
Immortal, Infinite, born to inherit
Matter, and mind, and sense, and subtlest spirit.
Lo! ye have called this King of all creation
Your fellow, and forgot the heaven-high station
Whence he must gather his great revenue:
Past, Present, Future, all things old and new,
All things in earth and heaven to him belong;
And in the pæans of his conquering song
Love is but one sweet chord, one single verse,
In the great chorus of the universe;
Which, with a voice resounding and sublime,
He utters forth unto all space and time.
O piteous, precious, hapless, human love!
Thou shalt be reaped by this bright son of Jove.
One flower 'mid the whole harvest of the world—
And when his mighty wings are gently furled,
Upon his heart thou shalt lie tenderly;
But when the summons of his destiny
Calls to him through the ages to awake,
One heavenward spring the drooping bud shall shake
Back to the earth, where it shall withering lie
In the broad light of Immortality.

SONNET.

[If there were any power in human love]

If there were any power in human love,
Or in th' intensest longing of the heart,
Then should the oceans and the lands that part
Ye from my sight all unprevailing prove,
Then should the yearning of my bosom bring
Ye here, through space and distance infinite;
And life 'gainst love should be a baffled thing,
And circumstance 'gainst will lose all its might.
Shall not a childless mother's misery
Conjure the earth with such a potent spell—
A charm so desperate—as to compel
Nature to yield to her great agony?
Can I not think of ye till ye arise,
Alive, alive, before my very eyes?

GENIUS AND LOVE.

Genius and Love together stood
At break of day beside clear fountains,
In gardens hedged with laurel wood,
Screened by a wall of purple mountains;
As hand in hand they smiling strayed,
Love twined a wreath of perfect roses
On Genius' brow; “And thus,” he said,
“My soul on thy bright soul reposes.”
And round and round they joyous flew,
On rapid now, now lingering pinion,
And blissful Love ne'er weary grew
Of measuring o'er his bright dominion.
Anon they rested from their flight,
And through the fringes of clear water,
All rainbow-touched Love chased a sprite,
The silver Naiad's snowy daughter,
While Genius lay with flashing eyes,
Looking into the distant skies.
Love paused and said, “What dost thou see?”
“The far-off shining of the sea—
Say, wilt thou thither fly with me?”
“Is there a home by the wild flood?
Ah! leave we not our pleasant wood!”
But suddenly, with eager wings,
Towards his desire Genius springs;
So strong his flight, the rosy crown
At Love's sad feet fell broken down,
And lay beside him where he sate,
Waiting the coming of his mate:
And he returned all gloriously,
From the foam-caverns of the sea,
And brought strange heaps of shining treasure
To Love, who prized beyond all measure
His mere return:—And now his sight,
Swift as the eagle's sunward flight,
Rested upon the mountain's height—
“Look! wilt thou thither with me fly,
Dear Love?”—he cried; and rapidly
Beat with his golden wings the air.
“Is there a home for us up there?
What seek'st thou on the mountain's brow?”
“To see the wide world lie below.”
So he swept thither like the wind,
And Love remained dismayed behind:
And now a spirit of the air
Garlands of noble amaranth bare
To the Love god beside the fountain,
And spake—“Lo! Genius from the mountain
Sends thee, dear Love, eternal flowers,
To deck thy pleasant myrtle bowers.”
“Ah!” answered Love despondingly,
“Sweet roses were enough for me;
Look, they grow here upon the ground,
Close to our very home, all round,
And morn and even may be found—
When comes he back?” “Into the sky
I saw him from the mountain fly
Higher and higher towards the sun.”
Love sighed, “The day must soon be done,
And evening shall the wanderer bring,
With sated soul and weary wing.”
Love knew not that bold Genius' flight
Had passed the realms of day and night,
Till, from the blue, a glorious crown
Of starry light was towards him thrown;
He saw th' immortal circlet burn,
And knew his mate would ne'er return:
He gathered up the rosy wreath,
With withered leaves, and faint sweet breath;
And turning to the darkening skies
The tender longing of his eyes,
He bitterly began to weep,
And wept himself at last to sleep.

THE IDEAL.

Thou shalt behold it once, and once believe
Thou may'st possess it—Love shall make the dream,
Impossible and glorious, palpable seem,
And with the bliss thy soul awhile deceive—
When from that trance thou wakest, never more
On earth hope for it, for its life is o'er;
That one approach of the Divinity
Is but the pledge of thy affinity.
That lovely vision shall not be renewed,
Though through all forms of being close pursued;
The light must pass into the heavens above thee,
Thy polar star, to warn and lead and move thee,
If thou seek lower for it thou shalt follow
A fatal marsh-fire, fleeting, false, and hollow;
Unto the glorious truth thou shalt not soar,
But sink in darkness down for evermore.
Not to behold it once, is not to live,
But to possess it, is not life's to give.

PAST HOURS.

Two angels have them in eternal keeping.
He that beside the deep vaults of the past
Stands to receive the treasures, that with weeping
And lamentation into them men cast,
Forgetting that alone they hold that fast
Which to his marble storehouse they commit;
And He, that spirit bright and terrible,
Who at the feet of God doth thoughtful sit,
Upon whose scroll, in lines of flame are writ
Each hour of every day of those who dwell
Upon this earth: He hath those days and hours,
Whom, as they smiled on us, we counted ours;
And who, when that great history appears,
Shall make us answer, as if we were theirs.

ON A SYMPHONY OF BEETHOVEN.

Terrible music, whose strange utterance
Seemed like the spell of some dread conscious trance;
Motionless misery, impotent despair,
With beckoning visions of things dear and fair;
Restless desire, sharp poignant agonies;
Soft, thrilling, melting, tender memories;
Struggle and tempest, and around it all
The heavy muffling folds of some black pall
Stifling it slowly; a wild wail for life,
Sinking in darkness—a short passionate strife
With hideous fate, crushing the soul to earth;
Sweet snatches of some melancholy mirth;
A creeping fear, a shuddering dismay,
Like the cold dawning of some fatal day;
Dim faces growing pale in distant lands;
Departing feet, and slowly severing hands;
Voices of love, speaking the words of hate,—
The mockery of a blessing come too late;
Loveless and hopeless life, with memory,—
This curse that music seemed to speak to me.

EVENING.

Now in the west is spread
A golden bed;
Great purple curtains hang around,
With fiery fringes bound,
And cushions, crimson red,
For Phœbus' lovely head;
And as he sinks through waves of amber light,
Down to the crystal halls of Amphitrite,
Hesper leads forth his starry legions bright
Into the violet fields of air—Good night!

UPON A BRANCH OF FLOWERING ACACIA.

The blossoms hang again upon the tree,
As when with their sweet breath they greeted me
Against my casement, on that sunny morn,
When thou, first blossom of my spring, wast born,
And as I lay, panting from the fierce strife
With death and agony that won thy life,
Their snowy clusters hung on their brown bough,
E'en as upon my breast, my May-bud, thou.
They seem to me thy sisters, O my child!
And now the air, full of their fragrance mild,
Recalls that hour; a tenfold agony
Pulls at my heart-strings, as I think of thee.
Was it in vain! Oh, was it all in vain!
That night of hope, of terror, and of pain,
When from the shadowy boundaries of death,
I brought thee safely, breathing living breath
Upon my heart—it was a holy shrine.
Full of God's praise—they laid thee, treasure mine
And from its tender depths the blue heaven smiled,
And the white blossoms bowed to thee, my child,
And solemn joy of a new life was spread,
Like a mysterious halo round that bed.
And now how is it, since eleven years
Have steeped that memory in bitterest tears?
Alone, heart-broken, on a distant shore,
Thy childless mother sits lamenting o'er
Flowers, which the spring calls from this foreign earth,
Thy twins, that crowned the morning of thy birth.
How is it with thee—lost—lost—precious one!
In thy fresh spring-time growing up alone?
What warmth unfolds thee?—what sweet dews are shed,
Like love and patience over thy young head?
What holy springs feed thy deep inner life?
What shelters thee from passion's deadly strife?
What guards thy growth, straight, strong, and full and free,
Lovely and glorious, O my fair young tree?
God—Father—Thou—who by this awful fate
Hast lopped, and stripped, and left me desolate!
In the dark bitter floods that o'er my soul
Their billows of despair triumphant roll,
Let me not be o'erwhelmed!—Oh, they are thine,
These jewels of my life—not mine—not mine!
So keep them, that the blossoms of their youth
Shall, in a gracious growth of love and truth,
With an abundant harvest honour Thee:
And bless the blight which Thou hast sent on me;
Withering and blasting, though it seem to fall,
Let it not, O my Father! drink up all
My spirit's sap—so from this fate shall grow
The palm branch for my hand and for my brow,
With which, a hopeful pilgrim, I may tread
The shadowy path where rest awhile the dead,
Ere they rise up, a glorious company,
To find their lost ones, and to worship Thee!

VERSES ON ROME.

DESPAIR.

Whene'er those forms arise before my sight,
E'en as from hideous visions of the night,
I cover up my eyes, I veil my head,
I shrink in terror, and dismay, and dread,
And wave them from me; and in agony
Unto the saving feet of God I fly,
Lest I be scared to madness with the dream
Of all that I have lost—so that I seem
To loathe that which I love beyond all measure:
Like to a miser robbed of his dear treasure,
Clutching for ever a distracting vision
Of gold and jewels, 'twixt the apparition
And his real beggary lashed to utter madness.
If on the midnight void of my deep sadness,
The dear delusion of your presence shine,
I fear to look upon ye, treasures mine,
Lest the tormented heart and failing brain
Rest in delirium from too fierce a pain;
Change hopeless sorrow for insanity,
And mental ruin end this misery.
And it were better—better thus to dwell
In a mad Heaven, than in a conscious Hell;
Better to lose this lurid light of reason,
Which shows me but a dark and empty prison.
Oh come, I will not fly ye any more,
Come, come, dear fatal visions, and before
This light of truth, that shows ye are not here,
Spread sweet delusions! Come, I will not fear;
Let reason, faith, and fortitude forbear
Their ministry of torture—hail, despair!
And welcome ye, ye long-departed dreams,
In which, once more, my life a blessing seems;
O gracious shapes! O silver ringing voices!
At whose dear sound my heart once more rejoices;
O floating, glorious braids of sunny hair!
O eyes of morning light, keen, soft, and fair!
O sinless brows of holy innocence!
Stay, stay with me, depart not ever hence;
Shut out all forms of dire reality.
Belovèd phantoms, speak—oh, speak to me
Sweet words of love—walk ever by my side,
The hateful witness of all sense denied;
Nothing will I behold, naught feel, naught hear,
Save ye, most precious! ye alone, most dear!
O ye pale ghosts of love and joy, to ye
I dedicate all that remains of me!
I can no more endure, no longer strive,
Madness from sin shall save my soul alive.

SCRAPS.

[Raise it to Heaven, when thine eye fills with tears]

Raise it to Heaven, when thine eye fills with tears,
For only in a watery sky appears
The bow of light; and from th' invisible skies
Hope's glory shines not, save through weeping eyes.

[Youth with swift feet walks onward in the way]

Youth with swift feet walks onward in the way,
The land of joy lies all before his eyes;
Age, stumbling, lingers slower day by day,
Still looking back, for it behind him lies.

LINES

ON READING GOETHE'S “PROLOG ZU DEN NEUESTEN OFFENBARUNG GOTTES VERDEUTSCHT DURCH DR. CARL FRIEDRICH BEHRT.”

Keen satirist, thou yet hast miss'd the mark;
Believe me, this most worthy company
Of holy John and Luke, Matthew and Mark,
Might yet be seen in good society,
If nothing but their antiquated dress
And foreign accent were in them amiss;
As for the cattle not being receiv'd,
O wisest Goethe! there thou art deceiv'd.
Beasts of all kinds are courteously admitted,
Lions are most especially petted;
The angel is the bore—for him indeed,
Of some polite disguise there were great need.
But were he turn'd into a “well-bred” youth
The saints were scarcely bearable in sooth,
They speak such gross offensive gospel truth.

LINES

ON A PURSE KNITTED AT FRASCATI DURING THE SUMMER OF 1846.

CLOSE OF OUR SUMMER AT FRASCATI.

A SUMMONS.

THE FIRST SNOW MOUNTAIN SEEN FROM A SUNNY HILL-SIDE, NEAR ROCCA PRIORI, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1846.

TORRE NUOVO.

TO PIUS IX.

It may be that the stone which thou art heaving
From off thy people's neck shall fall and crush thee;
It may be that the sudden flood shall push thee
From off the rock, whence, prophet-like, believing
In God's great future, thou dost set it free;
Yet heave it, heave it heaven high, nor fear
To be o'erwhelmed in the first wild career
Of those long-prisoned tides of liberty.
That stone which thou hast lifted from the heart
Of a whole nation shall become to thee
A glorious monument, such as no art
E'er piled above a mortal memory:
Falling beneath it, thou shalt have a tomb
That shall make low the loftiest dome in Rome.

A VISION OF THE VATICAN.

DEPARTING.

Pour we libations to the father, Jove,
And bid him watch propitious o'er our way;
Pile on the household altar fragrant wreaths,
And to th' auspicious Lares bid farewell,
Beneath whose guardianship we have abode.
Blest be the threshold over which we pass,
Turning again, with hands devout uplifted;
Blest be the roof-tree, and the hearth it shelters;
Blest be the going forth and coming home
Of those who dwell here; blest their rising up,
And blest their lying down to holy slumber;
Blest be the married love, sacred and chaste;
Blest be the children's head, the mother's heart,
The father's hope. Reach down the wanderer's staff,—
Tie on the sandals on the traveller's feet:
The wan-eyed morn weeps in the watery east;
Gird up the loins, and let us now depart.

THE YEAR'S PROGRESS.

THE BLACK WALLFLOWER.

DREAM-LAND.

All the night long you come to me in dreams,
My lady dear! Ah, wherefore do you so?
Surely it is because you do not know
What tender mercy from your sweet face streams
When thus you visit me, and for awhile
Lift off the load of my great misery
With the compassionate blessing of your smile:
Then I awake for joy, and bitterly
Weep that I did awake; meantime, perchance,
My image, all unconscious, through the trance,
Of your deep slumber has had leave to glide
A senseless phantom, even to your side.
Oh, tell me, by these burning tears I weep,
Whom do you see, my lady, while you sleep?

DREAM-LAND.

TO MY SISTER

IN MARCH 1865.

SONNET ON THE AMERICAN WAR.

[“She has gone down!” they shout it from afar]

“She has gone down!” they shout it from afar,
Kings—nobles—priests—all men of every race,
Whose lagging clogs Time's swift relentless pace;—
“She has gone down! our evil-boding star!
Rebellion, smitten with rebellion's sword,
Anarchy, done to death by slavery,
Of ancient right insolent enemy;
Beneath a hideous cloud of civil war,
Strife, such as heathen slaughterers had abhorr'd,
The lawless land, where no man was call'd lord,
Spurning all wholesome curb, and dreaming free
Her rabble rule's licentious tyranny;—
In the fierce splendour of her arrogant morn,
She has gone down! the world's eternal scorn!”

SONNET ON THE AMERICAN WAR.

[She has gone down! Woe for the world, and all]

She has gone down! Woe for the world, and all
Its weary workers! gazing from afar
At the clear rising of that hopeful star;
Star of redemption to each weeping thrall
Of pow'r decrepit, and of rule outworn;
Beautiful shining of that blessed morn,
Which was to bring leave for the poor to live;
To work and rest, to labour and to thrive,
And righteous room for all who nobly strive:
She has gone down! Woe for the struggling world,
Back on its path of progress sternly hurled!
Land of sufficient harvests for all dearth,
Home of far-seeing Hope, Time's latest birth,—
Woe for the promised land of the whole earth!

SONNET ON THE AMERICAN WAR.

[Triumph not, fools! and weep not, ye faint-hearted!]

Triumph not, fools! and weep not, ye faint-hearted!
Have ye believed that the supreme decree
Of Heaven had given this people o'er to perish?
Have ye believed that God had ceased to cherish
This great New World of Christian liberty,
And its fair light for ever hath departed?
Nay, by the precious blood shed to redeem
The nation from its selfishness and sin;
By each brave heart that burst in holy strife,
Leaving its kindred hearts to break through life;
By all the bitter tears, whose source must stream
For ever every desolate home within;
We will return to our appointed place,
First, in the vanguard of the human race.

THE FALL OF RICHMOND.

ODE

WRITTEN FOR THE 22D OF AUGUST 1834—THE BERKSHIRE JUBILEE.

SONNET.

[Thou restless voice! that wandering up and down]

Thou restless voice! that wandering up and down
These forest paths, where for this many a day,
I come to dream the summer hours away—
Mak'st answer to my voice with mocking tone,
Echo! thou air-born child of harmony,
How oft in sunny field, or shadowy wood,
By lone hill-side, or cavern-cradled flood,
Have I held laughing converse, nymph, with thee.
This is thy dwelling, and along the wide
Oak-woven halls, that stretch on every side,
Murmuring sweet lullabies, I hear thee stray,
Hushing the dim-eyed Twilight, who all day,
From searching sunbeams hid in these cool bowers,
Sleeps on a bed of pale, night-blowing flowers.

EXPOSTULATION.

What though the sun must set, and darkness come,
Shall we turn coldly from the blessèd light,
And o'er the heavens call an earlier gloom,
Because the longest day must end in night?
What though the golden summer flies so fast,
Shall we neglect the rosy wreaths she brings,
Because their blooming sweetness may not last,
And winter comes apace with snowy wings?
What though this world be but the journeying land,
Where those who love but meet to part again;
Where, as we clasp in welcome friendship's hand,
That greeting clasp becomes a parting strain:
'Tis better to be blest for one short hour,
Than never know delight of love or joy,
Friendship, or mirth, or happiness, or power,
And all that Time creates, and must destroy.

TO DANTE

Seer of the triple realm invisible,
When I behold that miserable twain,
By Rimini's sudden sword of justice slain,
Sweep through the howling hurricane of hell—
Light seems to me to rest upon their gloom,
More than upon this wretched earth above,
Falls on the path of many a living love,
Whose fate may envy their united doom.
There be, who wandering in this world, with heart
Riveted to some other heart for ever,
Past power of all eternity to sever,
The current of this life still drives apart,
Who, with strained eyes, and outstretched arms, and cry
Of bitterest longing, come each other nigh,
To look, to love, and to be swept asunder,
The breathless greeting of their agony
Lost in the pitiless world-storm's ceaseless thunder.

TO SHAKESPEARE.

If from the height of that celestial sphere
Where now thou dwell'st, spirit powerful and sweet!
Thou yet canst love the race that sojourn here,
How must thou joy, with pleasure not unmeet
For thy exalted state, to know how dear
Thy memory is held throughout the earth,
Beyond the favoured land that gave thee birth.
E'en in thy seat in Heaven, thou may'st receive
Thanks, praise, and love, and wonder ever new,
From human hearts, who in thy verse perceive
All that humanity calls good and true;
Nor dost thou for each mortal blemish grieve,
They from thy glorious works have fall'n away,
As from thy soul its outward form of clay.

TO SHAKESPEARE.

Oft, when my lips I open to rehearse
Thy wondrous spells of wisdom and of power,
And that my voice and thy immortal verse
On listening ears and hearts I mingled pour,
I shrink dismayed—and awful doth appear
The vain presumption of my own weak deed;
Thy glorious spirit seems to mine so near,
That suddenly I tremble as I read—
Thee an invisible auditor I fear:
Oh, if it might be so, my master dear!
With what beseeching would I pray to thee,
To make me equal to my noble task,
Succour from thee, how humbly would I ask,
Thy worthiest works to utter worthily.

TO SHAKESPEARE.

Shelter and succour such as common men
Afford the weaker partners of their fate,
Have I derived from thee—from thee, most great
And powerful genius! whose sublime control,
Still from thy grave governs each human soul,
That reads the wondrous records of thy pen.
From sordid sorrows thou hast set me free,
And turned from want's grim ways my tottering feet,
And to sad empty hours, given royally,
A labour, than all leisure far more sweet:
The daily bread, for which we humbly pray,
Thou gavest me as if I were thy child,
And still with converse noble, wise, and mild,
Charmed from despair my sinking soul away;
Shall I not bless the need, to which was given
Of all the angels in the host of heaven,
Thee, for my guardian, spirit strong and bland!
Lord of the speech of my dear native land!

THE WRECK OF THE BIRKENHEAD,

A BRITISH TRANSPORT VESSEL LOST ON THE COAST OF AFRICA.

A BALLAD.

SONNET.

[I cannot sleep for thinking of thy face]

I cannot sleep for thinking of thy face,
Which thrusts itself between the dark and me,
Scaring my rest. Oh, for Heaven's gentle grace,
Haunt me not with this speechless misery.
What could I do that I have left undone,
That to thy life might bring content or peace?
Have I not made my days to hang upon
Thy will and wish, and every hour to beat
Only one patient, waiting, longing measure,
Unto thy going and thy coming feet,
Counting my greatest joy thy slightest pleasure?
And now I would I could but pour the treasure
Of my heart's life-blood out before it breaks,
To put a brighter colour in thy cheeks.

WAKING.

Before my senses or my soul awake,
Sorrow begins to stir within my heart;
There anguish dawns before the day doth break,
Ere fluttering birds chirp faintly towards the East,
A bat-like terror flaps above my breast
With a shrill cry, that, sleeping, makes me start
And moan with unclosed lips in drear dismay,
My heavy greeting to another day.
And though perchance, through pity of the night,
I have not dreamt of misery, but have slept,
Tears stand within my eyes before the light
Smites them with its new beams—cold tears unwept,
That from their brimming fountain up have crept,
In which the morning rounds her rainbows bright.

TO LADY ANNABELLA NOEL.

Wand'ring with thee in the delicious land,
What visions meet me of those far-off years,
When all my youth's fresh springs of smiles and tears
Lay lock'd beneath the spell of that strong hand
Whose blood is in thy veins.—I gaze on thee,
And think on the great name thy maidhood wears—
That name whose sound circles this lovely shore
With echoes of divinest melody,
Of strains whose mingled grief and glory pour
Triumph and mourning round it evermore,—
That noble name, link'd to a memory
Brighter than the deep splendour of this sky,
And darker than the storms that sweep it o'er,—
That English name—belov'd of Italy.

LINES

WRITTEN AT VENICE IN 1865.

[Sleep, Venice, sleep! the evening gun resounds]

TO EMILIA LOVATELLI,

WEEPING BY SHELLEY'S GRAVE IN THE PROTESTANT CEMETERY OF ROME.

Lur'd by the Siren's summer song to death,
The Poet fell asleep—and the fine frame,
Shrine of the finer soul, on wings of flame,
Was borne into the air; but underneath
This sacred soil his heart has found a home;
Thy light feet cannot stir its marble sleep,
Nor e'en thy gracious pity wake again
One throbbing pulse of pleasure or of pain.
O noblest daughter of Imperial Rome,
Who by our Poet's grave hast paus'd to weep,
The after-glow of fame warms not his tomb,
Whose laurels only make its gloom more deep;
But the sweet violet wreath his dead heart wears,
Fragrant and fresh, was sown there by thy tears.

EPITAPH

ON AN IRISH RETRIEVER.

A GERMAN LEGEND.

IMPROMPTU

FOR SIR JULIUS BENEDICT, WHO ASKED ME FOR SOME LINES TO SET TO MUSIC.

[Give me a song to sing]

LINES FOR MUSIC.

SONG.

[No—not to win the world's applause]

SONG.

[When the sun rises where will you be]

SONG.

[You gave your love a posy and she set it on a stand]

SLEEPLESS NIGHTS.

In sleepless nights my sad forgotten lute
Breathes with low strains of broken melody,
Under my touch long, long had it been mute,
But now it sings of its own fantasy.
Thou hadst a spirit then that was not mine,
Whence came it, Lute—by whom was't to thee given?
I knew not that an adverse will of thine
Against my will to make thee sing, had striven.
Now while I lie and watch the solemn flight
Of the fair stars that wait upon the night,
Whose are the songs thou murmurest in my ears,
That make my wakeful eyes brim o'er with tears?

FLYING LEAVES.

“LIFE IS BEFORE US.”

I heard youth's silver clarion call to Fate,
And looking forth beheld his flower-fair face,
Framed in his shining helmet as he sat
Sheathed in white armour, full of fearless grace,
Watching the coming of a threat'ning cloud,
Hueless and shapeless, that with stealthy pace
Was creeping towards him. “O dear youth, beware!”
But answer made he none save laugh'd aloud.
“Beware,” I cried, “it hides some hideous snare.”
At it he made—and vanished in the shroud,
Whence there broke forth, O Christ! so sharp a cry
Of dire defeat and mortal agony,
That all my blood ran back in every vein;
And when th' accursed blackness roll'd away,
Prone in the dust my lovely warrior lay,
Defiled, not dead; sore wounded—shamed—not slain;
His shining armour smirched with many a stain,
Filthy and foul, ne'er to be bright again.

SONNET.

[Beside a well-reap'd field at Eventide]

Beside a well-reap'd field at Eventide,
One laid him down to rest who'd wandered far,
And fought and wounded been in Life's great war.
“These have done well their work,” he said, and sigh'd,
“But on mine armour blots of earth remain;
Nor blood nor tears of mine have wash'd that stain.”
Then came a voice from heaven's blue depths profound,
Beyond the shining of the evening star,
And breathless awe thrill'd thro' him at the sound,
“I will make clean thine armour once again.”
Then down that weary soul devoutly kneel'd
And lifted from the dust glad tearful eyes,
Sweet sleep fell on him from the solemn skies,
And perfect peace upon the well-reap'd field.

SONNET.

[Nay, let the Past be past, nor strive in vain]

Nay, let the Past be past, nor strive in vain,
From the dim backward vista of our years
To bring departed pleasures here again,
In youth's fresh morning light and dewy tears,
And brooding golden mist let them remain,
Since in that distant time their image wears
A softer charm, like that of some fair face,
That painted long ago may still retain
Through faded tints the tender lingering grace
Of a fine spirit nothing can efface.
Since Time hath spared it, do you e'en as much,
Forbear renew'd possession's heavy touch;
Call no past Pleasures back, but, sadly wise,
Keep them for ever pleasant Memories.

SONNET.

[Have you not heard that in some deep-seal'd graves]

Have you not heard that in some deep-seal'd graves,
The Dead retain in beauty undisturb'd
The very countenance they living wore?
But if forbidden yearning vainly craves
To look upon the hidden face once more,
Lo! the sweet sleeping aspect is perturb'd,
The piercing light and the keen breath of life
Smite like a blow the features, and before
The hungry eyes of longing, Love, at strife
With Fate, efface the vision it desires,
And dust and ashes fill the friendly gloom
That might have kept immortal in its bloom,
What now again—and now for aye expires.
Leave we our buried pleasures in their tomb.

LINES WRITTEN AT BELVOIR CASTLE, 1883.

Two things remain unalter'd in this place,
Tho' since I came here forty years are told—
The smiling loveliness of Nature's face,
And the fine spirit of kindly, courteous grace,
That still presides here as it did of yore.

SONNET ON AN EDELWEISS.

Where huge rock buttresses bear up the clouds,
With all their floating reservoirs of rain;
Where the wide winding sheet of snow enshrouds
The glacier's sapphire clefts and glittering plain,
This flow'r is found—the well-nam'd Edelweiss.
Of frozen beds of foam and fields of ice,
Soft downy blossom—type of purity,
Of courage high and low humility,
Fast-rooted Love clinging to dire mischance.
Faith fixed as Fate defying circumstance,
O'er the unstable seas thee do I send,
Star of the steadfast mountains, to the friend
In whom thy loftiest, lowliest graces meet.
Bloom, Edelweiss, at her beloved feet!

SONNET.

[When in the wintry woods you hear the note]

When in the wintry woods you hear the note
Of some small robin piping his delight
Because the noonday sunshine warm and bright
Melts the sweet music from his tiny throat,
Say not with scorn, “Why doth the silly bird
Twitter and chirrup, when the jubilant cries
With which the Lark scales the blue vaulted skies
Beyond his golden corn-field scarce are heard?”
The God who bade His creatures all rejoice
Amid the thunderous music of the spheres,
Gives heed to every soul that speaks—and hears,
Well pleas'd, the little Redbreast's thankful voice.
Therefore sing I—and these my feeble lays
Join to the universal hymn of Praise.

TRANSLATIONS.

FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET'S ODE TO MALIBRAN.

FROM VICTOR HUGO.

Thou art like the bird that alights and sings
Though the frail spray bends—for he knows he has wings.

FROM MILLEVOYE.

IMPROMPTU.

Whatever else I see, I still see thee,
I shut my eyes to see nought else but thee.

IMPROMPTU.

My sun went down at noon to-day,
O Sorrow!
For in thine eyes
My sun doth rise;
Then, Love, I pray,
Bring back to-day,
Or make it soon to-morrow.

SICILIAN SONG.

I planted in my heart one seed of love,
Water'd with tears and watch'd with sleepless care.
It grew—and when I look'd that it should prove
A gracious tree—and blessed harvests bear,
Blossom nor fruit was there to crown my pain,
Tears, care, and labour, all had been in vain;
And yet I dare not pluck it from my heart,
Lest with the deep-struck root my life depart.