 | The Vow of the Peacock, and Other Poems |  |
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FUGITIVE PIECES.
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THE FACTORY.
'Tis an accursed thing!—
There rests a shade above yon town,
A dark funereal shroud:
'Tis not the tempest hurrying down,
'Tis not a summer cloud.
A dark funereal shroud:
'Tis not the tempest hurrying down,
'Tis not a summer cloud.
The smoke that rises on the air
Is as a type and sign;
A shadow flung by the despair
Within those streets of thine.
Is as a type and sign;
A shadow flung by the despair
Within those streets of thine.
That smoke shuts out the cheerful day,
The sunset's purple hues,
The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray,
The morning's pearly dews.
The sunset's purple hues,
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The morning's pearly dews.
Such is the moral atmosphere
Around thy daily life;
Heavy with care, and pale with fear,
With future tumult rife.
Around thy daily life;
Heavy with care, and pale with fear,
With future tumult rife.
There rises on the morning wind
A low appealing cry,
A thousand children are resigned
To sicken and to die!
A low appealing cry,
A thousand children are resigned
To sicken and to die!
We read of Moloch's sacrifice,
We sicken at the name,
And seem to hear the infant cries—
And yet we do the same;—
We sicken at the name,
And seem to hear the infant cries—
And yet we do the same;—
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And worse—'twas but a moment's pain
The heathen altar gave,
But we give years,—our idol, Gain,
Demands a living grave!
The heathen altar gave,
But we give years,—our idol, Gain,
Demands a living grave!
How precious is the little one,
Before his mother's sight,
With bright hair dancing in the sun,
And eyes of azure light!
Before his mother's sight,
With bright hair dancing in the sun,
And eyes of azure light!
He sleeps as rosy as the south,
For summer days are long;
A prayer upon the little mouth,
Lull'd by his nurse's song.
For summer days are long;
A prayer upon the little mouth,
Lull'd by his nurse's song.
Love is around him, and his hours
Are innocent and free;
His mind essays its early powers
Beside his mother's knee.
Are innocent and free;
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Beside his mother's knee.
When after-years of trouble come,
Such as await man's prime,
How will he think of that dear home,
And childhood's lovely time!
Such as await man's prime,
How will he think of that dear home,
And childhood's lovely time!
And such should childhood ever be,
The fairy well; to bring
To life's worn, weary memory
The freshness of its spring.
The fairy well; to bring
To life's worn, weary memory
The freshness of its spring.
But here the order is reversed,
And infancy, like age,
Knows of existence but its worst,
One dull and darkened page;—
And infancy, like age,
Knows of existence but its worst,
One dull and darkened page;—
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Written with tears, and stamp'd with toil,
Crushed from the earliest hour,
Weeds darkening on the bitter soil
That never knew a flower.
Crushed from the earliest hour,
Weeds darkening on the bitter soil
That never knew a flower.
Look on yon child, it droops the head,
Its knees are bow'd with pain;
It mutters from its wretched bed,
“Oh, let me sleep again!”
Its knees are bow'd with pain;
It mutters from its wretched bed,
“Oh, let me sleep again!”
Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes
Turn mournfully away;
Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise,
And yet it is not day.
Turn mournfully away;
Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise,
And yet it is not day.
The lantern's lit—she hurries forth,
The spare cloak's scanty fold
Scarce screens her from the snowy north,
The child is pale and cold.
The spare cloak's scanty fold
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The child is pale and cold.
And wearily the little hands
Their task accustom'd ply;
While daily, some mid those pale bands,
Droop, sicken, pine, and die.
Their task accustom'd ply;
While daily, some mid those pale bands,
Droop, sicken, pine, and die.
Good God! to think upon a child
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise!
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise!
Man from the cradle—'tis too soon
To earn their daily bread,
And heap the heat and toil of noon
Upon an infant's head.
To earn their daily bread,
And heap the heat and toil of noon
Upon an infant's head.
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To labour ere their strength be come,
Or starve,—is such the doom
That makes of many an English home
One long and living tomb?
Or starve,—is such the doom
That makes of many an English home
One long and living tomb?
Is there no pity from above,—
No mercy in those skies;
Hath then the heart of man no love,
To spare such sacrifice?
No mercy in those skies;
Hath then the heart of man no love,
To spare such sacrifice?
Oh, England! though thy tribute waves
Proclaim thee great and free,
While those small children pine like slaves,
There is a curse on thee!
Proclaim thee great and free,
While those small children pine like slaves,
There is a curse on thee!
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APRIL.
Of all the months that fill the year
Give April's month to me,
For earth and sky are then so filled
With sweet variety.
Give April's month to me,
For earth and sky are then so filled
With sweet variety.
The apple-blossoms' shower of rose,
The pear-tree's pearly hue,
As beautiful as Woman's blush,
As evanescent too.
The pear-tree's pearly hue,
As beautiful as Woman's blush,
As evanescent too.
The purple light, that like a sigh
Comes from the violet bed,
As there the perfumes of the East
Had all their odours shed.
Comes from the violet bed,
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Had all their odours shed.
The wild-briar rose, a fragrant cup
To hold the morning's tear;
The bird's-eye, like a sapphire star;
The primrose, pale like fear.
To hold the morning's tear;
The bird's-eye, like a sapphire star;
The primrose, pale like fear.
The balls that hang like drifted snow
Upon the guelderose;
The woodbine's fairy trumpets, where
The elf his war-note blows.
Upon the guelderose;
The woodbine's fairy trumpets, where
The elf his war-note blows.
On every bough there is a bud,
In every bud a flower;
But scarcely bud or flower will last
Beyond the present hour.
In every bud a flower;
But scarcely bud or flower will last
Beyond the present hour.
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Now comes a shower-cloud o'er the sky,
Then all again sunshine;
Then clouds again, but brightened with
The rainbow's coloured line.
Then all again sunshine;
Then clouds again, but brightened with
The rainbow's coloured line.
Ay, this, this is the month for me!
I could not love a scene
Where the blue sky was always blue,
The green earth always green.
I could not love a scene
Where the blue sky was always blue,
The green earth always green.
It is like love; oh, love should be
An ever-changing thing,—
The love that I could worship must
Be ever on the wing.
An ever-changing thing,—
The love that I could worship must
Be ever on the wing.
The chain my mistress flings round me
Must be both brief and bright;
Or formed of opals, which will change
With every changing light.
Must be both brief and bright;
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With every changing light.
To-morrow she must turn to sighs
The smiles she wore to-day;
This moment's look of tenderness,
The next one must be gay.
The smiles she wore to-day;
This moment's look of tenderness,
The next one must be gay.
Sweet April! thou the emblem art
Of what my love must be;
One varying like the varying bloom
Is just the love for me.
Of what my love must be;
One varying like the varying bloom
Is just the love for me.
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GLENCOE.
Lay by the harp, sing not that song,
Although so very sweet;
It is a song of other years,
For thee and me unmeet.
Although so very sweet;
It is a song of other years,
For thee and me unmeet.
Thy head is pillowed on my arm,
Thy heart beats close to mine;
Methinks it were unjust to heaven,
If we should now repine.
Thy heart beats close to mine;
Methinks it were unjust to heaven,
If we should now repine.
I must not weep, you must not sing
That thrilling song again,—
I dare not think upon the time
When last I heard that strain.
That thrilling song again,—
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When last I heard that strain.
It was a silent summer eve:
We stood by the hill side,
And we could see my ship afar
Breasting the ocean tide.
We stood by the hill side,
And we could see my ship afar
Breasting the ocean tide.
Around us grew the graceful larch,
A calm blue sky above,
Beneath were little cottages,
The homes of peace and love.
A calm blue sky above,
Beneath were little cottages,
The homes of peace and love.
Thy harp was by thee then, as now,
One hand in mine was laid;
The other, wandering 'mid the chords,
A soothing music made:
One hand in mine was laid;
The other, wandering 'mid the chords,
A soothing music made:
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Just two or three sweet chords, that seemed
An echo of thy tone,—
The cushat's song was on the wind
And mingled with thine own.
An echo of thy tone,—
The cushat's song was on the wind
And mingled with thine own.
I looked upon the vale beneath,
I looked on thy sweet face;
I thought how dear, this voyage o'er,
Would be my resting place.
I looked on thy sweet face;
I thought how dear, this voyage o'er,
Would be my resting place.
We parted; but I kept thy kiss,—
Thy last one,—and its sigh—
As safely as the stars are kept
In yonder azure sky.
Thy last one,—and its sigh—
As safely as the stars are kept
In yonder azure sky.
Again I stood by that hill side,
And scarce I knew the place,
For fire, and blood, and death, had left
On every thing their trace.
And scarce I knew the place,
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On every thing their trace.
The lake was covered o'er with weeds,
Choked was our little rill,
There was no sign of corn or grass,
The cushat's song was still:
Choked was our little rill,
There was no sign of corn or grass,
The cushat's song was still:
Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap
Was every cottage round;—
I listened, but I could not hear
One single human sound:
Was every cottage round;—
I listened, but I could not hear
One single human sound:
I spoke, and only my own words
Were echoed from the hill;
I sat me down to weep, and curse
The hand that wrought this ill.
Were echoed from the hill;
I sat me down to weep, and curse
The hand that wrought this ill.
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We met again by miracle:
Thou wert another one
Saved from this work of sin and death,—
I was not quite alone.
Thou wert another one
Saved from this work of sin and death,—
I was not quite alone.
And then I heard the evil tale
Of guilt and suffering,
Till I prayed the curse of God might fall
On the false-hearted king.
Of guilt and suffering,
Till I prayed the curse of God might fall
On the false-hearted king.
I will not think on this,—for thou
Art saved, and saved for me!
And gallantly my little bark
Cuts through the moonlight sea.
Art saved, and saved for me!
And gallantly my little bark
Cuts through the moonlight sea.
There's not a shadow in the sky,
The waves are bright below;
I must not, on so sweet a night,
Think upon dark Glencoe.
The waves are bright below;
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Think upon dark Glencoe.
If thought were vengeance, then its thought
A ceaseless fire should be,
Burning by day, burning by night,
Kept like a thought of thee.
A ceaseless fire should be,
Burning by day, burning by night,
Kept like a thought of thee.
But I am powerless and must flee;—
That e'er a time should come,
When we should shun our own sweet land,
And seek another home!
That e'er a time should come,
When we should shun our own sweet land,
And seek another home!
This must not be,—yon soft moonlight
Falls on my heart like balm;
The waves are still, the air is hushed,
And I too will be calm.
Falls on my heart like balm;
The waves are still, the air is hushed,
And I too will be calm.
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Away! we seek another land
Of hope, stars, flowers, sunshine;
I shall forget the dark green hills
Of that which once was mine!
Of hope, stars, flowers, sunshine;
I shall forget the dark green hills
Of that which once was mine!
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THE WRECK.
The moonlight fell on the stately ship;
It shone over sea and sky;
And there was nothing but water and air
To meet the gazing eye.
It shone over sea and sky;
And there was nothing but water and air
To meet the gazing eye.
Bright and blue spread the heaven above,
Bright and blue spread the sea;
The stars from their home shone down on the wave,
Till they seemed in the wave to be.
Bright and blue spread the sea;
The stars from their home shone down on the wave,
Till they seemed in the wave to be.
With silver foam like a cloud behind,
That vessel cut her way;
But the shadow she cast, was the sole dark thing
That upon the waters lay.
That vessel cut her way;
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That upon the waters lay.
With steps of power, and with steps of pride,
The lord of the vessel paced
The deck, as he thought on the waves below,
And the glorious heaven he faced.
The lord of the vessel paced
The deck, as he thought on the waves below,
And the glorious heaven he faced.
One moment's pause, and his spirit fell
From its bearing high and proud—
But yet it was not a thought of fear,
That the seaman's spirit bow'd:
From its bearing high and proud—
But yet it was not a thought of fear,
That the seaman's spirit bow'd:
For he had stood on the deck when washed
With blood, and that blood his own;
When the dying were pillowed upon the dead,
And yet you heard not a groan—
With blood, and that blood his own;
When the dying were pillowed upon the dead,
And yet you heard not a groan—
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For the shout of battle came on the wind,
And the cannon roar'd aloud;
And the heavy smoke hung round each ship,
Even like its death shroud.
And the cannon roar'd aloud;
And the heavy smoke hung round each ship,
Even like its death shroud.
And he had guided the helm, when fate
Seemed stepping every wave,
And the wind swept away the wreath of foam,
To show a yawning grave.
Seemed stepping every wave,
And the wind swept away the wreath of foam,
To show a yawning grave.
But this most sweet and lighted calm,
Its blue and midnight hour,
Wakened the hidden springs of his heart
With a deep and secret power.
Its blue and midnight hour,
Wakened the hidden springs of his heart
With a deep and secret power.
Is there some nameless boding sent,
Like a noiseless voice from the tomb?—
A spirit note from the other world,
To warn of death and doom?
Like a noiseless voice from the tomb?—
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To warn of death and doom?
He thought of his home, of his own fair land,
And the warm tear rushed to his eye;
Almost with fear he looked around,
But no cloud was on the sky.
And the warm tear rushed to his eye;
Almost with fear he looked around,
But no cloud was on the sky.
He sought his cabin, and joined his band—
The wine cup was passing round;
He joined in their laugh, he joined in the song,
But no mirth was in the sound.
The wine cup was passing round;
He joined in their laugh, he joined in the song,
But no mirth was in the sound.
Peaceful they sought their quiet sleep,
In the soft and lovely night;
But, like life, the sea was false, and hid
The cold dark rock from sight.
In the soft and lovely night;
But, like life, the sea was false, and hid
The cold dark rock from sight.
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At midnight there came a sudden shock,
And the sleepers sprang from bed;
There was one fierce cry of last despair—
The waves closed over head.
And the sleepers sprang from bed;
There was one fierce cry of last despair—
The waves closed over head.
There was no dark cloud on the morning sky,
No fierce wind on the morning air;
The sun shone over the proud ship's track,
But no proud ship was there!
No fierce wind on the morning air;
The sun shone over the proud ship's track,
But no proud ship was there!
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MOON.
The Moon is sailing o'er the sky,
But lonely all, as if she pined
For somewhat of companionship,
And felt it was in vain she shined:
But lonely all, as if she pined
For somewhat of companionship,
And felt it was in vain she shined:
Earth is her mirror, and the stars
Are as the court around her throne;
She is a beauty and a queen;
But what is this? she is alone.
Are as the court around her throne;
She is a beauty and a queen;
But what is this? she is alone.
Is there not one—not one—to share
Thy glorious royalty on high?
I cannot choose but pity thee,
Thou lovely orphan of the sky.
Thy glorious royalty on high?
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Thou lovely orphan of the sky.
I'd rather be the meanest flower
That grows, my mother Earth, on thee,
So there were others of my kin,
To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me.
That grows, my mother Earth, on thee,
So there were others of my kin,
To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me.
Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death;
But with these better could I bear,
Than reach and rule yon radiant sphere,
And be a Solitary there.
But with these better could I bear,
Than reach and rule yon radiant sphere,
And be a Solitary there.
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THE FROZEN SHIP.
The fair ship cut the billows,
And her path lay white behind,
And dreamily amid her sails
Scarce moved the sleeping wind.
And her path lay white behind,
And dreamily amid her sails
Scarce moved the sleeping wind.
The sailors sang their gentlest songs,
Whose words were home and love;
Waveless the wide sea spread beneath—
And calm the heaven above.
Whose words were home and love;
Waveless the wide sea spread beneath—
And calm the heaven above.
But as they sung, each voice turn'd low,
Albeit they knew not why;
For quiet was the waveless sea,
And cloudless was the sky.
Albeit they knew not why;
For quiet was the waveless sea,
And cloudless was the sky.
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But the clear air was cold as clear;
'Twas pain to draw the breath;
And the silence and the chill around
Were e'en like those of death.
'Twas pain to draw the breath;
And the silence and the chill around
Were e'en like those of death.
Colder and colder grew the air,
Spell-bound seem'd the waves to be;
And ere night fell, they knew they were lock'd
In the arms of that icy sea.
Spell-bound seem'd the waves to be;
And ere night fell, they knew they were lock'd
In the arms of that icy sea.
Stiff lay the sail, chain-like the ropes,
And snow pass'd o'er the main;
Each thought, but none spoke, of distant home
They should never see again.
And snow pass'd o'er the main;
Each thought, but none spoke, of distant home
They should never see again.
Each look'd upon his comrade's face,
Pale as funereal stone;
Yet none could touch the other's hand,
For none could feel his own.
Pale as funereal stone;
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For none could feel his own.
Like statues fixed, that gallant band
Stood on the dread deck to die;
The sleet was their shroud, the wind their dirge,
And their churchyard the sea and the sky.
Stood on the dread deck to die;
The sleet was their shroud, the wind their dirge,
And their churchyard the sea and the sky.
Fond eyes watch'd by their native shore,
And prayers to the wild winds gave;
But never again came that stately ship
To breast the English wave.
And prayers to the wild winds gave;
But never again came that stately ship
To breast the English wave.
Hope grew fear, and fear grew hope,
Till both alike were done:
And the bride lay down in her grave alone,
And the mother without her son.
Till both alike were done:
And the bride lay down in her grave alone,
And the mother without her son.
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Years pass'd, and of that goodly ship
Nothing of tidings came;
Till, in after-time, when her fate had grown
But a tale of fear and a name—
Nothing of tidings came;
Till, in after-time, when her fate had grown
But a tale of fear and a name—
It was beneath a tropic sky
The tale was told to me;
The sailor who told, in his youth had been
Over that icy sea.
The tale was told to me;
The sailor who told, in his youth had been
Over that icy sea.
He said it was fearful to see them stand,
Nor the living nor yet the dead,
And the light glared strange in the glassy eyes
Whose human look was fled.
Nor the living nor yet the dead,
And the light glared strange in the glassy eyes
Whose human look was fled.
For frost had done one half life's part,
And kept them from decay;
Those they loved had mouldered, but these
Look'd the dead of yesterday.
And kept them from decay;
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Look'd the dead of yesterday.
Peace to the souls of the graveless dead!
'Twas an awful doom to dree;
But fearful and wondrous are thy works,
O God! in the boundless sea!
'Twas an awful doom to dree;
But fearful and wondrous are thy works,
O God! in the boundless sea!
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THE MINSTREL'S MONITOR.
Silent and dark as the source of yon river,
Whose birth-place we know not, and seek not to know,
Though wild as the flight of the shaft from yon quiver,
Is the course of its waves as in music they flow.
Whose birth-place we know not, and seek not to know,
Though wild as the flight of the shaft from yon quiver,
Is the course of its waves as in music they flow.
The lily flings o'er it its silver white blossom,
Like ivory barks which a fairy hath made;
The rose o'er it bends with its beautiful bosom,
As though 'twere enamour'd itself of its shade.
Like ivory barks which a fairy hath made;
The rose o'er it bends with its beautiful bosom,
As though 'twere enamour'd itself of its shade.
The sunshine, like Hope, in its noontide hour slumbers
On the stream, as it loved the bright place of its rest;
And its waves pass in song, as the sea shell's soft numbers
Had given to those waters their sweetest and best.
On the stream, as it loved the bright place of its rest;
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Had given to those waters their sweetest and best.
The banks that surround it are flower-dropt and sunny;
There the first birth of violets' odour-showers weep—
There the bee heaps his earliest treasure of honey,
Or sinks in the depths of the harebell to sleep.
There the first birth of violets' odour-showers weep—
There the bee heaps his earliest treasure of honey,
Or sinks in the depths of the harebell to sleep.
Like prisoners escaped during night from their prison,
The waters fling gaily their spray to the sun;
Who can tell me from whence that glad river has risen?
Who can say whence its springs in its beauty?—not one.
The waters fling gaily their spray to the sun;
Who can tell me from whence that glad river has risen?
Who can say whence its springs in its beauty?—not one.
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Oh my heart, and my song, which is as my heart's flowing,
Read thy fate in yon river, for such is thine own!
Mid those the chief praise on thy music bestowing,
Who cares for the lips from whence issue the tone?
Read thy fate in yon river, for such is thine own!
Mid those the chief praise on thy music bestowing,
Who cares for the lips from whence issue the tone?
Dark as its birth-place so dark is my spirit,
Whence yet the sweet waters of melody came:
'Tis the long after-course, not the source, will inherit
The beauty and glory of sunshine and fame.
Whence yet the sweet waters of melody came:
'Tis the long after-course, not the source, will inherit
The beauty and glory of sunshine and fame.
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THE SPIRIT AND THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
Spirit.
I have been over the joyous earth,
When the blushing morning gave daylight birth:
The boughs and the grass were sown with pearls,
As an Eastern queen had unbound her curls,
And shower'd their tresses o'er leaf and flower;
And then I saw how the noontide hour
Kiss'd them away, as if the sun
Touch'd all with joy that it shone upon.
I saw a crimson rose, like an urn
Wherein a thousand odours burn;
It grew in the shade, but the place was bright
With the glory and glow of its fragrant light.
Then a young lover came beside its dwelling,
To a maiden his gentle love-tale telling;
He pluck'd a rose from out of the shade—
'Twas not bright as the cheek on which it was laid:
The tale was told in the sunny noon,
Yet the same was heard by the rising moon.
When the blushing morning gave daylight birth:
The boughs and the grass were sown with pearls,
As an Eastern queen had unbound her curls,
And shower'd their tresses o'er leaf and flower;
And then I saw how the noontide hour
Kiss'd them away, as if the sun
Touch'd all with joy that it shone upon.
I saw a crimson rose, like an urn
Wherein a thousand odours burn;
It grew in the shade, but the place was bright
With the glory and glow of its fragrant light.
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To a maiden his gentle love-tale telling;
He pluck'd a rose from out of the shade—
'Twas not bright as the cheek on which it was laid:
The tale was told in the sunny noon,
Yet the same was heard by the rising moon.
I have been where the azure violet dwells;
I have sang the sweet peal of the lily bells;
I have pass'd on a diamond lake,
Where white swans summer pleasaunce take;
I saw the sun sink down in the sea,—
Blushes and bridal seem'd there to be.
I have sang the sweet peal of the lily bells;
I have pass'd on a diamond lake,
Where white swans summer pleasaunce take;
I saw the sun sink down in the sea,—
Blushes and bridal seem'd there to be.
Next o'er a noble city I swept,—
Calm, in the moonlight, its proud towers slept,
And its stately columns arose on the air
As cut from snow mountains—they were so fair.
Enter'd I next a stately hall;
The young and the gay were at festival:
The cheek of rose flush'd a redder dye;
Flash'd the wild light from the full dark eye;
Laugh'd the sweet lip with a sunny glance,
As the beauty went through the graceful dance.
And I saw the rich wine from the goblet spring,
Like the sudden flash of a spirit's wing.
Calm, in the moonlight, its proud towers slept,
And its stately columns arose on the air
As cut from snow mountains—they were so fair.
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The young and the gay were at festival:
The cheek of rose flush'd a redder dye;
Flash'd the wild light from the full dark eye;
Laugh'd the sweet lip with a sunny glance,
As the beauty went through the graceful dance.
And I saw the rich wine from the goblet spring,
Like the sudden flash of a spirit's wing.
Thence I went in the twilight dim,
I heard a convent's vesper hymn:
Beautiful were the vestal train
That dwelt at peace in their holy fane.
Paused I in air, to hear a song
Which rather might to heaven belong;
The very winds for delight were mute,—
And I know 'twas the poet's gifted lute.
Then came a sound of the trumpet afar,—
The nations were gathering together in war,
Like a cloud in the sunset; the banner was spread;
Victory had dyed it of meteor red;
Floating scarfs shew'd their broider'd fold,
White foam dash'd the bridles of gold:
Gallant it was the sight to see
Of the young and noble chivalrie.
I heard a convent's vesper hymn:
Beautiful were the vestal train
That dwelt at peace in their holy fane.
Paused I in air, to hear a song
Which rather might to heaven belong;
The very winds for delight were mute,—
And I know 'twas the poet's gifted lute.
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The nations were gathering together in war,
Like a cloud in the sunset; the banner was spread;
Victory had dyed it of meteor red;
Floating scarfs shew'd their broider'd fold,
White foam dash'd the bridles of gold:
Gallant it was the sight to see
Of the young and noble chivalrie.
In sooth, this earth is a lovely place;
Pass not in darkness over her face;
Yet call back thy words of doom—
They are too gay and too fair for the tomb.
Pass not in darkness over her face;
Yet call back thy words of doom—
They are too gay and too fair for the tomb.
Angel of Death.
Thou hast seen on earth, as a passer by,
But the outward show of mortality:
Go, let the veil from thine eyes depart;
Search the secrets of every heart;
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Then come and say, are they not ripe for me.
Spirit.
I have been over the green earth again;
I have heard the voice of sorrow and pain;
I saw a shining almond-tree fling
Its silver wreath, like a gift, to Spring:
A cold breath came from the northern air;
The leaves were scatter'd, the boughs were bare.
I have heard the voice of sorrow and pain;
I saw a shining almond-tree fling
Its silver wreath, like a gift, to Spring:
A cold breath came from the northern air;
The leaves were scatter'd, the boughs were bare.
I saw a ship launch'd on the sea,—
Queen of the waters she seem'd to be;
An hundred voices benizon gave,
As she cut her path through the frothing wave.
'Twas midnight—she anchor'd before a town,
Over which the sun had gone lingering down,
As loath to set upon what was so fair.
Now the smiling moon rode on the air,
Over towers and turrets, sailing in light,
And gardens, that seem'd to rejoice in night;
When the pealing thunder roll'd on the main,
And the town was awaked by the fiery rain,
And the cry of battle, for blood and fame
Follow'd wherever that war-ship came.
Queen of the waters she seem'd to be;
An hundred voices benizon gave,
As she cut her path through the frothing wave.
'Twas midnight—she anchor'd before a town,
Over which the sun had gone lingering down,
As loath to set upon what was so fair.
Now the smiling moon rode on the air,
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And gardens, that seem'd to rejoice in night;
When the pealing thunder roll'd on the main,
And the town was awaked by the fiery rain,
And the cry of battle, for blood and fame
Follow'd wherever that war-ship came.
I heard, on the night-wind borne along,
Sweet as before, that gifted song.
But look'd I now on the minstrel's thought—
There many an inward sorrow wrought,
Work of wasting; pining for fame,
Yet loathing the gift of an empty name;
Hope, whose promise was little worth,
And Genius, tainted with cares of earth.
I have watch'd the young,—there are thorns with their bloom;
The gay,—but their inward heart was gloom;
I have seen the snake steal amid flowers;
Showers that came down on April hours;
And have seen—alas! 'tis but outward show—
The sunshine of yon green earth below:
Glad of rest must the wretched and way-worn be—
Angel of Death, they are ready for thee!
Sweet as before, that gifted song.
But look'd I now on the minstrel's thought—
There many an inward sorrow wrought,
Work of wasting; pining for fame,
Yet loathing the gift of an empty name;
Hope, whose promise was little worth,
And Genius, tainted with cares of earth.
I have watch'd the young,—there are thorns with their bloom;
The gay,—but their inward heart was gloom;
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Showers that came down on April hours;
And have seen—alas! 'tis but outward show—
The sunshine of yon green earth below:
Glad of rest must the wretched and way-worn be—
Angel of Death, they are ready for thee!
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THE LOST STAR.
A light is gone from yonder sky,
A star has left its sphere;
The beautiful—and do they die
In yon bright world as here?
Will that star leave a lonely place,
A darkness on the night?—
No; few will miss its lovely face,
And none think heaven less bright!
A star has left its sphere;
The beautiful—and do they die
In yon bright world as here?
Will that star leave a lonely place,
A darkness on the night?—
No; few will miss its lovely face,
And none think heaven less bright!
What wert thou star of?—vanished one!
What mystery was thine?
Thy beauty from the east is gone:
What was thy sway and sign?
Wert thou the star of opening youth?—
And is it then for thee,
Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth,
So early cease to be?
What mystery was thine?
Thy beauty from the east is gone:
What was thy sway and sign?
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And is it then for thee,
Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth,
So early cease to be?
Of hope?—and was it to express
How soon hope sinks in shade;
Or else of human loveliness,
In sign how it will fade?
How was thy dying? like the song,
In music to the last,
An echo flung the winds among,
And then for ever past?
How soon hope sinks in shade;
Or else of human loveliness,
In sign how it will fade?
How was thy dying? like the song,
In music to the last,
An echo flung the winds among,
And then for ever past?
Or didst thou sink as stars whose light
The fair moon renders vain?
The rest shone forth the next dark night,
Thou didst not shine again.
Didst thou fade gradual from the time
The first great curse was hurled,
Till lost in sorrow and in crime,
Star of our early world?
The fair moon renders vain?
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Thou didst not shine again.
Didst thou fade gradual from the time
The first great curse was hurled,
Till lost in sorrow and in crime,
Star of our early world?
Forgotten and departed star!
A thousand glories shine
Round the blue midnight's regal car,
Who then remembers thine?
Save when some mournful bard like me
Dreams over beauty gone,
And in the fate that waited thee,
Reads what will be his own.
A thousand glories shine
Round the blue midnight's regal car,
Who then remembers thine?
Save when some mournful bard like me
Dreams over beauty gone,
And in the fate that waited thee,
Reads what will be his own.
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THE DANISH WARRIOR'S DEATH SONG.
Away, away! your care is vain;
No leech could aid me now;
The chill of death is at my heart,
Its damp upon my brow.
No leech could aid me now;
The chill of death is at my heart,
Its damp upon my brow.
Weep not—I shame to see such tears
Within a warrior's eyes:
Away! how can ye weep for him
Who in the battle dies?
Within a warrior's eyes:
Away! how can ye weep for him
Who in the battle dies?
If I had died with idle head
Upon my lady's knee—
Had Fate stood by my silken bed,
Then might ye weep for me.
Upon my lady's knee—
Had Fate stood by my silken bed,
Then might ye weep for me.
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But I lie on my own proud deck
Before the sea and sky;
The wind that sweeps my gallant sails
Will have my latest sigh.
Before the sea and sky;
The wind that sweeps my gallant sails
Will have my latest sigh.
My banner floats amid the clouds,
Another droops below:
Well with my heart's best blood is paid
Such purchase from a foe.
Another droops below:
Well with my heart's best blood is paid
Such purchase from a foe.
Go ye and seek my halls, there dwells
A fair-hair'd boy of mine;
Give him my sword, while yet the blood
Darkens that falchion's shine.
A fair-hair'd boy of mine;
Give him my sword, while yet the blood
Darkens that falchion's shine.
Tell him that only other blood
Should wash such stains away;
And if he be his father's child,
There needs no more to say.
Should wash such stains away;
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There needs no more to say.
Farewell, my bark! farewell, my friends!
Now fling me on the wave;
One cup of wine, and one of blood,
Pour on my bounding grave.
Now fling me on the wave;
One cup of wine, and one of blood,
Pour on my bounding grave.
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THE CHANGE.
Thy features do not wear the light
They wore in happier days;
Though still there may be much to love,
There's little left to praise.
They wore in happier days;
Though still there may be much to love,
There's little left to praise.
The rose has faded from thy cheek—
There's scarce a blush left now;
And there's a dark and weary sign
Upon thine altered brow.
There's scarce a blush left now;
And there's a dark and weary sign
Upon thine altered brow.
Thy raven hair is dashed with gray,
Thine eyes are dim with tears;
And care, before thy youth is past,
Has done the work of years.
Thine eyes are dim with tears;
And care, before thy youth is past,
Has done the work of years.
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Beautiful wreck! for still thy face,
Though changed, is very fair;
Like beauty's moonlight, left to shew
Her morning sun was there.
Though changed, is very fair;
Like beauty's moonlight, left to shew
Her morning sun was there.
Come, here are friends and festival,
Recall thine early smile;
And wear yon wreath, whose glad red rose
Will lend its bloom awhile.
Recall thine early smile;
And wear yon wreath, whose glad red rose
Will lend its bloom awhile.
Come, take thy lute, and sing again
The song you used to sing—
The bird-like song:—See, though unused,
The lute has every string.
The song you used to sing—
The bird-like song:—See, though unused,
The lute has every string.
What, doth thy hand forget the lute?
Thy brow reject the wreath?
Alas! whate'er the change above,
There's more of change beneath!
Thy brow reject the wreath?
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There's more of change beneath!
The smile may come, the smile may go,
The blush shine and depart;
But farewell when their sense is quench'd
Within the breaking heart.
The blush shine and depart;
But farewell when their sense is quench'd
Within the breaking heart.
And such is thine: 'tis vain to seek
The shades of past delight:
Fling down the wreath, and break the lute;
They mock our souls to-night.
The shades of past delight:
Fling down the wreath, and break the lute;
They mock our souls to-night.
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THE ASPEN TREE.
The quiet of the evening hour
Was laid on every summer leaf;
That purple shade was on each flower,
At once so beautiful, so brief.
Was laid on every summer leaf;
That purple shade was on each flower,
At once so beautiful, so brief.
Only the aspen knew not rest,
But still, with an unquiet song,
Kept murmuring to the gentle west,
And cast a changeful shade along.
But still, with an unquiet song,
Kept murmuring to the gentle west,
And cast a changeful shade along.
Not for its beauty—other trees
Had greener boughs, and statelier stem;
And those had fruit, and blossoms these,
Yet still I chose this tree from them.
Had greener boughs, and statelier stem;
And those had fruit, and blossoms these,
Yet still I chose this tree from them.
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'Tis a strange thing, this depth of love
Which dwells within the human heart;
From earth below to heaven above,
In each, in all, it fain has part.
Which dwells within the human heart;
From earth below to heaven above,
In each, in all, it fain has part.
It must find sympathy, or make;
And hence beliefs, the fond, the vain,
The thousand shapes that fancies take,
To bind the fine connecting chain.
And hence beliefs, the fond, the vain,
The thousand shapes that fancies take,
To bind the fine connecting chain.
We plant pale flowers beside the tomb,
And love to see them droop and fade;
For every leaf that sheds its bloom
Seems like a natural tribute paid.
And love to see them droop and fade;
For every leaf that sheds its bloom
Seems like a natural tribute paid.
Thus Nature soothes the grief she shares:
What are the flowers we hold most dear?
The one whose haunted beauty wears
The sign of human thought or tear.
What are the flowers we hold most dear?
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The sign of human thought or tear.
Why hold the violet and rose
A place within the heart, denied
To fairer foreign flowers, to those
To earlier memories allied?
A place within the heart, denied
To fairer foreign flowers, to those
To earlier memories allied?
Like those frail leaves, each restless thought
Fluctuates in my weary mind;
Uncertain tree! my fate was wrought
In the same loom where thine was twined.
Fluctuates in my weary mind;
Uncertain tree! my fate was wrought
In the same loom where thine was twined.
And thus from other trees around
Did I still watch the aspen-tree,
Because in its unrest I found
Somewhat of sympathy with me.
Did I still watch the aspen-tree,
Because in its unrest I found
Somewhat of sympathy with me.
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THE VIOLET.
Why better than the lady rose
Love I this little flower?
Because its fragrant leaves are those
I loved in childhood's hour.
Love I this little flower?
Because its fragrant leaves are those
I loved in childhood's hour.
Though many a flower may win my praise,
The violet has my love;
I did not pass my childish days
In garden or in grove:
The violet has my love;
I did not pass my childish days
In garden or in grove:
My garden was the window-seat,
Upon whose edge was set
A little vase—the fair, the sweet—
It was the violet.
Upon whose edge was set
A little vase—the fair, the sweet—
It was the violet.
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It was my pleasure and my pride;—
How I did watch its growth!
For health and bloom, what plans I tried,
And often injured both!
How I did watch its growth!
For health and bloom, what plans I tried,
And often injured both!
I placed it in the summer shower,
I placed it in the sun;
And ever, at the evening hour,
My work seemed half undone.
I placed it in the sun;
And ever, at the evening hour,
My work seemed half undone.
The broad leaves spread, the small buds grew,
How slow they seemed to be!
At last there came a tinge of blue,—
'Twas worth the world to me!
How slow they seemed to be!
At last there came a tinge of blue,—
'Twas worth the world to me!
At length the perfume filled the room,
Shed from their purple wreath;
No flower has now so rich a bloom,
Has now so sweet a breath.
Shed from their purple wreath;
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Has now so sweet a breath.
I gathered two or three,—they seemed
Such rich gifts to bestow;
So precious in my sight, I deemed
That all must think them so.
Such rich gifts to bestow;
So precious in my sight, I deemed
That all must think them so.
Ah! who is there but would be fain
To be a child once more;
If future years could bring again
All that they brought before?
To be a child once more;
If future years could bring again
All that they brought before?
My heart's world has been long o'erthrown,
It is no more of flowers;
Their bloom is past, their breath is flown,
Yet I recall those hours.
It is no more of flowers;
Their bloom is past, their breath is flown,
Yet I recall those hours.
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Let Nature spread her loveliest,
By spring or summer nurst;
Yet still I love the violet best,
Because I loved it first.
By spring or summer nurst;
Yet still I love the violet best,
Because I loved it first.
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THE LITTLE SHROUD.
She put him on a snow-white shroud,
A chaplet on his head;
And gather'd early primroses
To scatter o'er the dead.
A chaplet on his head;
And gather'd early primroses
To scatter o'er the dead.
She laid him in his little grave—
'Twas hard to lay him there,
When spring was putting forth its flowers,
And every thing was fair.
'Twas hard to lay him there,
When spring was putting forth its flowers,
And every thing was fair.
She had lost many children—now
The last of them was gone;
And day and night she sat and wept
Beside the funeral stone.
The last of them was gone;
And day and night she sat and wept
Beside the funeral stone.
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One midnight, while her constant tears
Were falling with the dew,
She heard a voice, and lo! her child
Stood by her weeping too!
Were falling with the dew,
She heard a voice, and lo! her child
Stood by her weeping too!
His shroud was damp, his face was white:
He said,—“I cannot sleep,
Your tears have made my shroud so wet;
Oh, mother, do not weep!”
He said,—“I cannot sleep,
Your tears have made my shroud so wet;
Oh, mother, do not weep!”
Oh, love is strong!—the mother's heart
Was filled with tender fears;
Oh, love is strong!—and for her child
Her grief restrained its tears.
Was filled with tender fears;
Oh, love is strong!—and for her child
Her grief restrained its tears.
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One eve a light shone round her bed,
And there she saw him stand—
Her infant, in his little shroud,
A taper in his hand.
And there she saw him stand—
Her infant, in his little shroud,
A taper in his hand.
“Lo! mother, see my shroud is dry,
And I can sleep once more!”
And beautiful the parting smile
The little infant wore.
And I can sleep once more!”
And beautiful the parting smile
The little infant wore.
And down within the silent grave
He laid his weary head;
And soon the early violets
Grew o'er his grassy bed.
He laid his weary head;
And soon the early violets
Grew o'er his grassy bed.
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The mother went her household ways—
Again she knelt in prayer,
And only asked of Heaven its aid
Her heavy lot to bear.
Again she knelt in prayer,
And only asked of Heaven its aid
Her heavy lot to bear.
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THE CHURCHYARD.
The shadow of the church falls o'er the ground,
Hallowing its place of rest; and here the dead
Slumber, where all religious impulses,
And sad and holy feelings, angel like,
Make the spot sacred with themselves, and wake
Those sorrowful emotions in the heart
Which purify it, like a temple meet
For an unearthly presence. Life, vain Life,
The bitter and the worthless, wherefore here
Do thy remembrances intrude?
Hallowing its place of rest; and here the dead
Slumber, where all religious impulses,
And sad and holy feelings, angel like,
Make the spot sacred with themselves, and wake
Those sorrowful emotions in the heart
Which purify it, like a temple meet
For an unearthly presence. Life, vain Life,
The bitter and the worthless, wherefore here
Do thy remembrances intrude?
The willow shade is on the ground,
A green and solitary shade;
And many a wild flower on that mound
Its pleasant summer home has made.
And every breath that waves a leaf
Flings down upon the lonely flowers
A moment's sunshine, bright and brief—
A blessing looked by passing hours.
A green and solitary shade;
And many a wild flower on that mound
Its pleasant summer home has made.
And every breath that waves a leaf
Flings down upon the lonely flowers
A moment's sunshine, bright and brief—
A blessing looked by passing hours.
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Those sweet, vague sounds are on the air,
Half sleep, half song—half false, half true,
As if the wind that brought them there
Had touched them with its music too.
It is the very place to dream
Away a twilight's idle rest;
Where Thought floats down a starry stream,
Without a shadow on its breast.
Half sleep, half song—half false, half true,
As if the wind that brought them there
Had touched them with its music too.
It is the very place to dream
Away a twilight's idle rest;
Where Thought floats down a starry stream,
Without a shadow on its breast.
Where Wealth, the fairy gift, 's our own,
Without its low and petty cares;
Where Pleasure some new veil has thrown,
To hide the weary face she wears.
Where hopes are high, yet cares come not,
Those fellow-waves of life's drear sea,
Its froth and depth—where Love is what
Love only in a dream can be.
Without its low and petty cares;
Where Pleasure some new veil has thrown,
To hide the weary face she wears.
Where hopes are high, yet cares come not,
Those fellow-waves of life's drear sea,
Its froth and depth—where Love is what
Love only in a dream can be.
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I cannot muse beside that mound—
I cannot dream beneath that shade—
Too solemn is the haunted ground
Where Death his resting-place has made.
I feel my heart beat but to think
Each pulse is bearing life away;
I cannot rest upon the grave,
And not feel kindred to its clay.
I cannot dream beneath that shade—
Too solemn is the haunted ground
Where Death his resting-place has made.
I feel my heart beat but to think
Each pulse is bearing life away;
I cannot rest upon the grave,
And not feel kindred to its clay.
There is a name upon the stone—
Alas! and can it be the same—
The young, the lovely, and the loved?—
It is too soon to bear thy name.
Too soon!—oh no, 'tis best to die
Ere all of life save breath is fled:
Why live when feelings, friends, and hopes,
Have long been numbered with the dead?
Alas! and can it be the same—
The young, the lovely, and the loved?—
It is too soon to bear thy name.
Too soon!—oh no, 'tis best to die
Ere all of life save breath is fled:
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Have long been numbered with the dead?
But thou, thy heart and cheek were bright—
No check, no soil had either known
The angel natures of yon sky
Will only be to thee thine own.
Thou knew'st no rainbow-hopes that weep
Themselves away to deeper shade;
Nor Love, whose very happiness
Should make the weakening heart afraid.
No check, no soil had either known
The angel natures of yon sky
Will only be to thee thine own.
Thou knew'st no rainbow-hopes that weep
Themselves away to deeper shade;
Nor Love, whose very happiness
Should make the weakening heart afraid.
The green leaves e'en in spring they fall,
The tears the stars at midnight weep,
The dewy wild-flowers—such as these
Are fitting mourners o'er thy sleep.
For human tears are lava-drops,
That scorch and wither as they flow;
Then let them flow for those who live,
And not for those who sleep below.
The tears the stars at midnight weep,
The dewy wild-flowers—such as these
Are fitting mourners o'er thy sleep.
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That scorch and wither as they flow;
Then let them flow for those who live,
And not for those who sleep below.
Oh, weep for those whose silver chain
Has long been loosed, and yet live on—
The doomed to drink of life's dark wave,
Whose golden bowl has long been gone!
Ay, weep for those, the wearied, worn,
Dragged downward by some earthly tie,
By some vain hope, some vainer love,
Who loathe to live, yet fear to die.
Has long been loosed, and yet live on—
The doomed to drink of life's dark wave,
Whose golden bowl has long been gone!
Ay, weep for those, the wearied, worn,
Dragged downward by some earthly tie,
By some vain hope, some vainer love,
Who loathe to live, yet fear to die.
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CHANGE.
I would not care, at least so much, sweet Spring,
For the departing colour of thy flowers—
The green leaves early falling from thy boughs—
Thy birds so soon forgetful of their songs—
Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers;—
But thou dost leave thy memory, like a ghost,
To haunt the ruined heart, which still recurs
To former beauty; and the desolate
Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls
It was not always desolate.
For the departing colour of thy flowers—
The green leaves early falling from thy boughs—
Thy birds so soon forgetful of their songs—
Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers;—
But thou dost leave thy memory, like a ghost,
To haunt the ruined heart, which still recurs
To former beauty; and the desolate
Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls
It was not always desolate.
When those eyes have forgotten the smile they wear now,
When care shall have shadowed that beautiful brow—
When thy hopes and thy roses together lie dead,
And thy heart turns back pining to days that are fled—
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Like the moonlight on water, the breath-stain on glass:
Oh! maiden, the lovely and youthful, to thee,
How rose-touched the page of thy future must be!
By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there
But flowers that flourish, but hopes that are fair;
And what is thy present? a southern sky's spring,
With thy feelings and fancies like birds on the wing.
As the rose by the fountain flings down on the wave
Its blushes, forgetting its glass is its grave:
So the heart sheds its colour on life's early hour,
But the heart has its fading as well as the flower.
The charmed light darkens, the rose-leaves are gone,
And life, like the fountain, floats colourless on.
Said I, when thy beauty's sweet vision was fled,
How wouldst thou turn, pining, to days like the dead!
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Wilt thou weep like a mourner o'er all thou lovest now;
When thy hopes, like spent arrows, fall short of their mark;
Or, like meteors at midnight, make darkness more dark;
When thy feelings lie fettered like waters in frost,
Or, scattered too freely, are wasted and lost:
For aye cometh sorrow, when youth has pass'd by—
What saith the Arabian? Its memory's a sigh.
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THE THREE BROTHERS.
I.
They dwelt in a valley of sunshine, those Brothers;Green were the palm-trees that shadowed their dwelling;
Sweet, like low music, the sound of the fountains
That fell from the rocks round their beautiful home:
There the pomegranate blushed like the cheek of the maiden
When she hears in the distance the step of her lover,
And blushes to know it before her young friends.
They dwelt in the valley—their mine was the corn-field
Heavy with gold, and in autumn they gathered
The grapes that hung clustering together like rubies:
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And the ringdoves filled every grove with their song.
II.
But those Brothers were weary; for hope like a gloryLived in each bosom—that hope of the future
Which turns where it kindles the heart to an altar,
And urges to honour and noble achievement.
To this fine spirit our earth owes her greatest:
For the future is purchased by scorning the present,
And life is redeemed from its clay soil by fame.
They leant in the shades of the palm-trees at evening,
When a crimson haze swept down the side of the mountain:
Glorious in power and terrible beauty,
The Spirit that dwelt in the star of their birth
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Each felt his destiny hung on that moment;
Each from his hand took futurity's symbol—
One took a sceptre, and one took a sword;
But a little lute fell to the share of the youngest,
And his Brothers turned from him and laughed him to scorn.
III.
And the King said, “The earth shall be filled with my glory:”And he built him a temple—each porphyry column
Was the work of a life; and he built him a city—
A hundred gates opened the way to his palace,
(Too few for the crowds that there knelt as his slaves),
And the highest tower saw not the extent of the walls.
The banks of the river were covered with gardens;
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The turrets were shining with taper and lamp,
Which filled the night-wind, as it passed them, with odours.
The angel of death came and summoned the monarch;
But he looked on the city, the fair and the mighty,
And said, “Ye proud temples, I leave ye my fame.”
IV.
The conqueror went forth, like the storm over ocean,His chariot-wheels red with the blood of the vanquished;
Nations grew pale at the sound of his trumpet,
Thousands rose up at the wave of his banners,
And the valleys were white with the bones of the slain
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Heavy and crimson his banner was waving
O'er the plain where his victories were written in blood,
And he welcomed the wound whence his life's tide was flowing;
For death is the seal to the conqueror's fame.
V.
But the youngest went forth with his lute—and the valleysWere filled with the sweetness that sighed from its strings;
Maidens, whose dark eyes but opened on palaces,
Wept as at twilight they murmured his words.
He sang to the exile the songs of his country,
Till he dreamed for a moment of hope and of home;
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While the tears of his childhood sprang into his eyes.
He died—and his lute was bequeathed to the cypress,
And his tones to the hearts that loved music and song.
VI.
Long ages pass'd, from the dim world of shadowsThese Brothers return'd to revisit the earth;
They came to revisit the place of their glory,
To hear and rejoice in the sound of their fame.
They looked for the palace—the temple of marble—
The rose-haunted gardens—a desert was there;
The sand, like the sea in its wrath, had swept o'er them,
And tradition had even forgotten their names.
The Conqueror stood on the place of his battles,
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And the green grass was waving its growth of wild flowers;
And they, not his banner, gave name to the place.
They passed a king's garden, and there sat his daughter,
Singing a sweet song remember'd of old,
And the song was caught up, and sent back like an echo,
From a young voice that came from a cottage beside.
Then smiled the Minstrel, “You hear it, my Brothers,
My Songs yet are sweet on the lute and the lip.”
King, not a vestige remains of your palaces;
Conqueror, forgotten the fame of your battles:
But the Poet yet lives in the sweetness of music—
He appeal'd to the heart, that never forgets.
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EDITH.
Weep not, weep not, that in the spring
We have to make a grave;
The flowers will grow, the birds will sing,
The early roses wave;
And make the sod we're spreading fair,
For her who sleeps below:
We might not bear to lay her there
In winter frost and snow.
We have to make a grave;
The flowers will grow, the birds will sing,
The early roses wave;
And make the sod we're spreading fair,
For her who sleeps below:
We might not bear to lay her there
In winter frost and snow.
We never hoped to keep her long,
When but a fairy child,
With dancing step, and birdlike song,
And eyes that only smiled;
A something shadowy and frail
Was even in her mirth;
She look'd a flower that one rough gale
Would bear away from earth.
When but a fairy child,
With dancing step, and birdlike song,
And eyes that only smiled;
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Was even in her mirth;
She look'd a flower that one rough gale
Would bear away from earth.
There was too clear and blue a light
Within her radiant eyes;
They were too beautiful, too bright,
Too like their native skies:
Too changeable the rose which shed
Its colour on her face,
Now burning with a passionate red,
Now with just one faint trace.
Within her radiant eyes;
They were too beautiful, too bright,
Too like their native skies:
Too changeable the rose which shed
Its colour on her face,
Now burning with a passionate red,
Now with just one faint trace.
She was too thoughtful for her years,
Its shell the spirit wore;
And when she smiled away our fears,
We only feared the more.
The crimson deepen'd on her cheek,
Her blue eyes shone more clear,
And every day she grew more weak,
And every hour more dear.
Its shell the spirit wore;
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We only feared the more.
The crimson deepen'd on her cheek,
Her blue eyes shone more clear,
And every day she grew more weak,
And every hour more dear.
Her childhood was a happy time,
The loving and beloved;
Yon sky which was her native clime
Hath but its own removed.
This earth was not for one, to whom
Nothing of earth was given;
'Twas but a resting-place, her tomb,
Between the world and heaven.
The loving and beloved;
Yon sky which was her native clime
Hath but its own removed.
This earth was not for one, to whom
Nothing of earth was given;
'Twas but a resting-place, her tomb,
Between the world and heaven.
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THE FORGOTTEN ONE.
No shadow rests upon the place
Where once thy footsteps roved;
Nor leaf, nor blossom, bear a trace
Of how thou wert beloved.
The very night dew disappears
Too soon, as if it spared its tears.
Where once thy footsteps roved;
Nor leaf, nor blossom, bear a trace
Of how thou wert beloved.
The very night dew disappears
Too soon, as if it spared its tears.
Thou art forgotten!—thou, whose feet
Were listen'd for like song!
They used to call thy voice so sweet;—
It did not haunt them long.
Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth—
How could they bear their lonely hearth!
Were listen'd for like song!
They used to call thy voice so sweet;—
It did not haunt them long.
Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth—
How could they bear their lonely hearth!
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There is no picture to recall
Thy glad and open brow;
No profiled outline on the wall
Seems like thy shadow now;
They have not even kept to wear
One ringlet of thy golden hair.
Thy glad and open brow;
No profiled outline on the wall
Seems like thy shadow now;
They have not even kept to wear
One ringlet of thy golden hair.
When here we shelter'd last, appears
But just like yesterday;
It startles me to think that years
Since then are pass'd away.
The old oak tree that was our tent,
No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent.
But just like yesterday;
It startles me to think that years
Since then are pass'd away.
The old oak tree that was our tent,
No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent.
A shower in June—a summer shower,
Drove us beneath the shade;
A beautiful and greenwood bower
The spreading branches made.
The raindrops shine upon the bough,
The passing rain—but where art thou?
Drove us beneath the shade;
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The spreading branches made.
The raindrops shine upon the bough,
The passing rain—but where art thou?
But I forget how many showers
Have wash'd this old oak tree,
The winter and the summer hours,
Since I stood here with thee:
And I forget how chance a thought
Thy memory to my heart has brought.
Have wash'd this old oak tree,
The winter and the summer hours,
Since I stood here with thee:
And I forget how chance a thought
Thy memory to my heart has brought.
I talk of friends who once have wept,
As if they still should weep;
I speak of grief that long has slept,
As if it could not sleep;
I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness,
Have I, myself, forgotten less?
As if they still should weep;
I speak of grief that long has slept,
As if it could not sleep;
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Have I, myself, forgotten less?
I've mingled with the young and fair,
Nor thought how there was laid
One fair and young as any there,
In silence and in shade.
How could I see a sweet mouth shine
With smiles, and not remember thine?
Nor thought how there was laid
One fair and young as any there,
In silence and in shade.
How could I see a sweet mouth shine
With smiles, and not remember thine?
Ah! it is well we can forget,
Or who could linger on
Beneath a sky whose stars are set,
On earth whose flowers are gone?
For who could welcome loved ones near,
Thinking of those once far more dear,
Or who could linger on
Beneath a sky whose stars are set,
On earth whose flowers are gone?
For who could welcome loved ones near,
Thinking of those once far more dear,
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Our early friends, those of our youth?
We cannot feel again
The earnest love, the simple truth,
Which made us such friends then.
We grow suspicious, careless, cold;
We love not as we loved of old.
We cannot feel again
The earnest love, the simple truth,
Which made us such friends then.
We grow suspicious, careless, cold;
We love not as we loved of old.
No more a sweet necessity,
Love must and will expand,
Loved and beloving we must be,
With open heart and hand,
Which only ask to trust and share
The deep affections which they bear.
Love must and will expand,
Loved and beloving we must be,
With open heart and hand,
Which only ask to trust and share
The deep affections which they bear.
Our love was of that early time;
And now that it is past,
It breathes as of a purer clime
Than where my lot is cast.
My eyes fill with their sweetest tears
In thinking of those early years.
And now that it is past,
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Than where my lot is cast.
My eyes fill with their sweetest tears
In thinking of those early years.
It shock'd me first to see the sun
Shine gladly o'er thy tomb;
To see the wild flowers o'er it run
In such luxuriant bloom.
Now I feel glad that they should keep
A bright sweet watch above thy sleep.
Shine gladly o'er thy tomb;
To see the wild flowers o'er it run
In such luxuriant bloom.
Now I feel glad that they should keep
A bright sweet watch above thy sleep.
The heaven whence thy nature came
Only recall'd its own;
It is Hope that now breathes thy name,
Though borrowing Memory's tone.
I feel this earth could never be
The native home of one like thee.
Only recall'd its own;
It is Hope that now breathes thy name,
Though borrowing Memory's tone.
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The native home of one like thee.
Farewell! the early dews that fall
Upon thy grass-grown bed
Are like the thoughts that now recall
Thine image from the dead.
A blessing hallows thy dark cell—
I will not stay to weep. Farewell!
Upon thy grass-grown bed
Are like the thoughts that now recall
Thine image from the dead.
A blessing hallows thy dark cell—
I will not stay to weep. Farewell!
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THE ALTERED RIVER.
Thou lovely river, thou art nowAs fair as fair can be,
Pale flowers wreathe upon thy brow,
The rose bends over thee.
Only the morning sun hath leave
To turn thy waves to light,
Cool shade the willow branches weave
When noon becomes too bright.
The lilies are the only boats
Upon thy diamond plain,
The swan alone in silence floats
Around thy charm'd domain.
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With fairy favours starr'd,
Seems made the summer haunt to be
Of melancholy bard.
Fair as thou art, thou wilt be food
For many a thought of pain;
For who can gaze upon thy flood,
Nor wish it to remain
The same pure and unsullied thing
Where heaven's face is as clear
Mirror'd in thy blue wandering
As heaven's face can be here.
Flowers fling their sweet bonds on thy breast,
The willows woo thy stay,
In vain,—thy waters may not rest,
Their course must be away.
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What all find—toil and care:
Your flowers you have left behind
Far other weight to bear.
The heavy bridge confines your stream,
Through which the barges toil,
Smoke has shut out the sun's glad beam,
Thy waves have caught the soil.
On—on—though weariness it be,
By shoal and barrier cross'd,
Till thou hast reach'd the mighty sea,
And there art wholly lost.
Bend thou, young poet, o'er the stream—
Such fate will be thine own;
Thy lute's hope is a morning dream,
And when have dreams not flown?
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THE CITY OF THE DEAD.
'Twas dark with cypresses and yews, which cast
Drear shadows on the fairer trees and flowers—
Affection's latest signs. [OMITTED]
Dark portal of another world—the grave—
I do not fear thy shadow; and methinks,
If I may make my own heart oracle,—
The many long to enter thee, for thou
Alone canst reunite the loved and lost
With those who pine for them. I fear thee not;
I only fear my own unworthiness,
Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make
Another parting in another world.
Drear shadows on the fairer trees and flowers—
Affection's latest signs. [OMITTED]
Dark portal of another world—the grave—
I do not fear thy shadow; and methinks,
If I may make my own heart oracle,—
The many long to enter thee, for thou
Alone canst reunite the loved and lost
With those who pine for them. I fear thee not;
I only fear my own unworthiness,
Lest it prove barrier to my hope, and make
Another parting in another world.
I.
Laurel! oh, fling thy green boughs on the air,There is dew on thy branches, what doth it do there?
Thou that art worn on the conqueror's shield,
When his country receives him from glory's red field;
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When the song of its sweetness has won its reward.
Earth's changeless and sacred—thou proud laurel tree!
The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?
II.
Rose of the morning, the blushing and bright,Thou whose whole life is one breath of delight;
Beloved of the maiden, the chosen to bind
Her dark tresses' wealth from the wild summer wind.
Fair tablet, still vow'd to the thoughts of the lover,
Whose rich leaves with sweet secrets are written all over;
Fragrant as blooming—thou lovely rose tree!
The tears of the midnight, why hang they on thee?
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III.
Dark cypress! I see thee—thou art my reply,Why the tears of the night on thy comrade trees lie;
That laurel it wreathed the red brow of the brave,
Yet thy shadow lies black on the warrior's grave.
That rose was less bright than the lip which it prest,
Yet thy sad branches bend o'er the maiden's last rest;
The brave and the lovely alike they are sleeping,
I marvel no more rose and laurel are weeping.
IV.
Yet, sunbeam of heaven! thou fall'st on the tomb—Why pausest thou by such dwelling of doom?
Before thee the grove and the garden are spread—
Why lingerest thou round the place of the dead?
Thou art from another, a lovelier sphere,
Unknown to the sorrows that darken us here.
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Weep, mourner, no more o'er thy grief and thy love!
Still thy heart in its beating; be glad of such rest,
Though it call from thy bosom its dearest and best.
Weep no more that affection thus loosens its tie;
Weep no more that the loved and the loving must die;
Weep no more o'er the cold dust that lies at your feet:
But gaze on yon starry world—there ye shall meet.
V.
O heart of mine! is there not One dwelling thereTo whom thy love clings in its hope and its prayer?
For whose sake thou numberest each hour of the day,
As a link in the fetters that keep me away?
When I think of the glad and the beautiful home,
Which oft in my dreams to my spirit hath come:
That when our last sleep on my eyelids hath prest,
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When wanderer no longer on life's weary shore,
I may kneel at thy feet, and part from thee no more:
While death holds such hope forth to soothe and to save,
Oh, sunbeam of heaven, thou may'st well light the grave!
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ADMIRAL COLLINGWOOD.
Methinks it is a glorious thing
To sail upon the deep;
A thousand sailors under you,
Their watch and ward to keep:
To see your gallant battle-flag
So scornfully unrolled,
As scarcely did the wild wind dare
To stir one crimson fold:
To sail upon the deep;
A thousand sailors under you,
Their watch and ward to keep:
To see your gallant battle-flag
So scornfully unrolled,
As scarcely did the wild wind dare
To stir one crimson fold:
To watch the frigates scattered round,
Like birds upon the wing;
Yet know they only wait your will—
It is a glorious thing.
Our admiral stood on the deck,
And looked upon the sea;
He held the glass in his right hand,
And far and near looked he:
Like birds upon the wing;
Yet know they only wait your will—
It is a glorious thing.
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And looked upon the sea;
He held the glass in his right hand,
And far and near looked he:
He could not see one hostile ship
Abroad upon the main;
From east to west, from north to south,
It was his own domain.
“Good news for England this, good news,”
Forth may her merchants fare;
Thick o'er the sea, no enemy
Will cross the pathway there.
Abroad upon the main;
From east to west, from north to south,
It was his own domain.
“Good news for England this, good news,”
Forth may her merchants fare;
Thick o'er the sea, no enemy
Will cross the pathway there.
A paleness came upon his cheek,
A shadow to his brow;
Alas! our good Lord Collingwood,
What is it ails him now?
Tears stand within the brave man's eyes,
Each softer pulse is stirred:
It is the sickness of the heart,
Of hope too long deferred.
A shadow to his brow;
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What is it ails him now?
Tears stand within the brave man's eyes,
Each softer pulse is stirred:
It is the sickness of the heart,
Of hope too long deferred.
He's pining for his native seas,
And for his native shore;
All but his honour he would give,
To be at home once more.
He does not know his children's fare;
His wife might pass him by,
He is so altered, did they meet,
With an unconscious eye:
And for his native shore;
All but his honour he would give,
To be at home once more.
He does not know his children's fare;
His wife might pass him by,
He is so altered, did they meet,
With an unconscious eye:
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He has been many years at sea,
He's worn with wind and wave;
He asks a little breathing space
Between it and his grave:
He feels his breath come heavily,
His keen eye faint and dim;
It was a weary sacrifice
That England asked of him.
He's worn with wind and wave;
He asks a little breathing space
Between it and his grave:
He feels his breath come heavily,
His keen eye faint and dim;
It was a weary sacrifice
That England asked of him.
He never saw his home again—
The deep voice of the gun,
The lowering of his battle-flag,
Told when his life was done.
His sailors walked the deck and wept;
Around them howled the gale;
And far away two orphans knelt—
A widow's cheek grew pale.
The deep voice of the gun,
The lowering of his battle-flag,
Told when his life was done.
His sailors walked the deck and wept;
Around them howled the gale;
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A widow's cheek grew pale.
Amid the many names that light
Our history's blazoned line,
I know not one, brave Collingwood,
That touches me like thine.
Our history's blazoned line,
I know not one, brave Collingwood,
That touches me like thine.
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THE FIRST GRAVE.
[_]
[This poem originated in the circumstance of the first grave being formed in the churchyard of the new church at Brompton. The place had been recently a garden, and some of the flowers yet shewed themselves among the grass, where this one tenant, the forerunner of its population, had taken up his last abode.]
A single grave!—the only one
In this unbroken ground,
Where yet the garden leaf and flower
Are lingering around.
A single grave!—my heart has felt
How utterly alone
In crowded halls, were breathed for me
Not one familiar tone;
In this unbroken ground,
Where yet the garden leaf and flower
Are lingering around.
A single grave!—my heart has felt
How utterly alone
In crowded halls, were breathed for me
Not one familiar tone;
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The shade where forest-trees shut out
All but the distant sky;—
I've felt the loneliness of night
When the dark winds pass'd by;
My pulse has quickened with its awe,
My lip has gasped for breath;
But what were they to such as this—
The solitude of death!
All but the distant sky;—
I've felt the loneliness of night
When the dark winds pass'd by;
My pulse has quickened with its awe,
My lip has gasped for breath;
But what were they to such as this—
The solitude of death!
A single grave!—we half forget
How sunder human ties,
When round the silent place of rest
A gathered kindred lies.
We stand beneath the haunted yew,
And watch each quiet tomb;
And in the ancient churchyard feel
Solemnity, not gloom:
How sunder human ties,
When round the silent place of rest
A gathered kindred lies.
We stand beneath the haunted yew,
And watch each quiet tomb;
And in the ancient churchyard feel
Solemnity, not gloom:
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The place is purified with hope,
The hope that is of prayer;
And human love, and heavenward thought,
And pious faith, are there.
The wild flowers spring amid the grass;
And many a stone appears,
Carved by affection's memory,
Wet with affection's tears.
The hope that is of prayer;
And human love, and heavenward thought,
And pious faith, are there.
The wild flowers spring amid the grass;
And many a stone appears,
Carved by affection's memory,
Wet with affection's tears.
The golden chord which binds us all
Is loosed, not rent in twain;
And love, and hope, and fear, unite
To bring the past again.
But this grave is so desolate,
With no remembering stone,
No fellow-graves for sympathy—
'Tis utterly alone.
Is loosed, not rent in twain;
And love, and hope, and fear, unite
To bring the past again.
But this grave is so desolate,
With no remembering stone,
No fellow-graves for sympathy—
'Tis utterly alone.
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I do not know who sleeps beneath,
His history or name—
Whether if, lonely in his life,
He is in death the same:
Whether he died unloved, unmourned,
The last leaf on the bough;
Or, if some desolated hearth
Is weeping for him now.
His history or name—
Whether if, lonely in his life,
He is in death the same:
Whether he died unloved, unmourned,
The last leaf on the bough;
Or, if some desolated hearth
Is weeping for him now.
Perhaps this is too fanciful:—
Though single be his sod,
Yet not the less it has around
The presence of his God.
It may be weakness of the heart,
But yet its kindliest, best:
Better if in our selfish world
It could be less represt.
Though single be his sod,
Yet not the less it has around
The presence of his God.
It may be weakness of the heart,
But yet its kindliest, best:
Better if in our selfish world
It could be less represt.
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Those gentler charities which draw
Man closer with his kind—
Those sweet humanities which make
The music which they find.
How many a bitter word 'twould hush—
How many a pang 'twould save,
If life more precious held those ties
Which sanctify the grave!
Man closer with his kind—
Those sweet humanities which make
The music which they find.
How many a bitter word 'twould hush—
How many a pang 'twould save,
If life more precious held those ties
Which sanctify the grave!
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THE FEAST OF LIFE.
Bid thee to my mystic Feast,
Each one thou lovest is gather'd there;
Yet put thou on a mourning robe,
And bind the cypress in thy hair.
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread;
Shadows of beauty flit around,
But beauty from which bloom has fled;
Each one thou lovest is gather'd there;
Yet put thou on a mourning robe,
And bind the cypress in thy hair.
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread;
Shadows of beauty flit around,
But beauty from which bloom has fled;
And music echoes from the walls,
But music with a dirge-like sound;
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.
Here, take this cup, though dark it seem,
And drink to human hopes and fears;
'Tis from their native element
The cup is fill'd—it is of tears.
But music with a dirge-like sound;
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.
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And drink to human hopes and fears;
'Tis from their native element
The cup is fill'd—it is of tears.
What, turnest thou with averted brow?
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
And askest for a purple robe,
Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.
In vain—the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seem'd to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life,
But life in its reality!
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
And askest for a purple robe,
Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.
In vain—the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seem'd to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life,
But life in its reality!
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FOLLOW ME!
A summer morning, with its calm, glad light,
Was on the fallen castle: other days
Were here remembered vividly; the past
Was even as the present, nay, perhaps more—
For that we do not pause to think upon.
First, o'er the arching gateway was a shield,
The sculptured arms defaced, but visible
Was the bold motto, “Follow me:” again
I saw it scrolled around the lofty crest
Which, mouldering, decked the ruined banquet-room:
A third time did I trace these characters—
On the worn pavement of an ancient grave
Was written “Follow me!”
Was on the fallen castle: other days
Were here remembered vividly; the past
Was even as the present, nay, perhaps more—
For that we do not pause to think upon.
First, o'er the arching gateway was a shield,
The sculptured arms defaced, but visible
Was the bold motto, “Follow me:” again
I saw it scrolled around the lofty crest
Which, mouldering, decked the ruined banquet-room:
A third time did I trace these characters—
On the worn pavement of an ancient grave
Was written “Follow me!”
Follow me! 'tis to the battle-field—
No eye must turn, and no step must yield;
In the thick of the battle look ye to be:
On!—'tis my banner ye follow, and me.
No eye must turn, and no step must yield;
In the thick of the battle look ye to be:
On!—'tis my banner ye follow, and me.
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Follow me!—'tis to the festal ring,
Where the maidens smile and the minstrels sing;
Hark! to our name is the bright wine poured:
Follow me on to the banquet-board!
Where the maidens smile and the minstrels sing;
Hark! to our name is the bright wine poured:
Follow me on to the banquet-board!
Follow me!—'tis where the yew-tree bends,
When the strength and the pride of the victor ends
Pale in the thick grass the wild flowers bloom:
Follow me on to the silent tomb!
When the strength and the pride of the victor ends
Pale in the thick grass the wild flowers bloom:
Follow me on to the silent tomb!
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THE LEGACY OF THE LUTE.
Come, take the lute—the lute I loved,
'Tis all I have to offer thee;
And may it be less fatal gift
Than it has ever been to me.
My sigh yet lingers on the strings,
The strings I have not heart to break:
Wilt thou not, dearest! keep the lute
For mine—for the departed's sake?
'Tis all I have to offer thee;
And may it be less fatal gift
Than it has ever been to me.
My sigh yet lingers on the strings,
The strings I have not heart to break:
Wilt thou not, dearest! keep the lute
For mine—for the departed's sake?
But, pray thee, do not wake that lute;
Leave it upon the cypress tree;
I would have crushed its charmed chords,
But they so oft were strung to thee.
The minstrel-lute! oh, touch it not,
Or weary destiny is thine!
Thy life a twilight's haunted dream—
Thou, victim, at an idol's shrine.
Leave it upon the cypress tree;
I would have crushed its charmed chords,
But they so oft were strung to thee.
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Or weary destiny is thine!
Thy life a twilight's haunted dream—
Thou, victim, at an idol's shrine.
Thy breath but lives on others' lips—
Thy hope, a thing beyond the grave,—
Thy heart, bare to the vulture's beak—
Thyself a bound and barter'd slave.
And yet a dangerous charm o'er all,
A bright but ignis-fatuus flame,
Luring thee with a show of power,
Dazzling thee with a blaze of fame.
Thy hope, a thing beyond the grave,—
Thy heart, bare to the vulture's beak—
Thyself a bound and barter'd slave.
And yet a dangerous charm o'er all,
A bright but ignis-fatuus flame,
Luring thee with a show of power,
Dazzling thee with a blaze of fame.
It is to waste on careless hearts
The throbbing music of thine own;
To speak love's burning words, yet be
Alone—ay, utterly alone.
I sought to fling my laurel wreath
Away upon the autumn wind:
In vain,—'twas like those poison'd crowns
Thou may'st not from the brow unbind.
The throbbing music of thine own;
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Alone—ay, utterly alone.
I sought to fling my laurel wreath
Away upon the autumn wind:
In vain,—'twas like those poison'd crowns
Thou may'st not from the brow unbind.
Predestined from my birth to feed
On dreams, yet watch those dreams depart;
To bear through life—to feel in death—
A burning and a broken heart.
Then hang it on the cypress bough,
The minstrel-lute I leave to thee;
And be it only for the wind
To wake its mournful dirge for me.
On dreams, yet watch those dreams depart;
To bear through life—to feel in death—
A burning and a broken heart.
Then hang it on the cypress bough,
The minstrel-lute I leave to thee;
And be it only for the wind
To wake its mournful dirge for me.
341
THE FESTIVAL.
The young and the lovely are gathered:
Who shall talk of our wearisome life,
And dwell upon weeds and on weeping—
The struggle, the sorrow, the strife?
The hours of our being are coloured,
And many are coloured with rose;
Though on some be a sign and a shadow,
I list not to speak now of those.
Who shall talk of our wearisome life,
And dwell upon weeds and on weeping—
The struggle, the sorrow, the strife?
The hours of our being are coloured,
And many are coloured with rose;
Though on some be a sign and a shadow,
I list not to speak now of those.
Thro' the crimson blind flushes the splendour
Of lamps, like large pearls which some fay
Has swelled with her breath till their lustre,
If softer, is as bright as of day.
Beneath the verandah are flowers—
Camellias like ivory wrought
With the grace of a young Grecian sculptor,
Who traced what some Oread brought;
Of lamps, like large pearls which some fay
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If softer, is as bright as of day.
Beneath the verandah are flowers—
Camellias like ivory wrought
With the grace of a young Grecian sculptor,
Who traced what some Oread brought;
The harp to the flute is replying—
'Tis the song of a far-distant land;
But never, in vineyard or valley,
Assembled a lovelier band.
Come thou, with thy glad golden ringlets,
Like rain which is lit by the sun—
With eyes, the bright spirit's bright mirrors—
Whose cheek and the rose-bud are one.
'Tis the song of a far-distant land;
But never, in vineyard or valley,
Assembled a lovelier band.
Come thou, with thy glad golden ringlets,
Like rain which is lit by the sun—
With eyes, the bright spirit's bright mirrors—
Whose cheek and the rose-bud are one.
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While he of the lute and the laurel
For thee has forgotten the throng,
And builds on thy fairy-like beauty
A future of sigh and of song.
Ay, listen, but as unto music
The wild wind is bearing away,
As sweet as the sea-shells at evening,
But far too unearthly to stay.
For thee has forgotten the throng,
And builds on thy fairy-like beauty
A future of sigh and of song.
Ay, listen, but as unto music
The wild wind is bearing away,
As sweet as the sea-shells at evening,
But far too unearthly to stay.
For the love-dream that haunts the young poet
Is coloured too much by his mind—
A fabric of fancy and falsehood,
But never for lasting designed.
For he lives but in beauty—his visions
Inspire with their passion his strain;
And the spirit so quick at impression
Was never meant long to retain.
Is coloured too much by his mind—
A fabric of fancy and falsehood,
But never for lasting designed.
For he lives but in beauty—his visions
Inspire with their passion his strain;
And the spirit so quick at impression
Was never meant long to retain.
344
But another is passing before me—
Oh, pause! let me gaze on thy brow:
I've seen thee, fair lady, thrice lovely,
But never so lovely as now.
Thou art changed since those earlier numbers
When thou wert a vision to me;
And, copies from some fairest picture,
My heroines were painted from thee.
Oh, pause! let me gaze on thy brow:
I've seen thee, fair lady, thrice lovely,
But never so lovely as now.
Thou art changed since those earlier numbers
When thou wert a vision to me;
And, copies from some fairest picture,
My heroines were painted from thee.
Farewell! I shall make thee no longer
My sweet summer queen of romance;
No more will my princes pay homage,
My knights for thy smile break the lance,
Confess they were exquisite lovers,
The fictions that knelt at thy throne;
But the graceful, the gallant, the noble,
What fancy could equal thine own?
My sweet summer queen of romance;
No more will my princes pay homage,
My knights for thy smile break the lance,
Confess they were exquisite lovers,
The fictions that knelt at thy throne;
But the graceful, the gallant, the noble,
What fancy could equal thine own?
345
Farewell! and henceforth I enshrine thee
Mid the earlier dreams that have past
O'er my lute, like the fairies by moonlight,
To leave it more lonely at last.
Alas! it is sad to remember
The once gentle music now mute;
Ah! many a chord hath time stolen
Alike from my heart and my lute.
Mid the earlier dreams that have past
O'er my lute, like the fairies by moonlight,
To leave it more lonely at last.
Alas! it is sad to remember
The once gentle music now mute;
Ah! many a chord hath time stolen
Alike from my heart and my lute.
'Tis midnight—but think not of slumber,
There are dreams enow floating around;
But, ah! our soft dreams while thus waking
Are aye the most dangerous found.
Like the note of a lute was that whisper—
Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes:
Love only could breathe such a murmur;
And what will Love bring thee but sighs?
There are dreams enow floating around;
But, ah! our soft dreams while thus waking
Are aye the most dangerous found.
Like the note of a lute was that whisper—
Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes:
Love only could breathe such a murmur;
And what will Love bring thee but sighs?
346
And thou, thou pale dreamer! whose forehead
Is flushed with the circle's light praise,
Oh! let it not dwell on thy spirit—
How vain are the hopes it will raise!
The praise of the crowd and the careless,
Just caught by a chance and a name,
Oh! take it as pleasant and passing,
But never mistake it for fame!
Is flushed with the circle's light praise,
Oh! let it not dwell on thy spirit—
How vain are the hopes it will raise!
The praise of the crowd and the careless,
Just caught by a chance and a name,
Oh! take it as pleasant and passing,
But never mistake it for fame!
Look for fame from the toil of thy midnight,
When thy rapt spirit eagle-like springs;
But, for the gay circle now passing,
Take only the butterfly's wings.
The flowers around us are fading—
Meet comrades for revels are they;
And the lamps overhead are decaying—
How cold seems the coming of day!
When thy rapt spirit eagle-like springs;
But, for the gay circle now passing,
Take only the butterfly's wings.
The flowers around us are fading—
Meet comrades for revels are they;
And the lamps overhead are decaying—
How cold seems the coming of day!
347
There fling off the wreath and the sandal,
And bid the dark curtains round close;
For your cheek from the morning's tired slumber
Must win its sweet exile the rose.
What, weary and saddened! this evening
Is an earnest what all pleasures seem—
A few eager hours' enjoyment—
A toil, a regret, and a dream!
And bid the dark curtains round close;
For your cheek from the morning's tired slumber
Must win its sweet exile the rose.
What, weary and saddened! this evening
Is an earnest what all pleasures seem—
A few eager hours' enjoyment—
A toil, a regret, and a dream!
348
THE MIDDLE TEMPLE GARDENS.
The fountain's low singing is heard on the wind,
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind;
Some to grieve, some to gladden: around them they cast
The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past.
Away in the distance is heard the vast sound,
From the streets of the city that compass it round,
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call;
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all.
Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind;
Some to grieve, some to gladden: around them they cast
The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past.
Away in the distance is heard the vast sound,
From the streets of the city that compass it round,
Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call;
Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all.
The turf and the terrace slope down to the tide
Of the Thames, that sweeps onwards—a world at its side:
And dark the horizon, with mast and with sail
Of the thousand tall ships that have weathered the gale:
While beyond the arched bridge the old abbey appears,
Where England has garnered the glories of years.
There the royal, the lovely, the gifted, the brave,
Haunt the heart with a poetry born of the grave.
Of the Thames, that sweeps onwards—a world at its side:
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Of the thousand tall ships that have weathered the gale:
While beyond the arched bridge the old abbey appears,
Where England has garnered the glories of years.
There the royal, the lovely, the gifted, the brave,
Haunt the heart with a poetry born of the grave.
Still and lone mid the tumult these gardens extend,
The elm and the lime over flower-beds bend;
And the sunshine rains in as the light leaves are stirred,
When away from the nest he has built springs the bird.
The boat, and the barge, and the wave, have grown red;
And the sunset has crimsoned the boughs over head:
But the lamps are now shining, the colours are gone,
And the garden lies shadowy, silent, and lone.
The elm and the lime over flower-beds bend;
And the sunshine rains in as the light leaves are stirred,
When away from the nest he has built springs the bird.
350
And the sunset has crimsoned the boughs over head:
But the lamps are now shining, the colours are gone,
And the garden lies shadowy, silent, and lone.
There are lights in the casements: how weary the ray
That asks from the night-time the toils of the day!
I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page,
Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of age.
The hour may be coming when fortune and fame
May crown the endeavour, and honour the name:
But the toil has been long that too early began;
And the judge and the peer is a world-weary man.
That asks from the night-time the toils of the day!
I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page,
Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of age.
The hour may be coming when fortune and fame
May crown the endeavour, and honour the name:
But the toil has been long that too early began;
And the judge and the peer is a world-weary man.
351
The robe and the ermine, by few they are won:
How many sink down ere the race be half run!
What struggles, what hopes, what despair may have been,
Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green!
What crowds are around us, what misery is there,
Could the heart, like the face which conceals it, lay bare!
But we know not each other—we seek not to know
What the social world hides in the darkness below.
How many sink down ere the race be half run!
What struggles, what hopes, what despair may have been,
Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green!
What crowds are around us, what misery is there,
Could the heart, like the face which conceals it, lay bare!
But we know not each other—we seek not to know
What the social world hides in the darkness below.
I lean in the window, and hear the low tune
Of the fountain, now bright with the new risen moon.
In the chamber within are the gay and the young;
The light laugh is laughed, and the sweet song is sung.
I turn to their mirth, but it is in a mask—
The jest is an omen, the smile is a task.
A slave in a pageant, I walk through life's part,
With smiles on the lip, and despair at the heart.
Of the fountain, now bright with the new risen moon.
In the chamber within are the gay and the young;
The light laugh is laughed, and the sweet song is sung.
352
The jest is an omen, the smile is a task.
A slave in a pageant, I walk through life's part,
With smiles on the lip, and despair at the heart.
I know not that I have ever been more struck than with the beauty of the Middle Temple Gardens, as seen on a still summer evening. There is about it such a singular mixture of action and repose. The trees cast an undisturbed shadow on the turf; the barges rest tranquilly on the dark river; only now and then the dim outline of a scarcely seen sail flits by; the very lamps in the distance seem as if shining in their sleep. But the presence of life is around. Lights appear in most of the windows; and there comes upon the air the unceasing murmur of the city around. Nothing is distinct; all varieties of noise blending into one deep sound. But the little fountain is heard amid it all; the ear does not lose a note of its low sweet music: it is the poetry of the place, or, rather, the voice of the poetry with which it is filled.
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