The poetical remains of William Sidney Walker :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is the depth of night: far, far on high
The still white moon insensibly is stealing
Along the fleecy clouds and dim blue sky,
From out her silver cup to mortals dealing
The invisible dews of rest and slumbrous feeling;
And human griefs, and weariness, and pain,
Are hush'd beneath that eye so soft and healing,
As wintry winds, that all day long complain
Through some deserted hall, at night go rest again

II

Thou too belike, my gentle Theocrine,
Art laid in slumber cahn and innocent,
Lull'd by sweet thoughts, (such rest be ever thine!)
Fit close of day in happy duties spent
And tendances of love, with converse blent
And kindly household smiles. So liest thou dreaming,
Like infancy serene and confident,
While the meek moonlight, thro' the casement streaming
Upon thy sleeping face, makes sweeter its sweet seeming.

III

But not to me, fair love! but not to me
Comes genial rest, though oft entreated dear:
But anxious thoughts, that nightly watchers be
Beside my lonely chair, the servants drear
Of restless Grief, and heart-oppressing Fear,
True to their penal ministry, repel
Soft-footed Sleep, with looks and tones severe,
And words, whose import deep I may not tell
In this rude song, but guard like an unntter'd spell.

IV

Ah! woe is me, that I am forced to wrong
With my vain griefs, and moans importunate,
The beauty of fair silence! All too long
Has this sad strife endured, this wild debate
'Twixt feeble will and adamantine fate:
When will it end? What new and vital power,
Forth walking 'mid the spirit's desolate
And ruined places, there shall plant the flower
Of hope and natural joy, and build for peace a bower?

V

O Theocrine! the Spring returns again,
The heavenly Spring, and joy is over all:
The deep thick grass is wet with sunny rain,
Whose pattering drops like low soft music fall
On the wood-wanderer's ear: the wild-bird's call
Thrills the young listener's heart like aery wine:
On sloping banks, and under hedgerows tall,
The primrose lights her star:—one spirit divine
Fills heaven, and earth, and sea, gladdening all hearts but mine.

VI

—Of this no more: a voice, as of the tomb,
Is heard,—a long slow knell from yonder tower,
Telling of One cut off by sudden doom
In womanhood's full morn, and beauty's flower,
Even on the verge of the glad nuptial hour;
Leaving no record, save a portraiture
By artist memory hung in Friendship's bower,
And hauntings of remembrance, deep and pure,
In a few faithful hearts, scatter'd o'er earth's obscure.

VII

Thou walkest yet on earth, fair Theocrine,
And earth's mysterious influences convey
Nurture to thy soft frame, and spirit fine;
But She, for whom they grieve, hath cast away
Her fleshly robes, the dress of her brief day,
And laid her down in an eternal bed:
She hath no portion in life's work or play,
Its changes or its cares; her doom is said.
The lily blooms on earth; the rose is gathered.

VIII

She hath o'erpast the world-dividing bar;
Walks, without fear or wonder, that strange land,
Which when in dreams of thought we view afar,
Our hearts beat, and our struggling minds expand
Their wildest wings, or sink, with fear unmann'd
And soul-deep awe. No foot, of earthly mould,
Can trace her pathless course; no human hand
Uplift the cloudy veil, that hangs of old
Before the gates of death its undissolving fold.

IX

But ye, who knew her well,—for what ye knew,
Weep ye, and spare not! for the feelings high,
The heavenward thoughts, the heart in friendship true;
For dear hopes crush'd, and many a broken tie;—
Yea, for the glory of her deep dark eye,
Her star-white brow, her cheek's incarnate morn,—
Weep even for these! we grieve when roses die,
When evening's painted clouds to air return;
What God not scorn'd to make, why should we blush to mourn?

X

O Stella! golden star of youth and love!
In thy soft name the voice of other years
Seems sounding; each green court, and arched grove,
Where hand in hand we walked, again appears,
Called by the spell: the very clouds and tears,
O'er which thy dawning lamp its splendour darted,
Gleam bright: and they are there, my youthful peers,
The lofty-minded, and the gentle-hearted:
The beauty of the earth,—the light of days departed,—

XI

All, all return: and with them comes a throng
Of wither'd hopes, and loves made desolate;
And high resolves, cherish'd in silence long,
Yea, struggling still beneath the incumbent weight
Of spirit-quelling Time, and adverse fate:
These only live; all else have past away
To Memory's spectre-land: and She, who sate
'Mid that bright choir so bright, is now as they,—
A morning-dream of life, dissolving with the day.

XII

A dream,— no more.—And art thou more to me,
My living, but estranged Theocrine?—
As from this trance of thought I turn to thee,
Thou too art changed; thy earthly charms refine
Into a shadow of light,—a form divine,—
Most like that heavenly maid, who spake rebuke
And comfort to the visioned Florentine:
Like her,—but oh! less awful; for thy look
Is mild as evening heaven, thy voice like evening brook.

XIII

Thou speakest,—but thy words may not be told;
Too dreadful is the laugh of worldly scorn,
And censure, showering barbed shafts and cold
On noblest things:—but to my travel-worn
And darkling spirit, like an inward morn,
Thy mystic song hath risen, a guiding light,
To point my path through this dim maze forlorn;
Till borne aloof, beyond the cope of night,
I tread the spirit's home, the land of Truth and Right!

HYMN TO FREEDOM.

Oh Freedom! who can tell thy worth,
Thou sent of heaven to suffering earth!
Save him that hath thee in his lot;
And him who seeks, but finds thee not?

Thou art the chain, from heaven suspended,
By which great Truth to earth descended;
Thou art the one selected shrine
Whereon the fires of Virtue shine.

To thee our willing thanks we raise,
For sacred hearths, for fearless days;
The cultured field, the crowded mart,
Each guardian law, each graceful art.

But thy chief seat, thy place of rest,
Is in man's deep-recessed breast:
Thy chosen task, to call to light
Its unseen loveliness and might

At thy approach, the startled mind
Quakes, as before some stirring wind,
And with glad pain, sets wide her door
To the celestial visitor.

And chased before thy presence pure
Fly sinful creeds, and fears obscure;
And flowers of hope before thee bloom,
And new-born wisdom spreads its plume.

Blithe fancies, morning-birds that sing
Around the soul's awakening;
Firm faith is thine, and darings high,
And frank and fearless purity.

—Before thy throne, a various band,
Of many an age, and class, and land,
Now waiting in the world's great hour,
We kneel for comfort and for power.

Our wills, O Freedom, are thy own,
Our trust is in thy might alone;
But we are scatter'd far apart,
Feeble, and few, and faint of heart.

Look on us, Goddess! smile away
Low-minded hopes, and weak dismay;
That our exorcised souls, may be
A living mansion, worthy thee.

Nor less in one our hearts unite
Unto that long and awful fight:
For mighty are the foes, that wage
Their warfare with thy heritage.

Against thee league the powers of wrong,
The bigot's sword, the slanderer's tongue;
And thy worst foe, the seeming wise,
Veiling his hate in friendship's guise.

But weak to thee the might of earth,
For thou art of etherial birth;
And they that love shall find thee still,
Despite blind wrath, and cvil will.

In vain before thine altars crowd
The light, the sensual, and the proud:
The meek of mind, the pure of heart,
Alone shall see thee as thou art.

Sustain'd by thee, untired we go
Through doubt and fear, through care and woe;
O'er rough and smooth we toil along,
Led by thy far and lovely song.

We will not shrink, we will not flee,
Though bitter tears have flow'd for thee,
And bitter tears are yet to flow;
Be thou but ours, come bliss, come woe!

—Awake, O Queen!—we call thee not
From favour'd land, or hallow'd spot;
Where'er man lifts to heaven his brow,
Where love and right are, there art thou.

Awake, O Queen! put forth that might
Wherewith thou warrest for the right;
Speed on, speed on the conquering hour,
Spirit of light, and love, and power!

By baffled hopes, by wrong, by scorn,
By all that man hath done or borne,
Oh come! let fear and falsehood flee,
And earth, at length, find rest in thee!

TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR.

καιτοι σε και νυν τουτο γε ζηλουν εχο,
οθ' ουνεκ' ουδεν τωνδ' επαισθανει κακων:
εν τω φρονειν γαρ μηδεν ηδιστος βιος
εως το χαιρειν και το λυπεισθαι μαθης.
τεως δε κουφοις πνευμασιν βοσκου νεαν
ψυχην αταλλων----
Soph. Aj.

Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays,
So beautiful approve thee,
So winning light are all thy ways,
I cannot choose but love thee.
Thy balmy breath upon my brow
Is like the summer air,
As o'er my cheek thou leanest now
To plant a soft kiss there.

Thy steps are dancing toward the bound
Between the child and woman;
And thoughts and feelings more profound,
And other years, are coming:
And thou shalt be more deeply fair,
More precious to the heart:
But never canst thou be again
That lovely thing thou art!

And youth shall pass, with all the brood
Of fancy-fed affection;
And grief shall come with womanhood,
And waken cold reflection;
Thou'lt learn to toil, and watch, and weep
O'er pleasures unreturning,
Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep
Unto the cares of morning.

—Nay, say not so! nor cloud the sun
Of joyous expectation,
Ordain'd to bless the little one,
The freshling of creation!
Nor doubt that He, who thus doth feed
Her early lamp with gladness,
Will be her present help in need,
Her comforter in sadness.

Smile on then, little winsome thing!
All rich in nature's treasure,
Thou hast within thy heart a spring
Of self-renewing pleasure.
Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill
Of mirth, till time shall end it;
'Tis Nature's wise and gentle will,
And who shall reprehend it?

THREE YEARS SHE GREW

Three years she grew, —three lovely years,
'Mid health and sickness, smiles and tears.
The new-found world before her sight
Spread forth its treasures, wonder-bright;
Thro' form and features more defined,
More clearly beamed the awakening mind;
And kindred hearts began to feel
A deeper fondness o'er them steal:
—And then it came,—the fatal day,—
And like a dream she past away:
One moment's lapse for aye unwrought
The wondrous web of sense and thought:
One moment's lapse for aye unwove
The soul-felt ties of household love.

And they to whom she was a part
Of daily life, of home, of heart;
Who loved to trace each new revealing
Of quicken'd sense, or wakening feeling;
Hang o'er her sleep, so still, so fair,
Or watch, with mingled joy and care,
As her light form, and fairy feet,
In happy restlessness, would fleet
From sport to sport, from place to place,
With infancy's unconscious grace;
Or woo her kisses, when at rest
She nestled in her mother's breast,
And gaze, the while, on that fair cheek,
And those blue eyes, so soft, so meek,
Which even to artless childhood lent
A look more purely innocent;
And that high brow, which seemed to express
Some touch of elder pensiveness:
—Their hopes are void, their cares are vain,
They will not see that face again:
The prayers that rose for her above,
And the fond prophecies of love,
Are mute alike: amidst their play
Her little sisters pause, and say,

“Will she not come again?” her seat
Is vacant; her quick-glancing feet
Are silent on the nursery-floor;
Her joyous laugh is heard no more.

What then remains? An image, shrined
Deep in the heart, by thought refined
To more than earthly innocence,
And angel beauty; a keen sense
Of utter loss, and yearnings vain
For that which may not be again;
Remembrances, like ghosts that walk
In the mind's stillness, holding talk
Of her, and of her winning ways,—
Her baby fondness,—the quaint plays
Of her young fancy,—witless wiles,—
Short griefs, and self-renewing smiles;
Of sufferings for her welfare borne,
The watchful night, the toilsome morn;
Of moments soothing to the heart,
Gleams of pure joy, that stole athwart
This daily scene of care and strife,
Like glimpses of a better life:
A mingled web of memory,

Sad, but from darker sadness free:
—And dreams,—for never from the heart,
Where memory dwells, can hope depart,—
Prophetic dreams, obscurely sweet,
Of some glad hour, when they shall meet
The lost one, pure from earthly stain,
From weakness, ignorance and pain
Enfranchised in that heavenly birth,
And loved, as none can love on earth.

Three years she grew in sun and shower.

Wordsworth.

TO THE SLEEP-SPIRITS.

Toil hath rest at set of sun,
But his brother Care hath none.
Kindly Genii of repose,
Soothers of all fleshly woes,
Have ye not a chain to bind
In its home the wandering Mind?
Have ye not a spell to steep
The wakeful Heart in transient sleep?
As ye fold your hushing charm,
Like a clinging mantle warm,
Man's o'erlabour'd frame about,
Lulling sense; O can ye not,
Cannot one of all your number,
Weave a web of spirit-slumber,
Heavenly-sweet, and long, and still,
For weary thought, and weary will?

STANZAS.

A chain is on my spirit's wings,
When thro' the crowded town I fare;
Spell-like, the present round me clings,
A blinding film, a stifling air.

But when amid the relics lone
Of other days I wander free,
My spirit feels its fetters flown,
And soars in joy and liberty.

Fresh airs blow on me from the past;
Stretch'd out above me like a sky,
Its starry dome, mysterious, vast,
Satiates my soul's capacious eye.

I hear the deep, the sea-like roar
Of human ages, billowing on;
No living voice, no breeze, no oar,
One awful sound is heard alone.

I feel the secret, wondrous tie
Of fellowship with ages fled;
Warm, as with man; but pure and high,
As with the sacred, changeless dead.

Whate'er they felt, whate'er they wrought,
Appears, sublimed from earthly stains;
What transient was, is lost to thought;
What cannot die, alone remains.

What are our woes? the pain, the fear,
That gloom this world of time and change?
No low-born thought can enter here;
No hope, that has a bounded range.

Thou Good unseen! thou endless End!
Last goal of hope, last bourn of love!
To thee these sleepless yearnings tend;
These views beyond, these flights above.

Past time, past space, the spirit flings
Its giant arms in search of thee;
It will not rest in bounded things;
Its Freedom is Infinity!

This poem was written simultaneously with another, by the late W. M. Praed; the two Poets sitting side by side and rhyming in friendly rivalry. Praed's poem is here subjoined. Alas, that the world is still waiting for the long-promised collection of all his poems!

WRITTEN BELOW THE PORTRAIT OF AN UNKNOWN LADY.

“What are you, Lady? nought is here
To tell your name or story,
To claim for you our smile or tear,
To dub you Whig or Tory;
I don't suppose we ever met;
And how should I discover
Where first you danced a minuet,
Or first deceived a lover?

Tell me what day the Post records
Your mother's silk and satin;
What night your father lulls the Lords
With little bits of Latin;
Who made your shoes, whose skill designs
Your dairy, or your grotto;
And in what page Debrett enshrines
Your pedigree and motto.

And do you sing, or do you sigh?
And have you taste in bonnets?
And do you read philosophy?
Or do you publish sonnets?
And does your beauty fling away
The fetters Cupid forges?
Or—are you to be married, pray,
To-morrow at Saint George's?”

I spoke! methought the pencilled fan
Fluttered, or seemed to flutter;—
Methought the painted lips began
Unearthly sounds to utter:
“I have no home, no ancestry,
No wealth, no reputation;
My name, fair Sir, is Nobody;
Am I not your relation?”

FRAGMENT.

TO AN INFANT.

Thou pretty, witless, helpless thing,
With eyes so mildly blue,
And looks, for ever wandering
'Mid a world so bright and new;
And round soft arm, and fairy hand,
Too restless to be held;
And smiles, that come without command,
And vanish uncompell'd:
Sweet marvel! how we gaze on thee—

No haunting thoughts of heretofore,
No bodings of hereafter,—
Thou pourest forth for evermore
Thine own sweet song of laughter;
A fold wherein rich meanings lie,
Joy's language in the bud;
Like a stranger's speech, whose tone and eye
Half make it understood.

PEACE TO THE FAR AWAY.

Peace to the far away! heart-peace, and mirth,
Honour, and love, to that pure-minded being,
Whom, through the cloudless air of solitude,
Mine inward eye now views, though far in space
Divided, and in heart divided more,—
Farther than tongue can tell; for sound or sign
Of man's device avails not to express
The infinite distance—the mysterious gulph
'Twixt heart and alien heart. Yet still I gaze,
As on some bright and unapproached star
The meditative wanderer, in fond hope
That, even from such communion with thy spirit,
A healing influence may descend, to calm
And harmonize mine own. For I am vext
With many thoughts: the kindly spirit of hope
Is sick within me: fretting care, and strife
With my own heart, have ta'en from solitude
Its natural calm; while, in the intercourse

Of daily life, and by the household hearth,
The silence of the unapproving eye
Falls on my heart; censure and disbelief,
And pitying smiles, and prophecies of ill
From friendly lips, like ever-dropping dews
Chilling the inward spirit of resolve,
Weigh me to earth.

Come therefore! like the Moon,
When she with white and silent steps doth climb
O'er the vext sea; shine on me once again,
Serene Remembrance! clearer and more clear
Let me behold thee, such as when thou sat'st
Beside me, on that far-surveying height,
Amidst the noontide silence, thy fair hair
Half curtaining the mild intelligence
Of thy high forehead, and soul-beaming eyes;
Thy pensive looks chequer'd with innocent smiles;
And in thy meek and stately purity
Most like that regal flower, which Fancy chose
To be an emblem of thy loveliness,—
Young Lily of the West!

It may not be:
Thy glory is not darken'd, but my eyes
Are dim with sorrow and sin, and what I see

Of thy clear vestal lamp, is but an orb
Beamless and pale, kenn'd through the sickly mists
Of my own mind. Rather let me implore
Succour from powers, that lie beyond the sphere
Of changeful Fancy; from the blessed might
Of Duty; from those forms of truth sublime,
Born with our birth, and placed within our hearts,
To guide, to warn, to strengthen;—things that were,
When our afflictions were not, and will be,
When they are past:—there let me seek for peace,
And peace may meet me there.

Mine own fair love,
My meek, my noble-hearted!—in such wise
Fond Fancy loves to dally with the thought
Of that which may not be,—farewell! farewell!

SONNET.

[I look'd for thy return, beloved Spring!]

I look'd for thy return, beloved Spring!
As with a sick man's wish, I pined for thee,
A weak and fretful longing; for to me,
I thought, thy coming would renewal bring
Of powers and loves, now slowly perishing;
Thy soft clear sun, thy buds on ground and tree
Opening, the glad tumultuous melody
Of thy young birds, each new and lovely thing,
Within my breast the selfsame joy would wake
They waked of old. O fond! to deem the spell
Of outward beauty could have power to make
Him happy, in whose heart the living well
Of happiness is dried! Thou camest at last;
And, ere I felt thy presence, thou wast past.

O COME TO ME.

—επειδαν πιεζομενους αυτοος επιλιπωσιν αι φανεραι ελπιδες, επι τας αφανεις καθιστανται. Thuc. v. 103.

O come to me! too long I've sigh'd
O'er vanish'd joys, and hopes destroy'd;
Too long I've nurs'd, from all apart,
The anguish of a lonely heart.

O come to me, my Spirit-love!
'Tis dark within, around, above;
My soul is sick with care and fear;
My Spirit-love, oh haste thee here!

Come in that mist of pale, pale light,
Wherewith thou lov'st to meet my sight;
Thy earthly sign, the visible dress
Of thy unbodied loveliness.

Come when thou wilt—oh! far more dear
Than all our garish pleasures here
The thrill of heart-deep awe shall be,
Which tells thy coming unto me!

My words in measured tones shall flow,
Fitting thy presence, soft and low;
Thou shalt make answer in the tongue
Which spirits use, half thought, half song.

I'll tell thee all the load I bear
Of unparticipated care,—
Of secret griefs, that shun the eye
Of cold and vain society.

And thou shalt charm the sickly strife
With thy sweet looks, and words of life;
The gloom of sadness thou shalt cheer,
And quell the tyranny of fear.

We'll talk of love, and all beside
That dies not when the flesh hath died;
Of truth unchangeable, sublime,
That mocks the chains of space and time:

Thou'lt tell me all that man may know,
Of worlds above, and worlds below;
And all of wonderful or fair
Thou'st learn'd since last we parted here.

Of dear ones lost—the young, the gay,
How they waned, and waned, and past away:
And thou wilt tell me if thy wings
Have cross'd them in their wanderings.

Of her, yet mine, whom love hath borne
Through life-long toil, and wrong, and scorn;
Whose restless heart e'en now doth wake
Through night's dull watches for my sake.

So will we mingle converse high
Of love and holy mystery,
Till the cold and glaring day
Calls us from our joys away.

BROOD NOT.

Brood not on things gone by;
On friendships lost, and high designs o'erthrown,
And old opinions swept away like leaves
Before the autumn blast.

Brood not on things gone by!
Thy house is left unto thee desolate;
Thou canst not be again what once thou wert;
Away, my soul, away!

No longer weakly cower
O'er the white ashes of extinguish'd hope;
Nor hover, ghost-like, round the sepulchres
Of thy departed joys.

Another star hath risen,
Another voice is calling thee aboard;
Thy bark is launch'd, the wind is in thy sail;
Away, my soul, away!

THE LOVER'S SONG.

Softly sinks the rosy sun,
And the toils of day are past and done;
And now is the time to think of thee,
My lost remember'd Emily!

Come dear Image, come for a while,
Come with thy own, thy evening smile;
—Not shaped and fashioned in fancy's mould,
But such as thou wert in the days of old.

Come from that unvisited cell,
Where all day long thou lovest to dwell,
Hous'd amid Memory's richest fraught,
Deep in the sunless caves of thought.

Come, with all thy company
Of mystic fancies, and musings high,
And griefs, that lay in the heart like treasures,
'Till Time had turn'd them to solemn pleasures;

And thoughts of early virtues gone,—
For my best of days with thee were flown,
And their sad and soothing memory
Is mingled now with my dreams of thee.

Too solemn for day, too sweet for night,
Come not in darkness, come not in light;
But come in some twilight interim,
When the gloom is soft, and the light is dim:

And in the white and silent dawn,
When the curtains of night are half undrawn,
Or at evening time, when my task is done,
I will think of the lost remember'd one!

ONCE MORE.

Once more, and yet once more, mine early love,
Have I beheld thee; but thy face is wan,
And change, and sorrow, and a law austere,
Have done their work upon thee: yet thy hair
Is golden still; and in thy voice I trace
The tones that thrill'd my boyish heart in song;
And in thy looks and in thy words what seems
The ghost of that sweet playfulness, which made
Thy early years so exquisite, and hung
Upon thee, like a garland of wild flowers.
But care and inward strife have temper'd now
All sadness; and the heartless spirit and light,
Gazing on thee, would from that placid brow,
So fix'd and stedfast in its melancholy,
Recoil soul-humbled. Fancy might descry
In thee, thus pale and solemn of attire,
Some veiled votaress of the faith thou lov'st,
O'er her deserted shrine in quiet woe
Mourning; or partial love in thee might trace

Some distant semblance of that maid divine,
Young, playful, frank, high-minded, whom, to her faith
Stedfast, and to her Queen, in darkest hour,
The mighty fabler of these latter times
In song-like story hath immortalized.

APART BY THE EVENING FIRE.

Apart, by the evening fire she stands,
With fixed look, and folded hands;
And her breath comes calm and regular,
Through lips as still as a sleeper's are:
She gazes, all unmeaningly,
On the fitful shadows that come and flee,
On the household, lit by the torch's ray,
In their cheerful work, or their peaceful play;
But she takes no note of outward things,
For her heart is away on its wanderings.

Through time, through space, her fancies rove
To him, her first, her only love,
Who rose like a morn on her spirit's eye,
When it woke from the dream of infancy,—
A spell-like influence, colouring
With its own rich hues each outward thing;
To him, her hope, her pride, her stay,
Her friend in sorrow, her mate in play,
Her dream in the stillness of secret thought,
Haunting her soul like a joy unsought.

And now—what change comes o'er her now?
—'Tis the thrilling thought of his broken vow;
'Tis the pang, that shoots like an icy dart
Through all the cells of her woman's heart,
As she thinks, how he has left his own
To toil through the world alone—alone;
How years may pass, and fortunes change,
And new friends smile, and old look strange,
And daily things come o'er and o'er,
But her joy, her pride, her love—no more!

Oh Hope, it is a living thing!
Ye cannot bar its visiting;
The weary spirit may chide its stay,
But it will not, will not, pass away!
'Tis busy now in her heart, to tell
He still must love, who loved so well;
He left her side for a thoughtless hour,
But the spell of the past has not lost its power;
That charm shall prevail,—and griefs and fears
Be forgotten in Love's atoning tears!

THEY GO, AND I REMAIN.

They go, and I remain. Their steps are free
To tread the halls and groves, in thought alone
To me accessible, my home erewhile
Heart-loved, and in their summer quiet still
As beautiful, as when of old, return'd
From London's never-ebbing multitude
And everlasting cataract of sound,
'Midst the broad, silent courts of Trinity
I stood, and paus'd; so strange, and strangely sweet,
The night-like stillness of that noontide scene
Sank on my startled ear.

Those days are past;
And like a homeless schoolboy, left behind
When all his mates are free to sport their fill
Through the long midsummer, I sit, and strive
To cheat my hope-sick heart with memory.

FRAGMENT,

WRITTEN PARTLY WHILE LISTENING TO MUSIC.

Soul of the Loveliness unseen!
Whose steps are in the ancient sea,
And in the meadow sunny-green,
And in the clouds that change and flee;
Who peoplest barren vacancy
With power, and meaning, and delight;
And, mixing with all things that be,
Dost circle, like a travelling light,
Around the cloudy heaven of this world's glimmering night!

Here too thou walkest, spirit free;
I feel, I know thy secret sign:
Thou in the land of melody
Hast built thyself a kingly shrine,
Through which thy lineaments divine,
In grace and glory, beam and move:
The waves of Music roll and shine
Before thee, where thou bidst them rove,
And waft to human hearts thine embassies of love.

The waters of that wondrous deep
By thee, as by a God, are driven;
Now flashing 'gainst the foamy steep,
Now rolling, calm as seas at even,
Beneath the vast mysterious heaven:
Swayed by one sightless impulse all,
Still shifting, as thy word is given,
Through glorious rise, or gentle fall,
The hosts of lovely sound fulfil thy sovereign call.

Thou beamest, like an inward light,
Through that interminable throng;
From where the organ, in its might,
Down arched roofs sublime and long
Rolls fiercely forth its storm of song;
To where, in some small peaceful home,
A sweet-voiced wife, the evening long,
Sings to her mate, while through the room
The frequent fire-light plays, chequering the gentle gloom.

TO B. H. KENNEDY.

The heart hath its own kingdom, portion'd off
From the blank common earth; a range select
Of places, by remember'd grief, or joy,
Or early love, or the mere mystery
Of past existence, hallow'd; Goshen-spots,
Aye bright with spiritual sunshine; and which all,
Who have not sinned away their human heart,
Fold in its best affections. Such to mine
Are Twickenham, and the towers of Eton old;
Such Teign's green cliffs; and pleasant Doncaster;
And the fair Mother of free-minded men
In Granta; and that lowly town beloved
'Mid Mowbray's northern vale. And such, kind Friend,

The shadowy stillness of its grove, its rooms
Nestling 'mid flowers and sunshine, its mild charm
Domestic, woman's gentle courtesy,
And the rare loveliness of infant mirth,
Have made thy home to me. Therefore, with those
My memory's elder idols, in my heart
Deep-cell'd, thy Harrow shall henceforth be join'd,
Last Sister of a family so fair.

“The pleasant town of Doncaster.”—Ivanhoe

Trinity College.

Thirsk in Yorkshire.

TO CHARLOTTE AMY MAY,

Daughter of B. H. Kennedy, Born May 14, 1832.

Fair first-born flower of middle May,
With silken leaves as white as day,
And eye of tender blue;
Sweet nursling, born in happy hour,
Where Ida spreads her greenest bower
O'er loving hearts and true:

Or art thou, with thy looks and smiles,
And motions, and unconscious wiles,
A playful Ivy rather,
Weaving in many a circlet fine
Thy little tendrils, to entwine
A pair of hearts together?

Thy growth is under kindly skies,
The sunshine of beloved eyes
Is on thee all day long;
And all the airs of joy, that roam
The Eden of that happy home,
Disport thy leaves among.

A stranger sought that Paradise,
To bathe his parched heart and eyes
In its delicious green;
And when he thinks of that lone bower,
He thinks of thee, Spring's favourite flower,
And May-time's infant Queen.

Keats calls the musk=rose “mid-May's eldest child.”

A mistake of the Poet's; the little Lady's eyes were dark.

Ida, says the Scholiast, is the exoteric name of Harrow Hill

I am afraid this illustration is not the Poet's own; but no matter for that.

THE YOUNGER SISTER.

She sported round him, gay and light
As summer breeze, or faery sprite;
Exchanging meek endearments now,
Now masking Love in Anger's brow:

Now startling him from grave reflection
With pretty sallies of affection,
Sweet fancies, which he wots not of:
—How lovely is a sister's love!

Oh, prize her well! for who can know
In what heart-pain, what stifling woe,
Her looks, her soothing words, may be
The breath of inward life to thee?

Yet not for this—nay, shame on me,
That I should speak such words to thee!
Of thy true spirit counsel take,
And love her—for her own love's sake!

SONNET.

[I woke with beating heart and throbbing brain]

I woke with beating heart and throbbing brain:
The memory of that self-devoted maid,
A haunting care, upon my spirit prey'd,
And deeper thoughts, pregnant with obscure pain,
Lay like a heavy load upon my brain:
When lo! a voice—'twas a light-hearted boy
Singing, still singing, at his morn's employ;
A boy, yet delicate and soft the strain
As ever maiden sang, at twilight hour,
In pastoral cot, or stately latticed bower.
I lay and listen'd, till all thoughts of pain
And sorrow melted from me, and my mind,
To a still dream of melody resign'd,
Lay hush'd and tranquil as a summer main.

And obscure pangs made curses of his sleep. S. T. Coleridge.

I AM FAR FROM HER.

I am far from her whom my soul loves best,
I am far from my love, and yet I am blest;
And my heart leaps in me as blithe and gay,
As the heart of a bird on a glad spring day.

For I know that my love is good and pure,
And I know that her faith is firm and sure;
A fount of truth, too deep and still
For chance to ruffle, or absence chill.

We have loved thro' want, we have loved thro' wrong,
We have felt the blight of the slanderer's tongue;
And the selfish scorner's worldly eye
Has mock'd at our calm fidelity.

But our friendship droop'd not in the shower,
For it was not the growth of a summer hour;
And the worldling's smile, and the false one's sneer,
Made each but to each more proudly dear.

Then onward, onward, in hope and joy!
We are far apart, but our meeting is nigh;
Our term of trial will soon be o'er,
And the true shall meet, to part no more!

HOW CAN I SING?

How can I sing? all power, all good,
The high designs and hopes of yore,
Knowledge, and faith, and love,—the food
That fed the fire of song,—are o'er;

And I, in darkness and alone,
Sit cowering o'er the embers drear,
Remembering how, of old, it shone
A light to guide,—a warmth to cheer.

Oh! when shall care and strife be o'er,
And torn affection cease to smart;
And peace and love return once more
To cheer a sad and restless heart?

The lamp of hope is quench'd in night,
And dull is friendship's soul-bright eye,
And quench'd the hearth of home-delight,
And mute the voice of phantasy.

I seek for comfort all in vain,
I fly to shadows for relief,
And call old fancies back again,
And breathe on pleasure's wither'd leaf.

In vain for days gone by I mourn,
And feebly murmur, o'er and o'er,
My fretful cry—Return! Return!—
Alas, the dead return no more!

It may not be: my lot of thrall
Was dealt me by a mightier hand;
The grief, that came not at my call,
Will not depart at my command.

Then ask me not, sweet friend, to wake
The harp, so dear to thee of yore;
Wait, till the clouds of sorrow break,
And I can hope and love once more.

When pain has done its part assign'd,
And set the chasten'd spirit free,
My heart once more a voice shall find,
And its first notes be pour'd for thee!

TO MAY, 1822.

Welcome, welcome, bonny May,
With thy fields so green, and thy skies so gay,
And thy sweet white flowers that hang on the tree;
Welcome, welcome, dear May, to me.

Welcome to thy gentle moon,
And the soft blue still of thy genial noon;
Welcome to thy lightsome eves,
And the small birds singing among the leaves.

Thy coming has waken'd the spirit of love
In earth, and in sea, and in heaven above;
The happy air runs o'er with balm;
'Tis too soft for mirth, and too glad for calm.

From the heart of man thou hast taken the seal,
Thou hast taught the breast of dear woman to feel;
And cheeks are smiling, and thoughts are free,
And all is happy on earth but me.

I feel thee not as I felt of old,
For my heart within me is wither'd and cold;
I feel thee not, but I see thy face,
And 'tis bright with its own Elysian grace.

Thou wert lovely then—thou art lovely now,
Though all is alter'd on earth but thou;
And the poet's voice, though broken it be,
Has yet a song of praise for thee.

—But thou art passing, and wilt not stay;
Like the joys of youth, thou art passing away,
With thy eye of light, and thy foot of mirth,
To chase the old sun round the far green earth.

Thou art passing onward, and wilt not stay—
Then a kind farewell to thee, bonny May!
Bright be thy pathway, and happy thy cheer,
And a kind farewell till another year!

SONNET ON LEAVING TEIGNMOUTH.

Fair fields, rich hedgerows; the eternal sea,
And its great bounds; broad hills of green increase;
White hamlets lone; and, nestling among these,
A happy bower, where true-born courtesy
Clasps with its graceful wreath the goodly tree
Of Home Affection;—thro' such scenes of peace,
Borne by his wayward fortune's hurrying breeze,
A stranger past; and when the potency
Of that all-mastering blast still swept him on,
As voyager, harbour'd on some unknown strand,
On mossy trunk or rude memorial stone
Inscribes his homely record, in like guise
Wove he these uncouth rhymes, to memorize
The welcome which he met in that fair land.

TO CLARA.

The fire of mind, that lights my clay,
May burn and die, a lonely flame,
Nor leave a trace behind, to say
That e'er it warm'd a mortal frame.

But if, as early hopes foretold,
(And early hopes are cherish'd long,)
My name should ever shine enroll'd
Among my Country's sons of song;

Thou wilt not grieve, my gentle friend,
That thou hast given thy youthful bloom
Upon the couch of pain to tend,
And lighten sorrow's lonely gloom.

Yet fear no flatterer's voice in me;
I would not wrong, with pompous praise,
The sweets, which Love unconsciously
Sheds round it, as a star its rays.

The simple violet takes no thought,
While breathing forth its odours rare;
They came from heaven, they cost her nought,
And yet they gladden earth and air.

EVENING.

Midst a rich shew of clouds, the day
Sinks slowly, like some honour'd friend,
Whom, as he parts upon his way,
A faithful farewell train attend.

The night comes on with silent pace,
The sounds of busy life decay;
Like ocean-waves, that ebb apace,
The mingled murmurs melt away.

The first few stars begin to peep,
The birds have ceased their melody,
And slumber settles, soft and deep,
On childhood's quickly-closing eye.

This is the hour, the hour of rest,
By sages lov'd, by poets sung,
When 'midst the stillness of the breast
The gates of thought are open flung;

When grief, and wrong, and worldly ills,
Touch'd by the magic hour, are flown,
As some meek-hearted mother stills
With gentle voice her infant's moan;

When cares and pleasures unrefined,
Day's various scenes of toil or glee,
Retire, and leave the exorcised mind
One still and dim vacuity;

And clearer through the silent void
Is heard the voice of Truth supreme,
And brighter thro' the gloom descried
The torch of Wisdom sheds its beam.

Then the strong soul, unfetter'd, wings
Where'er she lists her flight sublime,
Thro' earthly, or eternal things,
Thro' good or ill, thro' space or time:

O'er early errors heaves the sigh,
Looks downward thro' unfolding years,
And broods on coming grief or joy
With tranquil hope, and chastened fears.

Then the great spirit of the past
Comes, with his rainbow-flag unfurl'd,
Whose folds, far-spread, on all things cast
A light, that is not of this world;

And the rapt soul in vision views
Her early loves, and hopes, and fears,
Trick'd in his nameless, glorious hues,
Like visitants from other spheres.

Then, too, the heart is at its play,
The strings of love draw closer then,
And thoughts, dear thoughts, that slept by day,
Come to the lonely heart again.

This is the hour, the peaceful hour,
By sages and by bards approved,
When Hope and Memory blend their power,
And they, who love us, best are loved.

This is the hour the loved are dearest,
This is the hour the parted meet,
The dead, the distant now are nearest,
And joy is soft, and sorrow sweet.

C. H. Townsend.

LINES WRITTEN AT RUGBY, 1834.

—So lovely seem'd
That landscape; and of pure now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair.
Paradise Lost. iv.

Not here, not here! though here I meet
Heroic worth, and manly sense,
And virgin faces, young and sweet,
Bright with the joy of innocence;
Though high-born minds their thoughts entwine
In frank and kindly wreath with mine;
And home's pure breath among your bowers
Blows, like an air from Eden-flowers
From cheerful morn to peaceful eve;
Though fields are still, and green, and bright,
And suns and clouds for ever weave
Their wondrous web of shade and light;
Not here!—to heart, and mind, and will,
The lonely curse is clinging still;

The life-long thorn will not depart;
The fire of care is in my heart;
Your hearths are cold, your fields are drear;—
My home, kind Beings! is not here.
My home is in the golden Past,
The phantom-land of vanish'd years;
[Among the flowers that would not last,
Beneath the sun that set in tears.]

TO MY SISTER, SAILING FOR ST. HELENA.

Go forth to thine appointed rest
Beyond the broad sea-foam;
Go forth, our fairest and our best,
To thy far island-home!
With him, thy youthful heart's approved,
Thy mate for many a year beloved,
In thy full matron bloom
Go forth, to act, as fate commands,
Thy part of life in other lands.

Kind thoughts attend thee, from the place
Where thou hast been so long
A daily sight, a household face,
A mate in work and song;
A flower to cheer, a lamp to shed
Soft light beside the sick one's bed:
To that beloved throng
Each act of daily life shall be
A mute remembrancer of thee.

Full well we know, where'er thy lot,
Thou canst not be alone;
For Love, in earth's unkindliest spot,
Will find, or make, its own;
And from the green and living heart
New friendships still, like buds, will start:
But yet, wherever thrown,
No ties can cling around thy mind
So close as those, thou leav'st behind.

And oft, while gazing on the sea
That girds thy lonely isle,
Shall faithful memory bring to thee
The home so loved erewhile;
Its lightsome rooms, its pleasant bowers,
The children, that like opening flowers
Grew up beneath thy smile;
The hearts, that shared from earliest years
Thy joys and griefs, thy hopes and fears.

The sister's brow, so blithe of yore,
With early care imprest;
And she, whose failing eyes no more
Upon her child may rest;
And kindred forms, and they who eyed
Thy beauty with a brother's pride;
And friends beloved the best,
The kind, the joyous, the sincere,
Shall to thine inward sight appear.

And they, whose dying looks on thee
In grief and love were cast,—
The leaves, from off our household tree
Swept by the varying blast,—
Oft, in the mystery of sleep,
Shall Love evoke them from the deep
Of the unfathomed Past,
And Fancy gather round thy bed
The spirits of the gentle Dead.

Farewell! if on this parting day
Remorseful thoughts invade
One heart, for blessings cast away,
And fondness ill repaid;
He will not breathe them:—let them rest
Within the stillness of the breast;
Be thy remembrance made
A home, where chastening thoughts may dwell:—
My own true sister, fare thee well!

SONNET TO THE SAME,

With Trench's Poems.

Take with thee, Sister, to thy lone retreat
These breathings of a thoughtful Poet's mind,
One in whose spirit heavenly love, combined
With earth's affections, blends in union meet.
Love him, and fear him not; he will not cheat
Thy trusting fancy with unsure delight;
Nor turn to sickly moods of sullen spite
The grief, that seeks in verse a refuge sweet.
With every feeling of the common day
The song shall harmonize: to thoughts, that tend
Beyond this vale of sense, his words shall lend
Fit voice: and when thy Country far away
Swells at thy breast, to him thy care impart,—
He shall interpret for thee thy full heart.

STANZAS TO THE SAME, AT ST. HELENA,

With Moultrie's Poems.

Sister! to thee a gift I send,
Though small, yet rich in worth;
The page, whereon my Poet-friend
Has pour'd his spirit forth.

A welcome gift to thee, I guess,
For thou hast loved full long
His soft and mellow tenderness,
His easy-flowing song.

Now in his fancy's noon serene
'Twill be a joy to rest,
And on its warm and balmy green
Recline thy yearning breast.

The themes he dwells on, are the ties
To which the exile clings;
Home, friendship, kindred sympathies,
All dear and sacred things.

And when thou hear'st, by wondrous art,
The caves of verse repeat
The changeful music of thy heart,
In echoes doubly sweet;

'Twill cheer thee, as the kindly tone
Of some familiar voice
Breaks on us in our musings lone,
And makes our griefs rejoice

TO ---

It is not in thy sight
That the foes of peace have power;
They shrink before thy gentle might,
And shun the charmed hour.

For while I breathe the balm
Of thy sweet and saintly voice,
And bathe me in thy forehead's balm,
How can I but rejoice?

But when the light is o'er,
And the vision past away,
And my waking eyes look out once more
On the cold and sunless day;

I feel like one who goes
From a home of light and love,
When the earth is pale and chill with snows,
And the heaven is dark above.

THE RAIN IS FALLING.

The rain is falling sluggishly, the night is sad and still,
My weary soul is waning with thoughts of woe and ill;
The earth is cold beneath me, the heavens are black with fear;
My sleepless heart is calling thee: Oh! would that thou wert here!

Oh! would that thou wert here, with thy brow so calm and high,
Thy smile of meek affection, thy undeceiving eye;
By the worm of remorse, by the hell of a peaceless home,
By the madness of suspense, beloved, haste and come!

BEREAVEMENT.

A shadow from the unknown world hath fallen
Upon a human home: a kindred life
Hath vanish'd in the unrestoring grave:
An old familiar face hath past away
To join remember'd things. O'er house and hearth,
Chambers and walks, a feeling sad and dim,
An all-pervading sense of vacancy,
Rests like a cloud. Amidst the household talk,
And work-day cares, and accidents of life,
Misgivings are entwined, and mournful thoughts,
That will not be repelled. From heart to heart
The general sorrow circles, like a stream
Changing its face according to the hue
Earth lends it: down the cheek of youth the tears
Fall wild and rapid, like a summer rain:
On the still heart of age the weight of woe
Sinks cold and deep: childhood, the while it droops
In imitative sadness, hears with awe,
And unbelieving wonder, the strange news

That it shall never see that form again,
Which from the first of memory has been
A daily sight, a part inseparable
Of home and of its ways, from morn to eve:
And when the speechless infant, his fair cheek
Suffused with the heart's laughter, from his play
Looks up, to claim the accustomed sympathy
Of answering smiles, he wonders to behold
The faces, never sad to him before,
Blotted with tears.

SONNET.

[We looked that thy calm soul should pass away]

We looked that thy calm soul should pass away
In calmness; that thy lamp of home-delight
And mild activity, kept clear and bright
By inward peace, should still around us play
Through many a tranquil hour of soft decay,
To soothe and cheer; as on a summer night,
With foot invisible, the western light
Steals down the heaven. But on thy waning day
Death closed, like sudden midnight upon eve:
A blast of sorrow smote thee, ere thy tree
Was sere for fall: the drops that flow for thee
Down manly cheeks, and from soft eyelids shower,
Are bitter as the tears of those, who grieve
For maiden youth, cut off in its first flower.

SONNET.

[They say that thou wert lovely on thy bier]

They say that thou wert lovely on thy bier,
More lovely than in life; that, when the thrall
Of earth was loos'd, it seem'd as though a pall
Of years were lifted, and thou didst appear
Such, as of old amidst thy home's calm sphere
Thou satst, a kindly Presence, felt by all
In joy or grief, from morn to evening-fall,
The peaceful Genius of that mansion dear.
—Was it the craft of all-persuading Love
That wrought this marvel? or is Death indeed
A mighty Master, gifted from above
With alchemy benign, to wounded hearts
Ministring thus, by quaint and subtle arts,
Strange comfort, whereon after-thought may feed?

TO THE SEVEN EXPELLED PROFESSORS OF GÖTTINGEN.

Another leaf is added to the book
Of worthy deeds; another record fair
To which in after times good men may turn
For light and strength, in the great war o' th' world,
When sufferings hem them round, and sinful fears
Wax strong within them. Honour be your meed,
High-hearted men! who to blind power opposing
The Scholar's peaceful fortitude, have striven
For Liberty and Law. The approving smiles
Of kindred spirits shall like sunshine wait
On your bleak path of banishment; and when
The strife is o'er, and your great father-land,
The land of Thought and Learning, hath achieved
Its hard-won freedom, your just deed shall shine,
Amongst the records of that glorious time,
Enroll'd for fame, throughout the years of man.

PHANTASMAGORIA.

''Twas in that hour of soften'd light,
More still than noon, than eve more bright,
I sat alone: my spirit wrought
With some obscure but mournful thought.

On wall and floor the slanting ray
In golden lines of splendour lay,
Moveless, and clear, and mildly bright,
Like Gentleness in its delight.

Swiftly, yet calmly, o'er my soul
The spirit of sweet Nature stole;
The mists that clogg'd my heart and brain
Fell from me, like a captive's chain.

The anxious now, the gloomy here,
Seem'd, as by spell, to disappear;
The earth and heaven of other days,
With all their glories, met my gaze.

The ghosts of Nature's lovely things
Came fleeting by on spirit-wings;
And rapt, as in a changeful dream,
I gave my bark to Memory's stream.

—I thought of deep-blue summer noons,
Of purple eves, and midnight moons;
Of long green lanes, and garden-bowers,
And fields ablaze with yellow flowers.

How sweet 'twas once to wake, and spy
The first brief dawn o'erspread the sky,
So broad, so clear, so pale, it seems
Like the bright noon without its beams.

Or on spring morn through fields to fare,
'Midst the green smell, and soft warm air,
And, listening to the song-bird's trill,
With mystery of sweetness thrill.

How oft, at fall of winter night,
I'd watch'd the dark-red western light,
Hung, like a gloomy torch, on high,
Amidst the wild winds' revelry.

How hush'd I lay, while o'er my soul
The awfulness of darkness stole,
And listen'd, half the night-time long,
To Silence, and her murmuring song.

I thought of storms, what time the sun
Look'd brazen through the rain-clouds dun,
Or glorious o'er the dropping earth
The sudden rainbow brighten'd forth.

Of quick-eyed lightning, and the wonder
Of the many-voiced thunder;
Of glittering frost, and pure white snow,
Spread like a sea o'er all below.

I thought of scenes where youth had been,
And regions but in spirit seen:[OMITTED]

Soft grassy slopes, and winding floods,
And silent, shadowy, endless woods,
Where through green arches, window-bough'd,
Gleam broken sun and sever'd cloud.

All goodly forms of air and earth
Came forth, as from a second birth:
Like wonders in some old romance,
One after one they met my glance:

And as they past, I seem'd to hear
A choral hymn from some far sphere,
Telling of beauty true and high,
That was, and is, and will not die.

“The rich brazen light of a rainy sunset.”—Coleridge.

THERE IS A LIGHT.

There is a light unseen of eye,
A light unborn of sun or star,
Pervading earth, and sea, and sky,
Beside us still, yet still afar:

A power, a charm, whose web is wrought
Round all we see, or feel, or know,
Round all the world of sense and thought,
Our love and hate, our joy and woe.

It goes, it comes; like wandering wind,
Unsought it comes, unbidden goes:
Now flashing sunlike o'er the mind,
Now quench'd in dark and cold repose.

It sweeps o'er the great frame of things,
As o'er a lyre of varied tone,
Searching the sweets of all its strings,
Which answer to that touch alone.

From midnight darkness it can wake
A glory, bright as summer sea;
And can of utter silence make
A vast and solemn harmony.

To the white dawn, and moonlight heaven,
The flower's soft breath, the breeze's moan,
The rain-cloud's hues, its spell hath given
A life, a meaning not their own;

And to the sound of friendly tongue,
And to the glance of loving eye,
The smiles of home, the voice of song,
A beauty spiritual and high.

And when we muse on vanish'd joys,
And wander 'mongst the lost and loved,
Like children 'midst their treasured toys,
Then, chiefly then, its might is proved.

'TIS UTTER NIGHT.

'Tis utter night; over all Nature's works
Silence and rest are spread; yet still the tramp
Of busy feet, the roll of wheels, the hum
Of passing tongues,—one endless din confused
Of sounds, that have no meaning for the heart,—
Marring the beauty of the tranquil hour,
Press on my sleepless ear. Sole genial voice,
The restless flame, that flickers on the hearth
Heard indistinctly through the tumult, soothes
My soul with its companionable sound,
And tales of other days. Thither I turn
My weary sense for refuge; as a child
In a strange home, with unaccustomed sights
Perplex'd, and unknown voices, if it spy
Some well-remember'd face, with eager joy
Flies to the sure protection, and clings close
Round the beloved knees.

'TIS SAD WHEN SICKNESS.

'Tis sad when sickness loads the frame;
When kind ones look distrust and blame;
When worldly cares are pressing still;
And heaven is dark, and earth is chill.

But oh! it is a deeper pain
To know, our best resolves are vain,—
Our cold, half-love of Truth and Right
Too weak to nerve us in the fight!

Oh Right! oh Truth! in power come down,
And make our feeble hearts your own;
To think that we are yours, will be
A joy in deepest misery!

MINE EYE IS ATHIRST.

Mine eye is athirst for the glancing dew,
And the young spring leaves, and the sun-cloud blue;
And my listless ear
Is sad till it hear
The morning song of the birds anew.

To the dear old fields in heart I'm borne,
Where the gorgeous poppy spots the corn;
Where the houses are white
In the evening light,
And the hills are blue in the clouds of morn.

Fast, fast, the spirit clings
To the forms of old beloved things;
And deep, and deep,
The affections sleep,
That waken to Nature's visitings!

SONNET TO J. M. Kemble.

Speed on thy journey, Kemble, unsubdued
By labour, where the voice of Truth august
Points thy steep path; speed on in fearless trust,
Though blind neglect oppose, and clamour rude.
Not to light end, true soul, hast thou eschew'd
The meanness of ambition, and wild lust
Of joys, that lay our nobler powers in dust,
To toil obscure and thoughtful solitude,
Wedding thy bloom of life. Thou sit'st, meseems,
By a lone watch-fire, with unsleeping eye
And patient love, nursing its languid gleams
In darkness and in silence; but ere long,
Waked by its blaze, shall many round thee throng,
To light from thine a flame which will not die.

SONNET TO Robert Nairne.

High thoughts are sometimes with me, Friend sincere,
Even in this ill estate: I yet presume
A doubtful hope, that in far years to come,
When men shall talk of Wordsworth, Nature's seer,
And eagle-minded Coleridge, and the clear
Planet of song, that set in morning gloom
Among the pines, beneath the Cestran tomb,
And what like souls our England's latter year
Hath borne, they in that roll the name may write
Of one, whose inward power, in mists of grief
Long quench'd, and deeper gloom of spiritual night,
Yet, ere his flower of song had shed its leaf,
Brake forth, and spread itself in many a lay
Of love and truth, that might not pass away.

AMONG THE CLOUDS.

Among the clouds and trees the ancient wind
Is singing its great song: athwart the stars
The lightning flashes, broad and tremulous:
Yet above all this tumult and within
There reigns, o'er all things sensibly diffused,
The spirit of deep stillness.

O GRIEF!

O grief! beside the stream of holy love
To stand, and mark its everlasting flow,
Its laughing leaps, its murmurs sweet and low,
Its bordering flowers, its glory from above;
Yet feel that thine own home far distant stands
Amidst the desart sands!

FRAGMENT.

[“Those days are past;—and it is now]

“Those days are past;—and it is now
A place where all may come and go;
To which the tide of travellers flows,
For transient mirth, or brief repose:
All pressing to some onward aim,
They come, and vanish as they came:
The mansion hath in them no share,
Their hopes, their loves are all elsewhere.
No legends gather round its halls,
No household genii haunt its walls.
But yet to me, where'er I roam,
O'er that estranged and altered home,
O'er sacred hearth, and social room,
And echoing threshold, and the gloom
Of staircase old, o'er ivied towers,
And gardens bright with summer flowers,
O'er floor and roof, o'er wall and bed,
The glory of the Past is spread,

Clothing its chambers with a light,
To which the noonday sun is night.
And if indeed, as Christians say,
The unbodied soul must live for aye,
I think that mine, where'er it be,
Will keep, through its eternity,
In joy or sorrow, unremoved,
The image of that place beloved.”

The speaker (a Pagan) has been describing the home of his childhood.

THE MID-DAY COCK.

The mid-day cock is crowing,—
The solemn wind is blowing;
A moment to my heart they come,
Through the town's unjoyous hum,
Through the weary din, and stir, and press,
Those strange and mingled sounds of solemn cheerfulness!
—But the marvellous music is fled;
The waters have closed o'er it,
And will no more restore it;
The corpse is there, but the life is flown;
My spirit is alone.
—O solitude! enchanter strong!
Would thou wert here, to wake the dead,
The pale cold sounds whose life is fled,
And bid them sing to thee, and join their song!

FRAGMENTS OF AN EPITHALAMIUM.

Awake then, voice and song,
That hast been silent long!
Wake for the young, the fond, the faithful-hearted!
Wake for the youth, whose breast
Now throbs with sweet unrest,
For whom the veil of hope this day is parted;
And her, who hath to Love resign'd
The key of her rich heart, and bow'd her tameless mind.

A touching sight, to see
That type of majesty,
That stately form, and that far-soaring mind,
Subdued, in joy and pain,
To the mysterious chain
Ordain'd from aye a woman's heart to bind;

And stooping from its glorious birth
To the fond cares of man, and softnesses of earth.

A touching thought, to know
That one like her must go
Through every path which feeblest women tread.

And she, the maid of song,
Whose task hath been so long,
With sister's care, his lonely bower to tend,
And spread her warm heart's fold,
To shelter from the cold
Of this bleak world her brother and her friend;
And with soft harp and soul-sweet voice
Relax his toil-worn brow, and make his griefs rejoice.

Her charge will soon be o'er,
Yet will she not deplore
That to her early friend that care is given.

But now his toils are o'er,
And he may go once more
To his dear mountain-dwelling, there to hold,
With hills and lakes and skies,
And his glad children's eyes,
And one fond heart, communion uncontroll'd;
And with that deep and lofty mind,
Whose thoughts have beamed o'er earth, a watch-light to mankind.

But hush! they suit not here,
The sounds of doubt and fear;
Young Bride, the Poet owes not this to thee
For many a cordial smile,
For commune held awhile
With thy fair mind, and heart-born courtesy;
Nor hath the fortune order'd wrong,
Which twines his farewell strain with this thy nuptial song.

For he, too, must depart;
With many a friendly heart,
And new-found home, his converse must be broken;
He may not come again,
Yet, haply, not in vain
Your looks, your words have to his spirit spoken;
Nor vainly hath he wrought the lay,
Which blends your thoughts of him with this remember'd day.

JUDAS MACCABEUS.

A FRAGMENT, IN IMITATION OF MILTON.

The warrior youth, who by the will rais'd up
Of Israel's God, the chosen tribes releas'd
From persecution, ignominy, and shame,
Winning his way through toils, till he o'erthrew
Syria's proud monarch, from his hands redeem'd
The city of God, to Sion's Mount restor'd
Her glory, and rekindled Israel's sun,
Sing, heav'nly Muse! who ne'er to fabled acts
Of God or God-born hero militant
Didst pay vain homage; but before the throne
Of the Omnipotent, for ever join'd
With angels and the spirits of the blest,
Tun'st the full hymn: O guide my wand'ring spirit,
My lowly fancy raise, and be my mind
From darkness light, that equal I may sing,
Theme not ignoble, o'er his leagued foes
Judas in triumph riding, type of Him
Who through this vale of mortal misery

Travell'd with feet divine, and to his heav'n
Return'd, victorious o'er the thrones of hell.

It was the hour of eve, and the slant sun
Sinking, resign'd the air to Sleep, who shed
Dews from his car oblivious, and all lands
With quiet moisten'd; all save one, where quiet
Was none, nor hope, nor intermission sweet
Of evil; through Israel's bounds havoc and death
Still raged dimensionless: the altar of God
Fall'n, and the sanctuary with rites profan'd
Idolatrous, their happy fields laid waste,
Empty and void their streets, their virgins dragg'd
To shame, their youths by torture slain, or sav'd
For misery and bondage. Therefore prayers,
Laments, and clamours, all night on the wind
Rose from the race to woe devote. But, far
From war or ruin, in Modin's lonely bounds
Retir'd the Maccabean family
By moonlight at the threshold of their house
Assembled sate; grey-headed in the midst
Mattathias, of five warlike sons the sire,
Spake of his country's woes: him with kind looks,
And more effectual words, his sons essay'd

To win from sorrow, and temper his despair,
Though sad themselves, yet smiling; sure to please
By such kind effort, whom they well might please
Not strenuous. Them thus occupy'd, beheld
Jehovah from his height, where girt with choirs
Cherubic, in th' excess of glory he sits,
Well-pleased beheld: he also heard the groans
Of that sad race, and after prelude sent
Of thunder, his ministrant spirit address'd.

“Michael, of heav'nly armies chief, and prince
Tutelar of that favour'd land, where dwell
My chosen tribes, into what state now fall'n
For their offence, thou seest, and with what weight
Of sorrow compass'd round, yet not by me
Forsaken, nor of former hope amere'd:
Such pillar of defence will I provide
Against the heathen, who with impious arms
Have spoil'd my land, and in my fane set up
Their foul abominations; soon to quail
Before the young Deliverer, whom anon,
Great things by small evolving, I will call
From Modin, humble town, where now he bides,
To quell the Syrian might, set free my tribes

Enslav'd, and in Jerusalem restore
My worship; that so Israel, in success
Rememb'ring him who gave it, from their sins
May turn, and by well-doing raise my name
Among the heathen round. Go therefore thou,
My servant, and to Modin's walls repairing,
Stir up the spirit of him, whom 'midst his sons
Fast sleeping thou wilt find, Mattathias, green
In hardy age, to me and to my laws
From youth devoted; he with hope and zeal
New fir'd, shall in the wilderness set up
My standard, and around him many flock;
So shall he stoutly wage unequal war
Against th' oppressive Syrian; till with years
And honours crown'd, he dies, and from him dying
Judas his son, for might and feats of arms
Preferr'd above his brethren, next receives
The pow'r transmissive: he in many a fight
Conqu'ring, shall crown the labours which his sire
So well began, and to his brethren leave
The easier part, to 'stablish what he rais'd.
So shall not yet the sceptre from the hand
Of Judah pass, nor from his line the law;
Till in due lapse of years the promis'd seed,

Messiah, mine Anointed, come on earth
To finish my whole counsel, and proclaim
To Israel first, and then to all mankind,
Tidings of love and mercy without end.”

He spake, and at his bidding Michael
From out the heav'nly orders, where he stood
Succinct for flight, advanc'd; and first, as wont
The ministers of heav'n, ere on their high
Commissions they set forth, before the throne
In sign of acquiescence bow'd, then spread
His starry wings, and through the pure white air
Of Heav'n pursu'd his flight; him all the host
Follow'd with acclamation, and sweet sound
Of praises to their God; till at the gates
Arriv'd, the crystal gates, self-op'ning gave
Easy descent adown the range adjoin'd
Of ample golden stairs, into the vast
Subjected universe: he on the verge
Of outmost Heav'n, poising for downward flight
His pinions, stood, then spread, and thro' the void
Descending, while all gaz'd around, with speed
By man immeasurable, tow'rd this earth,
Scarce visible in distance, though to eye

Of angel prime, so many and far between
Worlds interjected lay, he steers his flight.
As when from some far-potent land a ship
Swift tilting scuds the midmost brine, despatch'd
On weightiest errand to some foreign shore,
Island, or colony, or hostile port,
To subjugated realms some mandate high
Bearing, or what in senate full free states
To adverse states determine, peace or war:
Thus, but on higher quest, and with no track
Prest on th' etherial softness, flew the pow'r
Commission'd; and at length with slacken'd wing
On earth alighting, his appointed goal,
Paus'd, as from rapid flight, awhile, then spread
Refresh'd his plumes, and to the well-known realm
Of Judah steer'd his flight. Deep midnight yet
Slept on the earth, so swift had been through space
His passage, and the moon with placid light
Bath'd Modin's village cots, when on the roof
Of old Mattathias lighting, with quick glance
Inward directed (eye of angel prime
Interposition checks not,) he beheld,
Ev'n as foretold, the sons around their sire
Each on his couch compos'd. They, when they rose

100

From that sad converse, nought resolv'd, the meal
Of ev'ning shar'd, and the due rites perform'd,
Their inward souls by adoration calm'd,
Now in profoundest sleep (sleep comes profound
After sad thought) lay stretch'd; amidst them lay
Their sire, he too asleep, though not, like them,
Calm, but with troubled fancies vext, exhal'd
From daily thoughts: of wars and conquer'd fields
His dreams were, and of God's high law restor'd,
And vengeance for his violated fane
Exacted of the impious foe, who seem'd
Flying, while his flight with purple dropt the plain.
Him on such thoughts intent when Michael
Discern'd, with speed intuitive his plan
He form'd, and with exerted pow'r (such pow'r
Hath Heaven to its ministers of good
Committed,) chang'd the current of his thoughts,
Into new channels turn'd. Such passion then
Arose, as when sweet music heard afar
Recalls past pleasant thoughts; or when the form
Of whom we early lov'd, and lov'd in vain,
Comes after day-light travail, to our sleep.

101

BESIDE MY NIGHTLY FIRE.

FRAGMENT.

I.

Beside my nightly fire
I sit and muse alone:
Alone—for he is gone,
With whom awhile I held
Such converse light and cold
As uncongenial minds
And unresponding hearts could entertain.
The dew of sleep was heavy on his brow,
He went—perchance to dream
Of her, his love, his hope,
His solitary joy,
The light of his still heart:
Of her, to whom alone,
As by a spell laid open,
His deep-fraught soul discloses
The stores of love and beauty, that lie hid

102

Within its shy recess.
He is gone—and all is still,
Save tread of passing foot,
Or the light flickering of the dying fire,
Or that strange sound, which in the hour of rest
Falls on the musing ear.

II.

O Silence! image of eternity!
Thou minister divine,
Sent to this lower sphere
To teach our grovelling souls
The awful joy of thought!
Thou that art strength and freedom, loosing us
From the benumbing clog of petty care,
And error, that enchains the work-day soul
In fetters strong as death:
O potent Silence! thou that wrappest us
As with a mystic curtain, shutting out
The obtrusive shews of sense,
And opening to our sight the world within:
O Silence! let me sink
In thy divine embrace;

103

Press mine enamour'd spirit to thy breast,
That I may melt into thee, and inhale
Through all my nature thy mysterious balm,
And rise upon thy wings
From out the lowness of this earthly self,
To that ideal land
Where changeless beauty reigns.

III.

The spell is on my soul:
I feel thy power around me like a sea,
A waveless and illimitable sea,
That lifts me from myself,
And bears me onward, onward, far away,
With swiftness passing thought,
To that etherial land.
They rise in dim array,
The beings of that inner world arise,
The forms of cherish'd things,
Not as on earth beheld,
But robed in that aerial loveliness
Which memory steals from heaven.

104

IV.

The vision opens—I behold
A ship, slow moving on its tranquil way
Across the nightly main.
The lights of eve are fading in the west,
And from the east looks forth
The yellow-blushing moon,
Tinging the pale grey clouds and far-seen wave
With her own glowing hue.
Upon the deck two youthful forms appear,
One, in whose virgin breast
A woman's heart hath just begun to beat;
Her cheek is passing fair, and in her eye
A still and pensive grace,
Attempering youth's fresh light.
A youth is with her, on whose brow
Hope, and the manliness of calm resolve,
And self-respect, sit blended; his fond eye
Is fix'd on that dear sister, and his hand
Is lock'd in her's; and now they commune hold,
Few words, but full of thought,
Of that far foreign land, and of the friends
Who wait them there, and the beloved land
They left behind: and by their side are seen

105

Two children fair, one full of infant mirth,
Tempting with many a wile
His grave-eyed brother's mood,
Still sporting round him, as the lamb
Sports round its mother in the sunny mead.
The solitary kiss
Oft in some sally of affection press'd
Upon her youthful lips
By her, whose livelong sorrows she had cheer'd
As with a daughter's love.

V.

The vision fades in air:
Another scene appears,
A fair and stately room,
On whose high roof and pictured walls the sun
Looks in with soften'd light.
Amidst that gentle gloom
A lady sits, with melancholy eyes,
And locks of faded gold,
Shading a wan and sorrow-wasted brow.
Wo for that maiden! a heart-withering law
Hath laid its iron hand

106

Upon her youthful spirit; she hath learnt
The self-tormentor's love, and hath resign'd
The natural joys of youth,
And social bliss, and the dear solaces
Of woman's love to woman,—so to please
A God of boundless mercy, so to wean
Her heart from earthly things.
And there she sits, her eyes fix'd vacantly
Upon that open page; her thoughts the while
Holding strange warfare with mysterious fears,
The spectres of the soul,
That haunt its dark eclipse.
But see, she smiles! a hand unseen
Hath touch'd the springs of tender memory;
Her early years return—she is again
A simple happy child;
The once-loved rural home
Is there, its closely-woven shade of trees,
Its walks and garden-bowers; and they are there,
Her young companions—they with whom she shared
Her prayers, her tasks, her sports; within whose arms
She slept so peacefully—
All, all returns—the woodland roam, the book
That pleas'd her childish thought,

107

The festal dance, the song, the merry eve
Spent by the winter fire; or, sweeter yet,
Like the soft mist around some rising star;
An exhalation from the soul within,
Where lofty thoughts and deep affections live
Sleepless, but silent still.

VI.

Again the vision changes—I behold
A little, lowly town,
Among green hills embower'd—[OMITTED]

108

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO BEAUTY.

Thou walk'st in darkness, Beauty![OMITTED]
Earth with her bars is round our heart,
We may not see thee as thou art,
Thy angel voice we may not hear,—
Too bright for mortal eye, too sweet for mortal ear!
Yet art thou, in thy widow's dress,
And in the weeds of thy lowliness,
More glorious far than aught this world enfoldeth;
Yea—the sole glorious! for what man beholdeth
of grace, of wonder, or of majesty,
Is but the shade of thee!
Yea the great universe, with all its powers
Of good and ill,
Is but the passive instrument of thee,
A slave that knoweth not his master's will!
Like a hidden landscape, bright'ning
Only where thou send'st thy light'ning;
Or a lyre of various tone,
Answering to thy touch alone.

The earth with her bars was about me.—Jonah ii 6.

109

STANZAS.

[Across the sea, across the sea]

—Blow soft, ye Winds;
Waft, Waves of Ocean, your beloved charge!
Madoc.

Across the sea, across the sea,
Thou go'st, beloved Emily,
E'en in thy dance of youthful blood,
Thy opening flower of womanhood:
And with thee go affection's tears,
And trembling hopes, and stifled fears,
And recollections, which shall be
A living food of love to thee;
And nightly prayers for those so dear
Who think of thee and love thee here.

Thy lot is thrown—thy lot is thrown,
And thou must go to lands unknown;
From youthful friendships thou must part,
From many a warm domestic heart,
To dwell where foreign voices sound,
And all are foreign looks around;
Where none has felt, where none can share
Thy secret joy, thy secret care;
And all around, tho' fair it be,
Speaks of estrangement still to thee.

110

But youth has magic potence still
To turn to gladness every ill;
And hope shall be to thee a light
That, clouded oft, yet knows not night;
And brother's love shall still be nigh
To watch thee with unsleeping eye;
And He whose mercies are above
The tenderness of human love,
Shall steer thee safe thro' doubt and woe,
And send thee joy when none can know.

Then fare thee well, our Emily,
And prosperous may thy sojourn be!
Farewell—until the time shall come
That brings the dear-loved exile home;
When Love the happy tears shall dry,
Which fill that sweet and serious eye;
When all those now forsaken here
Shall seem, by absence, doubly dear,
And thy full spirit sink to rest
Upon thy home's beloved breast!

111

FRAGMENT.

[Fill high the cup of memory!]

Fill high the cup of memory!
To her the faithful and the kind,
Who sleeps beside the western sea,
The fair of eye, the wise of mind,
Who walked, in self-forgetful love,
A weary wild of grief and care;
Our type of peace, our household dove,
Gliding among us with still feet,
Breathing o'er all our hearts the air
Of her own spirit calm and sweet;
Made strong in meekness from above,
To help, to comfort, to endure;
And now hath found her home on high
Among the gentle and the pure:
Fill high the cup to Emily!

112

STANZAS.

[Thou hast left us, dearest Spirit, and left us all alone]

Thou hast left us, dearest Spirit, and left us all alone,
But thou thyself to glory and liberty art flown;
And the song that tells thy virtues, and mourns thy early doom,
Should be gentle as thy happy death, and peaceful as thy tomb.

Thy place no longer knows thee beside the household hearth,
We miss thee in our hour of woe, we miss thee in our mirth;
But the thought that thou wert one of us—that thou hast borne our name,
Is more than we would part with for fortune or for fame.

113

Thy dying gift of love, 'twas a light and slender token,
And thy parting words of comfort were few and faintly spoken;
But memory must forsake us, and life itself decay,
Ere those gifts shall lie forgotten, or those accents pass away.

Farewell, our best and fairest! a long, a proud farewell!
May those who love thee follow to the place where thou dost dwell—
Like the lovely star that led from far the wanderers to their God,
May'st thou guide us in the pathway which thy feet in beauty trod.

114

MY SISTER.

She sang—perchance to wile the hours,
Or exercise her fairy powers;
She sang—I sat in silence by,
And listen'd to her minstrelsy.
I ask'd her not to wake the note
Which I lov'd best, because I thought
Choice and fore-purpose would destroy,
Or mar at least, the freeborn joy;
Therefore I sate in silence by,
And listen'd to her minstrelsy.
I took it, as a sweet thing sent
By nature, a stray gift, not meant
For me, yet in fruition
To all intents and ends my own;
And listen'd to it, e'en as I
Would to the chance-heard melody
Of the stock-dove from his bower,
Or lark from her aërial tour.

115

MUSIC.

Thanks for those soft and soothing numbers!
They've waked my dull heart from its slumbers;
And on the wings of thy sweet strain
I soar to life and love again.

By the spirit-thrilling sound
My chained feelings are unbound;
Like streams from winter-frost set free,
They leap and murmur joyously.

Hail to thee, Music! hail to thee!
Thou art the voice of Liberty!
—Swept in a flood of welcome tears,
Th' encroaching present disappears;

And to the soul's entranced eyes
In dim and ghostly beauty rise,
As on the feign'd Elysian green,
The forms of all things that have been.

116

And thoughts and fancies, a sweet throng,
That in the mind's dark corners long
Slumber'd unseen, come forth to play,
Like insects on a sunny day.

—Strange spell! yet wherefore seek to explore
The wondrous source of Music's power,
As children search the white rose through
To find the secret of its hue?

No—Sages, vainly ye endeavour
Mystery from life to sever;
Since man's best joys and loves are wrought
From things he comprehendeth not!

117

STANZAS.

[Nay, let us hope! it is not vain—]

Nay, let us hope! it is not vain—
Though many and many a joy be flown:
Sublimer blessings yet remain—
A few rich hearts are still our own;

A few, a very few, whose love
Nor fate nor years from us can sever;
And guiding light from Heaven above;
And Time, that smiles on firm endeavour.

There is a manliness in hope,
It sets the exorcis'd spirit free
To burst the present's cloudy cope,
And breathe in clear futurity.

There, pure from grief, and sin, and toil,
That shade the sky of passing time,
Lies a new world—an untrod soil—
A shadowy Eden, still in prime.

118

There, all we honour'd, all we lov'd,
More fair, more glorious still appears;
And hopes are crown'd, and faith approv'd,
And peace smiles calm on moonlight years.

And if, 'mid that delicious trance,
We waste one thought on present sorrow,
Its memory serves but to enhance
The blissful vision of to-morrow.

As when the shadowy Good repose,
Lapt on the green Elysian plain,
And dream awhile of earthly woes,
To wake in Heaven more blest again!

119

HORÆ SUBFUSCÆ.

“Ibant obscuri solâ sub nocte per umbras.”
—Æn. vi.

I.

Come not, dear thought of her I lost,
Amidst the cares of daily life;
Nor mingle with the vulture-host
Of self-reproach, or inward strife:

Nor come amidst the lighter joys,
Of youth and social feeling born;[OMITTED]

But in the mind's half-slumbering mood,
When weary care retires to rest,
When all within is solitude,
Descend, dear visionary guest!

—Nor come, sweet shadow that thou art!
Amidst the hum and glare of day;
Thy gentle visits to my heart
Must never meet her peering ray:

120

—But on the solemn verge of night,
When the great west is all on fire,
And, setting like a rose of light,
The sun seems softly to retire;

Or when the pearly moon on high
Her sail of beauty has unfurl'd,
And sheds in silence from the sky
Her softer sunshine o'er a sleeping world:

Or in that hour scarce less divine,
When twilight slowly yields to day,
And towers, and walls, and temples shine
White with the sun's unrisen ray:

—When nature and the hour sublime,
Have wrought a curtain fit for thee,
Come, daughter of departed time!
Come, in the might of memory!

Come, in the glory of the past,
The beauty which remembrance throws
O'er all the scene behind us cast—
Oh burst my dark and dull repose!

121

II.

The buzzing night-fly round me play'd,
The hollow rain-drop patter'd nigh,
While on my couch at midnight laid,
I watch'd, and thought of Emily.

And now, as by the clouded beam,
I pace these cloister'd walks along,
That name is still my fancy's theme,
Th' awakener of my lonely song.

I see thee still, my gentle friend,
Though far by time and fate estranged;
I mark thee, turning, on me bend
That smile of playfulness unchanged.

Then, as the evening tapers shine,
Beside thy chair I stand again,
Or on the well-known couch recline,
And listen to thy thrilling strain.

—Forget not him, once dearly known,
Whom now thine eyes no more must see;
Forget not him, who here alone,
Mid night and silence, thinks of thee!

122

III.

'Tis silence—save that on mine ear
A bird's low note is trilling nigh;
So soft, it serves but to endear
The solemn hour's tranquillity.

Save that the winds of morning play,
In half-heard murmurs, round my brow;
Save the hoarse watch-dog's distant bay,
Or my own footsteps pacing low.

As through these courts (that, lighted here,
By the pale dawn, lie there in shade,)
My slow unvaried course I steer,
What visions rise—what thoughts invade!

—I think, my Emily, of thee!
I think of happy moments past;
From our young days of amity
Down to the hour we parted last;

And those late meetings of delight,
So few, so short, so simply sweet,
They've left behind a track as white
As many a bliss more exquisite!

123

The dawn is brightening o'er the sky;
I go, perchance to dream of thee;
Farewell—and trust in Him on high,
My own heart-honour'd Emily!

IV.

'Tis night; the welkin dimly lours;
The lattice flaps with sullen sound;
I hear at times the rustling showers,
'Mid the dull wind that moans around.

But nought of human sounds is here:
The hum of daily life is flown;
Great Nature's voice is all I hear,
Amidst the gloom she walks alone.

124

TO INTELLECTUAL LIBERTY.

Friend of the human soul! not thee I call,
Who 'mid the clash of armies, or the noise
Of jarring senates, in auxiliar power
Present, though not in form (as of old time
Pallas) dost guide the patriot's tongue or sword
To vict'ry, prospering the rightful cause:
Not thee, but her thy sister-power, I call,
Of higher name, or shall I rather say
Thyself, in thy superior power address'd,
For ye are one; thou, whose especial seat
Is in the heart and in the faculties
Of heaven-descended man; on thee I call,
O Liberty, and to thy name exalt
A song of supplication and of praise,
O thou, more potent and more beautiful
Than aught by Grecian poet e'er invoked
In hymn or high-toned ode; for not like them
Art thou, an unessential form—a dream
Of grace and grandeur; but an effluence
Direct from the prime Spirit of Good, in whom
All beauty and all potency do dwell.

125

FRAGMENTS OF AN ADDRESS TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.

[OMITTED] —Wilt thou too depart,
Genius, or Muse, or Feeling, or Delight,
Or Power, or Spirit, whatsoe'er thou art,
And by what name design'd, who dwell'st the light
Of song within us—[OMITTED]

Oh! sweet as Love, ere blunted by possession!
Sweet as the “vernal joy” by nature sent
Into the soul of man! whose best expression
Is in the heart's unspoken language; lent
To light our dulness, and with sweet aggression
Forcing old Night and Chaos to relent,
To waft aside the universal veil,
And make Creation's beauties visible.

Thou teachest man, that there is more on earth
Than what he hears, or sees, or feels, or knows;
An inward treasure, of uncounted worth,
Hid like the invisible honey in the rose;
A world of wonders,—a mysterious birth,
Which thou but to thy chosen dost disclose;

126

An immaterial glory, passing far
All palpable light of gem, or sun, or star;

A cloud of beauty brooding o'er the world—[OMITTED]

Great spirit! beneath whose full-exerted power
Our bodily frame doth tremble, like a bough
Rock'd by the wind; before whom, in thy hour
Of charmed potence, the great mind doth bow
In royalest submission, with her dower
Of gifts and graces; yet can lift her brow
Triumphant, and with thee strange contest hold—
Controlling thee, and yet by thee controll'd.
For she can grasp thy influences, that fly
As vague and viewless as the folding air,
And fix them in her clayey moulds, thereby
To shape them into forms so glorious fair,
(Tho' spoil'd of half their might) that the great eye
Of earth shall, while time lasts, be riveted there;
The trophies of her splendid strife with thee,
Crowning that strife with immortality.

127

SONNET TO CATHARINE SEYTON.

So thou would'st tempt me, pretty Neophyte,
Me, bred in those learn'd halls whose sons erst broke,
With arm polemic, Rome's usurped yoke,
Though all unfit to wage with eyes so bright
And smiles so sweet the controversial fight;
Me, whom no few as Methodist assail,
Me thou would'st tempt to quit the happy pale
Of England's Church, to pope and priest my right
Of thought resigning. Cherish, gentle friend,
The new-found light, if light it be, and tread
Thy clouded path to heaven: and let me wend
My way, with difficulty sore bested,
Nor needing more incumbrances, alone,
Free from thy Church's fetters, and thy own!

128

TO HOPE.

Kind Spirit! balm of care and wrong,
Sweet playfellow of Reason,
Accept a light May-morning song,
A song of thy own season.

Thou'rt fairer than thy comrade, Joy,
Though she's the younger sister;
Hadst thou been ours without alloy,
We never should have miss'd her.

Sweet Hope! thou lov'st us well, and yet
Thou wilt not serve us blindly;
Thou hast no petted favourite;
Who loves, must use thee kindly.

Too delicate for the rough play
Of boisterous expectations,
From their rude grasp thou slipp'st away,
And leav'st us to impatience.

129

We chide thee, Hope, and wish thee oft
By Pleasure superseded;
Yet thou art kind, however scoff'd,
And com'st again when needed.

Thou fall'st upon us like a gleam
Of sunshine unexpected;
Thy sports, like children's, aimless seem,
Yet are they heaven-directed.

We call thee false—'tis but thy ape,
The thing that so deceives us,
Comes without cause, an airy shape,
And without reason leaves us.

For thou art of immortal birth;
No thing of here or now;
Thy place of dwelling is on earth,
But not of earth art thou!

130

A WHIMSEY:

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

—“When thought is warm, and fancy flows,
What will not argument sometimes suppose?”
Cowper.

Should chance send down to distant time
This motley thing of prose and rhyme,
Which friendly hands have thickly sown
With others' wisdom—or their own;
How will the men of future days,
(When this one age, with all its blaze
Of science, war, and minstrel lay,
Has vanish'd like a cloud away)
How will they ponder o'er this page,
The little mirror of an age,
Reflecting, as it onward winds,
The outline of departed minds!
How will they scan with eye intent
The sparks of song and sentiment,
Like floating clouds of many a hue,

131

Strewn o'er the welkin's surface blue!
To them the record shall unfold
What their grave fathers were of old;
What they disliked, and what approved,
And how they thought and how they loved.
—There shall the mingled forms appear,
Of timid Joy, and tender Fear;
Wisdom, with calm looks fix'd above;
The spectre of departed Love;
Ambition's bright and restless eye,
Still chasing Immortality;
And downcast Sorrow, in her shroud;
And young Hope, laughing through the cloud;
And Nature, in her robe of green,
Shall 'midst the varied group be seen.

Their hearts, as o'er the page they stray,
Shall feel its sympathetic sway;
For the same summer-breeze that blew
In days of yore, delights us too:
And the same loves, and joys, and fears,
Are still man's lot through endless years.
And Hope's full blood shall mantle high,
And Pity weep o'er woes gone by,

132

And Worth shall kindle at the lays
That flow in Truth's and Virtue's praise;
And youthful Love shall blush, when told
How youthful lovers felt of old;
And Beauty heave the half-heard sigh
For unrequited constancy.
—And they shall think upon the lot
Of those who lived when they were not,
Whose being yet with theirs was twined,
With that sweet feeling, undefined,
Wherewith we view the days gone by
Of unremember'd infancy.
—And while delighted they survey
These relics of an earlier day,
They 'll think well pleased of her, whose hand
Combined them in one fragrant band,
And bade them bloom in endless prime,
Like flow'rets on the tomb of Time.

133

SONNET TO A DREAM.

Wert thou an emanation from above,
Beautiful Dream? a ministring Mercy, sent
To win me from my sad bewilderment,
With thy sweet looks, and tones of heavenly love?
The weight of mortal sadness to remove;
To teach me that I was not quite forlorn;
That love, and peace, and joy, might yet return,
And high desires, that no one should reprove?
Hail, and farewell! and when, beloved one,
Thou dost return unto the land of sleep,
Tell the glad tidings of thy good deed done
To one whose soul was plunged in sorrow deep;
And send thy sisters here, on silver feet,
That they may make thy blessed work complete.

134

IMPROMPTU TO MISS ---

Sæpe Venus potuit quod non potuere Camœnæ;
Quodque novem nequeunt, una puella facit.
D. Heinsii Poem.

I call'd my Muse, I bade her raise
A note in that fair stranger's praise:
Alas! in vain I tried;
For frozen was the stream of song,
And cold and lifeless on my tongue
The broken accents died.

Sweet spirit, wherefore thus unkind?
Has sickness o'er my palsied mind
Its spell of torpor cast?
Or cares, that on the bosom prey,
And steal the powers of youth away,
Ere youth itself is past?

135

Or has monastic solitude
With its own sluggishness imbued
A mind once wont to soar?
Or has dear woman ceased to be
The precious thing she was to me,
In happy days of yore?

Oh, no! though solitude, and care,
And pain, in me have had their share,
They cannot rend apart
The chord of feeling that replies
To woman's smile, and voice, and eyes,—
The chord within the heart.

Nor think, whate'er the heartless deem,
That woman e'er to bard can seem
A theme of little worth:
All things of glory or delight
In nature, are the poet's right,
His heritage by birth.

136

The clouds, the stars, the meek-eyed moon,
The splendours of the summer noon,
The stream, the flower, are his;
Man's regal front—the mystery
Of beauty in an infant's eye—
And woman's loveliness.

Whate'er is grand, or soft, or fair,
To him is as the stirring air,
That wakes the leaves from sleep:
But woman's charm has stronger power,
To pierce his spirit's inmost bower,
And search its riches deep.

Touch'd by the spell, his brain runs o'er
With fancies never known before;
He feels within him rise
Powers, from himself erewhile conceal'd,
And wantons in the joyous field
Of new-born energies.

137

Then can it be, that, exiled long
From the green paradise of song,
I've lost my skill of old?
Or is it doubt and anxious fear,
Lest haply to her timid ear
The strain sound rude and bold?

Whate'er the cause, forgive, sweet maid,
Him, who thus feebly has essay'd
To raise a note for thee;
And haply, at some distant time,
In that soft breast, this idle rhyme
May wake a thought of me.

138

TO MISS --- ON HER MARRIAGE.

I've stood as with a child's delight,
And watch'd the Rainbow rise,
When, like a pleasant look, its light
Made glad the earth and skies;
And bathed mine eye in its rich glare,
Still gazing, till the vacant air
Absorb'd its many dyes,
And darkness settled, cold and dull,
On all that was so beautiful.

To cheer our cloister'd loneliness,
So did a lady come,
She and her soft-eyed sister-grace,
From a far island-home.
Her form, her mien, her joyous eye,
Her converse blithe, yet womanly,
On our sequester'd gloom
A bright but transient iris cast;
She came—she shone—and she is past.

139

The beam has vanish'd from our sight;—
Has left us—to become
A star of never-setting light
Within one happy home:
The gentle warmth of that sweet smile,
Which wont our passing looks awhile
With gladness to illume,
A deeper bliss must now impart,
Concentred round one loving heart.

Then, lady, if my feeble song
Speaks of a mind opprest,
Thou wilt forgive the unwilling wrong
Done to a theme so blest.
Join'd in the bonds of that sweet tie
Whose thraldom is true liberty,
With him thou lovest best,
May death but snap the chain of love
To bind its links more firm above!

140

STANZAS.

[It is the hush of night; all sounds of life]

It is the hush of night; all sounds of life,
That jarr'd my sick ear through the live-long day,
The scoffer's heartless laugh, the voice of strife,
The murmur of dull talk are past away;
My bosom's secret, solitary woes
In the calm lap of silence find repose.

The warm soft arms of sleep are round the world;
The stars are walking on their mute career;
O'er town and waste one boundless gloom is furl'd;
Half sound, half silence, to the listening ear
There comes a tingling murmur, which doth seem
The everlasting flow of time's mysterious stream.

The sweet and solemn influence of the hour
Steals o'er me, like the coming on of rest;
My soul lies hush'd bencath the gentle power;
The shapes of fear and anguish, that infest
My thoughts by day, seem soften'd now and chang'd,
Like the relenting looks of one erewhile estrang'd.

141

Rest, troubled spirit, rest! confide in Him,
Whose eye is on thee thro' thy watch of pain;
When earthly comfort waxeth cold and dim,
Trust thou in that which doth for aye remain.
Thy heart-deep sighs to truth and freedom given,
Can find no answer here; but they are heard in Heaven.

142

SONNET.

[Thou comest once again, beloved May!]

Thou comest once again, beloved May!
Thou comest, but my heart is sick with care,
And haunting wrong and comfortless despair,
And fretting griefs that will not pass away:
Heartless I sit, and hopeless, day by day;
Wasting in thankless and inglorious toil,
Uncheer'd by living voice or friendly smile.
Oh could thy young and innocent smiles allay
The grief that burns within me! but too deep
The shaft of woe hath pierc'd; and therefore thou,
With all thy odours, sights, and harmonies,
Fresh airs, and sunny fields, and skies that weep
Glad tears, and boundless music, are but now
As the fair chamber where some sick man lies.

143

FRAGMENT.

[I am all alone by my silent hearth]

I am all alone by my silent hearth,
No smile of love, and no voice of mirth;
I am all alone, and my heart is sore
With thinking of days that are past and o'er.

I sit and watch the stately trees,
As they roll and murmur on the breeze,
Or follow the clouds as they fleet and play,
But my heart—my heart is far away.

My thoughts are wandering fast and wide,
Without an aim, and without a guide.

144

FRAGMENT.

[Oh! come to me now, for my sorrows are past]

Oh! come to me now, for my sorrows are past,
And the cloud on my heart is dissolv'd at last;
Spirit of Poesy, come from above,
Come, on the wings of nature and love!

Come, while the yellow light streams thro' the pane,
And the air is fresh with the morning rain,
And the wind is up with its sweet wild voice,
Like a song of sorrow that bids us rejoice.

Come 'mid fancies gathering fast
'Mid thoughts of the present, and thoughts of the past;
Oh! come to me now! 'tis thy chosen hour,
And the spirits of evil no longer have power!

145

FRAGMENT.

[I think of thee, I think of thee]

I think of thee, I think of thee,
Thy name it murmurs from my strain,
When the silence of winter-noon is spread
Over house, and field, and forest shed,
And the Sun shines white through rain.
I think of thee, I think of thee,
When the Moon has climb'd her topmost hill,
When the glances of her bright eye fall
On silver pane, and whiten'd wall,
And the works of men are still.

146

ODE TO ST. VALENTINE.

O thou, who, since the rosy son
Of Venus tumbled from his throne,
Hast ruled the world of love;
Sole remnant of the saintly band,
Since fierce Reform from out the land
Thy worshipp'd brethren drove:

Propitious Power, to me be kind,
Inspire a loving poet's mind
With such persuasive art,
As, clothed in words of poesy,
May help me to the golden key
Of little Clara's heart.

So will I build to thee a shrine,
Of books well-bound and letter'd fine,
Arranged in order due,
Of various shape, of various size,
Array'd in robes of thousand dies,
Green, purple, red, and blue.

147

There Shakspere's Juliet shall be seen,
And Sappho's Lesbian lays, I ween,
And Rabby's Ayrshire catches;[OMITTED]

There yearly, on thy sacred day,
A hecatomb of odes I'll pay,
And sweetest incense fling;
And Clara from her long dark hair
Shall cull, for thee, seven ringlets fair,—
A richer offering!

The young lady in question was born on the 14th of February, 18---.

148

VINDICIÆ MARGARITANÆ.

Sweet name! that, utter'd or remember'd, brings
Before the thoughts a thousand lovely things;
Bright clustering pearls, and flowers of rainbow dyes,
And dearer visions of beloved eyes:
Charming alike, whatever shape thou wear,—
Whether thou put on Peggy's rustic air,
Or smile from merry Meg's familiar face,
Or glide along with Marjory's ancient grace,
Or frisk as Madge, wild, mischievous, and sly,
Or tower in Margaret's courtly dignity;
Hail to thee still! and may the wretch profane,
Who blurs thy spotless fame with ribald stain,
Fall prone before the name he dares despise,
Unpitied victim of some Margaret's eyes;
And vainly penitent, with suppliant tongue
Retract his scorn, and mourn his slanderous wrong!

The China-Aster, called in French la reine Marguerite.

149

THE CONTENTED LOVER.

“That which is established ought always to be considered as the best.” Morning Post, Sept. 14, 18—.

I ask not if the world enfold
A fairer form than thine,
Tresses more rich in flowing gold,
And eyes of sweeter shine.

It is enough for me to know
That thou art fair to sight;
That thou hast locks of golden flow,
And eyes of playful light.

I ask not if there beat on earth
A warmer heart than thine,
A soul more rich in simple worth,
A genius more divine.

It is enough for me to prove
Thou hast a soul sincere,
A heart well made for quiet love,
A fancy rich and clear.

150

Already by kind Heaven so far
Beyond my wishes bless'd,
I would not, with presumptuous prayer,
Petition for the best.

While thou art wise, and good, and fair,
Thou art that best to me;
Nor would I, might I choose, prefer
A lovelier still to thee.

151

STANZAS.

(WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM).

[_]

Shewing why the proprietor's face is so little altered from what it was a short time ago.

One day, as perch'd by Fanny's chair
I listen'd to her chat so blithe,
I turn'd my head, and who was there
But gruff old Time, with glass and scythe!

He, when he saw me, nodded low
His single lock;—full well knows he
That poets are his lords below,
And therefore pays them courtesy.

“And prithee,” said I with a bow,
“Old Haymaker, what dost thou here?
Art come to furrow o'er a brow
Thou hast not touch'd for many a-year?

152

Beware! if to my cousin's eyes
Or cheeks thou dar'st do aught of wrong,
I'll disappoint thee of thy prize,
And shrine them in immortal song.”

The greybeard answer'd,—“'Tis, indeed,
A task I've oft in vain essay'd;
For they, who are my friends at need,
In this distress refuse their aid.

Sickness, who wins me many breasts,
Assails this active nymph in vain;
And Care, my pioneer, protests
He can't find entrance to her brain.

And yet I've often ventured near,
Attempting, in my stealthy way,
With my slow-working razor here,
To pilfer charm by charm away.

But when I view the simple grace
That crowns the dear provoking charmer,
Her cheerful smiles, and merry face,
I can't find in my heart to harm her!”

153

SONNET.

[I know thee not, sweet Lady, but I know]

I know thee not, sweet Lady, but I know
(At least they know who say so) that thou art
Lovely of form, and innocent of heart,
A creature of meek thoughts, and tears that flow
From quiet love, and happy smiles, that throw
A moonlight round them. And thou art the bride
Of one by faith and goodness sanctified,
High-hearted, gentle, wise, and firm in woe.
Ah! wherefore such transcendent gifts bestow'd
On one, so rich already? Why not given
To one, whose soul more needed such sweet stay;
Some hapless wight, like me, at random driven,
Lonely and sad, along life's rugged road,
Without a breeze of love to cheer me on the way?

154

SONNET THE SILK HANDKERCHIEF.

“It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul!”

My heart leapt in me, as with swimming eye
I gazed upon that glossy kerchief white,
And the fair neck it shaded—'twas a sight
To steep a poet in fine phantasy
Of some Elysian world, or wake soft sigh
In the chill breast of woe lorn Anchorite.
Sweet maid! should it hereafter be my plight
To wander in some desert dull and dry,
Far from the haunts of men—alone to rove,
With my sad thoughts for partners, neither book,
Nor music, nor green field, nor woman's love,
To cheer my hopeless solitude—I'll look
To memory for my solace and delight,
And think of that fair neck, and glossy kerchief white!

155

MISS --- TO HER SEVEN CORRESPONDENTS.

A SONG OF SEVENS.

We are seven.—
Wordsworth.

Oh! stay,—Oh! stay.—
Moore

Dear monitors! spare me your kind exhortations;
Believe me, I felt half appall'd as I read:
Such a storm of good counsel, from friends and relations,
Came rattling, like hailstones, round one little head!

Three warnings—three more—then another—good heavens!
Like a gun of distress, which seven echoes repeat:
'Tis plain, my affairs are at sixes and sevens,
When all my seven planets thus bodingly meet!

For a languishing lady, three doctors are thought
A quorum sufficient, to kill or to cure;
But a synod of seven, though unwigg'd and unbought,
To consult on one's ills, makes assurance twice sure!

156

You tell me, kind friends, that my bloom and my smiles
Will all pass away with the breeze of the hill,
And my eyes, that now wander like bright floating isles,
Like Delos of old, will grow moveless and still!

You tell me—but peace! 'tis in vain you would win me
To linger at sea, with my haven in view;
There's a sly little counsellor pleading within me,
And he's wiser by far, my seven sages! than you.

'Tis a hopeless attempt—though advice, like the Nile,
Thro' seven eloquent mouths in a deluge should pother—
When the winds of remonstrance blow one way the while,
And the magnet within points perversely the other!

Around the fair three dawdling doctors stand,
Wave the white wig, and stretch the asking hand, &c.

Loves of the Triangles.

157

HOR. 1. 22, IMITATED.

“Integer vitæ scelerisque purus,” &c.

The man, my Moultrie, arm'd with native strength,
And of his own worth conscious, needs no aid
Of venal critic, or ephemeral puff
Prelusive, or satiric quiver stored
With poison'd shafts defensive: fearless he
Sends forth his work, essay, or ode, or note
On crabb'd Greek play, or squib political.
Him nor the fierce Eclectic's foaming page
Aught troubles, nor the uncourteous Times, nor yet
The Journal, which, misnamed of Classics, deals
Its three-months' errors out. For me of late
In Johnian walks sole wandering, while the thoughts
Of Emily beyond my wonted bounds
Drew me excursive, a reviewer stern
Encount'ring, with kind words of courtesy
Accosted bland, and me, though ill prepared
For critic fight, assail'd not; scribe, like whom
Oak-crown'd Germania from her warlike shore

158

Sent never, nor the realm of Wallace old,
Dry-nurse of critics. Place me on the earth's
Far limit, where, o'er sluggish Muscovy,
The winds blow frore, and mists of ignorance dark
O'erhang the north side of the world: beneath
Some Dey's stern nod, in torrid Barbary
Place me, where books are none: yet, fearless still,
I'll sing of Emily, and, in fit strain,
Record her tuneful voice and thrilling smiles.

159

WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.

'Tis now night; the skies are hung
With small bright stars innumerable, that seem
Heaven's eyelets, looking stilly down on man
And man's vain tumults. Many a studious head,
Its labour o'er and learn'd encounters, now
Rests on the pillow, that for many a day
Had toil'd from thorny premises t' extract,
By alchymy of subtlest argument,
Conclusions fair and smooth; had chas'd, thro' wilds
Of algebra, the shy retiring forms
Of x and z; or rung the mystic change
On notions and ideas, words and things,
And idol forms Baconian: or discoursed
Of angles plane, and ratios duplicate,
Inventions strange, and figures multiform,
Circle, and square, and shapely trine; or, arm'd
By Paley, with the social compact waged
Relentless war. Myself the while—

160

SONNET ON THE MARRIAGE OF JANE ---

Ου μοι δοκω αμαρτανειν ατυχεστατον εμαυτον ηγουμενος των παντων αυθρωπων. Andocides.

Cheer up! quoth Thalaba.
Southey.

Jane! when the doleful news, that thou wast wed,
Smote on my wounded ear, tho' told by one
Whose voice is pleasant as the vernal sun,
How could I choose but grieve? With aching head
Sleepless I lay, and mourn'd my comfort fled,
On my lone couch reclined: till the mild moon,
Thro' the high window glancing, sweetly shone
On my hush'd heart, and to myself I said:
“Jane is not womankind: the sea has store
Of pearls as fair as ever diver's skill
Extracted thence: there is a goodly flower,
A snow-bright Lily, in a western bower
Blooming alone; there mayst thou light once more
Love's flame, nor brood in vain o'er cureless ill.”

φωναν συνετοισι.

161

A POEM WITHOUT A TITLE.

Scene—An unfrequented dell (if such can be found) on the banks of the river Teign, in Devonshire;—Time—Midnight.
Stranger.
Tell me, Vision, and tell me aright,
Whence art thou come, with thy steps of light,
And wherefore skimm'st thou my pathway by,
With half-curl'd lip, and glancing eye?
Art thou a spirit of evil or good,
A sylph of the air, a fay of the wood,
Black or white, or grey or blue —
Tell me, Wonder, and tell me true.

Apparition.
I am a nymph of ocean-strain,
My grandsire he who rules the main.
Hither I come from my rocky height,
To sport with my neighbour fays by night,

162

Where the showers fall soft, and the grass is green,
On the moonlight banks of our kindred Teign.
Who art thou, with foot profane,
That darest invade our secret reign?

Stranger.
Pardon, pardon, Lady bright!
I am a wayworn Sorcerer wight,
Bound to a cave in the uttermost west,
Where a peerless Witch has her home and her rest:
But omen dire, and starry sign,
Frowned midway on my bold design;
And now I must rest my weary wing
By the Sea-nymph's grot, and the Pixy's spring,
'Till joyous morn again appear—
Pardon, Lady! and gracious cheer.

Apparition.
Now, by Triton's azure shell,
Man of guile! I know thee well.
Thou art the wizard, right I deem,
That dwells by a sluggish eastern stream,
Deep in a dark and joyless cell,
Reading the rhyme, and weaving the spell:

163

And now thou art come
From thy sullen home,
To blight our bowers of beauty and bloom,
And cast thy vapours of care and spleen
O'er our sunny waves, and our hills of green.
Mutter not thus thy magic strain,
Mightier than thou have braved me in vain.
I fix thee, I fix thee, Sorcerer sly,
With the charm of my lip, and the spell of my eye;
I doom thee, Creature of doubt and fear,
Seven bright days to wander here,
Scoffing at grandeur, and loathing at grace,
And pining in vain for thy own dark place.
My look is look'd, my say is said;
I must away to my ocean-bed.

Stranger.
Now woe is me! that simple smile
Hath scatter'd my stores of sleight and wile:
Shame on my art! that little look
Hath baffled the might of my magic book,
And I melt away, like a night-cloud dun,
When pierced by the shafts of the joyous sun.
Hence avaunt, thou tricksy sprite!

164

My curse be upon thee, to ban and to blight—
“Mayst thou still laugh on in thy careless prime,
Nor e'er know the wisdom that comes with Time.”
Hie thee away, in thy mirth and scorn,
And come not again—'till to-morrow morn.

Black spirits and white
Blue spirits and grey.

—Shakspere

Alluding perhaps to the sentiment of the poet, “To grieve is wise.”

165

STANZAS.

[Come forth, my True-love, from thy bower!]

Come forth, my True-love, from thy bower!
It is thy own beloved hour;
The hour of peace, the hour divine;
Come forth with me, my Theocrine!

Stretch'd out along the pale-blue sky
Long rosy clouds in slumber lie;
A sea of light, without a surge,
Is burning on the horizon's verge.

No human voice, no natural sound,
'Tis still above, beneath, around;
Through the great calm, alone is heard
The evening song of one mild bird.

'Midst this bright trance of heaven and earth,
How sweet with thee to wander forth,
Where the decaying sunlight glows
In snatches through the yellow boughs;

166

And watch thy still and serious eye,
Lit to its depth with feelings high;
And catch from thee the rapture proud,
As from the sun the kindling cloud!

—O blessed nature! not to me
Art thou a senseless phantasy;
Not with the sneer of sensual scorn
Look I on thee, thou heavenly-born!

Through the thick clouds that round me roll,
I lift to thee my struggling soul;
From sinful thoughts, from grief and fear,
Charm me, thou Spirit good and dear!

Teach me the sacred truths, that lie
Retired in thy deep-meaning eye;
And light my darkling soul, to see
The good invisible in thee!