 | Hours at Naples, and Other Poems |  |
SWEET BOWER!
Sweet Bower! to thee I haste once more—
Long loved—but ne'er more loved before!
For absence—trials—grief and fear—
These—Childhood's cherished things endear!
Long loved—but ne'er more loved before!
For absence—trials—grief and fear—
These—Childhood's cherished things endear!
When conversant with Life's harsh strife,
And all the pangs and pains of Life,
We learn then truly how to prize
All Childhood viewed with loving eyes.
And all the pangs and pains of Life,
We learn then truly how to prize
All Childhood viewed with loving eyes.
208
'Tis then we feelingly compare
Its joys, so free from doubt and care,
With those maturer joys—which still
Are mingled with too much of ill.
Its joys, so free from doubt and care,
With those maturer joys—which still
Are mingled with too much of ill.
And all that then we prized and loved,
Favoured and cherished and approved,
We doubly love—till won from pain
We learn to love Ourselves again!
Favoured and cherished and approved,
We doubly love—till won from pain
We learn to love Ourselves again!
This heavy Heart may come no more
Dancing and bounding as before—
But in its thoughtful stillness swells
A Love that ne'er with Childhood dwells.
Dancing and bounding as before—
But in its thoughtful stillness swells
A Love that ne'er with Childhood dwells.
Too many smiling things divert
Sweet Childhood's light and leaping heart—
Joy, Hope, and Fancy, there abide,
And many a beauteous Dream beside.
Sweet Childhood's light and leaping heart—
Joy, Hope, and Fancy, there abide,
And many a beauteous Dream beside.
209
But Joy, and Hope, and Fancy bright,
And all beside that poured Delight,
Forsake us as we onward move,
And leave—behind—but Love! deep Love!
And all beside that poured Delight,
Forsake us as we onward move,
And leave—behind—but Love! deep Love!
We lose—in all beside we lose,
Exchanging for sweet pleasures—woes
For hopes—dim fears, for smiles—dark tears,
But gain in thee—Oh! Love—by years!
Exchanging for sweet pleasures—woes
For hopes—dim fears, for smiles—dark tears,
But gain in thee—Oh! Love—by years!
No more with happy, thoughtless heart,
Can I return as I could part—
And full as happy, thoughtless strain—
Yet, Bower, to thee I come again.
Can I return as I could part—
And full as happy, thoughtless strain—
Yet, Bower, to thee I come again.
Not now to sing thy starry flowers,
Fostered by Sun and sunny showers—
Those living scents—those laughing blooms—
Thy breezy haunts—thy leafy glooms—
Fostered by Sun and sunny showers—
Those living scents—those laughing blooms—
Thy breezy haunts—thy leafy glooms—
210
No!—Summer other eyes may please,
With beams, and birds, and buds, and bees;
She hath a rival now with me,
A Summer-shine—of Memory!
With beams, and birds, and buds, and bees;
She hath a rival now with me,
A Summer-shine—of Memory!
Those singing birds—those blossomed trees—
Those flowering borders—buds and bees—
For me are now in vain—in vain—
At least they wake but loving pain!
Those flowering borders—buds and bees—
For me are now in vain—in vain—
At least they wake but loving pain!
Those birds must vainly strain the throat,
My heart responds with no light note;
These flowers and rays must vainly smile,
My heart is dark as Death the while.
My heart responds with no light note;
These flowers and rays must vainly smile,
My heart is dark as Death the while.
And thou too art not as thou wert,
Changed, but not changed like my poor heart;
Thou art not as thou wert—Alas!—
I am not—that which, once, I was!
Changed, but not changed like my poor heart;
Thou art not as thou wert—Alas!—
I am not—that which, once, I was!
211
Sweet Bower! some altering hand hath been
Too busy with thy still bright scene—
Oh! still 'tis bright—that scene; but here—
Within this heart—all, all is drear!
Too busy with thy still bright scene—
Oh! still 'tis bright—that scene; but here—
Within this heart—all, all is drear!
Thou art not changed like my poor heart—
But yet—thou art not as thou wert;
Thou art not what thou wert—Alas!
And I—I am not what I was!
But yet—thou art not as thou wert;
Thou art not what thou wert—Alas!
And I—I am not what I was!
| Hours at Naples, and Other Poems | |