University of Virginia Library

I. VOLUME I.

THE STIRRING DAYS OF OLD.

WEEP NOT FOR ME.

HADDON HALL.

AND WOULD'ST THOU HAVE IT SO?

LINES WRITTEN BY THE SEA-SIDE.

THE WARRIOR'S CONFESSION.

BE STILL.

THE HAUNTS OF SORROW.

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

OH! SUN THAT SETS!

I AM ALONE.

IRRESOLUTION.

THE LITTLE BOAT.

'TIS VAIN.

THOU BETTER KNOW'ST.

SPRING.

Spring, royal, festal, gracious Spring!
Haste thee on thy rainbow wing!
Long enough beneath the rule
Of gloomy Winter, stream and pool,
Grove and garden, flower and tree,
Hath lain—now haste and set them free.
Dreamy, starry, purple Spring,
With the crown and with the wing,
With the wand and with the charm,
Come—and thick delights shall swarm!
Vernal, sunny, breezy Spring,
Thee awaits each beauteous thing,
Earth is panting for thy rise
Upon the cleared and laughing skies,
All her Heart is beating fast
With expectance deep and vast,
For thy presence—Heavenly thing—
Rosy, fairy, dewy Spring!
Banks are calling unto banks,
“Where are our bright Rainbow Ranks?
Our smiling store of buds and bells?”
Breeze to breeze the tidings tells,
“There are incense-sighs abroad—
Is sweet Spring upon his road?”
Haste—haste, Oh! beatific Spring!
Thee awaits each precious thing!
Earth is longing for thy touch,
Earth hath languished long and much;
Now set free her banks and bowers
From the chains of Wintry hours!
Earth thy presence still implores,
And in breathless hope adores,
Like a royal Bride that waits
Beside her City's golden gates,
Beside the thronged and shining wall
Of her Regal Capital!
For the auspicious entry proud
Of her Bridegroom pledged and vowed,
Coming from some far off Land,
To claim her promised, plighted hand,
Royal as herself, and high
In his youthful Sovereignty!
Golden—Gracious—Sunny Spring,
Haste thee here on rapid wing!

THE RESOURCE.

When thou dost leave me lone and lorn, my treasured One and dear,
I breathe no plaint I heave no sigh—I shed no trickling tear!
But on thine Image then I live, mine only, all, and own,
And in my veriest heart of hearts enshrine it and enthrone!
I build with ever-wakeful care, when thou'rt no longer nigh,
A Pyramid of sweet, sweet thoughts to thy loved memory!
For Oh! 'tis still as Death were there, when thou, Love, dost depart,
So deep a change I find and feel in this devoted heart!

THE EXCUSE.

REMEMBRANCES.

DEAR ONE, BUT FORGIVE ME NOW.

Dear One, but forgive me now!
Forgive this pallid cheek and brow—
Well I know thy love should be
My Supreme Felicity—
My good, my glory, and my pride,
With every hope and dream allied,
Well I know it is—but still
At times this restless heart will thrill
With troublous feelings, deep and dark,
As 'mid wild-tossing waves the bark!
But forgive me, Love, and know
Ev'n this grief that pains thee so,
Even this suffering and distress,
And this gloomy restlessness,
These shadows, and these clouding cares,
The darkness of these drear despairs
Spread about my Life's sole Light,
Make that shine more richly bright!
Oh! the gloom of my fond grief
Lends to that a proud relief,
Until more and more divine
Doth my Life's Love-Light outshine!

HOPES AND DREAMS.

A FEW MORE HOURS.

VAIN ASPIRATIONS.

BEAUTIFUL DREAMS.

Beautiful Dreams! Oh! stay, but stay,
Why do ye fleet so soon away?
My Soul demands ye back again!
Will ye not come then—come and reign
O'er all its energies and powers,
Damped in this gloomy world of ours?
And only in their strength unbound,
When ye are girding it around,
When ye are lifting from its sense
The weight of mortal hours' suspense!
All shapes of Beauty and Delight
Crowd round your path, like Stars round night!
Dreams—dreams come back again to me,
Or take my Soul away with ye!
It is in your enchanted hour
The Mind hath supernatural power,
Raised high above our mortal doom,
Unconsciously we then become
Creators—full of power and might—
Of Worlds on Worlds—that roll in light—
And make a Universe apart—
Though soon these from their orbits start,
And dimly wane and faintly shrink,
And darkly disappear and sink.
Surely ye are sent to us to show
Our power is more than we may know,
That glory without wane or end
Shall yet our Spirit-steps attend!
That we shall yet claim for our own
Things lofty, wond'rous, and unknown!
Dreams—dreams come back again to me,
Or bear my Soul far hence with ye!

AWAY—AWAY.

Away—away, the sun shines bright,
The Air's a Paradise of Light.
Away, and to the water's side,
Where the lilies each a bride,
In beauty, purity, and state,
Shine with gentle joy elate.
Let us, let us now repair,
For Spring and joy are smiling there,
Where the water-chimes ring out
Sweet as distant cuckoo's shout;
As turtle-dove's delicious moan—
That entrancing, touching tone;
Where the shadows shift and play
O'er the waters and away;
Where some bird on happy wing,
Darteth like a spirit thing
Through the chrystal sparkling air,
As it would be every where.
Oh! away, away, this day
Is Spring's and sunny Joys—away!

TO THE DEPARTED.

SONNET.

Some few sweet bird-notes pierce the awakening air,
And little flow'rets delicately meek
Begin the ground to enamel and to streak,
And for thine advent Spring! all things prepare.
But slow thou comest!—May, the royally fair,
Is near:—but must these chill gales fan her cheek,
And o'er her gracious forehead rudely break?
Haste! thou sweet Spring! or thou wilt miss thy share
Of the great glorious year—where dost delay?
In the fair realms beyond the folding cloud?
Beyond the veiling firmament's vast sway,
Where Death is not the imperious Lord avowed,
Even of thy precious things,—far, far away?
Yet come to gladden hearts to Love's rule brightly bowed.

LOVE'S INCREASE.

TO THE SKYLARK.

Sweet bird! how hast thou changed thy thrilling note
Since first I heard it in the blue air float;
'Twas gay, but now, alas! it is not gay,
It seems like my poor broken heart to say
“All—all is changed, or dead, or crushed, or lost,”
Like my poor heart?—Oh! that hath darkly crost
With its own sadness thy sweet joyous strain,
Never may it be gay or blest again!
Of old it sung as glad a song as thine,
Nor feared Hope's disappointment and decline;
But now betrayed, abandoned, and bereft,
It hath no note of buoyant gladness left;
And wheresoe'er it meets with joy—young joy,
And hope, winged hope, its heavy sighs destroy
The harmonious charm, with Sorrow's worst alloy;
It will not share, it will not see delight,
And, Oh! it hath a power, a fatal might
That makes all glad and joyful things appear
Unto itself, as its own fortunes, drear.
It will not feel, it will not find content,
Too skilled to turn all mirth and merriment
To bale, and bitterness, and secret pain,
And chain Creation with its own harsh chain.
'Twill not endure, nor yet encourage hope,
But still condemns all things alike to droop—
It will not breathe, nor will it bear, that voice
Which saith, though Skylark! with thy note, “Rejoice!”

COME TO ME, LITTLE CHILD.

I CLAIM NOT CONSTANCY FROM THEE.

BLACK HAGGARD,

A TRAINED HAWK.

Mount—mount, Black Haggard—soar away,
And rise above thy shrieking prey,
The food-disgorging, fluttering heron
Which vainly seeks to 'scape—to turn;
Lo! the Black Haggard's fiery eye
Hath marked that proud form in the sky;
Let the eagle look for the Orient Sun,
Black Haggard's glance is fixed upon
That living mark which charms his sight,
From all the blaze of sunny light—
His living prey, his conscious prize,
That self-steered ship of the arching skies;
He seems by that keen glance to arrest
The noble bird—by fear possessed!
Mount—mount, Black Haggard—soar away,
And seize upon thy stately prey!
Ha! how he lightens up the sky,
Lessening upon the uplifted eye—
As though a sudden storm was sent
From earth unto the firmament;
Brave—brave Black Haggard—mount and soar,
Thou'st played the conqueror's part before,
And if proud courage be not vain,
Thou'lt play that conqueror's part again.
Right gallant, and undaunted thing,
Thou lightning Eye—thou tempest Wing!
'Tis sight and flight effect thy sway,
Mount—mount, Black Haggard!—soar away!

TO THE WIND.

Wind that sweep'st 'mongst leaves and boughs,
How the heart thy power avows,
Thou appear'st with them at play;
But the triumphs of thy sway
Are o'er the throbbing human heart,
Where deep thoughts come, dwell, depart,
As thou rushest on thy path,
Now in glee and now in wrath,
As thou deepenest now—now diest,
As thou shoutest now—now sighest,
What, Oh! Wind! can be thy spell
The quick heart to stir or quell?
Oh! the spell is all its own,
'Tis influenced by itself alone.
Evermore at watch it seems
To mould all Nature to its dreams!
Evermore at watch within
Its own deep shrine, for things akin
To its own feelings, or its fate,
Which 'twill discover or create!
All things doth it thus convert
(The deep mysterious Human Heart)
To its own tone and temper still—
And to its own strong voice doth thrill!
Wind—thou takest from thence thy power
To move it in some thoughtful hour.
Thence, wild Wind, and only thence,
Dost thou win thine Influence!

A SPRING EVENING.

AND COULD'ST THOU HOLD.

And could'st thou hold the dagger to my heart,
And watch the life even throb by throb depart,
Even pulse by pulse slow perish and decay,
And pass, as thy weak love hath passed away?
Could'st thou look calm upon my sufferings then,
And still inflict the murderous blow again,
And gaze upon the fading, failing hue
In my cold cheek, which once, beloved One, grew
More and more smiling still beneath thine eye,
The Star of all my Soul's idolatry?
More and more glowing thy loved gaze beneath,
As some young rose new-nursed by the sweet breath
Of southern breezes, and by opening rays
Of Summer's Suns into one crimson blaze?
I know thou could'st not! but more cruel 'tis
To strike this death-blow to my bosomed bliss—
To draw the angry cloud o'er all my hopes,
Till sick to death the immortal Spirit droops,
That cannot die—that cannot cease to feel,
But suffers pangs no language can reveal,
And feeds upon its tortures evermore,
And strengthens, on its sufferings sharp and sore!
Oh! 'tis more barbarous, 'tis more heartless far,
Thus—thus—e'en smile by smile and star by star
To snatch away my hope, my Life of Life,
And watch me sinking slow beneath the strife;
My peace, my happiness to stab and slay,
And gaze unpitying as they die away—
To murder me in mine own loving heart,
And aim the blow at the most feeling part!

I AM CONTENTED.

AND IS SHE DEAD?

STANZAS.

(FROM INEZ.)

THE YOUTH OF THE SOUL.

Memory! I turn to thee—to thee,
Beloved consoler—Memory!
And think of those lost lovely years,
And not without fast-gushing tears,
When in serene and sweet repose
My soul within me sprang and rose
And soared into the Heavens above,
Sustained by Innocence and Love!
Nor soared its own glad self alone
Above the Sun's triumphal throne,
(In those dear days, whose memory, even,
Strong consolation oft hath given!)
But bore with it unto the Skies
Its hopes and trusts—its loves and joys,
Its sweet affections and its dreams,
Its visions and its cherished schemes,
Its darling wishes and beliefs,
And all—except its little griefs!
Bore with it all it loved and knew,
(That caught its own Celestial hue)—
Familiar and accustomed things,
That soared with it on soaring wings;
Aye! bore its World with it above,
Made strong through faith and strong through love,
Bade its own World with it arise,
And grow a portion of the skies!

LINES.

The thronged Inhabitants of these proud Walls
Are still—and still the lately echoing halls,
The sounding passages and ringing floors—
Nor noise is heard of opening, closing doors,
No hum of busy tongues accosts the ear,
The chilling hush weighs on me like a fear.
'Tis Midnight's deep and calm and awful hour,
And the fixed stillness hath a sombre power;
Shadows and Night and Silence are around,
And each and all are solemn and profound,
And one there is amongst the dwellers here,
In solitude most heavy and most drear,
Though all the Earth's thronged myriads should be there,
For him no breath should move the frozen air;
He would be still approachless and alone,
Though nations round should greet the Silent One!
Yes! One there is among the dwellers here,
Touched by no hope and shaken with no fear,
Moved by no thought and by no will impelled,
In Slumber's strictest bonds of slavery held,
A very King of Shadows and the Night,
And Solitude and Silence! yet no might
Attendeth on that King—no pomp, no state,
No mastery, no prerogative, nor weight—
No vantage, no puissance, and no will,
No strength, no policy, no choice, no skill,
No counsel, and no influence—no resource,
Senseless—unconscious lies the stiffening Corse!

THE HEART'S GUESTS.

My Heart! thou art now a dreary aching void!
Far hence is all thou lovest—much is destroyed
And much for ever severed—yet away!
What weak wild words was I beguiled to say?
The heart it is a delicate thing indeed,
And when o'er vanished blessings made to bleed,
And emptied of all treasures of delight,
Doth it remain a lifeless void, where Night
And gloom and breathless Silence sternly rest?
Hath it no haunting visitants, no guest?
Such blank dull emptiness it ne'er may know.
Surely it is not—no! it is not so.—
Vacant remains the bird-forsaken nest,
The shell of its pearl-treasure dispossessed,
The vase whose incense-wealth is scattered far,
The channel whose glad streams exhausted are,
The hive whose honey stores are stolen away,
The mine whose hoards become the spoiler's prey;
And lonely too the Temple and forlorn,
Whence the idol-figures have been rudely torn,
But Oh! the Heart—the Heart—if emptied so
Of its dear treasures—of its trustful glow—
Of its enchanted hopes and smiling dreams—
Its darling fancies and its gentle schemes—
Too soon 'tis filled with shapes of sorrow then,
Phantoms of buried things that rise again,
And brooding bodings, too of future ill
That make its melancholy pulses thrill!—
And multiply Distraction—till 'tis bound
With countless griefs for which no name is found!
A thing too delicate is th' anxious Heart!—
And if stern Pain assault it with its dart,
And griefs torment it, and regrets pursue,
Still rising up in shapes for ever new,
If so 'tis emptied of all joy, nor buoyed
By one sweet hope, yet—Oh! no yawning void,
No vacant hollow shell doth it become,
But one dark, gloomy, spectre-haunted tomb!

ADIEU!

TO NAPOLEON IN THE GRAVE.

ON DISAPPOINTMENT.

Now Disappointment do thy worst and best,
Root out, not only from this tortured breast,
The love, the unbounded and the o'erwhelming love,
But even the power its passionate thrills to prove;
But this may not be—Fate will grant not this,
Nor from my heart her furies thus dismiss!—
Oh! I have travelled far, and still have found
The gloomy landmarks of my course (whose bound
Is that congenial and that pitying grave,
Which yet from sufferings and from wrongs shall save,)
Were still thine epochs—Oh! unbending Power,
Who from the infernal realms hath claimed thy dower,
Dire Disappointment—fiend!—that still loves best
To plunge the knife in the most feeling breast!
Oh! I have travelled on, unpausing still,
From bitter disappointment's venomed ill—
To disappointments bitterer yet—and said
(Of nought the future had to inflict afraid!)
Again and oft again—“Now Hope, farewell!
No more to me thy Heavenly falsehoods tell;
And since within my soul thou'rt mute and dead,
Since I no more thy fatal pathways tread,
Deadened my life is, darkened is my light,
And calm monotony shall set all right!”
Thus I have said,—alas! how vainly, still
The heart is treacherous to its latest thrill;
Since ever have I risen from this fond dream,
Only to find thee shape some dearer scheme;
Only to find thee wake with keener power,
In some unguarded, some defenceless hour;
And then again to madden and to mourn
O'er dear delusions that can ne'er return!

STANZAS.

(FROM INEZ, AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.)

OH! IF ONCE MORE.

LINES ON SUNRISE.

Oh! how beautiful, how fair
The Sunrise shows—the barren air
Is one luxuriant wild of hues,
For the crowned Sun unsparing strews
His coloured splendours over all,
More sumptuous than a royal pall—
With flowery treasures all outspread,
Appears the great vault overhead,
For many a cloud now burns and glows
Like the Summer's richest rose—
And some are like the golden showers
Of the bright Laburnum flowers;
And some are like the violet,
(Though not like that in emerald set)—
In days of old mythology
A lovelier Flora of the sky
Had seemed at this bright moment born,
E'en on this glad and glorious morn!
So brilliantly o'er Heaven's clear floor
Seems scattered now the flowery store.

SONG.

OH! COULD'ST THOU KNOW.

THOU ART NOT HERE.

THE ESCAPE.

As the stream just freed from the iron frost,
As the banner free to the proud breeze tossed,
As the steed delivered from the yoke,
As the slave whose thrall is newly broke,
As the hawk, just stripped of the blinding hoot,
That soars at once in exulting mood
To the azure heights of the glorious sky,
With a wing as free as that unbound eye!
So feel I now—thus at length set free—
Oh! Love! from thy ruthless tyranny!
As the bark, that 'scapes from the rush and roar
Of a stormy sea to a quiet shore;
As a rain-drop loosed from the sweeping cloud,
Which some flower's embracing leaves enshroud,
As the leaf of the Autumn that drifted far,
The sport of the winds in their howling war,
And that rests at length in some peaceful place,
From the headlong race—from the hurrying chase.
E'en so feel I now, thus set free at last
From the unrest and strife of the painful past,
And solaced, Love, from thy sufferings sore,
Which racked and tortured my soul before!
Oh! sweet it is when the wild storms cease,
And the Elements rest in lovely peace;
And happy it is when the strife is done,
When the battle thunders no longer stun,
When the conflict and all its pangs are o'er,
And dried are the crimsoned founts of gore,
But sweeter and happier far 'tis still,
When the Soul escapes from Love's mortal ill,
When at length it wins a serene repose
From Passion's stormy and fiery woes,
And rests in a stillness the more profound,
For its wearying struggles and conflicts, bound
In thy fatal yoke—Oh! conquering Power!
Who seizest that Soul in an evil hour,
To vex it with sudden and strange alarms,
To turn 'gainst itself all its boasted arms,
Its proudest weapons of thought and will,
Oh! a sweeter and happier change 'tis still!
And I joy, dark Love, with a rapturous joy,
That thy power my Soul is strong to destroy,
That 'tis girded up to abjure thy sway,
And to dash thy chains and thy yoke away.
I joy, Oh! Love! to be now set free
From thy harsh and thy haughty tyranny!
And at once to be through one victory blessed,
With boundless freedom and cloudless rest!

NO TROPHY-PILE.

THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Queen-Spring, now com'st thou in thy pomp and pride,
Ruling thy Vernal Empire far and wide,
Beauty and joy come with thee, and thou sweepest
In radiant state along—but while thou heapest
Thy rosy treasures prodigally still,
Till laughs the vale and shines the beamy hill,
Till wears the wood an hundred tender dyes
Of various green, whose fine diversities
Perplex the sense, (since Oh! there is no end
To those pure tints that exquisitely blend
In One Perfection—not more various shows
The Sunset sky when most divine it glows,
The Rainbow's arch—or diamond's shining frame,
Though here 'tis still another—and the same!—
Variety in Unity—and Change
In fairest constancy,—sweet contrast strange!)
While joyauncy and splendour and delight
Meet everywhere the pleased and flattered sight.
Still, warbling fount thou seemest to complain—
Set free from thine enfolding Winter chain—
A tale thou tell'st of sweet and gentle grief
To the reflected flow'r and mirrored leaf,
And still dost thou a mournful aspect keep,
Oh! golden Willow—that dost bend and weep,
With thy long lavish streamers, free and fair,
That tremblingly caress the smiling air.
And thou, with richest note and tenderest moan,
Oh! plaintive ring-dove, mak'st thy sadness known.
Nature still keeps for heavy hearts that mourn
A gentle sympathy—nor doth she turn
Away from these in all her state and pride,
But yet reserves for them soft tones aside,
For them a mild pathetic grace retains,
Which best can soothe their pent and bosomed pains.
While the glad-hearted can find nought but mirth
Through all th' enkindled Sky and gilded Earth,
The sorrowful can mark the accordant tone,
Whose soft complaints suit ever with their own!

TO-MORROW.

To-morrow, what art thou? what art thou not?
No cloud can dim thy shine—thy smile can blot;
Oh! thou art joy and rest, and strength and power,
No gloom can o'er thy radiant aspect lower;
No frown can darken o'er thy Sunbright-face,
Then shall we snatch the prize—then gain the race;
Then win the victory, and the task achieve,
Then all our follies—all our faults retrieve.
Then shall the gladness of our great success
With more than mortal thrills of rapture bless,
And all shall wear a look of Heaven around,
Delight shall have no damp—and bliss no bound!
To-morrow! thou art ever all in all,
No grief shall then oppress—no wrong befall;
Oh! thou art Empire—boundless and immense,
And Sovereign gifts of good shalt thou dispense!
And thou art Paradise and perfect joy
Without the dream of shadow or alloy!
Then shall we drain the cup, and cull the wreath,
Ours shall be Heaven above—and Earth beneath;
Then shall our triumph be indeed complete,
The World—the World shall worship at our feet!
Then shall we gain the most divine repose,
And all forget our trials and our woes;
Love shall still tend us, knowledge shall exalt,
And Peace in all our paths shall smiling halt,
Honour shall wait upon us, fortune serve,
No more our trust shall ebb, our purpose swerve!
To-morrow we shall laugh at thee, vain Past,
And reap the harvest of our hopes at last!
We shall then land upon the promised shore,
Safe from the billow's swell—the tempest's roar—
Take up in pleasant places our abode,
And toil no more in emulation's road,
And slippery paths of difficult access,
Oft wrung by Disappointment's chill distress.
To-morrow!—Oh! to-morrow! then indeed
Shall we surmount the mound and snatch the meed,
And then the wages of our toil receive,
And then the web shall we triumphant weave;
That web—in painful progress yet more slow
Than hers who wept in silent widowed woe
In Ithaca's lorn lordless Isle of old,
She who the wearying days heart-sickened told,
And heavily with true affection mourned,
And still to one beloved object turned,
Her hands undid the labour of her hands,
But by our side some mocking dæmon stands,
Who still makes all our efforts end in nought,
And vainly have we struggled—vainly sought,
And fruitlessly have watched—and idly wrought;
Some frail thread loosened, loosens then the whole,
And aches with hope deferred the sorrowing soul!
Discouraged, not deterred, we strive again
With fainter heart and with more troubled brain,
The same results repeated still to find,
Yet still to toil with fond devotion blind.
To spin the gossamer, to weave the sands
In stable twines, in strong and steadfast bands,
Were tasks as easy as to form and frame
To something actual, each disturbing dream;
To make each dear illusion brightly be
A truth, a trust, and a reality!
Yet Oh! to-morrow! though to-day destroy,
Thy sun shall shine to light us to our joy!
Whate'er is hard and difficult to-day,
To-morrow shall be but as lightsome play;
To-day, we stoop, we sink beneath the weight,
To-morrow we shall rise above our fate;
Oh! fair to-morrow! what shalt thou not bring,
What treasures at our feet shalt thou not fling?
To-day—much, much impossible we own,
To thee can nought impossible be known!
Oh! thou art boundless Good and boundless Power,
And Hopes hang on thee as in morning's hour
Dewdrops on flowers and leaves, a dazzling crown
Which the least touch shall shake too surely down;
And so fleet all our radiant hopes away,
When bright to-morrow hath become to-day;
It ever proves too painfully the same,—
Ever its nature changing with its name!

HOPELESSNESS.

Is there to these wild griefs no end?
Shall Time not comfort and befriend?
Must these unbreathed, embosomed woes
Find neither limit nor repose?
No bound nor peace shall these e'er find,
These torture-tempests of the mind,
Till Passion or its prey are past
The limits of their life at last,
Till Passion or its prey succumb
Still must I suffer—still the sum
Of my dark sorrows seek to increase,
As though the excess of pain brought peace!
Alas! 'tis false—it is not so—
We deaden not the sense of woe
By still imposing Cares on Cares—
Heaping Despairs upon Despairs!
The Heart is capable of All!
'Twill farther still, and farther fall!
And deeper drain, and deeper still,
The poisoned draughts—the dregs of Ill!

YES! I CAN SMILE!

TO THE COUNTESS OF JERSEY,

ON HER REVISITING BELVOIR CASTLE AFTER A LONG ABSENCE

Thou bad'st me touch the chorded shell,
Thou bad'st the breathing numbers swell,
And I that mandate had obeyed,
Or unreluctantly essayed,
But that with fascinated look
Mine eye had wandered through thy book,
To find 'mongst its enchanted pages
Names—that still shine the stars of ages,
There have I read the magic strains
Of him who o'er young fancy reigns —
She, that his high behest fulfills,
And yields whate'er he asks and wills;
And all her gifts o'er him are shed,
Through all her paths 'tis his to tread,
Her Fairy Kingdoms spread before him,
For him to enrich them and to explore them!
Her treasures opened to his view,
For him to exhaust them—and renew!
He—whose divine imagination
Hath, Ariel-like, searched through Creation!
And borne away its precious things,
Meet freight for those Etherial wings!
Meet tribute too, for such a shrine,
Oh! crowned with many Gifts!—as thine!
Nor yet—his strains alone were there—
Traced on thy pages pure and fair—
The pages of thy precious book,
O'er which with charmed and raptured look
Mine eye had wandered or reposed,
Where endless beauties shone disclosed.—
Other proud children of the Lyre
Had called up all their minstrel fire—
Collected all their fancy's rays
To light those leaves with fitting lays!
Could I then with ambitious aim,
To kindle Inspiration's flame—
Too rashly and too boldly seek
In me, alas! but faint and weak—
And all presumptuously pretend
With theirs my lowly strains to blend!
No! I had thrown aside the lyre
Nor dared to attempt nor sought to aspire—
But one bright theme—but one sweet word
Would thrill through each responsive chord!
Welcome!—Oh! welcome to these walls!—
Welcome to mine Ancestral Halls!
I might not check the cordial flow
Of thoughts that caught sweet Friendship's glow.
And let me on thy mind impress
One Truth, that needs not Fancy's dress—
(That claimeth—chooseth for its own
Truth's artless Eloquence alone!—
Nor scorn the simple lay I weave,
Which only asks thee to believe
The lay, that Truth, doth sole inspire—
Which may not ask thee to admire!)
Though in this renovated Pile,
Which Time forbore not to despoil—
Full many a change thine eye assails,
Till faltering Recognition fails,
Though scarce a stone remains the same,
(Those spared by Time escaped not Flame!)
Though altered all things round may seem
A clueless maze for Memory's dream—
The roof that arched above thy head,
The halls, that echoed to thy tread,
The towers, by stains of centuries dyed,
Whose gothic gloom frowned dark in Pride
Above the sweet and sunny Vale—
That tells a lovelier lighter tale—
The chambers, by thy presence graced,
The terraces, thy light foot traced,
The winding corridors, that wore
The dim stamp of the days of yore—
Though these, remembrance all defy,
And mock the retrospective eye,
Altered, transformed from what they were,
With studied toil, and laboured care—
Or varied from their aspect old,
By dire occurrence unforetold—
Even though thus deeply changed may be
The walls—the halls—that welcome thee—
Oh! never doubt, that unestranged
The hearts that welcome—are unchanged!

ON A LEAF OF MYRTLE.

THE LADYE AND THE WARRIOR.

LINES

ON AN ENAMELLED PARROT IN A GOLDEN CAGE, GIVEN ME BY LADY LONDONDERRY, WITH HER HAIR IN THE CAGE DRAWER.

Though the Scarlet Loory of Manmadin
For his wings may dazzling Sungifts win,
As he bears through the spice-bowers and gum-tree groves
The beauteous boy-sovran of smiles and loves,
(Those loves as sweet to the young fresh Heart
As that honeycomb tipping his deadliest dart,
And rosy and radiantly glowing smiles,
Wild and warm as the Sun-skies of Indian Isles)
This Love-guided Loory though bright it be,
My beautiful bird, is not beauteous like thee.
Though the hues of Eve's Heavens bepaint his wings,
Tho' he bears the young King who hath conquered Kings,
Though where'er he moves he bequeathes to the breeze
A breath of Celestial Amrita-trees—
Of the Camālāta from Paradise bowers—
Of the mystic wreaths of the starry flowers—
The undying and fadeless flowers divine,
Which in beauty of bloom immortal twine
Round the pointed darts in his Rider's quiver,
Flowers—whose freshness and fragrance last on for ever!
Though thus precious this Love-guided Loory may be,
My bird, my fair bird, he must yield to thee!
The Loory that beareth Parvati's Son
Must yield to my brighter and dearer one!
Whose burthen is sweeter than his is even,
Tho' he bears the young Love-god of Brahma's Heaven—
The Son of the Lotus-born—the Heart's Lord
By a myriad vassals obeyed and adored—
The young God of Love a fair burthen may be—
But my bird—a yet fairer belongeth to thee,
For thine is bright Friendship's diviner Power—
No doubt of the heart, and no dream of the hour,
No flash on the waste, and no froth on the wave,
(Still a torrent to breast—and a tempest to brave!)
As Love's darker mystery for ever must be
In a World where the Passions are faithless as free—
Oh! mine, mine brings a welcome and wealthy freight,
Of kind loves, that shall end not in discord and hate,
Of Friendship's calm feelings—the true and the deep,
Which unclouded, unchanged their mild fervours shall keep;
Of remembrances sweet and affections dear,
Say then which doth the loveliest burthen bear?—
And the ring of crisped and of shadowy gold,
Like the locks of young Goddesses worshipped of old
That lies coiled in the drawer of the fairy cage,
(For which champions of yore had arisen to wage
The tournament's gay and chivalrous war—
While that bright Prize had shone like a glittering Star
In the eyes of the combatants gathered from far)
That delicate ring of soft sunny hair,
So airily fine, and so fairily fair!—
What lovelier token could Friendship give
To bid gentle thoughts still in absence live—
What dearer Gift could Affection send,
My loved—my charming—my beautiful Friend?

AN AUTUMNAL DAY.

ADIEU TO ALL!

Adieu to All that once could please and charm,
To all that could delight, inspire, and warm,
To anxious joys and to delicious cares,
To all the rich unrest the quick heart shares!
Henceforth Life's fond illusions I resign,
Henceforth let calm monotony be mine—
Imagination with her sunbright wings,
Hope with her troubled though her honeyed springs,
Youth with its rainbows and its Passion-flowers,
Love with his meteors wild and thunder-showers,
Pleasure with all her roses and their thorns,
And all that sweetens Life and that adorns,
Are but the sources of the Grief Supreme
With whose dark shadows Earth doth ever teem,
And all that wakes the heart, but wakes it still
To feel pain's bitter pang and torturing thrill,
To know the stings of anguish and suspense,
The sharp, the keenly-piercing, and intense—
Then sleep my heart—sleep now and never wake,
Forget to bound to thrill—to burn and ache!
Oh! let me live in such cold breathless peace,
That almost consciousness of life shall cease!—
Let me to All breathe such a deep Adieu,
That I may even forget that once I knew.
Adieu to the ardent visions of the Soul,
The rich emotions through its depths that stole,
And to the Ethereal tremblings of the heart,—
The torture with the transports shall depart!
Adieu to all that shook this mind, o'erwrought,
And winged too wildly this impatient thought
To all the trouble of the strange delight
Which stirred my Soul—a tempest in its might—
Since still my happiness seemed evermore
A sea of waves that spurned an Earthly shore,
Yet gained no other—till these billows wild
Back on each other rolled—together heaped and piled!

WEEP NOT.

THEN AND NOW.

Of old I walked glad o'er this beautiful Earth,
With an ear that drank in but the sounds of its mirth,
With an eye that perceived but the pleasure and pride
O'er the fair face of Nature spread freely and wide;
With a Soul that but answered each challenge of joy,
Nor dreamt of delusion, nor knew of alloy—
I turned from the cloud on the bright ray to gaze,
Nay! I saw not those clouds, blotted out by those rays!
Nor then heeded the sigh of the wind echoing long—
Ah! I heard not the sigh—overborne by the song!
The sweet song of the birds in their freedom and bliss,
But that time was the deepest of contrasts to this!
Now, the Sun may shine out in crowned splendour and pride,
If one faint wreath of cloud be dim-frowning beside—
I mark that—but am blind to the Sun heav'nly bright—
Still I dream of the darkness, nor look for the light!
Now the birds may exult in as brilliant a strain,
If there be a low sound that seems still to complain,
Ev'n the slight shivery breath of the shrill moaning breeze
Dying—dying away 'mongst the unechoing trees,
That sound is the sound that I hear, full and strong,
Since I watch for the wail, and still shrink from the song.
Oh! that sound is the sound that o'er me winneth sway,
For I mind but the moan, and I list not the lay.
Ah! stern is the contrast and sad is the change,
And deep is the difference. and startling and strange
Of the days that frown now, and the days that smiled then.
And must joy and glad hope never shine forth again—
Must I walk o'er this blooming and beautiful Earth,
But to turn from its splendour and turn from its mirth,
And each cloud to detect, and each shadow to trace,
That dwell for a space on its exquisite face?

THE WARRIOR'S PETITION.

LIFE'S PEACEFUL HOURS.

STANZAS.

(FROM INEZ, AN MS. POEM.)

THE DREAMER'S GRAVE.

RESOLUTION.

OH! HOURS OF THE PAST!

THE WILLING VICTIMS.

NATURE'S GLADNESS.

In Nature's joy is something holy still,
It seems some mighty mandate to fulfil,
And more immediately from Heaven to flow,
And still to rise from this dim Earth below!
Yea! more immediately to Heaven to rise,
Scarce lent ere it returneth to the Skies!
There is a sacredness in even her mirth,
From Springs so pure it ever takes its birth!
How different from our forced festivity,
Our ofttimes hollow heartless human glee!
The fawn's exulting bound and lightsome play,
The bird's glad glancing in the sunny ray,
The insects' mazy flight and busy hum,
Near which all other sounds of joy seem dumb
All have a charm peculiar, and distinct
From all, that seems with our rejoicings linked—
And the most wounded heart on Earth that mourns,
Scarce with disgust from that sweet gladness turns,
Though Oh! so far beyond all we may share,
Who find in every wreath the thorns of Care—
So far beyond the bliss that we may know,
Slaves, exiles, prisoners in this World below!
Lark! let me bless thee on thy happy flight,
And thy rich ostentation of delight!
A blameless ostentation—never meant
To grieve the wretch unblessed with like content!
Thou tell'st the Earth and Heaven that thou art glad,
Unconscious that one single thing is sad,
To thee all living Nature still must seem
Wrapt in one cloudless, one ecstatic dream!
Fawn! let me watch thee at thy blithesome play,
With eyes and heart the while almost as gay,
We feel thy innocent and gentle glee
From every shadow, every stain is free;
No inborn pang that outward gladness mocks,
No truth it shames, and no remembrance shocks;
Pure, and even perfect as 'tis pure, it is—
Our childhood dreamt of such a bounding bliss!
And Oh! 'tis something, surely something still
In this strange life of trouble and of ill
To see—to feel the joys left yet on Earth,
'Midst much of mourning seems there more of mirth!

NEVER AGAIN OH! HEART!

Never again Oh! Heart—that once believed,
Canst thou thus sweetly, brightly be deceived—
How once thou feastedst on thy full-blown dream,
That dream that swift departed beam by beam,
And left thee from its radiant trammels free
To Life and Life's abhorred Reality!
Small comfort 'tis to me that now I know
My fancied joys did from false sources flow.
That now I know 'twas but Illusion all,
Which I was fain my Happiness to call!
What mattered it to me that 't was not true,
Since nought beyond the darling cheat I knew,
What mattered it to me since I believed,
Since I was utterly and all deceived.
Oh! let me be again deceived and blest,
Force back the Falsehood, and restore the rest!
The lost delights revive—the dream renew,
The false we trust is truer than the true—
For while it lasts 'tis all indeed our own,
Our Soul its element—our heart its throne!
The outward World's cold breath there may not come,
The mind enspheres it in a Star-like home.
In our existence it exists—derives
Its food from our strong fancy—while it lives
The Life of living souls—intense, supreme—
And what hath truth to give worth such a Dream?
Yes! while it lasts it is ourselves—and we
Must doubt our life ere its Reality!
And oh! 'tis real! 'tis truer than the true!
Our own Possession and Creation too!
But let us wake not—close the willing eye—
Dream—dream and be deceived—dream on—and die!

LIFE'S WORST GRIEF.

HAPPINESS.

Happiness! I demand thee back again,
Come—come, and o'er my Soul and Senses reign—
Not yet—I feel not yet is it too late,
Not yet hath Fate, the dark unpitying Fate,
Wholly extinguished all my kindling powers—
With the dread weight of these funereal hours;
Once more to lift my Soul from this long woe,
Thy smile of more than beauty let me know!
Thy smile of rapture—Life's divinest Star,
Let that bring peace at length, and banish war.
I have so much endured, so much despaired,
Such sorrows struggled with, such sufferings shared.
For me in my lone wretchedness—for me
Seemed nought but Night and Death and Doom to be,
My Sun went down indeed while it was day,
But I was doomed on darkened Earth to stay!
Grief hath devoured my thoughts and, worm-like fed
Upon my very heart—not cold nor dead!—
But fraught with over-Life—too keen and wild,
For ever was I Passion's truest child.—
My world around me into ruins fell,
And yet was I condemned therein to dwell,
A chaos 'twas of darkness, and of fire,
And I was not permitted to expire—
The Heavens to me seemed as a withered scroll,
The Earth one blasted wreck from pole to pole—
All Nature but one hideous ruin wide,
Dismay and horror frowned on every side,
All seemed one vast and yawning grave to be,
And yet no sheltering grave yawned there for me!
I felt I was but kept, still living there,
By the vitality of my despair—
The o'erwhelming Feeling which I writhed beneath,
Built up a barrier 'twixt myself and Death,
The universal Death, triumphant frowned
Where'er I turned my hopeless eyes around;
No sign of life nor feeling could I see,
And yet there came no Death to gladden me!
All Life concentred seemed, in my wrung Soul,
And anguish and Despair possessed the whole!
All that was Life was misery and despair,
And the dark whole fell harshly to my share!
But yet, 'tis not too late—'tis not too late,
Oh! Happiness! for thee to change my fate!
In woe, as in stern Winter, dormant lie
The germs of bountiful Fertility,
Concealed but not destroyed—the smiling Spring
Still calls to life full many a precious thing—
Oh! Happiness!—my sunny Spring be thou,
Come, come and sway my whole Existence now!

LINES

FROM A MANUSCRIPT POEM.

I know not that I love thee—but I know
That joy thy presence is—thine absence—woe,
That round thee gleams a very Summer-shine
Of dreams and hopes and visions half divine,
That round thee glows a deep unearthly light
Of Phantasy and Inspiration bright;
That where thou art all things are beautiful,
And where thou art not, dim and dark and dull.
That Life seems one rich rapture by thy side—
An ecstacy—till then unknown, untried.
Away from thee a suffering and a Death,
A bitter burthen of unmeaning breath—
Do all feel even as I intensely feel,
Do all at one same shrine in homage kneel,
And watch for every word and look of thine,
And find each look and ev'ry word divine?
Do all, when thee awhile they dwell beside,
On the sweet stream of thy enchantments glide—
Surrender up their Souls to thy bright sway,
And think too short the longest Summer's day,
Wherein to do thee homage deep and true,
And service loyal—thine unquestioned due?
Do all for ever do as I have done,
And in thine eyes seek out their only Sun?
Ah! yes!—and so methinks it is not love,
Since all the same enchanted Feeling prove
Love is not universal! can it be
The zeal with which all learn to worship thee?
I know not that I love—but this I know
One look from thee is worth all else below!
Those deep dark Heavens of Beauty that surprise
The Soul with admiration—those sweet eyes
Colour the Earth to me with light and love,
As sunshine coloureth the Skies above!
Thy voice is music to my Heart's rapt core,
A full and perfect music, and yet more—
It makes all else a music to my Soul,
Blest sounds throughout its listening silence roll—
I know not that I love—but this I know,
All hearts go with you whereso'er you go,
I know where'er you dwell where'er you move,
The Earth becomes a Paradise of love;
That in your radiant presence fair and bright,
There lives the life of life the light of light,
That your dear smile can this lorn World array
With a new beauty of celestial day,
That but to hear the whisper of that name
Fills all my heart and conscious cheek with flame,
And thrills through all my bosom and my brain
With pleasure deepening on to deepest pain.
I know not that I love thee—surely not
More than all others—whose thrice happy lot
It is—or hath been, but to look on thee,
The climax of all Life's felicity.
I know not if I love thee—but I know
That nothing else at least I love below.
There is a World, but 'tis alone for me
Contained—concentred in that one word thee!
'Tis thee I see, I feel, and heed alone,
Others may own to Thousands—I to One!
And Suns and Planets roll unheeded by
Before my fixed and undistracted eye,
The spot whereon thou stand'st my World is all—
Or bounded there, where doth thy shadow fall!

TRUTH AND FANCY.

Passion and Passion's fiery light
May sink and set long, long ere Night,
And Hope's bright smile, and Fancy's ray
Forget their sweet and restless play,
But yet enough on Earth remains
Still to endear Life's mortal chains.
For shadows gently seem unfurled
Ev'n of a higher, better World—
Loves, Charities, Humanities,
All that Man's natural heart should prize,
And chastened hopes and tempered fears,
The experience and the truth of years,
These may be ours, and it is good
To share these, and a tutored mood.
The vision and the dream are o'er,
The dear illusion comes no more,
But calm realities there are,
Worthy of all our trust and care.
The golden mists have cleared away,
But shines no golden light in Day?
The dews are kissed from leaf and flower,
But hath the Sun no sparkling power?
Whatever Fancy may have been,
Howe'er she lit this mundane scene,
Truth hath yet mightier gifts in store,
A richer and more varied lore.
Oh! never heed what they may say,
Who vaunt Imagination's ray
Above the Sun of Truth's full light—
A more than Giant in its might!
This world is full of precious things,
And every day some new gift brings,
If we but keep a watchful eye
On the infinite variety!
Still opening out before our view
Are endless wonders strange and new—
Fancy's sweet world is glad and fair,
And many a rich delight is there,
But Oh! Reality's is still
The work of more consummate skill,
Th'impress of a diviner hand
Doth admiration there command.
Our fairy-phantasies we form
Life-like and lovely, fair and warm,
And beautiful they are and bright,
And full of harmony and light,
But weak and worthless they appear,
The works of Heavenly wisdom near!
When we are tired of that which charmed
Our youthful bosoms (waked and warmed
By every tint and every touch
Ofttimes too deeply and too much—
That winged Imagination's power
Bestoweth in her rainbow-hour)
And turn from these delights away
To look upon Life's common day!
When we (the while we grieve and mourn)
To Truth's deep World eternal turn—
Then with soothed heart and gladdened mind,
How oft do we astonished find
A new World brightening more and more,
Of which we ne'er had dreamt before,
And kindling out before our gaze,
To fill with transport and amaze!
Things actual, true, and certain seem,
To shame our poor and fragile Dream!
The Truth doth Fiction still surpass,
As the object the reflecting glass—
The substance the faint shadow cast
Behind it—and it is surpassed!
Oh! in this world the True the Real
Are things that far outstrip th' Ideal!
The chain we snap, the spell we break,
And thousand sweet discoveries make;
Things that till then unmarked have been,
Things we have noted not—scarce seen,
Take then fresh shapes unto our eyes,
And strike with kindlings of surprise.
Imagination, like the Moon,
But boasts of light, a lavished boon,
She borroweth ever, nor doth know
The source from whence her riches flow.
Truth, like the Sun, immortal shines—
Within himself, those golden mines
That make all wealth, all pomp, all light—
For ever excellently bright!
Oh! but this World—the vast, the wide,
At every point, on every side,
Beneath, around, apart, above—
Is full of loveliness and love!
It is a world of precious things,
Where future Powers may plume their wings,
And teach themselves indeed to be
Worthy of Immortality!—
Where future Angels well may learn
With Heavenly zeal of love to burn!
And yet the more we mark and know,
The more we find, above, below—
Perfection—boundless and sublime—
Even in this World of Death and Time.
Oh! let us walk with watchful eyes,
Nor slacken our quick energies,
If we would half the wonders learn,
And half the splendid truths discern,
That everywhere indeed abound
Our faultering mortal steps around.

CHILDISH MEMORIES.

'Midst Passion's conflicts in our riper years,
Amidst its hurricanes of sighs and tears,
How ever and anon sweet Memories rise
Before our tortured and distracted eyes
Of our own smiling childhood, glad and gay,
Ere the dear doves of Peace had flown away—
When all was beautiful with heart-born joy,
And we were unconversant with annoy,
Like shaken Banners do those Memories sweep,
(Torn but amidst the Battle's terrors deep,
Shining and glittering)—o'er the gloomy field,
Which they, and only they, adorn and gild,
And to that darksome stage of fight and drear,
They lend a troubled show of brilliant cheer.
Fair Banners! droop and cling around your staves,
Fierce blows the storm, the battle-tempest raves—
How may your streaming shreds endure the blast—
And still the angry sky grows more o'ercast,
The strife still deepens, and the combat grows,
Fired with strong hate foes thickly croud on foes—
The broil still gathers, and the conflict spreads,
Trampled in dust must lie those glittering shreds,
Their brightness tarnished and their hues effaced,
Their lustrous blazonries no longer traced,
Their folds of fluttering grace more fiercely rent,
Lost in the storm, to which such light they lent.
But 'tis not so!—amidst the gathering gloom
The thickening horrors of encroaching doom—
The wild confusion of these conflicts rude,
The sternest struggles of that hideous feud,
The dread collision and the deadly shock
That seems Endurance' wearied powers to mock,
Those banners, still they brave the stormy blast,
They flutter on and glitter to the last!
While the proud plume and conquest-claiming crest
Are stripped of all their honours, and depressed,
And the fierce Battle's marshalled Powers commence
To faulter in defiance and defence—
Those floating banners still their faint gleam lend,
And flutter still—and glitter to the end!

LINES.

THE BELOVED IMAGE.

LIFE! AS WE STILL.

TO THE STARS.

II. VOLUME II.

THE COMMENCEMENT OF SPRING.

'Tis the first flush of Spring—now leafy dells
Resound with bird-notes—flourished canticles
Swell forth from every golden shining spray
That sparkles in the flooding light of day,
Earth prides her in her vernal furniture,
So delicate and freshly fair and pure,
And puts on all her ornaments, as might
Some Eastern Bride to charm the astonished sight
Of her young Bridegroom, unto whom her face
Had ne'er yet been unveiled in virgin grace,
As though with that first look at her bright charms
She hoped to o'erpower him with love's sweet alarms,
To dazzle him with Beauty's magic store,
And rivit him to her for evermore!
A Paradise unto the eye thou art,
Oh! Earth! but what, Oh! what unto the heart?
Too oft the whited sepulchre—where lies
For ever lost, all, all that heart could prize;
The tomb of all its hopes laid darkly low,
Where they may feel not Spring's returning glow,
Earth's Bridegroom comes but they shall greet him not,
For Sorrow there is still some desert spot
Which it or finds, or makes its gloomy lair,
And Spring frowns bleak as barren Winter there!
My own poor heart I dare not ask of thee
If thy fond hopes destroyed and withered be,
I dare not ask of thee, mine own poor heart,
If thou pale Sorrow's slave and victim art,
No—thy dark history I would fain conceal
Even from myself—nor heed thy sad appeal—
Why should I seek the whole extent to know
Perchance of an Eternal—hopeless woe?

MANUEL TO INEZ.

(FROM AN MS. POEM.)

THE DRAGON FLY.

STANZAS.

FROM A MANUSCRIPT POEM.

ON A FÊTE HELD IN THE OPEN AIR.

LINES

(FROM INEZ, AN MS. POEM.)

THE WATERS IMAGE BACK.

EXCEPTING THEE!

THE CROWDED HALL.

ALONE, AND WORSE EV'N THAN ALONE.

MOTHER!—SWEET MOTHER!—HASTE.

GO! SISTER!

ROSE!

Rose! regal rose!—how rich thou art,
Beauty blazeth at thy heart,
One treasury of precious things,
Art thou, whom gladsome summer brings
As the crown of all delight,
As the symbol of her right,
O'er each living heart to reign,
Sense and spirit to enchain—
Thee she brings—and we confess
The omnipotence of loveliness?
Rose! regal rose! transcendant flower,
Thou hast a refulgent dower,
Thou hast a bright opulence,
And a dreamy freight intense
Of odours, graces, burning dyes—
Sun of Earth! which like the skies,
Thou mak'st beautiful and bright,
All one blush of laughing light,—
Sun of Earth! we laud thee while
We do bask in thy red smile—
Thou art full of witcheries deep—
Thou thy sway dost ever keep—
Poets have made thee their theme,
Lovers wreathed thee with their dream,
Mourners laid thee by their dead,
Round the pallid pillowed head,
Maidens twined thee with their locks,
Conquerors, spared from battle shocks,
Have given thee at the banquet place
Victory's purple feast to grace—
Stern philosophers have loved thee,
Sage and statesmen old approved thee,
Monarchs 'midst their emblems worn thee'
On their crests of glory borne thee!
They have had thee strewed before them,
While their shouting people bore them,
To their coronation on,
To the altar—to the throne.
Rose—Oh! regal, regal rose,
Thou'rt the loveliest flower that blows—
A little summer of delight
Is gathered in thine urn so bright,
A rich Arabia of perfumes
In each leaf that blushing blooms;
Aye! a heaven of summer lies,
'Mid thy burning royal dyes,
In thy deep and dazzling breast
Nature's brightest flower and best!—
And thou mak'st, all sweet as fair,
One Arabia of the air—
That around thee broods and sighs
If in far Arabia lies
The soul of odour full and deep
That in bliss the sense doth steep!
Did they fable forth of old
A Flora of celestial mould?—
And name her Goddess of the Flowers
Guardian Queen of blossomed bowers—
Did they thus in the olden days,
And did they know thy crimson blaze?
Did they reck thy costly breath,
Did they boast thy crowning wreath,
How could they thro' fair summer's hours
Mistake the Goddess of the Flowers?—
Thou'rt their Goddess—glorious Rose!
Each to thee deep worship owes,
True allegiance—adoration—
Crown of all the flowered creation.
Regal Rose, thy matchless mien
Thee proclaimeth for their Queen,
Thou'rt the Flora of the flowers,
Thou'rt the Goddess of the bowers?
We the Rose their Goddess call
Reign in beauty o'er them all—
Still consummate flower remain
Darling of the Poet's strain,
Still light up the lover's dream
With a passion-painting gleam—
Still around the pallid dead
Tints of life-like beauty shed,
And cheat the mourner for awhile
With a warm reflected smile!
Still amidst the all glossy braids
O'er the brows of blushing maids,
Twine, bright flower!—and make more fair
The golden burnish of their hair!
At the conqueror's festal board,
Flower! all worshipped and adored,
Smile—and from his haughty heart
Half the sternness shall depart—
Win philosopher and sage
Still to read thy heavenly page,
Thy book of beauty still to read,
And honour nature's works indeed!
For in thee, as in the star,
Her vast powers developed are!
And her wond'rous skill we trace
As in worlds that lighten space—
In thy leaf and in thy stem,
She fashioned thee—she fashioned them!
Man can make nor flower to blow,
Nor world to blaze, nor may he know
All the mysteries of their making,
All the wonders of their waking—
When from Nothing they're called forth
Full of beauty, grace, and worth—
Thou shall set the blood astir
In heart of stern philosopher,
He shall look upon thy blaze
And thro' many a glowing maze
Shall his thoughts like lightning run,
All commingling into one—
For a deep and fervent sense
Of Nature's powerful Providence,
And her boundless goodness too,
Shall with influence just and true
Quicken all his heart and mind
Knowing for what ends designed
All her works and wonders are
Whether Flower or flaming Star—
Whether world in heav'ns abyss,
Or the tenderest growth of this.
Rose, still charm the sage's eye
With thy fair refulgency,
Still resplendently revealed,
Shine thou on the monarch's shield,
By the imperial eagle's side
Be thou placed in equal pride!—
Where the crowded symbols shine,
Telling of his glorious line,
Beam in beauty and in state,
And the blazon consecrate—
And upon his crest of glory,
Tell then rose! thine own sweet story.
Hint of nature, beauty, truth,
Breathe of love's own golden youth,
And around that proud crest twined
Do thou also rose! remind,
That Kings—like gorgeous flowers which gleam
Amidst their heraldries supreme
(Flowers that vanish from the field,
Though they fade not on their shield)
Must decline, and wane, and fall,
Sharing thus the doom of all!
Rose—still blush along the way
Where in long-drawn pomp's array
The coronation's train comes on
To seat the annointed on his throne,
There—'mid jewels' bickering blaze,
Startling suddenly the gaze,
'Mid the sweep of plumes that toss
Silvery in the sunlight's gloss,
'Mid the wave of banners wide
With their rich elaborate pride,
'Mid the Minster's shadows frowning,
Be the coronation's crowning!
Nothing fairer eye can see
'Mid its glories, flower, than thee;
Though thou'rt trampled, trodden down—
Thou'rt the coronation's crown.
All seems artificial there,
Saving thee—divinely fair;
There dost thou breathe, smile, and live—
Nature's representative!
And she reigns—ev'n there she reigns—
And her wonted sway retains,
In her lovely envoy's form,
Glowing, beautiful, and warm;
Rose—regal rose! for evermore
Let us praise thee and adore;
Nations-Empires pass away,
Sciences and arts decay,
Lost, forgotten, and unknown,
Towers and cities are o'erthrown;
Ages after ages—thou,
Rose, shalt reign as thou dost now,
Nature shall her pride renew—
Evermore as bright of hue,
Man shall evermore admire,
Ever laud thee—flower of fire!
'Tis as though Heaven's living blaze
Of still descending falling rays
In one spot gathered, mixed, entwined,
Together clustered and combined—
Had enkindled into thee—
Gloriously, triumphantly!
Sun of Earth! consummate rose!
Whose sweet leaves of light disclose
New enchantments without end,
While on them our looks we bend;
When this world shall pass away
On the dread and nameless day,
Shalt thou thenceforth be no more—
With thy beauty's boundless store!
Surely in unfading bowers
Thou wilt smile through changeless hours,
'Mid deathless blooms of Heav'nly birth,
Flower of Beauty—Sun of Earth!
Sun of Earth! thou dost even now—
As do all things fair as thou—
Remind of higher holier things,
And make us thirst for Heav'nly springs!

LINES ON THE SUN.

Sun! Beatific Sun, i' the year's wintriest day
If thou com'st forth with pomp in every ray,
A little world of summer round thee smiles,
The barren clouds laugh out to flowery isles,
To little skyey oases of bliss
Too fair to gaze on from a world like this,
Without fond yearnings and keen longings deep
To climb the severing and untrodden steep!
Sun! Beatific Sun, thrice glorious Sun,
Thou can'st make precious all thou look'st upon,
All things grow beautiful beneath thine eye—
As though they drank ætherial poetry,
From thy divinest aspect—was the Sea
Set in this earth to be a glass for thee!
Were the unnumbered stars with their soft rays
Scattered, to be as foils to thy crowned blaze,
Through endless space (when trembling into light
They wake remembrance of thy matchless might)
Through endless space that sparkles with their gleams—
But burns—but blazes with thy Kingly beams!
Sun! Beatific Sun! 'tis thou hast given
To us clay-moulded mortals Earth and Heaven,
For both to thy enlightening beams we owe—
Without which neither could we view or know;
And still from thee, Oh! orb divinely bright,
We mount in thought towards the Light of Light.
Thou Godlike Sun!—thou shinest but to say,
“My Maker bade me make the glorious day,
I shine upon His worlds—obey His word,
And sway the universe to serve its Lord;
I reign and rule His great creation still,
To make that reign subservient to His will!”
Oh! bear the brightness of a perfect day
Far through our Souls, and let each stainless ray
Meet with a thought as pure and as serene,
And brighten thou that Spiritual Scene,
For powers of darkness there full often brood,
And turn to evil all our hopes of good.
Sun!—Beatific Sun! no ray of thine
Upon that Spiritual Scene can shine,
A Heavenlier Light—a Spiritual Sun
Must shine and smile those clouds away—or none.

TO ONE DEPARTED.

DEFIANCE.

BRIGHTEST SPRING.

Brightest Spring, thou'rt here again,
And Nature drops her Winter's chain;
The world seems young and fresh once more,
Creation doth thy smile adore!
Beautiful thou art! and thou
Makest our world as beauteous now;
Golden lights are in the skies,
On the Earth ten thousand dyes,
Fair the Sun in Heaven's vault shines,
And as though the Earth's golden mines
All were o'er her surface spread,
She the splendour overhead—
Doth as lustrously reflect,
And an equal pomp affect!
Brightest Spring, thou'rt here again,
The world now drops its winter's chain,
It is free and glad once more,
And with beauty running o'er;
Oh! enchanted time and dear,
Spring for ever welcome here!
Hark! it is the warbling thrush,
Quick his notes of rapture gush!
Listen! 'tis the gladsome lark,
Hence! away with care and cark!
Look! Oh transport to the view,
'Tis the violet bursting through!
Pause!—feel'st thou the velvet sod?
Soft as ever fairies trod;
Mark—is not that odorous breath
Wafted from Spring's new-pleached wreath?
Oh! thou brightest season smile
O'er field and rock and mount and isle,
O'er Earth and air, o'er sea and shore—
For the ocean's purple floor
Wins a more enchanting hue,
A deeper and diviner blue,
When thy steps of lightness pass
O'er it—making it thy glass,
(Worthy of thy radiant form
When untroubled by the storm—
And thou bid'st the storm away—
To await a darker day;)
While the grateful Ocean flings
O'er thy many-coloured wings
Its bright waters—like a charm,
Thee with mightier power to arm,
Every drop hath freshening power
To improve thy lustrous hour;
And o'er all the smiling land,
Where thou tak'st thy happy stand,
From his treasury is shed
Freshness, beauty, widely spread;
The air too richly overflows
With tints and treasures of the Rose!—
Up its golden labyrinths run
My strong thoughts! unto the Sun!
Whence this lovely thing is born
That doth all the scene adorn,
Bask in his unbounded blaze
Twine yourselves 'mid his rich rays!
All the air is flushed and filled
With those beams that deepening gild
Day by day the enkindling Earth,
Wakening from her wintery dearth?
Spring! the world at thy sweet call
Startles from its gloomy thrall,
Rises up as from the tomb
In a glory of young bloom—
Should not this remind all men
How themselves will rise again
From the dark and frozen grave
The yet unopened world-wide cave?
Where unknown, unseen, remain
Bound in more than icy chain,
Myriads, upon myriads heaped
Heaven's vast harvest yet unreaped—
Spring! more precious far than thine
Through thy treasures brightly shine,
Are the treasures deeply laid
In the Grave's far-reaching shade—
They that there await the hour
Which shall call them forth in power
From the darkness of the tomb,
To put on immortal bloom—
Spring! thy beauty makes me glad,
Should thy lessons make me sad?
No! that beauty is as nought
To the hopes that thou hast brought!

LINES,

WRITTEN IN MY GARDEN AT ---.

Birds, bells, and lulling bees, and measured oars,
Mixed with a calm the raptured Soul adores,
Here captive make the senses and the heart,
Each lovely sound would lovely be apart,
But thus commingling in one full-toned strain,
'Twould charm the deaf dull ear of groaning pain,
Disperse the thoughts of Sorrow's mournful breast,
And bid delight a moment be its guest;
Exalt the worldling's grovelling fancies even,
And give the erring Soul one dream of Heaven!
Yet, no! this harmony might discord prove
To hearts not gently tuned to perfect love;
It is the bosom's concord that alone
Can lend its sweetness to each separate tone.
Birds, bells, and bees, and dip of measured oars
Should grating be as when the night wind roars
Against the watcher's casement, if no note
From the deep Soul might with them thrilling float,
And stamp them into music—if it send
No breath of bliss with their sweet sounds to blend,
If no pure tone of glad and calm assent
Spring from the peaceful bosom of content,
No Jubilate from the heart bursts forth
To lend them mystic and melodious worth—
Then glad am I by this sure test to find
That peace and hope are throned within my mind—
For all is music to my ear and heart,
While thus I linger sheltered, and apart
From the World's busy, noisy, troubled scenes,
From which my Spirit with aversion leans—
No tone discordant o'er my sense doth jar,
No sigh the enchanted melody can mar—
But all is pleasure still, for all is peace,
And need I fear the blessed charm should cease?
No! all must still be gladness and repose,
And harmony, which no distraction knows—
All, still sweet music to my ear and heart,
Dearest! since discord comes not where thou art,
While truth and faith and gratitude combine
To make me wholly Love's and wholly thine!

LOVE ME NOT!

EAST, WEST, SOUTH, AND NORTH.

EARTH IS PITILESS.

MY THOUGHTS! ASCEND.

THE ISLE OF BEAUTY.

THE FAREWELL TO EARTH.

A VISIT TO A COUNTRY HOUSE.

CHANGES.

TO ---

I saw thee once, thou fair and lovely thing,
And trembled for thee—such rich gifts will bring
Upon thy fearless and uplifted head,
Those storms of fate, whose terrors still seem spread
Around the loveliest and the best below,
In this probationary State of Woe.—
I trembled for thee-but I trembled more
Because I saw thy brow of Beauty bore
The certain stamp of feelings too refined,
Yea—of too quick a heart—too deep a mind.
Those dark eyes streamed with overburthening thought,
That clear smooth cheek was all too richly fraught
With the warm light—the varying troubled light—
Of kindling Passion-blushes strangely bright—
That came and went—receded now, now rushed
With deeper glow, till thy whole aspect blushed!
I trembled for thee—Since too well I know
What thou art surely doomed to undergo
In this dark theatre of wrath and strife,
This World of trials—this o'ershadowed Life—
To natures sensitive as thine—how stern
Shall seem those lessons, all that live must learn
How bitter those beginnings of distrust
Which must be felt, by all whose life is dust!—
And then, and now, I felt and feel too much—
Most keenly—that Fate harshly deals with such—
Aye! such as thou—thy very charms appear
To mark thee out for a bright Victim here—
Apparelled proudly as with zealous care,
With costly pomp—as other Victims are.
Oh! Sorrow singles out things fair as thou,
With Beauty's living halo round their brow,
'Mongst her sad train of tearful gloom to be—
And 'mongst her pale and silent company,
Thou may'st be loved, fair matchless thing, thou must,
But not in love may Woman place her trust;
Thou must be loved, but Oh! that very love
(While thy warm heart shall deeply learn to prove
Responsive passion) may for thee become
The worst infliction and the darkest doom.
Thou must be loved, all beauteous as thou art,
Thou must be worshipped, as a thing apart,
An idol and a treasure—but alas!—
That wildest warmest love may wane and pass,
Not ev'n Perfection can its truth secure
In this dim life where things infirm, impure,
Mingle with all of noblest and of best,
Until too often they corrupt the rest—
And then, what anguish shall that heart subdue,
So quick, so warm, so feeling, and so true?
What fearful pangs shall pierce that lovely mind,
So tenderly and faultlessly refined?
How shall thine own deep feelings darkly grow
The truest source of suffering and of woe?
And all thy fair endowments, all thy powers
But make more torturing those long wasting hours
Of heart-sick cold suspense, or blighting fear,
Or pale despair that cannot shed a tear,
Till even thy richest gifts shall seem to be
The heaviest portion Fate hath stored for thee,
'Twas thoughts like these, that crowded on my mind
When first I saw thee artless yet refined,
Gentle but stately in thy lofty grace,
With all thy Soul of Beauty in thy face,
I trembled for thee then and turned away,
Lest that I might those mournful thoughts betray—
I trembled for thee then—I tremble now!
But to recall that bright and beaming brow,
That kindled earnest eye too much inspíred,
With rays too ardent and too restless fired—
That glowing cheek whose quick rich blushes past
In dazzling change, each lovelier than the last,
Must make me sighing tremble for thee still
With sad prophetic bodings, deep and chill,
All makes the Heart fear for the future doom
Of one so lovely with Love's dangerous bloom.
Oh! Earth, how dark, how mournful, must thou be,
Where thus we sigh and tremble, but to see
The fairest and most beauteous things that smile
Thy gloom away, and light thee for awhile.
While thus we sigh, and shudder, but to look
On forms too fair thy stormy hours to brook,
And turn from smiling Loveliness away
To weep o'er coming ruin's certain day.

THE ONLY CHARM.

I CAN BUT SAY—I LOVE!

INDIFFERENCE.

SWEET NIGHTINGALE.

THE CAPTIVE'S SONG.

DEPARTED JOYS.

We toil along this weary heavy Waste
With our best joys left in the darkened Past
Far, far behind—Oh! what wild grief, what pain
This draught of fire which yet we oft must drain,
The thought that never more can be our own,
The dearest hopes and pleasures we have known,
For these are still the earliest—nor can bear
The lightest breath of Life's more bitter air,
When doubt and sin, suspense and freezing fear
Make these fair leaves of fragrance pale and sere,
Those fair but frailest flowers, their life was done
Soon as one cloud came floating o'er the Sun—
Our after joys are hardier—and can dare
The unkindly breath of this World's blighting air,
And ev'n survive the shock of storms, perchance,
If yet from time to time one golden glance
Down from the Sun of Hope enkindling shoots,
To warm them to their deep embedded roots—
But Oh! though fitted to our trying fate,
They are not dear as those more delicate—
Those tenderer and more fragile ones that fade
If but one moment thrown into the shade,
They are the treasured of the Soul, the dear
Beyond all others that may bless us here.
And Oh! the thought that they ne'er come again
Is as a draught of fire which we must drain
In sadness and in sorrow evermore—
That thrill and rankle in the heart's sick core.
Memory, forbear to bring them thus in view—
The retrospective eye which tears bedew
Hails them too fondly, faithfully for peace—
Oh! Memory—but thy persecutions cease,
Nor come with cruel keenness, to remind
How bright these joys were, which are left behind,
Which never more can gladden us below,
And whose remembrance makes our weal seem woe,
Our present weal, so poor with that compared,
Which in those hours of rainbow-light we shared!
When all was transport—mystery of delight—
And all was ecstacy to Soul and Sight—
Oh! leave us to the Present, let us cling
To each consoling and each cherished thing,
Nor turn distracted ev'n from Hope away,
Because less bright than on a former day,
Our present pleasures were enough, could we
Forget but those that dwell in Memory.
Farther and farther must we pass from those
Ere yet we come indeed unto the close,
But yet they sadly shine out to the last,
And shed their mournful Beauty o'er Life's waste,
While all our other joys in turn decay,
And leave but graceless wrecks to strew our way;
Those earliest, loveliest, happiest, dearest, best,
Assert their gentle sway above the rest—
And make our yearning Spirits long once more
To feel that freshness which they felt before,
That glow of confidence, that hush of peace,
That buoyant energy in glad increase,
Which bore them onwards as with wings of fire,
That could not cease to soar—that could not tire,
At least so deemed they, but in vain, in vain,
They faultering fell—and not to rise again!
But when the weary time indeed is o'er,
The time of tears and sighs and sufferings sore—
The Soul shall then regain its long lost youth,
Its strength, its calm, its confidence, and truth—
And joys more pure know then, than it may know
It its first bloom of young delight below!

MINE IS A GRIEF.

THE FADING IMAGE.

AND SHALL I LONGER BEND AND BOW?

THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.

FIREFLIES AT MILAN.

TO PAIN.

Why, what is Life but thee! triumphant Pain?
Vast is thy power and endless is thy reign,
Life seems but one Illusion wild and strange,
One mystery of perplexity and change;
Illusion?—Aye! its hopes, joys, blessings all,
But none, stern Pain, shall thee Illusion call,
Thou bleak and black yet blank Reality,
The veriest sceptic cannot doubt of thee,
The mightiest Conqueror can controul thee not,
Thou art the ruler of our Earthly lot—
Lawgivers are thy Subjects—Kings thy Slaves—
Philosophers thy fools—staid Wisdom raves
Like babbling ideotcy on thy keen rack,
When all thy murderous train are at thy back,
Twin-Empires hast thou—thou hast Kingdoms twain,
Oh! thou Earth-desolating Power of Pain—
The sentient Frame—the conscious Soul of man,
And these have been thine own since Life began;
By the most thoughtless art thou ne'er forgot,
Sovereign of Life—chief Sovereign of our lot,
Thou art the known, felt, Truth—the Certainty,
The touchstone of Existence, since to thee
The keenest sense of Being still we owe,
Thro' thee, thro' thee, our deepest powers we know—
Capacites of suffering still transcend
The rest by far, and have no bound nor end,
He who becomes thy prey at once he lives
A life, that Nature at our birth ne'er gives—
An animated Universe of strife
Grows his extended and enlarging life,
Without a bourne—illimitably wide,
By torture's deadly mystery magnified
A Chaos of quick consciousness—intense
With every nerve o'erwrought, and every sense
A Chaos, whose black discord and whose war
Where all things join and only join to jar—
Shall ne'er in harmony and order close—
From ruin and destruction 'tis it grows!
A Chaos not of Hope but of Despair,
With stern perdition, but no promise there!
A Chaos of inextricable Ill
That shall remain a barren Chaos still,
And this is thy vile work—thou ruthless Pain,
Dark uncreator!—with too wide a reign!
Death, like an Angel, smileth by thy side,
We court him, as the bridegroom might the bride,
And pant to rest within that quiet grave,
Whose sleep from all thine agonies shall save,
Thou Spirit-crushing Power—all-dreaded Pain,
Who wide dost spread thine undisputed reign
O'er this still groaning and ill fated Earth,
Which, but for thee, gives all her children birth.
But art thou then, the Ruler over all,
Do all indeed stoop meekly to thy thrall?
Dost thou indeed such boundless sway exert,
Wide, wide o'er th' Universal Frame and Heart—
The helpless Frame to thee must ofttimes yield,
But boasts the Heart no shelter and no shield?
Oh! most unworthy thought—it is not so,
(Though vast in truth thy Empire spreads below)—
But Hope, but Faith, but Fortitude, and Love,
How oft have these thine influence towered above,
And taught thee in thy turn an humbler mood—
Faced, dared, confronted, challenged, and subdued!—
Thou wring'st the quivering nerves with fiendish art,
Till very Life appears to come and part
At thy stern will, as though at hideous strife
With threat'ning Death—or e'en as Death and Life
At once were shut within the sufferer's Soul,
Disputing inch by inch the tortured whole—
Torn—riven between them—to its centre wrung
With every pang of every anguish stung,
Or through that Soul thou driv'st thy deadlier fangs,
Not throes corporeal but keen mental pangs.
And yet that Soul at times hath nobly been
Even in such strife in its own self serene!—
In its own self thus martyred and thus made
A scene of ghastly waste—in ruins laid!
And while all Earthly hope was snatched away,
And every feeling thy defenceless prey,
It hath exulted in the holier trust,
Which buildeth not its bulwarks of the dust—
And ev'n the fleshly Form when armed, inspired—
By that All-conquering Soul's proud impulse fired,
Can strengthen its strong nerves and suffer less,
Though pang on pang to assail it still may press,
And may e'en fortify itself with zeal
That half forbids the unshrinking flesh to feel,
For sure to shun and to resist is still
But to aggravate the antagonizing Ill!
To arm it 'gainst ourselves—while nerve by nerve
Doth shuddering shrink away, and shivering swerve,
First from the upcoiled contraction must they be
Torn, wrenched perforce in quivering agony,
Then by the mastering throes that crowd in thick,
Pierced, wrung, and thrilled unto the tortured quick!
But when the Victim dares to meet those throes
Half way, at once their keenest power they lose,
The quickened blood bears strength thro' ev'ry part,
Nor curdles sickening round the withering heart—
The mind—the mind can blunt Pain's deadliest sting,
And teach the flesh to brave its suffering—
'Tis as the etherealized—th' exalted Frame
Part of the immortal Spirit then became—
Behold Oh! Pain, thy dark and direful sway
Disputed thus in Nature's last decay,
By vigourous spirits that know not to bend,
But strive and struggle nobly to the end!
I call thee now no more the unconquered Power,
Though many yield in thy destructive hour—
Our Human Nature can thy might defy,
When keen roused energies their strength supply,
Pain! countless rebels rise against thy reign,
And challenge thee and all thy fearful train—
Affection mocks thee, and Repentance craves,
The Martyr loves thee, and the Savage braves.

THE HEART'S HOPE.

My heart—apart
Still watch—to snatch
Hope's smile awhile,
The fair—the rare
From sighs arise,
Forget regret,
Disdain thy pain,
Repress distress—
Hope's light shines bright
For all who call
Without weak doubt
On her, nor err—
Nor make mistake,
Nor deem a dream
Her scene, whose sheen
Seems given from Heaven!
That light spread bright
In love above
Our World—close furled
In gloom, one tomb—
Didst thou, ev'n now
Oh! Hope! faint droop—
And shun the Sun—
Nor throw thy glow
Thus even, o'er Heaven,
Nor deign thy train
To bring—and fling
O'er Day a ray—
A gleam supreme!
Heart, heart, apart
Now watch to snatch
That smile, whose wile
Can charm from harm,
Can win from sin,
Make fear appear
A thought—a nought—
Ideal—unreal,
And still with skill
Complete, most sweet
The thought, o'erfraught
With dreams—vain schemes—
(And woes that rose
To o'ercloud and shroud
The mind, resigned
To bear with care)—
Soothe down and crown
With blaze of rays
That shine divine.
My heart, now part
With fear, take cheer—
Be strong—for wrong
Are they who say
'Tis vain 'gainst pain
To strive—to drive
Away dismay—
Is't so?—no—no—
Proud Powers are ours
Would we but be
Unbowed and proud—
And choose to use
Those powers in hours
Of gloom and doom.—
Now heart, that art
So weak—or break,
Or rise from sighs—
And scorn to mourn—
Even so thy Woe,
Disdain, and Pain!—
And dare Despair!
Oh! meet and greet,
So face Disgrace,
'Twill melt unfelt
If thou but now
At length in strength
Defy—deny—
Nor deign the chain
To wear—the snare
For thee shall be
Ne'er set, though yet
'Twere well to dwell
Girt round and bound
With zeal—to steel
Thy core—once sore
With grief, and chief
To cling—faint thing!
To rocks which shocks
Of waves when raves
The gale, must fail
To rend or bend,
To break or shake!—
No shocks those rocks
Shall make to quake!—
Seas flow below,
Storm-scourged—fierce urged
In foam to come—
While death and wrath
Abound, around—
But Oh! below
If we can be
But taught—but brought
At last to cast
Our eyes where lies
Our goal!—the Soul
To free from thee,
Oh! Earth, whose dearth
We own, long known—
(Though long full strong
Its chain remain
Fast wound around
Our hearts—while smarts
With pain in vain
The breast oppressed,)
If we can be
But taught, our thought
To raise in days
Of fear, ev'n here,
In flights, to heights
Of Love above—
And found and ground
Our fair Hope there,
Even we may see
Storms sink, and shrink
That dread, thick spread
Before, even o'er
Our Souls (while rolls
Away from day
Each cloud whose shroud
Had bound it round—
The last—furled fast,
The worst—dispersed!)
And strong among
Earth's woes that close
Still thus round us
Shall we then be—
If so we throw
Our care but there
On High, and try
To grasp and clasp
Those Rocks which shocks
Of storms (whose Forms
Of dread are spread
Around) are found
Too weak to shake.
Oh! Heart!—your part
Is still to thrill
With love, and prove
The zeal you feel!—
No plaint though faint—
No sigh will I
Allow even now
To shame mine aim—
To chide my pride,
To daunt the vaunt
That fills and thrills
Inspires and fires
My thought, o'erwrought,
And Soul—the whole!—
I will fulfill
My part, and—Heart!
Teach thee to be
(Despite each blight
That may essay
To chill, to kill—
And joy destroy)
A thing whose spring
Ne'er dies, while Skies
Of Love above
Outshine divine—
Whose Light makes bright
This Life of strife!—
Those Dreams—whose streams
Flow free, shall be
No more traced o'er
With clouds, whose shrouds
Of old did fold
Them round, uncrowned—
Of pride—deep dyed
With gloom—dark doom!
No! plays Heaven's blaze
In light, thrice-bright—
Now round them crowned
With beams and gleams
That gild Life's field,
New given from Heaven!

AUTUMN.

How mournfully I view thy pomp depart,
Oh! Nature, yet thou ever glorious art,
'Tis but a change of glory, and the light
Of Summer, erst so lovely and so bright,
Yields to the splendour of these Autumn hours,
Which turn to living gold the Emerald bowers,
This change indeed hath its own charms, and dull
Are they who see not it is beautiful,
But yet 'tis mournful thus to see decay,
Though clad in Loveliness, assert its sway;
Mournful are these dusk shades that swiftly close
The shortened day, and brood in grey repose
O'er all the scene, a little while before
So rich with rainbow-colouring's dazzling store.
Oh! the pathetic Beauty of the Year,
When flowers forget their bloom and leaves grow sere,
Autumn! Thou glorious Autumn! it might seem
Thou wert a Prophetess in passionate dream,
Foretelling to this fleeting World its fate,
This World of brief though of uncertain date,
And crying still “Decay—Death—Death—Decay”—
To all that breathe and live from day to day.
Sad Autumn, for the pomp wherewith thou'rt clad,
But makes thee seem more exquisitely sad,
The Earthly scene is given thee for awhile,
And vainly dost thou smile thy Sunset smile
As though to check the ruin then begun,
Which thou mayst mask awhile but canst not shun.
In sooth thou dost array the wond'rous scene
With rainbow hues more rich than Summer's green,
And lend'st the gorgeous colourings of the rose
To things whose life must soon and sadly close,
And sheath'st in burning gold the withered leaf,
And shroud'st in pomp the passion of thy grief,
Sad Autumn! thou art here, ev'n now thou'rt here,
And 'tis a dazzling World although a drear!
Oh! melancholy Season—thou art now
Stamped with a World's decay upon thy brow,
And drawest near unto thine own, ere long
Shall Winter reign thy disrobed haunts among;
And Oh! less dreary shall he seem to me
With all his rough and bleak austerity,
Than those proud funeral splendours that array
Thy changeful scene and blazon forth Decay.
The leafless bough I rather had behold
Than that which glistens with thy lifeless gold,
The snow-piled ground than this embroidered floor,
As though with blazing jewels covered o'er,
And yet whose radiant and illumined store
Is very dust and ashes spread in vain—
When breathes one breeze they're swept away again—
Winter! thy barrenness less shocks my sight
Than this sad mockery of a lost delight,
Come with thy frowning and o'ershadowing gloom,
And sweep the pompous gilding from the tomb!

THE WORLD'S TRUE VALUE.

PROUD GRENADA'S CHIEFTAIN LORDS.

OLD NORWAY.

TRUE STRENGTH.

Yes! we walk, Earth, uncertain and afraid,
Encompassed round about with gloom and shade,
And still in sorrow and in shame we cry
“Out upon this abhorred uncertainty!”
But Oh! these wearying doubtings, this distrust,
While yet we are but dwellers in the Dust,
(While yet our Earthly journey we pursue)
Human misgivings, human faulterings too,
These prove our Strengths, our Sovereign Strengths, if these
Teach us to strive with outstretched hand to seize
On that Almightiest Rock of Aid above,
Which Mercy hath vouchsafed to us—and Love!
Yes! those who in the depth of self-distrust
Contemn their own vain powers, with scorn most just,
Shall find, 'mid all the griefs of mortal doom
That very helplessness and doubt become
The source of their most Kingly Strengths—if still
A sage and steadfast part they here fulfill!
Oh! what a solace shall the weary find,
Their minds reposing on the All-Knowing Mind!

BRITOMART.

TELL ME, SWEET SPRING!

THE HUSH OF NIGHT.