Lays of Leisure Hours :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bright were the stirring Days of Old,
When Chivalry's proud sons and bold
Their shining feats performed;
Faith, and Enthusiasm, and Zeal,
Clad them in proof from head to heel,
And their brave spirits warmed.

Bright, stirring, glorious Days of Old!
When shall we more your like behold
On this dull Earth below!
Ye're past, and much hath passed with ye
Of fair and famous, fine and free,
Which we no more may know!

Then for some high and worthy prize
Did knights to combat bold arise,
Fired with true Valour's glow—
The measured lists were marked and traced,
The crested champion firmly faced
His helmed and haughty foe!

Then watched around the courtly crowd,
Then rang the bugle sharp and loud,
Then spoke the Herald forth—
Then were the styles of each proclaimed,
And met the antagonists, far-famed,
To try their martial worth.

By high endeavour, glorious strife,
Were beautified this barren Life,
And roused keen hopes and fears—
Even as their aims were high and bold,
So did their spirits' powers unfold
In those romantic years.

The stately, stirring, olden days!
When honour, and renown, and praise,
Were dear to every heart!
The natural glow of honest pride
Too often now seems thrown aside,
These days are days of Art!

The elevation and the zeal
Too seldom is it ours to feel—
Too seldom shine displayed—
Different these days from days of Old!
All is more cautious now and cold—
And measured, proved, and weighed!

The stirring, glorious, olden days!—
Oh! they shall win our meed of praise,
Midst all our toils and cares—
While something like a dim regret
For grandeurs sunk, and glories set,
Man's living spirit shares!

WEEP NOT FOR ME.

Weep not for me—Oh! no, weep not!—Oh! never weep for me—
But pass along thy happier path, in gladness and in glee—
Weep not for me—Oh! no, weep not—it would but be in vain,
'Twould but increase my suff'ring, 'twould redouble ev'ry pain.

Let me see nought but joy and cheer upon thy bright young brow,
Though sorrow darkly dwells on mine—and many a shadow now,
A something like reflected hope, shall hovering, trembling play,
'Midst sorrow and 'midst shadows then, o'er mine with meteor-ray.

Through all my bitter trials, and through all my heavy woes,
That lengthen on and gather more, as they would never close,

Oh! may I ever still behold, and still beholding, bless
Unenvyingly, in others, such sweet signs of happiness!

Then weep thou not for me, my Love—Oh! weep thou not for me,
But still fulfil thy fairer fate, with gladness and with glee,
So shall a soft reflected ray of pleasure light my soul,
Enough to illume my shortened path unto my shadowy goal.

HADDON HALL.

Haddon! beneath thy dark walls frowning,
Which but the ghostly Ivy's crowning,
I muse upon the past!
Thou breath'st of old heroic story,
Legends of love and martial glory,
Of things too bright to last.

How did the Knights, with bold endeavour,
Here hand to hand, despairing never,
Dispute the radiant prize—
And royal banquets cheered them after,
Where all was song, and mirth, and laughter,
And light from ladye's eyes.

Then from the dais proud and splendid
To where the lengthened board was ended,
All, all—was glee and cheer—
Peasant and follower hastened hither,
The vassal and his lord together
Feasted as pheer with pheer.

Of old these grass-grown courts resounded,
These wild-weed terraces abounded
With movement and with mirth,
Of music and of merry doings,
Of courteous words, and courtly wooings,
There was no lack nor dearth.

Forth from these gates did ofttimes sally
The Falconer, clad in green suit gaily,
With hawk upon his fist—
While Ladye bright, paced slow and wary,
With tassel gentle, light, and airy,
Placed on her dazzling wrist.

The Ladye bright the sport attended
On palfrey decked with housings splendid,
And made her stately way
Through the proud knightly crowd admiring,
Each to a beamy smile aspiring,
Which shone with heavenly ray.

How did the gallant hawk soar proudly,
While deepened long and echoed loudly
The cheery à le vol!—
Each heart with expectation fluttered,
Each lip the cry—the challenge uttered,
It stirred the very soul!

Haddon! thy bright days are departed,
And one unblessed and mournful-hearted
Sighs in congenial sort;
O'er thy dark walls and terrace lonely,
Where sport the bat and raven only,
And o'er thy grass-grown court.

The Heart midst scenes thus silent muses—
Ah! Ruins have their hallowed uses,
And point, and prompt, and preach
To stabler states—of surer seasons—
When Time shall cease his haughty treasons,
And much they mark and teach.

They teach, with mouldering towers and portals,
How vain the work of mould'ring mortals,
How fleeting their estate—
They nothing of the truth dissemble,
But show us, while they sink and tremble,
Our Future and our Fate.

But can we, on such subjects dwelling,
When heavily the heart is swelling,
Our loftier hopes forget?
Can we forget this truth transcendant,
That ours may be Heaven's realms resplendent,
When this Life's sun is set?

AND WOULD'ST THOU HAVE IT SO?

And would'st thou—would'st thou have it so,
My life—my love—my all below?
And is it thy sweet sovereign will?
And dost thou claim—command it still?—
So let it be then!—mine own treasure!
So let all be that gives thee pleasure!

All things but thee have past away,
Not for myself I hope or pray;

Not for myself can seek or strive,
For love and thee alone I live—
One aim is mine, and one endeavour
To serve thee and to stead thee, ever.

All things but thee have past away
(Which charmed me in a former day!)
From my clear, couched, and piercing eyes!—
I mock at Life's light vanities—
From my long fatal dream arising,
Abhorring these things and despising.

Yet, e'en these must I learn to prize,
And look upon more loving-wise,
If they thy dear regard can gain,
And clasp thee in their twining chain;
For with thine eyes would I be seeing,
I would exist but in thy being.

These must I cherish—these must love,
If thou applaud them and approve,

And in all honour hold them still,
If they can bid thy young heart thrill
With aught of pride—with aught of pleasure—
My only hope—my only treasure!

I laugh to scorn Life's petty strife,
And all that appertains to Life—
But, Oh! when it regardeth thee,
Its Shadows seem Reality!
And all I scarce deemed worth disdaining,
Is then my inmost soul enchaining!

Still when I think of thee—of thee,
Those things I scorned appear to be
Too costly in their preciousness—
Too mighty or to curse or bless!—
Such power o'er me art thou possessing,
My only bliss—my only blessing!

The veriest trifle—lightest toy,
That can bring thee a dream of joy,

To me at once is proudly worth
All the heaped treasure of the Earth!
So much on Passion am I pouring
The Soul that lives but in adoring!

And would'st thou—would'st thou have it so?
I must obey before I know,
Before thy word is breathed—'tis done,
For thee—in thee I live alone!—
So much I love thee and so madly,
Oh! how supremely—though how sadly!

LINES WRITTEN BY THE SEA-SIDE.

Ye Cliffs! that do delay the Setting Sun
To shine in glory, your proud piles upon,
In parting glory—hallowed and serene,
That crowns at once and consecrates the scene!
Scarce can the pained and pomp-bewildered eye
Dwell on the effulgence of your blazonry!

Scarce can that eye your dazzling splendours fix,
As though of jasper and of sardonyx,
Of sparkling diamond, and the emerald stone,
And sapphire (like the violet flower full blown!)
As though of ruby deep and opal clear,
Lustrously built your radiant walls appear—
A solid Rainbow—so diversified
Is now your glittering panoply of pride!
For every colour streams along the sky,
And ye reflect intensely every dye!
And still your fair and shining walls do seem,
While changeful hues along them glow and stream,
Of flaming gems with cost and cunning built—
And graved and polished, carved, and wrought, and gilt.
Yes—formed of jewellery most rich and rare
They well might seem, and built with cost and care!
And yet their splendour and their proud array
Will fleetly die off with the dying day!
'Tis all yon Setting Sun's work—brief and bright!—
He bathes these rocks in luxury of light!

He tints them as he tints the clouds around
His Western Throne—with blaze of colouring crowned;
And all doth radiantly and richly shine
With living lustre, perfect and divine.
How rapidly the brilliant change was made—
How suddenly these Cliffs in pomp arrayed—
How soon these gem-like splendours shone complete—
How gloriously the astonished sense they greet!
And mark, how long enshrined in the under earth,
Ere it attains at length effulgent worth,
The encrusted gem must veiled and hidden lie,
Slow travelling towards its bright maturity!
Though ceaselessly with constant nurture fed
By the Tartarean fires of that dark bed.
But thou, Oh! Sun! the touch ev'n of thy rays
Hath lit these heights with a most dazzling blaze;
A blaze too brilliant for the unguarded eye,
Intense in its rich-coloured radiancy,
Bright as the ring-dove's changeful neck—or train
Of sumptuous peacock dyed with many a stain!

The deep reflection of thy parting smile
Hath robed these rocks that harshly frowned erewhile
In sullen gloom—a stern and shadowy file—
With cloudless glory—various to the view
As even the diamond's changefulness of hue;
Never can eyes or heart forget the glow
Of this Autumnal Sunset's wond'rous show,
Had such displayed on painter's canvass been,
Perchance we had condemned the splendid scene,
Condemned it as outstepping boldly far
Fair Nature, whom we deem excess would mar.
But Oh! it is not so!—in sooth we err,
Ourselves denying, we disparage her;
For she knows not to stint, nor deigns to spare,
But pours her boundless riches free and fair,
Even as the Sun doth pour his light away,
Nor shows less bright on each succeeding day!
But still with harmony in each excess,
As all who know, who prize her, shall confess!
Ne'er on the boundaries of a perfect grace
Dost trespass, through the immensities of space,

Oh! glorious Nature, ne'er is thy proud scene
Marred by strained pomps with startling breaks between,
But all thy Splendours mixed, and mellowed glow,
Thy Beauties all into each other flow;
And more, even in thy rich excess we see
Of the fine truth of thy just modesty!
When we attempt, with weak and wavering hand,
To trace these beauties, boundless as they're bland,
How are we forced to wrong the wond'rous pride,
Which still in thy fair aspect is descried,
Because, where we would open and display
The o'erpowering glory of thy bright array,
We miss those finer strokes—those tenderer shades—
Through which thy Pomp all vulgarer glare evades,
We miss those heavenlier hints, those happier hues,
Which subtly thy sweet countenance suffuse,
And ev'n one tint the more, one touch the less
Can stain thy fair Perfection's pure excess.
Therefore—to escape the exaggeration's blame,
We must consent to make our copyings tame;

Therefore—when we thy glorious forms would trace,
We half defraud thee of thy pride and grace,
And doubt what every day and hour we see
Perforce, of thy proud prodigality,
We judge thee thus by our own want of skill,
And make our own weak works thy standard still;
And since to thy great charms we are untrue,
Since we're constrained to stint thee of thy due,
And in our poor attempts thus weakly fail,
We dream thou wearest, too, the shadowing veil,
That thou dost, too, each dazzling show repress,
And shrink from gorgeous splendours of excess!

Fair cliffs! that wear an hundred diadems,
That seem yourselves all built of burnished gems,
And yet whose pomps and glories thus are born
Even of a moment—frail as dews of morn—
Ye make me think of things, whose hallowed truth
Should long have thrilled the watchful heart—in sooth,
You make me think how far the jewel stone
Is shrined deep, deep i'th' Earth, veiled, bound, unknown,

And of the toil and labour man bestows
To wrench it from its long and lone repose;
While Providence pursues one gracious plan,
Still for the advantage—for the good of man.
And even in this, as in all other things,
Whate'er the veil it o'er its purpose flings,
Consults his truest interests and his weal,
And seeks his deep and lasting bliss to seal.
'Tis therefore surely for his own high sake
To excite his energies, his powers to awake,
The things he learns to covet and to prize,
That charm his fancy and that please his eyes;
That form his treasures and that swell his pride,
With all his pomp and all his state allied—
The princely splendours of the gloomy mine,
They that await his touch and call, to shine,
Are placed beyond his sight—beyond his reach,
Labour's supreme necessity to teach;
To win him to exertion—and to unwind
The dormant energies within his mind,

(Coiled up supine, until aroused at length
By something that demands their wakeful strength.)
For this the glittering gem—the glowing gold
Are wound and wrapped with many an earthly fold,
Hid in the mine's recesses, and unknown,
Till skill and industry make these their own;
Snatch them from out their dark and dismal bed,
And give them to reflect the light instead!
Then borne from their profound and ancient home,
So dim and dull in its eternal gloom,
They many a brilliant scene of pomp adorn,
Bright as the blushing smile of Orient Morn—
Fair as the rainbow of resplendent dyes,
That clasps its Belt of Beauty round the skies,
The Cestus of Creation!—ever bright
As when it first flushed warm the laughing light!
The Cestus of Creation—which bestows
A mystic charm where'er it shines and glows.
Then do they glitter forth in all their pride,
The Monarch's sumptuous offering to his Bride!

The Conqueror's spoils, the Merchant's splendid boast,
The Altar's ornament, of boundless cost;
But though thus hidden, and embedded deep,
Within the bowels of the earth they sleep,
And ask man's laboured care and patient toil
To clear them from the close-embracing soil,
To free them from the dust and dross, because
'Tis one of Heaven's profound and sapient laws
That Difficulty still should of Success
Remain the strict Condition, and no less,
The life and soul of its enjoyment, too,
Still robing it with charms for ever new;
Enhancing still its pleasure and its pride,
(And lending it delights—alone supplied
By that keen glow of feeling, which they share
Who conscious of their own proud conquests are,
Who know that they, with strong and steadfast aim,
The stubborn obstacles at length o'ercame;
And who can say, with high and honest pride,
“I thrust the obstructions and the bars aside,

I dared the task, and I performed the deed,
And mine 'tis now to grasp the promised meed.”)
Yea! though, thus hidden, and thus darkly shrined
In Earth's deep bosom, with these treasures lined,
The burning gems must masked and folded lie
Full long concealed from every gazing eye.
Lo! mark how graciously doth Heaven contrive
At once, all-powerful, to deny and give!
Oh! mark the bounty of the indulgent sky
O'er man still showered—ev'n inexhaustibly,
Since while it doth, with purpose sage, demand
Toil and exertion—for his interest planned,
Ere those bright stores be gathered and acquired,
By all so justly prized, so much admired!
Behold how bounteously doth it fulfil
Each mortal wish with endless kindness still—
Behold how amply doth it evermore
Crown each desire with an unbounded store,
Those fond desires which all by nature share,
To look on objects beautiful and fair,

As though its Mighty Love might ne'er repress
The outpourings of its own Divine excess,
And while it seemed, resisting to withhold,
In truth did all unto his view unfold!
As if, in its benignant strength intense,
In the overflow of its munificence,
It granted more because it part denied,
Till man his own resources meetly tried,
Aye! in its mercy's ever-swelling tide—
The luxury of its great profusion even!
Oh! copious grace of the all-bestowing Heaven!
Oh! Prodigality! that nought denies,
Oh! lavish bounty of the yielding skies!
'Tis therefore that the charm of ev'n those things
O'er which a veil of depth and doubt it flings,
Their beauties and their splendours, shine, bestowed
On things more common, till Heav'n seems to o'erload
With loving-kindness and indulgence deep
Those who too oft its blessings thankless reap!
Those who too oft with careless scorn receive,
Nor to the gift—nor to the Giver cleave.

Behold! the glories everywhere outspread,
Beneath Man's wandering foot—above his head
In rich succession exquisite and bright,
To arrest the fancy and attract the sight,
Fair treasures Heaven doth evermore dispense
To charm his yearning soul, and chain his sense!
Behold the diamond dewdrops of the morn,
Which every leaf and every spray adorn,
Myriads and myriad myriads—twinkling thick
With ceaseless scintillation, clear and quick,
Fair as the richest diamonds of the mine,
With countless colours they intensely shine,
And make the rainbow-earth itself appear
One precious jewel—beautiful and clear—
While each pure drop, ere its brief race be run,
Holds up its fairy mirror to the Sun!
Behold the painted pageants of the skies,
That shine with matchless and with nameless dyes,
And win the astonished and enchanted gaze
With the Orient splendours of their varied blaze;

Look on the flowing stream's gay sparkling floor,
With gem-like pebbles richly scattered o'er!
A bright Mosaic wrought by Nature's hand,
Finely performed as delicately planned;
Turn to the immortal Stars in midnight's hour,
Upon their glorious march of pride and power,
The jewels of Eternity!—whose light
Makes one half darkened Sun of the olden Night,
So richly sown with these—and these so bright!
So splendid and so scattered are they seen,
(Creations rare with chaos-glooms between,)
It seems as though the the charmed eye looked upon
The dazzling parts of some divided Sun—
Those mightiest gems beyond all others fair,
To all yet open as the general air,
The proudest, the most lustrous and divine,
For all that yet with liberal splendour shine;
The loveliest and the least concealed, are they,
Free as the dew—and bounteous as the day!
Displayed without reserve at once, to all—
Yet weighed with these, how fade the rest and fall!

Behold, the glories o'er the landscape thrown,
In rich diversity supremely shown;
The more than pomp in which it glows arrayed,
The light of boundless loveliness displayed!
These are the treasures which we all possess—
These are the gifts that gladden and that bless;
Which ask no labour—which require no care—
Which all may equally enjoy and share,
And these most barren naked cliffs that now
So proudly glitter—and so brightly glow;
These can be made the Palace dome to outshine,
Though decked with spoils from the productive mine
It rears its haughty head on high sublime,
The work of Art, of Labour, and of Time,
These can chain down the dazzled wondering eye,
And flame with keenly-kindling brilliancy.
Oh! of this glorious Nature—heavenly fair—
All, great Creator! 'tis thy gracious care,
'Tis thy most wonderous workmanship alone
Which here we recognize—to shame our own;

Thou dost prevent our wishes, and provide
All things we need, and yet how much beside!
Thou dost outstrip our thoughts—surpass our dreams—
And pour thy bounty forth in plenteous streams!
Yet winn'st us still our strength, our power to try,
But for our own more sure Felicity.

THE WARRIOR'S CONFESSION.

With jewellery of stud and nail,
With furniture of stubborn mail,
With ornaments of sword and spear,
Lo! at thy side, Love! I appear.

My wealth's the sabre and the shield,
Mine heritage the tented field,
My pleasure-ground's the Battle-heath,
My patron—Fame,—my playmate—Death!

My brow with frowns lowers black and bent,
And tells of years in conflict spent;
My voice is rough, as it should be,
To shout 'mongst thousands shouting free.

My hand is iron—and my arm
Right strong to deal the mortal harm;
Yet know, fair Love, what none have known,
My heart even tender as thine own!

BE STILL.

Be still-poor heart of mine,
Forget to heave and thrill;
Unmurmuringly resign—
Bleed—break—but be thou still.

Take all thy share of pain,
Shrink not from scourge and sting,
Nor ever dare complain,
'Twill but fresh sufferings bring.

Since jealous Fate still seeks
For hearts of feeling kind,
On which she darkly wreaks
Her ruthless fury, blind.

Be still—poor, poorest heart,
In silent suffering rest,
Though many a venomed dart
Be sheathed within this breast.

THE HAUNTS OF SORROW.

At the shadowy hour of eventide,
When Nature doffs her glaring hues,
How sweet for hearts long tired, long tried,
Apart and undisturbed to muse.

Shades after shades come deepening on,
Sound after sound dies soft away,
Till glare is gone—till noise is none,
And past and perished is the day.

Then how this heart's wild woe subsides,
Yet far more freely gush its springs,
While halcyon Peace broods o'er its tides
With comforting and covering wings.

Then from myself I mount, I rise,
And try sweet paths untried before;
And fly as Expectation flies,
To find some new untrodden shore.

Each thought seems furnished with a wing,
I leave this weary doom behind,
And every dark and dismal thing,
Which long hath pained my fevered mind.

I wander through all haunts beloved,
Where holy sorrow soothes to stay;
Not all in truth from Earth removed,
Yet purified from grosser clay.

Not all from Sorrow's yoke set free,
But won unto her tenderest mood
A grief, yet dearer far than glee,
With something soft and sweet imbued.

The Past and Present reconciled
Might seem to be in that sweet hour,
When all is solemn, calm, and mild—
When Memory and the Moon have power.

Say, Sorrow—where thy chief abode?
Lovest thou to haunt the deep sea shore,
Or mourn o'er fields where blood hath flowed,
Or tread the Desert's shifting floor?

Or rovest thou midst Italian bowers,
To weep o'er reliques of the Past?
Or where the funeral-scenery lowers
In Norway's pine woods, dark and vast?

Or where old mountain-solitudes
Look down upon the World below?
Or Nature's face our search eludes,
Masked in a mighty robe of snow?

Sorrow!—Oh, Sorrow! it were vain
To seek thy favourite seat to scan—
I know thou reign'st with boundless reign
In the Universal Heart of Man!

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

Moments pass slowly on,
Years fly apace,
When shall the wearied One
Rest from the Race?

Whether we smile or weep—
Time keeps his flight—
Hours, days, may seem to creep,
Life speeds like Light!

Whether we laugh or groan,
Seasons change fast;
Oh! what hath ever flown
Swift as the Past?

What though we chafe and chide,
Time holds his pace;
No step—no noiseless stride
Doth he retrace!

Hastening, still hastening on,
None may deem how;
But when 'tis fled and gone—
Then seems Time slow?

Time, while we chide thy pace,
Reckless and proud,
Oft doth thy shadowy face
Laugh from our shroud!

OH! SUN THAT SETS!

Oh! Sun that sets!
Soft falls thy light
Where black regrets
Mourn o'er Time's flight.

Oh! Sun that sets!
Peer the lids through—
Lids that grief wets
As with Death's dew!

(Drops big and hot,
Drops shed in vain,
These can melt not
Grief's iron chain!)

Lids too long sealed
'Gainst all things bright—
But thou'st revealed
Charms for Grief's sight.

Something seems there
Soothing, to calm
Suffering and care—
Shedding down balm!

Something there wakes
Hearts mute and lone—
Something that takes
Sympathy's tone.

Oh! Sun that sets!
Dear to my sight,
Fears—pangs—regrets
Best love thy light!

Aye! to crushed hearts,
Tortured and torn,
Whence Hope departs,
Leaving them lorn,

Sun! Sun! that sets,
Thou must be dear
Since to regrets
Suffering and fear

Morn can but bring
Promise of Pain,
Many a sharp sting
Threatens again!

To the World's eye
Then seems laid bare
All that should fly
From its fierce stare!

Eve brings instead
Promise of Peace—
Clouds round us spread,
Bid the strife cease!

Since evermore—
Prompted by pride—
Sufferings too sore
Fain would we hide!

Thence still arise
Sufferings more dire,
Pent, prisoned sighs
Turn to keen fire.

Tears we restrain—
Ten-fold their smart—
Cankering the brain,
Poisoning the heart!

Thence springs a strife
Deadly and deep—
'Twere peace and life
Dared we but weep!

Pride—mortal pride—
Haughty and high—
Thou chain'st the tide,
Thou check'st the sigh!

Destiny's blow
Mutely we bear;
Scorning to show
Helpless despair.

Kiss we the knife—
Praise we the Pain—
Seek we the strife—
Clasp we the Chain!

But 'tis Despair
Worse than the worst,
Which none may share,
Trebly accursed.

Stern toil and task—
Struggling to throw
Some likely mask
O'er our deep woe!

This makes the day
Harsh and unblessed—
Night's gracious sway
Brings us dear rest!

Oh! Sun that sets!
Gazing at thee,
Grief's slave forgets
Pride's slave to be!

Soothed and consoled
Lies the lulled heart—
World—harsh and cold
Shut out thou art!

Oh! Sun that sets!
Fairest to me,
Loves, fears, regrets,
Still turn to thee!

Oh! Sun that sets!
Thou seem'st to say,
“Fate's debt of debts
I too must pay!

“It must be mine,
Waning to stoop—
Bowed to decline—
Wasting to droop!

“Lingering to sink,
'Tis my doom yet,
Lessening to shrink,
Lowering to set!”

Oh! Sun that sets!
Thy smile appears
Fair to regrets
Sufferings and tears.

Not thus alone
Seem'st thou to say—
When from thy throne
Passing away!

Yet something more
Dost thou unfold—
When from Heaven's floor
Thy state is rolled!

Sun! Sun that sets!
Thou seem'st to say—
“Fear not Fate's threats—
Wait the new day!”

Oh! Sun that sets!
Thou speak'st in Power,
“Sunrise forgets
Sunset's faint hour!

“Dim now may seem
The arch of the sky—
Night like a Dream
Yet shall pass by!

“Emptied of light
Heaven may appear—
Yet soon, Oh! Night!
Ends thy career!

“Mortal—round thee
Dark clouds may frown—
Yet light shall be
Once more thine own!

“But for awhile
Darkness shall lower—
Day yet shall smile—
Wait the bright hour!

“Thy Sun divine
Canst thou forget?
Shall that decline?
Say, can that set?

“Thy soul and mind
Are but as rays
Scarce yet defined,
Caught from that blaze!”

Sun! Sun that sets!
Hail to thine hour—
Grief then forgets
Pain's deadliest power!

Oh! Sun that sets!
Suffering no more
Fevers and frets
This heart's wrung core!

I AM ALONE.

I am alone!—whilst all I see
With something dear in sympathy
Is linked like Echo to a tone,
I am alone—I am alone!

The Stars a glad Fraternal Band,
Like loving comrades, hand in hand,
In their beloved and blessed repose
Are bound—how sweetly and how close!

The flowers of Spring together smile,
Sweet flowers—that neither watch nor toil,
Linked in a breathing coloured chain,
Together do they bloom and wane.

The clouds that gild or gloom the day,
With other clouds appear at play;
The breezes sink, the breezes swell,
And glad tales to each other tell.

The vast—the small—the proud—the low,
Their own sweet bonds rejoicing know;
Oh! what but owns a thrilling tie
With something dear in sympathy?

The dewdrops, sparks of liquid light,
By myriads glitteringly unite,
And ever on each other throw
A soft, reflected, diamond-glow!

The mighty mountains, too, are found
With their gigantic brethren bound,
A crested and colossal chain,
They frown upon the peaceful plain.

And must I gaze around in grief,
To find nor comfort nor relief—
And look around, above, beyond,
With feverish yearnings—vain and fond?

I envy those—I envy these—
Mount, cloud, and flower—Star, dew, and breeze,
For me 'tis one drear waste of woes,
I envy these—I envy those!

I look around—I look above—
Ah! there I yet will link my love;
Still something whispers to my soul—
There is thy gain—and there thy goal!

Yes! Strongly whispers at my heart—
There is thy place, and there thy part;
With something dear in sympathy
Shall I be linked in yonder sky!

IRRESOLUTION.

Why should I grieve and mourn—
Why weep and wail?
Others have braved and borne—
Heart! shalt thou fail?

Wilt thou, heart! still remain
Sorrow's poor slave,
Still hug thy heavy chain—
Dig thine own grave?

Still cry, “Would Heaven it were,
Would it might be!”
Still answer—Ah! Despair!—
“'Tis not for me!”

Wilt thou with questionings fond
Tire Time and Fate?
Yet evermore respond—
“No! 'tis too late!”

Oh! with more strength contest—
Or wiselier yield;
Choose that which seemeth best
Choose spear or shield!

But not thus vainly turn
Front to the foe—
First, calm endurance learn,
Then brave the blow!

Oh! but with strength resist—
Or but resign!
Nor thus in doubt exist,
Faint heart of mine!

Choose thine own weapons, choose—
Choose now thy part—
Nor each dear chance refuse,
Weak wavering heart!

Oh! cease to mourn unblessed—
Cease to repine—
Learn to resist—or rest—
Weak heart of mine!

THE LITTLE BOAT.

It was a heavy night,
Storm, darkness, terror reigned;
And tossed by Ocean's might
A little bark remained.

The little bark was frail,
The fragile bark was small—
How might it brave the gale—
And the rough waves' rise and fall?

Yet, when the morning broke,
Safe on the shore it lay,
Safe from the tempest-stroke,
And the waves' unpitying play.

A mighty Power was near
From Ruin's jaws to snatch!
A mighty hand to steer—
A mighty eye to watch!

Lo! prouder Barks might be
Victims of these stern hours,
Of the Storm and of the Sea,
Of the Darkness and its Powers!

Bark—lowly bark and frail,
And thou wert thus allowed
To bide the infuriate gale,
And the billows, tempest-ploughed.

Brave vessels, proud and strong,
May have been cast away!
On their decks the armed throng,
And the Warlike guns' array!

Barks freighted with such freight
As might set chained monarchs free,
May have haply found the fate
That was thus withheld from thee.

Oh! the lowly and the weak
May still be saved and spared,
While the storms their fury wreak
On the powerful and prepared!

On Life's dark troubled waves
Me, may Heaven deign to spare
From its thousand yawning graves
Of wrath and of despair!

Thus on Life's fiercer Sea,
This dark deep Sea of Life,
May I delivered be
From the wilder Storm and Strife.

'TIS VAIN.

'Tis vain—it is in vain!
No more—'twill be no more!
Now let me force or feign
Peace that was mine before!

Lost—every hope is lost,
Each dream of joy is dust,
All that I cherished most,
Most has betrayed my trust!

And yet I scarce know all
The depth of my despair,
At first the blow doth fall
With force too keen to bear!

Stunned, deadened, scathed, and crushed,
At first the Soul remains
In hideous silence, hushed—
Bound as in icy chains!

Then slowly opens out
The prospect of its grief;
Nor leaves one dizzy doubt
To lend a faint relief.

Then comes the mortal strife—
Life's passion-streams run o'er—
New powers seem lent to life,
To make the anguish more!

THOU BETTER KNOW'ST.

Thou better know'st my love for thee
Than I myself can know,
I only feel I can but be
Thine all, thine own, below!

I only feel I was but made
To admire and to adore;
How can that love be told or weighed,
That ever deepeneth more—

And least of all by those who feel
That Passion's power intense;
How can they to themselves reveal
That all-o'erwhelming Sense?

One Dream—one Feeling—and one Thought
Chain, clasp me, and entomb;
Thou—thou art all—and I am nought—
Love doth my life consume!

Thou better know'st than I can know
My boundless love for thee;
Haply, some outward signs may show
The inward Idolatry!

So much is all within engrossed
By deep Devotion's zeal,
The feeling's self is almost lost,
I scarce can know I feel!

Doth faultering word, doth speaking eye,
Doth varying brow express,
With tear, and blush, and Soul-sent sigh,
My Love's unknown excess?

And yet such outward signs are weak,
And Image but a part,
And feebly show, and faintly speak
The Homage of the Heart!

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.

Yes! thou must think me wayward—wild—
And weak and helpless as a child!
But could'st thou—could'st thou know
How oft, when thou dost wondering chide,
And try in vain kind arts oft tried,
To soothe and calm my woe—

My mind heaves like some struggling Sea,
Where storms career unchecked and free—
And urge it at their will!
Billows 'gainst billows battling there,
As though of some dread foe aware,
Yet idly wrestling still!

Oft, oft, when thou dost gently strive
Kind Consolation's balm to give,
My thoughts too wildly roll;
Conflicting Inspirations meet,
With all their powers, the stern and sweet,
And toss my very Soul!

Then many and many a dream o'erwrought,
Swells—sweeps, and dies upon my Thought,
Which words can ne'er detain;
And then with pained and panting breath,
I seem to share each Dream's rich death,
Yet wake to life again!

And could'st thou know—Oh! could'st thou know
How gladly I would 'scape that woe,
And shun that tempest's power;
Yet more would'st thou in love essay
To bring back to my stormy Day
Serenity's sweet hour!

REMEMBRANCES.

Smiling Skies are o'er us shining,
Rose wreathed bowers around us twining,
And the Sun of Italy
Is flashing through the clear air free,
And jocund sounds of peasant mirth
Deepen all this joy of Earth!

Scents of orange-flowers are streaming,
Hues of rose and violet beaming;
Where soe'er we dwell or stray,
For 'tis the Ausonian May,
And all loveliness abounds
In these, the fair Earth's Garden-grounds.

Gentlest streams are softly welling,
Of the Old Times of Story telling,
When sweet Water Nymphs serene
Disported by each margent green—
Round the fountain's silvery flow,
Where the faint stream-lilies blow.

All is beautiful and smiling,
Yet not thus this heart beguiling!
This most sweet Ausonian May,
With its floods of golden Day,
Makes me think of Springs more loved,
Which my Heart's own Spring approved!

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.

Hopes and Dreams together leave me!
Leave me to Life's dark, deep Truth!
Of your dangerous joys bereave me,
It were well for me in sooth.

Oh! the racking, racking sorrow
Of the heart that wakes to know
Each bright promise of to-morrow,
Never can be kept below.

Dreams—dreams—depart e'en now for ever—
Or take an ampler flight and scope!
Reach these Worlds whence Life doth sever,
Where your Goal should be, Bright Hope!

A FEW MORE HOURS.

A few more hours to Memory and regret,
Then for a heavy Sacrifice of Years
To the cold cares by which we toil, beset,
In this low vale of troubles and of tears!

A few more hours unto the heart—the heart!
Then for a life given up to other things,
Whence dreams and hopes and memories must depart,
Though round them coil the heart's entwining strings!

A few more hours to Passion and its pain,
Then live-long days to Life's more studied part,
Then back to harsh Reality again—
Back to that World which stings, then steels the heart.

A few more hours to Feeling and to thee,
Then an Eternity of hours to all
That is most tedious in monotony,
Most wearying in its dull and withering thrall.

A few more hours to thought and love and thee,
The rest unto the World's cold common claim!—
To dull Indifference' icy Slavery—
Which they, the loveless many, Freedom name!

VAIN ASPIRATIONS.

Oh! but the misery of this wild, wild woe,
I stand here bound unto this Earth below,
With every thought far soaring, ever higher,
And struggling still yet more and more to aspire!

And Oh! it is a misery to remain
Still vexed with aspirations fond and vain—
Thus fettered, thus entrammelled, and confined,
Despite those quick Thought-lightnings of the Mind!

This strong, strong grief! how few can dream or guess
Its deep impassioned luxury of Distress;
For still it is a noble sorrow—full
Of generous fervours—and nor cold nor dull!

The Mind's Thought-lightnings! how they flash on high,
To greet their Sister-Splendours of the Sky—
The mighty glory of each conscious Star—
And leap in ecstacy of life afar!

But then a breath—a touch—they're stricken down,
And taught their helpless vanity to own!
And Worlds at once are swept from their embrace,
Yet on those Worlds shall they not stamp their trace?

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.

Mount to thy mansion on high!
Though we mourn thy lost smile on our earth,
Would we snatch thy bright soul from the Sky
To this dark world's distraction and dearth?

From the earth and its shadows arise!
On the wings of thy rapture ascend,
While crowned spirits stoop down from the Skies,
The path of thy pomp to attend!

In Heaven is a bright seraph born!
Whose nativity angels shall bless,
Shall we dare then to murmur and mourn,
And wish thy great happiness less?

Methinks a proud strain I can hear,
On the stream of its transports is borne,
A name ever hallowed and dear,
'Tis an angel's sublime natal morn!

The winged choirs pour a glad mighty voice,
Mount—mount to thy mansion on high!
The Heavens, and their high Powers rejoice
When a seraph the more treads the Sky!

Mount to thy mansion on high,
Thy birth we will celebrate here,
And love thee yet more in the Sky
Than when thou wert bound to our sphere.

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.

I love thee more than ever, Love,
With passion far too vast to prove.
Since words, since signs, were mockery here,
By which men seek to make appear
Their feelings—that are mockeries all,
Compared with my love's mightiest thrall;
Oh! but this fearful depth of feeling
Seems self from self too surely stealing!

I love thee more than ever, Love!
Hope, life, myself—thyself above!
Still doth thy present self appear
Even than thy past self far more dear!
Ever I love thee more than ever,
Though to love less be mine endeavour!

I love thee more than ever, Love,
Myself and e'en thyself above!
Since daily grows thy glorious sway,
Thou wert not loved thus yesterday;
To-morrow dearer still than ever,—
But can this be, Ah!—never!—never!

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.

Come to me, mine own little child!
Thy mother's heart with grief is wild,
And oft hast thou that grief beguiled,
Come to me, little child.

That sweet sweet brow all undefiled,
Purer than snow on hill-tops piled;
It smiles on me as one once smiled,
Come to me, little child!

How smooth that brow, that smile how mild,
Shall peace e'er be from thence exiled?
Nay!—be this last joy undespoiled,
Come to me, little child!

Within thy soul, unstained, unsoiled,
Be Heavenward thoughts enthroned and aisled,
This world with Faith's own beams to gild,
Come to me, little child!

Fear not, though frowned on and reviled,
Thou may'st be pure, in mockery styled,
Stars gleam, because 'mid dark depths isled,
Come to me, little child!

I CLAIM NOT CONSTANCY FROM THEE.

I claim not constancy from thee,
Change—but change back again to me!
I will permit that heart to rove,
So that none other keep its love!

And though my heart thou may'st resign,
'Twill still remain as deeply thine;
It must not murmur, may not mourn,
Resign, but Oh! again return!

I ne'er will try thy truth to prove,
I ne'er will claim nor chain thy love;
I dare not hope for faith from thee,
Change then, but change again to me!

My heart still dreads as its worst doom
That thou should'st fixed in faith become;
Since, Oh! if thou could'st constant be,
I know 'twould never be to me!

But Ah! the fear is very vain,
Nought can thy wandering fancy chain;
Like Hope itself's thy bright career,
That Heavenly thing hath no home here!

Too far art thou thyself removed
From all that thou hast ever loved!
Too—too superior still to all
That holds or held thee in faint thrall!

Still ever seeking—ever bent
To find some Virtue eminent;
Something that may be worthy thee,
And that on earth can never be!

Then dearest—if thou wilt resign
This deep devoted heart of mine—
Resign—but not for evermore;
Return, its life-pulse to restore!

Yes—yes forsake me and forget,
No word shall breathe of my regret;
I pray but this, in my disgrace,
Yet once again thy steps retrace!

Or be each tie between us rent,
Rack me, and mock me, and torment;
By every bitter pang undone,
Still let me keep one hope—but one!

The hope that thou may'st yet once more
Return to her thou lov'dst before;
Then dearest—move unchained and free,
Change—but change back again to me!

I feel, my best beloved, I know
That it shall be even thus below;
And I forgive the inconstancy
That yet may win thee back to me.

Since still beyond all things I dread
That thou should'st faithful prove instead;
For Oh! if thou could'st constant be,
I know 'twould never be to me!

Too whelming is my love's excess
In its absorbing anxiousness;
Too restless in its feverish strife,
Withering the energies of life!

Too fond is mine idolatry,
I scarce can breathe when thou art by;
I faint—I droop—I die away,
O'ertaken with a sweet dismay.

And well may this deep love's excess
Smite thee with very weariness;
This over passionate love's extreme
Haunt thee like some unquiet dream.

And yet perchance when we're apart,
Thou'lt miss this homage of the heart;
A dear remorse shall soften thee,
And thou wilt change again to me.

Beloved—thou art as free as air,
Oh! mind not me nor my despair;
Leave me to that one hope—but one,
Yet all enlightening like the sun!

I would not, for all worlds that are,
Thy lightest dreams or fancies mar;
I could not thy least wish oppose,
No—rather welcome Fate's worst woes!

Be if thou wilt, inconstant then,
But be so for my sake again;
Pursue thy winding path at will,
Let me at least be constant still!

Far more I dread that deeper change—
That thou should'st cease to rove and range;
Since Oh! if thou could'st constant be,
I know 'twould never be to me!

Be ever just as now thou art,
For still forewarns this prophet-heart—
If unto one thou true could'st be,
I know—I know 'twould ne'er be me!

Ev'n as thou art then, Love remain,
I will endure the jealous pain;
Remembering, could'st thou constant be,
Never—'twould never be to me!

No constancy from thee I claim,
Fear not that I could chide or blame,
Though thou abandon and desert
Earth's faithfullest and fondest heart!

Unchecked—unchained—unchidden move,
Thou idol of my changeless love!
Still free, as winds and waves are free,
Change—but change back again to me!

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.

It is a golden dreamy Eve of Spring,
And shelter-seeking birds are on the wing,
And from mine opened window I can see
The churchyard graves, by glad rays streaming free,
Lit brightly from the broad red setting Sun,
Who ends in glory as he first begun.

These gloomy graves his beams are vain to cheer,
Those dwellings of the Dead—still cold and drear,
Despite the fervent splendour lavished round
Their lone and stern and melancholy bound,
It cannot reach the Dead in their drear cave,
It cannot strike the chains from Death's thralled slave.

But to the Living can this brightness bring
Thoughts full of hope, up-buoyed on seraph wing,
And win the heart to meditate on all
Which must, we know, or soon or late befall—
Nature shrinks not from the all unconscious Dead,
And we shrink not, by her example led.

This golden dreamy Eve—now troublous Life,
Soothed down from its unquiet stir and strife,
With gentler pulse and with serener breath,
Even meets half way the shadowy Terror—Death!
Oh! many a sweetly-solemn mystic thing
Shall I now learn from thee—Soft Eve of Spring!

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.

I am contented with thy love for me—
Though weak in sooth compared with mine for thee!
And yet at times, Love mine, for thine own sake,
In thee would I an equal feeling wake.

Till thus thou lov'st thou canst not—may'st not know
What mighty joys from mighty feelings flow;
The more than mortal—more than Earthly bliss
Which springs alone from such a love as this!

I would infect thee with an equal zeal,
Teach thee these precious thrills profound to feel,
And unto thee, my Soul of Soul! impart
These beatific tremblings of the Heart!

For Oh! this wond'rous Happiness! 'tis not
The cold contentment of a common lot!
From the inmost depths of the inmost being brought,
With rich unrest and glowing strife 'tis fraught.

But nought of self can enter in its dreams,
Beyond all Earth's felicity it seems
Armed 'gainst all accidents that still attend
Our selfish joys, which quickly wane and end.

A Heaven within the living Soul it is,
Which yet can scarce believe in its own bliss,
And bound and girdled by its clayey chain,
Can scarce the immeasurable joy contain!

I am contented with thy love for me,
Though slight, though faint, compared with mine for thee,
And solely for thine own more precious weal
I fain would teach thee as I feel to feel!

Fain would I thus thy dear existence bless
With this supreme illustrious Happiness!
And only for thine own beloved sake,
In thee would I an equal Passion wake!

AND IS SHE DEAD?

And is she dead? and must we trust
To that so hideous hateful tale,
Can light and love and air be dust,
The Sunbreak cold—the Rainbow pale?

Ah! me, how wonderful a Doom!
For now too wonderful it seems!
How can the cold dull common tomb,
O'ertake a thing all thoughts and dreams?

Full many a one hath passed away,
And I have sighed, and sighing said,
'Tis dust to dust—and clay to clay,
And so farewell unto the Dead!

But thou—Oh! thou!—with strange distrust
I hear what hated lips repeat,
How can Divinity and dust
Together for one moment meet?

How can the chill and crushing Earth
O'er that intense Existence close?
Each moment to more kindling birth
Thou seem'dst to spring—my broken rose!

How can the common general grave
Receive a thing so bright and free?
How can that mute that frozen cave
Be closed—thou Heaven of Life! on thee?

STANZAS.

(FROM INEZ.)

Delirium of Enchantments! 'twas too much
That glorious eye to meet, that hand to touch!
To drink that voice of music to my Soul,
Whose echoes through mine inmost Being stole!

Proud luxury of Enchantments! to behold
That bright form cast in all Etherial mould,
And still to feel the hidden Soul divine
Doth even its radiant temple far outshine!

Dire poison of Enchantments! this to know,
And then to feel—worst dream of mortal woe—
That Fate 'twixt thee and me a gulph hath set,
Which makes me mourn that we should ere have met!

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,

100

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,

101

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—

102

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?

103

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!

104

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!

Adieu! my light of life, adieu
To hope and joy, to love and you,
The fatal hour is come at last,
And all my peace is with the past!
Adieu to thee, a long adieu,
Be blest, be happy, but be true!

105

Fair smiles the glad and glowing morn
How may its joyous smiles be borne?
Alas! that hours thus fresh and fair
Should bring the darkness of despair!
'Tis done, 'tis done, and I depart
With thee and death within this heart!

And must I hear that struggling sigh?
And must I view that tearful eye?
I feel not now mine own despair;
Hear, dearest one! my heart's fond prayer,
“To spare thy gentle bosom pain—
Forget me—till I come again!”

106

TO NAPOLEON IN THE GRAVE.

Come forth—thou harsh oppressor,
Thou marked and stained transgressor;
Be thou the elect redresser,
Be thou now the intercessor;
So may the dewy olive twine
Of pardon and of peace be thine.

Thou set'st the dire example
To tyrannize and trample,
Earth's rulers love such sample,
They should yield thee honour ample!
Be it thine to make sublime amends,
And call thy fellow-creatures Friends!

107

But no, thine hour is over!
Thou fiery discord-lover!
Who can earth's master-mover
I'the dust of death discover?
Now—now the subject and the slave
Art thou of the all o'erpowering grave!

Could'st thou mark the mighty sorrows
Which each fresh fervour borrows
From fear of worse to-morrows,
While yawn Earth's deep-trenched furrows;
Thou might'st lament—Oh! sceptered Dead,
The wrongs by thine example spread!

For Oh! when wrath's fierce fever
Is roused by mad endeavour,
It seems to increase for ever,
To sink and languish—never;
And thou that dreadful impulse gave,
So strong to harm—so weak to save!

108

Too soon man's heart embraces
With all that stains—debases;
Too stubborn prove those traces,
Which nought but time effaces;
So easy 'tis to inflict the wrong
Which Heaven alone to expunge is strong!

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

109

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;

110

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.)

All—all now is lost
And tired—tempest tossed:
How fain would I lose
Life too, could I choose.

All, all now is lost,
This World seems the Ghost
Of the world that once was—
But this too shall pass!

111

All things are removed—
All I cherished and loved;
All of dearest and best—
Away with the rest!

All, all now is lost,
Each hope crushed or crossed;
And must I remain
To feel life is in vain?

OH! IF ONCE MORE.

Oh! if once more, I might but see
Each well known path—each long-loved tree—
And feel myself once more at home
Beneath the old wood's accustomed gloom!

112

And if once more I might inhale
That air which tells to me a tale
Of hopes as fresh, and dreams as fair
As ev'n itself—that chrystal air.

And if once more I might but hear
The old familiar music dear
Of those sweet streams—so blue, so bright,
That gush like floods of liquid light—

Once more I might become a child
In thought—and feeling—free and wild—
My heart a world—with visions rife,
A vision to itself—my Life!

I might take up Fate's tangled thread,
Where first with fibres black and dread
'Twas mixed—to endanger and enchain,
And weave the mystic web again!

113

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

114

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.

Bring me a flower—a lovely flower,
To gaze on while I muse;
And many a meaning fraught with power
Shall I even there peruse.

Bright Poetry is writ in fire,
Fair Rose! thy leaves along—
And not the loveliest earthly lyre
Can shrine thee in its song.

115

It cannot picture forth the intense
And burning glow thou bear'st;
And speak unto the kindled sense,
With half the might thou shar'st.

True wisdom preaches from your leaves,
Pure Lilies, fair as day—
The heart a solemn hint receives
From your divine array!

A holy and a sweet renown,
Blest flowers, 'twas yours to win—
Ye call a regal pomp your own,
Ye! that ne'er toil nor spin!

Bring me those flowers, that I may think
On that dread page which says,
They toil not—yet all splendours sink
Before their vesture's blaze.

116

Bring me a flower, some lovely flower,
To gaze on while I muse!
For Nature with her royal dower,
These for her crown doth choose.

OH! COULD'ST THOU KNOW.

Oh! could'st thou know, who never felt
The melancholy bliss of tears,
Thou'dst die with envy when I melt
In floods that bear the wrecks of years.

For with that weeping's effort soon
Old words, old dreams, old thoughts are stirred,
And tides that do not serve the Moon,
Heave wildly—nor will be deterred.

117

Dark waves, that long had closed above
The wrecks of happiest thoughts and ties,
The precious things of stricken love,
Then to the surface bid them rise!

The Past is all mine own again,
And I am Love's and Joy's once more!
And I awake alone to pain,
When that rich burst of grief is o'er.

Oh! could'st thou know or guess how deep
The joy of tears can be, though vain,
Thou'dst die with envy when I weep,
Nor ever wish to smile again!

For ere that bliss be made our own,
The Soul must half be raised above,
Ere that unearthly joy be known,
The Heart must thrill with Heavenly love.

118

Then could'st thou, could'st thou dream or know
What raptures still these fond tears steep,
Thou'dst covet then my cherished woe,
And die with envy when I weep!

THOU ART NOT HERE.

Thou art not here—thou art not here,
And all is desolate and drear—
All—all that once seemed more than bright
Is worse than gloomy in my sight!

The Indifferent still these scenes may view,
Nor miss one charm, one smiling hue,
While they admire these prospects fair,
My Soul is sighing—“Where—Oh! where?”

119

While they who love not wear away
In sweet repose the live-long day,
From Morning dawn till dawn again—
My heart still whispereth—“When—Oh! when?”

While they in calm contentment move,
Which never dwells with suffering love,
My Soul still asks, without reply,
With feverish yearnings—“Why—Oh! why?”

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!

120

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,

121

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!

122

NO TROPHY-PILE.

No trophy-pile—no incense-pyre
For thee, thou Soul of light and fire!
And shall we see thee sink in dust,
And, to its vile embrace entrust—
Ah! not the unfettered deathless mind,
But the poor slough it leaves behind!

No incense-pyre—no trophy-pile
Thou need'st, proud soaring Soul, the while!
Earth may forget thee, thou, the exiled,
Of other Worlds thou'rt now the child!
But she would know thee not—as thou
Art glorified and altered now!

No trophy-pile—no incense-pyre
For thee, winged Soul of light and fire!

123

Creation's the Cathedral-shrine
Meet for a Memory like thine.
All elements—all powers that be—
Telling of Heaven—shall talk of thee!

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

124

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

125

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.

126

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!

127

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,

128

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;

129

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?

130

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!

131

YES! I CAN SMILE!

Yes! I can smile—and almost learn
To smile without a pang of pain,
And hear gay words, and ev'n return
Words careless, light, and gay again!

And I can almost cloak and hide
The sufferings that I cannot check,
Yet not from scorn, and not from pride,
Still should the Sea conceal the Wreck.

I pray for pity now no more,
Nor shrink from Scrutiny's cold gaze,
Whatever may have moved before,
Nought now can shake my silent days.

132

I do not wish—I do not fear,
But rest in stern and stagnant peace,
Nay! when I shed grief's bitterest tear
I do not pray that pang should cease.

And yet, even in this frozen mood,
As in Excitement's stormiest hour,
Love, uncontrolled and unsubdued,
Sways o'er my Soul with boundless power!

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,

133

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!

134

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!

135

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—

136

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!

Thomas Moore, Esq.

137

ON A LEAF OF MYRTLE.

Sweet leaf—thou art a fine and fairy page,
Inscribed with lovely lessons deep and sage—
A delicate yet mighty page thou art—
And thy pure lessons sink into the heart;
'Tis to the heart thou mak'st thy soft appeal,
And Oh! the truths divine thou dost reveal!
Thou, stirred and shaken by each breeze and breath
That trembles o'er thy shining parent wreath!
That thou should'st such deep truths unfold in power,
Thou sentient of each blight, each cloud, each shower—
That thou should'st hoard such knowledge, little leaf,
And breathe such mysteries—voiceless, still, and chief,
That thou should'st teach the restless mind to rest,
And consolations full of strength suggest,
And bid it from its gloomy musings rise,
And light it to divine discoveries!

138

And tenderly reveal and sweetly prove
How chastisements are sent in Heavenly love.
Thou when uncrushed dost little fragrance shed,
But Oh! when bruised—how thy rich breathings spread
Their exquisite delights refined and rare,
Upon the enamoured and enchanted air.
Scarce scented when uncrushed! but Oh! when pressed,
No perfumes of that fabled Phœnix' nest,
Which sinks midst odorous flames and balmy light
With more delicious zest the sense could smite!
Ye and the Phœnix, in expiring give
The precious wealth ye hoard while yet ye live.
Sweet leaf! when harshly rough rude hands assail,
What incense-breathings dost thou not exhale!
What oderiferous treasure in thee lies—
How redolent thy rich and fragrant sighs—
What wealth ambrosial hast thou not amassed,
Full long secreted and imprisoned fast—
Thus—thus our hearts in stern affliction's hour
Give out unto that grasp of iron power

139

Deep treasures, undisplayed—unknown before,
Long nursed and hidden in their inmost core.
Thus our own Minds, by dark misfortune ground,
And crushed and aching with the recent wound,
And wrung and sorely injured and oppressed,
Glow with Golcondas we had never guessed!
Mines of pure wealth unopened to the day—
Then sparkle forth, their barriers reft away.
Yes! 'tis the mighty power of strong distress
That makes us know what riches we possess.
Curse not the active miner, Sorrow—No!
Deep benefits from her stern service flow!
'Tis hers within the pierced and stricken Mind
Veins of inestimable price to find!—
And these to open out and to display—
Spread to the Sun—and dragged into the day!

Fair leaf of Myrtle—pure and perfect page—
Wherein we read great Nature's lessons sage—
Sweet is the comfort that 'tis thine to impart
Unto this suffering Mind—this stricken heart!

140

So shall they yield, if Heaven allow and aid,
Beneath the pressure and the burden laid,
Virtue's own living incense—that before
Seemed hid and choaked within their depth and core,
Taught by Adversity to ache and bleed,
So be their buried stores of sweetness freed!—
So may they tenderly, thus tried exhale
Breathings most precious on Life's stormy gale.

Fair leaf of Myrtle, thou art written o'er
With touching truths and love-awakening lore,
Where'er deep Nature's Manuscripts we find,
There we glean hints that light and lift the Mind!
And where, Oh! where is there on Earth that spot
Where the observant eye shall mark them not?
On the rude rock that spurns back Ocean's rage,
As on this delicate and verdant page,
Her wond'rous charactery we recognize—
And meekly trace, if we indeed are wise!—
The block of Granite and the blade of grass,
The dewdrop's diamond and the mountain's mass,

141

The film of cobweb and the fleece of cloud,
All, all urge things 'twere well that all avowed—
The sweet breath of the South—the Sun's bright beam,
The hurry of the tempest's phrenzy-dream,
The flake of snow—the quivering spark of fire,
The spar's lit surface and the shell's wreathed spire,
The globe of dazzling disk, the grain of dust,
All tell of truths 'twere madness to mistrust!
All to the meek and watchful mind convey
Deep lessons, meet to guide it on its way;
All can some wealth of Wisdom's truth confer—
Impart some knowledge—free from blot or slur.
On the pure pages of Great Nature's book
Angels may fix undimmed their Sun-bright look,
Nor evil there nor error may appear—
But All of Nature's truth to Heaven is dear.

142

THE LADYE AND THE WARRIOR.

The Ladye by the courser stood,
And checked all signs of grief and sorrow,
But lessoned to a lofty mood,
She cried, “Remember me to-morrow!

“Remember me when in the field
'Midst dangers and 'mongst foes thou'rt moving,
My prayer shall be a charmed shield,
If there is strength in woman's loving!

“Remember how my heart will glow
With dear reflection of thy glory,
How 'twill with rapturous joy o'erflow,
Hearkening thy triumph's gallant story.”

143

The Ladye thus with boldness spake,
With eye undimmed and brow undaunted,
Yet did her heart with anguish ache,
Her bosom with fond terrors panted.

And changed and clouded grew her mien,
Soon as her Warrior-love departed;
Of maidens true was she the Queen—
High souled—and Oh! Angelic hearted!

That night by pure Madonna's shrine,
A wakeful suppliant, saw her kneeling,
The lamp that lit the face divine—
A face of death-white was revealing.

All deathly pale that brow appeared,
Her hair dishevelled, streamed neglected,
Where was that lofty mood she shared,
Where the bright courage she affected?

144

Woman! 'gainst Nature wilt thou strive
For the dear sake of him you cherish—
Nor outward signs of suffering give,
While inwardly ye pine and perish!

Courage—your Lover's risks to brave,
Must to your Soul be still a stranger—
Of fear and grief you're still the slave,
Whene'er to him there threatens danger.

Then nobler is such generous show,
For his sake of a mood undaunted—
Such seeming victory o'er your woe,
Victory unvalued oft—unvaunted!

The night—the day passed slowly on,
No tidings heard she of her lover—
The field was nobly fought and won,
The trial and the triumph over—

145

Time passed, and o'er that fearful field
The Vulture, bird of darkness, hovered,
And yet that form was not revealed,
Her lover's corse was not discovered.

At length amid the thickest pile
Of dead 'twas found—all stiff and gory,
The pale lips wore a stern dark smile,
As they'd just caught one ray of glory!

Unto the Maid he loved the best
They brought that corse with grief and mourning!
Oh! meeting joyless and unblessed—
Alas! for that most sad returning!

They found her kneeling mute and still—
Beside the sacred Altar kneeling—
There sought she for each earthly ill
The happiest help—the holiest healing.

146

They watched and waited for a while,
Bearing the pale corse of her lover—
That burial band—that funeral file—
Till the deep pray'rs were breathed and over!

Vainly they waited—one moved near,
And stooping down, with horror started—
Look on that form—so soft, so dear,
Angelic still—but broken hearted!

She wept and prayed, and praying died—
A gentle flower by Fate's blast shaken,
His Soul's long flight was scarcely tried,
Ere by her meek Soul 'twas o'ertaken!

147

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—

148

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!)

149

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?

150

AN AUTUMNAL DAY.

No ripple on the wave was there—no tremour on the leaf,
And my heart—my heart lay still beneath the pressure of its grief,
A golden gloom was saddeningly shed out on all around,
From the leaves decaying on the boughs, to those upon the ground.

For Autumn mellowed then the hours—she with the goldbound brows,
And the leaves were dying on that ground—decaying on those boughs;
And that deep pathetic Season still accords with Sorrow's reign,
Then grief becomes a richer thing—a loftier mystery—pain!

151

Nature then takes in sympathy a soft and plaintive tone,
Our melancholy mirrors back, and mingles with our moan,
Her voice of sighs responds to ours—there broods a great distress
O'er all the Earth so beautiful—yet who could wish it less?

All images of mournful things assailed my mournful thought,
Each leaf a little History of decay and failing brought;
I revelled in those mournful thoughts, and revelled in those things,
Which seemed with kindred feeling then to thrill my heart's deep strings!

Nature! when thus we own thy charm, and when we feel thy sway,
Then the selfishness of suffering at least seems ta'en away;
Not for ourselves we deem it is we nurse our sleepless care
In the sufferings of a suffering World we sympathizing share!

152

When where'er we turn, where'er we move, e'en universally around,
A sadness dwells upon the air, the sky, the shadowy ground—
We seem unto a host of griefs to unlock the accordant heart,
In the sorrows of the sorrowing Earth we feel we bear our part.

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,

153

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!

154

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.

Weep not mine own Beloved if thou should'st hear
Of my heart-broken sigh, my burning tear,
Weep not—if others unto thee should tell
How this torn heart doth with vain anguish swell.

155

Sorrow, in sooth, is good for all below—
Pray for me, that I well may use my woe!
Pray that this stubborn heart may melt and bend,
If thou'rt indeed, Beloved! my Spirit's friend!

Sorrow is good for all on Earth, we know!
Pray that I well may use my bitter woe,
If thou indeed my Soul's true lover art—
The exalted friend of mine immortal part.

Love me, Oh! love me—as in the olden time
The stern sage loved himself—with love sublime,
No partial weakness show, no fault forgive,
Fit me to die, by teaching me to live!

Seek not one pang to soothe, one pain to spare,
To cure one canker, or to charm one care.
No! love me with a loftier love severe,
For the Hereafter's sake esteem me here!

156

O'erlook my present for my future good,
And check each impulse of a tenderer mood,
Oh! wish me not one trial here the less,
Nor strive to comfort me in my distress!

But Oh! Beloved! beyond all words to show,
While thus thou seem'st to smile upon my woe,
Forbear thyself to inflict the slightest pain,
Nor give the wound thou could'st not heal again.

The wound ev'n thou might's seek in vain to cure,
From thee, from thee, could I a slight endure,
Or bear from that beloved hand a blow,
Or feel 'twas thou that mixed my cup of woe?

This were too much—this last worst dire despair
Were more than Nature and than I could bear;
From this extreme of suffering and of ill
Let the poor trembler be delivered still!

157

Oh! welcome every grief and pang but this—
With this compared all other grief were bliss;
I know—I feel no pure no heavenly fruit
Could spring from such a dark and deadly root.

No! wrung and tortured, maddened and undone,
My hopes, my consolations, then were none.
A fatal recklessness, a blind despair
Were then my heavy and my hopeless share.

Beneath thy darkening frown, my troubled brain
Would whirl to phrenzy with th' o'erwhelming pain,
My stricken mind should be a withered scroll,
Alas! a blow from thee would kill my Soul!

Let others teach me suffering then—do thou
Teach me beneath that suffering's yoke to bow;
Let others wound with malice and with hate,
Do thou exalt my mind above its fate.

158

Let others fill for me the cup of wrath,
Do thou point out the straight, but steepy path,
Let others wring this heart of constant love,
Do thou the dark and gloomy hour improve.

Then whatsoe'er my destiny below,
In midst of all my mourning and my woe,
One current of dear happiness must glide
Soft through my darkened Being's troubled tide!

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—

159

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

160

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.

I may not boast of haughty birth—
Yet let me prove my knightly worth—
Ladye! I pray thee let me prove
What I can compass for thy love!

But promise me thy priceless smile
As the proud guerdon of my toil,
And let me see that crested Lord
Who dares to affront this fiery sword!

161

They talk of spell and mystic charm,
The blood to rouse, to nerve the arm;
Oh! never yet was charm so deep
As that sweet Hope such smile to reap.

Ladye! I boast no noble blood,
But noble is the undaunted mood
That swells the loyal champion's breast—
To that how tame's the Lion-crest!

From haughty Peer and Paladin
Thy smile and blush I yet will win,
From Kaiser crowned and sceptered King
The palm will bear, the prize will bring!

Since never Paladin nor Peer
Hath known to love with love so dear,
Since ermined King—since Kaiser proud,
Hath ne'er such passion's might avowed.

162

And that hath more than magic charm!
The strength of hosts is in this arm,
My sword is as a sword of fire,
A ravening tempest is mine ire!

Speak thou the word—and forth I go
To find in whom I meet—a foe;
To challenge nations in thy name,
To fight Earth's armies for thy fame!

Speak then the word, fair Love of mine,
Grant me the pledge, and give the sign,
And Chief and sceptered Lord shall prove
How vast a power is lent to Love!

The iron Rulers of the North,
Who sweep like their own storm-blasts forth,
The turbanned Kalifs of the East,
Who revel in the gory feast,

163

The Captains of chivalrous war,
Each, gallant Knighthood's shining star,
The Chiefs of savage Cohorts free,
Nature's unlaurelled Chivalry.

Kalif and Kaiser, King and Chief,
Shall yield in conflict fierce and brief,
All shall be challenged and defied,
All shall be stricken in their pride;

All shall confess my warlike claim,
All shall be conquered in thy name,
Strength, skill, nor numbers shall avail—
When I, thy champion pledged, assail!

Seems this to be a boast too bold?—
No! were it urged a thousand-fold.
Not mine the power, not mine the might,
But thine the triumph—and the right!

164

When I have bowed an hundred Kings,
When with my Fame the wide World rings,
When boundless glory is mine own,
Then will I make the mystery known.

When North and South and East and West
My prowess and success attest,
When nations own my warrior sway,
And my dominion all obey—

When through the magic of my sword
I reign of countless lands the Lord,
When Leaders and their Legions yield,
And mine's the universal Field,

Then will I publish and declare
The rightful Victor—bright and fair—
Forth to the enraptured World shall shine
Its Sovereign Mistress then—and mine!

165

Then shall the World its tamer see,
And then exult—enslaved by thee!
And high and haughty joy confess—
Hailing the Conqueror's Conqueress!

(And I shall grow yet prouder, sweet,
Flinging my crown wreaths at thy feet,
And unto thee transferring all
The honours to my share that fall!)

Then shall I raise the mask and show
The Nations their resistless foe—
The terrible, the stern, the dread—
Fairest of Forms on Earth that tread!

Then shall I lift the veil and show
The Rulers their all Heavenly Foe!
And they shall glory to resign
Their sceptres to such hands as thine!

166

Then Ladye, promise thy rich smile
To pay me for my Princely toil,
And I will prove thy Champion true,
And deeds—that yet are nameless—do!

And Paladin, and Prince, and Peer
Shall envy me in their proud sphere,
And own—with jealous rancour own
That Love commands success alone!

And Captain stern, and haughty Chief
Shall rage in vain with stormy grief,
Until their Victor bright they see,
And find their Conqueror, Love! in thee!

167

LIFE'S PEACEFUL HOURS.

A soft splendour o'er Earth was full tenderly glowing,
Not dazzling—not deep—but all mellowed and mild,
'Twas a splendour serene of the Eve's Sky's bestowing,
And one ray ev'n the more had that pure charm defiled.

With an Echo's still voice seemed the clear fountain falling,
Like an Angel's bright shadow the Evening appeared,
The Scene and the Season alike were enthralling,
No past hour could be mourned, and no future be feared.

There are hours in this Life—calm and happy and holy,
Which seem all to themselves—and set sweetly apart—
Free from Memory's fond fever—and Hope's fatal folly—
Like a lovely Eternity lent to the Heart!

168

There are hours in this Life when the Soul seems escaping
From the trammels and thraldom it long had endured,
When each thought for itself a bright course is out shaping,
When each care is forgotten at least, if not cured!

And of such was that hour, which too fleetly departed,
And left me once more to my pangs and my woes,
Oh! when shall peace come to the passionate-hearted,
A changeless, a deathless, a real Repose?

STANZAS.

(FROM INEZ, AN MS. POEM.)

Oh! hopeless, helpless, heartless state,
Oh! dark intolerable fate,
The joy of my whole life become
The desperation and the doom!

169

My dearest feelings turned to pain—
The consciousness of Life a chain—
The pride, the boast, the end, the aim
Become the sentence and the shame.

And shall I humbly bear my woe,
And kiss the hand that strikes the blow?
Yes! for to cease to love thee now
Were worse than every ill below.

I cling still to that fatal Love
'Midst all the sufferings that I prove—
And while I that impeach—accuse—
Would not for worlds consent to lose!

So fares the wretch whom many a wrong
Hath long subdued—and tortured long,
Whom Fate hath evermore pursued
With Hate's inexorable mood!

170

Still he exclaims 'gainst bitter Life—
Its woes—its wretchedness—its strife—
And still abjures—and still complains—
And execrates its crushing pains!

But when it seems indeed his doom
To sink into the sheltering tomb,
How hath he every grief forgot
That made him loathe his living lot.

Then—then how doth he cling and hold
To all he spurned and scorned of old—
With desperate passion cling and cleave
To all that he is called to leave!

Then, then how lovely seemeth Life,
How light its load—how sweet its strife—
How gladly would he empires give
A little longer but to live!

171

All that he thought the worst despair
Seems then but dear and precious care—
All he abhorred and loathed the most,
He would regain at any cost!

Life—Life at any price again—
Life with redoubled grief and pain,
With miseries, sufferings, tortures rife,
Life—still his Soul's one cry is Life!

Even so were I condemned to part
With that rich phrenzy of the heart,
Its griefs and sorrows should seem nought
Compared with the anguish of that thought!

Then welcome were its torments all,
Welcome the worst that could befall,
Welcome all—any thing—but that
Which brought deliverance thus, from Fate!

172

Yes! so, even so, might I lay down
My gilded chain, my poisoned crown,
I would that Mercy's boon refuse,
And Life itself far sooner lose!

Life—Life and all that makes Life dear—
All hopes of future gladness here,
All pleasures that the Happiest prove,
And hold unto my hopeless Love!

Aye—hence with pleasure, hence with peace,
Nor my despair nor love shall cease—
For thy sake dear is Love's fond care,
And dear, for that Love's sake, Despair!

173

THE DREAMER'S GRAVE.

Oh! make ye a Grave for the Fair and the Bright,
Whose feelings were raptures, whose thoughts were Heav'n's Light!
Who lived a deep Life all of Visions and Dreams,
Whose dreams were more pure than the Mountain's pure streams.

She is gone to the Land of her hope and her love,
And ne'er mounted a Heavenlier Spirit above!—
She is risen from amongst us, and never again
Shall we hail that fair form we must mourn for in vain!

A Grave for this Dreamer of Dreams, bright and young,
Be it fair as the scite of the old haunts she sung,
Since stilled now that deep burning heart that once beat
With a fervour consuming—a passionate heat!

174

Let it be where the brook sings its low song serene,
And the wood tints the wave with the tenderest of green,
Where fair Nature's repose is unaltered and deep,
There the Dreamer of Dreams shall enjoy her last sleep.

There the Dreamer of Dreams to Death's cold yoke shall bend,
And the long dreamless slumber enjoy to the end;
She shall thrill to the kindlings of Fancy no more,
Oh! calm is the Grave's lone and echoless shore!

The Inspiration hath passed from those chill silent lips,
The light of that Spirit hath suffered Eclipse—
But should we do wisely to grieve and regret
That the Star of that loveliest of Spirits hath set!

No! not free from dim Care's gloomy shadow and stain
Was the gentle and gifted One's love-breathing strain,
And the Dreamer of Dreams 'mongst her Visions of bliss,
While she tracked distant worlds—traced reflections of this!

175

Then weep not and mourn not, but make ye her grave,
Where the light leaves are stirred, and where shines the clear wave,
And believe that her Dreams are more rapturous by far
In yon plain of the Soul, and yon place of the Star!

RESOLUTION.

Now, my heart! in the daring of utter Scorn
Be fearless and mighty and nobly upborne!
And arm thyself now with the fulness of Pride!
And breast thou dark Sorrow's o'erflowing tide.

Float not down that dark stream like the helpless weed,
Nor bend on the gale like the powerless reed,
But be like to the Oak, and be like to the rock,
Stand the tempest's sweep—stem the torrent's shock!

176

In the daring of utter pride and scorn,
My heart! be thou fearless now and upborne!
And hurl thou back at insulting Fate
Thy strong defiance—untamed and elate.

Shattered thou may'st be but never subdued
By the rough collision—the contact rude—
Crushed to the Death but unconquered still—
And lofty and proud to the latest thrill!

Yet Oh! not the weakest of Spirits that bow
To each stroke of Fate ever felt as thou,
Words were but weak and but vain to show
The wildness and depth of thy Love and woe!

Still—still in the daring of utter Scorn
Mighty thou shalt be and proudly upborne,
For thyself thou scorn'st—and each tenderer mood
By which hearts less soft have been sooner subdued!

177

OH! HOURS OF THE PAST!

Oh! hours of the Past, chained together with flowers,
And lit on your way by the heavenliest of rays—
Where, where are ye now with your gifts and your powers,
Dear hours of departed and exquisite days?

Can it be ye are gone and for ever?—no more
Must I gladden my Soul with your blameless delights?
Ye bright waves! ye have flung on a desolate shore,
The heart that once mocked at Fate's blasts and her blights.

What mirth and what music were crowning those hours,
What glory and gladness still played o'er their path,
'Twas the precipice veiled by Joy's false fairy bowers,
And thy meteors Hope! smiled o'er the pitfalls of wrath!

178

Oh! ye hours of delight!—ye but woke in my heart
All its warmest of feelings, and wildest of powers,
All its truth and its love—then like dreams to depart,
And to leave but the serpent that lurked'mongst the flowers.

Yet 'tis well since ye were thus to part and to fly,
That ye parted thus swiftly and vanished thus soon,
Ere ye taught me to heave yet a bitterer sigh—
Ere the Morn's dawning passions had deepened with Noon!

THE WILLING VICTIMS.

Oh! Sorrows from Love's dark Dominion that flow,
Oh! tumults and turmoils—Oh! tempests and trials,
While we suffer the bitterest distractions of woe—
And wrath empties o'er us all its fearfullest vials!

179

We pine in a chill bosom-solitude drear—
We sigh and we sadden, we mourn and we madden—
Our feelings grief-cankered no joy comes to cheer—
Our hearts overladen, no Hope comes to gladden.

And still we unceasingly groan and complain,
And deprecate ever Love's fatal dominion!
While we shrink from his charm—from his scourge and his chain,
And the sweep of his fiery—his Hurricane-Pinion!

But still who would wish from these evils to escape,
And, who from his tyrant would sunder and sever?
Oh! Love take thou Sorrow's worst, deadliest shape,
But let us still groan—willing Victims for ever!

Who but feels that e'er felt that deep Passion's wild sway,
Whate'er be the sufferings stern Fate deals unsparing,
Whate'er be the shadows Love throws round their way,
Not to Love were yet worse—than to Love on despairing.

180

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,

181

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!

182

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,

183

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!

184

LIFE'S WORST GRIEF.

Heart and Brain
Lorn ye are—
Weariest Pain!
Worst Despair!

Could I break
Yoke and chain,
Could I wake
Hope again—

Could I win
Back to sight
Dreams akin
To Delight—

185

What were this,
What were aught,
Bright with bliss
To my Thought!

There's a grief
Dearer far
Than Life's chief
Blessings are!

Heart and mind
Deeply know
Strangely find
Joy in woe!

Heart and Brain—
Spurn relief,
Court their pain,
Love their Grief!

186

Love!—dark word,
Thou makest still
Each Heart's chord
Jar and thrill!

Love can sole
Thus bestow
Bliss in dole,
Joy in woe!

Love's excess
Sole can make
Hearts to bless—
While they break.

Seems his Care
Precious even!
His Despair
Dear as Heaven!

187

Grief and Gloom,
Toil and Tears,
Death and Doom,
He endears!

Therefore Love
Thou art still
Far above
Every ill!

Therefore Love
Thou'rt Life's worst—
Since we move
Self accursed!

Since we twine
Round our chain,
And resign
All to pain!

188

Since men spread
Coals of fire
On their head
In self-ire.

When o'erpowered
By thy might,
As they showered
Stars of Light!

Other grief
Seeks redress—
Craves relief
'Mid distress.

Worse, far worse—
Love! thou art,
Cherished Curse—
Of the Heart!

189

Worshipped Wrong—
Blessed Bane,
Stern and strong,
Stands thy reign!

Giant-Power!
Nursed and fed
Hour by hour
Still by dread.

Dread and Doubt,
Shame and Strife—
Close about
Love's wild Life!

These and things
Deadlier yet,
Darker springs
Of regret—

190

Fuller sway,
Firmlier strength,
Fiercer play
Lend at length!

Ev'n to him—
Earth's crowned Lord,
Dark and dim,
Feared—adored!

No escape
Ours may be—
Every shape
Suiteth thee!

Gloom and Wrath,
Storm and Flame,
Still thy path
Is the same—

191

We wish not
To be saved!
By our lot
Crushed—enslaved.

Still we kneel
At thy shrine,
Who could heal
Wounds of thine?

Who would seek
To be spared?
Fond and weak
Yield the ensnared.

Who would choose
To be free?
And thus lose
Grief and thee!

192

They would call
On thee yet—
Would do all
But forget!—

They would cling
Round thee still
Fatal thing—
Mortal Ill!

More and more
They shall bear,
Who adore
Their Despair!

Therefore Love!
Foe of Foes,
Thou'rt above
All our woes!

193

Thou'rt the first
Heavenly-miened!
Thou'rt the worst
Cherub-Fiend!

Therefore thou
Ev'n 'mongst all—
Griefs that now
Men befall—

Stand'st alone
First and worst,
Deadliest known,
Most accursed.

Thou, ev'n thou,
Sternly art
Brand to brow,
Hurt to heart.

194

Being's bane,
Darkest dole,
Fire to Brain,
Death to Soul!

Worthless Trust—
Wayward aim—
Star—of dust!
Spring—of flame!

Withered Hope,
Wasted Hour—
Oh!—to cope
With thy Power!

Weariest Bane—
Weightiest Care—
Wildest Pain—
Worst Despair!

195

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!

196

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;

197

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!

198

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,

199

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!

200

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.

201

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.

202

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.

203

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,

204

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!

205

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!

206

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.

207

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—

208

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,

209

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.

Go! in thy strength and state,
Go and be proud and great!
While East and West and South and North,
Thousands thy name are thundering forth,
A little whisper, deep and clear,
Yet, yet shall tremble to thine ear!
Go in thy Power and Pride
With Fortune for thy Bride!

Sweep on in strength and state,
Go! and be proud and great!

210

Thine still is manhood's noble prime,
And far into the future time
Appears the promise to extend
Of thy fair triumph without end;
Go in thy pride and power,
Son of a shining hour!

Go! and be proud and great—
Triumphant and elate,
For Happiness, indeed, perchance
She, she may shun high Fortune's glance,
But thou know'st deeply strangely well
The force of haughty Power's strong spell—
Go and be proud and great,
Go in thy Strength and State

Go in thy Power and Pride—
To thee is nought denied!
Though Peace of Mind and Happiness
May smile not on thy great success,

211

Thou, thou know'st Empire's sovereign worth,
And see'st but Thrones and Realms on Earth,
Go! and be proud and great,
Go! in thy Strength and State!

Go! in thy Pride and Power—
Improve the auspicious hour,
Amongst the loftiest of the high,
The favourites of the indulgent Sky,
Take thou thy place, and act thy part,
Thou that the elect and chosen art,
Go! in thy Strength and State,
Go! and be proud and great!

Go! in thy Pride and Power!—
I'the van of Greatness tower—
Thy Destiny expects thee now,
The circle waits to grasp thy brow,
And why should'st thou affect delay?
Pause not on thy propitious Day!

212

Proceed in Power and Pride—
Nor turn thou once aside!

Go! and be proud and great!—
Go! in thy Strength and State—
Thy brilliant Fate ev'n now embrace,
No haughty step shalt thou retrace—
Who that an end so glorious hath,
Ere turns or trembles on his path?
Go! in thy Strength and State,
Go! and be proud and great!

Go! in thy Power and Pride—
Thine own high Doom decide—
The smiling Future is thine own,
'Tis rife with Glory and Renown—
A very courtier unto thee—
Becomes the starred Prosperity!
Go in thy Power and Pride—
She moves still at thy side.

213

Go! and be proud and great
Go! in thy Strength and State!
Bright fruitful Provinces expand,
Fair laughs the sweet and sunny Land,
One cry peals forth—'tis still the same,
One long resounding cry—thy name!
Go! in thy Strength and State,
Go! and be proud and great!

Go! in thy Pride and Power!
The palmy wreath—the flower—
The flourished rose of state—the shield—
Where badge Monarchic shines revealed—
The emblazoned symbol and the sign—
And seat of Sovereignty are thine.
Go! in thy Power and Pride—
The Ruler's World is wide!

Go! in thy Pride and Power,
Thy Sky knows not to lower—

214

It spreads one blazed triumphal arch
Of Stars propitious o'er thy march.
No shadow o'er thy Fortune frowns,
Surely thy heart no shadow owns—
Go! in thy Power and Pride—
With Wisdom for thy guide!

Fail not thy favouring Fate—
Sweep forth in Strength and State—
Heed not that whisper low but clear
Which yet shall tremble to thine ear,
Heed but that voice within—without—
Which saith—with thrilling cry—with shout—
“Sweep on in Strength and State—
Go! and be Proud and Great!”

215

THE BELOVED IMAGE.

Thine image in my Soul is stamped
Deep, deeper with each passing day,
By Memory's magic torch-light lamped,
Which feeds on that it doth display.

Thine image reigns there evermore,
In growing, deepening beauty reigns,
But it consumes that bosom's core,
Which thus conceals it and contains.

That life-blood which itself should warm,
All to that precious guest is given,
Love!—thou'rt a dear but deadly harm,
Deadly indeed—but dear as Heaven!

And still in truth, Oh! still my Soul
Thy dearer self that image is—
It is my Life's—my Feeling's whole—
My all of Being's—all of Bliss!

216

LIFE! AS WE STILL.

Life! as we still on thy strange pathway move,
We leave behind the things we fondliest love—
Hopes turn to doubts, smiles tremble into tears,
And our expectancies grow dark with fears.

First our delights and then our comforts part,
Then Life what yield'st thou, desert that thou art?
Thorns but no rose—no honey but what stings—
And storms that waft no rainbow on their wings.

Life! thou dost darken and dost fade away,
Dost lose a charm, a grace, still day by day—
As though thou would'st a mournful likeness wear,
To thy cold shadowy Sister frowning near!

217

TO THE STARS.

High and haughty and Monarchic Mysteries!—
Crowned with Grandeurs of a God-given Strength!—
Oh!—could Man but read your Heavenly Histories
Thus, might Man true Wisdom learn at length!

Glorious Stars! how proudly ye invite me
Forth to wander, free from gloom and care,
With your smile in the opening Heavens to light me
While the world seems Shadows all, and Air!

But, ye Stars!—too much do ye sublimely
Speak of other Realms—august and bright,
While with sighs prophetic and untimely
My sad heart disturbs the lull of Night!

218

Proud, and glorious, and triumphant Wonders!—
What have ye with mortal things to do?—
Yet, with tones more deep than rolling thunders,
Speak your Tongues of Light—that pierce us through!

Dread, mysterious, and illustrious Strangers!—
Scarce can I endure your stately show,
Even the view of your proud pomp endangers
My quick Soul's unstable peace below!

Great, and wonderous, and victorious Splendours!—
One by one ye shine, to sway that Soul—
Till, o'erpowered and vanquished, it surrenders
All its Thoughts to your profound controul!

But, those Thoughts are by your aspect troubled,
Ever far too prompt are they to aspire!—
Then they quickening spring with strength redoubled—
Stirred and smitten by your looks of fire!

219

Mighty Visitors!—high-throned—far-beaming!—
What have they in common with our Earth?
Each—in his own conquering glory seeming
In himself—still Heaven's own Heavenliest Birth!

Glorious Stars!—when first that chain is broken,
That dark chain which binds me to the World,
Then, shine forth—then be each ray a token,
Each rich beam a banner-scroll unfurled!—

Telling all of Victory and of gladness,
Lifting from my Thoughts all memories vain
Of mine ancient Earth-engendered sadness,
Of the anguish of my mortal pain.

Yea!—Oh! Stars!—even then—even then invite me,
Then—then, woo me to your flaming path—
Crown me, raise me, cheer me, then, and light me
When mine eyes close on this World of Death!

220

But, now—now—while I dejected wander,
'Tis but grief to gaze on your proud show,
Oh! 'tis misery to gaze yearning yonder,
Bound and fettered to this Earth below!

Glorious Stars!—I shrink thus from your presence,
Too disturbing to my fervent Soul—
Till the time its disembodied essence
May rejoin ye—and attain its goal!

Proud, and sovereign, and victorious Strangers!—
Then shall ye illume its wonderous way!
Ye, that fixed remain—and ye—far rangers,
Circling round the Eternal Orb of Day!

Then—clear-mirrored in the immortal Spirit,
Shall ye shine—with added glories crowned,
Light more pure than yours shall that inherit
When it once hath burst its Earthly bound!

221

Dread, Mysterious, and Illustrious Splendours!—
Then shall ye be bared to its strong ken,
Faint the homage is, which now it renders—
To your shrines—but such 't will not be then!

Oh! ye Mysteries of the Heavens above us!—
Great, and Glorious, and Harmonious Stars!—
Gaze ye not, like Angel-things that love us!—
On our wrongs—our sufferings—and our wars?

END OF VOL. I.