University of Virginia Library

I, II, III. VOL. I., VOL. II., VOL. III.

SONNET DEDICATORY. TO THE QUEEN.

The light of Heaven seems shed in richer stream,
The sky-born breeze more fresh and odorous roves,
Where the fair Majesty of England moves!—
It seemeth like some strange, uncertain dream!—
Is that bright Maiden, in whose blue eyes beam
Such depths of sweetness—Her, whom Heaven approves,
And men acknowledge with true loyal loves,
Crowned chief of Earth's chief Empire!—first!—supreme?
Hark!—many a shout exultant thrills the air,
Thundering through temples, towers, and trophied piles!—
The whirlwind-voice of thousands!—hailing there
The Imperial Daughter of the Imperial Isles!—
Acclaim and blessings the oercharged echoes bear
Where the sweet Majesty of England smiles!

SONNET DEDICATORY. TO THE QUEEN.

It is a touching, gracious sight to see,
Daughter of Empire!—great and glorious Queen!—
Thy maidenly and yet majestic mien,
In thy young stateliness of Royalty;—
Daughter of Empire!—thou!—thus born to be
The light and glory of this earthly scene,—
Move on in triumph calm and state serene,
Bless'd by the good, the gallant, and the free!—
Child of an hundred Kings!—the fair—the crowned—
Lady of many Nations!—loved of all!—
How gladly swell the echoed shouts around;
Fettering the free air in their thundering thrall—
Rising from every heart's deep core profound—
Blessings on Her—the Sovereign Maid to call!

SKETCHES AND SHADOWINGS.

THE LIGHTNINGS.

THE VOW.

SONG OF THE DYING IMPROVISATRICE.

DEATH'S SOVEREIGNTY.

Thou art the Mighty One!—All bend to thee—
The proudest with profound humility—
The strongest with an abject weakness, fain
To bend beneath thy crushing yoke and chain!
The wisest with a consciousness complete,
Of utter failure, and entire defeat.
Thou art the Mighty One—all bend to thee,
And all thy vassals and thy slaves must be,
Thy triumph hath no limit and no end—
And all that ghastly triumph must attend,
Chained to thy chariot-wheels or soon or late,
To swell the pomp of thy too fearful state,
To lengthen out that long and gloomy train,
Which ceaseth not to pass o'er Earth's broad plain,
That sad procession for which Earth doth pave
Her paths with flowers—they lead but to the grave,
And all in that procession join at last,
The dense—the unimaginably vast.
Thou art the Mighty One—thy rule extends
Unto the conquered World's last, farthest ends,
All things created, still appear to be
Created—Oh! thou Sovereign Death! for thee.
Each cherub child just smiling at the Sun,
Whose little life in bliss is then begun,
Is a new subject, born to endure thy sway,
And homage at thy shadowy throne to pay;
Yon lovely Bride may clasp her Bridegroom's hand,
But thou shalt chain her with a stronger band—
To thy cold heart thou 'lt clasp that radiant form,
Now full of life and beauty, fresh and warm;
Yon youthful labourer in the fields of Fame,
Thine icy wand shall yet subdue and tame;
And yon vain worldling, to the Future blind,
Each onward step he takes leaves life behind.
Death—Death—that shadowy word doth cover all,
And the whole World's an echo to thy call!
Oh! thou, the Phantom-Suzerain of the Earth,
For whom alone all objects spring to birth!
Proud World of Life—one Death indeed thou art,
And still the sentence is—to pass, to part—
To leave all things beloved, all well known things,
To which too soon, too much the fond heart clings,
To join that dread procession's long-drawn gloom,
Which moveth ever—ever—to the Tomb!
A mighty and innumerable train,
Thousands and tens of thousands—and again
Yet tens of thousand thousands—without end,
While all or soon or late, still all attend
Thy more than Conqueror's triumph! How dost thou
Wear all Earth's crowns to light thy dusky brow,
Plucked from the proud Monarchic brows that bore
Their jewelled circles loftily before,
All treasures that the mightiest have amassed,
Have at thy feet been with reluctance cast—
All trophies that the noblest hath acquired,
Have been given up to thee, though undesired,
For the whole World is thy dread trophy still,
And all it hath but waits upon thy will!
Thou Phantom-Suzerain of Creation!—Where
Dost thou consent to pause, or deign to spare?
We walk but in thy footsteps evermore,
For thine Earth's empire is from shore to shore!

SONG.

[Long have I mourned, and long have known]

MEMORY'S MAGIC.

Oh! Memory! thou canst give us back again
Our own old feelings, yet unwrung with pain,
Our peace, our purity—till Sin appears
Though the long growth perchance of evil years,
By thee so sweetly sinned against—'tis lost,
Like shadows by strong gleams of Sunshine crost!
Sin seems to whiten back to Innocence,
Cleansed of its stains—and of its dim clouds dense,
All brightly cleared, and lightened for awhile,
Even by the sacred Magic of thy smile!
Aye, Sin, unsinned, that long hath had abode
Within the heart by thoughts infirm o'erflowed,
Forgets its evil into good, when thus
Keen stricken by thy wand so luminous,
Thou mighty and thou all-resistless Power,
That makest the Soul thine own for thy brief hour,
And dost improve and change it as thou wilt,
Till Good becomes its gracelessness and guilt!
Oh! who can vividly and well recall
His childhood's days, ere bound by basest thrall
Of selfishness and passion, he forgot
All lovely, lofty duties of his lot,
Without a momentary change of state,
A temporary rising o'er his fate!
And o'er his feelings, darkened and debased
By long continuance of a trust misplaced
In all the hollow nothings of this Earth,
Of frailest tenure, and of poorest worth?
Till yet once more, ev'n as a little child,
With lowly simple nature undefiled,
The World's fond victim half regenerate moves,
And humbly trusts—and reverently loves—
And deeply feels—from guilt and from its guile,
Through thy dear charm, delivered for awhile,
Strong Memory! thou canst teach the Soul once more
To be the stainless thing it seemed before,
Restore the harmonious truth, that round it hung,
Of yore, recalling from what source it sprung—
Give back that glorious light it seemed to bring
Even from that source—Life's high and holy spring!
And make it feel as it were newly born—
The spark fresh kindled with the fires of morn!
Thou canst do thus—but, Ah! in vain—in vain—
If sinks the Soul from that fine height again,
If back it falls into the common dust,
And woos its earthly idols to its trust—
Memory, how vain is then thy brief bright sway,
What empty homage unto thee we pay,
We but remember all that once we were,
To grovel back into our sordid care—
To hug again a half forgotten load
Of vile anxieties, on Life's steep road!
And to renounce the promise and the hope,
Content along our twilight path to grope,
Without the only aid that can sustain
And bless our weak endeavours, else how vain!—
The aid Divine, the which indeed to acquire,
We must controul each World-defiled desire,
And be as little children pure and meek,
And humbly strive, and innocently seek.
Oh! Memory! snatch my spirit back once more
To all its blameless thoughts and dreams of yore,
And bid my present consciousness to cease
A little while, that I may dwell in peace
Beneath the shadow of thy quiet wings,
And save me from all vain and dangerous things,
Which gain too much ascendancy and power
O'er the unsuspicious Soul, hour after hour.
Oh! let me be beneath thine influence mild,
Once more, once more, as ev'n a little child,
And in that humble holy mood serene,
Let me continue through Life's changeful scene,
And fixedly and faithfully remain,
Even when released from thy engirdling chain;
Set free from thy enchanted flowery yoke,
Whose gentle clasp so many fetters broke,
So many burdens tenderly removed,
And such a high and Heavenly blessing proved!
Yes! Memory, when beneath thy soft controul,
Once more the dreamer grows a child in Soul,
'Tis thine to make him, for a little space,
Raised o'er the crimes and follies of his race,
One of that glorious Kingdom, all sublime,
Beyond the petty march of measured time,
That glorious Kingdom, where the dwellers be
As little children in their purity!
Who from that Heavenly kingdom would descend,
With Earth's vile nothings yet again to blend?
And stained with sin and sorrow to pass on,
'Mongst sufferers and 'midst sinners—surely none!
Memory, ev'n now thy power o'er me exert,
Bring childhood's trustful feelings to my heart,
Bring me mine own old feelings once again,
Unchilled by doubt and all unwrung by pain;
And more—far more—by evil unalloyed,
With purity unaltered—undestroyed!
Memory, ev'n now thy power o'er me assert,
And bring back childhood to my Soul and Heart!

TIME.

Time! oft when I have heard some solemn clock
Startle the air with its sonorous shock,
While rung with chime, prolonged upon the ear,
The strong vibration of its echoes clear,
I have translated thus thy stern address,
To those that mark thee little—prize thee less—
“Haste! Mortals, haste!—improve the gift of birth,
Ye have a God in Heaven—a Grave on Earth!”
For it is so! and soon, how soon we crave
Below, the shelter of that shadowing Grave,
How soon lie down in its unbroken gloom,
Forsaking all our treasures for the tomb,
Forgetting all our occupations here,
Foregoing all our Heart-affections dear,
For ever and for ever—Oh! no more
To hope and dream as we were wont before,
No more to dwell in joy, 'mongst well known things,
To which the natural heart so fondly clings,
So fondly and so firmly, till, alas!
It finds its joys were only made to pass.
How soon we close our longing lingering eyes
On all that we most fervently could prize,
Most deeply cherish, and leave all behind
Which claimed the strong devotion of the mind;
Death from our sight doth all these things remove,
Howe'er we watched them with a jealous love,
And then our title we perforce resign
(Oh! Death, how harsh a tyranny is thine)
To all we held most sacredly our own,
And yield it up as though we ne'er had known
We have a grave on Earth! 'tis all we have—
And that the Monarch shareth with the Slave,
'Tis all we truly certainly possess—
Though Fortune rain her fair gifts to excess
Upon our honoured and our favoured heads—
And in our paths Hope's form of Beauty treads!
'Tis all we have—though we may seem to be
Rich in deep sources of felicity;
On this bleak Earth 'tis all indeed we have,
Our only home is in that silent cave!—
There all of woman born must surely dwell,
Palace and Prison—Court and Citadel—
Since that dark place of rest alone remains
To those who dwelt in piles like idol fanes!
A handful of dim dust is all indeed
That ev'n the loftiest and the best shall need,
Ere many years above their heads are flown,
And this is all that can be all their own.
We have a Grave on Earth—a lowly Grave,
And those long tossed on Life's distracting wave
May lay their heads down on that Earth at last,
And gladly say, “the weary time is past!”
For Sorrow pierces with her poisoned dart
The yearning anxious fevered human heart,
And doubt disturbs it and remorse o'ertakes,
Until with secret longing oft it aches
For that unbroken, that undreaming rest,
With which the sleeper of the Grave is blest,
That silent and all motionless repose
Which blesseth those whose eyes for ever close!—
Which heareth heedeth not the echoing strife,
Around, above, of restless warring Life—
We have a Grave on Earth—that, that alone
Can be indeed and certainly our own—
All other things depart from us, or we
Depart from them howe'er unwillingly,
The miser ceases his convulsive hold
Upon his darling and long-treasured gold,
The Monarch quits his proud and glittering throne,
And goes, where he is watched and served by none.
The bridegroom turns him haply from his bride,
Content in solitary gloom to abide—
The warrior leaves his triumphs all behind,
And yields his honours with an humbled mind.
Man to the Grave must turn—of all bereft—
He finds at length the Grave alone is left,
And this austere possession, this is all
That we our own with perfect truth can call.
Rash, reckless beings—while we hurry on,
Nor value Time till precious Time is gone!
As though the World and all it hath were ours,
And we were dwellers in unfading bowers;
A Grave—a Grave on Earth! dark, narrow, drear,
And can this World then be so deeply dear,
'Twould seem as though we were in life the lords
Of boundless empire, and exhaustless hoards,
Enriched with gifts immortal and sublime,
That never might be crushed or reft by Time?
Alas! how different 'tis! how brief our tale,
How slight our tenure, and our trust how frail,
We strive and struggle for a little while,
Then sets that Sun that never more shall smile
On our fond efforts, or our darling schemes,
And all our hopes depart like morning dreams,
We close our eyes on this World's busy scene,
And nothing is for us that ere hath been,
For we are nothing—we ourselves are nought,
And Death hath overta'en the winged Thought—
From his dread power no skill no strength can save,
On Earth we have a Grave, and but a Grave!
This World with all its glory, all its bloom,
Is but for us a proud and spacious tomb,
A sure and mighty sepulchre it is,
And all we claim of it as ours—is this—
And shall we cling then with an ill placed trust,
False to our interest—to ourselves unjust?
To all the uncertain good it hath to give,
Which soon must cease, since soon we cease to live,
And worship at this World's unhallowed shrine,
Nor to a loftier hope and trust incline,
Unthinking Mortals!—all proclaims ye have
On Earth a Grave—and nothing but a Grave!
And all proclaims, with voice as deep and loud,
To ye, the rash, the insatiate, and the proud,
That ye indeed have in the Heavens above
A God Omnipotent, of Grace and Love!
A Grave on Earth—but, Oh! a God in Heaven,
Can you forget His Love and be forgiven?
'Tis boundless, endless, evermore the same,
And all their portion in its truth may claim
The lowliest and the mightiest of the Earth,
The strongest and the weakest, from their birth,
Until the hour appointed for their death,
And, Oh! yet after they resign their breath—
Then shall it be in all its greatness shown,
For ever still unchangeably their own—
A treasure far beyond all powers of thought,
To appreciate and to acknowledge as they ought!
Were all yon shining Worlds on Man bestowed
With which the irradiate space streams overflowed,
Those Suns of many Splendours, that outblaze
At nameless distances, with glittering rays,
'Twere as a handful of unvalued dust
Compared with that deep treasure of our trust!
Light in the balance these were found indeed
Weighed 'gainst that wealth which must all else exceed.
Then let us listen to thy call sublime,
Thou swift and sure and ne'er delaying Time,
And lift our Souls up with a reverent love,
Even to the Heaven that brightly spreads above!
For if we may but have a Grave on Earth,
A treasure there is ours of priceless worth,
A certain and a lasting one, which nought
Can snatch from our firm hold—with rapture fraught!
Oh! let us unto that unfaultering cling,
And raise our hopes from each low Earthborn thing,
Give all our Souls to that, and that alone—
And claim it, seize it, clasp it for our own;
Speak on, thou solemn chime! speak ever on,
And let me dwell thy counsel sage upon,
Speak on, and let my spirit wakening thrill
With one deep echo to that counsel still!
How many thoughtless or obdurate hear
That voice of Time which lingers on the ear—
With grave deep warning, as they onwards pass,
To where his swiftness speeds them still, alas!
Even to that long and lone and lasting home
Of hopeless silence—and of changeless gloom,
Yet beautiful as Paradise in sight
Of those who mark behind it Heaven's own light!
Speak on! thou eloquent and solemn chime,
Speak to my Soul in language all sublime,
Since it is Truth itself—triumphant truth!
Oh! wise are they who prize it in their youth,
Ere weakened energy and lessened strength
Smite with decay the Soul's best powers at length,
And render difficult that task enjoined,
To lift from Earthly things the Earth-stained mind!
Aid me! Eternal Source of grace and good,
Aid me to exalt my mind's taught tutored mood—
To turn from all these petty Worldly things,
Which taint the Spirit to its deepest springs;
Aid me to love thyself, thyself to serve,
Nor let me from the course of duty swerve,
Keep me, Oh! keep me in the right, true way,
My judgments 'stablish, and my feelings sway,
Make me to feel with chastened awe, and know
That this a state of trial is below,
That nothing can deserve Man's watchful care
On this dim scene, where all one fate must share,
One doom must find, a stern and mournful doom,
Give back thy hollow echo-answer—Tomb!
Awake, ye dreamers, that with vainest love
Seek all below—forgetting all above!
Awake, awake, ere yet it is too late
To amend your prospects and improve your fate,
Hear but the warning of that solemn chime,
Which calls with voice as startling as sublime,
And sternly doth unceasingly proclaim
One mighty truth—and evermore the same:—
“The hours are speeding towards Life's final hour,
Awake, arouse, while yet 'tis in your power.”
Awake, arouse then, Dreamers—cast away
The unmeaning trifles o'er your Souls that sway,
The little time that Heaven shall yet allow,
Oh! give it to your preparation now,
Since on that preparation must depend
Your future good and glory without end.
How merciful is Heaven to thankless Man,
Even in his brief and strictly measured span,
How doth he find at every step he takes,
Some warning, which its just impression makes
Upon his yearning and expectant mind,
If not with wilful stubborn dulness blind!
A gracious Father guides our course from Heaven,
Can we forget His Love, and be forgiven?
Can we resign our claims to His deep Grace,
And hope in peace to end our mortal race?
Can we with careless impious folly, turn
From His own paths, and dream we shall not mourn?
A voice within us answers deeply, No!
A voice within us, speaking clear and low,
And that too echoeth thy prophetic call,
Oh! Time!—that cryeth loudly unto all
With iron tongue of dread and stern appeal,
Which even the giddiest at some moments feel,
“Prepare!”—and yet again “Prepare!” again,
And oft again to reckless heedless men—
But doth it only echo thy strong cry?
Oh! it hath syllabled thy wordless sigh,
And breathed its mystic music, full and deep
O'er thy stern tone, till the hours might seem to weep
O'er all that they destroy with dull decay,
So gently do they warn their destined prey!
So mildly urge them as they speed along,
To save their living Souls from blight and wrong,
To buckle on that armour pure and bright,
Which still can save them from such wrong and blight.
Speak on, thou hollow-sounding chime, and say,
“Ye have a Grave on Earth!”—Man may not stay
'Mongst these, his old familiar Worldly things,
Time flieth fast, his Soul too hath her wings,
Not still she standeth, 'mid the motion round,
But striveth to press on beyond her bound,
To leave behind the associates of her way,
Those Earth-born things that must endure decay,
Even the most thoughtless Worldling feels at times
One thought within him that aspiring climbs,
And soars away an instant from the din
That echoing soundeth in this World of Sin,
One thought that trembleth like a Heavenly Star
Amid the cloudy darkness and the war,
The wild confusion and the waste of life,
The restless hurry and the heated strife—
And if that thought be not insanely chased,
As though the immortal spirit it disgraced,
The Star will to a glorious Sun outblaze,
And light created Nature with its rays!
Since still it clear pronounceth evermore
What Nature too hath oft pronounced before,
Repealing that stern sentence of dismay
Which speaks but of the Grave and Death's dire sway,
And fearlessly asserts, in accents plain,
“Ye have a God in Heaven!”—Oh! blessed strain,
Let all the Soul take up with hallowed zeal
Its perfect harmony—her wounds to heal,
Her griefs to banish, and her fears to lull,
While thence she may unbounded rapture cull,
And draw a consolation all divine,
Which shall with every conscious thought entwine.
Oh! more than Happiness—joy-shaming Hope,
What prospects lengthening and expanding ope
Before the Spirit's all-enraptured sight,
Glory on Glory heaped—Light after Light,
Still new variety of dazzling Day
That drives the thought of Darkness ev'n away.
Joy-shaming Hope! how startlingly sublime
Dost thou spring forth to gild the brow of Time,
Which like some mighty Angel speeds, as fain
Its goal, the glorious gate of Heaven, to gain,
And melt into the Eternity supreme,
As melteth into truth some wandering dream.
Oh! more than Happiness! Surpassing Hope,
Scarce can the Soul with thy great triumph cope,
To live for ever 'mid those Worlds of bliss,
Too bright, too blessed to be glimpsed in this,
Where Death nor Grief nor Pain nor Sin nor Fear,
Nor even their fleeting shadows may appear
Perfect with all perfection, deep and true,
Within themselves, and circled with it too!
Oh! Happiness-surpassing Hope!—to thee
Still let us cling through our Mortality,
Nor from our thoughts be thou e'er banished far
The Soul's victorious and undying Star!
Ne'er from our thoughts may this great Truth be driven,
We have a Grave on Earth—a God in Heaven!

EARTHLY AFFECTION.

LINES. (FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.)

She comes!—she comes!—with her hair of light
Bound round a forehead almost as bright
With her flashing smiles—yet though flashing—soft
That seem a deep Soul on their wings to waft
With her kindling blushes—her lovely mien—
The Star and the Spirit of the scene!—
With her silvery voice and her zephir step,
With her clear bright cheek and her laughing lip!—
And the Graces with her for ever come—
What a Paradise doth she make of home!
She comes!—she comes!—and all things appear
Bright as herself, when she draws near!

THE FAREWELL TO FRANCE.

Bright France, adieu!—Adieu! thy laughing plains,
Where Peace now lives and gentle gladness reigns,
Farewell fair Vineyard-covered France, farewell!
Long shall my memory on your sweet scenes dwell,
Long and for ever—many a glowing morn
Upon thy rosy hills have I seen born,
Many a brilliant eve have watched sink down,
As if to rest on thy rich woods, whose crown
Was then the blazing burning setting Sun,
The noblest and the most imperial One!
Nought in the unknown Future may avail
To crush these memories with o'ercloudings pale.
I will believe and hope, for thoughts like these
With high and lofty beauty, calmly please
And elevate the mind in which they're nursed—
In which they're brightly glowingly rehearsed,
For Nature and the love of Nature brings
A hallowed charm to light all lesser things.
Farewell! with all thy vineyards, all thy flowers,
Fair golden France—the land of Sunny bowers
And teeming fields, from thee I soon must part,
But, Oh! to seek the Country of my Heart!—
Yet here my Heart awhile a Country found,
Since here in thy bless'd chains have I been bound,
Thou ever-glorious Nature—more than fair,
And wheresoe'er we yield thee worship—there
We feel as natives—children of the soil—
So closely do those chains around us coil.
Not 'mongst the City's crowds have I delayed,
But by these Vineyard-bordered stream banks strayed,
Not converse held with proud and polished throngs,
But with thine aëry and mysterious tongues,
Pure Nature ever holy, ever dear,
Those tongues that breathe sphere-music in mine ear,
That talk the language of the Heavens on Earth,
And make an affluence where were else but dearth,
For 'tis not Nature! only, what thou art,
(From all associative links apart!—)
'Tis what thou 'mind'st us of yet more, far more,
That consecrates thy love in our Hearts' core,
And makes us turn to thee, with such deep trust,
And name thee glorious, holy, fair, august.
No! 'tis not what thou art that makes us turn
Even thus to thee, with such quick zeal to burn
In admiration boundless and supreme,
Which girds our spirits with a passionate dream,
'Tis what thou but reflectest as a glass,
The glory that can never wane nor pass
The invisible perfection, and the unknown,
Which then our minds mysteriously must own,
Even when to thee we bend with homage deep,
And feel thy power our inmost Soul o'ersweep,
Thou'rt but a glass, of all that is above
Our hope, our comprehension, and our love—
And still our thought will struggle to those heights
Where shine Truth's glorious and immortal lights—
Where blaze these Splendours infinite, which none
May gaze unblasted and unscathed upon!—
And still the yearning and the restless mind
Will strive the mirror of their pomp to find,
Nature—all exquisite and fair in thee,
And in thy bright and sovreign Majesty,
'Tis this that lends thee such o'erpowering might,
That makes thee seem so blessed in our sight,
When we indeed bend humbly at thy shrine,
And see in thee a mystic stamp divine.
Nature! thou art my Country! evermore
Still let me find a home from shore to shore,
Where'er thy chainless winds in freedom blow,
Where'er thy glitt'ring streams rejoicing flow,
Where'er thy mountains soar, thy groves expand,
There smiles my Home—and there my Native Land,
Where'er thy glorious Stars resplendent shine,
And make the purple Heavens indeed divine—
Or thy more lovely flowers their brilliant dyes
Display with all their rich varieties,
Where'er thy clouds in shadowy beauty roll,
And catch the thoughts of the uplifted Soul,
And bear them on with them on their wild race,
Through wastes of æther and through worlds of space,
Beyond the horizon's aëry line afar,
Where faintest lights and tenderest shadows are,
There is my Soul's own place, and there my home,
And there must I a denizen become,
Bound by dear ties of Feeling and of Thought,
With tenderness and truth and transport fraught.
Where'er afar with wandering foot we range,
It is the strangers make the land seem strange,
The mighty hills, the fields, the paths, the woods,
The glades of beauty, and the sounding floods,
These are not strangers—if we shun the croud,
The weak, the vain, the restless, and the loud,
And but with these beloved associates keep—
For us a Home shall smile o'er mount and deep,
Our Country, Nature, shall be where thou art,
Our resting place for ever on thy heart.
And yet a dearer charm must doubtless dwell
Round that one Land, where first from flood and fell
We learned to draw a deep and true delight,
And recognized thy glory and thy might!
That, may perchance be dearer than the rest,
But all shall be as Homes of love confessed
By hearts that prize thee as thou should'st be prized,
Great Nature—but by mindless fools despised,
For the high thoughted and the wise of Earth
Have ever owned thy deep exceeding worth,
And ever thy prevailing power avowed,
And at thy shrine with reverent homage bowed,
For thou'rt the Daughter of the Highest—thou
Alone to His Perfection deign'st to bow,
Man's thoughts do shape themselves even at thy side,
(With a permitted pardonable pride)
To actual Forms, his floating dreams become
Realities—for in his mortal doom,
His high immortal Nature still aspires,
And feels the impulse of diviner fires—
Struggling within his Spirit—quickening there—
To find a clearer, purer, finer air!
And to thy great Perfection still they yield,
Though thou for ever art the same revealed,
And they, yet day by day—age after age,
Mankind's profoundest care and thoughts engage,
For ever open to improvement thus
Transmitted down through myriad minds to us,
Full often yet thy works mock brightly still
Those works of human toil and human skill—
Let me be still a Worshipper of thine—
And ever to thy wild sweet haunts incline—
Then, wheresoe'er it be my fate to roam,
There shall I find a Sanctuary and Home,
From the glad hills, the gracious Heavens above,
Thy countenance o'ershadoweth me with love,
The language of my thoughts must ever be
Even thy large universal language free!
The torrents and the Stars they shine and roll,
And speak to every feeling of my Soul—
The whispering leaves sweet secrets can impart
Unto my listening and enraptured heart—
One instrument with Nature that is made—
And by one touch they're wakened and they're played!
The Forest-lyre's resounding strings sublime,
And thy more subtile strings keep tune and time.
Oh! mine accordant Heart!—since thy reply
So instant is—thy frame one harmony—
The Ocean's Organ-anthem calls at once
From my rapt Spirit's depths its full response!—
Itself one mighty melody becomes,
Such as the Seraphs wake in their Starred homes,
One strain of perfect Love—one glorious strain
Beyond all music of the hymning Main,
All minstrelsy of the echoing Forest's heart,
The harping Forest whence blest sounds depart
Unceasingly, or if the storm or breeze
Awake the sleeping spirit in the trees!—
Nature! thou art my Country!—where thou art
I find the Home—the Heaven of my Heart!
I kiss my Parent-soil for ever there,
And breathe mine own familiar kindred air,
All is congenial to my Soul and Thought,
Where all with thine exalted charms is fraught,
Thy Child—thy Citizen—still let me be,
My Native Land—Oh! Nature!—it is thee!

WHEN JOY IS LIVING.

THE BARK.

RELIGIOUS MUSIC.

How doth the Soul on Music's wings arise
To join the hymning Seraphs in the Skies,
Ascending—still ascending—borne above
By strength of zeal—and ecstacy of love!
The Organ peal on peal sends forth sublime,
Till its deep Music seems to pierce Old Time,
To startle him mysteriously, and smite
Upon his awful and destructive flight!
To unveil his shadowy and cloud-mantled brow,
To make him seem one ever present Now—
Shorn of his angry terrors, in that hour,
And taught to yield before a mightier power,
Of all his buried secrets robbed, at once,
And made to utter forth a deep response
To those triumphant sounds, that searching sweep
O'er depths that heavy Silence long did keep!
Like Ocean-treasures dashed by storms on shore,
Behold the mysteries of his ancient lore,
For one keen moment to the Soul revealed,
That clasps within itself Creation's field,
Even while it giveth back its large reply
To the awful thunder-chimes of Harmony,
And rushes back unto the birth of all,
And lifts from Chaos' wastes of gloom the pall,
And forward rushes to the final close,
And the whole truth in one rich rapture knows,
Or feels as though it knew—in that bright mood
By cold dull natures little understood,
Oh! glorious is the Organ's swelling hymn
In ears that never heard the Seraphim
Sing to their Harps of Heaven—for nought beside
Methinks can match its Music's pealing pride!
Eternity, the while those echoes roll,
Crowds with its weight of ages on the Soul—
This World seems rapt and gathered unto thee,
Through this dread charm—thou great Eternity!
A march of Empires rallies round the notes,
A mighty history from the old Silence floats,
And glides into the electrifying tones,
A Vision of long-ruined Fanes and Thrones,
Of royal cities in past times destroyed,
Whose names are nothing—and whose place a void.
Yea! of a bye past World—that startles forth
In its own pristine pride and ancient worth,
Yet all seems to the enraptured Soul to be
As part and portion of the Eternity!
Itself, it soars, beyond the grasp of Time,
And bids all share in its own state sublime,
'Tis then all consciousness, all ear and eye—
New modes of Being seems it then to try
More glorious than it ever tried before,
(But which shall be its own for evermore;
Which yet shall be for evermore its own,
When this frail Frame of things is overthrown,
When this low World lies crushed in its own dust,
And joy eternal crowns the good and just.)
Peal on—peal on thou high and glorious strain,
Thy mighty Music shall not peal in vain;
Oh! not in vain shall those fine concords flow,
They free the heart from long devouring woe,
They break the Soul's too closely clasping chains,
And clear it both of shadows and of stains—
And yet amidst its wildest farthest flight,
Its richest burst of Inspiration's might,
Its noblest and its most etherial mood,
How much of Earth will evermore intrude,
The pride of human triumphs, human sway,
Of human Majesty the proud array,
These still are glimpsed and visioned by the Soul,
These still before its inner sight unroll,
The mighty Anthem swells upon the sense,
A pomp of sound—an angel eloquence,
And there awakes deep dreams of loftiest power,
That soar beyond Time's less than little hour,
Yet with them bear to the awful heights above,
Through vain tenacity of clinging love,
Or haply custom's long-continuing force,
(A current that scarce turneth from its course
Of partial prejudice)—all things known here,
All things that glorious in man's sight appear,
Bear Earth itself, and Earth's chief pomps on high,
Time's triumphs all into the Eternity,
For still their images victorious reign,
Within the working wildered human brain,
And still the winged and fervent human Soul
Escapes from strictest bonds of Time's controul,
In those harmonious and half-Heavenly hours,
When Music stirs the inmost Spirit's powers,
When sacred strains o'erwhelmingly impart
Melodious deep Religion to the heart.

THE ARAB CHIEF.

THE LARK.

THE SAILOR'S GRAVE.

SWEET FRIENDS—SWEET FRIENDS.

SONNET.

[Proportioned to my Hopes have largely been]

Proportioned to my Hopes have largely been
Ever my Disappointments—for on Earth
Fruit of abortive Promise, dead in birth,
Doth evermore abound—and all its scene
Is strewed with wrecks and fragments—if we lean
Too fondly on the Staff of Hope our mirth
Will soon be changed to mourning, and the worth
The wonder of Creation's face serene,
With all its witchery shall pass swift away,
And we shall late and long and much repent,
Till we resign this tenement of clay,
And pass through darkness by a fearful rent,
Made by Death's phantom-fingers—when we pay
The unremitted debt and fall like arrows spent.

ON MY CHILD'S BIRTH-DAY.

This is a day of hope, dear Child of mine,
A day of heart rejoicings, for my deep
And winged thoughts soar joy-fraught, may Heav'n's care keep
Thee ever blessed and pure—and twine—and twine
Love's precious chains around thee! Mark how shine
The golden Summer Heavens—how laughing leap
The sparkling Sunbeams down the aëry steep,
'Twixt Sky and Earth—long may their light divine
Unshadowed gleam o'er thee—may no dull mist
I' the after days rise from thine own veiled thought,
Oh! may the wild winds blow even as they list,
But never have the power to bring sounds fraught
With terrible meanings unto thee—hark—hist—
What hints of Heaven this birth-day-breeze hath brought!

SONNET TO SLEEP.

Sleep! let me feel thy precious calm at last,
In my heart's heart—through all these throbbing veins
Diffused in lingering languishments!—thy chains
Of heavenliest link, around me lightly cast,
And wean my mind from memories of the Past,
My dreaming ear shall dwell on soothing strains,
A sound such as in the Ocean-shell remains,
How sweet when following the harsh howling blast—
And to the work-day task—the work-day care
Awhile I'll bid adieu—and when the ray
Of Morning o'er the horizon gleameth fair,
And through the half-closed shutters strives to play,
The parting-sweetness of charmed dreams shall bear
To after-hours a token of their sway.

SONNET.

[Sleep's mantle of blest softness soon shall wind]

Sleep's mantle of blest softness soon shall wind
My thoughts within its folds—charmed folds and deep,
And Angel guests thou surely bring'st, bright Sleep,
With thee, until the tired and harassed mind
That slender portion of repose could find
In the loud day—doth priceless blessings reap
Of rest and quiet—thou dost richly steep
The senses in thy honey-dews refined,
And thy caressing gentleness can lull
All trouble and all care awhile to rest,
Thou hast a Paradise o' the Beautiful,
For ev'ry scathed and vision-haunted guest,
And dull are they—Oh! poor of thought and dull
That have not many a time Sleep's sorceress-power confessed!

SONNET.

[Oh! Sleep! thou never com'st to me without]

Oh! Sleep! thou never com'st to me without
A glorious pomp of dreams to swell thy state,
Another Life thou art—another Fate—
A most dear refuge from the cloudy rout
Of cares and fears, and thoughts of strife and doubt,
That blight my waking hours, let bright joys wait
Upon me now—Oh! honey Sleep create
A new World for me—sweetly shed about
Thy precious dew's revivifying shower,
And I another Being shall become;
No more shall Hope deceive or Memory lower,
No more shall I be slave to wrath and gloom,
No more shall poisonous Nightshade dim my bower,
Nor keen frosts crush, each joy's new budding bloom!

SONNET.

[Dear Child! thy little questions almost wake]

Dear Child! thy little questions almost wake
Enquiry in my mind—methinks I learn
From thee an asking searching eye to turn
On all things—and to seek to strip—to shake
The obstinate shroudings—and the seal to break—
To lift the cov'ring lid too from the urn,
And bid the waters gush forth free—to spurn
The encumbering Mysteries far—and still to make
Enquiries ceaseless—me thou teachest, love,
To look on simple things with wonderment,
But I who know their mighty source above
Should feel all adoration strongly blent
With such astonishment—and surely prove
Happier, but humbler too, for such deep lessons sent.

SONNET.

[Beautiful Spring, thy young ambrosial breath]

Beautiful Spring, thy young ambrosial breath
Now dwells caressingly upon the air,
While many a floweret new unfoldeth fair,
And all the grey and gloomy hues of Death
Which Winter scattered in his rugged wrath,
Are charmed away by thee!—thy witcheries rare
Bring opiates for our sorrow and our care;
Thou sheddest hopes like rose-leaves on our path,
Thine every smile, and whisper can enchant
A grief or an anxiety away!
How dost thou to our restless wishes grant
Novelty more than new—each opening day
That doth thy reign extend—doth sweetly pant
With kindlings of a fresh delight, Oh! keep thy sway!

LOVE AND HOME.

SUMMER THOUGHTS.

THE SAVOYARDS.

BRIGHT WATERS BLUE.

THE ENGLISH EXILE'S RETURN.

YES! SOMETIMES I HAVE FELT.

Yes! sometimes I have felt my suffering mind
As 'twere concentred, calmed, subdued, resigned,
And fixed to bear each bitter blow of fate
With still composure, humbled and sedate,
Oh! that such mood could last—'tis only so
That helpless mortals can endure their woe,
The struggle is the agony—alas!
What is ordained must surely come to pass,
And all resistance must be worse than vain,
And can but add unto the sum of pain,
We shrink indeed but suffer while we shrink,
We struggle but are still dragged to the brink!
But sometimes have I felt thus calmed, subdued,
Wrapt in a still and uncomplaining mood,
Would that such mood could last, 'tis only so
That we can bear the anguish of the woe!
Each thought was lulled into a slumberous calm,
And steeped in patient quiet's sacred balm,
Yet firm, and with resolve unbending fraught,
Aye! to such mood my mind serenely brought
Hath been at times—but then again, again,
Too soon again it sunk beneath the pain!
At times this stillness of Soul beneath
The affliction, terrible as coming death!
And then again, as 'twere an inward crash,
A strife, a shock, as when the wild winds dash
The sea to storms, dark thoughts that crowding come,
Make my Soul all a wildness and a gloom,
And my mind falls as 'twere in ruins there,
And every feeling sinks in its despair,
Yes! my mind falls as 'twere in ruins then,
Ruins that never may be raised again!

SONNET.

['Twas a fair spot, though little to remark]

'Twas a fair spot, though little to remark,
Stamped it peculiarly upon the mind,
But all was smoothly fair, and there reclined
I felt myself as 'twere in some sweet ark
Of Peace—all gloom and strife and care and cark
I did resign awhile—and of my blind
And busy Worldly speculations twined
So often with the heart-strings, wild and dark,
Found myself freed! Such hours do come with light,
We laugh at Care's keen sting and Grief's dread shaft,
Young dreams and glowing fancies, with swift flight
Far from this Earth our Souls serenely waft,
And with prevailing gentleness invite
To realms where Life is not an Art—a Craft!

THE SPANISH EXILE'S LAMENT.

THE HOUR OF STORM.

THE SOLEMN HOUR.

SERENADE.

THE UNKNOWN.

OH! YE WHO SUFFER.

A SHADOW ROUND ME.

TO ------.

[And hath time gone with thee right well]

OH! I HAVE MANY DREAMS.

STANZAS

[Hope! Hope! I dreamed I had exiled thee]

WHEN MY NAME.

HOPE! HADST THOU FLOWN AWAY.

STANZAS.

[I am a withered leaf]

SORROW.

THE HUMAN HERITAGE.

A THOUGHT.

Oh! th' unstilled Heaven-and-Hell o' the Human Heart!
Though marked not, weighed not, singly and apart—
Doth not the Earth's Universal History teach—
Even through the unrest of all—the unrest of each?

HAVE I NOT LOVED THEE?

NOW WOULD I PLUNGE MY SOUL.

WHEN I MEET.

OH! FOR INDIFFERENCE.

BRIGHT STARS.

ONE WORD.

HENCE, FATAL DREAM!

HOW CANST THOU WEARY OF MY LOVE?

I BOAST NOT.

STANZAS.

[I ask no pity for my pain—no feeling for my care]

SUFFER ME BUT TO LOVE THEE.

I THINK OF THEE.

MY LONE HEART DROOPS.

SONNET.

[Rise from the Dead—lost Dreams! be disentombed!]

Rise from the Dead—lost Dreams! be disentombed!
Come back before these mournful eyes to shine,
Which earthwards ever heavily incline—
For which of old all common things assumed
Hues of glad loveliness, while sweetly bloomed
In her own blushing Paradise divine
Hope the Enchantress!—and its key was mine.
Thence driven, a Wanderer have I long been doomed!—
And will ye ne'er come back, high dreams of old,
Which once these dimmed and earthwards drooping eyes
Rejoicing and enraptured could behold?—
No! ye shall ne'er return—yet why these sighs,
I shall rejoin ye when Life's years are told,
Ripened and realized in the opening skies!

NO! NO! IT MUST NOT BE.

SONNET.

[Deep is the shadow round my pathway spread!]

Deep is the shadow round my pathway spread!
Oh! that a myriad thoughts would come to o'erflow
One settled Feeling in my heart—and show
The Beauty of the Universe instead
Of this despair—'tis as the shrouded dead
To dwell within the world yet nought to know
Of all the glories that around us glow,
The wonders of the wealth on all sides shed!
I gaze on blank, bleak Sorrow till all's o'er,
Whose shadowy face a deadly beauty has—
Oh! that a myriad, myriad thoughts, and more,
Would come to crush—(vain, fruitless hope! Alas!)—
One Single Settled Feeling in the heart's core!—
But Pleasure passes!—Pain too yet shall pass!

SONNET.

[There are, who wander through this world so fair]

There are, who wander through this world so fair
With eyes closed up against its charms and pride,
Still scattered round in rich profusion wide—
With lips sealed 'gainst Life's cup—ev'n though it bear
Bright draughts of pleasantness and strength—while care
For ever dwells—a shadow at their side,
And doth away all gentler visions chide,
Till Life seems little but a long Despair.
Some Grief hath made them darkly all its own,
And though fair stars of more auspicious ray
Invite them, their sad constancy is shown
By turning ever from Hope's smiles away,
To cling to memories that should long have flown—
Man—voluntary service loves to pay!

SONNET.

[Love! thy most true and strong interpreters]

Love! thy most true and strong interpreters,
That breathe thine eloquence unanswerably,
These are the blush—the tear—the unbosomed sigh—
The look, that feeling makes so deeply hers!—
These are thine emblems too!—great Love, that stirs
So sweetly in young hearts, is born to die
None can tell wherefore—not himself knows why,
But so it is, experience still avers—
Perchance 'tis well! this world were all too fair
Could lasting love within its sphere be found;
He brings a current of immortal air
Wafted by his enchanted wings around
Where'er he is—sweet dreams of Heaven are there—
But they should soar and spurn each earthly bound!

WHAT ARE MYSTERIES?

QUEEN BERENGARIA'S COURTESY.

A THOUGHT.

This World we little know—'tis like one note
In mighty harmonies that boundless float,
One thought detached of some deep conscious Soul
'Tis but a part—we judge it as a whole!

SONNET.

[Beside Astroni's lake we rested while]

Beside Astroni's lake we rested while
The woods remurmured to the turtle-dove,
And its rich note of deep and perfect love—
Green gleam'd they there in evening's gentle smile.
But oh!—that dove's dear murmur, that did pile,
Memory on memory in my heart, which strove
In dreams to greet full many a tufted grove
And wood of England stretched for lengthening mile—
Nor vainly strove!—Our Thoughts great Wizards are,
And make this outward world their spell obey.
I saw then where the vistas vanished far,
But glimpse of English hamlet—and where lay
The shadows darkling—the free light to bar,
What English flowers waved bright—what fern-leaves-plumes did play!

THE TEMPLE OF JUPITER SERAPIS AT POZZUOLI.

It is a sunny and a lovely spot
Where Jupiter Serapis' columns stand—
Disfeatured fragments—and on either hand
Idly aspire—these towards the skies were shot,
The glorious temple roof to uphold—but not
The temple roof now crowns them; but the bland
Blue beauteous skies, arched over sea and land,
Round this proud ruin—shedding without blot,
Or haze-drawn flaw—their glad untimely smiles!
Since such they seemed one little while to us!
In mockery flaunting these—Time's trophied piles!—
But basking in their glitterings, tremulous
Soon deemed we, won by golden sunshine's wiles—
Our thoughts untimely then, that blamed sweet nature thus.

THE ISLAND OF CAPRI.

Island of Beauty! rising like a throne
From out these lovely waters calm and blue,
The sunset now burns o'er thee, and doth strew
Thy heights with rich and ruddy beams—each one!—
Jove, from his great Olympus—starry-strown,
Might gaze down envious on thee—(for thy hue
Is most celestial) covetous of the due
Of his proud rival Neptune—reigning lone.
For, Isle of Beauty! thou thyself dost seem
A little rosy Heaven of Love and Light,
And round thee, robed in tints triumphal, beam
Such seas of sapphire glory—kindling bright—
Such shores of pride, with prodigal charms, that teem—
A galaxy of Heavens seems opening on the sight!

SONNET TO THE SAME.

[I look on thee for long, and never tire—]

I look on thee for long, and never tire—
Sea-crowning Island! thou'rt so proudly fair,
Amidst the azure tides outshining there,
A landmark where so much is to admire!
Where rests the eye content—all things respire
Love, peace, delight around—and banish care!
How gleams't thou now thro' this white dazzling air,
Bright as some little World of Light—of fire!
Thou'rt seen like one Star in a Heaven of calm,
For thy sweet Sister-Islands are afar—
And the eye dwells on thee—gives thee the palm!—
We ask what the elements that frame thee are,
(Still drinking Fancy's cup of nectarous balm)
For sure of earth thou'rt not—but rarer mould, Sea-Star!

ENGLAND.

ON PASSING A CORPSE LYING IN STATE AT NAPLES.

There thou art laid deprived of bloom and breath,
With all the heavy circumstance of death
Around thee, 'tis a most funereal gloom,
Which these sad tapers mournfully illume.
A sable canopy doth o'er thee frown,
Deep sable curtains round thee darkle down,
And make a midnight gloom in this bright place,
And half the day's glad beauty seem to chase.
Statues of silver bend thy form beside,
Thus picturing weeping mourners heavy-eyed—
While thou unconscious liest composed in death,
Deprived of sense and strength, of bloom and breath.
Of bloom! perchance in sooth thou wert in age,
Right glad at length thy mortal thirst to assuage,
At the immortal fountains! glad indeed
To put aside this coil of fleshly weed,
And spring in freedom to thy skyey home,
And we surround thee with vain show of gloom!
Our state it suiteth better far than thine,
Thou never more may'st grieve, nor sigh, nor pine—
For Joy and Peace, that like two Angels still
Are seen (from Expectation's soaring hill)
Hovering on our horizon—never here
To be approached by faultering foot more near.
Perchance thou wert in age—the o'ershadowing veil,
Spread o'er thine altered features chill and pale,
Hinders the eye from judging of thee well,
We know but Death beneath that veil doth dwell!—
Sleep soundly—sweetly sleep! poor pallid clay,
Sleep hour by hour, sleep night and morn and day,
Thy workday care is done, thy toil is o'er,
Sleep the sweet sleep to be disturb'd no more;
Cross thy calm hands on thy calm pulseless breast,
And take thy fill of deep unbroken rest.
No part laborious canst thou have to play,
Unblamed sluggard! sleep thine hours away.
The great of earth, the noble, and the wise,
To do proud deeds, and think stern thoughts must rise.
But thou—shalt still more reckless, thoughtless be
Than the swathed child laid on the nurse's knee;
Thou shalt not hunger, and thou shalt not thirst,
On thee the elements may do their worst—
War and its ravage can do thee no harm,
Thou art girdled round with an enduring charm;
Armies might waste their valourous rage on thee,
But gain defeat—be mock'd with victory!
Sleep soundly! Sweetly sleep! thou need'st not fear,
Nothing can wrong thee in this earthly sphere;
Kings may have guards to watch around their throne,
Vassalls and slaves—for thee thou needest none!
No King was e'er so safe as thou art now,
Fierce strifes might waste whole tribes and realms—but thou!
The world's crash should not rouse thee—not so! then
That trump shall sound which wakes the dead again!

THE DISCONSOLATE YOUNG LADY.

THE BALL.

EARTH'S VANITIES.

THE ZEGRI MAIDEN.

SONNET TO NAPLES.

Naples! I go!—with no reluctant heart,
With no fond-lingering looks, no sighs averse,
For hope doth now her brilliant themes rehearse,
Since 'tis for native England I depart—
Still feel the Soul keen separation's smart,
That well may teach the faithful-picturing verse,
A momentary mournfulness to nurse;
But fresh thoughts spring!—and with a sudden start
I turn from this dull tenour of my song;
It dwells on feelings fraught with deep delight,
For they gush free, and full, and bright, and strong,
And thick as stars throng on a Summer's night—
Naples! I go!—yet charms to thee belong,
That make this fond farewell thy due and right!

TO THE NIGTINGALE.

How, Nightingale! how thy rich bursts of voice
Make this heart pant, and tremble, and rejoice;
Its bounding pulses thou canst captive take,
But more than this, sweet wizard, thou can'st make
The many wingēd air thy prisoner,
That scarcely round thee seems to breathe or stir;
But in a charmed and changeless hush to lie,
Brooding about thee, listening lovingly—
Thou smoothest down the harsh World with thy strain;
And when the stars come forth—a glorious train—
Thou wedd'st thy music to their hallow'd light,
As thou wouldst make that World (in the Angels' sight,)
More worthy seem of that high company—
Bird, of a thousand songs!—deep gushing free,
'Tis well that one rich strain of concord deep,
Should rise from out its hardened heart to keep,
Just tune and time with that unceasing song,
Which pours forth praise where doth all praise belong—
That mighty Song—that everlasting strain,
Which we, unworthy still, to join—remain.

THE TOMB'S REPROOF.

Speak! then dark tomb! speak to us sternly now,
Life's heart-sick wayfarers, who ever bow
Beneath one dread but self-adjusted yoke,
How many chains hast thou not loosed and broke?
How many troubles calmed, and tortures cured?
For in thy clasp our peace is well assured,
And never can be wronged or shaken more
Though so uncertain and unfixed before—
Thou can'st bid sink—at once how still and low,
Within our heart that feverish feverish glow,
That urges ever onwards—what, Ah! what
Beside thee, seem the changes of our lot?
Vain seem our pleasures—vain our fancied pain,
Our feastings and our merry-makings vain;
And our fond mournings at thy voice' dull sound,
Existence owns its limit and its bound!
Laughter and tears are done with—all is still,
And we no fate have farther to fulfil!
Vain are our lingerings on some favourite track,
Our settings out, and our returnins back;
And vain our busy hurryings to and fro,
Our trackings and retrackings—swift or slow;
Our givings and our takings—hopes and fears,
All the frothed trouble of our yeasty years,
Vain our joy-givings at the natal hour,
Or when the fair bride comes with love's rich dower.
Vain our rejoicings at the nuptial board,
And vain our groans when Earth to Earth's restored—
Vain are our gatherings together all,
Far are we scattered when that stroke doth fall—
The stroke of Death which gives us unto thee,
And bids us clay, and dust, and ashes be.
Oh! Tomb! thy still small voice can chase away
All our delusions, as night chases day;
They vanish, and for ever ever then,
And we ourselves appear no more again!

BIRD!—BIRD!

Bird!—Bird! would I might be
Borne skywards—sunwards—ev'n now with thee.
Bird of the daybreak—Lark! happy singer,
That scornest 'midst Earth's bowers of shadow to linger—
When the great Sun is forth in his joy and his might,
And the sky shines in beauty and splendour of light—
One Paradise-Wilderness—glorious and strange,
And paved with the pomp of perpetual change!
Bird!—Bird!—would I might be
Borne skywards—sunwards—e'en now with thee.
Bird!—Bird!—would I might be
Borne skywards—sunwards—e'en now with thee—
Bird of the Heaven-land—that singest in rapture!
The heart of the listener to conquer and capture—
Thou soarest above this dull world's cloudy sphere,
Without comrade or counsellor—partner or peer—
How look'st it to thee from thy proudly gained height,
Like a world all of freshness, and gladness, and light?
Bird! Bird!—would I might be
Borne skywards—sunwards—e'en now with thee.

THE SPANISH MAIDEN'S SORROW.

THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS.

How do we seek for happiness
Where'er our restless footsteps press;
Climbing the heights of Heaven, and then
Lingering amongst the Earth-haunts of men,
By sea—by shore—by mount—and plain—
Abroad—at home—and still in vain.
In calm and secret solitude,
Or where the common herd intrude—
Where the proud city's hum is heard,
Or but the matins of the bird;
And the light footsteps of the fawn,
Shaking the scattered dews of dawn.
Some in Ambition's haughty ways,
Some where the Syren Pleasure strays,
And some, and, Oh! the wisest those,
In bowers of studious calm repose.
But few in their own deepest heart
Seek thee—yet there thou dwell'st apart,
Oh! Happiness—in thine own sphere,
Where naught with thee may interfere!
'Tis the proud province of the mind
To make—to frame thee—not to find!

SONNET.

[Voices, e'en still small voices, seem to rise]

Voices, e'en still small voices, seem to rise
From this low tomb, with bitterest mockery filled.
Well is the Heart, that Seer and Prophet, skilled
To interpret them in power!—they say, ye Wise!
Ye mighty of the World—clad in the guise
Of strength and pride—Oh! ye who featly build
Your towering Pyramids!—or as ye willed,
And Nature worked, command the giant size
Of mountains to subside, and o'er the floods
Throw the strong bridge that rides the foamy waves,
Or clear for leagues the land of shadowing woods;
Have ye forgotten Earth's a field of graves?
Your works are mighty, but your haughty moods
Must yet be tamed—Death, Death, his victim craves.

HADDON HALL.

Where are the Hunters, with their green array,
Where are the Warriors of the shield and spear,
Where are the stately Dames whose costly gear,
With jewel-colours flushed the light of day,
Where are the Minstrels, with their silvery sway
Of honey words—the Paladin and Peer?
Where the staunch Yoemen?—where the noble cheer?
The hearths, with their yule faggots piled—the gay
And courtly Sarabands—the knightly lists—
The serenade—the loud reveillée glad?
When from the blue hills 'gan to melt the mists,
And morning came in pride of beauty clad?—
In memory only 'tis the charm exists,
Which bids us linger 'midst these hoar walls sad!

CHILDHOOD'S MERRIMENT.

Merry children, imps of joy,
Yours is bliss that cannot cloy,
Bliss ye breathe with every breath,
Bliss your fancy gendereth,
Ever fresh and ever new,
Ever changed, yet ever true.
Merry children, imps of joy,
Days are coming to destroy!
Days of doubts and gloomy deeds,
To which this path of hours still leads
Through shadowy glooms to dark recess,
Lost to the light of happiness!
Hour doth after hour creep soft,
To melt like fleecy clouds aloft;
Like vapours vanishing away,
Before the smile of perfect day;
They thus vanish—but they leave
Traces that must make us grieve.
Fearful trace and fatal mark,
Record dim—memorial dark.
That may not thus soon depart,
Stamped into the mind and heart.
Is it not strange that they should leave,
While life's tissued tale they weave,
Such dark trace and track behind,
On the heart and on the mind.
In one soft and silken chain,
Seem they linkēd to remain;
While they gently smoothly blend,
Still the same unto the end!
So tenderly together bound,
What rude, abrupt, surprise profound,
Shall make division 'tween them strange,
Colouring with dark hues of change?
Ah! sorrow comes with them as dew,
Comes with the morning's rose-touch'd hue.
Ere yet we know 'tis sorrow—Lo!
We restless and impatient grow,
And anxious, and perturbed by fears,
Till all melts in a flow of tears.
Then we stand subdued, and know
Our dark bosom-inmate—Woe!
Hours! ye are but treacherous things,
Ye do waft us on your wings—
Passing with this patient pace,
Together wound in calm embrace.
Cankered thoughts and venomed cares,
Failing years and hoary hairs,
Wearied frame and laboured breath,
Darkness, bitterness, and Death—
Yet ye seem so softly sped,
So tenderly and gently led
On your smooth unvarying way,
Year by year, as day by day,
That we scarcely can believe
Ye such webs of wrong can weave!
Merry children, elves of joy,
Well your happy hours employ,
Seize the winged time on its way,
Not for you 'twill pause or stay!
Hours are false and treacherous things,
Wafting dark dooms on their wings;
Though so fair they gleam and smile,
They bring ten thousand ills the while!
Go! and laugh, and shout, and try
Your glad speed with the butterfly,
Forest-fawn and forest-bee,
Young comrades and play-fellows free;
Dance and sport—nor fear nor droop,
Breathe the rosy air of hope,
Dance and sport, and joyous send
Your voices' ringing tones to blend
With hymn of bird, and hum of bee,
And all of nature's melody!
Your voices, silvery, sweet are heard,
As carol of the sun's glad bird!
And, Oh! in nature there is none
Of richer, or more rapturous tone!
Merry children—imps of joy,
Now the sunny hours employ;
Hours are coming, dark and deep
While ye climb life's frowning steep,
These shall chase bright thoughts away,
Employ—improve the smiling day!
Clouds shall soon come rolling on
Where the sun had gladly shone,
Angry storms those clouds prepare,
'Stead of pleasure's rosy air!
Merry children—imps of joy—
Days are coming to destroy
Hope's bright bloom and joy's clear ray!
Oh! be merry while ye may!
O'er the smooth sweet greensward dart,
With bounding limb and fearless heart,
Sport and smile—and shout and sing—
Life's a dark and changeful thing,
While upon its sunny side,
Take the joys it deigns provide;
Soon enough its shadows lower
O'er fallen fruit and faded flower,—
Soon enough its storms burst dread,
O'er ruined bowers and fair leaves shed!
Soon must dawn the darker day,—
Oh! be happy while ye may!

FAIR SEA!

THE BEAUTIFUL BARQUE!

THE WAVES COME SHOREWARDS ROLLING ON.

THE FALLING LEAF.

Thou shadower forth of all that e'er hath been,
Of all that shall be in this mortal scene—
Flit not yet by upon the passing breeze,
Circling around the half-denuded trees
With thy chill brethren—phantoms of their power,
Their pomp—their pride in summer's full blown hour,
As though in very mockery to remind
Of their dim change—thus fluttering on the wind
The shreds and fragments of their rich array,
Worn on a fairer, better-fortuned day.
Thou shadower forth of all that e'er hath been,
Or all that shall be on this mortal scene—
Not yet flit by, till I awhile have dwelt
On thy deep lessons, and their wisdom felt.
Emblem of all earth's children that have past
Through various paths to one same bourne at last—
Emblem of man—the lord of thought and will,
And of his restless generations still—
Emblem and shadow of all worlds that are!—
Ruled by the self-same laws, as glorious star,
Or systems of throng'd stars that sweep and shine,
And fill the Universe with light divine,
Thundering in music through the firmaments,
Each shaping out that course it ne'er repents.
A fore-ordained and traced and measured course,
Which these fulfil with never failing force—
Because, like thee, frail leaf, they but obey
The rule infallible—the perfect sway.
Oh! would thou wert man's emblem too in this,
So the true path he never more might miss—
Nor wander in benighted roughen'd way
Without a guide too fearfully astray!
But his proud heart resisteth still, and turns
From paths appointed and avoids and spurns
The Heavenly guide too oft that doth not force,
But prompts and points to the all perfect course.
Oh! let my Soul through this world's wrong and grief,
Submit in all things as this helpless leaf!
My life—my frame like this must fade and fall,
Would that my Soul like it might own thy thrall
Oh! thou eeternal law of truth and right,
Nor e'er rejoice in rash rebellion's might.

A GLOOMY HOUR.

AWAY! OH, AWAY!

THE MOON'S LIGHT.

How lovely this calm eve! the clouds flock by,
Like gorgeous pageants through the enkindled sky,
Those rosy and these silvery—tyrian some—
Such hues as make the daylight look like gloom
Compared with them!—yon bright one seems piere'd thro',
As though with barbēd sunbeams till the blue
Around seems stained with its ethereal blood,
(E'en in our sight, for many a skyey rood.)
Turned ruddy there!—how soon, serenely soon
Shall the World whiten to the pearl-browed Moon,
As both were spheres of silver without stain,
Nor one bright tint of the veiled Sun retain!
As though he were forgotten in that hour
Of softer influence and of gentler power,
And yet—Oh! glorious Sun! it is thy light
That streams—e'en then in holy lustre bright,
From the star-peopled and fair vaulted Sky—
Beauteous in soft and trembling radiancy!
That lovely Moon is but a precious urn,
Wherein thy glittering treasures brightly burn,
And she but gives us what thou giv'st to her—
Thy handmaid fair, and Queenly Minister!—
'Tis thus, when we bright gifts of good receive,
To which we still with fond devotion cleave,
In this our passing life of visions vain—
Of troubled pleasures and o'er ruling pain,
Our hearts forget from whence they deeply spring,
And deem these objects visible must bring—
(And more than bring—must furnish and supply,
And bless us with their rich sufficiency!)
The wealth we grasp so fondly—nor confess
They are but the almoners of Happiness!—
For us on Earth, from higher source must come
Each joy attending thus our mortal doom!
We still forget the Sun we do not see—
Though thence our light must come unchangeably!

DEAR WILD FLOWERS.

Dear Wild Flowers of the new-born welcome Spring,
Here ye unfold in early blossoming!
For 'tis a sheltered spot, and warm and still—
So guarded by the closely fencing hill;
It little knows of storms and blighting airs:
E'en Winter here his rougher guise forbears,
And soft blooms here anticipate the Spring,
And many birds rise gladly on the wing,
From its sweet covert filling air and sky
With joy, and life, and thrilling melody.
'Tis an enchanted spot, and fair and bright!
And Spring doth well here first in smiles to alight—
And cradle her amidst its calms serene,
For well the season suiteth with the scene.
Nought stern nor rugged here may meet the eye—
Its features are like those of Infancy,
All softly moulded with a tender grace,
Each faintly traced, yet forming Love's own face!
A mild and seraph-beauty, that charms more
Than prouder graces which we bend before!
Dear Scene! that brings back to my tearful view
Old days, old dreams—yet dearer than the new—
Sink deep into my heart, and Oh! stamp there,
(Where long hath brooded dark and sleepless care,)
Unchanged beneath whatever changing sky,
Thine—and the image of tranquillity!

TO THE BUTTERFLY.

Butterfly! gladly I watch thee, now—
Like an incarnate breeze art thou—
Oh! Butterfly—late in the sunny air
Borne buoyantly on, all bright and fair—
Child of the Summer!—child of the Sun!
His loveliest, lightest, and happiest one!
And now, Oh! thou free-born wanderer, now
On the stately lily's smooth snowy brow,
Dost thou in sculpture-like stillness rest,
While burns o'er its whiteness thy dazzling vest?
And soon wilt thou dart through the air again—
Flashing round thee, with many a jewel stain,
And float on the sunbeam, and swim in light,
Like an embodied thought in sight!
So fine, so free, so sudden, and swift—
Fleeting, fleeting away like a fairy gift;
And then again shalt thou rest thee calm,
On some rose's leaflets of beauty and balm?
Butterfly! thou art as restless as man,
In his narrow path, in his straightened span!
Thus doth he evermore shift his place,
And now pause—now speed, on his troubled race:
But, Oh! glad Butterfly! not like thee,
In a stream of sunshine careering free;
And not like thee, still from flower to flower,
From the sunny glade to the sunny bower—
He mourneth on—but from rock to rock,
Barren and frowning—his vain hope to mock!—
From desert to desert—from gloom to gloom,
Till he ends at length with the shadowy tomb!

TWILIGHT AND PEACE.

STANZAS.

[How cheerily come the mingled voices]

THE SAGE'S HERITAGE.

AWAY THEN TO THE FESTAL SCENE.

THE WARRIOR'S FUNERAL.

THE GHASTLY GUEST.

Who, who hath not some ghastly guest
In the locked chambers of his breast,
Some cherished sorrow that still keeps
Beside him when he wakes or sleeps—
Some haunting memory that remains
Through all his future joys and pains,
Like some dark turbid current led
Where wild woods wave, or fair fields spread?
Who, who hath not some ghastly guest
In the closed chambers of his breast—
As legends old have fabled oft,
While the red wine-cup's draught was quaff'd,
The loud laugh laughed, the sweet song sung,
The walls with garland-streamers hung,
And lamps were lit, and gay tales told,
And the hours on golden wheels seem'd roll'd.
Appeared for evermore aright,
The phantom to some haunted sight,
Before some doomed and hapless guest,
For ever barred from peace and rest!
While none but he could feel or mark
The spectre's shadowing presence dark;
Could mark the phantom's threat'ning mien,
By him alone—him only seen!
Still so it is with us—for few
May pass Life's gloomy mazes through—
Without some dim and ghastly guest
Becoming the inmate of their breast!
Whether they smile, or sigh, or weep,
Whether they wake, or wearied sleep—
That guest remaineth by their side,
By no eye but their own descried,
Deep in their secret Soul concealed,
By none perceived—to none revealed.
And when they seek Death's shadowy cave,
Buried with them in one same grave.

I DO NOT CHIDE THEE.

DREAMS!

A BEAUTIFUL SCENE.

Beautiful Scene! I know not why
I look on thee—and look and sigh;
Though thou remind'st me of the Spring
That now around my home doth fling
Beauty, freshness, hope, delight,
Glowing exquisite and bright—
Thou but remind'st to bring regret,
'Twere wiser, better to forget!
Remind me, rather, loveliest Scene!
So placid, smiling, and serene,
With deeper power, with nobler might,
With finer influence of delight,
Of that fair Land—the unknown Land,
Whose glorious scenes far off expand,
That Land which lies beyond the tomb—
The country of immortal bloom;
Of that Eternal Home above,
Lit by the living light of Love!
For such thy beauty is, I deem,
'Tis like some Heaven-commissioned dream,
Sent e'en within the heart, to wake
Longings and desires that break
The thousand petty wretched ties
That bind us to Earth's vanities!
Oh! lovely Scene! I know not why
I still look on thee but to sigh—
And yet, methinks the truth I guess,
And trace the cause of this distress;
Thou dost remind me of my home,
Like thee now clad in Spring's fair bloom,
And thou remind'st me deeply too
Of loved ones, to whose memory true,
And true to whose dear love this heart
Must be—together or apart!
A thought of those sweet absent friends,
With all my thoughts for ever blends,
And still I turn with constant mind
To all that I have left behind!
And wheresoe'er I wandering rove—
Still feel, still keep one changeless love!
And yet I give thee too thy due,
Oh! Nature—with devotion true,
Nor turn a cold and careless eye
On thy o'erpowering witchery!
Nor with an untouched heart can greet
Those charms of thine which still I meet
In this delicious land of light,
Where Beauty liveth in the sight.
No! in the face of Earth and Skies,
New admirations still arise
In this enchanted clime which hues
Of Heaven itself, must sure suffuse!
No!—in my heart for ever now
New admirations kindling glow—
Where'er I turn, where'er I move—
But one—one only—self-same Love!

BONDS OF UNION.

I sate in that sweet bower apart—alone,
'Twas spring-time, and the season was made known
By voices, music-voices in the woods—
That might have soothed a cynic's crabbed moods—
Charmed wild despair and won it unto peace,
And bade the fury of the wrathful cease—
By bloom upon the dyed and gleaming ground,
And vernal freshness ev'rywhere around.
But close at hand with its deep awful gloom,
Was a stern place of silence and the tomb—
Spring smiled too there—each blade of grass appeared
Fresher and fairer, as she gently cleared
The darkness from the face of Earth away,
And lent her smile and blush to glowing day.
Then came those old thoughts on my saddened Mind,
Which millions have revolved before—not blind
To those deep startling contrasts that are found
For ever on this checquered mortal ground!
Wreathed coils of meaning—contradictions strange,
Which vex the mind with a perpetual change,—
Which still seem woven with all things below,—
Whate'er we meet, or mark, or find, or know!—
Who ever stood beside a silent grave,
In that sweet time when boughs new leafing wave,
And flowers their course of beauty have begun—
The innocent worshippers of the orient Sun,
And birds are filling all the echoing air
With that pure music, ever rich and rare,
Beyond all cunning instruments' wrought strains,
Though framed with curious skill and artful pains—
Who ever stood beside a silent tomb,
In that sweet season of gay song and bloom,
Nor felt the mystery of our Life and Death
Chilling his blood and choaking up his breath?
The fresh glad face of Nature, bright and fair,
Without a shade of gloom or trouble there!
Beneath—the darkness of the dread decay—
Nature still fixed—Man passing still away!
Oh! these are things that ever smite the Mind,
Appealing to the hearts of all Mankind!
Perchance 'twas purposed these should strongly be
The alarums of the general sympathy!
These few strange startling truths that wake in all
Accordant answers to their fearful call!—
For startling truths—awe-striking things alone,
With voice of terror and unearthly tone,
Can pierce that apathy of dull repose,
Which mails our hearts, where still it spreads and grows;
Till on the sudden thus 'tis rent away,
And they the influence and the call obey.
And, Oh! these things whose universal thrall,
Whose general influence is confessed by all,
Together draw us, and must ever be
The watchwords of the general sympathy;
And this is good for man—to love, to feel,
To break inveterate Selfishness' cold seal,
To wake from dull Indifference, and to own
Man is not here on this fair Earth alone!
We think old thoughts, we feel old feelings still,
And tread but in old paths, through good and ill,
A touching bond of union evermore,
With us and all that have gone on before—
We think the thoughts of others, and we feel
The feelings too of others, grief or zeal,
Or doubt, hope, joy, or wonder, which e'en now
Thousands around us—millions must avow.
And blessed are those things which deepliest wake
The accordant sympathies—for Love's high sake—
Blessed the things which cause old thoughts to spring,
Old common thoughts, that with their presence bring
A tenderer Charity for all our kind,
A sense of holier love—in heart and mind.
Bless'd be those things, though mournful they may be,
Which kindle the universal sympathy.

FAILURES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS.

Many a tired tired bird hath dropped and died
Beneath the wrath of that fierce Storm, which tried
Its frail strength to the utmost, long before
It gained its nest's dear shelter, covered o'er
With skreening boughs in some calm covert deep,
Where storms were lulled, like charmed things, to sleep,
And on the cold ground sunk to breathless rest,
Far from the happy shelter of that nest.
Many a Pilgrim hath sunk down before
He hailed the Shrine, at which he hoped to pour
Devotion's prayers and Feeling's raptured tears,
A meed for all the sufferings of long years.
Many a flower hath been o'erborne by Death,
Ere yet the breeze grew fragrant with its breath—
Ere yet to full blown pride it had attained,
And in the brightness of its beauty reigned.
Many a precious gem too hath been lost,
Ere in the sumptuous chain of mighty cost,
Or in the glorious crown 'twas proudly set,
Where other gems in rainbowed splendour met—
Many a rill, in Summer's sultry hour
Of wasting influence, and of scorching power,
Hath been dried up upon its murmuring way
To those fair sister-streams that warbling stray—
Along their smiling course, as glad as fair,
Though that may perish in the parching glare!
And many a heart hath been with anguish torn,
And darkly bruised—and with sharp sufferings worn,
And crushed and broken long before its time,
And chilled and withered in the unkindliest clime,
Of this rough bitter World; then what of thee,
Poor mournful heart! that sighest “Woe is me!”
Aye! many a Heart before its meed was one,
Hath ruined been, and blighted and undone,
Before its rest—before its goal was gained,
In every pulse with every torture pained!
Then what of thee!—Ah! answer—what of thee?
Poor trembling Heart, that sighest “Woe is me!”

LINES TO ------.

[Thou hast struggled—thou hast sorrowed—]

A DREAM OF DEATH.

It was a lovely dream—a vision deep,
That more belonged to waking than to sleep—
A form I saw more beautiful than Night,
When she is cinctured with her Star-zone bright,
And lovely in her blue transparent gloom,
As Noontide's flush, or Morning's golden bloom!
Bright with a solemn brightness, while we trace
Nature's great Soul of Beauty in her face!
Her shadowy, yet her lighted face of love,
The shadows are beneath—the stars above!
While all on Earth doth indistinct appear,
And all in Heaven irradiate shines and clear.
A lovely form I saw—a voice I heard,
And all my Soul was wakened, and was stirred.
A melody of echoes seemed that voice,
And still it cried “Rejoice!”—and still “Rejoice!”
I felt—I knew—the form was Death—crown'd Death!
The pale, pale Angel!—there no hue nor breath
Might speak of Life—no pulse was beating there,
'Twas spiritually, spiritlessly fair!
For still 'twas Spirit-like, and still it seemed
As though no light of Being's truth there beamed.
I knew the voice was Death's—the faint faint voice
That cried “Rejoice!”—and yet again “Rejoice.”

THE SONG OF DEATH.

EARTH'S WEARY ONES.

LINES FROM A MS. POEM.

Once more to look upon those Soul-like eyes,
To see the train of thoughts there kindling rise,
In Beauty-breathing rich development,
As though mysteriously thus brightly blent,
With their own living beauty e'en to show
How elements to elements may flow!
If such indeed the light of thought may be
Rare Essence, which is all unchained and free,
And yet that eye itself as wonderous seems,
A Sun of pure and spiritual beams;
Thought cannot finer be than that keen ray
Which ever seems with more than life to play.
How wonderously entwin'd in unity
The Worlds of Soul and Substance seem to be!
Even thus, with rarest subtlety indeed,
A strange, and sweet, and dream-compelling creed
Ne'er framed before suggesting to the mind,
Such vague and mystic creed by fancy twined,
As thought can scarce well compass—and still less
Can words of laboured language e'er express,
That ever fail at need to speak and show
Our finest feelings—loveliest dreams below!

DEEP IN THY DARK, DARK EYE.

THE SKY-LARK NOW.

SORROW AND JOY.

DAYS GONE BY.

AN INFANT'S FUNERAL.

It was a young Child's funeral—'twas the day
Of Holy Sabbath calm—the Sun's broad ray
Shed fulness of all beauty's pomp around,
And spread an orient garment o'er the ground.
It was the spot where lay—with slumber blessed,
Thickly the Village Fathers round at rest!
At rest from all their toils and all their cares,
Safe from life's storms and bitter blighting airs,
And thou borne earthward's, in young bloom art gone
To thy sweet early rest, poor little one!
Ill fated Child!—ill fated?—Nay! not so,
Far happier than the millions left below
To struggle on through all the restless strife,
The trouble and the weariness of life.
Ill fated Child? Oh! blessed beyond all thought,
Thy fate indeed with Heaven's own grace was fraught;
Oh! bless'd beyond expression, bless'd indeed—
Thy heart shall never learn to ache and bleed,
Never thine eye look through a mist of tears,
To see the vista of long-suffering years—
Never thy head droop down, as though no more
To be upraised:—down borne by burthens sore.
Elect of Death, his favoured fondling thou,
Whither hath he conducted thee e'en now?
Whither?—why who shall dream?—Who, who, shall say,
Thus much at least we know—from Earth away—
From all her sorrows, all her deadly wrongs,
The danger that to all her paths belongs,
The heavy trial and the bitter blames—
The stings—the sins—the sufferings—and the shames—
Unto a place of gladness and of peace,
Where tears are wiped away, and trials cease.
Whither?—why who shall say?—Not she who stoops
O'er that paled blossom of her Mother-hopes!
She nothing knows of the new distant home,
Sweet floweret, gathered in thine opening bloom—
She nothing knows of thine abiding-place,
Now thou hast run thy little measured race—
Dear Child! though 'twas a brief short while ago,
Upon her loving bosom!—wan with woe
She leans above the dust where thou art laid,
Bewildered—sorrowing—hopeful—yet afraid;
The poor pale Mother—Oh! she nothing knows
Of where now blooms her sweet half-budded rose—
Nor he, the silent Father, whose strong arm
Was nerved to guard thee 'gainst all wrong and harm—
Prompt to extend defence and aid to thee—
Most vigorous in that service fond and free!
He who still set his rugged hand to toil—
And taught his brow beneath June-Suns to broil—
For thee—his lovely lamb—his blithesome bird—
Who in his breast all founts of feelings stirred.
Nothing he knoweth of where now thou art,
Save by the passionate guesses of his heart—
The little lamb that had not time to stray,
Ere the keen knife drank its sweet life away;
Is it not gathered to the hallowed fold?
Oh! bend not thus above the insensate mould!
Bend, bend not thus above the unconscious dust,
To the Great Shepherd that loved lamb entrust!
In His divinest presence entered now—
Immortal life smiles beaming from its brow—
Poor father—weeping mother—turn away
From ashes, and from dust and senseless clay,
Think not of that dear infant as beneath,
The rule and sway of ruthless gloomy Death.
But think of it as in the love and care
Of Heaven's high grace, and all the Angels there!
All angel too itself—to death, to pain,
Never to stoop nor subject be again!
'Twere for Earth's mightiest ones the happiest doom
To exchange their place of pride for thy calm tomb!

THE VISION.

THE MARRIAGE PEAL AND PASSING BELL.

'Twas yestermorn a marriage bell rang loud,
And spoke of joy unto the listening crowd;
And now a solemn passing bell I hear
Startling the air,—the neighbouring smile and tear
Do thus efface each other, Life and Death,
(The one stretched stark, the other breathing breath
Of joy, and hope, and promise evermore,
As though none e'er will die, e'er died before)
Jostle each other in these crowded streets—
Young Bride! for whom life hath but flowers and sweets,
When yestermorn, with blushing cheek and brow,
Thou stood'st at the altar breathing Love's deep vow,
How deemedst thou that Love could never die—
That Earth was Paradise—Eternity—
That bell saith other things—brings other news,
And withers up Hope's fairest freshest hues.
It tells the universal tale of man,
How short his journey, and how small his span,
He breathes his troubled hour of hurried breath,
To augment thy Trophy pile of ashes—Death!

THE SINKING SUN.

NOTHING, NOTHING E'ER IS LOST.

HOW GLAD THIS HEART.

MORNING!

Morning!—Morning! how dost thou
Now dart from Old Night's furrowed brow,
Like that fair shape which fabled was
In the olden days, (when fancy's glass
Showed all things by its aid—descried,
Raised, mystified, and magnified)
To spring from Jove's all awful head—
Where the clouding shadows dread
Of curls ambrosial, veiled in gloom,
The thunder-forming frown of doom!
Morning!—Morning!—yet delay,
Nor shine too soon to perfect day!
Thou art so enchanting now—
With thy pearl wreath round thy brow,
With thy beauty-breathing face,
All youthfulness and glowing grace,
Thy dews, thy clouds, thy lovely looks,
Mirrored in the woodland brooks;
Thy gentle frowns, thy tears, thy smiles,
Thine ever changing charming wiles—
That we fain would have thee stay—
Nor ask the approach of perfect day!
Wild thou art, untamed and free—
All thy Soul is ecstacy.
Morning!—Morning!—could'st thou last,
Half our sorrows sure were pass'd!
Who can grieve in such an hour,
Fancies bright, a dazzling shower,
Seem to be twin-born with thee,
Lightening o'er reality.
Fancies glad and sweet and bright,
Forgetting disappointment's blight,
In thine hours of freshness start
To the healed and heaving heart.
Scattering, in profusion thick—
Ever ceaselessly and quick—
Like summer's hours, the glad and free,
Their roses o'er reality—
O'er harsh reality, whose reign
Is of penance and of pain;
Whose paths are all with thorns o'erspread,
And withered leaves and blossoms dead;
But these sweet fancies scatter free
Their roses o'er reality,
And make it seem a lovely thing,
Lending it their hues of spring—
Their buoyant airs—their changeful gleams,
Till seems it fair as fleeting dreams!
Yet lasting and substantial too—
Certain, faithful, fixed, and true,
As the heart desires should be
Its well prized felicity.
Morning, Morning, who can weep,
When thy smiles are reddening deep.
O'er the bower and o'er the stream,
And Nature shineth like a dream!
Born that instant from the brain,
Ne'er to look so fair again!
Morning, Morning—pause—Oh! stay,
Pass not to the perfect day.
Morning!—Morning!—part not yet,
Cares the busy day beset;
All our troubles and our woes
Round us then too darkly close.
Morning, Morning, pause and stay—
What! already flown away?
The sky a hue more settled wears—
Less fresh and free the wandering airs
Breathe against the heated brow—
'Tis the noontide's fulness now.
Morning!—Morning!—thou art past
Into perfect day at last!

SOMETIMES THINK OF ME.

SORROW'S CLOUD.

VOICES FROM THE DEAD.

ROSES.

THE EMIGRANTS.

They went unto the Strangers' Land—
A thoughtful, but aspiring band;
They left their own old homes afar,
And trusted to a tempting Star,
That bade them cross the rolling main,
Ne'er, ne'er to view those homes again.
They went into the Strangers' Land—
A thoughtful, but aspiring band,
That their young children might be blest
With stores of plenty, and with rest;
And that their children's children too
Might thankful, for long years, renew
Their hymns of praise and fervent prayers—
Not ground to Earth with haggard cares.
They went unto the Strangers' Land—
A thoughtful, and a trustful band,
And yet when first they went—and yet
Their brows were wan—their eyes were wet;
They left their village homesteads dear
With many a groan and many a tear;
Although those village homesteads then—
Those calm retreats in wood and glen,
Were darkened o'er by gloomy shade
Of poverty—upon them laid!
In quiet golden Sabbath eves,
When soft winds kissed the fluttered leaves,
And rosy clouds, like conscious things,
Sailed soft and slow on their flushed wings,
And tender dews to Earth fell soft,
Blessings of fertile wealth to waft.
How oft with their dear children near—
Too young to share the grief—the fear—
Their green old Sabbath tree, beheld
These sitting round, with spirit quelled,
And heart that struggled with its lot,
And poisoned that once happy spot!
And so they sought the Strangers' Land—
A sorrowing, yet a trustful band;
Sorrowing, indeed, to leave behind
The Scenes that first impressed the Mind
With feelings sacred, deep, and pure,
E'en such as long and last endure!
Scenes where first they raptured saw,
With kindling faith and reverent awe,
In Nature—Nature's God revealed,
Who formed the lilies of the field,
The light of the opening firmament,
And Man—to whom all, all was lent;
But hopeful, and with zeal inspired—
Upholden by a strength untired,
Through blessed Religion's solemn aid—
That still forbade to be afraid—
They sought the Strangers' distant Land—
A thoughtful, and a trustful band;
They knew, (though features strange it wear!—)
They still should find their Father there!

THE DELIGHTS OF THE DREAMER.

THE SOUND OF BEES.

Music is on the air! Delightful sounds
Of birds and humming-bees! From Winter's bounds
The earth hath burst, and claps her hands with glee,
And hangs triumphal banners on each tree,
And shouts amain her songs of victory proud,
And flings back from her form the pallid shroud,
And lights her brow with garlands of bright flowers,
And welcomes wildly back the Spring's sweet hours.
I dwell in silence and in solitude,
Alternate joy and sadness stamp my mood;
Now thoughts of pleasure lead to thoughts of pain,
And these melt suddenly to joy again!
The bees sing by me in the golden air;
They leave no trace, no print, no memory there;
But, Oh! a thousand on my heart! for fast
That sound brings rushing visions of the past!
That long shall dwell there in their wond'rous might,
And leave behind a loveliness and light.
How doth a train of starry sympathies
Within my Soul uncalled, uncourted rise!
I dream myself at once full far away
A thousand leagues—(for swift as lightning's ray,
And swifter yet is thought)—between me lie
And this fair Land of loveliest witchery,
A lovelier in my sight to me is shown,
A lovelier and a dearer far—mine own.
A thousand sympathies and memories rise,
I dream myself beneath my native skies,
My own sweet native skies, too far away,
And feel the quiet of its summer's day
Gladdening my feelings where no burning glare
Consumes as in this sultry, blinding air;
But all is golden beauty, golden rest,
And soft tranquillity in young smiles dress'd,
And balmy freshness and delight serene,
Which springs for ever from the enchanted scene.
Those bees, those murmuring bees, their sounding wings
Transporteth me at once from alien things
To things familiar, precious things and dear—
Oh! sweet is that slight murmur to mine ear!
That tender soft alarum, faint and low;
How well its slumberous melody I know!
That drowsy, dreaming tocsin of delight—
It hath a wondrous and a magic might!
A thousand thousand times in the olden days,
Lost in immingling thoughts' bewildered maze!
Have I sat listening to that lulling sound,
Breathing the rapture of a peace profound;
Oh! murmur on—and let my thoughts still stray
To those loved days—that loved Land far away.
E'en like yourselves they stray from flower to flower—
With cunning skill and with mysterious power,
Gathering the juices 'midst their leaves enshrined—
Hiving the heav'n-sweet honey in the mind.
Oh! deeply deeply—exquisitely dear
Is that soft Summer-murmur to mine ear.

THOU NEED'ST NOT TELL.

THE FAIR SPOT.

I MOVE THROUGH MANY SHADOWS.

AND ARE WE STRANGERS?

OH! OFTTIMES IN THE FESTAL HALL.

STANZAS.

[It is joy, it is rapture to dwell near to thee]

I SEE THEE NOT.

ON THE BROAD BLAZONED ROLLS.

SWEET FLOWERS.

ONCE I WAS BLESSED.

AND THOU CANST FAITHLESS.

AWAY UNTO THE WOODLAND SCENES!

SUNSET AT MOLA DE GAETA.

SEA! LOVELY SEA!

Sea! lovely Sea! so still, so blue, so bright,
Spread, like an Element of precious light,
In endless beauty now before our eyes!
Say, hast thou treasured up from these blue skies,
All hues of glory from the first rich burst
Of splendour, that e'er flushed them—from the first
E'en to the last of wond'rous loveliness,
With which thus royally thyself to dress?
Most beautiful thou art—nor thou alone,
All round thee girdled with Perfection's zone,
Triumphs in light and bloom while beauty bends,
E'en beauty that all dream, all thought transcends
Above the chrystal of thy mirror-wave,
Where gloom dares not to brood, nor storms to rave;
As though astonished at herself, so fair,
So strangely lovely doth she kindle there.
How clear that tracery shines—the forms, the hues
There mirrored so enchant us, that we lose
The proud reality, itself so bright,
In its sweet Image, that seems made of light.
Sea! glorious Sea! to thee 'tis surely given,
To lend new loveliness to Earth and Heaven,
These hills of beauty see themselves more fair,
Like golden mounts of glowing brightness there.
These skies, these matchless skies, more perfect seem,
Chained in the rapture of thy purple dream!
Is it that Heaven more heavenly seemeth, thus
Enshrined as 'twere in our own Earth—to us!
Ah! heavenliest still when thus immixed with thee,
Beloved, and beautiful, and blessed Sea!
That glorious Ocean! which triumphant rolls!
That mighty Sea!—'Tis like to our own Souls!
Wherefore we love it with a yearning love,
More than the Earth beneath, or skies above!
Sea! thou art like to our own living Souls—
(With whose unrest thy fine unrest condoles)—
These, too, thus brightly mirror back supreme,
Even heightened in their full majestic dream—
The mightiest pomps of Nature far and free,
Can thus the glass of all her glories be!
The Worlds—the rolling Worlds that shine at night,
Thereon are traced in all their blissful light,
And on that ample surface find they space,
To wear their splendours all—and run their race!—
As Sea, great Sea, upon thy surface fair,
Yet still they are but Stars of Beauty there—
They are but points of quivering radiancy
Thus mirrored back, blue Ocean, upon thee;
But in that Soul reflected, deep and clear,
How do they there outblazing, Sphere by Sphere,
Start into Suns and Worlds, undulled, undimmed,
With all the mystery of their Beauty brimmed,
With all their triumph on their beaming Heads,
Which far into the Soul each Glory sheds,
Not only on its surface spreading light,
But through its solemn depths with kindling might,
Far through its solemn, silent depths serene,
Where opens then a dread and wond'rous scene,
Which th' Angels who Creation's coming saw,
Might look upon with interest and with awe!
Not there, not there the Stars shine forth and gleam
Bright points of light; but deeply dazzling beam
Those Worlds, as Worlds, majestic, nor remain
Like fair lamps quivering, hung in viewless chain!—
No! through that Soul their proudest march is made,
In fulness of their awful pomp arrayed;
In all their dread unutterable pride,
With thrones, powers, principalities allied,
Telling of Him who made them evermore,
And still unfolding the divinest lore!
Through the deep Soul their proudest march is made,
In fulness of their startling pomp arrayed,
For there they seem to speak of Him alone
Whose shadow sits on them as on a throne,
And makes their brightness!—bidding them to shine
With matchless lustres and with light divine!
There, there to speak of Him alone they seem—
And with His Glory's living rays to beam,
There more immediately they seem to rise
From Him who breathed upon the spacēd skies;
And saw them swarm with Suns, that rolling blazed,
And with Perfection's truth their Maker praised.
Yes! more immediately they seem to spring,
Shrined in that Soul—a dread and deathless thing!
From His almighty and august command,
From the unknown working of his forming hand,
Than in these firmaments, where their pure flame
For centuried cycles still hath flashed the same;
And but of Him there speak—perchance like ours,
Those worlds so fair, with their empyreal dowers,
Have strange and mighty changes undergone,
Since first in their high place they proudly shone.
Perchance estranged from what they were they are,
And less of His Almighty favour share—
But we may only know them, only see,
As the offspring pure of Parent Deity;
They stream upon our souls with glory given,
From glory's fountain head, in highest Heaven.
They tell not of themselves to us—of thee
They tell—Oh! thou who spoke and bade them be.
Thus through our Souls their proudest march is made,
In shadow of the living Light arrayed!
There, truly as the Sons of God they shine,
In mystic brightness, dazzling and divine!
Each as of heavenly light the heavenly heir,
Are they triumphantly reflected there;
Our Souls are their supreme, sublimer Space—
'Tis there they run their most majestic race—
'Tis there—Creator of all worlds!—they seem
Full of Thy presence and Thy power to beam!—
'Tis these may shine most glorious and august—
Shrines of our hopes, and towers of our high trust;
Landmarks and lights of great Eternity
We look on them—and look through them on Thee.

SONNET.

[A few sparse fleeting clouds are seen above]

A few sparse fleeting clouds are seen above,
And do but make the bright scene lovelier still
With their fair shapes, that seem produced by skill,
And labour, as some Handicraftsman strove,
To make them perfect more and more!—e'en prove
Their Beauty by a long, long gaze at will!—
So shall you see them change—but as a rill
That winds, but grows not shallower—as a dove
Whose feathers shift their hues, but finely so,
Become more beautiful and strangely bright—
Their forms do through a thousand changes go,
To wear fresh charms, seeming to us aright,
As though the invisible Handicraftsman slow,
With changeful mind wrought still,—studying perfection's Height!

SONNET.

[Amidst the darkness of green woods it stood]

Amidst the darkness of green woods it stood,
A ruin hoar, while many an antique mound
Near it, proclaimed (for flowers there still were found)
That gardens there had flourished, now i' the wood
It looked a dreary thing!—the solitude
Seem'd burthened by its presence—greenly round
Those walls the o'ermantling ivy's wild wreathes wound
Caressingly, while all the place seemed strewed
With ancient memories—high chivalrous dreams
Weighed on the blue transparent air—that shone
Serenely there—heroic oldest themes
Leapt to the thought and fancies of the gone
And buried years, till all the kindling beams
Of morning seemed to smile, around the past alone!

FAIR FAIRY DAYS.

SONNET.

[Oh, Sleep! I pray thee now to steep my sense]

Oh, Sleep! I pray thee now to steep my sense
In rich forgetfulness—to hush or charm
Away my thronging thoughts, and to disarm
Doubt, care, and terror for awhile—intense
Their harrowing, harrowing power is, when the immense,
The busy Stage of Life to arouse—alarm
Is spread before our view, but when thy warm
And thy caressing influence wins from thence
Our thoughts and doubts, they sink to shadows oft,
And richer feelings live along the Soul.
Oh! Sleep, come then with all thy whisperings soft,
And let the moments tremulously roll
Away—like silvery mists that float aloft,
As they would fain, fain reach some heavenly goal.

SONNET.

[Sleep! smile away my sadness, let me sink]

Sleep! smile away my sadness, let me sink
Into a dear unconsciousness of all
Life's toil, Fear's sting, Hope's tremour, and Care's thrall.
Oh! let me dream, and so forget to think!—
And dreaming rest near some bright streamlet's brink,
Where flowers gleam fair, and many a bird doth call,
And many a breeze doth freshening rise and fall,
Whose hushing sighs and murmurs I would drink
Ev'n to my very Soul—that fainteth now
For one deep dewy draught of full repose,
That it may never find strange life! where thou
Art spreading forth thy snares!—thy tempting shows
Displaying to these eyes!—this aching brow
Weighs o'er the languid lids that would for ever close!

SONNET.

[Peace!—perfect Peace—with Slumber come and fall]

Peace!—perfect Peace—with Slumber come and fall
Like dew of Heaven upon my Soul, I shrink
From mine own thoughts, that hover round the brink
Of deepest Mysteries still, and Sleep's soft pall
Would fain throw round them and enshroud them all.
Too curiously and carefully we think,
And poison of our own fond brewing drink—
Let me forget the arrow and the gall—
Let me resign the trouble and the pain—
Let me forswear the vain, vain chase and toil—
Let me unlink the choaking, clasping chain—
Wipe off the shadow and remove the soil,
Lift the dread burthen, Sleep! from heart and brain,
My thoughts—thy Victory's many coloured Spoil!

SONNET.

[A clear rill brightly wound its silvery way]

A clear rill brightly wound its silvery way,
Smooth through the umbrageous sylvanry around,
And as caressingly about, it wound
Its still small voice of music seemed to stay
On the ear in lulling murmurs, while the gray
And shadowy twilight deepened still, and found
Amidst the massy trees that did abound
Een there—a kindred twilight, that all day
Dwelt deep beneath their thick o'erhanging gloom!
Oh! lovely scene where all enchantment dwells!
If the Heart knows to prize it,—if the bloom
Of youth and love be on it!—Oh! the Dells—
The Woods—the Rills—strange Beauty now assume,
That tame makes Fancy's charm—of which the Poet tells!

SONNET ON MY CHILD'S BIRTH-DAY.

My child! how welcome is to me this hour,
This day! thy day of birth—what wishes fond
That reach this life—the tomb, the stars beyond,
My rapt Soul pours with full and feeling power,
Upon this Morning air, while every flower
Smiles Welcome—as a gentle task it conned
To thee, fair Human Flower! Oh! holiest bond—
Mother and child uniting—sun nor shower,
Nor calm, nor storm, changes of time nor clime,
Shall ever loosen this most blessed tie—
In purity's perfection how sublime!
Years pass, and hopes and dreams and feelings fly,
They're gone, like rosy clouds that gild day's prime—
But this Affection's truth cannot be taught to die!

SONNET.

[Sweet is the stillness of this evening hour]

Sweet is the stillness of this evening hour,
And beauteous its repose—the clouds above
Have not yet lost the flush, the glow of love,
The orient hue of joy—yet in the bower,
Where the light leaves, confess the still time's power!—
And in the glade, seems nothing now to move!—
Sleep's honey dews oppress the lark and dove.
Long thou'st been silent, thou! the pride and flower
Of all thy kindred tribes, sweet lark! that high
Doth in the morning's hours of beauty soar,
As though thou wouldst for ever haunt the sky;
But thy rich matins and pure carols o'er,
How dost thou seek thy nest's sweet privacy—
As though thou would'st ascend Heaven's heights no more!

MY EARTHWARD-CLINGING HOPES.

BEAUTIFUL SUMMER.

THE SEA AT TERRACINA.

OH! THAT MY HEART.

I BLESS THEE, LOVE!

PARODY ON THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.

THE CHARMS OF MORNING.

THE ONE HOPE.

A SMILE.

A Smile like a thousand zephyrs plays,
With its changing and flashing, and fleeting rays,
Round thy lovely lips that so rose-like be,
Like a thousand zephyrs, the light and free,
That fling freshess and beauty around the rose,
Which yet brighter for their soft presence glows.
Like a thousand zephyrs, the light the free,
Like a thousand sunbeams of radiancy,
That shine out and sparkle quick, clear, and bright,
With tints of pure glory and trails of light!
Yet varying still as a varying doubt,
While shedding this splendour of beauty about.
Oh! say—doth that smile type thy gentle heart?
On the wings of change doth that fluttering dart?—
Doth that vary for ever and evermore,
Like waves that in different shapes seek the shore?—
Or like breezes that still carry change in their train,
Or aught that's inconstant, and varying and vain?
No, I will not think it—it must not be,
Oh! worse than death would it be to me.
Methinks thou hast loved me—methinks thou hast known
To love me well, and to love me alone.
But, Oh! if a change should come now o'er thy mind,
If now thou canst fickle be, false, and unkind;
Oh! thy bye-past love a vain thing I call,
And I would thou hadst never loved at all!

SWEET FLOWERS.

Sweet flowers! ye fair and ever new delights,
That shed a smile o'er this dark world of blights,
And clouds and frowns, how brightly laugh ye forth,
In all your loveliest pride and richest worth.
After these Summer showers—it is indeed
Enchantment now—each heat-dejected head
Is lifted up in beauty fresh and bright.
These stars of day, like those that burn at night,
Now twinkle with the radiance of the shower,
That sets them round with jewels—every bower
Hath many a coloured constellation now,
And doth rekindle with a blushful glow;
Each leaf is diamond-dropt—and seems to be
A shining part of some bright galaxy—
The eye half wearied by the startling glare,
Turns to the sky to look for shadows there!—
And surely 'tis more sobered more subdued,
Than this now sparkling Earth and many-hued,
Which seems of every different brightness blent,
E'en to change places with the Firmament!
To wear its glories, and display its sheen,
And smile a radiant and etherial scene!
To win its splendours and its pride assume,
And emulate the starry-clustered dome.
And, Oh! no marvel it appears more bright,
So closely dazzling on the ravished sight!
No marvel it should lovelier still appear,
In all its loveliness beheld so near;
Until the eye half wearied by the glare,
Turns to the sky to look for shadows there!—
Turns to the glorious, the resplendent sky,
To look for shadows 'mid its brilliancy!
And almost findeth there for season brief,
The quiet of repose and soft relief—
For Earth's thick-jewelled front too brightly glows,
For any dream of quiet or repose.
And Heaven by contrast sober-suited seems,
Though there—though thence the flooding sunshine streams!
Its quivering stars are hid in shroud of light,
Beneath they seem redoubled to our sight!

NATURE'S SCENES.

Nature! thou call'st us with a mighty voice,
To share thy noble and ennobling joys,
Those that to all thou profferest! Oh! I come—
But let me share the rich, deep, solemn gloom—
The calm—the hush—that in far fair retreats
Invite the heart that all too wildly beats,
To lay down every care, to court repose,
And hail the hour that sees its turmoil close
Then take me and be thou my nurse, ev'en thou—
Oh! take me to thy lulling bosom now,
And win these weary eyes with Sorrow wet,
Their hopeless tears and achings to forget,
And win them to forget the haunting forms
(Pale phantom aspects, which in life-pulse warms)
That coldly crowd upon them evermore,
And wear the looks departed dear ones wore.
'Tis thou alone canst soothe, and bless, and calm,
And in the place of poisons give us balm;
To thee I fly, long wearied and afraid,
But to thy deepest hush of loneliest shade—
For by degrees—the healing touch must come
Unto the wrung and wounded bosom home.
First must the bitterness of anguish cease,
Then softly spread the dewy calms of Peace,
To usher in serenity of bliss,
That ever grows from such a peace as this—
A true, a tender, and a tranquil joy,
Too true—too pure—to weary or to cloy!—
Oh, Nature! unto thee, heart sick I come—
First let me seek thy rich, deep, solemn gloom,
Then on my Soul in full effulgence beam—
In all thy mighty loveliness supreme!

VIOLETS.

Oh! the Violets—the Violets throw
Around their own imperial glow,
Like sweet Stars that so long did move
In the deep sapphire Heavens above,
That all those Heaven's rich colourings met,
Within their smiles of Beauty set!—
That all the Sky's triumphal blue,
Shone gathering in their glorious hue!
The Violets—the Violets throw
Around their own imperial glow
Of queenly purple, full and deep—
Where they brood in odorous heap;
And like they are to stars of light,
That long, Oh! long serene and bright
Have moved in yon cerulean Skies,
Till thence they caught e'en all their dyes—
Till that sapphire world's hues met
All in crowning fulness set,
In their deep rich flowery smiles,
Which nought of this dull earth defiles!
The violets!—Oh! how they throw
Around their own imperial glow
Their purple light of richest dye,
Paving Earth with smiles of Sky!
But more we bless them for the scent
Wherewith Air's common element
They do enrich so much and well,
More than cunning phrase may tell,
That burthened Air seems, breath by breath,
To languish in a costly death,
Beneath that odour's tender weight,
A delicate yet cumbering freight!
That odour which, profound and rare,
Luxuriates here and every where!
Who of your beauty thinks, Sweet Flowers!—
Endowed with almost magic powers,
Though beautiful ye are indeed—
But e'en the lowliest, homeliest weed,
Of form uncouth and pallid dyes,
Were beauteous in our partial eyes,
With such an incense-breath intense
As yours, that thrills the quickened sense—
That pierces and that penetrates
Unto that sense it never sates!—
Unto the Soul itself—that lives
A Life that outward Nature gives,
Still fluctuating to her fine mood,
With many a kindred sense endued,
Beside that inner life profound,
Without a fetter or a bound;
That to nought outward ever may
Vary or veer from day to day!
(Fixed in itself for ever more—
A mighty sea without a shore—
A life that doth sublimely seem
One glorious current, one deep stream,
Uninterrupted in its course,
And springing from the highest source!)
Oh! Nature, with thee we owe,
While yet we wander here below,
A life of purest consciousness,
Which mild emotions sweetly bless;
Though mild yet deep—and full of power
To colour every passing hour.
To make a lovely life apart,
Even of the dreaming, feeling heart!

SONNET.

[This eve is lovely as the day hath been]

This eve is lovely as the day hath been,
An evening fair as is the scenery even
That it now steeps in stillness—calm yon Heaven
Of azure luxury smiles!—waves flow serene!—
Smile calm the unruffled breathless vineyards, green
With their first verdurous livery—now are driven
Deep shades through the air—all power to Peace is given!
And calm as Peace grows all the altered scene;
Of human stir and strife speaks nothing here,
But Earth herself with Heaven seems communing;
Whate'er her sons, poor slaves of Hope and Fear,
May reck of vainly, they of the Eagle's wing,
But oft the Owlet's eye, that when most near
To keenest splendours, grows a darkened thing!

SONNET.

[It is a tender yet triumphant hour!]

It is a tender yet triumphant hour!
Most glorious Morning! How thy deepening rays
Promise the loveliest, brightest of all days!
And, Oh! that promise is as full of power
As its fulfilment can be, when a shower
Of dazzling splendours sets proud Noon ablaze,
And beams the full-blown Day upon the gaze,
And golden glow the Stream, the Bank, the Flower!
Sparkling with Dew, like rich Stars turned to Tears!
Shines all the Ground's bright surface tremblingly!—
How soft and yet how vivid all appears!—
Most glorious Morning, o'er Parthenope,
Thou shed'st a charm that e'en still more endears,
Lending her more and more of witchery!

SONNET.

[The Sun hath sunk with stately march and slow!]

The Sun hath sunk with stately march and slow!
'Tis Evening. In the Horizon far away,
The quick bright Lightnings make a mimick Day;
The great Heavens seem to throb with them; but no,
It is but near our Earth that sudden glow,
That startling rapid flash—that hurried play
Of many splendours, that a moment stay,
Then sink as rapidly—a fleeting show!
The Eternal Heavens, unconscious of them, are,
In their firm steadfastness, a changeless frame
Unconscious of them every glorious star
That sets the ancient front of Night on flame!
The Lightnings near us spring, though seeming far,
As though from highest heights of Heav'n they came!

FROM “INEZ,” A MS. POEM.

SONNET.

[Bright Noon, and cloudless!—what an Arch of Pride]

Bright Noon, and cloudless!—what an Arch of Pride
These blue triumphal Heavens now form above—
An Arch of Pride yet breathing of deep love,
In their grave pure serenity—how wide
The smooth expanse—all brightly richly dyed
With one most glorious hue, yet yon fair grove
With all its changeful beauty doth not move
More admiration than that purple tide!—
A tide of one unstirred unbroken wave,
Untroubled, save with splendour-rufflings keen!—
For else, 'tis still and silent as the grave!
Oh! sweet repose in Heaven!—profound—serene—
Our souls with that some kindred feeling crave,
And gaze themselves away on that calm scene!

THE DEATH OF HOPE.

Affections ever beautiful and young
Keep still their strongholds in my heart though strung
No more upon a deep harmonious Hope—
With every fear and doubt right strong to cope—
Like rich pearls on a string of silken twine,
That glistening through lends these a softer shine,
And gives them order, unity, and strength—
Alas! Hope's silken twine is loosed at length!
I love—I still love on—but well I know
My love beginneth and must end in woe!
No Hope can ever warm this heart again,
But 'tis resigned to suffering and to pain;
And haply in this harsh, harsh world, where grief
A long dark season hath—but joy is brief,
Such resignation in its tranquil mood,
Unshaken in its firmness, unsubdued,
Is more than very happiness—that lies
So open to all life's inclemencies—
So fragile and so weakly in its frame—
Breathed on by breath of change, 'tis but a name!
More, more than happiness, since formed to brunt
The war of storms—the darkness' cloudy front,
The change—the fret of circumstance—the bane—
Probation's fang—and the keen file of pain.
Be mine then—firm-fixed resignation still—
That counter-balanceth the opposing ill!
And mine those pure affections deep and true,
That seem for ever beautiful and new—
That have so much of hidden inborn power,
They live without Hope's aid, their lovely hour.
Themselves so like to Happiness and Hope,
They cannot darkly fail, nor faintly droop!
Within themselves seems shadowed forth so fair,
(Lightly as rests the rainbow on the air!
The stars' reflection on the waters' breast,
The dews that on the glowing flower-cups rest)—
All promise—all felicity—howe'er
By fate they may be doomed to grief and care
While still themselves unto themselves must be
More than all Hope and all Felicity!

FANCY AND FEELING.

STANZAS.

[I know thee now—false, hollow, that thou art]

ON ------'S BIRTHDAY.

I fain would sing—I fain would hail this day,
With something more than e'en the general joy,
But I must be content to bring the alloy
Of weakness in my tributary lay.
For still when feelings are most strong, the way
To express them is too oft most shy and coy,
As language from its burthen shrank—the annoy
Of this faint consciousness is mine—I pray
Thou wilt forgive such failure, nor refuse
To fancy—with thy Fancy fresh and young,
All I would say, could I command the muse
To aid the futile efforts of my tongue,
And thus most surely shall I gain—not lose—
My thoughts, so shadowed, shall be more than sung!

ON THE SAME.

[This happy day!—no light of truth or dream]

This happy day!—no light of truth or dream
Could add one charm to it—since thy dear birth
Hath made it precious—precious! Heaven and Earth
Should hail it with a Smile, and would I deem,
Had worth its fair dues here!—on Life's broad stream,
All, all in doubt, in sadness, or in mirth,
Are floated down alike—and midst the dearth
Of Natures exquisite as thine, no beam
Is consecrate to hail thee brightly thus,
On thy birth's morn; yet we who love with true
And tender love, feel keen and tremulous
A ray of Hope—from Heaven as t'were sped new,
Piercing our Souls—but this so sweet to us,
Hath with Eternity—not Earth to do!

ON THE SAME.

[Round us the Morning breaks in beauty, such]

Round us the Morning breaks in beauty, such
As Morning ever doth sublimely wear!
E'en in these wintery months she still shows fair!
But we scarce think of this—nor could avouch
Whether she smiles or frowns; a thrilling touch
Of deep full feeling wakes our hearts—we spare
No thoughts to outward objects—our sweet care
Is to dwell on kind wishes—and so much
Of retrospection as shall bid us bless
This morn as being, that of thy dear birth—
Ere long, beloved! shall I seek to express
Fond gratulations, breathing cheer and mirth;
But thoughts too full of feeling's deep excess
First seize the Soul—whose wings are chained on Earth!

SONNET SUGGESTED BY A GROUPE OF SCULPTURE AT THE CHURCH OF ST. SEVERINO, AT NAPLES.

Myriads are caught in thy huge net, Oh! Vice!
Most willing prisoners—and for thee they toil,
And hug close, closer still their Gordianed coil,
And spurn fair Virtue's gems of purest price,
Nor mark her glorious light—though twice or thrice
They may have felt remorse, and sought to foil
Their cunning master—they have laid the oil
Of slippery backsliding again—(no nice
Regards for her preserving) to their tame
And treacherous Souls—most slavish of all slaves,
E'en so once more they by their choice became!
For whereso'er his dusky hand he waves,
They follow on through wrath, and flood, and flame—
And each for him the Eternal Misery braves!

THE RETURN HOME.

THE HEART'S POWER.

With our staunchless heart-wounds oft, oft we go
Where the blue and the laughing waters flow—
Where the fresh glad woods send many a sound
From their leafy and voiceful shrines profound—
And the hills look up to the Heavens above,
As if with a yearning of feeling love!
And the silvery laugh of that stream is vain,
And the voice of these glad woods but seems to complain,
And the Hills look barren and blank in their dearth,
Not leading to Heaven, though they point from the Earth!
Oh! Nature! thy witchery and beauty are vain,
For a weight and a wound—a chill and a chain,
Unfit us for dwelling in peace where thou art,
When Sorrows have breathed the young bloom from the Heart!
And it mattereth not that thy soft skyey scene,
Uncrossed by one speck-like cloud is serene,
That thy Plains are covered with Flowers, whose bloom
Would lend a brightness and grace to the Tomb,
In the face of the Sun, in the presence of Day,
Thy Heart of Despair can in anguish say—
“Let there be Darkness” to listening Light,
And Nature at once is a sunless Night!

FEELING.

How in this work-day World, alas!
The preciousness of Life doth pass!
And oft without our Minds engrossed,
Knowing 'tis for ever lost!
Oft that preciousness doth pass
Like scented Winds, that o'er the grass
Lightly, faintly, softly go—
We doubt still if they're there or no!—
Like tenderest Clouds that gently veil
The Sun, with their slight folds and frail—
Which we miss not, though we find
The Sun shines then to scorch and blind!
What is Life's pure preciousness?—
Feeling's fresh and deep excess,
Which too quickly dies away,
Like the blossoms of the May!
Feeling, that all gently round
The quick heart caressing wound,
To shut out selfish, sordid Care,
With its cold inhuman glare!
To breathe one incense breath new born
From the ambrosial Skies of Morn
Deep into that Heart's deepest Life,
Then dying with no noise nor strife!
Unmissed, unmourned—till haply we,
Slaves of interest, shudderingly—
Find we have, with zeal insane,
Toiled for guerdon and for gain—
Laboured with one stubborn aim,
(With worn out mind and wearied frame!—)
Only to our heavy cost,
To know we have for ever lost
The in-born feeling that could make
The Soul in its successes take
Aught of pleasure or of pride,
Henceforward and for aye denied!
We may then invest indeed
Those Souls in proud and pompous weed!
Stoles of State, and Royal pall—
They are vain and useless all!
The Soul is still a deadened thing,
Waning, wasting, withering!—
Oh! they who in the days of old,
Brought all ghastly to behold—
A pale corse from the charnel's scene,
And crowned the breathless Inez Queen!
Did not, e'en then, lose more their toil,
Investing her with princely spoil,
Than they who vainly load and deck
The Spirit's loveless, lifeless wreck,
With gifts and treasures of the Earth,
When it no more can weigh their worth!
Oh! Feeling! when thy thrilling Lyre
Once ceaseth, ceaseth to respire
Those tones that waken Earth and Sky
To one deep Music of reply—
How doth our consciousness then seem
Like a heavy haunting dream,
Dull and dim, and vague, and vain,
Faint echo of a finished strain!
'Tis Feeling only that can give
The life Immortal Souls should live—
What were to us the Seraph's lot.
If we its good perceivēd not?
Or Empire wide as space is wide,
If we lacked Energy and Pride—
Or every glory—every good—
If we failed in the accordant mood.

SONNETS TO DR. W--- ON HIS PROJECTED NEW TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE.

[Proclaim the proud Truth to the Hills and Wolds]

Proclaim the proud Truth to the Hills and Wolds,
Where'er great Nature smiles, and wheresoe'er
Philosophy, high-throned on Sovereign chair,
Her sphery-sessioned arbitration holds—
Then shall Man's lofty thoughts in worthier moulds
Be well recast—and with her serpent hair
That dark Medusa Prejudice from her lair
Shall be ejected—with that fierce hair's folds
Dishevelled—with those cold eyes reft of power,
So shall she be exorcized from the Earth—
While Truth shall revel in his Victory's hour!—
Proclaim it thou! whilst stead of this dim dearth
Of Hopes to some held forth, who nobly shower
Their Thoughts' wealth round—all tongues shall sound their worth!

TO THE SAME.

[Leap thou i'the Gulph!—Oh! let it be thy pride]

Leap thou i'the Gulph!—Oh! let it be thy pride
To make thyself the Victim!—let the rage
Of criticism's ravenous wolves assuage
Itself on thee, and although unallied,
Unaided, stand thou firm—mailed in the tried
Celestial-tempered panoply o'the sage
Philosopher and zealot—Truth!—they wage
Their wordy war.—So let them, far and wide!
Still meet them with the high repulse and calm
Of wisdom, Faith, and Virtue.—Days may come
When thy much honoured name may bear the palm
'Midst Benefactors of Mankind—the gloom
Of Ignorance may melt—the querulous qualm
Of Prejudice pass o'er—with all, as now with some!

TO THE SAME.

[Seek'st thou—proud aim!—to wholly reconcile]

Seek'st thou—proud aim!—to wholly reconcile
Religion with the orbed Philosophy
Severed on Earth, but single in the Sky?
Good Angels guide thee in thy task the while!
All Heaven upon thy hallowed labours smile!
High is thine object—be thine office high,
Thus marrying Majesty to Majesty!
Antagonizing Faction—dull and vile!—
Shall men not date their Peace of Mind—oft wrecked—
From thine hour's triumph!—the old dim desperate feud,
'Twixt Science and palm'd Revelation checked!
(While each through each shall be more clearly viewed—)
Go forth—give way not to the stubborn-necked!
Crown thy great Work!—and God pronounce it good!

TO THE SAME.

[Utter thy tidings forth—nor let the world]

Utter thy tidings forth—nor let the world
I'the serpent Error's folds lie longer now—
Oh! utter forth those glorious tidings—thou!
Who at that serpent, Truth's keen bolt hast hurled,
Be the starred scroll, triumphantly unfurled—
Let all Mankind their strong belief avow!
Let Ignorance hide close her withered brow,
With Superstition's slippery beads empearled—
Let Prejudice forego her poisonous hold,
On sacred things—which she doth desecrate!
Be those bright tidings full and loudly told—
Oh! holiest task, to give more strength—more weight
To Justice—Mercy—Wisdom—Love—to unfold
Deep truths, which shall exalt Man's present State!

TO THE SAME.

[I say not, do not fear:—Fear were afraid]

I say not, do not fear:—Fear were afraid
To come near thee in such a crisis hour
Of Man's high destiny!—a mighty power
Surely upholds thee through the impending shade
Of difficulties now, and not betrayed
Art thou to listen unto aught, nor cower
To aught that might at all disturb or lower
Thy mind from its great purpose, or degrade
Thy thoughts from their high aim—tho' round thee shower
Rash Envy's bolts and shafts—and brand and blade
Uplifted be to obstruct? Fruition's dower
Shall surely crown thy Hope!—still undelayed
By doubt or dread—climb thou the steep, and tower
On high, and ask from Heaven—and Heaven alone—just aid!

TO THE SAME.

[Pass on and persevere!—pass calmly on—]

Pass on and persevere!—pass calmly on—
Addressed to thy high task; nor hope nor fear
Man's frown or smile!—Oh! nobly persevere,
And lay thy labour's fruit at the dread Throne
Of that Omnipotence to whom alone
They're dedicate in deep devotion—here
High, high o'er ethered space—o'er systemed sphere—
Thy Heaven-ward Hope, the Seraph-plumed, hath flown,
Yet with humility and lowly trust,
(Source of all strength—true spring of all success!)
Thou'rt surely girt to atchieve thy task august;
For it may prosper but as Heaven shall bless!—
Our deeds and darings, tend like us to dust,
And need most help when most, upreared in loftiness!

TO THE SAME.

[If thou atchievest what thou dost now essay]

If thou atchievest what thou dost now essay,
As surely thou wilt do—who shall not look
On thee with unblamed envy—which to brook
Smilingly, shall be thine—i' the glorious day
Of thy consummate victory!—those grown grey
Beneath the rain of honours—those who shook
The nations with their conquering arms, and took
Cities i' the pale hour of their first dismay;
Even those who lift a new-anointed brow,
Pressed by the recent ancestorial crown!—
And those whom Heaven's rich grace doth will to endow
With gifts, with powers, from living founts poured down,
Shall haste to celebrate, and joy to avow
Their homage and thy triumph's palmed renown!

TO THE SAME.

[May more than all of Honour, Power, or Fame]

May more than all of Honour, Power, or Fame,
Be now thy portion—if with tempered zeal
And Heart taxed to its pulses' height to feel
The importance of the object—thou the flame
Of high Truth kindlest—and thy righteous aim,
With hope unblenched, dost compass—Man's true weal
It may be thine to stablish and to seal!
What may'st not thou of good and guerdon claim?
Oh! who that in such sacred enterprize
E'er caught one glorious glimpse of Heavenly things,
And with high-thoughted hope soared up the skies,
Could stoop to thirst for Earth's low troubled springs,—
All grandeur in their Mind's proud circle lies—
Empire is in their Soul's unshackled wings!

TO THE SAME.

[Religion's union with the great—the deep]

Religion's union with the great—the deep
Philosophy, shall be high good for man;
And well for thee 'twill be to tower i' the van
Of such fair blest atchievement: thou shalt reap,
For thy sublime exploit, that which shall steep
Thy Soul in lofty joy—the mighty clan
Of Philosophic Spirits—from the ban
Of Heterodoxy freed—shall then to the heap
Of their rich treasures, add the richest far,
And as in Knowledge, in Devotion thine,
The Astronomer shall consecrate each Star
To its Creator's glory, and the mine
Of wealth that the laborious chemists dare
To explore, shall prompt and raise, true thoughts of Power Divine!

ON THE SAME.

[Thy path, thy purpose, are as noonday clear]

THE BACKWARD SPRING.

SONNET.

[I journeyed on, and journeyed with the Storm]

I journeyed on, and journeyed with the Storm,
The unruffled Waterfalls fresh beauty gained,
Fast in the fetters of the frost enchained,
They charmed with many a wild fantastic form,
Lacing the steeps with Beauty!—Soft and warm
The Moon's pale fire seemed, as she smiling reigned
O'er icy regions!—the smooth Snow unstained
Fell noiseless round—the flakes with their white swarm
Covered all objects—'twas as though the rays
Of that clear moon fell from Heaven's distant height,
And showered themselves in pearly rains!—the gaze
Surprising with profound and full delight—
Soft the Snows made the Mountains rugged ways,
And pure the Scene unto the gladdened sight!

SONNET.

[I had passed through the ample plains, where Nature wears]

I had passed through the ample plains, where Nature wears
An aspect most monotonous—to be
More charmed, when from one steep acclivity,
Proud Genoa, with her crown of towers, and tiers
Of palaced dwellings, was descried—she rears
Her brow of royal Beauty gloriously
O'er the blue Ocean—whose bright waves and free
Glass back that beauty, which thus more appears!
All had seemed bare and wintry to my sight
Till that glad moment! Winter seemed to flee
From that bright Ocean, clad in purple light,
With its yet bluer lovelier canopy.
Broad on my gaze, from that triumphal height,
The sunny South, at once, burst, with her sunny Sea!

THE SUNBEAM.

THOSE WHO LOVE NOT.

THE SOUL'S UNREST.

O'ER VINEYARD GROUNDS.

ALAS! WHY ART THOU FAR?

SONNET.

[With a slight groaning noise the sledge passed on]

With a slight groaning noise the sledge passed on,
O'er the new fall'n and lightly-crumbling Snow—
Faint Echoes trembling rose above—below—
Sole Sounds that shocked Night's silence on her throne
Of many Mountains there!—the bright Moon shone
O'er rugged steeps—and silvered o'er the brow
Of many a Giant precipice, while slow
Her gentle sway seemed perfected, stamped—won!
My Soul a deep majestic joy confessed—
Though scarce might I resolve from whence it sprung—
Nor whether pleased, and soothed, and charmed me best,
The nearer sounds—or distant silence, flung,
Like a broad mantle North, South, East, and West,
While Nature's mighty Lyre seem'd for a time unstrung!

THE LAND OF BEAUTY.

SONNET ON GALILEO.

(SUGGESTED BY HIS MONUMENT IN THE CHURCH OF SANTA CROCE.)

Methinks I see thee now, Great Sage! who wrought
Sublimely—thou!—made the infant Truth's grey nurse!
O'er-canopying the outstretched universe
With one magnificent and sovereign Thought!—
Methinks I see thee (who long since wert brought
To this stern spot—stretched on thy sage's hearse!)
Unshaken, while scorn, blame, and shame, and worse
Were showered upon thee, who Truth's fulness taught!—
A heavenly Soul was thine, whose flight was far
Above the tenour of terrestrial things,
Whose comrades were undying Sun and Star!—
Clustered with constellated eyes, her wings,
(Like as the wings of Cherubim even are!—)
Flashed surely!—and she reached, pierced—tasted Truth's clear springs!

THE MAIDEN'S SONG OF SORROW.

THE VOICE OF WAVES.

The dreamy warble of the blue bright wave,
That slowly-gathered—gently comes to lave
The yellow beach—Oh! how its music seems
To girdle me around with Slumber's dreams,
Though not with Slumber's self—how soft—how dear
Those low delicious murmurs to the ear!
Still rolling shorewards with melodious sigh,
Wave after wave comes slowly on—to die!
It is a swan-like music—for they break
On the smooth beach, and sleep no more to wake!
That dying sound just swells upon the air,
And then gives place to a fresh murmur there;
Those shell-like sounds—that swan-like music now
Stamps the pale seal of thought on this chill brow!
My Soul dies off still with the dying wave,
No passion-gust doth o'er its surface rave,
But Peace—a thoughtful Peace—yet a serene,
Now makes it tranquil as this watery scene!
The rise and fall of Feeling's music deep,
Within its depth seems perfect time to keep,
E'en with the rise and fall of these sweet waves,
Whose shivered chrystal their broad margin paves!
How moisten they the sea-weed wreaths that lie
Upon the beach—before all black and dry—
And turn—and turn them ever in their flow,
And curl and fret them as they onwards go.
Ocean! thou seem'st upon thyself to brood,
In placid calm, and yet in playful mood!
Who could now recognize in thee the Power
That spreads destruction in his wrath's wild hour?
That scattereth navies like these scattered weeds,
While rise the shrieks of death he never heeds—
But overpowers with his own thunder-cries,
Shouting defiance to the shaken skies!

SONNET.

['Twas a fair sight!—great Genoa like a Queen]

'Twas a fair sight!—great Genoa like a Queen,
In towery domination, o'er the sea
Rose beautiful; while tossing in proud glee,
There crowded vessels crowned the watery scene!
Afar all sparkling bright with marble's sheen—
White villas clustered—and appeared to be
Earth-meteors glimpsed through clouds resplendently,
Set in their sombre frames of cypress green—
Above me spreads a Paradise of Sky
Smooth as a glass—and on its broad expanse
I almost looked with fond expectancy—
(Rapt in a dreamy pleasurable trance),
Hoping to see th' Earth mirrored to mine eye
As that was on the glittering Sea perchance!

THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME.

SONNET.

How clear the azure of the Roman air,
How tenderly transparent and how clear!
All groweth beauteous in this atmosphere!—
All doth the crown of its pure glory wear,
Cypress and aqueduct, and temple fair—
Their forms of loveliness triumphant rear—
Dear to the sense and to the feeling dear,
And win a softened charm peculiar there!
And were those ruins and those trees away,
Nor cypress left, nor aqueduct to adorn
The fair Campagna—still each golden ray
Of this rich Roman Sun in Eve or Morn,
Should stream with beauty—and by Night and Day,
The Horizon and the Heavens gleam fair,—of pride unshorn!

I THINK OF THEE.

HUMAN LIFE.

Life! we do wrong, when we at times affect
To blacken thee with scoff of disrespect,
And o'er all universal life to throw
The shadowy mantle of our proper woe!
And who is there that ever yet was born,
That hath not with unwise rash reckless scorn,
Rejected some fair proffered happiness—
Where with indulgent Heaven, his Soul would bless,
And clung to some chimæra, weak and vain,
Only because 'twas gendered by his brain!
Far less of joy containing—less of bliss,
Still chosen, cherished, clung to, but for this;
But for the senseless and the stubborn sake,
Of that proud Will, which doth not deign to take
Blessings as they are offered—and displayed
Before the Soul, whose weak election's made!—
Blessings poured round with an unsparing hand,
No! 'twould its own vain phantasies command!
Alas! how oft is this the truth, how oft
We ask of distant severed worlds to waft
That Happiness which still is at our side,
Knocking at our closed hearts of sullen pride,
And asking for admittance, but in vain,
We chase her thence, then impiously complain!
Such happiness must be rejected still,
If not the happiness of stubborn Will,
Our tyrant taskmaster, that bars repose,
And grinds us to the dust with cares and woes,
And thus we court some vain and aëry dream,
Some unsubstantial and fantastic scheme;
While Heaven-sent happiness dwells hovering near,
A lovely suppliant, scorned too rashly here,
Refused, rejected, with her priceless stores,
Though gently knocking at our very doors,
Imploring for admittance—but in vain;
While still we chase her thence, and still complain.
The brain-born mockery of our cherished scheme,
The shadowy triumph of our favourite dream,
Which we so fondly to our hearts would clasp,
Slips from our hold, and slides from our foiled grasp—
And then, how long and bitterly we rail
'Gainst Life and Fate, and do affect to scale
Their heights, and sound their depths, and then to show
That all is falsehood, hopelessness, and woe,
That all is useless toil and vainest care,
All—doubt and disappointment and despair.
Oh! 'tis a false, false part we dare to play,
And all is false we do or think or say;
First we deceive ourselves, and then we try
To mislead others as deceitfully.
Should we not rather seek,—through mercy spared,—
To warn the rest from dangers we have dared,
To own—Oh! Life! how we have wronged thee still,
And to confess ourselves of thy worst ill
The senseless Authors—stubborn, weak, and vain,
The fools of our own over-working brain,
That miscreates Creation—and doth spread
O'er all things one night-shadow, dark and dread,
And in itself a Chaos—makes appear
All else a Chaos-waste of Fate and Fear.
Yes! let us give the experience we have earned,
And let us teach the lessons we have learned,
To our poor faultering Brethren of the dust,
And be to Life, and these, our Brethren, just!
Haply in this good work engaged, no more
The sport of wayward fancies as before,
Still, seeking others' Happiness to ensure,
Their bliss to frame, their triumph to secure,
We may learn things we ne'er before have known,
Opening our long sealed bosoms to our own!

THE ANGEL-SWEETNESS OF THY SMILE.

COME TO ME.

SONNET.

[Great, World of Nature and of Human Life!]

Great, World of Nature and of Human Life!
A two-fold World, indeed!—one uniform
And most harmonious!—and a self-lashed Storm
The other!—preying on increase of strife,
With every growth, of every discord rife!
Where shapes of shadowy terror ever swarm!
Where Passion's Sun strokes—shine to scorch, not warm,
And Destiny digs Heart-deep with edged knife,
And Selfishness and Malice darkly plot
Together, and a hideous council call
To effect their deadly ends, repenting not
Till each is as the Enemy of all!
Nature! thy world seems glorious—without blot,
Compared with that where still, Hate's serpent-demons crawl!

BUT LET ME LOOK ON THEE.

THE FALSE-HEARTED.

MANUAL TO INEZ.

FROM A MS. POEM.

MEMORIES.

Dear Memories! sweet might blowing flowers maintain,
In my hushed spirit, your most gentle reign—
And ever ripen into glowing dreams,
For then the past-time brightly present seems,—
Charm me and cheat me as ye will, whilst I
Exchange all hope for shadowy Memory!
The Past at least is changeless, there at least
The restless flow of time and tide has ceased—
Whatever was, remains for ever there!
Its love must yet be love—its care still care—
Its constancy unchanged—its bliss unchecked,
Its truth unblasted—and its good unwrecked;
Then back, my breaking heart, unto the Past.
While Memory lives—its lovely sway must last.
Come to my Soul—deep thoughts of other days,
And shut out all beside from its fixed gaze—
Old thoughts that hang and hang about the heart,
Leaves on a hollow stem, that ne'er depart—
But have a Life and Being of your own,
And fixed remain—though rudely stirr'd and blown,
I'the face of all Life's rough inclement winds,
Bound by some tie that close, and closer binds,
Remain for ever there!—till Death shall come
And call the weary and the lorn one home.
Such thoughts as these still ward despair's fell blow,
And 'mind us thus all is not ill below;
A freshness o'er life's feverish hours they bring,
And keep the Soul a quick and buoyant thing!—
They bid Life's worst and wintriest gloom depart,
And form a green Arcadia for the Heart—
The green Arcadia of the Heart are they,
'Tis shaded there, through fierce Life's scorching day!

HEARKEN TO ME.

FROM “INEZ,” A MS. POEM.

SONNET.

['Twas in the night I journeyed—moonlight—snow—]

'Twas in the night I journeyed—moonlight—snow—
And silence were around!—that scene so still
Seemed the hushed heart with awe-touched peace to fill!
The hidden vallies shrouded lay below
In gloom impenetrable, while the brow—
The uplifted brow of every soaring hill
Shone out distinctly, clearly visible—
Crowned with a diadem of sheeny show!
It was as though on every mountain's height
A beacon of white fire all keen and clear
Was kindled by that pure Moon fair and bright,
Who as a silvery Sun did then appear—
Making one beauty of the slumberer—Night!
While those white beaconed hills did their lit foreheads rear.

MY SOUL IS WITH THEE.

SUNSHINE THROUGH FOLIAGE.

Sun! gazing towards thee through these quivering leaves,
Whose shadowy green a cloud of beauty weaves,
Thou seem'st unto the dreamy dubious eye
(Uplooking in a trance of phantasy)
A constellation of soft Stars and pale,
Sparkling through that light-waved and trembling veil—
Or of fine fairy lightnings—quick and keen—
But traced imperfectly, and dimly seen!
So dense and deep the curtain interposed
'Twixt us and thee, and round us drawn and closed—
Thus too thou'rt beautiful; but who could dream,
Watching this varying sheen, this softened gleam,
That thou art he who rules in light on high—
Who fires the East with glory dazzlingly!
Who makes the West one crimson world of flame,
And wraps in splendour all Creation's frame?
Seen through these leaves' wrought shrouds and stems' crossed bars!—
Thou'rt like some constellation of soft Stars!
The Mighty and the Beautiful may be
Despoiled of their most proud transcendancy—
Yet still are Beautiful unto the end!—
Nor with unworthy image deign to blend,
And still are Mighty—nor the bright spell break,
Whatever guise they wear, or form they take—
Thou glorious Sun!—no less canst thou appear
Than constellated Stars—the fair, the clear!
Or sudden flashing lightnings pure and bright—
Bright with the lustres of a lambent light!—
Howe'er thy pomp be 'minished or obscured,
It must endure as it hath still endured!
It still must pomp and still must triumph be,
However different, haply in degree!

GIVE ME A PLACE WITHIN THY HEART!

I HEARD MY DOOM.

THOUGHTS.

LINES FROM A MS. POEM.

The World without—the World within was gloom:
She sank o'ermastered by that stroke of doom—
The World without! There was no World without;
Its change, its busy noise, its stirring rout
Were passed away from that lorn, wretched one.
Creation vanished—she was left alone.
The World without!—Ah, that indeed was nought,
It lived not to her sense, nor to her thought;
Its busy strife and noise disturbed her not,
It was too utterly and all forgot.
The World without!—for her 'twas past, 'twas done;
Aye, 'twas but as a something changed or gone;
Between a shadow and a substance then.
But oh, the heart's re-action, when again
It plunges in the world of beings, shorn
Of its best hopes, still lonely, still forlorn!
For it doth plunge again—so much the worse;
There, there is sorrow's bitterness and curse.
Then break the waves in fury, fierce, and dread,
Once more about the shipwrecked sufferer's head.
Around the barren rock of his repose,
Like ruthless murderers and hungry foes,—
As they erewhile, around his bark of pride,
Then round its wreck rolled roaring far and wide.
The first deep hour of a profound despair,
Perchance is easier to the heart to bear
Than those slow hours, more conscious and more calm,
Which bring, alas! no comfort and no balm;
But teach the heart, by hateful dull degrees
(Which scarce at first the whole dark truth can seize,)
All that it hath to suffer and endure,
Yet proffer nought of counsel nor of cure.
Time may at length our comforter become;
But first he helps to strike the stern blow home;
And spreads unpityingly, e'en part by part,
The map of its despair before the heart.
First doth he wake and rouse the half-stunn'd mind,
And to the highest pitch its powers upwind—
Its powers of passionate suffering—then, but not
Till then, may he improve our darkened lot!

MY THOUGHTS ARE FOLLOWERS IN THY TRAIN.

ABSENCE AND PRESENCE.

NEVER THINK I LOVE.

SONG OF THE DYING.

THE DEATH OF DAY.

ENOUGH, ENOUGH!

HAPPY VISIONS.

I stood there silently; the brooding air
Seemed full of some o'erpowering Presence there;
In thought I passed this life's dull narrow bounds,
And marked the more than mortal sight and sounds;
And as I listened with an awe intense
Heard heavenly murmurings with half-heavenly sense,
And snatched a thousand visions to my thought,
That seemed itself with powers unearthly fraught:
All things grew loftier then of earth and time,
Then grew mine own existence more sublime:—
If this be dreaming, dreams of such rich worth
Alone can reconcile to barren earth!
But was I dreaming then? Or was't indeed
That thou, my soul, from dull, harsh fetters freed,
Wert more awakened to the truth of things,
More strongly buoyed on thy immortal wings,
More full of fervour and of feeling true,
Than is thy wont—thus roused to raptures new!
Still if I was but dreaming—then oh! then
Let me ne'er wake, or never dream again!
Fair Visions! ye were lovely as the sky,
Flowering with all its stars, to my rapt eye!
Ye're vanished; but my soul still pants and heaves,
Even with a swell such as the tempest leaves
Upon the troubled bosom of the sea,
When all but that is in tranquillity!
Come back unto that soul, it pants, it burns!—
Once more the Vision in its pomp returns:
With happy tremours all my heart-strings thrill;
With burning hope my pulse seems bounding still.
Oh! 'tis too much in such a world as this
To dream e'en of such pure and perfect bliss!
Depart, ye dazzling Visions! hence! depart!
With soaring transports faints my fervent heart;
With dear emotions are these eyelids wet.
Fly! fly for ever!—yet, ah! fly not yet!

ADIEU! THOU GLORIOUS ITALY!

Adieu! thou glorious Italy!—I go
From thy resplendent skies, whose azure glow
Still dazzles with an ever-new delight,
A canopy of coloured glory bright!
My parting course from thee I sorrowing shape,
Land of the orient rose and purple grape!
Fair land of the ivy coil and wall-flower wreath,
That smile where ruins harshly frown beneath!
Land of the laurel and the cypress lorn,
(Where one exults the other still should mourn!)
Adieu to thee and thine! I bear with me,
From thy sweet shores, a world of memory;
Of memory full of bright enchantments still,
That time shall never change, nor sorrows chill.
And yet I leave thee with but little pain;
I go to my sweet native air again.
Bright land of Picture, Sunshine, Melody,
Farewell!—I bear deep memories dear, of thee,
Stamped, strongly stamped, within my very heart,
Not to decline, oh! never to depart!
I bear from thine ambrosial shores with me
A little World of Beauty, and of thee,
That shall for ever bloom within my mind,
Midst all fair thoughts and lovely dreams enshrined.
Farewell! thou land of golden Suns and Skies,
Spread like enchanted realms before the eyes:
Thou Land of Beauty and immortal love,
And, oh! of Heaven beneath and Heaven above;
The soil we tread on, though of different hue,
Seems soft and pure, as yon ethereal blue;
Its growths as beauteous as the Stars that line
That cloudless blue, and there effulgent shine!—
Italia! in thy loveliness supreme,
Thou seem'st more fitted for an after-dream,
E'en than a present vision! for the soul
Surprised by Beauty, scarce takes in the whole:
And 'tis a visionary beauty too,
Which well, creative fancy, shall renew,
And place mid her chief treasures, to outshine
All other dazzling splendours of her mine:
Touched with the tenderest colours of the heart,
Whose hallowed bloom and glow shall ne'er depart.
Farewell! thou glorious Italy, farewell!
No longer must I mid thy glories dwell;
But, oh! for ever shall remember these,
When severed by the mountains and the seas.
I leave thee to thy purple Heavens of pride,
Thine orange-groves, thick-blossomed, deep, and wide;
Thy streams of crystal, and thine incense gales,
Thy soaring mountains, and thy smiling vales.
Farewell, thou loveliest land! for ever fair,
Thou soft enchanted clime,—thou roseate air,—
Thou golden, golden earth,—thou cloudless sky,
Farewell! bright Paradise of Poetry.

MANUEL TO INEZ.

(FROM A MANUSCRIPT POEM.)

SONNET.

[On dread Vesuvius' treacherous soil I stood]

On dread Vesuvius' treacherous soil I stood;
A thousand years their giant shadows threw
Around me there;—the Heaven's delicious blue,
A Heaven of Italy, did seem to brood,
With something of a melancholy mood,
O'er that historic scenery: swiftly flew
My thoughts to the olden times, and mournful grew,
Hovering o'er old oblivion's frozen flood.
Gazing from thence, oh! what a wondrous scene
Attracts, astonishes, delights, dismays:
There Naples sits, a glorious ocean-queen,
Upon her throne of waves and hills—the gaze,
Then on the mountain with its threatening mien,
Sinks back—and there, for long in gloomy trance delays.

STRANGE!—THOUGHTS GLIMPSE THOUGHTS.

NOW MORNING AFTER MORNING DAWNS.

NO BIRD THAT SINGS IN SUMMER'S BOWERS.

SPEAK TO ME.

THE SORROWS OF ABSENCE.

THE BAY OF NAPLES.

How calm these waters, with their glorious hue,
Of skiey, pure, and most transparent blue;
How lovely mid these lovely scenes—a bath
For beauty and her daughters, and a path
For fairy shapes, the gentle green-haired throng,
Who unto Neptune's joyous courts belong!
Fair Bay! how calm and still thou seem'st to be,
Mirror of Nature's mutability!
And yet thou'rt restless in thy fair self too;
I mark the unquiet of the quiv'ring blue,
That seems upon the watchful sense to grow,
E'en as it watcheth—and the rippling flow
Seems to increase and quicken as we gaze,
Redoubling ever in the sunshine's blaze;
Till almost, mid these glorious scenes, thou art,
As 'twere, a moving life—a throbbing heart;
A boon, a blessing, and a beauteous scene,
Thou surely art, and of bright seas the Queen;
A liquid Paradise to those who glide
Dreamily o'er thy blue and heaving tide:
And like a mighty banner, broad and bright,
Unfurled in glory on the admiring sight;
Thou seem'st in rich and wavering sheets to lie,
Obeying still the faint wind's every sigh!

OH, PITY THOSE!

STAMPED ON MY MIND.

SONNET.

[Earth's dreams away, like troubled vapours, roll]

Earth's dreams away, like troubled vapours, roll,
From this full solemn hour, in life's wild race
I pause, to commune with stern Death, and trace
His features in my fancy—and controul
Thought's feverish workings. Heart! hear Hope's last knoll;
Thou lone church-yard, dark, dedicated place,
Where, with a thousand shadows we embrace,
One shadow long shall rest upon my soul!
To purify, and solemnize, and raise;
Nay, e'en to enlighten with its mystic gloom:
For we walk darkly in life's blinding blaze;
That Heavenly Shadow deeply shall become
More precious far than light to my fixed gaze—
Lengthening from the other side of yon awaiting tomb!

SONNET.

[We live, in sooth, a threefold life below]

We live, in sooth, a threefold life below;
Past, Present, Future claim us for their own,
And all their fetters are around us thrown.
Memory and Hope, while life's mixed currents flow,
Open their Scenes before us, and we know
Their influence ever—neither sways alone;
But both united!—all our paths are strown
With their fair treasures, still of various show.
Least of all live we in the Present's hour.
We shun it, as 'twere Life's unkindliest clime;
Yet Present! thou alone rul'st strong in power:
The Past is but a mournful ghost sublime;
The Future—promise! Ye are life's threefold dower,—
Past, Present, Future—Trinity of Time!

SONNET ON NIAGARA.

Waters of wonder! whose dread cry, profound,
Is as the world's voice lifted to the sky!
A wild, and terrible, and awful cry,
Fall! pealing with a more than sea-deep sound,
Thrills not the earth to thee for leagues around?—
Art thou not heard into the Eternity?—
Beyond that upper air that seems to lie
Listening above thee in bright silence bound?
On plumes of swift imagination borne,
How have I seen thee, mighty cataract! sent
As 'twere from Heaven to Earth, of strength unshorn!
How have I o'er thy scene o'erpowering bent,
Adored thy wrathful play and savage scorn,
Thou won'drous Chaos of one Element!

SONNET.

[Bright hour and still!—where is the restless heart]

Bright hour and still!—where is the restless heart
That might not now be won to dreamy rest?
This glassy sea reflects on its smooth breast
A cloudless sky of glory. Sea! thou art
Softened and soothed to peace: from thee depart
All memories of old storms—their strife unblest
Is past and is forgotten. Oh, 'twere best
Life's storms once past, no more should sternly start
To mind!—But memory reigns through all our years!—
The sea may sleep—the heart reposeth ill!
The fevered heart!—this Hour strange beauty wears:
The sea seems to resign his own wild will,
And like a Lake of Beauty hushed appears,
And all the Heaven of Waters lieth still!

SONNET.

[Near us there is a mighty world unknown]

Near us there is a mighty world unknown;
Dread, glorious, unimaginably vast:
There Present, Future reign, and shadowy Past!
The actual, and the coming, and the flown,
In power there shadowed forth, are deeply shown:—
Treasures are hoarded there, up-piled—held fast,
That all the wealth of all earth's kingdoms massed
Together should not buy.—Crown, sceptre, throne,
Are dross beside their pomp. No living eye
Hath e'er looked on that world—none ever will;
It is the unbounded ark of the Most High!
Those shadows are as Suns its depths that fill,
Its thousand parts God's Image multiply!
Oh! dread World of Ourselves!—thou'rt veiled, sealed, shrouded still.

MY THOUGHTS SPEED O'ER THE RESTLESS WATERS.

FORGIVE ME.

SONNET.

[To thee, sweet Sleep, do I address my prayer]

To thee, sweet Sleep, do I address my prayer,
Fair bride of Death! that most tremendous Gloom;
Oh! make my couch the shadow of the tomb;
But let the phantoms of the past frown there!—
To those that love their pain and bless their care,
Waftdreams, deep dreams of life:—Iloathe my doom—
I ask but Hope—Fear Memory now to o'ercome.
Life's pageants are but painted—poisoned air!
Crush down, my soul, to stillness—thought by thought!
Lie with the monumental marble's weight
Upon its swelling strength!—the oppressed, the o'erwrought,
May thus be won to peace, e'er yet too late.
Sleep! thy dark consort's part be thou now taught;
But act it in my Soul!—wrung, pierced by tyrannous Fate!

THE CAMPO SANTO, AT NAPLES.

Still here, where lovely Nature spreads abroad
Her fairest charms, all tread the self-same road—
The road to darkness, dust, chill funeral gloom;—
All, all still turn their faint steps to the tomb.
Strange are the attractions that thus evermore
Invest Death's frowning field.—From the bright shore,
The purple vineyards, and the flowery plain,
The harvest-lands, enriched with golden grain—
From the proud warrior's camp—the palace-hall,
The cabin-bower, they troop forth, one and all,
To take up their abode 'midst those dim shades,—
Grey-beards and striplings, matrons, babes, and maids.
One from the altar comes, the blush scarce past,
From her sweet cheek—one from the heat and haste
Of business or contention—some from meed
Of merit but fresh won, and some just freed
From prison dark, (they seek one darker still,
More narrow, and more loathsome, and more chill;)
And some from Hope's glad regions, full of light,
Ere yet her flowers have bowed beneath the blight,
Or her reed-wand is broken!—how can they
Forget their homage at her shrine to pay,
And go where none in her rich smile rejoice—
There, where is no more hope! Ah! strange, dark choice!
Some hurry from the revel and the feast,
Ere wreaths have died, or melodies have ceased;
Some from Affection's happy hearth and home;
Some from Earth's solitudes, where free steps roam
Unchecked, and Nature's mighty charms expand
For the eager wanderers over sea and land:—
They asked more space of hill—plain—rolling wave—
How can they now find room in thee, thou grave?
Some speed, as though with dark, capricious will,
From their half-finished works of laboured skill;
Some from the toils of student and of sage,
The passion-breathing lyre—the pictured page,
All from the golden light—the sky—the air,
The aspects of their kind—the Earth's face so fair—
The glorious world of nature, wide and free,
All, all Creation's glorious majesty.
What are the fascinations that remain
About this spot, which thus attract—enchain—
Hundreds of thousands to forsake their all,
And lay them down where the earth-worms creep and crawl?
What are the charms mysterious that invest
This mournful haunt, so dreary and unblest?
What the strange, hidden graces that hang round
This gloomy piece of flowerless, wormy ground?
Answer, ye countless hosts, that hither throng;
Ye young, ye old, ye proud, meek, frail, and strong;
Wherefore? oh!—wherefore?—but no answer comes
From the dark stillness of those sunless homes.
A voice in mine own deepest soul replies,
“Ask not of Earth the secrets of the Skies.”
Worse than all ills that wait on mortal birth,
It were to dwell for ever on the earth.
But who would,—if 'twere only left indeed
To their own choice,—who would from clay be freed?
'Tis well that none may have the fatal choice:
They see a shadow, and they hear a voice
None other sees or hears, and they depart,
Loosening the thousand tendrils of the heart
From the heart's precious things, which close around
Liannes of Life!—they had fast-wreathing wound!
They quit all scenes familiar, fair and dear,
And in the solemn haunts of silence drear,
They come in cold contentedness to dwell,
Exchanging all creation for a cell!

SONNET.

[He who to that tribunal, deep within]

He who to that tribunal, deep within,
The court of conscience!—ever trembling turns,
Nor its high counsel mocks, its dictate spurns,
Doth well indeed—for foul and haggard sin,
Close watch'd, doth drop the mask—nor seeks to win
His confidence by crafts and sleights:—who learns
To make this bright election, never mourns
Or change or wrong;—but whoso of the din
Of reeking vain opinion, makes alone
His guide and key-note, shall most surely rue
Disastrous dark vicissitude;—for none
Shall find this world's crude, hurried judgments true
As his own soul's approval, or its tone
Of just reproach, when wrong he stoops to do!

SONNET.

[Beautiful World! alas! how many look]

Beautiful World! alas! how many look
On thee, and fail to mark the glorious light
Of splendour which invests thee, more than bright;
Alas! for them!—their eyes to Nature's book
Of Beauty are close seeled. Lo! not a nook—
The while that might not surely yield to sight
Something to strike, as 'twere, with magic might,
Or leaf—or flower—or pebble of clear brook!
Bright,—World of Nature!—shines thy rich array!—
Oh! but if those who mid life's tumults dwell,
Of whom men, in accusing accents, say,
“They're wedded to the World!” owned thy bright spell,
To thee were wedded—and confessed thy sway,
Beautiful World of Nature!—it were well.

SONNET ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

[We pine for purer, fairer Worlds, nor know]

We pine for purer, fairer Worlds, nor know
How pure, how fair our own bright World may be!
We live too much, poor sons of vanity,
In care and tumult, and vain strife below,
Nor bask us often in fair Nature's glow;
With careless eyes, we half-unconscious see
Her glorious, gracious aspect, deep and free,
And slight, e'en though we dare not scorn her show!
Then we affect a towering discontent,
And find fault with the World we fail to mark,
And truly in a narrow sphere we're pent,
Of selfishness and blindness—deep and dark:
But Heaven in elder days its Angels sent,
To walk this World—Heaven's King dwelt in it as His Ark.

SONNET ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

[Bright World of Earth and Air, Sea, Sky, and Sun]

Bright World of Earth and Air, Sea, Sky, and Sun,
Would I to thee were wedded!—I would be
A worldling thus, thus only—proudly free
Are they who own such sway; their chains are spun
Of light and air—but thy sway let me shun,
Harsh, hollow World of vain Society!—
Heaven's World!—O! to be wedded unto thee,—
And to that glorious Heaven, may be as one!—
Aye, this may brightly e'en one meaning bear!—
This may indeed be as the self-same thing!—
Bright World of Sea and Sky, Sun, Earth, and Air,
Let me be wedded all to thee.—Oh! fling
Thy flowery chains around me—fine and fair,—
For unto thee my heart and soul I bring!

SONNET, ON A PICTURE.

It is a beauteous face!—and yet it brings
Contending thoughts into the pondering mind,
The soul in all this loveliness enshrined
Hath it kept pure and free its hidden springs?
Hath it retained its earth-surmounting wings?
Hath it rejected petty chains that bind,
And moved still free as sunshine and as wind?
Where free it should remain, midst finite things,
Not slavishly conforming to the wrong—
Where Nature, Faith, and Reason point the right,
In high and conscious innocency strong,
And guarding well its life from stain and blight.
Oh! wherefore ask?—too busy, curious tongue,
Let the eye drink awhile, untroubled, its delight.

SEAS AND MOUNTAINS.

AWAY!

Away!—away!—
On threatening day—
The sweeping storm,
With cloudy swarm
Of terrors wild,
Heaped, thronged, and piled
Together high—
In the angry sky,
And winds that seem,
With tempest-dream,
(Far swept across—)
The earth to toss
As 'twere a wave
Which foam-wreaths pave!
(So doth the strife
Give troubled life
To all around,)
The while the ground,
Is strewn with things
By those fierce wings,
Swept darkly down—
The foliage crown
Of shadowing bowers,
Rained down in showers—
Loose boughs and leaves—
Till the earth's frame heaves—
Roused fancy deems—
For so it seems
With motion free,
Like storm-lashed sea!—
Such tempests strong
Driven fierce along
May raze—may rock,
With startling shock.
The rose-tree frail
In smiling vale—
It roots—it rears—
The up-shooting spears
Of sapling oaks,
Whose firmness mocks
The threat'ning blast
That thunders past!—
Roots, roots and rears
The straight strong spears—
Of sapling oaks—
Which bide the strokes
Of stormy blast
Deep-rooted fast;—
Nor shaken there—
Proud growths and fair—
By shrivelling fears:—
Like spears with spears,—
The storms they meet,
And fearless greet!
Like foe with foe,
They stand the blow,
So bide the brunt,
Even front to front:
Nor shrink away,
On threatening day—
From strife and wrath,
On their wild path—
My Faith so stands!—
Fate's treacherous hands
May now weave strong
A web of wrong;
Tumultuous hours,
With threatening powers—
Of grief and ill,
May try it still,—
But shall not shake,—
Nor teach to quake,—
Nor fill with fear!—
They root—they rear,
That faith sublime,
Which fate nor time
Shall ever bow—
Believe it thou!
Dark hours of doom,
Of wrath and gloom,
May raze and rock,
With mastering shock,
And teach to quail,
Faint faith, and frail—
These root,—these rear,
Strong faiths and clear,
Like mine is still,
That fears no ill,
Like mine—like mine!
Say too—like thine!—

A PICTURE.

—SONNET.

Lady! thou'rt very fair; such forms sweep by
On festal nights in gilded palace-halls,
With pearls and plumes—yet free from jewell'd thralls,
Or e'en the flowery chaplet's tenderer tie!—
Spreads streaming loose, like meteors in the sky,
That most illustrious hair, which richly falls
O'er thy white shoulders—lighting up these walls
E'en in its pictured semblance—dazzlingly!
Those flower-wreathed chaplets on that queenly brow
Should look as proud and glorious as a crown!
The jewelled crown upon its cloudless snow
Should gain a statelier grace, thus nobly shown!
But that illustrious hair's rich splendent flow
Than either, or than both, a fairer pride doth own!

EVENING.

'Twas Evening!—Music floated on the air,
And crimson light was brooding everywhere,
And still 'twas growing lovelier; till at last
I almost thankful felt when all was past;
Too beautiful the emotions that it brought
To fascinate the feeling, sense, and thought,—
I could not more admire.—My heart and mind,
Sank, fainting, pierced by raptures too refined;
Each power and faculty seemed on the stretch;
I felt a very worm, a helpless wretch,
Blind, dumb, unfeeling—even from the excess
Of feeling—and o'erpowering happiness,—
And half rejoiced when all was o'er at last,
And almost thankful felt, when all was past.
Oh! our weak nature! we are fettered close
(And most we feel it in such hours as those?)
In chains too complex, and too mighty still—
Narrow our consciousness and frail our will!
All things are circumscribed for us, since we
Are bound and clenched in our mortality;
Our very joys are too much for us here!—
We breathless stand, and ask a single tear,
To show how much the full-fixed soul adores,
Thus borrowing for delight from sorrow's stores.
Aye, so our very pleasures give us pain!
Lo! we have found the true length of our chain;—
And vainly, vainly, 'gainst it strive and strain;
So our joys grieve us; so doth our delight
With dark self-discontent o'ertake and smite;
We are found wanting to ourselves, and own
A leaden mantle round our spirits thrown—
A frost, like sleep or death, dull, deep, intense,
Upbinding every nerve and every sense!—
A weight, a chill, a stupor, and a gloom,
As though our souls were bound in living tomb;—
We find ourselves still wanting evermore
Unto ourselves,—and grieve shame-stricken sore,
And pine to enter on that nobler life
That shall not know this sufferance and this strife—
When brightly liberated, proudly freed,
Our souls shall grasp their own great bliss indeed!—
Not sink beneath its burthen and its weight,
But bound exultant, fearless, and elate.
There love, joy, admiration, zeal, shall be
Part of our living souls eternally;—
Not pressing from without—importunate—
But part and portion of the soul's estate,
No shock, and no addition, and no change,
Still there for ever—nothing new—nor strange—
Not sprung from foreign objects—to controul,
But from the Soul of all things in the Soul!

SONNET.

[Bring me, oh! pitying Sleep! no lovely train]

Bring me, oh! pitying Sleep! no lovely train
Of visions fair, no smiling aspects bright,
No shapes of beauty, and no realms of light;
Bring but forgetfulness!—Steep, steep my brain
In that, and I will bless thy gentle chain.—
Bring full and deep forgetfulness—and write
Upon my soul, in characters of night,
One word, one sole word “Peace!”—Come now and reign!—
Now come and snatch this heavy heart grief-worn,
From all the death of life!—Heave strong, strong bars
Between me and that world I loathe—dread—scorn.
Dreams—ye're piled battle-fields of finished wars!—
Bring me no light to mind of coming morn;—
Of night I ask her shadows—not her stars.

SONNET.

[How many thoughts have travelled through my mind]

How many thoughts have travelled through my mind
Within this one brief hour, thoughts dark and bright;
Soft flowering thoughts, and thoughts of stormy might,
And scarce a trace have they now left behind—
Gone like a breath of swift and arrowy wind.
My soul hath known their darkness and their light;
Their tenderer influence and tempestuous flight:
And knows no more of them—thus disenshrined,
Fled, lost, forgotten—ne'er to be recall'd.
Oh! well may all things fleet from us below,
Since our own thoughts we may not bind, unthrall'd
By our weak will, they to some ocean flow,
Those streams of soul—from our sense barr'd and walled—
Winged children of the mind! ah! whither do ye go?

SONNET.

[How do we shape our lives from day to day!]

How do we shape our lives from day to day!
Here form an interest—there a hope to fill
The hours, and here a pleasure, whose sweet thrill
May wake the heart-pulse to a livelier play!
How do we shape our lives that fleet away!—
Our quick thoughts prey on expectation still;
The present answereth our desire but ill,
Though pleasures—interests may our call obey.
The world lives in its future evermore!
To-morrow is the idol of us all—
And yet though 'tis that future we adore,
We care for what may day by day befall.
Oh, that on neither we our souls might pour,
Another Future—thine, Eternity! doth call!

THE STAR'S REFLECTION.

SONNET.

[And art thou dead, friend of my soul! so long]

And art thou dead, friend of my soul! so long
Its nearest—dearest—art thou lost and gone?
How feel I now on this dark earth alone!
For, oh! the ties between us clasped were strong,
And thought to thought still lightened—change nor wrong
Might come to part us—Death the deed hath done:
Of all thy thoughts—remaineth there not one?—
Where the ever-moving—many-coloured throng?—
Death—Death—strange, fearful mystery that thou art—
Infinite mystery—lo! heart, soul, and mind
Thou sweepest away at once—they swift depart—
No thought—no feeling may be left behind;
This Life and Death clash cloud-like—forth doth dart,
Soul, thy electric fire at once set free, unshrined!

EARTH'S LOFTY SPIRITS.

Spirits, thrice crowned!—and lofty and sublime,
Surely your lever-thoughts did in their time
Lift this world higher in the scale of those
Whose circle so mysteriously doth close
Around the unseen and the unknown centre still;
Centre none hath known—none ever will.
These surely did exalt it, in its place!—
Ennoble and aggrandize it in space!—
And on its forehead seal it with a seal,
Which Time may not in all his years reveal,
But which, when his swift streams forgets to flow—
Lo!—the after-born Eternities may show.
Perchance, where in their boundless glory move
The orders of bright intelligence above,
This world is known by your immortal names,
Oh! ye who have built up your stainless fames—
Slowly and painfully—midst scorn and wrong,
Hate of the few—derision of the throng!
Ye, whose illustrious tribulations wrought
New epochs in the mighty reign of thought!
Your world, crowned spirits—may this earth be styled,
Where ye now walk; no more by dust defiled!—
Known by your names, and by your glory raised,
For those high names' sake it may there be praised!

THEY PARTED.

TO ME ALIKE.

SONNET.

[Vesuvius! I have seen thee in thy might]

Vesuvius! I have seen thee in thy might,
Forth vomiting thy threatening smoke and flame,
As with some reckless and unhallowed aim;
Crowned, like a ruined sun, with blood-red light!—
Angry—portentous—troubling the awe-struck sight—
Not centuried slumbers can e'er make thee tame:
Thou'rt still in will and purposed wrath the same.
Scowling at Time upon his arrowy flight,
How dost thou fierce and frowning seem to be,
(As though thou felt thyself banned—unforgiven)
The ruthless foe of earth, and sky, and sea,
Whence peace and beauty by thy wrath are driven,
Wasting the earth's pride—o'ershadowing blue waves free,
Heaving, as 'twere, a very hell to heaven!

SONNET.

[Mont Blanc! on thee in reverent joy I gaze]

Mont Blanc! on thee in reverent joy I gaze;
Lo! thy tri-forked head is gleaming now
As with a galaxy of crowns!—thy brow,
Thy most monarchic brow, in their bright blaze,
Is hid in uttermost splendour—O'er thee plays
The morn, whose chief rays to thy high crest flow.—
So sun with sun might commune, a proud Show!—
Earth seems in thee her towering head to raise!—
As the redeemed and glorified should do,
E'en to the Eternity of heaven above,
As with a mighty rapture ever new.—
Yes! Earth seeks Heaven in Mountains!—as with love
And trust and zeal.—And we—should we pursue
Our way care-bowed—the o'er-gazing hills reprove!

SONNET.

[Hushed Hour! which doth Heaven's Hour of Earth appear!—]

Hushed Hour! which doth Heaven's Hour of Earth appear!—
Whose depths of rest and peace none, none may sound!
Grey twilight hour, with tenderest shadows crowned,
Thou art a time most dreamy and most dear;
And all is quiet now—afar and near;
Earth's fever seems soothed down by calm profound—
Faint, shapeless shadows float in peace around,
Low wordless whispers tremble to mine ear!—
I break the chains of fear—grief—memory!—
As I have ofttimes found—once more I find,
While this strange stillness broods o'er earth and sky—
Thoughts crowd on thoughts within the awakened mind,
Full, fervent, far-aspiring still!—on high
Lifting the world with them, or leaving it behind!

SONNET.

[Sorrow! thou broodest deeply o'er my soul]

Sorrow! thou broodest deeply o'er my soul,
And fitt'st on every thought thy cramping chain;
But long inured to heaviness and pain,
I bend to thee submissive; and controul
Vain murmurings ever! dark the waves may roll
And deep—but fair pearls hid beneath remain:—
They know, who oft have bowed to thy dim reign,
That magic words are writ on thy dark scroll,
Spells of enchantment!—and that precious things
Are mid thy stores; thou brood'st o'er my lone way
Like some proud Eastern bird, with mighty wings,
Some dark, illustrious bird, that to the day,
(O'er which—round him—a gorgeous gloom he flings—)
Like star-bejewelled night, doth his rich plumes display!

FOR THE BITTERNESS AND MOURNING.

HOPE AND HAPPINESS.

SPRING'S YOUNG DAYS.

The Forests and the Fountains have a voice,
And freely do they triumph and rejoice;—
A deep voice have they now in this glad time,
While spring fair-opening charms the softened clime.
Would I might stray, in happy idlesse by
Those warbling brooks that wake the sylvanry
To murmurs of an ever-new delight,
And flash their clear blue crystal on the sight.—
Oh!—in the beauty of these fresh, first days
Would I might feast, and rivet long my gaze
On Nature's fine developement, and watch
The out-bursting of the leaves, and gladly snatch
The faintest first tones of the wandering birds,
And mark the quiet of the gladdened herds—
The peace or triumph of all living things;
While this in silence broods—that soars and sings!—
While this seems bent on unreserved display,
And that dreams calm, the Halcyon hours away.
Should I not then, in mine own joy, forget
This world's vain strife and all life's busy fret?
Forget that to this green earth's bosom fair,
Contention (like a serpent coiling there!—)
Is ever closely, strictly, sternly bound,
Breathing its venomed atmosphere around!—
As though in sooth 'twere a most precious tie,
Claiming and meriting such constancy!
A tie, a treasure not to be resigned,
Which to her breast she would for ever bind!
Surely from strife and thoughts of strife set free,
I then might gain repose and liberty:
But here, amid the city's stir and noise,
'Tis pain to picture e'en those gentle joys
Which I am barred from sharing—plunged among
The restless, hurrying, discontented throng;
Yet in the city's dull and gloomy bound,
Some joys of vernal birth may yet be found:
The angel of the spring appears on high,
And builds her throne Cerulean in the sky.
Look upwards—wide she waves her glorious wing,
And all the sky is sunshine and is Spring!
Thus may the thoughts that tremble at my heart,
From this too troubled life's vain din apart;
Whate'er they miss beneath of peace and bliss,
(And much, and more than words can tell, they miss!)
Forgetting not to soar—to hope—to feel—
In upward-looking faith and fervent zeal—
And unblamed confidence of trusting love,
Find all they lack and lose on Earth—Above!

SONNET.

[Great Privilege and glorious,—to do good!—]

Great Privilege and glorious,—to do good!—
This—this the meanest and the mightiest share,
Since the poor sons of labour and of care,
If with the will, and the desire imbued,
Possess the power:—when springs an angry feud,
Staid words and wholesome counsel may repair
The disagreement—and the sequel spare!
If sickness or if sorrow come to intrude,
On neighbouring homes the poorest can bestow
Prompt Aid—Dear Service—and Love's Tears and Prayers.
Submission oft from sympathy will grow;
And he oft soothes a grief, who pitying shares—
We sink beneath the burthens of our woe,
If none compassionate or claim our cares.

ONE WORD WITH THEE!

A LESSON IN SORROW.

THE WORLD OF GRAVES.

I WILL NOT LISTEN.

THE HEART'S HISTORY.

SONNET.

[Nature! where'er thou art we there may find]

Nature! where'er thou art we there may find
Food for the thought most healthful, and partake
Of pleasure all but heavenly—and e'en slake
That thirst for Knowledge which devours the mind.
Alas! how often prove we deaf and blind—
To thee, dear mother-monitress!—then wake
Too late!—to ourselves some wretched idol make,
That shall betray us when Hope proves unkind!—
Thou with munificence' profusion so
Dost bless us oft; but men, unthankful men,
Poor sordid niggards to themselves, thus throw
Away thy gifts and blessings—grove and glen
The while re-echoing to the sighs that flow
From the unwise heart—again and oft again!

THE NIGHT OF SORROW.

JOY'S VISITS.

CHILDREN ROUND A NEW-MADE GRAVE.

THE MEMORY OF DELIGHT.

Oh! Love's deep memory—memory of delight—
What hast to show of beautiful and bright?—
Thou'rt like a theatre—by day-light seen,
Which had the night before resplendent been;
But now the silent empty stage is left,
Of every pomp and ornament bereft!—
The brilliant lights that gleamed in golden showers;
The magic sceneries, and the fairy bowers,
The proud processions, and the stately shows,
Are past, are faded—all is dull repose,
And heavy silence, emptiness, and gloom,
The theatre is shadowy as a tomb!—
Its pealing music now is dumb, and dumb
The sound of multitudes, the murmurous hum,
Nor on the sense now swells and falls again,
The shout of man's excitement—nor the strain
Of the artful singer, ringing sweet and clear,
And thrilling long on the delighted ear;
The echoes of the soft-toned speech are heard,—
Nor plaints of mimic woe, nor whispered word—
The proud and gorgeous robes should dimmed appear
In all their native tinsel—the rich gear
Of chiefs and emperors—and bedaubed and rent
Those canvas folds, that streamed magnificent,
Ere fell on these the keen tale-telling light—
And all the illusion's lost to soul and sight!
Or like a battle-field, when all is o'er—
The strife, the haste, the flash, the mingling roar,—
When the gay banners, trampled are and soiled,
The warriors' harness all is stained and spoiled;
And nought is seen but wretched sufferers round,
Dead, or devoted on the encumbered ground.
Oh! memory of the Past! thou, thou dost strike
My thoughts as mournfully and sternly, like
That dark deserted field, that empty stage,
Where Shows no longer blaze, nor Hosts engage;
Where all is stillness, dreariment, and gloom,
The silence and the shadows of the tomb—
All that once seemed to charm and to delight
Is changed for ever, or hath taken flight;
All that once seemed enchantment to our eyes—
The dubious thought can hardly recognize;
All that seemed full of strength, and pride, and power,
Hath waned indeed from its ascendant hour.
Are these the things we once so prized and loved?
Could these things once have melted us and moved?
Are these the glorious triumphs we desired?
The pomps and vanities we so admired?—
Were these the deep delights that swayed our souls?
One cloud of change o'er all the prospect rolls;
By frowning darkness it is veiled and cross'd,
And all the illusion is for ever lost!

THE BLUE, BRIGHT SKIES.

SELF-COMMAND.

QUESTIONS.

THE LAST MEETING.

ONE MORE FAREWELL!

A TRANCE OF THOUGHT.

CLOUDS! LOVELY CLOUDS.

Clouds! lovely Clouds! How move ye brightly on,
Like fiery dust whirled round the Chariot Throne
Of yon victorious, radiant Lord of Light—
Beaming in boundless glory on the sight—
Yon bright, auspicious, beatific sun—
Whose daily course is now full nearly run.
Clouds! lovely Clouds! how gloriously ye move
In rich and rapid restlessness above!—
Nay, all the Firmaments around ye, make
Appear in glowing motion, when ye wake
Unto the touch of some triumphant Wind,
And speed, as ye would leave e'en space behind!
It seems while sweep ye thus,—ye life-like things,
As Heaven were moving on all gorgeous wings,
From Boundlessness to Boundlessness along—
Rolling, like mighty Seas, when Storms are strong—
As all the everlasting Heavens above,
Rush'd as ye rush, and moved e'en as ye move!—
(Ye hurrying, restless, unreturning things!)—
While all their worlds were speeding upon wings.
Clouds, Clouds, I love ye—and I love to dream,
Borne on glad Fancy's smoothly flowing stream.
That ye in twenty thousand lovely forms
Precede—survive the stern and shadowy storms.—
Chariots, and mighty barks, and golden towers,
And palmy groves, and fair Elysian bowers—
And trophied piles of Pride, and mighty pyres—
And pyramids, and monuments, and spires—
Bright oriflammes and canopies of state,
And blazing scrolls of deeply written fate,
And gates of glory—and imperial tombs—
Crowned sheaves of plenty and wide-waving plumes—
And bannered armies—and thick-jewell'd thrones,
And gorgeous shrines emblazed with precious stones,
And sumptuous shells of giant size, ye seem,
And many another thing to my swift dream.
Oh! lovely Clouds, I call ye regal things
In your oncomings and evanishings.
The glorious Sun his own dread beauty views
On your fair faces—blazoned with his hues—
Ye are his stars!—for those he may not see
Which his own light doth banish instantly—
But ye reflect, in rosy beauty bright,
The glories of that pure effulgent light!—
Clouds, lovely Clouds—ye free and fearless things—
Would of my burthened Soul ye were the Wings!

GENTLE DOVES!

Gentle Doves, how soft your moan!—
Sadness swells in rich sweet tone—
Oh! to interpret ev'ry sound—
That seems to imply an inward wound;
And oh! to know what means that note
Ye seem thus to repeat by rote—
'Tis but the depth of your delight
Haply that doth thus unite
Your music-moan with Grief's faint style
(Our human sufferings to beguile!)—
The sweet, sweet music consecrate
To woes and miseries of dark fate
By our sorrowing hearts may prove
To ye but lays of Joy and Love!—
Still all that's beautiful is known
To ye as beautiful alone!—
But, oh! how many glorious things
For us are linked with Grief's sharp stings:
Half—half Earth's loveliest wealth is lost
To us; whom Sorrow shadoweth most!—
She takes too much for her own share
Of all that's bright in Earth and Air!—
Too much to her young Joy transfers—
Half of the beautiful is hers—
Oh! far too much—as well they know
Who e'er felt—(who hath not felt?)—woe!
The twilight's soft and tenderest hour—
When fleeting dreams and dews have power;
The moonlight-sea in its repose—
Which momently more beauteous grows;
The autumnal glories of the grove—
When the year's pomp is on the move
(Yet never more sublime to see
Than in that fall of Empiry!—)
The silent gathering of the storm—
O'erhanging Earth, like some vague form,
Indistinct and shadowy all—
Upbuilding darkness like a wall—
The silence of the starry sky—
In holy Night's regality;
The perfect beauty without breath
Of a young child's face in death—
Still these things, these things Sorrow claims—
She calls them by pathetic names—
She takes them ever for her own
As her's they are for ever known—
And yet how many more beside
In this august Creation wide
Silvery sounds and shadowy sights—
Fleeting visions—floating lights;
Dreamy presences and powers—
Mighty changes—mystic hours—
Oh! far more than I can say,
Sorrow's rule and reign obey—
For Joy hath given them up to her,
And so she makes them minister
To her most sad needs evermore,
Until the wave sleeps on the shore—
(The calm wave of the moonlight sea,
Transparent in tranquillity—)
Like to a dying thing, whose death
E'en makes us, saddening, hold our breath—
Till the loosened leaves that know—
The autumnal, hectic, Hesperus-glow,
Seem to us, with sighs and moans,
To mimic faint the mortal groans—
Of expiring creatures, fain
To live, and languishing in pain—
Until the starry silent sky,
In its empyreal majesty—
Seems to us almost to mourn
For Worlds from its embraces torn—
Worlds that perished and that past,
Mighty—yet not made to last;
Worlds extinguished and decayed—
Which the awful debt have paid;
Until a fair child's face in death,
That hath just resigned its breath,
Is to us a gloomy sight,
Though lovelier than the orbs of light,
That crowd the bright Heaven's beaming space,
Running their immortal race;
Lovelier than those orbs by far,
More beautiful than sun or star—
Fair as the soul of heavenly birth—
That but just had dawned on earth—
Snatched to that Heaven full swiftly back,
Ere in the dull, vile, beaten track—
It had long enough remained
To be either dimmed or stained,
Fresh from Heaven—and swiftly sped—
Ere by contact, dark and dread,
With the things of earth 'twas soiled—
Unpolluted, undespoiled,
Back to its bright home again,
Free from any spot or stain!
From Heaven it came—to Heaven 'twas caught,
Ere it lost the light it brought!—
Oh! Sorrow, Sorrow, thou dost steal,
Howe'er that theft thou mayst conceal,
Many a lovely thing from Joy—
In thy stern service to employ.
But theft can ne'er be thrift, and so
These fair things, shadowed o'er by woe—
Thus saddening, saddening us the more,
To the bosom's—being's core,
Only make us pant to escape
From the threatening, frowning Shape!—
Make us long, with earnest mind—
Joy and Peace once more to find—
Which these stolen treasures bring
Back to thought, to pierce and wring
With yearnings passionate and deep—
While beneath thy sway we weep!—
Only make us pant and sigh,
More fondly and most fervently,
From that sway to move once free—
And taste the true felicity!—
So much do these most lovely things
(While each a mighty message brings—
To us still—whose heavenly hints—
Deep Feeling on the memory prints!)
Paint to us what bliss must be,
Reminding us incessantly—
Thus of the blessedness of joy—
Which gloomy Sorrow doth destroy.
Thus thy thefts, oh! Sorrow, vain
Still shall be to fix thy reign—
On firm foundations in our hearts,
Whence almost e'en the life departs
In lingering, lengthening languishments—
(In sighs and moans still seeking vents—)
Sickening with the yearning fond,
To grasp the visioned bliss beyond
Aye! thus almost the life departs—
Fainting in our fervent hearts—
With the intense o'erwrought extreme—
Of its deep despairing dream,
Glimpsing e'en through Sorrow's veil,—
Hearing e'en through Sorrow's tale—
Something that would be delight,
Did not she enforce her right,
And win them from their wonted way,
Draw them from their aim astray,
And stamp on them her shadowy seal,
And from Joy, insidious steal!—
But theft shall not be thrift—and thus
Those stolen treasures shall to us
Ever, hints delicious bring
Of some glad and blessed thing—
Which, when Sorrow's sway is o'er,
May be our own for evermore!
Gentle doves—your music-moan
Makes me dream of bliss unknown,
E'en the while that I complain,
Beneath the present power of pain!

I KNOW I LOVE THEE.

FROM “INEZ,” A MS. POEM.

THE SONG TO THE ROSE.

A WISH.

HOPE, I ABJURE THEE!

Hope, I abjure thee!—thou to me hast been
The agony of agonies!—the scene
Of life for me is with thy wrecks strewn o'er,
Thickly as weeds upon the Ocean's Shore—
Now cold indifference soon shall fence me round,
From thee and all thy weapons that do wound
Invisibly—but mortally—and still
Antagonizing Peace, refuse to kill,
Cherishing life within the bosom's core,
To torture and to agonize it—more!
Hope, I abjure thee!—fain would I resign
Each smile—each tone—each witching charm of thine!
Tormentor! dread tormentor—cherub fiend,
That wind'st thyself into the melting mind,
To work Destruction's worst!—now fare thee well.
Hope! I abjure thee, and had rather dwell,
False Halcyon! with the hyæna in his lair,
Or fury of the hunted tigress dare—
Or with the hungered lion make my couch—
Or to the armed alligator crouch—
Or stay with venomed angry scorpions pent—
Than feel thine ecstacy of languishment—
Than dare with thee to strive, with thee to cope!—
Thou Halcyon-Hydra—fearful—fatal Hope!

THE BURIED SECRET.

THE NAME OF DEATH.

We talk of Death! What is it but a Name,
A Phantasy—a Shadow—and a Dream?
Dread King of Heaven, 'tis thy Almighty hand
That bids the pulse of Life's wild fever stand
We cry, Oh! spare us, King of Terrors, spare;
And 'tis to thee alone is breathed that prayer!
Consoling thought, thou dost but bear us hence
To exult in life more ample and intense;
If worthy found, if humble, meek and full
Of trust in Thee and Him who died to annul
Our faults, and their dread forfeiture, and raze
That sentence stamped 'gainst them, and all, in days
Of the elder time, the sentence dread and dark;
But His name is the Strong-hold and the Ark—
Amidst the roaring waves—the rushing war
'Tis the one Refuge!—that Sun-lighting Star!
Salvation's beams—stream from it, broad and bright,
And all the Second Darkness melts to light.
Death!—thou art a phantasy—a dream—a name,
The smoke of the fresh-kindled, mightier flame,
That thus to Heaven aspires, not crushed, but fanned,
By the dread waving of the Almighty hand!—
That sable-seeming smoke conceals from us
The Spirit's guise and garb, all luminous!—
The King of Terrors, we may call thee, Death;
But thou art bowed the Eternal's throne beneath.
Oh! happy knowledge, to the faithful given,
The King of Terrors is the King of Heaven!
And they, in gratitude o'erflowing, know
In mercy 'tis he sends the dreaded blow—
For some 'tis rest from burthens dire—for all
To Him it is the summons and the call.
The King of Terrors is the King of Heaven!—
Thrice blessed knowledge to the faithful given!

TO THE WINDS.

THE POWERS OF NIGHT.

Clouds, Stars, and Winds, and Shadows, these and Night
To lend them all a soul and spell of might,
These are the strong and the mysterious things
That call the Soul to soar upon her wings—
And ask new worlds their wonders; and that wake
Sad thoughts as force that Spirit's self to quake
Before what she herself but then poured forth,
Those bold free thoughts of deep and mystic worth:
For a new birth the Soul in joy receives,
Reality shrinks back, and wholly leaves
The field to Thought, and Hope, and Fancy then;—
But this lasts not, the World of things and men,
The common, actual, evil World again
Calls us and claims us, and that call and claim
We must obey, and must become the same!
Then Memories, fancies, and delights depart,
(To leave behind a sad and yearning heart;)
And when the Morning dawns, it finds us all
We were before—we have obeyed that call!
And higher thoughts and nobler dreams take flight,
With Clouds, Winds, Shadows, Stars, and sweeping Night
That lent them, in her dread and glorious hour,
So much of thrilling and prevailing power!

A CHURCHYARD AT EVENING.

PRIDE'S VOW.

TIME AND ABSENCE.

WEEP NOT BECAUSE I WEEP.

REMEMBERED MUSIC.

LOVE'S FIRST DAYS.

OH, NO! THOU DOST NOT LOVE ME!

(FROM “INEZ,” A MS. POEM.)

SONNET.

[The expectant Earth awaits thee, loveliest Spring!]

The expectant Earth awaits thee, loveliest Spring!
And she shall greet thee with a burst of glee,
A mighty show of proud festivity,
More then e'er welcomed yet a new-crowned king,
Or conqueror, who himself might tidings bring
Unto his country that 'tis great and free,
And that himself hath wrought the victory.—
Hark! how the vernal Woods resounding sing!
Now strewn the Earth is, with soft flowers, whose bloom
Makes her as rosy as some glorious star—
That doth clear hues of sunniest sheen assume,
Though trembling in the firmaments afar!—
The expectant Earth awaits thee!—Come, oh! come!
These are thine hours—but chill and bleak they are!

NIGHT'S SHADOWS.

ABSENCE IN PRESENCE.

LINES FROM INEZ, A MS. POEM.

I gazed upon thy face—my joy! my pride!
That face more dear than all the world beside,
And all the world contains of bright, to me
Unrivalled in its sweet supremacy!—
The soft suffusions and the expressions there,
Those blushing tints, bright as Morn's roseate air—
Those kindlings of intelligence, and more,
Those shades of feeling, made my thoughts run o'er
With admiration words might not express—
And more unutterable tenderness!
Had Love's soft shade been banished from thy face,
There nought of human would have stamped its trace,
So much did thine all-beauteous countenance,
When thou wast wrapt in some far-soaring trance,
Speak of another word—a world of light,
Reflected in its living mirror bright.
Methinks each thought that thrills and wakens thee,
Mine own! must be an immortality!
And Thought by Thought thou thus shalt brightly rise,
Till all thy soul's exhaled into the skies!
I almost tremble as on thee I gaze—
At times when o'er thy lovely aspect blaze
The dazzling shadows of these thoughts supreme,
Lest thou should vanish from me like a dream!—
Lest like a vision thou shouldst melt away,
Or float on the receding light of day!
What time the bright sun leans into the west,
And leaves the world to shadows and to rest,
I almost tremble, dear one, lest indeed,
From mortal and from earthly trammels freed,
Thou thus before me shouldst triumphant rise,
Exhaled into the bright Etherial Skies!—
Even Thought by Thought thy heavenly Soul exhaled
Into those heights that none like thine hath scaled!

THE SONG.

SONNET.

[Spring's golden Sun is in its evening hour]

Spring's golden Sun is in its evening hour,
And tenderness o'er earth's new freshness broods;
That setting sun, now brightening o'er the woods,
Speaks still of change and parting, with deep power,
And tunes the proud strain of our feelings lower.
Evening is the autumn of the day—and moods
Of graver vein—while still one thought intrudes—
Come o'er our minds—when falls its golden shower
Of glittering beams around—and that one thought
Is of the passing of all earthly things—
Oh! this spring-evening's setting sun hath brought
Hints of calm wisdom to my soul, whose wings
At times, though folded, are full often taught
To soar where brightly play truth's hallowed springs!

THE NIGHT COMES ON.

WORDS.

I SAW THY TEARS.

SONNET.

[Hopes!—Hopes!—how soon, how very soon to leave!]

Hopes!—Hopes!—how soon, how very soon to leave!
A moment's ruffling—your bright bubbles break,
As those do, on yon many-glittering lake!
Yours! on the life!—and then we mourn and grieve,
And our sick hearts with sighs desponding heave,
As though unpitying Fate did harshly take
Some real substantial good away—and wake
And watch in vain, our treasure to retrieve!—
Fair Hopes!—I made ye once my counsellors,
My bosom friends!—companions night and morn;
But now against ye have I closed my doors—
Your treachery I detest—your flatteries scorn—
Dread disappointment most my heart abhors—
And leaves the rose unplucked, still fearful of the thorn!

SONG.

['Tis wretchedness and weariness]

TO MADAME CARADORI, SINGING.

Thy voice is like the loveliest softness bland,
Of the sweet, sweetest south, and many a band,
Which chained (or seemed to chain them wearily,
Until they languished, and were like to die.)
Bright flowery treasures of the dreaming mind,
All delicate and fragile and refined—
It loosens now; they brightening bloom, and blow
Beneath that magic breath, and breathe and glow
Themselves, and turn to music, though they were
Moveless and mute, till freed by that sweet air—
That trembles o'er them now—a breath divine:
'Tis surely sent from realms where cloudless shine
Immortal suns, in glory of repose—
Where rapture ever soars, and splendour glows.
Oh! melody supreme, thy magic balm
Pours on the stormiest spirit, and 'tis calm!
How mighty is thine influence! Sweetest voice!
Thou bids us thrill, weep, tremble, or rejoice,
Or hope or fear, remember or forget,
Or nurse new schemes—or cling to old regret.
And still unhesitating, we obey,
And love the fulness of thy tyrant sway.
Scarcely I know myself, while thus my soul
Is under thy delectable controul:
Less wild and yet less weak that soul feels then,
My heart less sad; sing, Syren, sing again!
Scarcely I know myself beneath thy sway,
Sweetvoice!—thoughts—dreams of many a byegone day
In power rise up again within my mind:—
Dull clouds melt off, and thousand chains unwind!
'Tis that old feelings thrill me—that alas!
I am a stranger to the self I was!
That to be thus renewed, restored, appears—
To be e'en snatched to other worlds and spheres!—
To be another being, and to live
Another life,—still, still these raptures give!—
Oh! voice of music! still awake my soul
And bid its thoughts in softest echoes roll;
With thy rich tones, set this bruised spirit free,
Teach it thine own delicious harmony—
Oh! beatific voice—so shall it prove
Worthier at least to listen and to Love!

THE CHANGE OF SEASONS.

IT IS THE VOICE OF SPRING.

OH! COULD WE LOVE BUT LITTLE!

THERE ARE TREASURES.

A FAIR, GOOD MORNING.

THY MEMORY AND THY TEARS.

GOOD NIGHT!—GOOD NIGHT!—

THE FATAL TRUTH.

I HAVE THOUGHT ON MY DOOM.

THE MORNING HOUR.

LOW SIGH OF LOVE.

GO, AND BE HAPPY!

THEY SPEAK OF THEE!

VAIN THOUGHTS.

WHERE ART THOU?

THIS CHANGED HEART.

OH! LET ME BREATHE A LIGHTER AIR!

SONNET.

[Repose! best blessing! wonderful and deep—]

Repose! best blessing! wonderful and deep—
Rich gift of Heaven! scarce prized as it should be—
Great, gracious gift of rest!—how thankfully
Should man receive it—who oft wakes to weep
Through his own crimes or follies!—Blessed sleep!—
When we are sooth'd, and hush'd, and calm'd by thee—
From all toils spared—from every trouble free—
What watch doth Mercy o'er our slumbers keep—
What mighty changes are progressing round,
What wonders are achieved, what works are wrought
In this great universe, without a bound!
What acts, what triumphs—far surpassing thought!
What stir, what preparation—vast, profound!
While we are stretched in peace, perplexed, disturbed by nought!

I LOVE THEE, SURELY.

I SEND THEE SOME FEW FLOWERS.

SWEET BIRD!

THE HOUR OF SHADOWS.

SONNET.

[Would that to love thee better still I knew!]

Would that to love thee better still I knew!
Oh! this wild Spirit free, do thou controul;
Teach, teach it all thine own exalted soul
This fiery will thus rule!—this pride subdue,
That lends its thoughts a dark and stormy hue—
Full oft, when o'er their surging, sea-like roll—
Love and its peace should brood to sooth the whole
Of that tempestuous Scene—with influence true.
Would I could love thee better! every thought
Is thine alone, and thine shall ever be.
But with unrest and wild, strange trouble fraught—
Can these reflect thy pure serenity?—
Let my whole mind a nobler mood be taught—
Make my whole heart an offering worthier thee!

CHILDHOOD'S LAUGHTER.

THOU KNOWEST NOT THAT I LOVE THEE!

SONNET.

[Fair wert thou as the morning—fair wert thou—]

Fair wert thou as the morning—fair wert thou—
That with a midnight-gloom of memory deep,
Now weigh'st our souls down—since thou'rt fall'n asleep
In thy young years of beauty—darkly now
Thine image fills our thought, the pale, pale brow—
The silent lip, the eye that may not weep—
Nor sparkle more, these things long dwelt on steep
Our souls in Sorrow, to whose will they bow!—
Should these things be?—should thy freed soul but leave
Mournings and Shadows—Sufferings, Deaths behind?
For many deaths those mourners die, who grieve
As those that hope not—and with anguish blind
That stroke which freed thy Soul to theirs receive!—
Nor lean to loftier thoughts with wiser mind!

A THOUGHT IN SPRING.

SONNET.

[All my soul trembles, to one hope supreme—]

All my soul trembles, to one hope supreme—
Say that the planet may forsake the sun,
And a fresh course, in rash defiance, run—
Say, that the deeply-flowing, murmuring stream
Should bear afar its wavy-trembling gleam,
And seek its ocean-sepulchre to shun.—
Or that this tree, when summer hours are done
Should pluck its deep, deep roots from the earth, while teem
The skies with shadowings o' the dread tempest's threat,
And plant them in the unfixed—uncertain air—
Their strong foundations changed for frailest seat—
But say not I should every Thought's despair
Doom sternly!—these unwinding from that sweet,
That mighty Hope, their cherished charge and care!

I AM WEARY OF MY THOUGHTS.

REMEMBER ME!

SONNET.

[Oh! fair new Hope! I fain would welcome thee]

Oh! fair new Hope! I fain would welcome thee,
Even now, with fitting show of glad delight,
But so long have I bowed to Sorrow's blight—
I know not how, sweet Stranger, worthily
To give such welcome! Old thoughts in a sea
Of troubled waves will come, in wonted might,
And cloud thy triumph, and dispute thy right,
And from old trammels I may move not free!—
When comes in glory fresh the radiant Spring—
Beneath the light of her unclouded skies
Then 'twere in sooth a most unworthy thing—
To see the arched trees, of the Autumn's obsequies
Put on the pomps!—and dead-leaf garlands fling
Before her! yet, bright Hope, thus greet I thy new rise!

TO THE LOST!

THEN THINK OF ME!

THE DEATH-BELL.

THE WORLD OF NATURE.

A FABLE.

It chanced a long, long time ago,
Longer indeed than I well know,
That there was met a company,
Right friendly all, and fair, and free,
A most respectable society,
Assembled in all due sobriety;
They met—and kindly greetings then
Exchanged, as you may see 'mongst men—
For men they were not,—nor laid claim
To so high title—such proud name.—
No!—they were of the tribes that we,
Scornful, in superiority,
Call brutes, and animals, and creatures—
Because they wear not human features;
And, holding in light estimation,
Name—lower orders of creation.—
It was a long, long time ago,
Longer than I can tell or know,
That some of these assembled were,
On a fine Summer's day and fair—
To chat—and their opinions state,
On themes of more and of less weight—
'Twas long ere rail-roads, stiff and straight,
Ran rigidly their iron line
Along, and threatened the decline
Of coach-proprietors and posters—
(Steam! arrantest of vapoury boasters!
How, how dost thou at once declare
That our most solid good is air,
Or smoke, or water!—thee in short—
And how we trust to this report!)
Also of Nature's pride and grace,
Which they contrive too much to efface—
Do these still threaten the overflow,
And frightful make our world below.—
'Twas long before gas turned the night
To something more than mid-noon bright,
And challenged yon proud Lord of Day,
To reign with as triumphant sway—
(While pale Hecate, quite put to shame—
Still fostering her too-faithful flame,
Seems now, like wisp-lights in a swamp—
A supernumerary lamp—
And that too fed with oil—in short—
One of the antiquated sort—
Exploded now on every side,
Through changes vast of time and tide—
And the poor stars, how might they bear
Their dazzling rival, fine and fair.
But ill, in sooth!—for they appear
That glaring, dazzling rival near,
Most like—while more and more they fail—
Ghosts of departed rushlights, pale!)
'Twas long before mild revolutions
Brought forth sweet baby-constitutions—
A little ricketty or so—
As, to their cost, their nurses know;
Yet, on the whole, that promise well,
Tickled with coral, toy, and bell!
Unless the multitude of teachers
Should overdo the pretty creatures,
O'er-tasked, and troubled, or yet worse,
Unless they should be changed at nurse—
And in the place of those that were
Free, liberal, smiling, broad and fair—
Should start up—cast in sterner mould—
Dark Despotisms, strong and bold,
Armed—thriving—scowling, fierce, and strong,
Driving in trembling haste along,
All all before them with their nod,
Changing the rattle for the rod,
Coral and toy, for thong and chain,
And blackened with the old barbarous stain—
'Twas long before such things were known,
Things which now every day are shown—
That this fair company, and free,
Assembled were harmoniously.
There did a staid Owl gravely blink—
Looking as 'twould be thought to think—
Full solemnly and wisely too—
As many emptier bipeds do—
Who put reflection's sage look on,
And think the business thus is done!
And there a noble Eagle gazed
Around, as if almost amazed,
To be upon the earth—so far
From his own worshipp'd sun's proud car;
And there a little quiet Mole,
With shining coat as black as coal,
Sat looking pensively demure—
In earth-born dream, we may be sure—
Deep, dark, and hidden, and profound—
For all his soul is underground!—
A Dormouse too—but come, a truce,
To preface long of little use—
Let us at once report what they
Did on this same occasion say.—
These, and yet many another too,
After the first kind how-d'ye do,
Had passed between them, straight began
To chatter and converse, like man,
On topics divers—and discuss
Full many subjects, until thus
The Dormouse eloquently speaks,
The rest their muzzles close, and beaks;
They speak no more on topics divers,
While his wise mind he thus delivers:—
“How foolish men must surely be!—
Pity they do not learn of me.
How weak it is for young and old,
Alike to bide the Winter's cold:
And troth, my friends, I needs must say
That ye're almost as weak as they;
Almost as weak as they are, sure,
Since you too are content to endure
(Or most of you, at least) the pangs—
Planted by Winter's icy fangs—
When ye have nothing else to do,
But sleep the whole dull winter through,
Curled in a comfortable ball—
Not conscious of the cold at all!
Dreaming of Spring and Summer bright,
Treating the Winter like a night!—
In vain the tempest's wing should flap
O'er ye, once nestled in snug nap—
The piercing frosts—the chilling snows
Should harm ye not in your repose.—
Last Winter, by my friends I'm told,
Was bitter, bleak, and biting cold—
I nothing of its terrors knew,
But soundly slept the season through!—
While thus I slumber, snug and lone,
I have a climate of my own;
The changeful weather is for me
Fettered and fixed unchangeably,
Immutable—invariable,—
While I in lap of quiet dwell—
The inconstant winds for me remai
Together bound, in one soft chain—
East, west, south, north, are all the same
To me, in that long peaceful dream;
To me doth seem, in very truth,
The north like the dew-dropping south;
The keen east like the balmy west—
Since none disturb my happy rest;
A season and a climate fair
Ever have I to mine own share!—
To every dear and worthy friend
A self-same course I recommend
For folly it must be to endure
Ills that so easy are to cure.”
He ceased—and those assembled round,
Awhile remained in silence bound;
But soon another voice began—
And thus the strain mellifluous ran—
The little silky, dusky Mole,
Thus poured his subterraneous soul!—
(And shy, yet sly he looked the while,
And smiled a twinkling darkling smile—)
“Excuse me, gentle Dormouse, dear,
With much surprise your speech I hear;
If they indeed like me would do,
Then they would sapient be, 'tis true,
Nor on earth's surface still remain,
To freeze on the unprotected plain,
Exposed to stern vicissitude
Of varying weather, rough and rude.
My subterraneous galleries are
(Scooped out with persevering care)
Snug, warm, delightful—when the snow
Is white above—there's none below.
How can you all indeed be still,
Content with stupid, senseless will,
To walk about, unroofed—exposed,
—In no delicious mound enclosed,—
To wind and weather, snow and sun,
Nor take the surest means to shun.
Thus you would 'scape the Winter's cold,
But not in senseless slumber rolled;
Unconscious and uncaring all,
Unknowing of what may befall.—
How I enjoy the thought, how well,
Thus screened in my clay citadel,
I can withstand old Winter's power,
And mock him from my mould-built tower:
I joy the howling gales to hear,
To me they bring no pangs of fear;
They may not roughly breathe on me,
I hear their fierce threats dauntlessly;
The snows may fall in thickest showers,
And whiten all the leafless bowers;
They serve to warm me, where I dwell—
In my own little quiet cell.”—
“Well,” cried the solemn, blinking Owl,
(Respectable and worthy fowl!)
“I do not doubt—dear little Mole—
That your discourse is, on the whole,
Full of sage counsel; and, I own,
I always think that you have shown
Much owl-like wisdom in your choice
(Wherein, believe me, I rejoice)
Of a dark dwelling, where no ray
Of blinding sunshine comes to play—
I do not doubt you're in the right—
Like me, a foe to blazing light—
But how Man can (the strange, odd creature,
With ass-like bray, and ape-like feature,
Who e'er heard Man's loud laugh without
Thinking that Asses then sang out?)
Before the calm and cloudy Night
(That soothes so much the undazzled sight)
Prefer the glaring, staring Day
Astounds me more than I can say!
And ye, my friends, Horse, Sheep, and Cow,
And others, too, that I see now!
How can ye be so very weak
As not some shelter then to seek,
When glows the Sun with fearful blaze
Of blinding and of painful rays—
And venture from your calm retreats,
(Whether where bough of verdure meets
With bough, to form a sheltering skreen,
Compact and close, of soothing green;
Or where the hand of Man hath reared
Sheds—by long habit's force endeared—
For your retirement and repose,
Where Sun shines not, nor wild wind blows?—)
Into the open air, alone—
When gleams the gentle Lady Moon—
Then is the time for true delight,
In the still gloom of gracious Night,
When no fierce, gaudy blaze is seen,
Troubling with restless radiance keen,
Wildering with fiery glow intense
The dazzled and distracted sense:
For wise are they who ever shun
The burning, blinding, blazing Sun.”—
“Away!” the noble Eagle cries,
And lifts his bright and kindling eyes,
And flaps his mighty wings of pride,
Resounding loud, and spreading wide,
As though his inmost Spirit yearned
To reach that Sun which cheerly burned
Above them, beautiful and bright,
Fount of an ocean-flood of light!—
“Away—away!—how dare ye thus
Accuse yon proud orb, luminous?—
Good neighbour Owl!—your strange advice
Let Dormice follow in a trice—
And Bats, and things of sullen brood,
That own a vile and abject mood—
Moles, Grubs, and Snails, and twisting Worms,
And all those poor and petty forms
Which seem superfluous, to infest
Earth's teeming and maternal breast—
Let all whose hearts and hopes throb high
Soar up with me into the Sky!—
Let all who would dull languour shun
Mount up with me and greet the Sun!
I marvel much so many prove
Content on humble Earth to move,
And groundwards turn their leaden eyes,
That should be fixed upon the Skies,
And turn their heavy orbs away
From him on golden throne of day
Who sits triumphant and sublime,
Lord of each Season and each Clime,
The Source of Beauty, Hope, Delight—
Of all that joyous is, or bright,
The Chief of Stars, the Crown of Space,
Who gilds Creation's smiling face,
The great, good, glorious, gracious Sun,
From whence all weal, all wealth is won!”—
The Eagle ceased: his piercing tone
Might well have struck a heart of stone:
Defiance and disdain were there—
'Twas like a battle-cry in air!—
It seemed to startle and to stun,
E'en like a voice sent from the Sun!
A muttered murmur round confessed
What echoes swelled in many a breast,
To these proud accents, fierce and free,
That long resounded thrillingly.—
This trembling murmur melted then
To silence' solemn hush again,
And soon a very different sound
The attention claimed of those around.
A dull and drowsy voice was heard—
While laboured—lingering—lengthened word
(Whose every syllable, in drawl
Long-drawn—appeared to creep and crawl)
Spoke forth, by slow and dull degrees,
What wandering mind might never seize—
The meaning of that speaker!—who
Now sought to win, with counsel new.
Each slow, dull accent seemed to fall
Like drops in some deep cavern-hall—
To sink in Silence' depths again,
Like leaden plummets in the main!—
No marvel, since the Snail 'twas then
That spoke from out her shelly den;
Just putting forth, for all to see,
Her horns and head, suspiciously.
And thus she spoke, while all remained
In mute surprise transfixed and chained;
For seldom did the slow Snail take
The trouble thus a speech to make:—
“The lordly Eagle seems to scorn
All who may happen to be born,
Unlike himself, of low estate,
And proudly, proudly doth he prate.
But I do verily opine—
(I pray you all your ears to incline)
That great advantages are found
In calmly dwelling on the ground;
Conspicuous as he soars on high,
His proud form traced out on the sky,
He tempts the skilful marksman's aim,
Whose arrow can his courage tame;
And while he haunts the realms above,
Few friends finds he to trust and love:
He hath a lonely place on high,
A dreary solitude of sky!
For solitude is sad and drear,
E'en though the path of our career
Be through the sunny regions there—
What place of banishment is fair?—
For me, I bless my humble birth,
And am right happy on the earth.
All that I want or wish I have,
And now would your attention crave;
Because I think I could improve
The state of those dear friends I love!
Would all example take from me,
Methinks that all would happier be.
Lo! I am evermore at home,
Not only when I rest—but roam;
Where'er I go, you know 'tis true,
My home and hearth go with me too!
Those who no bliss, no peace would lack,
Like me should bear upon their back
Their house, with all its furniture,
So should their comforts still endure.
Man, the proud lord—Earth's haughty king,
Who seems to deem that every thing
Is made for him and him alone—
The sun his lamp—the world his throne,
The starry and resplendent sky
His star-o'erbroidered canopy—
Trembles, when from his home afar,
Lest thieves should wrong and foes should mar.—
What housebreakers would dare to attack
The house when on the owner's back?
'Twere bungling burglary indeed,
And scarcely to success could lead!—
And then, besides, full well he fares
Who hath no multitude of cares:—
My roof and raiment are the same,
And little care or toil they claim.—
My raiment and my roof are one,
Unbuilt, unpainted, and unspun.—
No choice I have—no change I need;
A calm, contented life I lead:
No strangers do I ask to come,
To visit me in my dear home;
Since there can be no room for these,
Though I therein still dwell at ease—
Nor friends nor foes can there intrude,
And yet is mine no solitude!
I only have to put my head
Just out of doors, with air well bred,
To wish good morning to my friends,
And thus my brief retirement ends.
At once can I of surety be
In midst of gay society!—
Grub, Toad, and brother Snail are there,
And all to greet their friend prepare;
And Mole and Field-mouse too I meet
At times, and do right-loving greet!—
In short, a pleasant life I lead,
And deeply do I wish, indeed,
That all would follow in my train,
They should not find it were in vain—
'Tis most delightful to combine—
(As I unvaryingly entwine)—
Domestic duties deep and true,
With friendly free relations too.
None may encroach, and none intrude
Upon my peaceful solitude;
And yet in midst of all I dwell
Secure within my sheltering shell.
I never leave my house, but still
My situation change at will.
To adopt this same course I advise
All who their peace and comfort prize;
From lordly Man to lowly Mole,
Crouched in his subterraneous hole.”
The Snail had nothing more to say—
Died, drawling, drowsily away
The droning accents—sluggish—slow,
As frozen in their lazy flow:—
The Dormouse thought 'twas Winter come;
That long speech shed a chill, a gloom,
So dismal and so deep around,
And in such heavy fetters bound
The wearied sense—he could not keep
His eyes unclosed, and fell asleep.—
Nor yet, the whole truth to declare,
Was he the only slumberer there;
For various snores, from divers snouts,
Precluded on that head all doubts:
But when that drowsy drawl was done,
They 'gan to wake up one by one—
The Owl began to blink and stare,
With his round orbs, a solemn pair;
The Eagle's eyes flashed open wide,
And brightly glanced from side to side.
The Mole, and sundry others too,
That well had dozed that long speech through,
Then shook and roused themselves, and tried
To look as though they had applied
Their minds most earnestly to all
That did from Snail's lips lately fall—
But none might make reply, because
None well had heard: an awkward pause
Among the assembly then took place,
Yet lasted but a little space:—
The Swallow, blythe, and bold, and free—
Twittered a speech forth joyously,
And cheerily took up the strain:—
“'Twere best to follow o'er the main,
(As I for ever wisely do,
Who one unchanging course pursue!)
The blushful Summer, bright and glad,
In roses and in sunbeams clad;
Not like the dusky tribe of Moles—
To hide oneself in gloomy holes,
For sake of warmth and of repose,
While cold the wind inclement blows—
Nor like the Dormouse to remain,
Bound in dull slumber's close-link'd chain;
Till Summer, ever fair and free,
Returneth o'er the main with me!
But still to keep her smile in view,
To track her sweet steps, and pursue,
And where she goeth, swift to go;
Where her new hoards of roses blow—
'Tis best to hail her evermore,
And follow her from shore to shore;
Not, like the lazy Snail, to keep
Your house and bed, and slow to creep,
Perhaps some inches in the day,
Then think you've journeyed a long way.
Dear, slimy friend! pray pardon me,
For somewhat harshly blaming thee!
But sure, a little while ago,
When you were speaking very slow,
I caught some words of your's most queer,
That counselled all your friends to appear
With their strong houses on their backs—
Tight-fitting them as close as wax.
Doubtless you suffer much from cold—
Since you're content thus to enfold
In cloistering case your graceful form—
It must be, sure, to keep you warm:
Far better 'twere to cast away
That cumbering case, methinks some day;
And also, if your slimeship could,
Your sluggishness and slothful mood—
And follow—airily and free—
Summer and Swallow o'er the sea!
'Twould painful be at first—sweet Snail!
But perseverance should prevail—
Which still success for ever brings—
And thus, although you have no wings,
You o'er the sea might swim or float,
Or haply borrow his light boat
From the Ocean-child, the Nautilus,
Who, doubtless, would oblige you thus,
And you would feel at home and well,
No doubt—enveloped in his shell
Not like the Eagle would I soar
To heights that must be evermore
Glaring and comfortless indeed;
I should shoot down from these with speed!
'Twere better not, in place of pride,
Thus lost and lonely to abide:—
And then, beside, we all must know,
The nearer to the sun we go
The colder grows the bright, keen air,
O'er-rarified and sharpened there.—
'Tis well most careful court to pay
Unto the radiant Lord of Day;
'Tis well to pay most careful court
Unto the Sun, and to resort
For ever to his chosen place,
And gaze upon his glorious face;
But not with vain ambition, weak,
His throne in upper air to seek.
Vainly they struggle—vainly strive,
Who seek at such heights thus to arrive!
Still, still above them, far above,
Doth he their poor attempts reprove;
Not near enough unto his blaze
To feel the increased warmth of the rays,
They only find the upper air
More keen, and chill, and piercing there,
In that blue, open world of sky,
Spread out so smilingly on high!
'Tis better, better far to chase,
On sea and land, from place to place,
The golden sun of Summer's hours—
Where'er he lights the blushing bowers
(That break, in continent and isle,
Into rich bloom beneath his smile!)
And not to seek those heights to gain,
But lightly o'er the sunny plain
To skim, in glad and free delight—
While all beneath—above, is bright—
Verdure and flowery sheen below,
Rich with a variegated glow.
Above—one cloudless azure, fair;
Around—one gleaming world of air;
'Tis then we own Creation's worth,
At once enjoying heaven and earth!
Let all these strive to copy me,
If they would know felicity!—
And follow in my happy train,
Chasing the summer o'er the main,
Tracking the sun, and following far
His rolling and resplendent car.”
Thus chattered they—and all the while
Heard, with a staid and serious smile,
A fine, sagacious Dog—that near
Remained, their mixed discourse to hear:
And now he in his turn addressed,
Snail, Swallow, Eagle, and the rest;
Thus took he up the mixed discourse,
And the argument unto its source,
Appeared to trace with sounder sense
Than those, with all their eloquence.
Thus spoke the Dog, while all around
Listened in silence most profound—
“Dear Friends!—I heard my master say,
Unto a neighbour, t'other day,
How carefully, on every side,
Doth Nature for her Sons provide!
Look at the cameleopard's neck,
Lengthened to reach the boughs that deck
The fair trees of its native land,
Which shooting high, in air expand,
Since on those green and tender boughs
The cameleopard loves to browse.
Behold the active, busy bees—
Instructed nicely how to seize
The sweets from ev'ry fragrant flower—
Converting them, with mystic power,
Into delicious food, which none
But them can frame beneath the sun.
Observe the Spider, taught to spread
His slight attenuated thread,
In rare and complicated way,
Adapted best to catch his prey;
Or to the artful silkworm turn,
How from the first doth it well learn
To weave that costly web so fine—
Which doth with glossy lustres shine!
All are enriched with precious dowers,
Provided with surpassing powers—
And on their destined paths are led,
And on their course appointed sped;
Furnished with means and methods still,
Their different fortunes to fulfil.
None on the other's paths encroach,
None may his brother's acts reproach—
All are the needful lessons taught,
And to perfection's fullness brought—
Much more did my sage master say,
Upon this topic the other day,
Conversing with a friend, who seemed
To deem just as my master deemed;
And unto me they made it clear,
That all is perfect wisdom here;
That all doth surely firmly blend
Unto a great and gracious end.
Friends, it appeareth unto me,
If I indeed may make so free,
Ye all talked nonsense to each other,
Much like my braying, long-eared brother.
Each hath, according to his kind,
His own peculiar part assigned;
Nor hath Dame Nature e'er forgot
To adapt his means unto his lot.
That which doth make the happiness
Of one would scarce the other bless.—
The Snail, slow creeping on the ground,
The secret of her bliss hath found;
As happy is she in her shell
As the Eagle, whose proud heart doth swell
With bold ambition, keen and high,
Soaring into the sun-bright sky.
The Dormouse, that doth punctual keep
The sabbath of his wintry sleep,
Enjoyeth life as much as those
Whose eyes to greet the day unclose,
Though every season duly still,
Not from their choice, in sooth, or skill.
The Mole—the little dusky Mole,
Within his subterraneous hole—
Hath all his world concentered there—
Hath little need of space and air!—
And my good friends, be very sure,
As long as this world doth endure,
Things will go on as they have done,
For nothing's new beneath the sun;
And none amongst ye could improve,
(I speak in friendship still, and love)
Howe'er ye dream, in vain conceit,
Still apt with ignorance to meet
The state and habits of the rest;
Since all is ordered for the best,
And every one of you must keep
His clear-traced path—nor may o'erleap
The bars which mark out and divide
His race from all the world beside;—
And could he—then he would but gain
Trouble and weariness and pain.—
Your tastes are different, and your joys,
What charms the one, the other cloys—
Of that one the best balm and bliss
Proves but the bitter bane of this;
For tastes and tempers ne'er may be
All reconciled and made to agree:—
The wisdom of the one is shown
And this full oft on earth is known
To be the other's foolishness.
These truths I would on all impress:—
In short, dear Friends—I well believe,
We all from Nature's hand receive
The boons best suited to us still,
Though good be sometimes dashed with ill!—
We all should be contented here—
To that sweet nursing mother, dear!—
Dear to kind nature evermore,
Who feedeth all from her rich store!—
E'en from the loftiest to the least,
Fish, fowl, and insect, reptile, beast;
Man, lordly Man, who reigns supreme,
And the least midge in Summer's beam!
She doth an equal care bestow,
Around—beside—above—below!—
The curtain of the mighty deep
Hides not from eyes that never sleep:
The wants of myriad creatures there,
To each and all she gives their share,
For each and all with care provides—
Those countless swarms that throng the tides;—
And from the first unto the last,
All have their lot by wisdom cast;
Their portion and their part assigned,
Bound by strict ties none e'er unbind.
All classes of all creatures she,
Doth ever bless with bounty free—
Unto their cry she still attends,
And her kind ear attentive bends
To all their supplications still,
And doth their just desires fulfil—
And be ye sure that happiness
All in their lot and line possess.—
The humblest Slug that seems to crawl,
As though he had no life at all.
Enjoys as much in that faint life,
Unknown to wild excitement's strife,
As the proud Panther in his hours
Of bounding triumph, loftiest powers.—
Take all and each, what Nature gives:
In comfort and in peace he lives
Who looketh and who seeketh not
Beyond his own established lot;
Who hangs on her supporting hand,
Nor wishes by himself to stand,
In rash vain independence here,
Unchastened by a wiser fear—
Nor dares with envious glance to turn,
For other's good or gifts to yearn.—
Each doth she still endow and bless
With different kinds of happiness:
But happiness it still must be—
Profusion of felicity.—
Here ever more exhaustless streams—
And ever with abundance teems—
Though each may think it is but found
In his own circle's narrow bound!”

COUNTY HUGH.

LINES FROM “INEZ.” (A MS. POEM.)

Now o'er my thoughts shines many a phantasy,
Dazzling my Soul—myself away from me!
Few days have passed since Love's strange, fearful spell
(Felt too intensely and obeyed too well)
Changed all my being—Love's quick spell of power,
That works dark wonders in one burning hour,
Makes moments teem with alterations deep,
(Till our past life appears one frozen sleep!)—
And pours in light o'er unknown Worlds of Soul—
Till like Creation, life runs through the whole!—
What is this sentence of a mystic doom?—
I am not what I was—such change hath come
Upon my living Spirit deeply now,
That doth the might of that quick spell avow:
It springs as though from depths of barren gloom,
It starts and bounds as from the murky tomb—
The dull, deep tomb of Cold Indifference called,
Where long it lay with clouds and shadows palled!—
I am not what I was—but yet—but yet—
The Past's lost peace I covet and regret.
Indifference! thee would I yet ask—yet crave—
Though now shouldst thou seem colder than the grave,
Heavier than mountains—darker than the night?
Contented with the excess of life and light,
Which Love—deep Love, with might o'erpowering brings,
Upon his sudden—sweeping, lightning wings.
I am not what I was; deep change doth fall
O'er mine existence, and my being all—
Aims, objects, interests, trusts, resources, powers,
Beliefs and feelings—in these few full hours
All, all are altered—all my soul is wrought
Into one mighty and absorbing thought!—
One thought! Even so! for thoughts, hopes, fancies, dreams,
All mingle now, like overflowing streams,
Into one flood, that doth—in deluge deep—
The horizon-bound of consciousness o'ersweep.—
I know not all I feel, nor yet am made,
Brought suddenly to noon's full light, from shade;
The master of mine own new heart and mind,
But stumble, as with over-gazing blind;
My very self is dazzled now from me,
And nothing, nothing, is distinct—but thee.
I schemed before, I planned, willed, thought, and dreamed;
But now,—(and brief the interval hath seemed)
Thou plann'st, and will'st, and workest within my soul,
And no volition's mine and no controul.
I know not what it now may be to care—
For aught thou dost not bring, thou dost not share!
All marks of independent soul and mind
Are merged—razed—lost—and what to leave behind?
A trace, a faint, faint trace—a trembling shade,
And that, even that, appears to fleet and fade—
And even that fleeting shade and fading trace,
That passion's earthquake-footsteps fast efface,
Aye! even that trace, that shade are not of me.
But, oh! thou discreating Power!—of thee!
I love thee! but I hate the crushing thrall,
The fear—the unrest—Love's tyrannous bondage all.
I love! and hate the love that makes my soul
Slave to a stranger influence and controul,
That robs me thus (while all things grow a doubt)
Even of the world within—and world without!

SONNET.

[Man still half makes himself—still but half made—]

Man still half makes himself—still but half made—
Right glorious privilege and proud—to crown
And to complete with labours of his own
The august, great work—through Heaven's still-prospering aid,
And climb to Soul-Creation!—full-arrayed
With powers sublime—strength in his weakness shown,
Permitted, through his Maker's grace showered down,
To meet his Maker's will—in light displayed!
Lo!—where himself he hath not stirred and striven—
Content in Apathy's dull paths to plod—
Sink, frustrated the high designs of Heaven!—
His seems a world-wide grave above the sod!—
Half to create himself to him 'tis given—
For Heaven hath made a Man—that Man may make a God!

HUMAN JUDGMENTS.

FROM “INEZ,” A MS. POEM.

SONNET.

[We faulter on with heavy hearts that bleed]

We faulter on with heavy hearts that bleed,
And souls that ache with quenchless longings vain,
To be set free from many an earth-twined chain,
Yet trust the mirage—cling unto the reed,
And nobly shall these serve us at our need!—
What matters it so we can trust again,
And be again deceived?—still grief and pain
It must be to feel all that seemed indeed—
Substantial, present, real, actual, true,
Is past and perished—to be no more found!—
Gone, vanished like a quivering drop of dew,
A cloud—a breath of air—a little sound—
No matter—so we find delusions new,
To which our Hearts and Souls may yet be bound!

SORROW'S RICHES.

Sorrow! pale, mighty Sorrow! thou dost come
Like night, enrobed with a majestic gloom;
My soul is full of thee, hour after hour—
That soul thou overshadowest with thy power;
But oft from thee with trembling fear it shrinks,
And from the clasping of thy chain's strong links;
Full oft it shrinks from thee;—yet, yet at times,
Unto the cloud-capped heights of grief it climbs,
And learns e'en to luxuriate in the excess
Of feelings overwrought with rich distress,
On which it lavishes its fiery strength,
As though it fell in love with pain, at length;
The griefs of old it suffers o'er again,
And prides itself on their possession then—
The rich regalia of my Sorrows lies,
(For costly things are treasured agonies,)
Displayed in royalty of triumph there,
A funeral dark regalia!—sternly fair!
'Tis mine and Sorrow's coronation hour—
I own and share her deep and sovereign power;
I gather then—beholding how they shine,
My melancholy riches, most divine!
Shadowy but starry—(like the depths of night—
Whose darkly-glorious purple burns with light!
Streaming with far-off suns, that rise to us
When sets our own proud orb, and luminous;
For even the voice of Darkness echoeth low,
“Let there be light!” and forth its fountains flow,
While million splendours take the place of one,
And light plays lightening on from sun to sun!—
'Tis in such mighty, and such solemn hour,
While, Sorrow! I adore and bless thy power,
That I do gather up my scattered woes,
And crown imperially my lightened brows,
With their faint clouds and constellations pale,
Their shadows and their stars—crown, wreath, and veil—
And grow a Queen of Griefs;—and proudly wear
Their mournful splendours all—profoundly fair!
I grow a queen of griefs, and wear them all,
And clothe myself with shadows for a pall;
While the most precious jewels that I boast
Are those of mightiest and heart-wringing cost:
Yea, the most precious jewels I then wear,
The most imperial gems that shine forth there,
Are the worst, wildest griefs that I have known,
And mine own tears, like pearls, seem round me strown,
(My own wild-flowing—anguish-raining tears,
Those I then weep, or wept in bye-past years!)
And rich Affliction's sumptuous bravery
Hangs round me,—until nought beside I see.
Thus robed in funeral magnificence,
I reap from sorrow this dark joy intense,
And crown with crowns imperial that pale brow,
Which seems uplifted for its triumph now;
And proud I grow of all that I have borne,
And slight and petty griefs can spurn and scorn:
It is a pomp and luxury of distress,
Far richer than the richest happiness!—
And thus a Queen of many Griefs I grow,
And boast of all that I have borne of woe!
Mine the veiled empires of the Eternal pain,
Wide as the world and deeper than the main!—
(Those veiled and shadowy empires of the night,
That spread beyond e'en Thought's far-journeying flight,
And boast—broad realms there spread, as yet unknown—
A Space and an Eternity—their own!)
My soul thus grows, oh! how augustly sad,
In gorgeous pomp of crowned afflictions clad—
And bows to that Dejection's conquering might,
Whose dark, illustrious truth outstrips delight.
Sorrow! I will not, may not shrink from thee,
For thou art power, and truth, and majesty—
One hour with thee doth teach our souls far more
Than all Life's happier hours—pass'd lightly o'er.

I SAW THE SHIVERED GOBLET.

THE LAMP—THE LYRE—THE HEART!

LINES FROM “INEZ,” A MS. POEM.

SONNET.

[With our own selves we people the Universe!—]

With our own selves we people the Universe!—
And where Mysterious Presences brood round
As though all Nature teem'd with life profound
(In the old time when Men's minds loved to nurse
Strange Superstitions—Ignorance' foul curse—
And now, since now, that Men do strive to sound
The depths of Truth and Knowledge, nor one bound,
Will bear to find, not all do they disperse!—
But crowd and crown our solitude) ne'er doubt
Those Presences are Shadows of the Soul!—
Our vast existence spreads within—without—
Till uncreated Worlds around us roll!
So with Ourselves teems the Universe.—About
Our conscious thoughts we shed—till their hues stamp the whole!

SONNET.

[Thought!—but thou hast an Eagle-shaming wing!]

Thought!—but thou hast an Eagle-shaming wing!
Thought! be my Life!—I will but live in thee;
And whatsoe'er I list I then can be;
For thou alone art crowned, throned, scepter'd King
Of all we know or see—the invisible thing
That now drinks at the Sun's red heart, and free,
Lightens up all the Heavens!—now seems to flee
From light and life, and Joy and Hope's proud spring,
To rend a cloudy way through Eldest night,
To rake the old Darkness for all treasures deep—
That never yet have been brought forth to light;
(For though he gives up thousand Worlds—to keep
Dread secrets—mysteries still!—is his proud right!)—
Thought! be my Life!—my Soul in triumph steep.

SONNET.

[Away from me, vain Thoughts!—once more—away!]

Away from me, vain Thoughts!—once more—away!
I will not bend nor bow—I will be true
To Reason's noblest dictates, and thy due,
Oh! Heavenly Duty!—rigorously will pay,
Though heart's blood be i' the bond!—dark weary day
That sees me toil with suffering patience through
My deep allotted share of grief—renew
Thy better Courage, Heart!—Ne'er lightly play
With thine own vital feelings, yielding thus
To still encroaching Passion's mastering sway,
The imperiously severe and tyrannous!
E'en now what strengthenedst thou thy voice to say,
Till thy proud cry grew deep as when to us,
Night's rising winds sound loud—shall aught thy faith dismay?

A THOUGHT.

My Soul, dread Sire!—thee sought in Worlds afar!
From Sun to Sun it coursed—from Star to Star;
Then, whelmed in its august Desire's despair,
Sank back into itself—and found thee there!

SONNET.

[Retired far, far from this world's busy throng]

Retired far, far from this world's busy throng,
(Among which feeling hearts but yearn and pine
For something which with loftier dreams to twine,)
Amid the place of graves I loitered long,
It mattered not that birds were at their song;
That Spring—bright Spring, was at her work divine
Of fair contrivance; nothing could unshrine
That holy Melancholy, deep and strong,
From my tranced heart,—which all-o'ershadowing grew
From that first, last, and most undying Thought,
The Thought of Death—which wheresoe'er it woo
The soul to its embrace—with fear seems fraught!
Most—most—where all things wear Life's triumph-hue!
And least—where thus, mid haunts, of its own gloom, 'tis sought!—

SONG.

[Or better love!—or love me not]

THE FESTIVAL.

GIFTS.

THOUGHTS—LOVELIEST THOUGHTS!

Thoughts—loveliest thoughts, that, when I dwell alone,
Visit my soul, yet scarcely seem its own:
(Like heavenly angels that have lost their way,
And gone—while tracking star by star—astray!)
Ye come!—ye go! like lightning in the skies—
That leaps to life, and in that moment dies!
Ye come!—ye go! but oh! each precious thought
A wealth of hope and fear, and bliss hath brought—
And these survive it—these remain behind,
Each leaves its track of glory on the mind!
I seek to hold thee still, and to detain
Thou, lovely thought, that kindleth in my brain!
But thou art gone—half shadow and half light,
Thou seem'dst to flutter on my inner sight,
A beauteous vision, indistinct, yet fair,—
I find a thousand still, but thou'rt not there!
But if thou wert not mine—not all made mine
I grew in that profound communion—thine:
Part of my soul away thou seem'dst to bear,
And lift it through the stainless realms of air!—
My soul thus its own messenger becomes,
Unto the stillness of those starry homes:
My spirit, its own courier thus is made,
To those bright realms whose sunshine may not fade!
Ye lovely thoughts! pure, fervid, deep, and grand,
Like angels on my soul ye take your stand
One precious moment; then resign your place,
And leave behind a rich and glowing trace,
While others crowd in,—where ye were before,
And wear those hues celestial that ye wore!
Ye part—ye pass—ye scarcely seem mine own;
And yet this soul—this very soul hath flown
With these on wings, rejoicing far away,
Into the regions of transcendant day!
So we anticipate the all-glorious flight,
From earth's dull darkness to the worlds of light!

THE TWO SHIPS.

FALLING STARS.

A LAST FAREWELL.

FLOWERS IN LONDON.

SONNET TO ------.

[She reigns!—the Beautiful—the Young, the Bright]

She reigns!—the Beautiful—the Young, the Bright,
And the old proud Ocean lifts up, in amaze,
His many-centuried head on her to gaze!—
The youthful form, all loveliness and light,
Who wields his Stormy Sceptre, now aright!—
To her be love and homage, and all praise;
For surely that throned Virgin pure shall raise
The Land to yet more proud and palmy height:
It seems as though that Land were governed now
Even by a bright commission from above,
(Which Heaven in favour doth to us allow!)
Sure Mercy, Innocence, Hope, Truth, and Love
Are sent to rule us!—so replete art thou,
Oh, Queen! with virtues—charms—graces, that all approve!

SONNET TO ------.

[Star of the Islands!—whose auspicious ray]

Star of the Islands!—whose auspicious ray
Seems full of Heavenly promise, bright and clear;
Fair doth our far horizon now appear,
All brightening in the light of thy calm sway!—
Till clouds and mists and darkness melt away,
And the sweet Heaven seems smiling yet more near:
Ne'er dawned on England a more blessed day!
It shines—it blazes on the enraptured sight—
Its very morn wears a meridian glow!—
Star of the Isles!—the Beautiful—the Bright!
Mankind thy Friend—for who could be thy Foe?—
Glory thine Handmaid—move on dowered with might;
May England's Joy from thee—and back to thee still flow!