University of Virginia Library

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?