Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

On a sweet flowery island the god of sleep lies,
Till the blue-mantled twilight drops down from the skies;
Then, laden with visions, he steals from above,
Hastens silently on to the chambers of love,
And singing to fancy a dreamy-toned tune,
On the eyelids of beauty drops roses of June.

148

II

From the lips breathing honey when tender words steal,
How he smiles at the thoughts those soft accents reveal;
As they tremble to kisses where lip never clung,
Nor breathed but sweet words loth to leave such a tongue:
Why young cheeks blushed by daylight he hears those lips tell:
And why heaved those sighs from the heart he knows well.

III

O'er the dew-mantled hills when first rises the sun,
Until love-breathing twilight his watchings are done,
To his sweet flowery isle he then hurries away,
Where silver-arched streams to their own murmurs play;
And stretched out on roses, and mantled with light,
Dreams over those dreams which he stole in the night.

149

SONG II.

[I met her in the flowery month]

I

I met her in the flowery month
Of blossom-laden Spring,
When trees put forth their tender leaves,
And larks soared high to sing;
We wandered where the primrose grew,
Deep in the forest-glade,
There vowing nought save death should part,
Me and my Village Maid.

150

II

When Summer came, with sunny days,
And soft blue-hanging skies,
Throwing a gladness all around,
Just like her gentle eyes;
Again we sought the twilight woods,
Where hazels formed a shade,
And sweeter than the speckled thrush,
Sang my fair Village Maid.

III

When Autumn came in solemn gold,
And yellow leaves were strown,
I saw that Death had marked my love,
Too soon! to be his own:
I tended her by night and day,
But when the gleaners strayed
Across the stubbly harvest-fields,
Death stole my Village Maid.

151

IV

Then Winter came with hollow voice;—
I heard the howling wind
Ring through the savage naked woods,
Now gloomy like my mind:
Yet still I lived,—although I prayed
Beside her to be laid;
But Death would lend no ear to me,
He had my Village Maid.

152

SONG III.

[When a shade is on the wood]

I

When a shade is on the wood,
Where the nightingale is singing,
And echoes roll along the flood,
From the vesper-bell slow-swinging,
Meet me in the Primrose Dell.

II

When the wind goes whispering by,
Stealing fragrance from the rose;
When the moon climbs up the sky,
And the blackbird seeks repose,—
Meet me in the Primrose Dell.

153

III

When the bells of flowers are folding,
Bowed by dews which on them rest;
While the stars are up, and holding
Converse on the night's blue breast,
Meet me in the Primrose Dell.

IV

When the leaves sleep on the hill,
Where the new hay smelleth sweet,
And all around us is so still,
We can hear our fond hearts beat,
Meet me in the Primrose Dell.

154

SONG IV.

[Yes! I will weep upon thy grave]

I

Yes! I will weep upon thy grave,
When darkness veils the hill:
I loved thee when thou wert alive,—
I love thy memory still.
Few knew thy worth,—few grieved for thee;
Thou wert my own alone.
Oh! Mary dear! why did we meet?—
She makes no answer—none!

155

II

Yes, I will weep upon thy grave!—
Too well I know the spot;
I'll plant upon thy silent bed
The blue Forget-me-not;
Think o'er the songs thou used to sing
In days for ever gone;—
Oh Mary! no one sings like thee,—
No voice like thine, love—none!

III

Yes, I will weep upon thy grave!—
Who could stand by and smile?
To think that thou art lying there,
Beneath that earthly pile—
To think that e'er so sweet a face
Should lie 'neath that cold stone,
When there is not its like on earth,
No one so lovely—none!

156

SONG V.

[Lady with the pensive brow]

Lady with the pensive brow,
Why sits sorrow on thy face?
Through that sadness, even now,
I can all thy beauty trace.
Why that tear upon thy cheek,
And that dimness in thine eye?
Ah! thou then didst more than speak
In that long and deep-drawn sigh!

157

II

Why rests thine hand upon thy heart?—
And has the sharp shaft entered there?
Could it, then, pierce no other part,
That less could feel, and better bear?
Cruel to deal so hard a blow,—
To strike where lies the deepest sorrow.
The fount from whence all grief doth flow
That dries not on the coming morrow.

III

Oh! hang not thus thy beauteous head,
Like a sweet but drooping flower;
By the tears thine eyes have shed,
Let the sunshine chase the shower.
Come, dry thine eyes, and cease to grieve,
Weeping will never wash him pure.
Man did ever thus deceive—
Lovely woman must endure.

158

SONG VI.

[My Mary plucked a full-blown rose]

I

My Mary plucked a full-blown rose,
And placed it on her peerless breast;
The sweet flower bowed its crimson head,
And fondly pressed its snowy nest;
The emerald leaves were gently stirred,
Just as her rising bosom shook,
Like the white plumage of a dove,
That coos beside some breezy brook.

159

II

Oh! had I been that fragrant rose,
Which on her gentle bosom blushed,
Or revelled 'mid those heaving sighs,
Whose breathing music none hath hushed,—
Lived in the beating of her heart,
And caught her eye in tranquil rest;
Or slept where lay that happy rose,—
Then had I been for ever blest.

Ride on the pants triumphing.

Antony and Cleopatra.

160

SONG VII.

[With aching heart I pressed her lips]

I

With aching heart I pressed her lips,
And farewell whispered there;
Her deep-blue eyes in silence spoke—
Their language was a tear.
Her beating breast replied to mine,—
I knew its meaning well;
Our mingling sighs together met,
And breathed a last farewell.

161

II

I climbed the hill, then pensive turned
My tear-dimmed eyes around;
All I had ever loved on earth
In that green vale was found.
I saw the silent green churchyard,—
And Mary's “narrow cell:”
A dusky yew-tree marked her grave,
And waved a last farewell.

III

I saw the elm-tree-shaded cot,
Where we in childhood played;
The hawthorn-hedge, and grassy lane
Down which we oft had strayed.
I leant against the well-known stile
That led to Foxby Dell;
The old church-clock struck solemnly,—
It was a last farewell.

162

SONG VIII.

[Farewell, false youth! since thou art gone]

I

Farewell, false youth! since thou art gone,
'Tis me the world will blame;
We have no friend, and deemed thee one,
Who ill deserved that name.
It cost thee not one tear to part;
With me all grief must dwell;
I know my doom's a broken heart—
But thou art gone—farewell!

163

II

Thou lovest another—yes, I feel
'Tis that which pierces deep;
Oh! could I from myself conceal
The cause which makes me weep!
Hush! little babe, why dost thou cry?
Thy mother loves thee well;
Thy father bade thee not good-bye—
But he has gone—farewell!

III

Alas! we have but Nature's claim—
Ah! why did I thus love?
But thou shalt bear thy mother's name—
Hush! hush! my injured dove.
Thy plaintive cries but bring to mind
What I to none must tell;
He went away, it was unkind
To kiss thee not—farewell!

164

SONG IX.

[I gazed upon her silent face]

I

I gazed upon her silent face
But Death had rested there;
And on her marble cheek I dropt
A heart-wrung burning tear:
And every breast was sobbing loud
Within that mournful cot,—
I thought my bleeding heart would break,
But, ah! they knew me not.

165

II

I saw her fallen eye-lids shade
Those orbs of deepest blue,
That beamed a welcome when we met
Where dark trees closely grew;
Unbound her auburn ringlets lay—
Nor had I then forgot
How once I stole a braided tress,—
But ah! they knew me not.

III

I saw those lips I oft had kissed,
Like folded roses lie;
I gazed upon her cold white breast,
And heaved a deep, deep sigh.
I thought when last that bosom beat,
While seated in her grot,
And I recalled my broken vow,—
But, ah! they knew me not.

166

IV

I bent to kiss her placid brow:
All eyes on me did gaze,
Save those which had for ever closed
Their bright and piercing rays:
I saw them strew around her bier
Wild flowers, and knew the spot
Where once they bloomed—I saw no more—
But, ah! they knew me not.

167

SONG X.

[Wave on, thou dark green aged thorn]

I

Wave on, thou dark green aged thorn,
In solemn silence wave;
Beneath thy shade we meet no more;
My Mary's in her grave!
Come, Death, and bear me to her tomb,
Beside yon wood-crowned hill;
Wave on, thou dark green aged thorn,
I see thee, and turn chill.

168

II

Shine on, ye glittering blue-set stars,
Ye bring to mind her eyes,
And oft have shone on her fair face,
When no moon climbed the skies:
And thee, thou lonely nightingale,
Oh, how thou makest me thrill,
Thou warbledst so when Mary lived,—
I hear thee, and turn chill.

III

Weep on, ye sweet bell-folded flowers,
I love those tears ye shed;
It is not dew that gems your eyes,
O no! ye know she's dead.
Although ye sigh not deep, like me,
Ye silently instil
A lesson of sad, speechless grief—
I read it, and turn chill.

169

IV

And thee, thou well remember'd stile!
'Twas here we used to part—
Our good-night kiss was always here;
But thou wilt break my heart.
I shiver 'neath the breath of night
That mourns so cold and shrill;
In Mary's grave alone there's rest—
I know it, and turn chill.