 | Poems of many years (1844) |  |
235
SONGS.
237
II. FROM THE VENETIAN OF BURATTI.
I.
Pleasant were it, Nina mine!
Could our Hearts, by fairy powers,
Renovate their life divine,
Like the trees and herbs and flowers.
Could our Hearts, by fairy powers,
Renovate their life divine,
Like the trees and herbs and flowers.
So might we, in fond accord,
As the fresh ripe Hearts appear;
Each the other's Love reward,
With the first-fruits of the year.
As the fresh ripe Hearts appear;
Each the other's Love reward,
With the first-fruits of the year.
Fragrance from that wondrous plant
Might your giddy sex restrain,—
Such refreshment would enchant
The most faithless back again.
Might your giddy sex restrain,—
Such refreshment would enchant
The most faithless back again.
But in restless pleasure using
One poor Heart, from year to year,
We shall both our Hearts be losing,—
Worn to nothing,—Nina dear!
One poor Heart, from year to year,
We shall both our Hearts be losing,—
Worn to nothing,—Nina dear!
239
II.
Oh! what a May-day,—what a dear May-day!
Feel, what a breeze, love,
Undulates o'er us,—
Meadow and trees, love,
Glisten before us,—
Light, in all showers,
Falls from the flowers,
Hear, how they ask us, “Come and sit down.”—(Bis.)
Feel, what a breeze, love,
Undulates o'er us,—
Meadow and trees, love,
Glisten before us,—
Light, in all showers,
Falls from the flowers,
Hear, how they ask us, “Come and sit down.”—(Bis.)
Well, let us rest with them,—well let us rest with them,
Two other blossoms,
Quiet and lonely,
While from their bosoms
Nightingales only
Secrets revealing,
We shall be stealing
Things that most surely the world doesn't know.—(Bis.)
Two other blossoms,
Quiet and lonely,
While from their bosoms
Nightingales only
Secrets revealing,
We shall be stealing
Things that most surely the world doesn't know.—(Bis.)
Guess, my own Nina,—guess, my own Nina,
What they are singing!
That a deep passion,
Rooted and clinging
I' the right fashion,
Never can measure
Fulness of pleasure,
But when together alone,—all alone!—(Bis.)
What they are singing!
That a deep passion,
Rooted and clinging
I' the right fashion,
Never can measure
Fulness of pleasure,
But when together alone,—all alone!—(Bis.)
240
Fare you well, old world!—fare you well, old world!
This one is ours,
Shepherds,—May-weather,—
We and the flowers
Blooming together,—
Where, never jealous,
Nightingales tell us
What they know, oh! how much, better than we!—(Bis.)
This one is ours,
Shepherds,—May-weather,—
We and the flowers
Blooming together,—
Where, never jealous,
Nightingales tell us
What they know, oh! how much, better than we!—(Bis.)
VI.
[Grief sat beside the fount of tears]
Grief sat beside the fount of tears,
And dipt her garland in it,
While all the paly flowers she wears
Grew fainter every minute.
And dipt her garland in it,
While all the paly flowers she wears
Grew fainter every minute.
246
Joy gamboled by the other side,
In gay and artless guise,
And to her gloomy sister cried,
With laughter in her eyes—
In gay and artless guise,
And to her gloomy sister cried,
With laughter in her eyes—
“Oh! prithee leave that stupid task,
That melancholy fountain;
I go in Pleasure's sun to bask,
Or dance up Fancy's mountain.”
That melancholy fountain;
I go in Pleasure's sun to bask,
Or dance up Fancy's mountain.”
“Insolent fooler!—go—beware,”
Said Grief, in moody tone,
“How thus you frivolously dare
Approach my solemn throne!”
Said Grief, in moody tone,
“How thus you frivolously dare
Approach my solemn throne!”
And then, on Joy's fair wreath she threw,
With sideward glance of malice,
Some drops of that embitter'd dew
Fresh from a poison'd chalice.
With sideward glance of malice,
Some drops of that embitter'd dew
Fresh from a poison'd chalice.
But Joy laugh'd on;—“In vain, in vain
You try to blight one flower;
That which you meant for fatal bane
Shall prove my brightest dower:—
You try to blight one flower;
That which you meant for fatal bane
Shall prove my brightest dower:—
“Friendship and Love on every leaf
Shall wear the pearly toy,
And all, who shrink from tears of Grief,
Shall pray for tears of Joy.”
Shall wear the pearly toy,
And all, who shrink from tears of Grief,
Shall pray for tears of Joy.”
247
VII. A LAMENT.
I hear them upbraid you,—they mingle your name
With lightness and folly and almost with shame;
And they, who have crouched at the bend of your brow,
With familiar indifference prate of you now.
With lightness and folly and almost with shame;
And they, who have crouched at the bend of your brow,
With familiar indifference prate of you now.
Where now is the fountain of beauty and joy,
That thrilled through the heart of the care-hating boy?
With love, and with music, that fountain plays on,—
But the spirit, that basked in its freshness, is gone.
That thrilled through the heart of the care-hating boy?
With love, and with music, that fountain plays on,—
But the spirit, that basked in its freshness, is gone.
Oh! were it stern Science that led you away,
Or a flow of dark feeling that made you less gay,
I should mourn that so early the shadows were cast,
But the path might have led into sunlight at last.
Or a flow of dark feeling that made you less gay,
I should mourn that so early the shadows were cast,
But the path might have led into sunlight at last.
Not so, now the world, with its gilding and glare,
Has bid you to pleasure, and prisoned you there;
And the blazoned saloon, and the mirth-breathing hall,
And silver-sweet flatteries, hold you in thrall:
Has bid you to pleasure, and prisoned you there;
And the blazoned saloon, and the mirth-breathing hall,
And silver-sweet flatteries, hold you in thrall:
248
For the friends of your boyhood—the innocent few,
Whose hearts knew you well, and whose hearts you too knew,
From their home in your breast have been forced, one by one,—
And in that bleak place can I linger alone?
Whose hearts knew you well, and whose hearts you too knew,
From their home in your breast have been forced, one by one,—
And in that bleak place can I linger alone?
I too must begone,—with those who have seen
The manifold promise of what you have been,
Though they who so loved will still gaze from afar,
If it be but to weep, when they see what you are.
The manifold promise of what you have been,
Though they who so loved will still gaze from afar,
If it be but to weep, when they see what you are.
| Poems of many years (1844) | |