Minor Poems, including Napoleon :: :: University of Virginia Library

I cannot call thy living form,
And bid it stand before me;
But Fancy, as my heart grows warm,
Its semblance can restore me:
For e'en that unsubstantial thing
Must ever be enough to bring
All better feelings o'er me;
And give thee, for the time, to seem
More than the phantom of a dream.

246

II

But, O! too warmly glows my heart,
While thus in thought beholding thee,
For me to act the artist's part,
Embodying each sweet phantasy:
Beauty there is, that painting mars;
Morn's mists, noon's glory, night's bright stars,
And moonlight on the mighty sea;
And yet all these but things express
Of unenduring loveliness.

III

But Thou, when unto me 'tis given
Thy semblance to behold,
Now seem'st more like a form from heaven,
Than one of mortal mould;
Which he who would thy Portrait draw,
Turns from, o'ercome by love and awe,
And leaves its charms untold.
No! all I can do, love! must be
To sketch what memory yields of thee.

247

IV

And ill may such a sketch convey,
To those who knew thee well,
What once thou wert; still less portray
Those charms, whose gentle spell
Survives thyself, still unforgot;
Or give to those who knew thee not,
Aught which of thee should tell.
Thy dress, thy form, thy face — alone
If given — might leave thee still unknown.

V

Thy form! avails it now to trace?
Though once with charms endow'd:
Thy dress ne'er boasted Fashion's grace,
To satisfy the proud:
Yet thou becam'st it well: and it
On thee so gracefully did sit,
My taste its charms avow'd;
And in that simple garb — to me
Thou wert — all thou couldst wish to be.

248

VI

Thy face, thy features, — boots it now
To speak of what is fled, —
Of eyes, or hair, or lips, or brow?
When once the flower is dead,
Its shape, its hue, no bliss can give;
Its odours only seem to live,
And lingering sweetness shed.
If memory still that face enthral,
'Tis by the soul which spoke through all.

VII

Did it not speak? Oh! yes, it did —
Not through the lips alone;
That eye, beneath its downcast lid,
Was eloquent in tone;
For purest passion's gentle force,
And thoughts which sprang from virtue's source,
In all its glances shone:
Orbs of more brilliant light I've seen,
But none more tenderly serene.

249

VIII

Nor was the language of thy soul
Less mutely eloquent
In smiles that banish'd grief's control,
Or hues that came and went
In changeful beauty o'er that cheek,
Telling far more than words could speak
Of feelings innocent:
Of truth, of tenderness, of love —
Which Virtue could not but approve.

IX

But why thus dwell on traits, which ill
Thy likeness can portray:
Or linger over charms which still
No semblance can convey?
A loftier aim, blest shade! is mine,
Than painter's art, though call'd divine,
Would venture to essay:
Nor would I, thus, some feelings wake,
But for thy own, and Virtue's sake.

250

X

For these I would attempt to show
A truth ill understood,
Or one the world seems not to know;
That much of truly good,
Much that entwines itself around
The inmost heart, and lives profound
In memory's deepest mood, —
May be attain'd; — and yet inspire
Small scope for pencil or for lyre.

XI

Those virtues, gifts, and graces, — which
In thee so meekly met,
Boast more, existence to enrich,
Than glittering gaudes; and yet —
Delights we rather feel than see,
Most difficult it well may be
Before the eye to set.
How can we even know their worth,
Till absence gives such knowledge birth?

251

XII

To sympathies, which soothe and bless
Our life, from day to day,
Which throw, with silent tenderness,
Fresh flowers across our way,
The heart must ever fondly cling;
But can the poet's sweetest string
Their loveliness display?
No — nor could Titian's self supply
Their living presence, once gone by.

XIII

The air, in which we breathe and live,
Eludes our touch and sight;
The fairest flowers their fragrance give
To stillness, and to night;
The softest sounds that Music flings,
In passing, from her heaven-plum'd wings,
Are trackless in their flight!
And thus life's sweetest bliss is known
To silent, grateful thought alone.

252

XIV

But is it not, from hence, more pure,
Ethereal, and divine?
Yea! and its essence will endure
When stars have ceas'd to shine.
Time may the glowing canvass stain,
Oblivion quench the poet's strain;
But virtues — which entwine
Their memory with undying love,
Endure unchangeably above.

XV

“A meek and quiet spirit” gives,
When earth's brief path is trod,
'To those it bless'd — what still outlives
That spirit's senseless clod;
Feelings and thoughts, in part divine,
Which live along the length'ning line
Of being — up to God!
And terminate their blissful course
In union with their parent source!

253

XVI

Believing such high destiny
To be thy blest estate;
Immortal spirit! can I sigh
Thy lot to contemplate?
No — and though little there might seem
In thee for bard's, or painter's theme,
Of high, of rich, of great,
Yet beyond rank, wealth, beauty, — all!
I love thy virtue's gentler thrall.