 | The poetical works of Barry Cornwall |  |
iii
I. VOL. I.
V
TO ROMANCE.
(By a Friend of the Author.)
Beautiful Spirit, who dost sit at eve
Within thy tapestried hall of shield and spear,
Upgazing where the dying sun-beams leave
The heaven in crimson—on thy cheek a tear,
Like dew upon the red rose, quivering, clear—
From thy pale brow half raised thy nun-like hood—
Thy ruby lip half opened, as to hear
Some floating music of the sky or wood—
Come, sweet Romance! from thine enchanted solitude.
Within thy tapestried hall of shield and spear,
Upgazing where the dying sun-beams leave
The heaven in crimson—on thy cheek a tear,
Like dew upon the red rose, quivering, clear—
From thy pale brow half raised thy nun-like hood—
Thy ruby lip half opened, as to hear
Some floating music of the sky or wood—
Come, sweet Romance! from thine enchanted solitude.
Not for myself I woo thee now to stand
Beside the harp: Loved Spirit, spread thy wings
Of veiling splendour over one whose hand
Wakes its first music from the golden strings;—
For he is thy true votary, and clings
To thy fallen altar with a love sublime,
And brings a gift of wild and witching things
From glorious Greece, from the Italian prime,
A coronal of gems from the rich depths of time.
Beside the harp: Loved Spirit, spread thy wings
Of veiling splendour over one whose hand
Wakes its first music from the golden strings;—
For he is thy true votary, and clings
To thy fallen altar with a love sublime,
And brings a gift of wild and witching things
From glorious Greece, from the Italian prime,
A coronal of gems from the rich depths of time.
G. C
159
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
161
A VISION.
This is little more than the recollection of an actual dream.
The night was gloomy. Through the skies of June
Rolled the eternal moon,
'Midst dark and heavy clouds, that bore
A shadowy likeness to those fabled things
That sprung of old from man's imaginings.
Each seem'd a fierce reality: some wore
The forms of sphinx and hippogriff, or seemed
Nourished among the wonders of the deep,
And wilder than the poet ever dreamed:
And there were cars—steeds with their proud necks bent,
Tower, and temple, and broken continent:
And all, as upon a sea,
In the blue ether floated silently.
I lay upon my bed and sank to sleep:
And then I fancied that I rode upon
The waters, and had power to call
Up people who had lived in ages gone,
And scenes and stories half forgot, and all
That on my young imagination
Had come like fairy visions, and departed.
And ever by me a broad current passed
Slowly, from which at times up started
Dim scenes and ill-defined shapes. At last
I bade the billows render up their dead,
And all their wild inhabitants; and I
Summoned the spirits who perished,
Or took their stations in the starry sky,
When Jove himself bowed his Saturnian head
Before the One Divinity.
Rolled the eternal moon,
'Midst dark and heavy clouds, that bore
A shadowy likeness to those fabled things
That sprung of old from man's imaginings.
Each seem'd a fierce reality: some wore
The forms of sphinx and hippogriff, or seemed
Nourished among the wonders of the deep,
And wilder than the poet ever dreamed:
And there were cars—steeds with their proud necks bent,
Tower, and temple, and broken continent:
And all, as upon a sea,
In the blue ether floated silently.
162
And then I fancied that I rode upon
The waters, and had power to call
Up people who had lived in ages gone,
And scenes and stories half forgot, and all
That on my young imagination
Had come like fairy visions, and departed.
And ever by me a broad current passed
Slowly, from which at times up started
Dim scenes and ill-defined shapes. At last
I bade the billows render up their dead,
And all their wild inhabitants; and I
Summoned the spirits who perished,
Or took their stations in the starry sky,
When Jove himself bowed his Saturnian head
Before the One Divinity.
First, I saw the landscape fair
Towering in the clear blue air,
Like Ida's woody summits and sweet fields,
Where all that Nature yields
Flourishes. Three proud shapes were seen,
Standing upon the green
Like Olympian queens descended.
One was adorned, and one
Wore her golden tresses bound
With simple flowers; the third was crowned,
And from amidst her raven hair,
Like stars, imperial jewels shone.
—Not one of those figures divine
But might have sate in Juno's chair,
And smiled in great equality
On Jove, though the blue skies were shaken:
Or, with superior aspect, taken
From Hebe's hand nectarean wine.
And that Dardanian boy was there
Whom pale Ænone loved: his hair
Was black, and curl'd his temples 'round;
His limbs were free and his forehead fair,
And as he stood on a rising ground,
And back his dark locks proudly tossed,
A shepherd youth he looked, but trod
On the green sward like a god;
Most like Apollo when he played
('Fore Midas,) in the Phrygian shade,
With Pan, and to the Sylvan lost.
Towering in the clear blue air,
163
Where all that Nature yields
Flourishes. Three proud shapes were seen,
Standing upon the green
Like Olympian queens descended.
One was adorned, and one
Wore her golden tresses bound
With simple flowers; the third was crowned,
And from amidst her raven hair,
Like stars, imperial jewels shone.
—Not one of those figures divine
But might have sate in Juno's chair,
And smiled in great equality
On Jove, though the blue skies were shaken:
Or, with superior aspect, taken
From Hebe's hand nectarean wine.
And that Dardanian boy was there
Whom pale Ænone loved: his hair
Was black, and curl'd his temples 'round;
His limbs were free and his forehead fair,
164
And back his dark locks proudly tossed,
A shepherd youth he looked, but trod
On the green sward like a god;
Most like Apollo when he played
('Fore Midas,) in the Phrygian shade,
With Pan, and to the Sylvan lost.
And now from out the watery floor
A city rose, and well she wore
Her beauty, and stupendous walls,
And towers that touched the stars, and halls
Pillar'd with whitest marble, whence
Palace on lofty palace sprung;
And over all rich gardens hung.
Where, amongst silver waterfalls,
Cedars and spice-trees and green bowers,
And sweet winds playing with all the flowers
Of Persia and Araby,
Walked princely shapes: some with an air
Like warriors, some like ladies fair
Listening, and, amidst all, the king
Nebuchadnezzar rioting
In supreme magnificence.
—This was famous Babylon.
A city rose, and well she wore
Her beauty, and stupendous walls,
And towers that touched the stars, and halls
Pillar'd with whitest marble, whence
Palace on lofty palace sprung;
And over all rich gardens hung.
Where, amongst silver waterfalls,
Cedars and spice-trees and green bowers,
And sweet winds playing with all the flowers
Of Persia and Araby,
Walked princely shapes: some with an air
165
Listening, and, amidst all, the king
Nebuchadnezzar rioting
In supreme magnificence.
—This was famous Babylon.
That glorious vision passed on,
And then I heard the laurel-branches sigh
That still grow where the bright-eyed muses walked:
And Pelion shook his piny locks, and talked
Mournfully to the fields of Thessaly.
And there I saw, piercing the deep blue sky,
And radiant with his diadem of snow,
Crowned Olympus: and the hills below
Looked like inferior spirits tending round
His pure supremacy; and a sound
Went rolling onwards through the sunny calm,
As if immortal voices then had spoken,
And, with rich noises, broken
The silence which that holy place had bred.
I knelt—and as I knelt, haply in token
Of thanks, there fell a honeyed shower of balm,
And the imperial mountain bowed his hoary head.
And then I heard the laurel-branches sigh
That still grow where the bright-eyed muses walked:
And Pelion shook his piny locks, and talked
Mournfully to the fields of Thessaly.
And there I saw, piercing the deep blue sky,
And radiant with his diadem of snow,
Crowned Olympus: and the hills below
Looked like inferior spirits tending round
His pure supremacy; and a sound
Went rolling onwards through the sunny calm,
As if immortal voices then had spoken,
And, with rich noises, broken
The silence which that holy place had bred.
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Of thanks, there fell a honeyed shower of balm,
And the imperial mountain bowed his hoary head.
And then came one who on the Nubian sands
Perish'd for love; and with him the wanton queen
Egyptian, in her state was seen;
And how she smiled, and kissed his willing hands,
And said she would not love, and swore to die,
And laughed upon the Roman Antony.
Oh, matchless Cleopatra! never since
Has one, and never more
Shall one like thee tread on the Egypt shore,
Or lavish such royal magnificence:
Never shall one laugh, love, or die like thee,
Or own so sweet a witchery:
And, brave Mark Antony, that thou could'st give
Half the wide world to live
With that enchantress, did become thee well;
For Love is wiser than Ambition.—
Queen and thou, lofty triumvir, fare ye well.
Perish'd for love; and with him the wanton queen
Egyptian, in her state was seen;
And how she smiled, and kissed his willing hands,
And said she would not love, and swore to die,
And laughed upon the Roman Antony.
Oh, matchless Cleopatra! never since
Has one, and never more
Shall one like thee tread on the Egypt shore,
Or lavish such royal magnificence:
Never shall one laugh, love, or die like thee,
Or own so sweet a witchery:
And, brave Mark Antony, that thou could'st give
Half the wide world to live
With that enchantress, did become thee well;
167
Queen and thou, lofty triumvir, fare ye well.
And then I heard the sullen waters roar,
And saw them cast their surf upon the strand,
And then rebounding toward some far-seen land,
They washed and washed its melancholy shore:
And the terrific spirits, bred
In the sea-caverns, moved by those fierce jars,
Rose up like giants from their watery bed,
And shook their silver hair against the stars.
Then, bursts like thunder—joyous outcries wild—
Sounds as from trumpets, and from drums,
And music, like the lulling noise that comes
From nurses when they hush their charge to sleep,
Came in confusion from the deep.
Methought one told me that a child
Was that night unto the great Neptune born;
And then old Triton blew his curled horn,
And the Leviathan lashed the foaming seas,
And the wanton Nereides
Came up like phantoms from their coral halls,
And laughed and sung like tipsy Bacchanals,
Till all the fury of the ocean broke
Upon my ear—I trembled and awoke.
And saw them cast their surf upon the strand,
And then rebounding toward some far-seen land,
They washed and washed its melancholy shore:
And the terrific spirits, bred
In the sea-caverns, moved by those fierce jars,
Rose up like giants from their watery bed,
And shook their silver hair against the stars.
Then, bursts like thunder—joyous outcries wild—
Sounds as from trumpets, and from drums,
And music, like the lulling noise that comes
From nurses when they hush their charge to sleep,
Came in confusion from the deep.
Methought one told me that a child
Was that night unto the great Neptune born;
And then old Triton blew his curled horn,
And the Leviathan lashed the foaming seas,
168
Came up like phantoms from their coral halls,
And laughed and sung like tipsy Bacchanals,
Till all the fury of the ocean broke
Upon my ear—I trembled and awoke.
169
CROMWELL.
Somewhat apart, but undistinguish'd allFrom those around, sate Cromwell. In his eye
Collected, peered deceit: yet withal blazed
A stern and steady fire: half hypocrite
And zealot half was he, and had become
Perchance, but that the dawning light then shone,
A dark inquisitor, and fit to share
Those works of fire, whereby the cowled monk
Was wont convince the writhing heretic.
At last he slowly rose.—Silent at first
He stood as night: gloomy his brow, but touch'd
And elevate by fanatic flame, that rose
Far from the heart. Like some dark rock, whose rifts
Hold nitrous grain, whereon the lightning fires
170
So he, some corpor'al nerve being struck, stood there
Glaring, but cold and pitiless.—Even hope
(The brightest angel whom the heavens have given
To lead and cheer us onwards) shrank aghast
From that stern look despairing.
171
A HAUNTED STREAM.
‘Of objects all inanimate I made
‘Idols.’
Byron.
‘Idols.’
Byron.
It is perhaps a fable: yet the hind
Tells it with reverence, and at times I deem
The tale allied to truth. They say yon brook
That circles with its silver arms that grove
Of forest trees, is—haunted: nay, you smile;
But I was born beside it, and through life,
Aye, 'midst the jarrings of this bitter world,
In pain, in calumny, my mind hath dwelt
Upon this stream as on some holy thought.
See where it wanders from its mossy cave,
And toward the dark wood, like a bashful thing
Surprised, runs trembling as for succour. Look!
Such streams as these did Dian love, and such
Naiads of old frequented. Still its face
172
In former times, rivers were celebrate:
One told how Achelöus dived beneath
Sicilian seas, to meet his nymph divine,
The blue Arethusa; one (‘the loftiest’) sung
The rough Scamander, oh, and how he rushed
And mingled with Troy fight; and some did tell
Of Aganippe's fount; of Hippocrene,
And Simois, and ‘immortal Castaly.’
Come then, my stream, and I will sing of thee:
Worthy from beauty, oh! but worthier far
From sweet associate pleasures. Thou to me
Art like the glass of memory, where the mind
Sees, charmed and softened by thy murmuring, things
It elsewhere dare not dream of; things that fled
With early youth, and went—I know not whither:
Shadows forgot, and hope that perished.—
—Beautiful river! on thy banks remote
Still does the half-sunned primrose waste its sweets,
173
Like purity) comes forth; blue violets,
The wild-brier-rose, and spotted daisies, which
The young year scatters on the sward, and all
That June or April love, or Autumn spares
Amidst her golden bounty, live unhurt.
Here, on May mornings, I may hear the thrush
Pour from his silver throat sweet music; and,
'Neath summer stars the nightingale—(for she
Is queen of all earth's choristers, and holds
Acquaintance with the evening winds, which waft her
Sweet tidings from the rose.) The stockdove here
Breathes her deep note complaining, 'till the air
Seems touch'd, and all the woods and hollows, sighing,
Prolong the sound to sadness. Hark! a noise.
Song.
Look upon these ‘yellow sands,’
Coloured by no mortal hands:
Look upon this grassy bank,
Crown'd with flowers and osiers dank,
Whereon the milk-white heifers feed:
(White as if of Io's breed.)
Look upon these glassy waters,
Where earth's loveliest daughters
Bathe their limbs and foreheads fair
And wring their dark and streaming hair.
Coloured by no mortal hands:
174
Crown'd with flowers and osiers dank,
Whereon the milk-white heifers feed:
(White as if of Io's breed.)
Look upon these glassy waters,
Where earth's loveliest daughters
Bathe their limbs and foreheads fair
And wring their dark and streaming hair.
Here, if on summer nights you stray,
When rolls the bright and orbed moon
Thro' the sultry skies of June,
You will see the Spirits play,
And all the Fays keep holiday.
Think not that 'tis but a dream:
For I (the Naiad of the stream)
Have often by the pale moonlight,
Seen them dancing, joyous, light.
Some, heedless of the midnight hours,
Laugh, and 'wake the sleeping flowers:
Some on water-lilies lie
And down the wave float silently:
Some, in circles flying,
Beat with their tiny wings the air,
And rouse the zephyr when he's dying:
Some tumble in the fountain's spray,
And in the lunar rainbows play:
All seem as they were free from care.
—Yet, One there was, who at times would stray,
As on her breast some sorrow weigh'd,
And rest her in the pine-tree shade:
(The blue-eyed queen Titania;)
She, from very grief of heart,
Would from the revel oft depart,
And like a shooting sun-beam, go
To where the Tigris' waters shine,
Or the Cashmere roses blow,
Or where the fir-clad Appennine
Frowns darkly on Italian skies,
Or where, 'neath Summer's smile divine,
Tydoré's spicy forests rise.
—But hark! my master Ocean calls,
And I must hie to his coral halls.
What think you now?—Believe the spirit; and own
When rolls the bright and orbed moon
Thro' the sultry skies of June,
You will see the Spirits play,
And all the Fays keep holiday.
Think not that 'tis but a dream:
For I (the Naiad of the stream)
Have often by the pale moonlight,
Seen them dancing, joyous, light.
Some, heedless of the midnight hours,
Laugh, and 'wake the sleeping flowers:
175
And down the wave float silently:
Some, in circles flying,
Beat with their tiny wings the air,
And rouse the zephyr when he's dying:
Some tumble in the fountain's spray,
And in the lunar rainbows play:
All seem as they were free from care.
—Yet, One there was, who at times would stray,
As on her breast some sorrow weigh'd,
And rest her in the pine-tree shade:
(The blue-eyed queen Titania;)
She, from very grief of heart,
Would from the revel oft depart,
And like a shooting sun-beam, go
To where the Tigris' waters shine,
Or the Cashmere roses blow,
Or where the fir-clad Appennine
Frowns darkly on Italian skies,
Or where, 'neath Summer's smile divine,
176
—But hark! my master Ocean calls,
And I must hie to his coral halls.
The place is haunted. On yon slanting tree
That dips its tresses in the wave, 'tis said
Poets have leant, and when the moon hath flung
Her bright smile on the quivering element,
Have thought a strange communion liv'd between
That planet and the stream. Perhaps a nymph
Of Dian's train, here, for her voice or beauty,
Was changed by some envious deity.
Whate'er it be, it well doth manifest
The lives of those who dwell around it: Calm,
And undisturbed its current, never chafed
By the rude breeze, it flows on till—'tis lost.
But I have sailed upon a stormier wave,
And, in my course of life, dark shoals were hid,
And rocks arose, and thundering currents clashed;
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Meet the tempestuous seas; but still I lived,
And held my way undaunted. Now, I come
To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree,
And bush and fragrant flower and hilly path,
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds
Its morning incense, is my friend; for I
Did make acquaintance with inanimate things
In very boyhood, and did love to break
With shouts the mountain silence, and to hang
O'er flashing torrents, when the piny boughs
Shook their dark locks, and plained in mournful tones
Mysterious to the barren wilderness;
And still in solitary spots my soul
Resumes its youth.—Think not that this is all
An idle folly; he who can draw a joy
From rocks, or woods, or weeds, or things that seem
All mute, and does it—is wise.
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STANZAS.
And now with gleams of half extinguish'd thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again.
Wordsworth.
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again.
Wordsworth.
I
I have liv'd many seasons: and I standNor low nor lofty on this world at last:
Yet with some hope (which I cannot withstand)
I shall not wholly bow me to the blast,
Nor, all unknown, like a base weed be cast
Away, and wither in my wintry grave,
Shaming the soil that fed me: For the past—
'Tis gone: and 'twould be idle now to rave
Of wasted hours, or mourn: I am not folly's slave.
179
II
Yet, like a pestilence, despondence hungUpon the spirit of my prime. In vain
I sought for cure: like wasting fire it clung
Against my heart: it struck upon my brain.
Then, like a lion bursting from his chain,
(For I was not the fool of phantasy)
I rush'd away, and rid me of my pain;
And, with that courage that becomes the free,
Stood on the verge again: safe—for at liberty.
III
In deep embowering woods I built my home,For Nature nurses best the sickly mind;
And when Apollo thro' my leafy dome
Came visiting, I rose: at eve, reclined,
I caught strange secrets from the whispering wind,
That with its cooling freshness bath'd my head
As with Olympian dews: 'twas then my mind
Gather'd its powers, and sickly visions fled.
I stood like a man new born—recover'd from the dead.
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IV
It is upon the mountains—the vast sea,That we hear Nature's language: 'tis the tide
Which rolls for ever, speaks ‘Eternity:’
The hills declare she is to Heaven allied,
And in the thunder comes her voice of pride:
Her mirror is the lake: her garb the field
With all the colours of the Iris dyed:
Somewhat of mighty moment does she yield
From every part. To me, her soul she hath revealed.
V
For I did woo her in my early youth,And sought the marvels of her lonely ways;
And often in those fountain depths, where truth
Springs from its parent source, I loved to gaze,
And watch'd its many wanderings, where it strays
The world's rude rocks, and wildering woods among;
And where the elemental lightnings blaze
I've trod—aye, stood above 'em, while along
The precipice they play'd, wild, glittering, and strong.
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VI
I've roamed amongst the eternal Alps. I've stoodAnd gazed upon the diminish'd world below;
Marking, at frightful distance, field and flood,
And spire and town, like things of pigmy show,
Shrink into nothing: while those peaks of snow
(Which yet the winds themselves but seldom climb)
Arose like giants from the void below,
But fashion'd all for everlasting time:
Imperishable things—unstain'd, as 'twere, by crime.
VII
Oh, ye unbending mountains! If ye beAught more than human view may contemplate—
If on your crowned heads the Deity
Rests his bright foot eternal, when in state
He bends arrayed in lightnings; consecrate
Then stand for ever. Perchance your heaven-ward look
Infused such feeling, strong and elevate,
That madness in the soul's bright temple shook.
Silent ye pointed high. I read as from a book.
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VIII
Sacred ye are. The very eye of GodDarts roses on ye as it shuts at even.
The earthquake on your breast hath never trod;
Nor in vast fragments have your limbs been riven;
Nor through your heart the red volcano driven,
That foams in lava-cataracts from its bound;
Or flings its blazing columns up to heaven,
Sinking in darkening ashes on the ground.
Thus Hecla, Etna feel; and all, save ye, around.
IX
And oh! thou viewless Spirit, who dost breatheLife on the world: whose home is on the seas,
And plains, and mountain summits, and beneath
This earth; whose couriers are the storm and breeze;
Whose children, the gay birds—the beasts—the trees,
And we (the monarchs of mortality)
And whatsoe'er hath being. That thou didst please
To draw from me the mind's calamity,
I thank thee. Thou hast given the world again to me
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X
For not alone with Alpine heights my soulCommuned in silence: 'Twas from forests deep—
The everlasting ocean that doth roll
Bursting in thundering billows 'gainst the steep;
The rainbow that, when summer vapours weep,
Arches the sky; the free and sightless wind:
The Moon, the Sun, and (last) those fires that keep
Nightly their starry watch. From all my mind
Caught light, and strength, and joy, to no one aid confined,
XI
Two poets saw I there: one had I seenIn boyhood mix in many an idle game;
Since when his hand had gathered laurels green
For his own brows, and on the scroll of fame
Had written his imperishable name,
Amidst the golden characters that lie
Distinguishable there—even as the flame
Of moon or sun burns out conspicuously
Amongst the stars that crowd the bosom of the sky.
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XII
Upon his beautiful forehead scorn was sitting,And weariness and woe; and o'er his eye
Shadows of dim tumultuous thought were flitting,
And passions, which are buried ere they die,
Exorcised by the enchantress Memory
From their dark grave—the heart. But quickly these
Like clouds of rain in summer, passed by;
And then he wantoned with the mountain breeze,
And with the soft mysterious music of the trees
XIII
Held frequent talk, like some familiar spirit.And his companion young would join him then,
And tell how mortal creature might inherit
Ethereal essence here, and haply again
(Though like a world-abandoned denizen)
Expand into that perfect element,
Whate'er it be, that fills the frames of men
With their incomparable light. Intent
Upon that theory sublime his soul was bent.
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XIV
And who may tell (though I believe it not)But that the soul by meditation may
Plume its bright wings, and from its grosser lot
Spring, like a thing immortal, far away;
Or, as the white Alps mount and meet the day,
Accumulate upon its airy head
Thoughts that fine spirits have bequeathed, ere they
Lay down in silence on their wormy bed,
And conquer that chill voice which summons to the dead.
XV
I have seen the Alpine sun-set:—oh! how weakMy verse to tell what flash'd across my sight.
Green, blue and burning red, was every streak:
Like rainbow-beams, but trebly, trebly bright;
The earth, the air, the heavens, were living light:
My vision was absorbed. I trembled—then
Softening his glance, and sinking in his might,
The Sun slow faded from the eyes of men,
And died away. Ne'er have I seen the like again.
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XVI
Yet have I lain in many a leafy nookSequester'd, hiding from the summer beam,
Idling, or haply with that charmed book
Writ by the Avon side; and loved to dream
Of pale Cordelia, gentle Imogen:
Or, on some brook that slid, like guilt, away,
Hurrying the pilfered mosses down its stream,
Pondered, and often at the close of day
Gazed on the coming Moon, and felt, perhaps, her sway.
XVII
It is in high, remoter scenes, that weBecome sublim'd, yet humble: there we learn
That still beyond us spreads—infinity,
And we still clay: or, all admiring, turn
To where those characters of beauty burn,
Which God hath printed on the starry skies:
And haply guess why we alone may learn
The world's vast wonders: why alone our eyes
See far: why we alone have such proud sympathies
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XVIII
For with creation and its marvels noneSave we, can hold communion. On the earth
Are many stately footsteps, and the Sun
Shines on eyes bright as ours: yet hath our birth
(Holy) shed 'round us an immortal worth,
Beyond the rest: though with the rest we fade,
And are encircled by as frail a girth
To life, as they: and in the deadly shade
Wither as quick, and are as loathsome when decayed.
XIX
But while we live, the air, the fruit, the flower,Doth own to us a high, superior charm:
And the soul's radiance in our wintry hour
Flings a sweet summer halo round us, warm;
And then, the multitudinous things that swarm
From the brain's secret cells, and never die,
(Though mortal born,)—Oh! for that boasted balm
Of life, to raise the mighty when they lie
Wrecks, both in frame and mind—common mortality.
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XX
Seems it not hard, that they whose spirits haveEngendered and matured such thoughts sublime,
And lived but for the world, must in the grave
At last sink like the things of folly—crime,
Ere yet the soul hath blossom'd in its prime?
For who may tell how high the labouring thought
Might reach, if giv'n to live till after-time:
And what a pyramid it might build, how fraught
With treasures, but from time and meditation caught?
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THE MAGDALEN.
‘And Woman who had wept her loveliest dower,
‘There hid her broken heart.’
Paris, st. 15.
‘There hid her broken heart.’
Paris, st. 15.
I do remember it. 'Twas such a face
As Guido would have loved to dwell upon;
But oh! the touches of his pencil never
Could paint her perfect beauty. In her home
(Which once she did desert) I saw her last;
Propped up by pillows, swelling round her like
Soft heaps of snow, yielding, and fit to bear
Her faded figure.—I observed her well:
Her brow was fair, but very pale, and look'd
Like stainless marble; a touch methought would soil
Its whiteness. O'er her temple one blue vein
Ran like a tendril; one through her shadowy hand
190
Her mouth was tremulous, and her cheek wore then
A flush of beautiful vermilion,
But more like art than nature; and her eye
Spoke as became the youthful Magdalen,
Dying and broken-hearted. ------
191
WISHES.
Now, give me but a cot that's good,
In some great town's neighbourhood:
A garden, where the winds may play
Fresh from the blue hills far away,
And wanton with such trees as bear
Their loads of green through all the year,
Laurel, and dusky juniper:
So may some friends, whose social talk
I love, there take their evening walk
And spend a frequent holiday.
In some great town's neighbourhood:
A garden, where the winds may play
Fresh from the blue hills far away,
And wanton with such trees as bear
Their loads of green through all the year,
Laurel, and dusky juniper:
So may some friends, whose social talk
I love, there take their evening walk
And spend a frequent holiday.
And may I own a quiet room,
Where the morning sun may come,
Stored with books of poesy,
Tale, science, old morality,
Fable, and divine history
Ranged in separate cases round,
Each with living marble crowned;
Here should Apollo stand, and there
Isis, with her sweeping hair;
Here Phidian Jove, or the face of thought
Of Pallas, or Laocoon,
Or Adrian's boy Antinous,
Or the winged Mercurius,
Or some that conquest lately brought
From the land Italian.
Where the morning sun may come,
192
Tale, science, old morality,
Fable, and divine history
Ranged in separate cases round,
Each with living marble crowned;
Here should Apollo stand, and there
Isis, with her sweeping hair;
Here Phidian Jove, or the face of thought
Of Pallas, or Laocoon,
Or Adrian's boy Antinous,
Or the winged Mercurius,
Or some that conquest lately brought
From the land Italian.
And one I'd have, whose heaving breast
Should rock me nightly to my rest,
By holy chains bound fast to me,
Faster by Love's sweet sorcery.
I would not have my beauty as
Juno or Paphian Venus was,
Or Dian with her crested moon,
(Else, haply, she might change as soon,)
Or Portia, that high Roman dame,
Or she who set the world on flame,
Spartan Helen, who did leave
Her husband-king to grieve,
And fled with Priam's shepherd-boy,
And caused the mighty tale of Troy.
She should be a woman who
(Graceful without much endeavour)
Could praise or excuse all I do,
And love me ever.
I'd have her thoughts fair, and her skin
White as the white soul within;
And her fringed eyes of darkest blue,
Which the great soul looketh through,
Like heaven's own gates cerulean:
And these I'd gaze and gaze upon,
As did of old Pygmalion.
Should rock me nightly to my rest,
By holy chains bound fast to me,
Faster by Love's sweet sorcery.
I would not have my beauty as
Juno or Paphian Venus was,
193
(Else, haply, she might change as soon,)
Or Portia, that high Roman dame,
Or she who set the world on flame,
Spartan Helen, who did leave
Her husband-king to grieve,
And fled with Priam's shepherd-boy,
And caused the mighty tale of Troy.
She should be a woman who
(Graceful without much endeavour)
Could praise or excuse all I do,
And love me ever.
I'd have her thoughts fair, and her skin
White as the white soul within;
And her fringed eyes of darkest blue,
Which the great soul looketh through,
Like heaven's own gates cerulean:
And these I'd gaze and gaze upon,
As did of old Pygmalion.
194
FLOWERS.
There the rose unveilsHer breast of beauty, and each delicate bud
O' the season comes in turn to bloom and perish.
But first of all the violet, with an eye
Blue as the midnight heavens, the frail snow-drop,
Born of the breath of winter, and on his brow
Fixed like a pale and solitary star:
The languid hyacinth, and wild primrose.
And daisy trodden down like modesty:
The fox-glove, in whose drooping bells the bee
Makes her sweet music; the narcissus (named
From him who died for love,) the tangled woodbine,
Lilacs, and flowering limes, and scented thorns,
And some from whom the voluptuous winds of June
Catch their perfumings.
195
SERENADE.—(Twilight.)
The western skies are no longer gay,
For the sun of the summer has died away,
Yet left no gloom:
For ere the Spirit of heaven went,
He strung night's shadowy instrument,
And hung on every leaf perfume.
For the sun of the summer has died away,
Yet left no gloom:
For ere the Spirit of heaven went,
He strung night's shadowy instrument,
And hung on every leaf perfume.
To each sweet breeze that haunts the world,
And sleeps by day in the rose-leaf curled,
A warmth he gave:
He has left a life in these marble halls,
And beauty on yon white water-falls,
And still at his bidding these dark pines wave.
And sleeps by day in the rose-leaf curled,
A warmth he gave:
He has left a life in these marble halls,
And beauty on yon white water-falls,
And still at his bidding these dark pines wave.
196
Rich is the sun with his golden hair,
And his eye is too bright for man to bear;
And when he shrouds
His brow in vapour, and all the west
Strews gold, as to welcome a kingly guest,
He looks like a god on his throne of clouds.
And his eye is too bright for man to bear;
And when he shrouds
His brow in vapour, and all the west
Strews gold, as to welcome a kingly guest,
He looks like a god on his throne of clouds.
Yet—I know an eye as bright as his,
And a smile more soft, and lips of bliss,
Oh! lovelier far:
And an arm as white as the milk-white dove,
And a bosom all warm and rich with love,
And a heart—as the hearts of angels are.
And a smile more soft, and lips of bliss,
Oh! lovelier far:
And an arm as white as the milk-white dove,
And a bosom all warm and rich with love,
And a heart—as the hearts of angels are.
She listens now to my wild guitar,
And she hides her beyond yon lattice bar,
(A girl's delight:)
Yet she never will let me linger long,
But comes and rewards my twilight song,
And treats her love with—a kiss by night.
And she hides her beyond yon lattice bar,
(A girl's delight:)
Yet she never will let me linger long,
But comes and rewards my twilight song,
And treats her love with—a kiss by night.
197
TO ------
Beauty! never more shalt thou
Gently speak unto me,
Nor thy smile undo me:
(I may tell thy witchery now.)
Gently speak unto me,
Nor thy smile undo me:
(I may tell thy witchery now.)
Like the lips of love
Came thy sweet caressing,
Grateful as a sudden blessing
Falling from the skies above.
Came thy sweet caressing,
Grateful as a sudden blessing
Falling from the skies above.
And is thy beauty gone—
And thy voice departed?
And is thy bright eye bright no more?
Oh! why were we for ever parted?
And thy voice departed?
And is thy bright eye bright no more?
Oh! why were we for ever parted?
198
Thou art lying now alone,
Chained in thy lasting sleep,
In those low chambers of the deep,
Where sea-nymphs are dreaming,
And the under-waters streaming
Silently by the coral shore.
And not a wind that wantons here
With the upper billow,
Can reach thee on thy sandy pillow:
So thou wilt slumber quiet, dear.
Chained in thy lasting sleep,
In those low chambers of the deep,
Where sea-nymphs are dreaming,
And the under-waters streaming
Silently by the coral shore.
And not a wind that wantons here
With the upper billow,
Can reach thee on thy sandy pillow:
So thou wilt slumber quiet, dear.
Thou wast buried nobly; all
The elements in their pomp attended,
And their various music blended
To grace thy funeral.
The thunder muttered along the sky,
And the lightning lit his torch on high;
The tempest blew his trumpet o'er thee,
And the ocean rose and sunk before thee,
And its mountains roared harmoniously.
The elements in their pomp attended,
And their various music blended
To grace thy funeral.
The thunder muttered along the sky,
And the lightning lit his torch on high;
The tempest blew his trumpet o'er thee,
And the ocean rose and sunk before thee,
And its mountains roared harmoniously.
199
For me—I do believe that we
Shall meet again in after days,
And I shall, once more, see
The smile I used to praise,
And touch the roses of those lips,
And in the splendour of thine eye
(Now shrouded in a cold eclipse,)
Bask as beneath the sunny sky.
I would not lose the thought that flies
By me, that I shall see thee, dear,
In the bright bowers of Paradise,
As sweet (no more) as thou wast here,
For all the promised joys that man
Hath gather'd from the Ottoman.
Shall meet again in after days,
And I shall, once more, see
The smile I used to praise,
And touch the roses of those lips,
And in the splendour of thine eye
(Now shrouded in a cold eclipse,)
Bask as beneath the sunny sky.
I would not lose the thought that flies
By me, that I shall see thee, dear,
In the bright bowers of Paradise,
As sweet (no more) as thou wast here,
For all the promised joys that man
Hath gather'd from the Ottoman.
200
A SONG.
Lie silent now, my lyre,
For all thy master's fire
Is gone.—It vanish'd like the summer sun.
Brightly the passion rose,
And, 'till its turbulent close,
It shone as bright; though all he wished was won.
For all thy master's fire
Is gone.—It vanish'd like the summer sun.
Brightly the passion rose,
And, 'till its turbulent close,
It shone as bright; though all he wished was won.
Deem me not false, ye fair,
Who, with your golden hair
And soft eyes chain man's heart to yours: the deer
Thus bound by beauty's chain
Wanders not again:
Prisoner to love, like me—never to fear.
Who, with your golden hair
And soft eyes chain man's heart to yours: the deer
Thus bound by beauty's chain
Wanders not again:
Prisoner to love, like me—never to fear.
201
She whom I loved has fled;
And now with the lost dead
I rank her: and the heart that loved her so,
(But could not bear her pride,)
In its own cell hath died,
And turned to dust,—but this she shall not know.
And now with the lost dead
I rank her: and the heart that loved her so,
(But could not bear her pride,)
In its own cell hath died,
And turned to dust,—but this she shall not know.
'Twould please her did she think
That my poor frame did shrink,
And waste and wither; and that Love's own light
Did blast its temple, where
'Twas worshipped many a year;
Veiled (like some holy thing) from human sight.
That my poor frame did shrink,
And waste and wither; and that Love's own light
Did blast its temple, where
'Twas worshipped many a year;
Veiled (like some holy thing) from human sight.
Oh! had you seen her when
She languished, and the men
From the dark glancing of her fringed eye
Turned, but returned again
To mark the winding vein
Steal tow'rd her marble bosom, silently.
She languished, and the men
From the dark glancing of her fringed eye
Turned, but returned again
To mark the winding vein
Steal tow'rd her marble bosom, silently.
202
What matters this?—thou lyre,
Nothing shall e'er inspire
Thy master to rehearse those songs again:
She whom he loved is gone,
And he, now left alone,
Sings, when he sings of love, in vain, in vain.
Nothing shall e'er inspire
Thy master to rehearse those songs again:
She whom he loved is gone,
And he, now left alone,
Sings, when he sings of love, in vain, in vain.
203
TO A CHILD.
Fairest of Earth's creatures!All thy innocent features
Moulded in beauty do become thee well.
Oh! may thy future years
Be free from pains, and fears,
False love, and others envy, and the guile
That lurks beneath a friendlike smile,
And all the various ills that dwell
In this so strange compounded world; and may
Thy look be like the skies of May,
Supremely soft and clear,
With, now and then, a tear
For joy, or others sorrows, not thy own.
And may thy sweet voice
Like a stream afar
204
Be joyful and bid all who hear rejoice.
And may thy bright eye, like a star,
Shine sweet and cheer the hearts that love thee,
And take in all the beauty of the flowers,
Deep woods, and running brooks, and the rich sights
Which thou may'st note above thee
At noontide, or on interlunar nights,
Or when blue Iris, after showers,
Bends her cerulean bow, and seems to rest
On some distant mountain's breast,
Surpassing all the shapes that lie
Haunting the sun-set of an autumn sky.
205
WOMAN.
Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume:
And the gloss has dropped from her golden hair,
And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair.
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume:
And the gloss has dropped from her golden hair,
And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair.
And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality;
And the smile that played round her lip has fled,
And every charm has now left the dead.
Is struck with cold mortality;
And the smile that played round her lip has fled,
And every charm has now left the dead.
Like slaves they obeyed her in height of power,
But left her all in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh.
—And this is man's fidelity!
But left her all in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh.
—And this is man's fidelity!
206
'Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more, and smile and bless
Man in his uttermost wretchedness.
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more, and smile and bless
Man in his uttermost wretchedness.
207
ROSAMUND GRAY. (A Fragment. )
Once—but she died—I knew a village girl(Poor Rosamund Gray,) who, in my fancy, did
Surpass the deities you tell me of.
Haply you may have passed her; and indeed
Her beauty was not made for all observance,
If beauty it might be called. It was a sick
And melancholy loveliness, that pleased
But few; and somewhat of its charm, perhaps,
Owed to the lonely spot she dwelt in.—I
Knew her from her infancy; a shy, sad girl;
And gossips when they saw her, oftentimes
Would tell her future fortunes. They would note
208
Had made fast friends with sorrow, and would say
Hers was an early fate: that she would pine
From grief—neglect—or cast her youth away
On love without requital.—She grew a woman:
Yet, when from some long absence I returned,
I knew again the pretty child I left.
Her hair of deepest chesnut, (that which once
Fell in thick shining clusters,) 'round a brow
Pale as Greek marble, wandered tastefully:
But still there were the same blue eyes, and still
Their melancholy splendour; bearing now
Proof of the gossip's prophecy. ------[OMITTED]
209
SONNET.
To Michael Angelo.
Michael! thou wast the mightiest spirit of allWho taught or learned Italian art sublime:
And long shall thy renown survive the time
When Ruin to herself thy works shall call.
One only, (and he perished in his prime,)
Could mate with thee; and in one path alone.
Thou didst regenerate art; and from the stone
Started the breathing image, perfect great;
And such as haply, in his after state,
Man shall attain: and thou could'st trace the rhyme
That lifts its parent to the skies, thus bending
To thy resistless powers the sisters three,
Painting, and Sculpture, and wing'd Poetry.
—Whom can I place beside thee—not descending?
210
SONNET.
To ------ (1817.)
Upon what pleasant slope, or sunny field,Sweet, unforgotten girl, are your delaying?
Or are you with those sportive children playing,
Whose loveliness time has not quite revealed?
Or with that serious sister, who has sealed
Her nuptial bond in joy—are you arraying
Her, or your own dark hair hind'ring from straying
Down that white bosom vanity never steeled?
Or are you, in unostentatious duty,
Tending the kindest mother in the world,
Whose looks are fix'd on those blue eyes of beauty,
That shine as softly as a summer star?
Yet wherefore wish I the dim veil unfurl'd?
May joy go with you wheresoe'er you are.
211
SONNET.
Imagination.
Oh, for that winged steed, Bellerophon!That Pallas gave thee in her infinite grace
And love for innocence, when thou didst face
The treble-shaped Chimæra. But he is gone
That struck the sparkling stream from Helicon;
And never hath one risen in his place,
Stamped with the features of that mighty race.
Yet wherefore grieve I—seeing how easily
The plumed spirit may its journey take
Through yon blue regions of the middle air;
And note all things below that own a grace,
Mountain, and cataract, and silent lake,
And wander in the fields of poesy,
Where avarice never comes, and seldom care.
212
SONNET.
Winter.
I love to listen when the year grows old,And noisy: like some weak life-wrinkled thing,
That vents his splenetic humours, murmuring
At ills he shares in common with the bold.
Then from my quiet room the Winter cold
Is barred out like a thief: but should one bring
A frozen hand, the which December's wing
Hath struck so fiercely, that he scarce can hold
The stiffened finger tow'rd the grate, I lend
A double welcome to the victim, who
Comes shivering, with pale looks, and lips of blue,
And through the snow and splashing rain could walk,
For some few hours of kind and social talk:
And deem him, more than ever, now—my friend.
213
SONNET.
A Fresh Morning.
It is a noisy morning: yet the skyLooks down as bright as on a summer's day.
The ocean, curling as in wanton play,
Doth bare her bosom to Apollo's eye,
And every whispering wind that flutters by
Seems like a spirit charged to greet the day,
And duly hurries tow'rd the East—away:
For there the sun, seen o'er the mountains high,
Comes smiling on the world. The fruit, the flower,
Earth, heaven, the sea, and oh! the heart of man,
And all that came within his mighty plan
Fling back the glance in joy: And from her bower
The spirit of Meditation comes, to see
All nature join in social jubilee.
THE END.
| The poetical works of Barry Cornwall | |