University of Virginia Library

The day is waning,—and my walk is over
Beneath the joyous sun, which, like a lover,
Is wending to his loved one in the West:—
(Ah! that my feet the same sweet journey press'd!)
Gently the amber evening sleeps in Heaven,
And in its sleep serenest smiles are given.
The blossoms on the pear-tree cluster white,
And meekly wear the veil of golden light,
Which falls in quiet round them from the sun,
Like beauty o'er a dedicated nun.
My Annie dear! perchance on eves like these,
With gladness underneath the budding trees,
Thou walkest with thy sisters in sweet talk,
Or by the sea takest a lonely walk,
Thinking of them, and (can I wholly be
Without the hope?)—giving a thought to me!—

Thy letter of quick kindness found me, Annie!—
And so you think my cravings all too many!—
And rally me with veil'd austerity,
Or feelings which are keen—to none but me!
Far, far I sojourn from the form I love,
And some few feelings live in me, that move
Like aspen-leaves, and to the slightest wind,—
And yearnings rise from an unresting mind,
Perchance o'erwrought,—but not for aught that may
Fall on myself—oh no!—the bitter day
Hath been, and I have borne it—ay, and now
Health and a freshen'd hope are on my brow,
As they had never vanish'd,—but for Her,—
My hopes, and fears, and feelings, rise and stir,
And hunger after tidings:—these are not
So much the pain of thine, as of my lot.
If I have been too wearying,—bear with me,
With all the love I ever found in thee,—
Nor yet those sleepless feelings e'er deride,
Which pain my breast and hurt no thing beside!—

Oh! could I walk with thee in days like these,
When the young leaf is venturing on the trees,—
And the pale blossom on the cherry bough
Lives in its beauty,—as I see it now;—
I should be happier than the linnet's wing
Spread in the first mild sunlight of the spring!
Oft do I see thee, as I lonely lean
In these soft evenings, which are as serene
In their cerulean skies, and setting suns,
And clouds gold-feather'd,—as the summer ones;—
Oft do I see thee in my thoughts,—that take
Westerly wanderings,—thy enjoyment make
From the enchantments of an evening sea
That weaves its own sweet pastime merrily,—
Or sleeps beneath some sea-nymph's waving wands;—
Or as it fawns upon the golden sands
With never ending kisses, and soft sighs,—
I see thee lingering o'er its harmonies,
As though some spirit did converse with thee
Of worlds divine, where shatter'd hearts shall be
Ever at rest, amid Elysian bowers,
Lull'd with the music of the lute-fed hours.—
The silver sea-foam on the sands thou lovest,
That at thy feet is dying, as thou rovest,
And brightening up again—as mourners' eyes
That fade and sparkle while the spirits rise:
Dear is the mystic world of waters, when
Day hath departed from the eyes of men,
And that devoted haunter of the sky,
The lonely moon, is lingering thoughtfully
Over the bosom of the sleeping sea,—
That trembles in its dreams. For then to thee
Steals that long line of pure and silver light
Across the waters, which all starry bright
Doth from the chasten'd Deity seem to come,
To bear thy white thoughts to a happy home!—

Of late there hath been many a silent eve,
Rosy as wreaths which lady-fingers weave
For soft brown tresses on a revel night,—
And gentle as the bird that takes its flight
From Cytherea's finger.—Lonely sitting
On one of these fair eves,—and idly knitting
My thoughts,—as many a cottage spinster doth
Her web,—in mood, half industry, half sloth:—
I sat into the twilight late, and caught
Old days and green joys in the net of thought:
And many a dear departed scene arose
And pass'd away,—like birds from their repose,
Startled by heedless feet in morning grass;—
And sylvan pleasures, in a joyous mass,
Revived about my heart, and died again—
Touching the next few moments with dim pain.
I thought of those I loved—I thought of thee—
And of our pastime when the night was free—
The bustle of the books—the lonely notes
Of a melancholy melody that floats
For ever and for ever through the mind,—
Leaving a sad and sweet delight behind!
I thought of Him,—the deathless—the inspired—
Whose light my very earliest boyhood fired,—
And of his rich creations:—have we not
Sorrow'd at high Macbeth's distorted lot—
Sigh'd over Hamlet's sweet and 'wilder'd heart—
And, when we came upon that piteous part
Of love's romance, where long before 'twas day
The Ladye of the moonlight pined away,
Over the sleeping fruitage—passion-pale,—
Have we not loved young Juliet?—and the wail
Of Lear swoon'd round the heart—and still the tear
Wrung from meek Desdemona, by the austere
And darkling madness of her Moorish lord,
Was dear to us,—and many a sorrowing word
Of tender pity dropt at the wild fate
Of one so young and so disconsolate!
And now my thoughts turn'd to the heavy sea,
That weighs for aye, “Though inland far we be:”—
I heard it plainly gathering—curling—thundering—
With eye rock-still and heart chill'd up with wondering:—
It came with glassy curve, and dreary brightness,
And dash'd itself into a cloud of whiteness,—
And kept a stunning noise that never ceased
In my crazed ears.—But these rough thoughts decreased,—
And lightly o'er green waters of the summer,
The merry sunlight was a joyous comer,—
Strewing its golden wealth along the way,
To mingle with the silver of the spray:
The waves, like infants, join'd in heedless bands,
And chased each other on the placid sands;
The day was bright,—as days in summer are,—
And thou,—methought,—and those I love, were there!

But these are idle dreams that cheat me, Annie!—
And through my life these dreams have aye been many,—
Leading me oft with faithless witchery
To pant for glories which could never be:
Taunting my soul with fame—to make the waking
A thing of momentary spirit-breaking.
'Tis ever thus with youth—Ambition leads
The heart to gaze at high and dangerous deeds,
And leads it to its fall—Hope sits afar,
Cresting the distance like a lonely star,
Holding a shadowy cup which fades away
Just as the lip its thirstings would allay.
Why is not youth contented with its own?—
No living things, but what are human, moan
With feverish aspirations after change:—
The slim deer loves its own wide forest range,
Nor pines for sunny fields—the lion roams
O'er the hot desart to his wooded homes,
And is content:—the eagle from his dwelling
Screams its wild joy on top of old Helvellyn,
Or watches from his lonely rocks the sun
With that majestic patience known to none
Of mortal mould—Hearts that are human, pine,
While gazing at that orb, to be divine!—
The world is knowledge to us—but for years
Gain'd, we lose quietude, and trust, and tears,
(Those dew-drops of young nature); and we wear
The comfortless dark garmentry of care.
Then follows thirst of change, and cheerless age,
And prayers for an immortal pilgrimage
To that untroubled region of the blest,
Where bruised and broken hearts are all at rest!—
But fare thee well—I wear thee, Annie dear!
With moralizings which are half austere,
And “dry as summer-dust”—moods of the mind
Which long departing sickness leaves behind:—
Pratings of mental wanderings, not worth
A thought from thee,—unless a thought of mirth.—

But now the light hath faded, and the trees
With their young leaves are dingy images
Seen clear against the milky-colour'd sky;—
Farewell! I breathe towards the West a sigh
For thee—for others too—and for the hour
When I shall walk before the garden bower!

The evening hath departed—and the blue
Of heaven is all obscured—once more, adieu!