The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems

By John Hamilton

Reynolds, John Hamilton (1794-1852)

[section]

DEDICATION. TO------

THE GARDEN OF FLORENCE.

THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

THE LADYE OF PROVENCE.

INTRODUCTORY STANZAS.

THE LADYE OF PROVENCE.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH.

No greater misery can befall you in this life, than to become a prey unto the world. Sir Walter Raleigh.

I

There was a youngster boy of golden mind,
Not many years agone; who with his mother
In humble house did sweet seclusion find;
No other relative he had—no brother
To link him with mankind—no friend to smother
Fantasies wild and dim; no sister young
To woo and win, far surer than another,
His nature from its dreams, and with sweet tongue
To scatter silver sounds his listening thoughts among.

II

His mother was a gentle woman, one
That could not thwart him, she did love him so;
Her hopes did grow like ivy round her son,
And yet his dreaming mind did work her woe;
She deem'd he would be happier, would he know
Less of the essences of things,—and less
Of solitary mysteries that throw
The mind upon itself. And he would press
Her hand, and say he would forsake all loneliness.

III

But like the certain backward flow of rivers,
His thoughts would course again to their romance;
And as the light upon the water quivers,—
So would his mind upon its wonders dance.
And he would sit for hours listening the prance
Of barbed steed,—watching the steeled knights,
That went in olden days with targe and lance
To succour ladies fair: such dazzling sights
Were unto him enchantment—magic to his nights.

IV

Oh sunn'd romance! Spirit of Spenser's song!
Spirit of moonlight wolds—of ladies' eyes—
Spirit of high ethereal hearts that long
To beat for ever!—Spirit of golden skies—
And winter cloud, that like a giant lies
Slumbering in heavy gloom the livelong day:—
Spirit of love! Sole light from Paradise
Brought by the wandering Two:—Ah who shall say
Our dreaming boy was wrong, who loved thy proud array?

V

Some say that from the cradle he was prone
To strange delights, unlike his simple kind;
That he did love to lie and be alone,
To creep from out his bed, when night was blind,
And listen at the window to the wind,
Singing in lofty elms;—to feed his eyes,
Which then were dark, and deep, and full of mind,
With sight of the wan moon in desert skies,
Till tears to those two orbs, like night stars would arise.

VI

And as he grew, when evening meekly came
With dusk feet to the earth,—he slily took
His supper to the wood, and eat the same
Beneath some towering pines, that blackly shook
O'er him their raven heads: and he forsook
All thoughts of home in that old forest throng,
Till the air dropt, and the unwearied brook
Told wooing stories as it coil'd along,
Winning him from dark thoughts of my stery and wrong.

VII

The colour of his young years did not fade
With later ones,—but glow'd upon his heart
Even on the edge of manhood,—as the braid
Of light on morning's forehead bears its part
In making evening lovely;—he would start
To hear the murmuring pine, as when a child:—
Oh Nature! ever beautiful thou art
To those on whose young eyes thine own have smiled,
And of their youth, through thee, they never are beguiled.

VIII

He hung entranced o'er a few wild books
Of elder time, and made them living things;
There was a music in his silent looks,
As left there from his soul's attuned strings;
He gave up all dim walks—wood wanderings,—
And in his chamber sat as he had been
No living boy; but there he framed him wings
To bear him o'er dim flowers and pastoral green,
And float him amid leaves, where Joyance lay serene.

IX

His mother grieved;—and he had surely pined
At her depression,—but he saw it not,
From his abstraction and romance of mind;
But he did feel as one that wears, I wot,
With an o'erpowering presence; for his lot
Was pain and melancholy;—he did break,
Like one far gone in eld,—his hand grew hot,
And tremulous, and he of nights did wake,
Watching the stars their posts on skyey turrets take.

X

“And those then are the spirits of olden time,
“Lingering about those regions blue and far;
“The very thought doth shed feelings sublime
“Over my mind like light. That placid star
“Is Venus sitting in her pearly car;
“How full of simple joy is her soft look!
“How full of love! No wild air seems to mar
“Her quiet locks—but all around are shook—
“As hers appear when seen in some unresting brook.”

XI

But illness lodged itself within his frame,
And made a leaden thing of his wild eye;
It hung upon him like the thirst of fame,
But work'd within him deeper injury;
His cheek grew hollow, and his press'd lips dry,
And o'er his limbs crept slothful lassitude;
He look'd as one that must sink down and die,
For by the day he lay in languid mood,
And night was scarcely more filled up with solitude.

XII

Certes, it was right sorrowful to see
So very gentle and inspired a child
Wearing away as so it seem'd to be,
And going to his grave serene and mild:
The warrior's heart, that is so fiery wild,
Breaks—and a flood of glory streams around;—
But where youth in its quiet is beguiled
To the chill tomb—it doth the gazer wound;
For there no beauty is—no breath—no sight—no sound!

XIII

At night he felt a longing to be thrown
Into some forest dun, where trees were thick,
And water very cool: to make a throne
Of some quaint bank, and in a pleasant trick
Of idleness, a corönal to pick
Of lilies of the water for his head,—
And ever while his pulse was beating quick
With pain, he sweet things of the summer said,
And framed this little song, upon his midnight bed.

SONG.

1

O melon-scented lily!
O water queen of flowers!
When shall I see the silver waves,
Dancing around thee, like sweet slaves
To Beauty in its bowers;
When shall I take an earthly part
In honouring thy golden heart?

2

O pretty rose autumnal!
O fairy queen of trees!
When may I trace thy gentle buds
Adorned with their emerald studs,
In their green palaces:
When see thy vernal velvet fall
Under thy ruby coronal?

3

The sound of forest music,
The water song of streams,
Are become dim and strange to me,
As musings of old witchery;—
But in my fitful dreams,
And in my waking weary hours,
Spirits come to me, as from flowers.

XIV

Oh passion! why art thou such madness? Why
Dost thou so fatally thy progress speak?—
Thou puttest out the light of a starry eye,—
And feedest on the beauty of the cheek;—
Beneath thy ravages the heart is weak,
Yet woos thee and thy ruin with delight,
Loving its still destroyer,—like a meek
And quiet Indian woman, that in bright
And clinging flames, to Love resigns her gentle spright.

XV

It was a pity, so it was, that one
So framed to dwell in golden Arcady,
Should be left naked in a world so lone,
When all trace of those days hath ceased to be,
Save in some rich old page of poesy;
He should have lived in elder days, and slept
With light luxurious creatures near a tree,
Or by the side of some warm stream, that crept
Through vales where never soul repined—or plain'd—or wept.

XVI

His health at length revived with warmer days,
And in the quiet sun his eye regain'd
Its mystic lustre, like the wave that plays,
After a storm, with golden glory stain'd.
Near to the open'd window he remain'd,
And read light stories of delightful times;
But when the day in laughing beauty waned,
He closed his book, and turn'd him from the rhymes,
To muse o'er fables old, and call up classic climes.

XVII

He read of story strange and fiction fair,
Of heathen deities, and shapes divine;
Of girls with heaven-blue eyes and golden hair,
That over glassy waters lean'd to twine
Their tresses with the breathing jessamine;
Of nymphs that mused, as though to marble turn'd,
Or upon green banks sweetly did recline,
When the sun westward through the foliage burn'd,
Waiting till Dian bright from the wood chase return'd.

XVIII

And when her crescent through the branches play'd,
Sending a silver light, through the red glow
Of the setting sun, the nymphs from the green shade
Came all attendant; from her form of snow
They wreathed her ruffled locks,—and took her bow'
Which had so oft the air with arrows laced,—
And laid it in the leaves; and bending low,
With pearl'd and delicate fingers, quick unbraced
The sandals which the feet of that wood goddess graced.

XIX

He mused o'er Psyche too, the immortal maid,
Whom young Love woo'd and wafted to the skies,
She that so meek o'er the starr'd pavement stray'd
Of Jove's etherial temple; and that lies
Asleep with Cupid's lips upon her eyes,
Breathing all lovely visions o'er her sight:
She that stood gentle before Jove;—the prize
Of youthful Love—while Ganymede the bright
Stood cloying the eagle's plumage with his hand of light.

XX

He read and dreamt of young Endymion,
Till his romantic fancy drank its fill;
He saw that lovely shepherd sitting alone,
Watching his white flocks upon Ida's hill;
The Moon adored him,—and when all was still,
And stars were wakeful—she would earth ward stray,
And linger with her shepherd love, until
The hoofs of the steeds that bear the car of day,
Struck silver light in the east,—and then she waned away!

XXI

But these remembrances of heathen days
Fall on the riven heart and wearied brain
Like shadows of dim madness; the mind strays
Backward and backward for ideal gain,
Into the heathen world,—and not in vain,—
For beings rise and crowd to it, and give,
Like creatures of the clay, a heavy pain,—
Nor will they cease, at word or wish, to live—
But still they crowd and wear,—how well soe'er we strive.

XXII

Soon as the boy could quit his weary room,
And bear him from the threshold to the air,
He did divert him from the sorry gloom,
With sight of much that sylvan was, and fair:—
The patient passion of a snowy pair
Of doves in an old wood,—the leaves, that seem
Disporting like green Eden-birds, where'er
The trees are light,—the linnet's joyous theme,
Sweet as a fit of sound from Music in her dream.

XXIII

He loved no earthly lady; for as yet
He had not watched for beauty in the forms
Of his own kind: no eye of melting jet
Sway'd the wild heavings of his heart, the storms
Of rolling passion,—as the soft moon forms
And checks the sea-foam and the throbbing wave;
But certes 'tis that wayward boyhood warms
In beauty's light at some strange hour:—the brave,
The cold, the stern, the wild,—can woman's eye enslave.

XXIV

Oh! who hath ever at his heart withstood
The deep still sweetness of a soft brown eye,
That seems in its own silent orb to brood
O'er visions of the inward mind, to lie
Circled with intellectual witchery;—
And then the even forehead, all above,
As white and smooth as sheening ivory,—
On which rich tresses of the brown hair move;—
Ah who hath gazed on these, nor given a sigh to love!

XXV

Long raven hair, lying on ivory shoulders,
And eyes with soft and dusky lashes shaded,
And snow-fair breast and brow, awe young beholders
Into still madness:—and one black tress braided
Along the silent forehead, hath invaded
Many a heart, and never pass'd away:—
A cheek, in which the inconstant rose hath faded,
Hath with pale beauty made enchanted prey
Of those who have been wild and heedless in their day.

XXVI

Calm forest evenings are divine delights,
To such as have been long in chamber pent
With clinging pain and unreposing nights,
And thoughts that lean towards madness for a vent:
The mind amid dim trees becomes unbent,
And the heart draws in store of quiet breath,
A silence melts, as from the firmament,
To temper stirring scenes and things beneath,
And blend the light of life with all the calm of death.

XXVII

The forest found him every evening lending
His presence to its shades of happiness;
There was he lonely, lingering, dreaming, wending,—
As though he were some form of airiness,
That came those solitary scenes to bless;
To various glens, and nooks, and brakes he wander'd,
And he was very happy, as I guess;
For o'er his book in open air he ponder'd,
Or mused where one sweet stream through hidden ways meander'd.

XXVIII

Beside this viewless stream, all lonely weeping,
The delicate willow hung. Its silver stem
The birch sent up, like glossy serpent creeping
Out through the lofty foliage,—many a gem,
As dropp'd from heedless Flora's diadem,
Lay round the crooked roots. The ash was there
Strewing its tresses light—and near to them
The pine shook out its dark and dreary hair,
Under which all was wither'd, worn, and wild, and bare.

XXIX

Yet ever underneath the crowning leaves,
The water lapsed along, as 'twere enjoying
To be alone on soft and silent eves,
The listening solitude with lull'd notes cloying:
It won the lone boy's ear, all gently buoying
His heart up in the silence as on wings;—
All that was rude, and restless, and annoying,
Seem'd charm'd away, as when some spirit sings
On starlight nights to soothe young poets' wanderings.

XXX

Within the very middle of that wood,
A little lake on grassy banks did lean
Its joyous waves of silver;—and a brood
Of water lilies all around were seen,
Sitting in fragrance on their broad leaves green;
Flowers of the fairest on the margin grew,
And rose-trees, with young lilac trees between,
Circled the still lake buddingly, and threw
A floating foliage there, that took a soften'd hue.

XXXI

And there two swans did lay their bosoms white
Amongst the lilies,—or serenely go,
Breasting the water into wreaths of light,
Which spread around like halos, and below,
Their well mock'd images did softly glow
Like melted marble:—or they stilly furl'd
In idlesse fair their wings of woven snow,
Or on their backs their necks gracefully curl'd,
And there like spirits sat upon their silvery world.

XXXII

The 'fisher sets its little breast afloat,
Dying the wave it touches sweetly blue;—
It doth resemble an Italian boat,
Launch'd on the water by some lover true,
And all deserted by an idle crew;—
It loves to creep among the reeds, and show
Between those restless bars the azure hue
Of its rich plume,—and on the wave below,
As tribute from its breast, a feather blue to throw.

XXXIII

The fish that to and fro were glancing there,
Did mock the mind with fancies; they would seem
Like shooting lights piercing the moonlight air,—
Or like swift spirits seen in some frail dream;
Or youthful poets, viewing them, might deem
They were quick thoughts,—or that young fairies sent
Their silver arrows lightly through the stream;—
And whilst above the water flowers they leant,
They gleam'd like distant stars in the dim firmament.

XXXIV

The gay fly hover'd o'er the water clear,
And seem'd in its rich shade a pride to take;
The lilies of the valley growing near,
Look'd at their sister lilies of the lake,
And meekly droop'd; the deer that came to slake
Its thirst at that fair water,—with a start,
Leap'd from the shadow which his form did make,
And, through the lilac branches, breaking apart,
Went like the wind in all its wantonness of heart.

XXXV

Up sprung the goldfinch from the covering grass,
And wing'd its way into the nearest bower;
And there it sat twinkling within the mass
Of playful leaves, where the blithe roses cower
Like fairy birds,—itself a feather'd flower,—
A winged blossom sparkling in the shade:
The shadows fell upon it in a shower,
Gentle green shadows by the foliage made,
Which o'er its plumage rich, like dappled sunlight, play'd.

XXXVI

He sometimes heard the sound of distant flute,
Breath'd by some happy, homeward wending wight;
Its mellow music did his spirit suit,
And seem'd fit prelude to a summer night.
He stretch'd along his boyish figure light,
And in romantic idlesse, took each tone
Into his heart of hearts,—his eyes waxed bright,
And imaged music; when the flute had flown,
He heard its echoes die across the forest lone.

XXXVII

As thus he lay his listless form along,
Amid the pleasaunce of a bed of grass,
He nursed his nature with the hollow song
Of the gloss'd blackbird, who in one rich mass
Heaved out his soul of song. Then would he class
The lays of lesser birds, shed from the spray
That o'er him grew. And as the bee would pass,
Humming its music on its airy way,
He watch'd its little wings spin in the evening ray.

XXXVIII

And could there then be aught of wonderment,
That our enthusiast should be aye delaying
In this enchanted spot?—a vernal tent
Was ever o'er him, and his heart was straying
In endless journeys of green joyaunce, laying
Its little plans of fairy life to come;
And all his light and rising thoughts arraying
In fair romance. The evening's latest gloom
Came down ere he would bend his wayward footsteps home.

XXXIX

Why should the world lay iron chains upon
A youngster boy of such a golden mind?
Are there not men enough with hearts of stone,
And eyes to nature's emerald beauties blind,
To work the tasks and evils of their kind?
Oh! let the etherial dreamer wander free,
As over meadows goeth the light wind,
To nooks which shadows are of Arcady,
And dells which are as deep and sweet as dells may be!

XL

One eve, the sun was down the west sky sinking,
And hyeing like a bridegroom to his bed;
The deer was at the lake, timidly drinking,
Before he couch'd him for the night—his head
And branching horns with setting rays bright red;—
Full late the gnats did weave their dance, I ween,
And the stern dragon-fly as swiftly sped,
As arrow from the bow;—our boy did lean
Near to the lake, entranced at such an evening scene.

XLI

A fairy book was idly in his fingers
Half open,—he had read its wonders well—
Of azure birds that are enchanted singers,
And dancing water from a guarded well;
Of shepherd princess, and what her befel;
And of her lover from the eagle's nest;
Of many marvels which I may not tell,
If in my bed I ever hope to rest,
Though why, I cannot guess; but fairies know the best.

XLII

But tales of faëry are splendid things,
When gather'd in our childhood; they remain
Like dew eterne in our rememberings,
Freshening the mead of memory from the pain
Of wither'd thought; a deep romantic strain
Of music are they sounding through our days;
Who can forget the White Cat, and her train
Of magic hands? The Royal Ram? The ways
Finetta went on th' Ogre's dazzling house to gaze?

XLIII

And Princess Fairstar is a silver name,
From whose long hair the combed emeralds fell;
And Beauty, who in luckless hour became
The bride of dreary Bear:—but how I dwell
With gossip fondness upon fairy spell!
Where is the boy? Still lying near the lake,
But o'er his ears there steals a honey swell
Of music, as though spirits were awake,
And he with thrilling joy doth start, and list, and quake.

XLIV

He quaked indeed,—he listen'd long,—he started,
A ray of light shot upward from the core
Of the water lilies,—and they spread, and parted,
And then the light increased more and more;
And fainting sounds of sweetness kiss'd the shore,
And swoon'd upon the water. All afloat
And restless were those flowers with their bright store
Of fairies,—for at every mellow note,
A small and dazzling form stood in each silvery boat.

XLV

Much doth it wonder me that I can keep,—
I who do weave this mystic history,—
My constancy and ardency from sleep;
So high the state of elfin pageantry!
And I should surely stagger droopingly
Under the magic beauty,—but I place
A steady trust in what did flit to me
In fitful visions of the fairy race,
When I was young, and smiles inhabited my face.

XLVI

Since childhood (and not yet hath past my youth),
Trouble hath haunted me in many a form;
In my first trial on this world uncouth,
And in my springing feelings, early warm;
And home-affliction fell, that direst storm
That breaks upon us; and my health gave way,
As whispering in mine ear, “the worm—the worm;”
But one gold heart chased all the gloom away,
And rose, an earthly sun, upon my bettering day.

XLVII

Partly a love of fame—partly the love
Of poesy for its dear self—but more
To gladden one soft spirit—do I move
Along this curious path of fairy love:
If my Muse be upon Oblivion's shore,
And, after all her flower sweet pastime ends,
She must be gulph'd in the drear sea,—her store
Toss'd on Lethean waves,—my nature bends,
And takes the desolate fate the world so coldly sends.

XLVIII

Ah! can such careless lay as this endow
My life with lustre,—giving up my name
Within the portal, like a flower to blow,
Decking the eternal temple of old Fame?
My song is lowly, and good sooth I shame
To offer it, where many are so fair:—
But yet Simplicity, though aye the same,
May not in every heart so badly fare,
And certes higher bards my little lay may spare.

XLIX

But why do I delay?—Ah, why indeed
“Dally with faint surmise,”—when I should haste
To quaint delights which I might win, and lead
In silver links of poesy: I waste
My time in idle prattlement, and taste
Every strange cup that is held up to me:—
Now be my soul unto its purpose braced,
Not wandering every where, as chance may be,
But lingering with my small and lily company.

L

The waves did melt and part before those flowers,
Which bent them like the gentlest boats to land;
And as scared roseleaves flit from summer bowers,
These small and pretty spirits, each with wand
Of crystal brightness in its pearly hand,
Pass'd to the grassy quiet of the shore;
The verdure silver'd underneath that band
Of fays, in spots of softest lustre, more
Starlight and sweet than aught in palaces of yore!

LI

Amid that airy elfin company,
There were the prettiest shapes that e'er were seen;
Spanlong and very sightly to the ee,
And young as one night's dewdrops are, I ween;
And they as light upon the grass did lean,
Listening to lone sounds waken'd in the air
From lutes etherial!—more emerald green
The grass became, rejoicing calmly there
In creatures of romance, so radiantly fair.

LII

The freckled cowslip sprang, but meekly droop'd
In those most tremulous starry presences:
Wreaths of the odorous eglantine were loop'd
From spray to spray of all the youthful trees:
Blossoms as white as foam of coursing seas
Studded the grass and leaves;—and all about
The gold and purple breast of the heart's-ease
Did offer resting spots to that quaint rout,—
And rosebuds in the air for a fairy's kiss did pout.

LIII

Out peep'd the snow drop, though 'twas summer time;
How could it from such revels be away?—
Although it was oppress'd with the warm clime,
Still it look'd beautiful in its array,
And lonely as the budding star of day!—
All these bright flowers were one night's ornament,
Born in the fairies' breath, to pass away
Even with their vanishings,—by Flora lent
To make for sportive fays the deckings of their tent.

LIV

Th' enthusiast gaz'd, like one bewildered
And breathless with immortal visitings,—
He sat in chill delight; nor stirr'd his head,
Lest all should pass away like shadowy things;
Now would his eye be dazed with the wings
Of spangled fay, hovering o'er blossom white;—
And now he listen'd to lone thrilling strings
Of magic lutes—and saw the harebell, bright
In its blue veins, for there nestled a form of light.

LV

One blew a honeysuckle trumpet well,
And made young martial music, till it laugh'd—
And in its mirth flew sparks unmatchable
Of light around; another, with sweet craft,
Stole from some careless fay its cup, and quaff'd
The dew-wine to its depth,—then amid weeds
Hid the small crystal goblet:—oft a shaft,
Made of the film taken from water-reeds,
Did flit across the air, and pierce the lilac's beads.

LVI

Under the shadow of a May sweet blossom,
Two placid elves, like linked sisters, chased
The moments with the heaving of the bosom
In happy sleep: their arms were interlaced,
And their bright cheeks commingling seem'd to taste
Each other's rosy beauty: overhead
A bee, that had been trammel'd in his haste
That magic eve, a lulling murmur bred;
And dewy leaves a hymn to sylvan quiet shed.

LVII

A wand was waved through the charmed air,
And up there rose a very costly throng
Of ivory tables, stored with dainties rare,
At sight of which e'en dieted men might long:
They rose amid strange minstrelsy and song,—
And there was pheasant from enchanted wood,
And swan from fairy stream,—and these among,
Were chalices of Eastern dew-wine, brew'd
By pearly hands in far Arabian solitude.

LVIII

And golden berries, steep'd in cream, were soon
Brought there from stores in Asian palaces;
And from the lonely Mountains of the Moon,
From which swarth Afric's serpent-river frees
Its wily head,—fish, stranger than the seas
Hold in their deep green wastes, to the bright feast
Were brought in coral dishes by streak'd bees;
And fruit, the very loveliest and the least,
Came from young spangled trees in gardens of the East.

LIX

There was good store of sweet and sheening cherries,
Gather'd from trees that under water grew
In mystic orchards,—and the best wood-berries
That blush in scarlet ripeness through the dew,—
And tiny plums, round, and of blooming blue,—
And golden apples of a fairy size,—
And glossy nuts, the which brown squirrels drew,
Eying them longingly with sly dark eyes,
And stealing when they could a little hazel prize.

LX

The glowworms waited on the fairies' mirth,
And when the stars of heaven were all asleep
They lamp'd the grassy chambers of the earth,
And in an emerald light the air did steep:—
Such tears perchance the happy angels weep
Radiant with joy.—They gave the quiet green
A richness, as though wonders from the deep
Were cull'd and cast there in unsullied sheen,
To glitter for a night, and never more be seen!

LXI

The boy's dark eyes were drunken with th' excess
Of wonder, and of beauty, and of joy;
His hands each other closely did caress,—
Within his lips, his sighs were strangely coy,
And could not venture forth;—the heart's annoy
Was its own haunting pleasure:—who would not
Have been on such a night that dreaming boy,
Though madness from that hour should be his lot,
Madness of heart and brain, in dungeon dim and hot?

LXII

Ecstasy is a honey-kind of madness—
A sweet delirium of th' entranced brain;—
It is a beautiful bewilder'd gladness,
That hath a heightening portion of faint pain,
Born of the heart's intenseness. They who drain
Apollo's golden fruit of sunny wine,
Are sure of it, as is the hoary main
Of its old rage in storms:—the crystalline
Enchantments which he saw, made the boy nigh divine.

LXIII

The evening's roses in the sky departed,
And their fall'n leaves lay scatter'd in the West;
The clustering fays, so light and merry-hearted,
All tow'rds the water's snowy margent press'd;
The swans came gliding from their reeded nest,
And bow'd their serpent necks before the throng;—
Suddenly fairy voices broke the rest
Of the charm'd air,—and sent, the waves along,
To their advancing queen a welcome and a song!

FAIRY SONG.

1

See, see! the evening dies,—
See, see! the stars arise,—
Sweetly do they wake and cluster,
Shaking from their hair a lustre:
Are they fairer than our eyes?
Or happier in their paradise,
Than we, who drink the dew, and kiss
Every pretty flower that is?

2

Stars!—they sleep in azure hall,
And palaces etherial;
We in lily cups repose,
Or in the leaflet of a rose:
They perpetual brightness hold,
We, like them, can ne'er grow old.
Are they merrier than ourselves?—
Elves are stars, and stars are elves.

3

In water's coral paths we wander,
And tease gold-fish, as they meander
Through their quiet element;
And sleep at night in wavy tent:—
They in a cerulean sea
Bathe in silent liberty;
Or haunt the strange and milky river,
That through wide Heaven doth stray and quiver.

4

Hark! the Dragon fly—our Queen
In her boddice, dimly seen,—
In her robe of gossamer,—
In her beauty,—brings with her
A crowning presence for our night:—
So with dress of silver light,
And motion that no silence mars,
The Moon glides in among the stars.

LXIV

Across the sleeping water's charmed levels
The hailed Queen came in a curved shell,
Drawn by two tiny swans to those quaint revels,
Swans that were whiter than the snowdrop's bell,—
And small as wrens: their lifted wings did well
Mantle their wreathing necks:—at first they seem'd
To be reflections, wrought by fairy spell,
Of those two birds that all the summer dream'd
Over the sylvan waves in which their bosoms gleam'd.

LXV

And very beautiful was that young queen,
Even to the eyes that were with beauty cloy'd;
Within her shell-car did she sit serene,
Lightly across that happy water buoy'd;
The very air her countenance enjoy'd,
Kissing its sister roses. On her brow,
The fair and fairy ringlets gently toy'd,
And all around that brow did violets grow,
Or so in sooth they seem'd, so freshly did they blow.

LXVI

Her boddice was a pretty sight to see;
Ye who would know its colour,—be a thief
Of the rose's muffled bud from off the tree,
And for your knowledge, strip it leaf by leaf,
Spite of your own remorse or Flora's grief,
Till ye have come unto its heart's pale hue,
The last, last leaf, which is the queen—the chief,
Of beautiful dim blooms:—ye shall not rue,
At sight of that sweet leaf, the mischief which ye do.

LXVII

She glided to the earth from her small car,
As though she were of air, or e'en more light;—
That swan-drawn shell did vanish like a star,
That falleth from the steady heavens at night:—
Ah! fairy queen, why is thy form so bright?
Why are thine eyes so fair? Can mortal be
Safe in his regular pulse to have the sight
Of beauty so divine? Ah! quickly flee,—
Or less etherial seem,—or others make like thee.

LXVIII

The mortal heart that at those revels beat,
Beat quicker at that fairy loveliness,
Which shone on such small cheek so passing sweet,
And look'd perfection in each coiling tress:
He sigh'd within him,—half in gloominess,
Feeling the fetters of his mortal state,
Which chain'd him to the earth; his earthy dress
He fain would have thrown off, for such stern weight
Was iron on his soul:—he could not change his fate—

LXIX

Or he had been a creature of the air,—
A haunter of the cowslips,—and the caves
Of blue and breath-sweet flowers,—a lingerer where
That fairy spirit linger'd; in the waves,
If she were in them, making golden slaves
Of beauty-tinged fish,—or from the herd
Of lilies taking the whitest one that laves
Its snow-leaves, for a car;—and when grass stirr'd,
Hunting and yoking well the spotted lady-bird.

LXX

But he was of the earth, on which he lay,
And must his lot, however hard, abide;
Breath was awarded him, and he must stay
The time of its departure:—but he sigh'd,
With unsure wistfulness and baffled pride,
At what he was, and what he might have been!
Still joy again came o'er him, when he eyed
The beauty and the motion of that queen,—
For she advanc'd with step the lightest ever seen.

LXXI

We are eternal piners after change;
Ah, woe is me! we never are content:—
There's earthly joy for earthly hearts;—and strange
It is, that we are with dejection pent
In our own wishes.—Beauty ne'er was sent
To make us wretched,—and yet wise men say,
This life is all of pain,—that we are bent
With misery, as with old age, for aye;
But we our own dark sorrows make, ah, well a day!

LXXII

The Fay-queen stood before the mortal youth,
With smiles of dangerous and deep tenderness;
Yet in her eyes there something was of ruth,
A sweet embalming of the boy's distress:—
She meekly smil'd, and then she did address
With birdlike voice his young enchanted ear;—
Such magic tones faintly our senses bless
About the mellow May-time of the year,
When happy hearts, like trees, all blossoming appear.

LXXIII

“Enchanted boy! Thy mind hath won for thee
“Sights all unearthly and most beautiful.
“No mortal eye on forms of faëry
“Hath ever glanc'd before:—the spirit dull
“Ne'er dreams of us;—but thou shalt never cull
“A cowslip, but a fairy shall be there;
“Let what thou see'st to-night thy nature lull
“Into contentment,—come at eve, and share
“Th' enjoyments of my elves which are for ever fair.”

LXXIV

“Seek not the world. The magic of thy mind
“Was wrought in innocence, and will be lost
“In that pernicious storehouse of mankind,
“Where hearts, in calms, are broken, aye—or tost
“Unfriended in the storms. Be it thy boast
“To live but simply happy:—light and joy
“And youth are thine with us,—but at thy cost
“Close with the poisonous world; it will destroy
“Mirth, fire, and hope, and feeling, magic boy!

LXXV

“But time it is to break the revels up,
“And time it is to tread,—not upon earth;”—
So saying, quickly vanish'd fruit, and cup,
And fay, and every thing of fairy birth.
Without them, the boy's heart felt a strange dearth
Of objects for his thought: the queen had gone,—
And then all other things were little worth;—
But late and lovely had the night come down,
And he was very rapt, and he was all alone.

LXXVI

He look'd up to the sky, which quickly threw
A life into his mind. The stars were light,
Sprinkling the skiey fields with heavenly dew,
Or gemming well the raven hair of night:
From earth he sent his spirit on its flight,
To dream, wandering amidst them; and there came
A thought to him, that as those orbs were bright,
Brighter in darkness,—he might be the same,
And in a gloomy age make starlight of his name.

LXXVII

And glorious is the fate of him who rears
His name as a proud column on the earth,—
Round which the withering tempest of long years
Lingers, yet leaves it strong as at its birth.
It keeps high splendour. Never is there dearth
Of those who bend to it as glory's goal;
To thousands it gives elevated worth,
And points the pride of spirit. 'Mid the roll
Of dangerous times it stands, the landmark of the soul.

LXXVIII

“My heart, all youthful, hath one passion towering
“O'er all the other passions—'tis for Fame!
“Whatever storms around my head be lowering,
“Still be endurance high,—and hope the same.
“It is the diet of my heart—the aim
“Of my full spirit—and let others lie
“The while the rust of time creeps o'er their name,
“Wearing it from the world for aye,—while I
“So consecrate my name, that it shall never die.

LXXIX

“Were it not glorious at one vigorous bound
“To spring, all life, upon the wings of Time,
“And never more to touch the soiling ground,
“But float for ever, and through every clime,
“The wonder of all lands? Oh, flight sublime!
“Give me but this,—and I will throw this form
“Back to its fellow earth, that cannot climb:
“What matters that the body glut the worm,
“So as the spirit flies proud o'er each worldly storm!”

LXXX

So sigh'd our lonely deep enthusiast,
While stretch'd upon his old ancestral earth;—
Ah! wheresoever we are call'd or cast,
Still have we yearnings of immortal birth;—
Which whether they be well or nothing worth,
Are yet the eagles of the lofty mind:—
So in that old—old wood—amid the dearth
Of natural sounds he did unhood, unbind,
His falcon soul, whose wing was wilder than the wind.

LXXXI

Good heaven! it was a very blessed night,
And dull with beauty;—all things were at rest:
From the wide heavens to the green leaves light,
Slumber reign'd heavily. On the lake's breast
Sleep sat, and all its heaving heart oppress'd:
A silence lean'd along the lifeless air,
And nature bow'd beneath it, and was bless'd.—
The enthusiast rose and homeward did repair,
With loitering feet,—and mind that stray'd it knew not where.

LXXXII

'Tis the first breathing mellow morn of May,—
The rose of months,—the violet of the year;—
Stepping in blossoms white, a virgin day,
To feed our eyes with sweetness;—not severe,
But gentle is her cheek:—and smiles appear
On mine, while I am writing, to behold
Her presence o'er the silver clouds, and here
To feel her very breath, that laughs all cold
To scorn.—Ah! can the heart that tastes it e'er grow old?

LXXXIII

It will not; for the heart is not for age,
That hath most deeply revell'd in the May;
It carries youth along,—like a light page
Attendant on a lover,—to the day
Of regular death. The first spring flowers that play,
Dance through all years in the eternal mind;
And I, who now am sitting in the ray,
Telling this fairy tale,—a gladness find,
That will go through my life like falcons down the wind.

LXXXIV

No more of this. Yet could I not refrain
From breaking off my history, to give
A welcome to the May. And now I chain
My mind to what 's perchance as fugitive.
Oft would the boy amid the shadows live
Of the deep forest,—and the fairy pleasure
Was stored up in his heart as in a hive,—
And “riches fineless” was that golden treasure,
Gather'd from those, in whom “life was a dance—a measure.”

LXXXV

His time exhaled away, as odour from
A mossy rose that dies where it is born;
Serenity was inmate of his home,
And sylvan joy was ready night and morn
To do him courtesy,—his days unworn
Went by him, as the water by the willow;
And though it was his nature to be lorn,
His moods came o'er him rather on the pillow,
Than when he heard the birds, or watch'd the lake's light billow.

LXXXVI

Two summers pass'd away, like two sweet children
That go in quiet beauty to the grave;
When books of quaint research brought their bewildering
Over the youngster's mind:—and Fancy gave
Her wings a wider flight, and she did wave
Tow'rds men, and tow'rds the cities where they cluster;—
And he did find one friend whose heart was brave
With doubt; who ample questionings could muster,
Which would with clouds inclose a mind of purest lustre.

LXXXVII

How is it that the minds of mortals jar
In what should be their music and their joy?
The spirit, which might make itself a star,
Doth wrap itself in clouds, and all destroy
The innocent and lofty heart, and toy
With idle questionings of serious things?—
Is it that men were made themselves to annoy
With dreams of ill, and mystic ponderings,
And doubts of old religion, and the bliss she brings.

LXXXVIII

The friend was stern to all save him, and cold
With high wrought caution,—full of fancies strange;
A lover of the heathen times of old,—
A questioner of all things in the range
Of lofty hopes—a worshipper of change
In human practices—a denizen
In scenes which he reviled:—he would estrange
Men from their faith;—and smooth his words were, when
Such were to win the hearts and thoughts of quiet men.

LXXXIX

This world was all he credited,—which gave
To his retired hours a dreariness;
Oblivion was the spirit of the grave,
And chance lent life its ills and happiness,—
So deem'd he,—ah! how sore was his distress
By night, and in his meditative hours!—
Hope had for him no soft blue eye—no tress
Of golden hair—no fair and lovely bowers;
The soul was mortal all, like Summer's heedless flowers.

XC

This wise friend marr'd the youngster's innocence,
Put poison in the cup of his content;
Made him no more a joyer in the sense
Of forest comfort;—turn'd his mental bent
To other scenes,—ah! scenes how different!
And did estrange him from the oak and pine.—
“Was it for such as he,”—the friend would vent
His converse thus,—“to keep a mind supine,—
“A mind that might among the great and lofty shine!”

XCI

And then he set the young thoughts straying wide,
Through metaphysic labyrinths,—which none
Have ever yet explored;—and then the pride
Of youth he did awaken with a store
Of flatteries,—and promises of more
From learned men in cities of the wise:
The world in his adoring language wore
A hue to dazzle the enthusiast's eyes,
And of his heart to make a fatal sacrifice.

XCII

The distant world now wooed the boy, who knew
Nought of its deadly sorrows; he would deem,
So friendship taught him, that its hearts were true,
And all things faithful as at first they seem;
The distant world came to him like a dream,
Dress'd in its fair deceit,—its presence brought
A strange wild melancholy,—and the gleam
Of far off things play'd o'er his mind, and wrought
Wishes all wild,—strange hopes,—and a delirious thought.

XCIII

As yet he was a stranger to all strife,
Save that which nature makes, and that to him
Was the soul's harmony, the spirit's life:—
The prospect of the world was distant—dim,—
And yet he deem'd it bright; but that wild whim,
Which in young hearts doth bear the name of Hope,
Fill'd up his cup of error to the brim:—
He panted for the world,—and down the slope
Tow'rds it he fain would bound like the slim antelope.

XCIV

The slumbers of his bed were visited
By visions, shadowy of his mind and fate;
His sleep anticipated life,—and led
Events to him before their time:—elate
He rose, resolved at times to terminate
His dreaming with the like realities:
But oft his sleep gave gloom;—and one night, late,
A strange and dreary vision did arise:
That in the forest deep he lay with musing eyes;

XCV

That when he lifted them,—before him stood
A figure tall, and in a shadowy dress:
It was as some lone spirit of the wood,
With eyes all dim, and fixed with distress,—
And sunken cheeks,—and lips of pallidness,—
Standing with folded arms, and floating hair,
The shadow of a woman!—but a tress
Was sometimes lifted by the gusty air,
And now the waved robe a heaving breast did bare.

XCVI

He gazed—his hand paused on a turning leaf,
And his blood ran in coldness to his heart:—
He gazed—but still his eyes felt no relief;
For that dim lonely form would not depart:
It stood—as prison'd there by mystic art,
Looking upon him steadily;—he tried
To utter speech, but not a word would start
From his weak lips—his very feelings died,
As he beheld that spirit of melancholy pride!

XCVII

“I know thee, boy—and thou wilt know me better
“Ere many years be past,”—the spirit said;
“Of late thou hast pined to wear an earthly fetter,
“And wish'd these woods by thee untenanted.
“I've read thy inmost mind; and I have sped—
“My wing is rapid as the wing of Time—
“To wreak thy wish: the fault be on thy head;
“Since 'tis thy will those bounding hills to climb,
“And pass into the world, I'll crown that wayward crime.

XCVIII

“Thou knowest not the happiness that lies
“In this romantic home, or thou would'st not
“Seek in cold cities for it; thy young eyes
“Have seen no other than a guileless spot,
“A wood as peaceful as a fairy grot,—
“Leaf-canopied,—and peopled all with deer,
“And birds: the world thou seek'st will change thy lot;
“There wilt thou meet with bitterness and fear,
“And in thy very heart,—the form thou seest here!”

XCIX

It vanish'd—and his slumber vanish'd too;
But not with that the frightful recollection:
The shape—the shadowy hair—the snowy hue
Of the dooming lip—the desolate dejection
Of the whole form, sank him in mute reflection
Day after day. He sought his friend, and told
The terrors of his mind; but no election
Was left him to depart or stay, for old
And cunning scoff that friend before him did unfold.

C

The die was in the air—it fell—and he
Prepared to quit a home which long had been
Serene and beautiful as home could be,—
To quit it for the bustle of a scene
Where men were thickly sown, associates keen,
And passion prey'd upon as common food.
Ah! what could ere restore to him the green
Before his cottage door—the magic wood—
And all the nooks that fill'd his ancient solitude!

CI

It was indeed a solitude become:—
At evening—late—the last he would be there,
After the sun was set he stray'd from home,
And hurried through the arched wood, to where
The lake lay in its slumber mild and fair;
No music sounded—nought was heard to sound
That spake of fairies—silence wooed the air—
The leaves just rustled on the trees around,
And a benighted bee might murmur o'er the ground.

CII

But all the fairies and their feasts were faded—
Gone from the earth, or hidden from his gaze;
A moment's hectic melancholy shaded
His youthful furrow'd forehead;—in amaze
He went away:—the images of days
Pass'd underneath the music of the pine,
And made more lovely from his own wild lays,
Took tribute from his heart, and from his eyne;—
But now the hour was come,—when grief he must decline.

CIII

No word of sorrow from his mother came,—
But on her cheek there was the trace of tears,—
The paleness of mute sorrow—and the tame
Dejection which long suffering deeply sears
The heart with:—she had many tender fears,
But these she hush'd,—and bade him her farewell,
With something of a hope that busy years
Would wear away his dreaminess,—and quell
The wild moods of the mind,—which are unquellable.

CIV

He left his home, array'd in pilgrim weed,
As he were bound for holy Palestine;
With staff and sandal-shoon he cross'd the mead
That lay before his cottage door:—the kine
Were at their evening meal, and the decline
Of the setting sun was beautiful to see:—
He turn'd for one last look—the eglantine—
The cot—the trees—the sunshine met his e'e,
And not without a tear might that last parting be.