 | The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems |  |
93
POEMS.
95
DEVON.
Devon!
The smile of summer is upon thy woods,
The breath of summer is upon thy sea;—
Would I were thine!—when last I linger'd with thee,
It was a dreary season, and the day
Slept pillow'd upon clouds, mocking the night;
The wind aye wander'd through the sullen woods,
And found no leaf to touch its voice with pity;
The troublous sound of water was about,
Startling the uncouth air;—'twas vacant all:
Old winter frown'd upon the staring sea.
But oh! I saw thee at a lovelier tide,
And grew enamour'd of thee;—Autumn then
Was busy plucking all her golden leaves,
Or listening to the blackbird's fitful song,
Whistled in her hollow woods;—and the light flowers
Were nodding prettily at the fickle bees,
That left them heedlessly.—I will be with thee!
My heart shall haunt the spots it loved the best,
Borne on by that strange voyager, the mind.
Though caged in cities, still my thoughts are free
To visit the green fields, and beautiful woods,
And rivulets, that chaunt a lowly ditty
In the sleepy ear of summer,—and the sea,
That talks for ever to the quiet sands.
Nor from my bodily sight are beauties held:
The sky is open to me,—and the sun,—
That golden traveller o'er the patient heavens;
And the sweet moon that is a-bathing ever
In the blue untroubled waters of the sky;
The changing clouds; and those perpetual stars,
The silent watchers from eternity!
The smile of summer is upon thy woods,
The breath of summer is upon thy sea;—
Would I were thine!—when last I linger'd with thee,
It was a dreary season, and the day
Slept pillow'd upon clouds, mocking the night;
The wind aye wander'd through the sullen woods,
And found no leaf to touch its voice with pity;
The troublous sound of water was about,
Startling the uncouth air;—'twas vacant all:
Old winter frown'd upon the staring sea.
But oh! I saw thee at a lovelier tide,
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Was busy plucking all her golden leaves,
Or listening to the blackbird's fitful song,
Whistled in her hollow woods;—and the light flowers
Were nodding prettily at the fickle bees,
That left them heedlessly.—I will be with thee!
My heart shall haunt the spots it loved the best,
Borne on by that strange voyager, the mind.
Though caged in cities, still my thoughts are free
To visit the green fields, and beautiful woods,
And rivulets, that chaunt a lowly ditty
In the sleepy ear of summer,—and the sea,
That talks for ever to the quiet sands.
Nor from my bodily sight are beauties held:
The sky is open to me,—and the sun,—
That golden traveller o'er the patient heavens;
And the sweet moon that is a-bathing ever
In the blue untroubled waters of the sky;
The changing clouds; and those perpetual stars,
The silent watchers from eternity!
97
Beautiful Devon!
Receive me, now a mental visitor,
Into thy green retreats: young Memory
Shall be my mild attendant.—'Tis to her,
And to that fairy of the soul, sweet Hope,
I owe the light of life. The first doth sketch
Features, and favorite scenes,—and breathe dear tones
Into my charmed ears,—and deck with stars
The dreary night of Time. And blue-eyed Hope
Shows me a sunny distance—lends me joys,
Bright as the wild eyes of the nightingale,
And rapturous as her song.
And now I bend me to my favorite wood:—
Here is the gentle flower “forget me not,”
As simple and as fresh of hue as ever.
How still and beautiful are all the trees!
The leaves are strangely bright;—and, through the branches,
Their golden threads are weaved by the sun:—
Perchance the god Apollo here hath wander'd,
And left his rich lute, strung with chords of light,
Mid the leaves in which he play'd. Methinks I hear
Sounds of his song divine—afar—afar—
Dying through Echo's shell!—I do remember
Those who were with me when I last was here,—
Peace be within the dear loved hearts of both!
We gather'd wood flowers,—some, blue as the vein
O'er Hero's eyelid stealing,—and some as white
In the clustering grass, as rich Europa's hand
Nested amid the curls on Jupiter's forehead,
What time he snatch'd her through the startled waves;—
Some purple too, such as in Enna's meadows
Forsook their own green homes and parent stalks,
To kiss the fingers of Proserpina;
And some were small as fairies' eyes, and bright
As lover's tears!—We gather'd, as we stray'd,
These dewy stars of the wood; and one dear hand
Became their beautiful and silvery vase:
Sweet flowers, how sweetly held!—Hark! hear ye not?
The streamlet in that dell is not at rest,—
'Tis muttering something to the drowsy wood.
Once, how adown the brambles wild I broke,
To trace the hidden murmurer: How oft,
In solitary hours, the lonely sound
Of that obscure and melancholy stream
Comes blending with my thoughts!
Receive me, now a mental visitor,
Into thy green retreats: young Memory
Shall be my mild attendant.—'Tis to her,
And to that fairy of the soul, sweet Hope,
I owe the light of life. The first doth sketch
Features, and favorite scenes,—and breathe dear tones
Into my charmed ears,—and deck with stars
The dreary night of Time. And blue-eyed Hope
Shows me a sunny distance—lends me joys,
Bright as the wild eyes of the nightingale,
And rapturous as her song.
And now I bend me to my favorite wood:—
Here is the gentle flower “forget me not,”
As simple and as fresh of hue as ever.
How still and beautiful are all the trees!
The leaves are strangely bright;—and, through the branches,
Their golden threads are weaved by the sun:—
Perchance the god Apollo here hath wander'd,
And left his rich lute, strung with chords of light,
98
Sounds of his song divine—afar—afar—
Dying through Echo's shell!—I do remember
Those who were with me when I last was here,—
Peace be within the dear loved hearts of both!
We gather'd wood flowers,—some, blue as the vein
O'er Hero's eyelid stealing,—and some as white
In the clustering grass, as rich Europa's hand
Nested amid the curls on Jupiter's forehead,
What time he snatch'd her through the startled waves;—
Some purple too, such as in Enna's meadows
Forsook their own green homes and parent stalks,
To kiss the fingers of Proserpina;
And some were small as fairies' eyes, and bright
As lover's tears!—We gather'd, as we stray'd,
These dewy stars of the wood; and one dear hand
Became their beautiful and silvery vase:
Sweet flowers, how sweetly held!—Hark! hear ye not?
The streamlet in that dell is not at rest,—
'Tis muttering something to the drowsy wood.
99
To trace the hidden murmurer: How oft,
In solitary hours, the lonely sound
Of that obscure and melancholy stream
Comes blending with my thoughts!
Now upward winding,
I rise above the trees, and look upon
A sea of wood, with all its billowy leaves
Rolling in heavy sunshine,—and one field,
Like a green island, pleasant and at rest.—
Thou madcap bird! thy sudden gush of song,
Pour'd out through amber leaves, hath startled me
Into a wild delight:—thou sing'st, and then
Spreadest thy wings, as though it were thy wish
To chase the giddy song. Be ever here,
Free to the leaves, a summer chorister,
A feather'd spirit of peace and airy pleasure.
There was a cottage,—but I see it not,—
Where in a dreaming mood I once had wish'd
To have dwelt for life:—Ah! do I wish it now?
Our fanciful desires depart as fast
As they are framed;—some solid purpose comes,—
And they fleet from us like the sunned snow.
I rise above the trees, and look upon
A sea of wood, with all its billowy leaves
Rolling in heavy sunshine,—and one field,
Like a green island, pleasant and at rest.—
Thou madcap bird! thy sudden gush of song,
Pour'd out through amber leaves, hath startled me
Into a wild delight:—thou sing'st, and then
Spreadest thy wings, as though it were thy wish
To chase the giddy song. Be ever here,
Free to the leaves, a summer chorister,
A feather'd spirit of peace and airy pleasure.
There was a cottage,—but I see it not,—
Where in a dreaming mood I once had wish'd
To have dwelt for life:—Ah! do I wish it now?
Our fanciful desires depart as fast
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And they fleet from us like the sunned snow.
Old wood, farewell!
I'll bless thee when my feet again return
Into thy peaceful grass.
I'll bless thee when my feet again return
Into thy peaceful grass.
Here, on a hill, I stretch
My form along in boyish happiness.—
Here is the stile on which I quietly sat
In the sunny morn,—and there, the wandering Sid,
With its lilac flowers:—and lo! beneath me lies
The huge majestic sea. I hear it not—
But I can see it curling to the shore,
And whitening on the yellow beach. The sun—
The only eye worthy to watch the sea,—
Is shedding diamonds to enrich the waves,
That rise to catch them. All my being seems
To swell with o'erwrought feelings,—and to shake
With thronging thoughts,—and to be well nigh sick
With vain surmises, and deep yearnings, that
I might associate with the enormous sun,
Or be a lone companion to the sea.
Tremendous thoughts come o'er us, when we gaze,
With all the mind weighing upon the eyes,
At the huge sea—the sun!—A wearing pain
Clings heavily to the heart:—a consciousness
Of mortal want, of fatal poverty,
Haunts all the waking soul. The full relief
Is some romantic dream which hides the earth,
Some momentary and most strange possession
Of an ideal vastness, or the voice
Of that intense sure hope which ne'er betrays.
The ocean old hath my deep reverence,—
And I could watch it ever:—when it sleeps,
And its hush'd waves but throb at intervals,
Like some fair infant's breath in sad repose,—
'Tis strangely sweet to gaze; or when it starts
At the voice of the torturing storm, and like mad age,
Tosses its hoar-hair on the raving wind,
'Tis wild delight to watch it. But I love
To see it gently playing on loose rocks,
Lifting the idle sea-weed carelessly;
Or hear it in some dreary cavern, muttering
A solitary legend of old times.
The gentle memory of many things
Is hovering o'er my brain,—of breathing eves
When the curl'd moon was up, and the lonely star
Was quietly dwelling in its own blue world;—
Of nights that found me listening to the grief,
And the wild ditties of the young Ophelia,—
Or seeing Juliet o'er her lattice leaning,
In the soft, passioned moon. Ah! might I live
For ever near the sea—the fields—the wood—
To watch the day go by on golden wings,
Woo the lone morn that sleeps in balmy light,
And kiss the quiet breath from Evening's lips.
But now my fancies do in part subside,
And set realities come o'er me; now
The visionary scenes have fleeted from me,
And left me lonely in this populous city.
The mind hath, like the sea, its swells and sinkings,
Its turbulence, its tremblings, and its sleep;
Sway'd by the very temper of the elements.
No bird sings now its rash enchanting lay
In my startled ear; no green and careless wave
Vexeth the indolent pebble on the beach;
No solitary bee rocks the wild-flower,
Or hangs upon the air with drowsy humming;
No rustling of gold leaves is heard; no song
Framed by the moist lips of the pilgrim brook:—
All these are quiet now, or only heard
Like mellow'd murmurings of the distant sea.
My form along in boyish happiness.—
Here is the stile on which I quietly sat
In the sunny morn,—and there, the wandering Sid,
With its lilac flowers:—and lo! beneath me lies
The huge majestic sea. I hear it not—
But I can see it curling to the shore,
And whitening on the yellow beach. The sun—
The only eye worthy to watch the sea,—
Is shedding diamonds to enrich the waves,
That rise to catch them. All my being seems
To swell with o'erwrought feelings,—and to shake
With thronging thoughts,—and to be well nigh sick
With vain surmises, and deep yearnings, that
I might associate with the enormous sun,
Or be a lone companion to the sea.
101
With all the mind weighing upon the eyes,
At the huge sea—the sun!—A wearing pain
Clings heavily to the heart:—a consciousness
Of mortal want, of fatal poverty,
Haunts all the waking soul. The full relief
Is some romantic dream which hides the earth,
Some momentary and most strange possession
Of an ideal vastness, or the voice
Of that intense sure hope which ne'er betrays.
The ocean old hath my deep reverence,—
And I could watch it ever:—when it sleeps,
And its hush'd waves but throb at intervals,
Like some fair infant's breath in sad repose,—
'Tis strangely sweet to gaze; or when it starts
At the voice of the torturing storm, and like mad age,
Tosses its hoar-hair on the raving wind,
'Tis wild delight to watch it. But I love
To see it gently playing on loose rocks,
Lifting the idle sea-weed carelessly;
102
A solitary legend of old times.
The gentle memory of many things
Is hovering o'er my brain,—of breathing eves
When the curl'd moon was up, and the lonely star
Was quietly dwelling in its own blue world;—
Of nights that found me listening to the grief,
And the wild ditties of the young Ophelia,—
Or seeing Juliet o'er her lattice leaning,
In the soft, passioned moon. Ah! might I live
For ever near the sea—the fields—the wood—
To watch the day go by on golden wings,
Woo the lone morn that sleeps in balmy light,
And kiss the quiet breath from Evening's lips.
But now my fancies do in part subside,
And set realities come o'er me; now
The visionary scenes have fleeted from me,
And left me lonely in this populous city.
The mind hath, like the sea, its swells and sinkings,
Its turbulence, its tremblings, and its sleep;
Sway'd by the very temper of the elements.
103
In my startled ear; no green and careless wave
Vexeth the indolent pebble on the beach;
No solitary bee rocks the wild-flower,
Or hangs upon the air with drowsy humming;
No rustling of gold leaves is heard; no song
Framed by the moist lips of the pilgrim brook:—
All these are quiet now, or only heard
Like mellow'd murmurings of the distant sea.
104
SONG.
1
Go, where the water glideth gently ever,Glideth by meadows that the greenest be;—
Go, listen to our own beloved river,
And think of me!
2
Wander in forests, where the small flower layethIts fairy gem beside the giant tree;
Listen the dim brook pining while it playeth,
And think of me!
3
Watch when the sky is silver pale at Even,And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree;
Go out beneath the solitary heaven,
And think of me!
105
4
And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming,And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea;
Go, silent as a star beneath her beaming,
And think of me!
106
LINES TO A VALLEY.
Sweet Ide! thy green rememberingIs like the foot-print of young Spring
Over my heart, and I shall be
Secure of youth in feeling thee.
Thy valley, Ide! can never die
From the stored pictures of mine eye;
But in the waste of faded years
Shine beautiful as Morning's tears
On heath forlorn. The sloping meadow,
That leads us to the mellow'd shadow
Of wreathed trees, and bars away
The view of city old and gray,
And laps our hearts in balmy ease
Among the quiet cottages,
Is a calm pillow for the Sun
To spread his golden hair upon.
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When welcom'd on that meadow's brow;
But sweeter when, amid the trees,
I listen'd to the singing bees
Down in the vale—and saw the skies
All blazon'd with the streams, that rise
Purple and golden in the west,
And float o'er Heaven's eternal breast;
Ethereal rivers, that do stain
With gorgeous waves the silver plain
Of the sweet world above us,—where
By night the starry islands are.
Was I not happy in the sight
Of that rich wide world o'er me,—light
Of heart, to feel the mighty earth
A sleeping thing,—calm as the birth
Of cowslips on enchanted eves,
When fairies open their dim leaves;—
To dream amid the inwoven trees,
Which are autumnal palaces,
108
To the music of enraptured talk,
Falling from ever happy lips,
Whose lustre knoweth no eclipse;—
To feel the hymning of the breeze,
And listen to the mellow bees;—
To con with deep romantic pleasure
At airy sounds, some echoing measure,
And call up picturing poesy
To mock the beauty of the sky!
Was I not happy as a tree
In blossoming orchard, to be free
From heavy strangers, and the press
Of dull acquaintance, that distress
The bosom's patience,—and to see
Those—those I loved the best, with me!
I had an hour of that calm time
We read of in the forest rhyme
Of pastoral poet. The sweet air
Play'd round me, like Apollo's hair,
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The bird sang late upon the tree
Its lonely song. The hush of night
Was born before its time: the light
Seem'd left unusually alone
In the wide heavens,—and the tone
Of our own voices was endued
With the mellowness of solitude.
I say but feebly what I feel
Of thee, sweet Ide! but I will steal
Again to thee at autumn-tide,
With one who loves thee at my side,—
And give deep honoring thoughts to thee
Of joyous, young serenity.
110
THE WOOD.
Whence is the secret charm of this lone wood,Which in the light of evening mildly sleeps?
I tread with lingering feet the quiet steeps,
Where thwarted oaks o'er their own old age brood;
And where the gentler trees in summer weather
Spring up all greenly in their youth together:
And the grass is dwelling in a silent mood,
And the fir-like fern its under-forest keeps
In a strange stillness. My wing'd spirit sweeps
Forth as it hath been wont; nor stays with me,
Like some domestic thing that loves its home.
It goes a-dreaming o'er the imagery
Of other scenes, which from afar do come,
Matching them with this indolent solitude.
Here—I am dwelling in the days gone by—
And under trees which I have known before:
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And I am thrill'd—thrill'd at an evening sky.
The present seems a mockery of the past,
And all my thoughts glide by me, like a stream
That seeks a home,—that shines beneath the beam
Of the summer sun,—and wanders through sweet meads,
In which the joyous wildflower meekly feeds,—
And strays, and wastes away in woods at last.
My thoughts o'er many things glance silently;
But to this olden forest creep, and cling fast.
Imagination, ever wild and free,
With heart as open as the naked sea,
Can consecrate whate'er it looks upon:
And Memory, that maiden never alone,
Cons o'er the tale of life. While I can see
This blue, deep sky—that sun so proudly setting
In the haughty west—that spring patiently wetting
The shadowy dell—these trees so tall and fair,
That have no visitors but the birds and air;
And hear those leaves a gentle murmur keep,
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The melting of young waters in the dells;
The jingle of the loose flock's lulling bells;
While these all mingling o'er my senses sweep,
I need not doubt but I shall ever find
Things, that will feed the cravings of my mind.
My happiest hours were pass'd with those I love
On steeps; in dells with shadowy trees above;
And therefore it may be my soul ne'er sleeps,
When it is in a pastoral solitude;
And such may be the charm of this lone wood,
Which in the light of evening sweetly sleeps.
113
STANZAS WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
1
Hour after hour departs,Recklessly flying!
The golden time of our hearts
Is fast a-dying!
Oh! how soon will it have faded!—
Joy droops, with forehead shaded,
And Memory starts!
2
When I am gone—oh! wearSweet smiles; thy dwelling
114
And the sea is swelling:
And near where some rivulet lingers
In the grass, like an infant's fingers
In its mother's hair.
3
Thy spirit should steep its wingIn the dews of nature;
And the living airs of Spring
Should give each feature
Of thy face a rich lustrous smiling,—
Thy thoughts from that gloom beguiling,
Which cold hours bring.
4
Farewell to our delights!Love,—we are parted!
Come with thy silvery nights,
Autumn, gold-hearted!
115
Their hopes, when the eve is breathing
Through leaf-starr'd lights!
116
MATIN-SONG.
1
The day's wan light breaks fair and far,The wave is restless on the stream;—
Dallying with the morning star,
It rocks the slight and silvery beam.
2
Freshly the heart of day is breathing!The wild-flower trembles for the bee:—
On ocean's cheek a smile is wreathing,
Tenderly and merrily!
117
3
The sky-lark leaves its nest,With pearls upon its breast;—
From its nested sedge the crowned swan glides, slow,—
And forth into the morning, like the light, doth go!
118
SONG.
1
That peasant girl's blue eyesAre beauty's stars to me;
They 're not like Summer skies,
Nor like the deep blue sea;—
Nor of the harebell's hue—
And yet they are sweetly blue!
2
That peasant girl is fair,—And, when your eyes behold
119
'Tis ivory lost in gold;—
But still you 'll turn to woo
Those eyes so sweetly blue!
120
SONNET.
WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE.
Lone Cot! most placidly in thy green nest
Thou cowerest, like the white bird of the wood,
Birds and high trees are all thy neighbourhood—
And silence is the joy thou lovest best.
I 've seen thee, in the mantling evening drest,
Wear thy wan beauty so—that, oh! I would
Never abandon that delightful mood
In which I found thee in thy radiant vest.
Thou cowerest, like the white bird of the wood,
Birds and high trees are all thy neighbourhood—
And silence is the joy thou lovest best.
I 've seen thee, in the mantling evening drest,
Wear thy wan beauty so—that, oh! I would
Never abandon that delightful mood
In which I found thee in thy radiant vest.
Thou wert to me a dream of days to come,
The fairy spirit of a vision'd spot,
Where Hope and Love might build themselves a home,
And bid long farewell to a worldly lot.
The dream was idle as the ocean foam—
Yet still it was my dream, thou lonely Cot!
The fairy spirit of a vision'd spot,
121
And bid long farewell to a worldly lot.
The dream was idle as the ocean foam—
Yet still it was my dream, thou lonely Cot!
122
SONNET TO ------
WITH THE TWO FOLLOWING.
Robin the outlaw! Is there not a mass
Of freedom in the name?—It tells the story
Of clenched oaks, with branches bow'd and hoary,
Leaning in aged beauty o'er the grass;—
Of dazed smile on cheek of border lass
Listening 'gainst some old gate at his strange glory:
And of the dappled stag, struck down and gory,
Lying with nostril wide in green morass.
Of freedom in the name?—It tells the story
Of clenched oaks, with branches bow'd and hoary,
Leaning in aged beauty o'er the grass;—
Of dazed smile on cheek of border lass
Listening 'gainst some old gate at his strange glory:
And of the dappled stag, struck down and gory,
Lying with nostril wide in green morass.
It tells a tale of forest days—of times
That would have been most precious unto thee:
Days of undying pastoral liberty:—
Sweeter than music old of abbey chimes—
Sweet as the virtue of Shakspearian rhymes—
Days, shadowy with the magic green-wood tree!
That would have been most precious unto thee:
123
Sweeter than music old of abbey chimes—
Sweet as the virtue of Shakspearian rhymes—
Days, shadowy with the magic green-wood tree!
124
SONNET TO ------
The trees in Sherwood forest are old and good,—
The grass beneath them now is dimly green;
Are they deserted all? Is no young mien
With loose-slung bugle met within the wood:
No arrow found,—foil'd of its antler'd food,—
Struck in the oak's rude side? Is there nought seen,
To mark the revelries which there have been,—
In the sweet days of merry Robin Hood?
The grass beneath them now is dimly green;
Are they deserted all? Is no young mien
With loose-slung bugle met within the wood:
No arrow found,—foil'd of its antler'd food,—
Struck in the oak's rude side? Is there nought seen,
To mark the revelries which there have been,—
In the sweet days of merry Robin Hood?
Go there, with Summer, and with evening,—go
In the soft shadows like some wandering man,—
And thou shalt far amid the forest know
The archer men in green, with belt and bow,
Feasting on pheasant, river-fowl, and swan,
With Robin at their head, and Marian.
In the soft shadows like some wandering man,—
125
The archer men in green, with belt and bow,
Feasting on pheasant, river-fowl, and swan,
With Robin at their head, and Marian.
126
SONNET
TO THE SAME.
With coat of Lincoln green and mantle too,
And horn of ivory mouth, and buckle bright,
And arrows wing'd with peacock-feathers light,
And trusty bow well gather'd of the yew,—
Stands Robin Hood:—and near, with eyes of blue
Shining through dusk hair, like the stars of night,
And habited in pretty forest plight,—
His green-wood beauty sits, young as the dew.
And horn of ivory mouth, and buckle bright,
And arrows wing'd with peacock-feathers light,
And trusty bow well gather'd of the yew,—
Stands Robin Hood:—and near, with eyes of blue
Shining through dusk hair, like the stars of night,
And habited in pretty forest plight,—
His green-wood beauty sits, young as the dew.
Oh gentle-tressed girl! Maid Marian!
Are thine eyes bent upon the gallant game
That stray in the merry Sherwood: thy sweet fame
Can never, never die. And thou, high man,
Would we might pledge thee with thy silver Can
Of Rhenish, in the woods of Nottingham!
Are thine eyes bent upon the gallant game
127
Can never, never die. And thou, high man,
Would we might pledge thee with thy silver Can
Of Rhenish, in the woods of Nottingham!
128
SONNET.
Sweet poets of the gentle antique line,
That made the hue of beauty all eterne,
And gave earth's melodies a silver turn,—
Where did you steal your art so right divine?—
Sweetly ye memoried every golden twine
Of your ladies' tresses:—teach me how to spurn
Death's lone decaying and oblivion stern
From the sweet forehead of a lady mine.
That made the hue of beauty all eterne,
And gave earth's melodies a silver turn,—
Where did you steal your art so right divine?—
Sweetly ye memoried every golden twine
Of your ladies' tresses:—teach me how to spurn
Death's lone decaying and oblivion stern
From the sweet forehead of a lady mine.
The golden clusters of enamouring hair
Glow'd in poetic pictures sweetly well;—
Why should not tresses dusk, that are so fair
On the live brow, have an eternal spell
In poesy?—dark eyes are dearer far
Than orbs that mock the hyacinthine-bell.
Glow'd in poetic pictures sweetly well;—
129
On the live brow, have an eternal spell
In poesy?—dark eyes are dearer far
Than orbs that mock the hyacinthine-bell.
130
SONNET
ON THE PICTURE OF A LADY.
Sorrow hath made thine eyes more dark and keen,
And set a whiter hue upon thy cheeks,—
And round thy pressed lips drawn anguish streaks,
And made thy forehead fearfully serene.
Even in thy steady hair her work is seen,
For its still parted darkness—till it breaks
In heavy curls upon thy shoulders—speaks
Like the stern wave,—how hard the storm hath been!
And set a whiter hue upon thy cheeks,—
And round thy pressed lips drawn anguish streaks,
And made thy forehead fearfully serene.
Even in thy steady hair her work is seen,
For its still parted darkness—till it breaks
In heavy curls upon thy shoulders—speaks
Like the stern wave,—how hard the storm hath been!
So look'd that hapless lady of the South,
Sweet Isabella! at that dreary part
Of all the passion'd hours of her youth;
When her green basil pot by brothers' art
Was stolen away:—so look'd her pained mouth
In the mute patience of a breaking heart!
Sweet Isabella! at that dreary part
131
When her green basil pot by brothers' art
Was stolen away:—so look'd her pained mouth
In the mute patience of a breaking heart!
132
SONNET.
Art thou now sitting by thine evening fire,
Reading our natural Shakspeare; art thou playing
Lone melodies;—or listening to the saying
Of thy dear sisters, or thy placid sire;—
Or do thine eyes, loving the heavens, admire
The very gentle moon that seems a-maying
Mid the bright stars?—I think I see thee straying
In thy fawn-colour'd and most sweet attire!—
Reading our natural Shakspeare; art thou playing
Lone melodies;—or listening to the saying
Of thy dear sisters, or thy placid sire;—
Or do thine eyes, loving the heavens, admire
The very gentle moon that seems a-maying
Mid the bright stars?—I think I see thee straying
In thy fawn-colour'd and most sweet attire!—
I know not what delights thee—where thou art—
But white Simplicity doth lead with care
Thy pleasures:—oh! might I but linger where
Thou lingerest,—and take a gentle part
In music,—or thy walks, thy books;—and share
In the divine enjoyments of thy heart!
But white Simplicity doth lead with care
133
Thou lingerest,—and take a gentle part
In music,—or thy walks, thy books;—and share
In the divine enjoyments of thy heart!
134
EPISTLE TO ------
“For there is nothing either good or bad; but
“Thinking makes it so.”—
Shakspeare.
“Thinking makes it so.”—
Shakspeare.
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!—
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.
135
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!—
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,
136
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!—
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;—
137
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
138
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!
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,
139
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
140
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:
141
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.—
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.
142
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!—
143
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!
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!
Of heaven is all obscured—once more, adieu!
May 1817.
144
TO F--- B---.
AGED THREE YEARS.
“Even so this happy creature of herself
“Is all sufficient: Solitude to her
“Is blithe society.”
Wordsworth.
“Is all sufficient: Solitude to her
“Is blithe society.”
Wordsworth.
As young and pretty as the bud
Of the strawberry in the wood;
As restless as the fawn that's there,
Playing like a thing of air,—
Chasing the wind, if there be any,—
Like these, art thou, my little Fanny!
Of the strawberry in the wood;
As restless as the fawn that's there,
Playing like a thing of air,—
Chasing the wind, if there be any,—
Like these, art thou, my little Fanny!
I look on thee, and in thy face,
The life is there of childish grace:
I see the silent thought that breaks
Into young smiles as Fancy wakes;
And newly-wing'd Intelligence,
Trying its little flights from thence.
I see a strife 'twixt Health and Beauty,
Which shall the best achieve its duty;
A gentle strife, for both contend,
But both, like bees, their labours blend.
The life is there of childish grace:
145
Into young smiles as Fancy wakes;
And newly-wing'd Intelligence,
Trying its little flights from thence.
I see a strife 'twixt Health and Beauty,
Which shall the best achieve its duty;
A gentle strife, for both contend,
But both, like bees, their labours blend.
Thy cheek by Health is rounded well,
By its hand invisible;
But sweet and rosy hues there are,
And you may trace young Beauty there.
Health made thy gentle lips to be
So glad in their own company;
So lavish of the cherry's dies,
So like the leaf, when autumn flies;—
But Beauty claims thy young blue eyes.
And oh! thy little light soft hair,
Parted on thy forehead fair,
Doth seem to take its own delight
In leaning smooth and looking bright.
Thy figure small, and tiny feet,
Dotting the carpet round us, greet
Our hearts with joy, and feed the sense
Of love for utter innocence.
By its hand invisible;
But sweet and rosy hues there are,
And you may trace young Beauty there.
Health made thy gentle lips to be
So glad in their own company;
So lavish of the cherry's dies,
So like the leaf, when autumn flies;—
But Beauty claims thy young blue eyes.
And oh! thy little light soft hair,
Parted on thy forehead fair,
146
In leaning smooth and looking bright.
Thy figure small, and tiny feet,
Dotting the carpet round us, greet
Our hearts with joy, and feed the sense
Of love for utter innocence.
These beauties, Fanny, are to thee,
As yet, unknown society;—
And so they 're a befitting dress
For thy mental prettiness;—
For thy simple thoughts, that seem
Fragments of a summer dream;—
For thy merry lips' first sayings,
For thy fancy's fairy strayings:
Thou art wiser far than many
That in years are richer, Fanny!
As yet, unknown society;—
And so they 're a befitting dress
For thy mental prettiness;—
For thy simple thoughts, that seem
Fragments of a summer dream;—
For thy merry lips' first sayings,
For thy fancy's fairy strayings:
Thou art wiser far than many
That in years are richer, Fanny!
The best of wisdom dwells with thee,
In thy white simplicity,—
In thy young imaginings,
Which float about on spotless wings;
In thy prattlings, kindly meant,
And in thy beautiful content.
Thine is the bloom of life, and we
Are jarrers in society,—
Opposers of each other's good,
Despoilers of all neighbourhood;
Prone to pain, and serious folly,
And framers of self-melancholy.
Thou dost wander light and free,
In thine own heart's company;
Making mirth, wherever chance
May lead thee in thy mazy dance:
Like the linnet wild, that weaves
Glad liberty amid the leaves.
In thy white simplicity,—
147
Which float about on spotless wings;
In thy prattlings, kindly meant,
And in thy beautiful content.
Thine is the bloom of life, and we
Are jarrers in society,—
Opposers of each other's good,
Despoilers of all neighbourhood;
Prone to pain, and serious folly,
And framers of self-melancholy.
Thou dost wander light and free,
In thine own heart's company;
Making mirth, wherever chance
May lead thee in thy mazy dance:
Like the linnet wild, that weaves
Glad liberty amid the leaves.
Little copier of the lives
Of thy playmate relatives,—
Mocker of the elder ones,—
How thy wayward fancy runs,
By light from thine own laughing eyes,
Its circle of sweet mimicries.
Oft in thy little face, I find
The flitting shadows of the mind
Pass and repass, as thou dost tease
That mind with infant sophistries:—
And then, when no conclusion's near,
Thou, like a true philosopher,
Dost seek the joyous heart again,
And leave at rest the little brain.
Of thy playmate relatives,—
148
How thy wayward fancy runs,
By light from thine own laughing eyes,
Its circle of sweet mimicries.
Oft in thy little face, I find
The flitting shadows of the mind
Pass and repass, as thou dost tease
That mind with infant sophistries:—
And then, when no conclusion's near,
Thou, like a true philosopher,
Dost seek the joyous heart again,
And leave at rest the little brain.
Fare thee well! I 've found in thee
Blithe and sweet society;
Merriment in drooping pain,
Pictures, given back again,
Of the pranks of childishness,
Ere I tasted of distress.
Fare thee well!—may youth be slow
To pass from thee, who wear'st it so;
For years are but the links of care,
To one so innocent and fair!
Around thee joy, within thee truth,
Thou 'rt worthy of perpetual youth;—
Worthy of that delight which lies
Within thy blue and pleasant eyes;
Worthy thy mother's fond caressing:
I owe thee, Fanny, many a blessing,
For pranks of kindliness and glee,
And words of childish charity;
For pleasures generous, light, and many,—
And therefore do I bless thee, Fanny!
Blithe and sweet society;
Merriment in drooping pain,
Pictures, given back again,
Of the pranks of childishness,
Ere I tasted of distress.
149
To pass from thee, who wear'st it so;
For years are but the links of care,
To one so innocent and fair!
Around thee joy, within thee truth,
Thou 'rt worthy of perpetual youth;—
Worthy of that delight which lies
Within thy blue and pleasant eyes;
Worthy thy mother's fond caressing:
I owe thee, Fanny, many a blessing,
For pranks of kindliness and glee,
And words of childish charity;
For pleasures generous, light, and many,—
And therefore do I bless thee, Fanny!
150
SONG.
WRITTEN TO A FAVOURITE AIR.
1
By the river—by the riverThe round moon is rising;
Like the water she glideth,
In silence and light!
The tree-shadow falleth
In tremulous beauty,
And the swan yet abideth
The wave of the night.
2
By the river, by the river,At evening—in summer,—
151
The same tender moon!
But we never, we never
In summer,—at evening,—
Shall again steep our eyes in
The balm of her boon!
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