 | Aonian Hours; And Other Poems |  |
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POEMS.
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To ******.
The Greeks, when o'er a buried friend
They raised the monumental stone,
Reared high one pillar which might lend
Memorial of his virtues gone;
And round the sculptured column high,
They twined the sweetest summer-flowers,
Gladdening the conscious passer-by,
With beauty breathing in all hours.
They raised the monumental stone,
Reared high one pillar which might lend
Memorial of his virtues gone;
And round the sculptured column high,
They twined the sweetest summer-flowers,
Gladdening the conscious passer-by,
With beauty breathing in all hours.
There flourished they in dark and bright,
Or if, oppressed by tempests rude,
The thunder-storm their leaves might blight,
The morrow saw those blooms renewed.
So in thy absence, dearest maid!
Bright monument of thee I build,
And thus my soul, in sun and shade,
Is with enchanting memories filled.
Or if, oppressed by tempests rude,
The thunder-storm their leaves might blight,
The morrow saw those blooms renewed.
So in thy absence, dearest maid!
Bright monument of thee I build,
And thus my soul, in sun and shade,
Is with enchanting memories filled.
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For round thy Image fair and kind,
A thousand flowers of thought I cast,
Which breathe across the waste of mind
The smile of social summers past;
In joy and grief, suspense and pain,
When prouder things like recreants flee,
In lonely fondness they remain,
Not vainly—since they speak of thee.
A thousand flowers of thought I cast,
Which breathe across the waste of mind
The smile of social summers past;
In joy and grief, suspense and pain,
When prouder things like recreants flee,
In lonely fondness they remain,
Not vainly—since they speak of thee.
Tis true, the tempest might descend,
And tear those flowers of life away,
But though their blighted branch it rend,
The trophy could not all decay:
The memory of thy form and worth,
That mightier column should not die;
Unlike those pillars of the earth,
Which fall when earthquakes pass them by.
And tear those flowers of life away,
But though their blighted branch it rend,
The trophy could not all decay:
The memory of thy form and worth,
That mightier column should not die;
Unlike those pillars of the earth,
Which fall when earthquakes pass them by.
Through all the thunders of the soul,
Wrath—hate—wrong—jealousy—and pride,
'Twould stand, unheeding as they roll,
And proudly bid them be defied.
But shouldst Thou change—I dare not take
One thought on what thou hadst been then,
The pile which ages could not shake,
No human hands could rear again!
Wrath—hate—wrong—jealousy—and pride,
'Twould stand, unheeding as they roll,
And proudly bid them be defied.
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One thought on what thou hadst been then,
The pile which ages could not shake,
No human hands could rear again!
But o'er the mournful ruins yet
I'd bid the weeping ivies twine,
For though estranged, I could not set
Oblivion's seal on aught of thine:
Twined in the immortal cells of thought,
Her wizard ivy Grief must be,
He only who had seen thee not,
Could wear no aching heart for thee.
I'd bid the weeping ivies twine,
For though estranged, I could not set
Oblivion's seal on aught of thine:
Twined in the immortal cells of thought,
Her wizard ivy Grief must be,
He only who had seen thee not,
Could wear no aching heart for thee.
To ******.
No! not the tress round the mild eye curling
Of Beauty falls in a sweeter fold,
Though dark it droops like a banner furling,
Or floats like the sun in a sea of gold;
And not the smile on lips descending,
Bright with mirth, seems so divine,
As when, dearest maid, dear Music's lending
Her soul to beautiful lips like thine.
Of Beauty falls in a sweeter fold,
Though dark it droops like a banner furling,
Or floats like the sun in a sea of gold;
And not the smile on lips descending,
Bright with mirth, seems so divine,
As when, dearest maid, dear Music's lending
Her soul to beautiful lips like thine.
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Tresses fall faded, smiles are fleeting,
Blue eyes oft shoot us an icy glance,
But O! what spirit can still the beating
Of pulses that tremble, and hearts that dance!
The kindest gift—the sweetest token,
Tress or smile I would resign,
Once more but to hear one dear word spoken
By those so beautiful lips of thine!
Blue eyes oft shoot us an icy glance,
But O! what spirit can still the beating
Of pulses that tremble, and hearts that dance!
The kindest gift—the sweetest token,
Tress or smile I would resign,
Once more but to hear one dear word spoken
By those so beautiful lips of thine!
Propertius; Book III. Elegy X.
To Leuce.
I was wondering, my Leuce, when morn was begun,
What visions the Muses around me might spread,
As seen by the first bursting blush of the sun,
They had left their Parnassus, and stood round my bed;
There stood they in silence, but shortly I knew
That they brought me the sign of thy natal day,
For thrice o'er the sweet lyre their white fingers flew,
And in joy and in music they vanished away.
What visions the Muses around me might spread,
As seen by the first bursting blush of the sun,
They had left their Parnassus, and stood round my bed;
There stood they in silence, but shortly I knew
That they brought me the sign of thy natal day,
For thrice o'er the sweet lyre their white fingers flew,
And in joy and in music they vanished away.
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And I know by this sign that the skies far and wide
Shall be cloudless, the day undiscoloured shall pass,
That the winds shall be silent, the waves cease to chide,
Smooth-flowing as Music, and brilliant as glass.
In a day so auspicious, an hour so bright,
Away with the sight and the sound of distress!
On this day even Niobe's heart shall be light,
And though marble, her sighs and her sorrows suppress.
Shall be cloudless, the day undiscoloured shall pass,
That the winds shall be silent, the waves cease to chide,
Smooth-flowing as Music, and brilliant as glass.
In a day so auspicious, an hour so bright,
Away with the sight and the sound of distress!
On this day even Niobe's heart shall be light,
And though marble, her sighs and her sorrows suppress.
The bills of the halcyons no storms shall bespeak,
But their blue, calming wings flutter over the main,
The mother of Itys shall utter no shriek,
Nor remember past days, and past vigils of pain.
And thou, O my love! on youth's sunniest wings,
In thy loveliness rise—the Celestials address,
Haste! drive away sleep in the clear gush of springs,
And compose the fine flow of each elegant tress.
But their blue, calming wings flutter over the main,
The mother of Itys shall utter no shriek,
Nor remember past days, and past vigils of pain.
And thou, O my love! on youth's sunniest wings,
In thy loveliness rise—the Celestials address,
Haste! drive away sleep in the clear gush of springs,
And compose the fine flow of each elegant tress.
Then the vest which was worn in that whitest of hours,
When thy beauty first ravished my eyes thou must wear,
The garden, thou seest, is not vacant of flowers,
Then wreathe the white rose in thy delicate hair;
Every grace which can heighten thy beauty design,
For renewed with the roses such beauty should be—
I would not one charm or one minute resign
Of the ages I owe to love, beauty, and thee.
When thy beauty first ravished my eyes thou must wear,
The garden, thou seest, is not vacant of flowers,
Then wreathe the white rose in thy delicate hair;
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For renewed with the roses such beauty should be—
I would not one charm or one minute resign
Of the ages I owe to love, beauty, and thee.
And when we have done with the censer and myrrh,
And the flames of the altar have shone round the room,
Mirth shall sit at our banquet, and Wisdom with her,
And the night hurry down amid wines and perfume.
When the wild flutes their power of pleasing resign,
We will fly to the strings of the cittern again,
And let not, dear Leuce, those sweet lips of thine
Be tinctured with censure or cruelty then.
And the flames of the altar have shone round the room,
Mirth shall sit at our banquet, and Wisdom with her,
And the night hurry down amid wines and perfume.
When the wild flutes their power of pleasing resign,
We will fly to the strings of the cittern again,
And let not, dear Leuce, those sweet lips of thine
Be tinctured with censure or cruelty then.
From the sounds of our mirth dulcet slumber shall fly,
Altar and dome shall resound them together,
We will gaily decide, dear! by casting the die,
Upon which tyrant Love lays his heaviest feather.
And when flowing glasses have passed without number,
And Vesper has trimmed up his lamp for the night,
We will bury our yearly observance in slumber—
And thus shall thy festal pass by with delight.
Altar and dome shall resound them together,
We will gaily decide, dear! by casting the die,
Upon which tyrant Love lays his heaviest feather.
And when flowing glasses have passed without number,
And Vesper has trimmed up his lamp for the night,
We will bury our yearly observance in slumber—
And thus shall thy festal pass by with delight.
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To a Lady Netting.
Lady! cease the web thou'rt weaving,
Added spells we well can spare,
Eyes alone, our hearts bereaving,
Sure must prove sufficient snare;
Dim will be the web thou weavest,
Yet—O, yet—
Pause! a deeper charm thou givest,
Eyes should be thy brightest net.
Added spells we well can spare,
Eyes alone, our hearts bereaving,
Sure must prove sufficient snare;
Dim will be the web thou weavest,
Yet—O, yet—
Pause! a deeper charm thou givest,
Eyes should be thy brightest net.
Lady! be the thread thou twinest,
Firm as diamond, thin as air,
Tangling tresses are divinest
Our affections to ensnare,
Twined around thy brow by zephyr;
Yet—O, yet—
Pause thee in thy young endeavour!
Tresses be thy firmest net.
Firm as diamond, thin as air,
Tangling tresses are divinest
Our affections to ensnare,
Twined around thy brow by zephyr;
Yet—O, yet—
Pause thee in thy young endeavour!
Tresses be thy firmest net.
Lady! weave thy web no longer,
Lest we burst so frail a chain,
But if thou would'st choose a stronger,
Give us thy sweet voice again;
Those Orphean tones enchain me,
Yet—O, yet—
From thy purposed work refrain thee,
Song should be thy sweetest net.
Lest we burst so frail a chain,
But if thou would'st choose a stronger,
Give us thy sweet voice again;
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Yet—O, yet—
From thy purposed work refrain thee,
Song should be thy sweetest net.
Lady! though our hearts oppose thee
In the spell thy fingers wind,
But one smile from lips so rosy,
Our opposing would unbind,
Like a ray o'er winter's river;
Yet—O, yet—
Drop this arrow from thy quiver,
Smiles should be thy loveliest net.
In the spell thy fingers wind,
But one smile from lips so rosy,
Our opposing would unbind,
Like a ray o'er winter's river;
Yet—O, yet—
Drop this arrow from thy quiver,
Smiles should be thy loveliest net.
Beaming eyes and twining tresses,
Sunny smile and kindling song,
All the spells that can oppress us,
Lady! to thyself belong,
And already may we rue them;
Then—O, then—
Cease thy meshes, or undo them;
Beauty be our only chain!
Sunny smile and kindling song,
All the spells that can oppress us,
Lady! to thyself belong,
And already may we rue them;
Then—O, then—
Cease thy meshes, or undo them;
Beauty be our only chain!
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Parting.
Autumn noons were throwing
Lights serene and glowing
On mountain, lake, and tree,
And a soft melancholy,
Making the day more holy,
Brooded o'er earth and sea,
When first I flew to greet thee,
Empassioned Zobëide!
And O, so soft and sweetly
Came thy mild voice to me,
It woke to new vibration,
This sad heart's long stagnation,
Which trembled all to thee.
Lights serene and glowing
On mountain, lake, and tree,
And a soft melancholy,
Making the day more holy,
Brooded o'er earth and sea,
When first I flew to greet thee,
Empassioned Zobëide!
And O, so soft and sweetly
Came thy mild voice to me,
It woke to new vibration,
This sad heart's long stagnation,
Which trembled all to thee.
Sickness her best bloom shrouded,
Her young cheek sadness clouded,
And dear that cloud to me,
Yet would a sudden hectic,
Light her wild eye electric,
When wizard Poesy
In gold her numbers weaving,
Rejoicing, soothing, grieving,
Thrilled the fair breast, whose heaving
Gleamed like white waves at sea;
Till I could deem its splendour
So passing bright and tender,
Was lit alone for me.
Her young cheek sadness clouded,
And dear that cloud to me,
Yet would a sudden hectic,
Light her wild eye electric,
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In gold her numbers weaving,
Rejoicing, soothing, grieving,
Thrilled the fair breast, whose heaving
Gleamed like white waves at sea;
Till I could deem its splendour
So passing bright and tender,
Was lit alone for me.
Autumn winds were rending
The berries redly bending
Of one lone sumach tree,
When the quick tears half-starting
To my dim lids at parting,
She gave her hand to me;
'Twas like that earlier token
With which my heart was broken,
Few were the accents spoken,
Enough that I could see
She shrunk away in sorrow,
From thoughts that on the morrow,
Our hands apart would be.
The berries redly bending
Of one lone sumach tree,
When the quick tears half-starting
To my dim lids at parting,
She gave her hand to me;
'Twas like that earlier token
With which my heart was broken,
Few were the accents spoken,
Enough that I could see
She shrunk away in sorrow,
From thoughts that on the morrow,
Our hands apart would be.
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The year's last rose hung wreathing
Around, faint odours breathing
From its decaying tree;
Unhoping I bereaved it,
Unsmiling she received it,
Stole one swift glance at me,
Then in her book disposed it
With lingering hand, and closed it,
Where sacredly reposed it,
Pledge of past joys to be;
As though that eye had uttered,
To soothe the heart which fluttered,
“Yes! I'll remember thee.”
Around, faint odours breathing
From its decaying tree;
Unhoping I bereaved it,
Unsmiling she received it,
Stole one swift glance at me,
Then in her book disposed it
With lingering hand, and closed it,
Where sacredly reposed it,
Pledge of past joys to be;
As though that eye had uttered,
To soothe the heart which fluttered,
“Yes! I'll remember thee.”
To ******.
Hast thou not seen, when summer-eve is fading from the sky,
The sullen cloud which tells of storms and darkness that are nigh?
As spreads that cloud o'er heaven's blue face eclipsing earth and sea,
Such and so heavy is the pang which parts the soul from thee.
The sullen cloud which tells of storms and darkness that are nigh?
As spreads that cloud o'er heaven's blue face eclipsing earth and sea,
Such and so heavy is the pang which parts the soul from thee.
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I will not say how heaved my heart when first thy eyes met mine,
Though coldly did they gaze on me, there was rapture in their shrine,
Bright as the smile which left thy lips when we two saw no more
The varying aspect, kind or chill, which each to other wore.
Though coldly did they gaze on me, there was rapture in their shrine,
Bright as the smile which left thy lips when we two saw no more
The varying aspect, kind or chill, which each to other wore.
There is, despite ourselves, a Power, when youthful spirits meet
Gives bounding motion to the pulse, and makes their presence sweet;
Gives words to eyes, and light to smiles, which well they understand,
Music to voice, and bliss to each light pressure of the hand.
Gives bounding motion to the pulse, and makes their presence sweet;
Gives words to eyes, and light to smiles, which well they understand,
Music to voice, and bliss to each light pressure of the hand.
And though such two may meet no more permissioned and alone,
The sparkling ray, the inward thrill which knit their minds in one,
Still beams warm with remembered joy, as sunshine falls on shades,
Or the last crimson flush of day which widens as it fades.
The sparkling ray, the inward thrill which knit their minds in one,
Still beams warm with remembered joy, as sunshine falls on shades,
Or the last crimson flush of day which widens as it fades.
And Memory viewing in her cell an image kind and fair,
The friendly fugitive arrests, and stamps it freshly there;
Stamps it all glorious as it is, and glowing with delight,
A living beauty to the soul—an Eden to the sight.
The friendly fugitive arrests, and stamps it freshly there;
Stamps it all glorious as it is, and glowing with delight,
A living beauty to the soul—an Eden to the sight.
So dwells remembrance on thy worth, though thou thyself art fled,
And though a sterner bar than parts the living and the dead
Should rise to bar thee from my sight, in pleasure and in pain,
It lives—my pride or punishment, my blessing or my bane.
And though a sterner bar than parts the living and the dead
Should rise to bar thee from my sight, in pleasure and in pain,
It lives—my pride or punishment, my blessing or my bane.
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And potent is the talisman which cancels from the mind
That deep impression of regret which beauty leaves behind,
And powerful must that sigil be, which where her seal is set,
Can bring a charm to eyes that weep, and hearts that tremble yet.
That deep impression of regret which beauty leaves behind,
And powerful must that sigil be, which where her seal is set,
Can bring a charm to eyes that weep, and hearts that tremble yet.
But fare thee well! the hour is fled—and I may think no more
On past delights with which my cup of joy was running o'er;
Enough! that once thy rosy smiles, thy figure I have seen,
Enough! that where thy presence is, my truant steps have been.
On past delights with which my cup of joy was running o'er;
Enough! that once thy rosy smiles, thy figure I have seen,
Enough! that where thy presence is, my truant steps have been.
Blest be thy lot in loneliness, or in the peopled scene,
Where heart meets heart in festal show, all smiling and serene;
Blest be thy lot!—may angel-shapes lead on thy circling hours,
And every pathway lead thee through a paradise of flowers!
Where heart meets heart in festal show, all smiling and serene;
Blest be thy lot!—may angel-shapes lead on thy circling hours,
And every pathway lead thee through a paradise of flowers!
I would not that one cloud should dim, one sorrow should impair
A spirit so serene as thine, a form so passing fair;
No! tearless be thine eyes for aye, or sparkle but to cast
Joy like the rainbow through the storm which tells of trials past.
A spirit so serene as thine, a form so passing fair;
No! tearless be thine eyes for aye, or sparkle but to cast
Joy like the rainbow through the storm which tells of trials past.
Farewell! but O thy mien—thy voice in Fancy's ear will come
Like music o'er the waves at night, or gale where roses bloom,
A summer-breath, divinely sweet, and exquisitely soft,
In breathless pleasure heard but once, but O! remembered oft!
Like music o'er the waves at night, or gale where roses bloom,
A summer-breath, divinely sweet, and exquisitely soft,
In breathless pleasure heard but once, but O! remembered oft!
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Farewell! when other hours are past—when other years have rolled,
If chance again that form I see, that beauty I behold,
'Twill be with far intenser bliss than it was pain to part,
'Twill be—but what I cannot tell; O, read it in my heart!
If chance again that form I see, that beauty I behold,
'Twill be with far intenser bliss than it was pain to part,
'Twill be—but what I cannot tell; O, read it in my heart!
The Vase of Lilies.
There's a feeling of deep and of lonely regret
Will pervade the young heart in the sweetest of hours,
If the canker of dark disappointment should fret,
Or but sully the lightest and least of its flowers;
But e'en at the moment when pleasure falls from us,
And hope's rich dews are swept from the chaplet of spring,
If we see in her scene but a tendril of promise,
We cling to the shoot, and for ever could cling.
Will pervade the young heart in the sweetest of hours,
If the canker of dark disappointment should fret,
Or but sully the lightest and least of its flowers;
But e'en at the moment when pleasure falls from us,
And hope's rich dews are swept from the chaplet of spring,
If we see in her scene but a tendril of promise,
We cling to the shoot, and for ever could cling.
I came in the silence and odour of noon,
To the vale of enchantment when childhood was new;
On the tall tree the woodbine still hung its festoon,
But the sunbeam had been there, and robb'd it of dew.
I came to the bower of the gentle Verduta,
To claim but a glance from the eyes of the fair—
But a gloom and a loneliness mock'd the intruder,
I came—but no gentle Verduta was there.
To the vale of enchantment when childhood was new;
On the tall tree the woodbine still hung its festoon,
But the sunbeam had been there, and robb'd it of dew.
I came to the bower of the gentle Verduta,
To claim but a glance from the eyes of the fair—
But a gloom and a loneliness mock'd the intruder,
I came—but no gentle Verduta was there.
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Alone, in the delicate whiteness of youth,
A Vase of sweet Lilies stood flourishing nigh,
And I stole from the vase the two fairest, to soothe
My regret o'er the pleasures for ever gone by.
Thy lilies, Verduta, already are faded,
Ah! severed from thine could they otherwise be!
But their bells shall be yet in Love's rosary braided,
And in hours of desertedness whisper of thee.
A Vase of sweet Lilies stood flourishing nigh,
And I stole from the vase the two fairest, to soothe
My regret o'er the pleasures for ever gone by.
Thy lilies, Verduta, already are faded,
Ah! severed from thine could they otherwise be!
But their bells shall be yet in Love's rosary braided,
And in hours of desertedness whisper of thee.
Stanzas.
When Time, who sets his scornful hand
On all that love and glory rear,
Has laid his desolating wand
On hopes which made our being dear;
We feel that grief, through all the heart
Passing as with a bolt of thunder,
With tears has sapped the infirmer part,
And rent with fire the proud asunder:
All our pride is then to weep,
And wish for death's oblivious sleep.
On all that love and glory rear,
Has laid his desolating wand
On hopes which made our being dear;
We feel that grief, through all the heart
Passing as with a bolt of thunder,
With tears has sapped the infirmer part,
And rent with fire the proud asunder:
All our pride is then to weep,
And wish for death's oblivious sleep.
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Lorn as an antelope that roves,
His loved one from his sight exiled,
We pace our now deserted groves,
With step more mad, and eye more wild;
And not one spot we loved so much
Throughout the past can charm us now,—
We only feel the blasting touch,
The hand of ruin on our brow;
All our pride is then despair,
And it is agony to bear.
His loved one from his sight exiled,
We pace our now deserted groves,
With step more mad, and eye more wild;
And not one spot we loved so much
Throughout the past can charm us now,—
We only feel the blasting touch,
The hand of ruin on our brow;
All our pride is then despair,
And it is agony to bear.
But if upon that desart spot,
Another withered heart we meet,
In our desertedness of lot,
The very sound of grief is sweet;
For then the accordant spirits know
In every tear, by every token,
There is a balm exists below
For peace destroyed, and bosoms broken:
A little music breaks our woe—
But solemn still the strain, and low.
Another withered heart we meet,
In our desertedness of lot,
The very sound of grief is sweet;
For then the accordant spirits know
In every tear, by every token,
There is a balm exists below
For peace destroyed, and bosoms broken:
A little music breaks our woe—
But solemn still the strain, and low.
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When breathed the sympathizing sigh,
When pity's silent tear is shed,
A fitful sunshine seeks the eye,
The weeds of pain are withered;
We strew the nightshade on the wind,
Look for a flower not quite so sad,
And if a livelier one we find,
We praise it, and are inly glad:
And smile—but do not dare to own
Our mourning hearts are lighter grown.
When pity's silent tear is shed,
A fitful sunshine seeks the eye,
The weeds of pain are withered;
We strew the nightshade on the wind,
Look for a flower not quite so sad,
And if a livelier one we find,
We praise it, and are inly glad:
And smile—but do not dare to own
Our mourning hearts are lighter grown.
Hast thou the spirit-soothing tear—
The settled calm from Sorrow felt?
Welcomed that ray from Mercy's sphere,
To chillness long unused to melt?
If Grief thy bosom thus has wrung,
If thus thy soul the charm has known,
Which in thy sky a rainbow hung,
And bound thy waist with Comfort's zone—
I for thee, and thou for me,
Will deem it still a bliss to be.—
The settled calm from Sorrow felt?
Welcomed that ray from Mercy's sphere,
To chillness long unused to melt?
If Grief thy bosom thus has wrung,
If thus thy soul the charm has known,
Which in thy sky a rainbow hung,
And bound thy waist with Comfort's zone—
I for thee, and thou for me,
Will deem it still a bliss to be.—
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The Last but One.
As we walked with Zobëide, on the eve of the morrow which was to see her
departure by the same path, she said—“I have many times trod this path,
but this is the Last time—but One!”
When the hues of delight make brighter
Our hours, with a feeling pure,
And the heaviest heart grows lighter,
Misdeeming it long to endure;
If Grief on our steps advances
To sully the rays that shone,
How heavy the vain eye glances
To welcome the Last—but One!
Our hours, with a feeling pure,
And the heaviest heart grows lighter,
Misdeeming it long to endure;
If Grief on our steps advances
To sully the rays that shone,
How heavy the vain eye glances
To welcome the Last—but One!
In Love—when the breast e'en borrows
From rapture a shade of grief,
Most like to a child, whose sorrows
Will quarrel with their relief;
Though each kiss in its farewell stingeth,
And wisdom it were to shun
The anguish to which the lip clingeth,
How it lives on the Last—but One!
From rapture a shade of grief,
Most like to a child, whose sorrows
Will quarrel with their relief;
Though each kiss in its farewell stingeth,
And wisdom it were to shun
The anguish to which the lip clingeth,
How it lives on the Last—but One!
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In Grief—when remembrance lingers
O'er all that she held most dear,
And chides the unwelcome fingers
Would brush from her lids one tear;
When drugged are the dregs of her chalice,
And her fountain hath ceased to run,
With what self-tormenting malice,
Will she drink the Last drop—but One!
O'er all that she held most dear,
And chides the unwelcome fingers
Would brush from her lids one tear;
When drugged are the dregs of her chalice,
And her fountain hath ceased to run,
With what self-tormenting malice,
Will she drink the Last drop—but One!
In Hope—when the warm heart beateth
At the first light touch of love,
And our vision the wizard cheateth
With a bliss that seems from above;
Though the nightshade of dark denial
Our flourishing dreams o'errun,
How madly we look to her dial,
To seize the Last minute—but One!
At the first light touch of love,
And our vision the wizard cheateth
With a bliss that seems from above;
Though the nightshade of dark denial
Our flourishing dreams o'errun,
How madly we look to her dial,
To seize the Last minute—but One!
In Suspense—when the smile that fluttered
On Joy's vain cheek is set,
And each accent the Fair One uttered
Sounds winningly wooing yet;
How like to a Mermaid singing
To a listening heart undone,
Is fear with that sweet thought bringing
Her Last chilling frown—but One!
On Joy's vain cheek is set,
And each accent the Fair One uttered
Sounds winningly wooing yet;
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To a listening heart undone,
Is fear with that sweet thought bringing
Her Last chilling frown—but One!
In Distress—when the wild waves whiten
Around the tost ship they lash,
When the black clouds momently lighten,
And fast is the signal-flash;
To an ear at a distance from danger,
How mournfully peals the gun!
How a bosom that bleeds for the stranger
Thrills o'er the Last shriek—but One!
Around the tost ship they lash,
When the black clouds momently lighten,
And fast is the signal-flash;
To an ear at a distance from danger,
How mournfully peals the gun!
How a bosom that bleeds for the stranger
Thrills o'er the Last shriek—but One!
When Pleasure—her light form muffles
From the least rude wind that blows,
Though 'tis only that Zephyr ruffles
A billow—or bends a rose;
As she crushes in cups the sweetness
Of grapes that hang black in the sun,
How she feeds on the praise of discreetness,
In leaving the Last—but One!
From the least rude wind that blows,
Though 'tis only that Zephyr ruffles
A billow—or bends a rose;
As she crushes in cups the sweetness
Of grapes that hang black in the sun,
How she feeds on the praise of discreetness,
In leaving the Last—but One!
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In Autumn—ere frosts quite wither
The flower that loves the hill,
When the thistle's beard, hither and thither,
Flies on at its own gay will;
When sunbeams are brightest, though fewest,
How far from our path we run,
To crop but a harebell, the bluest—
Because 'tis the Last—but One!
The flower that loves the hill,
When the thistle's beard, hither and thither,
Flies on at its own gay will;
When sunbeams are brightest, though fewest,
How far from our path we run,
To crop but a harebell, the bluest—
Because 'tis the Last—but One!
In the magical pages of Byron,
With what passionate voice we hang
On the griefs which his being environ,
And feel with him pang for pang;
When with Manfred we wander, or Harold,
And think the long tale but begun,
Just ceasing the verse to be carolled,
How we sigh o'er the Last—but One!
With what passionate voice we hang
On the griefs which his being environ,
And feel with him pang for pang;
When with Manfred we wander, or Harold,
And think the long tale but begun,
Just ceasing the verse to be carolled,
How we sigh o'er the Last—but One!
But when Hesper began to glisten,
Presaging the eve's decline,
And we might no longer listen
To the magic of tones like thine;
And when thou, Zobëide, wert vanished
We asked ‘of the many that shone,
‘Is there not one joy unbanished?’
And an Echo replied—“Not One!”
Presaging the eve's decline,
And we might no longer listen
To the magic of tones like thine;
150
We asked ‘of the many that shone,
‘Is there not one joy unbanished?’
And an Echo replied—“Not One!”
Lines on Howard.
Why, when the souls we loved are fled,
Plant we their turf with flowers,
Their blossomed fragrance there to shed
In sunshine and in showers?
Why bid, when these have passed away,
The laurel flourish o'er their clay,
In winter's blighting hours,
To spread a leaf, for ever green,—
Ray of the life that once hath been.
Plant we their turf with flowers,
Their blossomed fragrance there to shed
In sunshine and in showers?
Why bid, when these have passed away,
The laurel flourish o'er their clay,
In winter's blighting hours,
To spread a leaf, for ever green,—
Ray of the life that once hath been.
It is that we would thence create
Bright memory of the past;
And give their imaged form a date
Eternally to last.
It is, to hallow—whilst regret
Is busy with their actions yet—
The sweetnesses they cast;
To sanctify upon the earth
The glory of departed worth.
Bright memory of the past;
And give their imaged form a date
Eternally to last.
151
Is busy with their actions yet—
The sweetnesses they cast;
To sanctify upon the earth
The glory of departed worth.
Such, and so fair, in Day's decline
The hues which Nature gives;
Yet—yet—though suns have ceased to shine,
Her fair creation lives:
With loved remembrances to fill
The mind, and tender grief instil,
Dim radiance still survives;
And lovelier seems that lingering light,
When blended with the shades of night.
The hues which Nature gives;
Yet—yet—though suns have ceased to shine,
Her fair creation lives:
With loved remembrances to fill
The mind, and tender grief instil,
Dim radiance still survives;
And lovelier seems that lingering light,
When blended with the shades of night.
Else, why when rifled stands the Tower,
The column overthrown,
And, record of Man's pride or power,
Crumbles the storying stone;
Why does she give her Ivy-Vine
Their ruins livingly to twine,
If not to grant alone,
In the soliloquies of man,
To glory's shade an ampler span!
The column overthrown,
And, record of Man's pride or power,
Crumbles the storying stone;
Why does she give her Ivy-Vine
Their ruins livingly to twine,
If not to grant alone,
In the soliloquies of man,
To glory's shade an ampler span!
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Still o'er thy temples and thy shrines,
Loved Greece! her spirit throws
Visions where'er the ivy twines,
Of beauty in repose:
Though all thy Oracles be dumb,
Not voiceless shall those piles become,
Whilst there one wild-flower blows
To claim a fond—regretful sigh
For triumphs passed, and times gone by.
Loved Greece! her spirit throws
Visions where'er the ivy twines,
Of beauty in repose:
Though all thy Oracles be dumb,
Not voiceless shall those piles become,
Whilst there one wild-flower blows
To claim a fond—regretful sigh
For triumphs passed, and times gone by.
Still, Egypt, tower thy sepulchres
Which hearse the thousand bones
Of those who grasped, in vanished years,
Thy diadems and thrones!
Still frowns, by shattering years unrent,
The Mosque, Mohammed's monument!
And still Pelides owns,
By monarchs crowned, by shepherds trod,
His Cenotaph—a grassy sod!
Which hearse the thousand bones
Of those who grasped, in vanished years,
Thy diadems and thrones!
Still frowns, by shattering years unrent,
The Mosque, Mohammed's monument!
And still Pelides owns,
By monarchs crowned, by shepherds trod,
His Cenotaph—a grassy sod!
They were the Mighty of the world,—
The demigods of earth;
Their breath the flag of blood unfurled,
And gave the battle birth;
They lived to trample on mankind,
And in their ravage leave behind
The impress of their worth:
And wizard rhyme, and hoary song,
Hallowed their deeds and hymned their wrong.
The demigods of earth;
Their breath the flag of blood unfurled,
And gave the battle birth;
153
And in their ravage leave behind
The impress of their worth:
And wizard rhyme, and hoary song,
Hallowed their deeds and hymned their wrong.
But Thou, mild Benefactor—thou,
To whom on earth were given
The sympathy for others' woe,
The charities of heaven;—
Pity for grief, a fever-balm
Life's ills and agonies to calm;—
To tell that thou hast striven,
Thou hast thy records which surpass
Or storying stone, or sculptured brass!
To whom on earth were given
The sympathy for others' woe,
The charities of heaven;—
Pity for grief, a fever-balm
Life's ills and agonies to calm;—
To tell that thou hast striven,
Thou hast thy records which surpass
Or storying stone, or sculptured brass!
They live not in the sepulchre
In which thy dust is hid,
Though there were kindlier hands to rear
Thy simple Pyramid,
Than Egypt's mightiest could command—
A duteous tribe, a peasant band
Who mourned the rites they did—
Mourned that the cold turf should confine
A spirit kind and pure as thine.
In which thy dust is hid,
Though there were kindlier hands to rear
Thy simple Pyramid,
Than Egypt's mightiest could command—
A duteous tribe, a peasant band
Who mourned the rites they did—
Mourned that the cold turf should confine
A spirit kind and pure as thine.
154
They are existent in the clime
Thy pilgrim-steps have trod,
Where Justice tracks the feet of Crime,
And seals his doom with blood;
The tower where criminals complain,
And fettered captives mourn in vain,
The pestilent Abode
Are thy memorials in the skies,
The portals of thy Paradise.
Thy pilgrim-steps have trod,
Where Justice tracks the feet of Crime,
And seals his doom with blood;
The tower where criminals complain,
And fettered captives mourn in vain,
The pestilent Abode
Are thy memorials in the skies,
The portals of thy Paradise.
Thine was an empire o'er distress,
Thy triumphs of the mind!
To burst the bonds of wretchedness,
The friend of human kind!
Thy name, through every future age,
By bard, philanthropist, and sage,
In glory shall be shrined;
Whilst other Nields and Clarksons show
That still thy mantle rests below.
Thy triumphs of the mind!
To burst the bonds of wretchedness,
The friend of human kind!
Thy name, through every future age,
By bard, philanthropist, and sage,
In glory shall be shrined;
Whilst other Nields and Clarksons show
That still thy mantle rests below.
I know not if there be a sense
More sweet, than to impart
Health to the haunts of pestilence,
Balm to the sufferer's smart,
And freedom to Captivity!
The pitying tear, the sorrowing sigh
Might grace an angel's heart;
And e'en when Sickness damped thy brow,
Such bliss was thine, and such wert Thou!
More sweet, than to impart
Health to the haunts of pestilence,
Balm to the sufferer's smart,
155
The pitying tear, the sorrowing sigh
Might grace an angel's heart;
And e'en when Sickness damped thy brow,
Such bliss was thine, and such wert Thou!
Serene, unhurt, in wasted lands,
Amid the general doom,
Long stood'st thou as the traveller stands,
Where breathes the lone Simoom;
One minute, beautiful as brief,
Flowers bloom, trees wave the verdant leaf,
Another—all is gloom;
He looks—the green, the blossomed bough
Is blasted into ashes now!
Amid the general doom,
Long stood'st thou as the traveller stands,
Where breathes the lone Simoom;
One minute, beautiful as brief,
Flowers bloom, trees wave the verdant leaf,
Another—all is gloom;
He looks—the green, the blossomed bough
Is blasted into ashes now!
But deadlier than the Simoom burns
The fire of Pestilence,
His shadow into darkness turns
The passing of events;
Where points his finger,—lowers the storm;
Where his eye fixes,—feeds the worm
On people and on prince;
Where treads his step,—there Glory lies;—
Where breathes his breath,—there Beauty dies!
The fire of Pestilence,
His shadow into darkness turns
The passing of events;
Where points his finger,—lowers the storm;
Where his eye fixes,—feeds the worm
On people and on prince;
Where treads his step,—there Glory lies;—
Where breathes his breath,—there Beauty dies!
156
And to the beautiful and young
Thy latest cares were given;
How spake thy kind and pitying tongue
The messages of heaven!
Soothing her grief who, fair and frail,
Waned paler yet, and yet more pale,
Like lily-flowers at even:
Smit by the livid Plague, which cast
O'er thee his shadow as he passed.
Thy latest cares were given;
How spake thy kind and pitying tongue
The messages of heaven!
Soothing her grief who, fair and frail,
Waned paler yet, and yet more pale,
Like lily-flowers at even:
Smit by the livid Plague, which cast
O'er thee his shadow as he passed.
As danger deeper grew and dark,
Her hopes could Conscience bring;
And Faith, and Mind's immortal spark
Grew hourly brightening;
One pang at parting—'twas the last—
Joy for the future!—for the past—
But thou art on the wing
To track the source from whence it came,
And mingle with thy parent flame!
Her hopes could Conscience bring;
And Faith, and Mind's immortal spark
Grew hourly brightening;
One pang at parting—'twas the last—
Joy for the future!—for the past—
But thou art on the wing
To track the source from whence it came,
And mingle with thy parent flame!
The nodding hearse, the sable plume,
Those attributes of pride,
The artificial grief or gloom
Are pageants which but hide
Hearts, from the weight of anguish free:
But there were many wept for thee
Who wept for none beside;
And felt, thus left alone below,
The full desertedness of woe.
Those attributes of pride,
The artificial grief or gloom
Are pageants which but hide
157
But there were many wept for thee
Who wept for none beside;
And felt, thus left alone below,
The full desertedness of woe.
And many mourned that thou should'st lie
Where Dnieper rolls and raves,
Glad from barbaric realms to fly
And blend with Pontic waves;
A desart bleak—a barren shore,
Where Mercy never trod before—
A land whose sons were slaves;
Crouching, and fettered to the soil
By feudal chains and thankless toil.
Where Dnieper rolls and raves,
Glad from barbaric realms to fly
And blend with Pontic waves;
A desart bleak—a barren shore,
Where Mercy never trod before—
A land whose sons were slaves;
Crouching, and fettered to the soil
By feudal chains and thankless toil.
But oft methinks in future years
To raise exalted thought,
And soften sternest eyes to tears,
Shall be thy glorious lot;
And oft the rugged Muscovite,—
As spring prepares the pious rite,—
Shall tread the holy spot,
And see her offered roses showered
Upon the grave of gentle Howard!
To raise exalted thought,
And soften sternest eyes to tears,
Shall be thy glorious lot;
And oft the rugged Muscovite,—
As spring prepares the pious rite,—
Shall tread the holy spot,
And see her offered roses showered
Upon the grave of gentle Howard!
158
Those roses on their languid stalk
Will fade ere fades the day,
Winter may wither in his walk
The myrtle and the bay,
Which, mingled with the laurel's stem,
Her hands may plant, but not with them
Shall memory pass away,
Or pity cease the heart to swell—
To Thee there can be no Farewell!
Will fade ere fades the day,
Winter may wither in his walk
The myrtle and the bay,
Which, mingled with the laurel's stem,
Her hands may plant, but not with them
Shall memory pass away,
Or pity cease the heart to swell—
To Thee there can be no Farewell!
| Aonian Hours; And Other Poems | |