 | Julia Alpinula |  |
185
POEMS.
186
THE RUSSELL
Russell's consort, a woman of virtue, daughter and heir of
the good earl of Southampton, threw herself at the King's feet,
and pleaded with many tears the merits and loyalty of her father,
as an atonement for those errors, into which honest, however
mistaken principles had seduced her husband. These suppli-
cations were the last instance of female weakness, (if they deserve
the name), which she betrayed. Finding all applications vain,
she collected courage, and not only fortified herself against the
fatal blow, but endeavoured by her example to strengthen the
resolution of her unfortunate lord. With a tender and decent
composure they took leave of each other on the day of his exe-
cution. “The bitterness of death is now past,” said he, when he
turned from her. Lord Cavendish had lived in the closest inti-
macy with Russell, and deserted not his friend in the present
calamity. He offered to manage his escape, by changing
clothes with him, and remaining at all hazards in his place.
Russell refused to save his own life, by an expedient which
might expose his friend to so many hardships. When the duke
of Monmouth by message offered to surrender himself, if Russell
thought that this measure would any wise contribute to his safety;
“It will be no advantage to me,” he said, “to have my friends
die with me.” As he was the most popular among his own
party, so he was the least obnoxious to the opposite faction: and
his melancholy fate united every heart, sensible of humanity, in
a tender compassion for him.”
Hume.
Charles II. chap. lxix.
187
“Ô salvar Roma io voglio.
Ô perir seco!”
Bruto di Alfieri.
Ô perir seco!”
Bruto di Alfieri.
1
As o'er some lone and blighted land,Torn from fair freedom's page,
Where dwelt the glorious and the grand,
The hero and the sage,
In pensive pilgrimage we tread,—
If pile or pillar o'er the dead
Calls back the vanished age,
In record to admiring thought
The' imperishable names are brought
188
2
And every name a spell-word is,Of power to kindle higher
The patriot's holy energies,
The hero's pulse of fire;
To quicken with instructive theme,
The inspiration and the dream
Of him who loves the lyre;
And charm with spoils unknown before
The heart that swells at wisdom's lore.
3
Turn to where bloom Arabian flowersOn Horeb's sainted sod,
A glory lingers in the bowers
Where erst the Hebrew trod,
In whose revealing page we see
Time's birth, an angry Deity,
The thunder and the rod;
Reaps not the sage from name like his
High presages of future bliss?
189
4
Or turn to wisdom's own pure clime,The mother of the free,
Whence draw the nations through all time
The milk of liberty.
O Greece! though long thy life is fled,
As nobles to a Princess dead,
We bow the adoring knee;
Thine, thine indeed are names of light,
Time can not dim, nor tyrant blight!
5
Here, should we say, those spirits rangedTo whom such spells belong,
Who moulded kings, and empires changed;
The sightless Homer flung
Here, where immortal Ocean smiles,
In triumph round her thousand isles,
His melody of song;
Sweet Sappho there—and here, more dim,
Wild Pindar woke his Pythian hymn.
190
6
Bursting on valour's ardent ear,What millions own'd the charm!
Here peal'd the trumpet, there the spear
Shook in the couching arm.
Go—view Thermopylæ! the pass
Yet tells of high Leonidas,
Whose ashes there are warm.
Corinth—bright thoughts of him hath woke,
Who snapt the Syracusan yoke.
7
And Athens, lovely Athens! sheIs resonant with One,
Who freed from blight her olive tree,
And warm'd with freedom's sun,
And with Aristogeiton's, rest
Thy hallowed name, Harmodius, blest
Long as the tide shall run
Of flowing time, and with twin ray
Grow brighter as your sands decay.
191
8
To Marathon—to Leuctra go,Where Battle drove his share,
And bow thine head, but not in woe,
For those who perished there:
'Twas on tiaras that they trod,—
And memory sanctifies the sod,
And views without despair,
The Theban in his latest field,
Expire in triumph on his shield.
9
For every drop by freemen shedTo other chiefs gave birth,
As generous spirits rose to tread
In other climes of earth.
Lo! thron'd on her imperial hills,
How Rome the world's horizon fills
With majesty and worth,
Whilst live the Gracchi, and her foes
Wax pale before her Scipios!
192
10
But not to Greece—but not to RomeThese spells alone belong,
Each sod each wave was glory's home,
Where honour spurn'd at wrong!
Alike the solitudes of Tell,
And field where Kosciusko fell,
Shall breathe—shall burn in song;
And in Iskander's beacon-name,
Shall rough Albania start to fame.
11
Nursed in the soil of foreign strife,The Corsic olive grew,
For though it gave Napoleon life,
It gave Paoli too;
Ev'n magic lives in thee, dark Spain,
O sweet Alcæus! for a strain
Like that thy Lesbos knew!
The greenest laurels shouldst thou wear
In song, chivalrous Porliere!
193
12
And, wave-washed Albion! canst Thou boastNo column—trophy—stone,—
No names to shed around thy coast
A glory all thine own?
Eyrie of freedom, yes!—her power,
In sunniest, as in stormiest hour,
With patriots girt thy throne,
Who watched with keen and jealous eye.
State's giant cloud swim darkly by.
13
It was a sunny hour, when backThe exiled Stuart came,
Like a young eagle in a track
Of peril, fraught with fame.
It were enough if his train'd wing,
Although it brought no second spring,
Had been but free from shame;
But 'tis in summer's brightest hour,
Gather the plague and thunder-shower
194
14
He sought not by immediate artsPower's pinnacle to gain;
Such grasp suspicious thought imparts,
And makes ambition vain;
But skill'd the evil to hoodwink,
By gradual rivet, gradual link,
He forged the iron chain,
Whose penal coils were doomed to bind
The chartered rights of human-kind.
15
The Magog-sway of State and Law,Twin despots in disguise,
The eagle-eye of Freedom saw,
And bade her Russell rise.
No satellite—no satrap he,
To crouch or bend the pliant knee;
Firm, self-respecting, wise,
He stripp'd away the specious veil:
Patriot he rose, and martyr fell.
195
16
A giddy Court, bribed to betray,And armed to defy,
Threw in the sceptre to outweigh
Her balanced harmony:
Vindictive—studious to debase
The curule chair, the civic mace,
The people's sovereignty;
And with no airy dagger strike
At noblest hearts, Tiberius-like.
17
With no wild visionary's heat,But temperate fire, to plan
Through doubt, through danger, through defeat,
The liberties of man;—
To scorn the senate's venal mutes,
State's parasites, or prostitutes,
Her Russell led the van;
Braving, with Sidney at his side,
A bigot's wrath,—a tyrant's pride.
196
18
Too daring souls! ye little knewThe treacherous lingered near,
With hollow voice and arm untrue,
To check your high career;
To move in sunshine of your fame,
Yet turn to blast each glorious aim;—
A Howard or Jaffier,
What matters it—the ivies wreathe
To leave a murdered trunk beneath.
19
Arraign'd—behold his Lady standHer pleading lord beside,
With shrinking heart, yet aiding hand,
The great Southampton's pride.
Gentle, but steel'd with fortitude,
The waters of her grief subdued,—
Unnoticed is their tide;
Alas! too deep those waters lie,
They chill the heart, not cloud the eye.
197
20
It soothes to think upon that formLike angel left below,
In virtue pure, in friendship warm,
And dignified in woe:
It soothes—but it were long to tell,
How firm, how true, how wise, how well—
Her sire upheld—but no—
Ingratitude! thy name is king;
Will not the cherished yiper sting!
21
And Sophism, in the shape of Law,Skill'd to confound, and wrest
Truth in each inference he will draw,
Writes Treason on his crest:
Age, beauty, birth!—ye vainly sue,
His doom has long been fixed—adieu
Thou noblest, firmest, best!
For vengeance hastes to perpetrate
The dire anathema of hate.
198
22
Cell'd in the fortresses of power,Oh no! I will not dare
To think upon the parting hour
Which Beauty comes to share:
Her agony, love, tenderness,
Imploring childhood's last caress
Young, innocent, and fair.—
Enough! those eyes have looked their last,
Enough! “Death's bitterness is past.”
23
And now in marble or a mound,The holy ashes lie
Of Him, when girt by danger round,
“Who scorn'd to fear or fly:”
Patriot! Pole—Roman, Switzer—Greek!
Whate'er ye sought below, or seek,
There read your homily:
It tells—and ages vouch it true,
Earth is no home for such as you.
199
24
But O, ye martyrs! from your bones,Your voices yet are heard;
There is a magic in the tones,
A spirit in each word:
And blood to living veins belongs,
Which proudly boils at Russell's wrongs,—
So happy! so adored!
His name, a beacon of the past,
While seasons roll, while planets last.
25
But turn ye to avenging time,To a successive age,
And read the moral of the crime
In history's tragic page.
See the dark mover of the deed,
James—to the injured Bedford plead,
For aid in civil rage;
His fortunes into ruin hurled,
The scorn or pity of the world.
200
26
“Ah, Sir! long years have shed their snow,”The mourning father said,
“Upon the tresses of this brow,
“And bowed this aged head.
“Now in the sunset of my course,
“Feeble and withered is my force,
“But I had once—to aid,
“Or your fallen fortunes to restore,
“A Son! but he is now no more!”
27
From sire to rising son bequeathed,Yon Abbey rears its halls,
And there hath ready Painting breathed
Souls in the silent walls.
Touched by the talisman of art,
Mourner and mourned to being start;—
Here, in her sable palls,
Rapt in mute anguish for the dead,
Doth Rachel bend her aching head.
201
28
And hopeless sorrow seems to throwO'er all that speaking face,
The white rose of undying woe,
A melancholy grace;
Warmed with a sunbeam from above
Of mingled memory and love,
Not ages can erase:
Alas! she knows her tears are vain,
Yet will not close those springs of pain.
29
And there the Russell's form commands;The Delian with his bow,
So looks, so threatens, and so stands,
The Python to o'erthrow:
Light, colour, attitude, and life,
With the cold canvas seem at strife
Instinctively, as though
Their bright Promethean fire would chide
The' unbeating pulse's lingering tide.
202
30
Long! long, loved images, to youShall kindred Britons turn,
To nature's warm emotions true,
To weep, to' adore, to burn—
And shoot to Stuart's tyrant rage,
That Python of a later age,
The arrows of their scorn,
Giving to your unuttered wrongs
The language of a thousand tongues.
31
Enough! the gladdening sun has setWhich poured its beams on you;
To you, so bright is our regret,
There can be no adieu;
None!—whilst from your majestic root
One beauteous scion lives to shoot,
Ye bud and bloom anew;
The sight sad freedom smiles to see,
And loves those blossoms as the tree.
203
32
Of such fair scions One there was,Too beautiful and brief;
Time should have broke his scythe and glass,
For love of such a leaf:
I know not why—the loveliest bloom
Is soonest gather'd from the tomb,
The earliest plucked by grief;
It is as though each element
Envied the glorious life it lent.
33
But deeply gazing thus on thee,Thou Picture! I could deem,
The blight of his benignity,
A nothing, or a dream:
Breathing the vital air again,
Could deem his spirit walked with men,
Unconscious of the stream,
Whose darkly-rolling tide at last
Ingulfs all present in the past.
204
34
And but those robes—that youthful playOf colour on his cheek,
The triumphs of a later day,
Another time bespeak;
His eloquent air, Ulysses-like,
Wisdom and dignity might strike
A gazer for the Greek
Of Ithaca, whose voice appals
The suitors in his father's halls.
35
Him the hush'd Senate reverenced too;O'er Him, shall History tell,
When bannered War his clarion blew,
A prophet's mantle fell.
He heard, and with presaging sigh,
The course of blood and agony
Strove vainly to repel;
His pitying heart those rites abhorr'd,
He loved the olive, not the sword.
205
36
He would have torn the page of warFrom England's blazoning book,
And bent the gashing scimetar
To plenty's pruning-hook;
He would have beat the spear and shaft
To ploughshares, and the banner-staff
Turn'd to the pastoral crook;
The groan of millions to the song
Of peasants their sweet vales among.
37
He would—but what he would have been,Can hope, can love avow?
Death dropped his curtain on the scene,
And withered every vow.
Where are the vanished Great? declare!
The Medici, the Decii, where,
Where generous Francis now?
Immortal suns in memory's sky—
They are not dead, they could not die
206
38
They came like angels of a night,To disappear by day;
As radiant was their earthward flight,
As swift to pass away.
Too bright, alas! to linger here,
They fled—we should not shed one tear
For beings blest as they;
But evermore exult to find
Their living image left behind.
39
Though gone in glory down the skyOur Cynosures decline,
If other watch-lights burn on high,
'Tis folly to repine.
Look up! in freedom's hemisphere
The star of Russell lingers near,
And other Pleiads shine,
Devoted in the stormiest night
To shed round us their guiding light.
207
40
And, circled thus with names of light,Woburn! I bid thee hail,
A beauty rests on every height,
A charm in every vale.
Peopled with bright remembrances,
Green, green on high thy pines arise,
Though wintry storms assail,
And whisper to the waters near,
The dirge which sorrow loves to hear.
41
And of the dead will fancy deemThose shades are vocal still,
Their voice upon the murmuring stream,
Their footstep on the hill!
This solace let not reason chide,
That thus the Great, the Glorified
Are reproduced at will;
For sweet, though sad, is the relief
Which brings an anodyne to grief.
208
LINES Written on a blank leaf of the “Pleasures of Hope.”
Of power the fond and feeling heart to bless
With tenderest joy and sweetest pensiveness,
In Love's warm soul to wake a deeper glow,
Or kindlier steal a flushing smile from Woe,—
Here Campbell lives; his record of renown
No fleeting pomp,—a pageant, or a crown!
With time's swift tide, they sparkle, charm, and pass;
Ionic marble and Corinthian brass
Melt into dust; towers, kingdoms, empires fall,
As circling ages unto ages call;
But all unfelt the withering chill of time,
In the fresh flower of a perpetual prime—
Here Campbell lives;—here hath his hand designed
The fervid transcript of his generous mind.
Like that mysterious crystal which inspires
Serener pureness from the wrath of fires;
The tender charm of his familiar page,
Which soothed with softest dreams our earlier age,
But breathes, resigned to Art's severe controul,
Diviner transport, and a purer soul.
When his bold strings, with noblest frenzy fraught,
Unchecked by terror, reach the heaven of thought,
Seems not his minstrel-spirit to have won
The fiery car and mantle of the sun;
Wide o'er the burning galaxy to sweep,
Span earth's proud planet, and divide the deep,
Its springs unlock, and wake with potent spell
The angel pity, slumbering in her cell?—
Soft as her sigh, the swelling tones subside,
Mournful and low, yet warbling as they glide,
Soothe the still ear, the' arrested soul enchain,
Till bliss is moulded in the mint of pain!
With tenderest joy and sweetest pensiveness,
In Love's warm soul to wake a deeper glow,
Or kindlier steal a flushing smile from Woe,—
Here Campbell lives; his record of renown
No fleeting pomp,—a pageant, or a crown!
With time's swift tide, they sparkle, charm, and pass;
Ionic marble and Corinthian brass
Melt into dust; towers, kingdoms, empires fall,
As circling ages unto ages call;
209
In the fresh flower of a perpetual prime—
Here Campbell lives;—here hath his hand designed
The fervid transcript of his generous mind.
Like that mysterious crystal which inspires
Serener pureness from the wrath of fires;
The tender charm of his familiar page,
Which soothed with softest dreams our earlier age,
But breathes, resigned to Art's severe controul,
Diviner transport, and a purer soul.
When his bold strings, with noblest frenzy fraught,
Unchecked by terror, reach the heaven of thought,
Seems not his minstrel-spirit to have won
The fiery car and mantle of the sun;
Wide o'er the burning galaxy to sweep,
Span earth's proud planet, and divide the deep,
Its springs unlock, and wake with potent spell
The angel pity, slumbering in her cell?—
Soft as her sigh, the swelling tones subside,
Mournful and low, yet warbling as they glide,
Soothe the still ear, the' arrested soul enchain,
Till bliss is moulded in the mint of pain!
O thou! whose path fair Fancy strews with flowers.
One lovely tissue of romantic hours,—
Whose classic home indulgent Heaven has graced
With each blest handmaid in the court of taste!
Oft o'er the' enchanting scenes thine art has plann'd
Supremely lovely, or divinely grand,
Shall Beauty linger, each rude care asleep,
Alone with thee to glow or wildly weep;
Till thou, enshrin'd within her breast, shalt be
The guardian priest of her futurity,
Responsive to her voice, bright dreams to weave
At opening sunrise and at falling eve.
One lovely tissue of romantic hours,—
210
With each blest handmaid in the court of taste!
Oft o'er the' enchanting scenes thine art has plann'd
Supremely lovely, or divinely grand,
Shall Beauty linger, each rude care asleep,
Alone with thee to glow or wildly weep;
Till thou, enshrin'd within her breast, shalt be
The guardian priest of her futurity,
Responsive to her voice, bright dreams to weave
At opening sunrise and at falling eve.
211
LINES Written beneath a Miniature in the possession of a Friend.
1
Go to! what need of voice or verseOur feelings to pourtray,
Whilst, beauty of the Universe!
To thee those feelings stray.
Thy look of loveliest innocence,
Our thrilling pulse, and gaze intense,
Have far more power than they—
To tell how low our spirit kneels,
Our eye admires, and bosom feels.
212
2
The simple chesnut locks, which TasteLoved far too well to braid,
The pearled breast, the cincture chaste,
The eye for musing made,
The lips like Eve's before her fall,
Melting with sweetness,—and o'er all
That melancholy shade,
Flung like a bridal veil, declare
Too much of Angel harboured there:
3
Too much of Angel long to liveOn earth's contracted span,
And these sweet looks of pity give
To such a thing as man;
The fire that lit thy early years,
Attracted by its native spheres,
Its rapid race o'erran,
And, all transformed to light and love,
Shot starlike to the heaven above.
213
4
Though loving eyes stream fast for thee,I know thou wilt not frown,
Nor, freed thyself from pain's decree,
On pain look harshly down;
Though thine are now Elysian hours,
Though heaven with songs, and stars, and flowers,
Thy walk of glory crown,
This tribute of a moment born,
Thou may'st accept, thou wilt not scorn.
5
Why didst thou fade, so fair and young,Ere Autumn seared thy leaf?
O, sweets are doubly loved, when flung
Abroad by winds of grief!
If secret woe thy blossom wrung,
There was one beating heart had sprung
To bring thine own relief,
But ere his love could make it less,
Beauty was lost in lifelessness.
214
6
O! then, when still-surviving LoveGrew tearless with his throe,
Hope, heralding thy path above,
Seemed lost to earth below,
And Anguish wished to annihilate
His future with a glance of hate,
There came a pause in woe—
Thou, silent picture of the dead!
Smiled on him, and the chaos fled:
7
Fled—for an hour of calmer thought,Fled—for a mournful tear,
Which though it flowed that thou wert not,
Proved that thou still wert near;
That thou wert near to soothe his pain,
Bring bliss to his bewildered brain,
The assurance to his fear—
Whate'er of others, yet that thou
Didst love him, and dost love him now.
215
8
Oh for a spirit's eye to stripThe veil that wraps our race,
And show in new companionship
The parted face to face.
This may not be—yet for awhile—
So sweetly does this Picture smile,
We gaze, and start to trace
All that she was on earth, and even
Almost what she is now in heaven.
216
THE LEGEND OF THE STATUE.
[_]
At the entrance of the Temple of the Graces at Woburn Abbey, is an exquisite piece of Sculpture by the celebrated Chantrey, representing his Grace the Duke of Bedford's youngest daughter—Lady Louisa Russell, in the act of pressing a dove to her bosom.
1
Louisa, wandering through the wood,Had caught, one summer noon, a dove,
And, blest beyond expression, stood
The picture of infantine love.
She pressed with Medicéan grace
The bird within her snowy arms,
And downward bent her sunny face,
To kiss away its wild alarms.
217
2
It was a needless thought! the birdWas far too happy to depart;
Finding, by every pulse that stirred,
Its warmest nest was on her heart;
And he who chanced that girl to see
So fendly smoothe each ruffled feather,
Wished that the turtle-dove and she
Thus, ever thus, might dwell together.
3
The Sculptor heard that wish of his,And by a magic of his own,
Re-echoed back the parent's bliss,
And fixed the lovely twins in stone.
The statue cannot speak her power,
The mild bird raise its sculptured wings,
Yet, stamped in taste's divinest hour,
We half misdeem them living things.
218
4
A ray is in her smile, her eye—It cannot be the beam that falls
From the sun's figure in the sky,—
Without are bowers, around are walls;
Yet brightness radiates round the stone,
Sincere as e'er to feeling rushed,
And sweetness seems in every tone
Late uttered—though the voice is hushed.
5
In that serenely-speaking smile,We live our childhood o'er again,
But sadness chills our cheek the while,
To think we cannot feel as then:
When youth's full fire is in our eyes,
We steal from Venus' car a turtle,
And nestle—who would not? the prize
On glowing hearts with chains of myrtle.
219
6
But of the many, cherished thus,How few, fond girl! like thine remain,
Nor, home returning, leave to us,
Chilled heart, dark throe, and vacant chain!
But thou, in life's young loveliness,
From age to age as now shalt stand,
Smiling with transport so to press
Love's turtle with thy little hand.
7
Fit guardian of so fair a shrine!The loveliest of those Graces three
May well like thee her head decline,—
Thou art herself in infancy.
But when few summer-suns make ripe
This flower which glads the parent-stem,
Statue! thy living prototype
Shall burst to bloom, and charm like them.
220
To—
With a Seal bearing the Inscription “CON TE SONO.”
1
We came—we met—we looked—we parted;To one, at least, with some regret,
And both perhaps were heavier-hearted,
Than if our eyes had never met.
Then, Lady! let the seal I send
Sometimes revive a thought of me,
It speaks the feeling of a friend,
“Though absent, I am still with thee.”
221
2
Years pass, and with them sweep alongThe forms we love, the loves we feel,
And absence deals oblivious wrong,
And friendship mourns declining zeal.
O, then how sweet the heart to find
Which spite of veering time's decree,
In the fixt fondness of the mind,
Declares—“indeed I'm still with thee.”
3
The sweetest leaf, the sunniest flower,Must bear the rude winds of the year;
So fondest hearts in angry hour,
May oft be thought most insincere.
But well may dark mistrust rejoice
When blighted seems its cherished tree,
To hear from far this still small voice,
Ia'm still with thee, I'm still with thee.”
222
4
I nurse the vain, but grateful thought,That thy remembered hand shall press,
In fondest hours, what mine has wrought—
Spell of appealing tenderness.
To claim myself, of many such,
But one—I know can never be;
Yet, when this sigil feels thy touch,
Remember, “I am then with thee.”
5
In hope, regret, joy, doubt, surprize,—Whate'er thou feel'st, or think'st, or grievest,
Thy smile of lips, thy light of eyes,
The tears thou shed'st, the praise thou givest;
Of all fond friendship sends away,
Shall this the happy witness be,
And ever say, or seem to say,
In all, through all, “I'm still with thee.”
223
6
Whilst I—recal (if once forgot)The whiteness of thy soul and brow,
And feel there's sweetness in my lot,
To think on such an one as thou:
But Memory's calm reflecting ray
Can never, never darkened be;
For still in soul though far away,
“I am with thee, I am with thee!”
224
AFTER THE SPANISH.
1
Sweet maid! I leaned in life's young bloom,Upon a spirit warm as thine,
And dreamt, how could I dream its doom
Would ever so respond to mine?
Trembling, I touched my light guitar,
As now—to please her listening ear,
And thought, how could I think the star
Of love in her dark eye sincere?
225
2
I flung my holiest rosaryAround her neck, the white veil under,
And thought the beads would ever be
By other hands unbroke asunder.
I gave as flourishing a leaf
As those which thy white roses shade,
And giving, said, “I'm sure no thief
Will e'er my blossomed flowers invade.”
3
But song—flowers—rosary—all are gone!The ear that listened, lips that prais'd!
And of my many hopes, not one
But perished in the flame they rais'd.
Gifts, long refused, I oft could see
She took with smiles, but now 'tis plain
These were not given in pain for me,
But pride of power in giving pain.
226
4
I wish that thou indeed wert sheBy whom those early smiles were given,
For then, I know, from pleasure's tree
My young buds had not all been riven.
For kind and mild thy spirit is,
And holy are the tears thou givest,
And oh! 'tis something near to bliss,
To know that 'tis for me thou grievest.
5
But dry those dear, subduing eyes,Or stormier grief will gush from mine,
Yet, when away, my heart will prize
Each drop that overflows from thine.
Not when away, not when away,
Oh no! I could not bear to see
The tender sentiment decay
That speaks of sympathy from thee.
227
6
But we must part, and I must passTo mingle with the crowd again,
And strive, in hollow mirth, alas—
How vainly! to forget my pain.
But shunned or sought, in smiles or tears,
Howe'er my soul may droop and pine,
'Twill half be happy, since it bears,
Dear maid! the thrilling stamp of thine.
228
“Et longum, formose, vale! vale! inquit Iola.”—Virgil.
1
This scorn of all the glorious stirWhich sunshine brings to morn,—
This darkening upon flower and fir,
These lonely hours—all, all concur
To tell that thou art gone!
2
The night that falls on Memory's brain,In slumbers sad, but dear;
A lightless lamp—a severed chain,
Are all of thee that now remain
To tell that thou wert here.
229
3
Although the links could disunite,The lamp in crystals break,—
Their very fragments have the light
Of stars, and I in fortune's spite
Will gaze—though all forsake.
4
The fond farewell to others given,I envy not you gave;
The same to me accorded, even
Although my very soul had striven,
Had made that soul a slave.
5
Thy one last glance to one unknown,Enough suffices me;
A smile or two—a tender tone
Fading in music, serve alone
For Memory's reverie.
230
6
She shall not let the lightest thingThat breathes of thee decline;
No! sad or happy, she shall cling,
Like bees upon the flower of spring,
To each dear leaf of thine!
231
I took the Harp.
1
I took the harp, and would have sung,But scarcely had its tones awoke,
When lo! a chord too harshly strung,
Beneath my fingers, sighing, broke.
2
'Tis thus the heart of gentle mouldTo love, alas, too fondly given,
Ere it can well its tale unfold,
By Beauty's careless touch is riven.
3
And when its sweetest thrill is o'er,And it has ceased to throb for ever,
Can kindliest smiles its pulse restore,
Or warm it then?—no, never! never!
4
Then, Lady, whilst that heart's awakeWhich beats for thee, and thee alone,
Remember that its chords will break,
If with rude hand they're dwelt upon.
232
Written in an Album.
1
Oh, I could whisper thee a taleThat surely would thy pity move,
But lightly would the lips avail
To shadow forth the soul's deep love.
2
To tell that tale my pen were weak,My tongue the office too denies,
Then mark it on my varying cheek,
And read it in my silent eyes.
233
Sonnet to W. Wordsworth, Esq.
With thee, divine Philosopher, I gazedUpon the mighty hills at dying day:
The prodigal elements around us lay
Rock'd like a babe to slumber; the sky blazed,
Rich with vermilion fires, whose hue embraced
Woods, rocks,—the lake in its romantic pride,—
And then a flying sunbeam we descried
Brightening up half the valley: Night erased
Too soon the' expressive picture, but my heart
Locked it as in the casket of sweet thought,
Sacred to future fancy. Hast thou part
In the fine dream, or is it all forgot?
Oft on the fairy Spectacle I brood,
The flowers, the hills return—vale—water—wood—
And thou—the beautiful Genius of the spot.
234
To---
The rose and vestal snowdrop, Lovely One!Gathered by thee, within my whitest book
Lie like a charm; how much I love to look
On them thou shalt not know: let the proud Sun,
Swift journeyer in a withering circlet, run
His race of ruin—he shall never steal
One passionate memory which these gifts reveal
Of pleasant hours by-gone from us—not one!
Thy locks, thy music-making lips, thine eyes,
(Starry inquisitors) and, yet more fair,
The sunshine of thy delicate spirit lies
Warm on my heart, and makes Elysium there.
Sometimes cross Thou my wood-walks by surprise,
Wearing the Grecian Hebe's smiling air.
235
Taliessin.
Lovely the ascent has been, though in the faceOf giant hills; the hooded Twilight now,
Darkens their summits, and I stand where Thou
Ancestral Harper of our ancient race,
High Taliessin! hadst thy dwelling-place,
A mountain-throne. Oh grand, oh glorious spot!
Speak, mighty Elements! have ye forgot
His numbers! does your heart preserve a trace
Of that old British music? Hark! the Lake,
The Druid waves of sunlit Geirionedd
Make answer far into the hills, and break
Their sleep of centuries;—with awe I tread;
His eye seems on me in that star, whose flake
Falls, like a tongue of fire upon my head.
236
The Cascade on Raven Crag, near Lake Coniston.
Pure Virgin of these Alps! who lov'st to wearThy foam around thee as a bridal vest,
And from these stormy heights dost seek the rest
Which yon blue vale and glassy sea prepare—
Now scattering on the winds thy silver hair,
Giving fresh greenness to the moorland moss,—
Now fretting unambitiously across
The ancient stones, filling the amorous air
With music: gazing upon thee I think
Of Her, the young, the modest, and the wise,
Who often sang beside thy verdant brink,
In shepherd's ear the Songs of Paradise.
Of thee, pellucid Fountain, I will drink,
So thou inspire me with like melodies.
237
Newstead Abbey.
I plucked a bluebell from thy crumbling wall,Proud Pile of proud Antiquity in tears!
Who, yet indignant at the conquering years,
Sitt'st frowning in thy wild monastic pall
On ruin, and to one lone waterfall
Mournest thy wrongs. Pale Princess! raise thy head
The planet of thy splendour is not fled,
A Voice has gone from forth thy desolate hall
A musical and melancholy voice,
Making the Years thy vassals; crowning thee,
Ev'n in thy dust and ashes as the choice,
The high-born bride of Immortality.
Thousand enamoured Pilgrims shall rejoice
To come, and cull thy glorious weeds, like me.
FINIS.
| Julia Alpinula | |