Poems and Songs by E. H. B. [i.e. E. H. Bickersteth]

Pompeii! city of the dead,—entombed
Two thousand years in clouds of ashes,—still
Remains to tell of long forgotten times,
When those high halls the nations honored, and
Thy priests made rulers tremble; even Pansa,—
The haughty Edile—he who sought thy favor
By banquets fit for Gods—he, the purse-proud,—
Has swept along thy gorgeous floors the robe
Rich with the Tyrian dye,—and Glaucus—
The praised, the god-like Glaucus—here, perchance,
Amid these shattered halls has knelt before
Ione's shrine and worship'd;—can we e'er
Forget Arbaces, and the mystic spell
Surrounding Isis, thy great Idol-God?—
The shrine—the temple—and the midnight hour
When nature's mantle shrouded deeds too dark
For day to look on—then th' o'erflowing bowl,
Wreathed with the flowers which Phœbus loved,

And rites unhallowed by most foul intemperance,
Mixed with voluptuous dance and syren song,
Beguiled the hours and ushered in the morn;—
There fell the young—the fair—the chaste—entranced
With music and faint semblance of a faith
Far holier and of better promise.

Ione too—the loved Ione—she
Who lived in her transparent thoughts, whose soul
Was fraught with poetry—whose being glowed
With th' high and ideal images which flung
Around her every word and tone a soft
Enchantment,—she too felt an awe, a dread,
When great Arbaces spoke; persuasion hung
Around his lips and lured her spell-bound on.
She longed to view the temple where were held
Those mystic rites which Isis still required;
Nor feared, in her own purity secure,
Within the walls to enter and alone
To seek her priest,—nor knew his fell intent.—
But virtue was protected by the Fates
Which shook the altar with avenging hand,
And terror saved where mercy was not heard.

And where was Glaucus? truant to his love?
Ah! no—he was denied,—suspicion lurked

Within the breast of her who was his all,
Traduced by treachery monstrous—her heart
Wept for him—she feared he was not worthy;
But pride taught her a sad lesson:—within
Her room she sat,—none could divine the cause.
Till Nydia—Flora's child—with nature's sweets
Pleaded for Glaucus, nor did plead in vain:
The rose—it bore a message from her love;—
He sued—he gained admittance and he knelt
To her who was the essence of his thoughts;
And soon she knew—for quickly comes such knowledge—
Her Glaucus could not, would not, use deceit.

Alas! for Nydia—doomed to sorrow—child
In years—in all—save in affection deep—
Has thy young heart sent forth its early bloom
To wither in neglect and droop and die,
Without one ray to cheer its lonely sweets?—
So have I seen, beneath the woodland shade,
A twining wild flower raise its drooping head,
And strive to grasp the tenant of the glade;
But 'mid the gloom the sun was never seen
To shed a beam, and the frail humble plant
Pined in its solitude, and strove in vain
To raise its prostrate stem—and when the storm
Swept on and shook the lofty oak, the proud

Unbending pine, this creeping fragile flower,
Torn up and riven, was for ever lost:
None missed its lonely beauty, its pale hue;
It never basked in sunshine, never felt
The glow which dwelt around and lighted up
Its sister flow'rets,—theirs a happier lot.

And would'st thou, haughty Fulvia, gain the love
Ione had inspired?—Oh! try not art
And potent spell—there danger may be found.
Think of thy father's house, thou beauteous girl,
Yet vain as beautiful—think—wilt thou bring
Dishonour to thy hearth, and shame thy name
And break thy father's heart, by wiles like these?
Forbid it, Fulvia—trust not the fell power,
Which sorcerers use to bind and chain the mind,
For Glaucus never will thy empire own;
He lives but for Ione—all his hope,
His being is bound up with hers—and day
And night pass all unknown, unregistered,
If not with her who marks his destiny.

And must the gath'ring storm burst o'er their heads,
In flame sulphureous—the burning soil
Heave 'neath their steps and blackest darkness reign,
While showers of ashes scorch th' affrighted crowd?

Ah! none can tell the anguish of that night—
The sickness of despair—the rending cries
That desolation woke;—the youngest born,
The brute creation, all partook of fear.
On, onward, still they fly,—and Nydia too
Is in their train,—they reach the wish'd for shore,
They hail a barque, and now are on the sea.

Farewell, Pompeii! See the lurid sky,
The burning lava, like a sheet of fire,
Spreads o'er thy plains; and now a cloud more dense
Has burst o'er thy devoted head.—Farewell!

Ione, Glaucus, Nydia, sail, sail on
The bright, bright sea—yet one shall never land!
With noiseless step blind Nydia gains the place
Where slept unconscious Glaucus. On his brow
She prints a burning kiss, breathes a fond prayer;
And ere her suff'ring broke the sufferer's heart
The waves had wrapt her in eternal sleep.
Far better thus to die—Farewell, farewell!

CEASE TO WEEP.

I

Life is at best a thorny path,
Then let us pluck the flowers,
And cease to weep
For those who sleep,
Embalm'd in Mem'ry's bowers.

II

Their days though few, yet happier far,
Than those who loiter here;
They sweetly rest
On nature's breast,
Escap'd each grief and fear.

III

The storm which shakes the lofty oak
Will rend the lily too—
Sport of the skies,
Low, low it lies,
Where once its beauty grew.

IV

We ne'er shall see them droop and fade,
Earth's youngest, loveliest flowers,—
Then cease to weep
For those who sleep,
Embalm'd in Mem'ry's bowers.

THE WREATH.

I

O! bring me flow'rs, and I will wreathe
A chaplet for thy hair,
And as I twine each bud't will breathe
Some emblem of my fair.

II

The primrose shall proclaim thy birth,
So fairly pale and weak,
Just peeping from its parent earth,
A type of thy young cheek.

III

I'll hie me to the shade where grows
The modest violet flow'r,
Like thy sweet eyes its beauty glows,
Impearl'd with morning show'r.

IV

And as I gaze, methinks thy veins
Have drank cerulean blue,
And lingering still those tender stains
Enchant the gazer's view.

V

The lily too I there can see,—
Her virgin white is thine,—
So young and fair, and frail, like thee,
I'll offer at thy shrine.

VI

The rose I've gather'd from the thorn,
Her maiden blush I'll bear—
To where the lily will not scorn,
A place with thee to share.

VII

And o'er my lov'd one kisses fling,
And bid her blush appear;
Yet ah! forbear to leave a sting,
Or wake the slumb'ring tear.

VIII

That fount will gush ere spring is gone,
Oh! could I check its flow;
Its source is where the flow'rs are born,
And where the violets blow.

IX

How clear those rills in childhood's hour
Run rippling in the sun,
Ere passion's storms begin to low'r,
Ere life is half begun.

X

Soon shall they start from caverns deep
A flood—how wildly strong—
Where purest gems are known to sleep,
Where echo holds her song.

XI

Ah! there shall passion's sting be found—
And bitter fruits be there,
And weeping cypress all around
No bud of promise bear.

XII

And should you seek to find that spring,
The secret I'll impart,—
The fount where love and grief will cling,—
That fount is Woman's Heart.

LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING MY DAUGHTER SING MRS. NORTON'S “THERE IS NO TRACE OF THEE AROUND.”

I

I may not hear those sounds, my child,
They waken thoughts of other days;
And my sad breast with yearnings wild
Heaves with an agony untuned to softer lays.

II

Sing me a lighter, gladsome air,
And I will bid the smile appear—
Will chase away this gloomy care,
Which eats into my breast and makes a refuge there.

III

Ah! now the struggle is complete,
The surface shows no warfare now—
Deep in my heart the waters meet,
No eye may read the weary toil upon my brow.

IV

My darling child—my faithful friend,
I still am blest—possessing thee—
And though the glass, which memories lend,
Is dimn'd, alas! with tears—there is a hope for me.

A LAMENT FOR PERSIA.

Mourn, Persia, mourn! thy charms decay;
Proud Ispahan, the seat of power,
Is shorn by time's relentless sway
Of her rich zones and golden dower,
Which shone around her stately domes,—
That ancient gem of empire, and her sovereigns' homes.

Thy silver lakes, no longer clear,
Are wrapt in veils of stagnant slime,
And arbours to the traveller dear,
Where the soft shade in day's decline
Had rested—where the fountain bright
Before the King of Kings cast all its radiant light—

Now wastes its waters to the hooting owl;—
No stately matron hies her to the bower,
Haunted of yore by beauty, where the bowl
Was wreathed by Houris with the bulbul's flower;
There lurks the reptile and the beast of prey,
Alas! no love-lit eyes there wait the parting day!

Gay Sheeraz flushed with ruby-coloured wine—
A warmer concubine with roses crowned—
Won the rich favour of thy kingly line;
But from that time the troubled Fates have frowned,
Confusion dire spread o'er th' ensanguin'd land,
And war and purple blood slaked all thy crimson'd strand!

Then woke no more the jocund sounds of mirth,
The tyrant Fear the cheek of beauty paled,
And Mothers' tears bedewed the trampled earth,
While o'er the plains full many a child bewailed
And sought its sire, beneath a scorching sun,—
And wan Despair shrieked as she viewed the desolation done!

Yet these were the Sun's Children—this the land,
He loved to look on—where the laughing flowers
Gaz'd on the skies—a bright enamoured band—
And breathed their odours to the passing hours,
Blush'd o'er the havoc which o'ertook thy crimes,
And ling'ring, drooped and died around thy prostrate shrines!

OH! BRING MY LUTE.

LINES WRITTEN ON RECOVERING FROM SEVERE ILLNESS.

I

Oh! bring my lute, and I will wake
A solitary strain;
'Twill serve to cheer affliction's hour,
And I will yield me to its power,
Nor think again of pain.

II

Companion of my wayward fate,
I may not part with thee,
Till I am laid in lowly rest,
The mossy turf above my breast,—
My shade—the cypress tree.

III

There, there, shall this wild throbbing heart
Forget the power to beat;
There injury shall cease to wound,
Nor sorrow—sickness—aught be found,
Where purest spirits meet—

IV

Meet, 'neath a warmer, fairer sky,
All—all—we loved on earth;
Nor fear again the Stygian lake,
Nor all the thousand ills which shake
Forms of a meaner birth.

V

Then bring my lute—Oh! quickly bring,
And bid us not to part;
Those mute, neglected, shattered strings
Shall sound once more while memory clings,
While love shall warm my heart.

STANZAS TO ---.

“There is a name upon the stone.
Alas! and can it be the same?—
The young, the lovely, and the loved!
It is too soon to bear thy name.”—
L.E.L.

I

I may no more,—my bitter grief bewailing,—
Ask from one dear heart sympathy with mine;
Dim shades of joy before night's darkness paling,
And hopes—my lost one—all are quenched with thine.

II

Memory alone, sad nurse of silent sorrow,
No future brings to calm its dark despair;
Mine is the sting—no healing balm to-morrow
Sheds o'er the breathing agony of prayer.

III

Fled is each day-dream which could yield me pleasure,
Gone are the sweet flowers—swept by time's rude blast;
Earth—the vast sepulchre of every treasure—
Yawns—Oh! my God! as weary of the past.

TO THE MEMORY OF MALIBRAN.

I

Thy melody has ceased to charm,
A nation mourns for thee.
Loved songstress! whither art thou fled?
Too lately known,—too early dead,—
Thy notes have shed a light around thy lowly head.

II

What though, alas! no length of days
May wait a fame like thine;
Yet will the memory of thy years
Be steeped in many a Briton's tears,
A watchword and a spell amid thy bold compeers.

DECEMBER.

I

Farewell to thee, December!—thou art bearing on thy blast
The fleeting moments of the year—how very near the last;
Eldest of many brethren thou, soon, soon must meet thy doom,
Yet none seem mourning for thee now, thus hastening to thy tomb.

II

The yule log blazeth brightly, and the young are hopeful—glad,
They hail the merry Christmas hearth, with holly branches clad;
The games they loved are acted o'er, and still they dream anew
Of other years futurity for them may bring to view.

III

Theirs is the hour of happiness, when hope first taketh wing,
And soars aloft on eagle's flight—still, still unwavering;
Their bows are all unbroken,—Grief's finger hath not not pressed
Upon their hearts, with icy chill, and woke their dreamless rest.

IV

Thou bringest man a deeper joy—he sees around his board
The fair young olive branches bloom, with buds of beauty stored;
He looketh for the coming year, maturer visions rise
Before the mirror expectation brings the worldly wise.

V

Age vieweth thee more calmly, and thy moments they pass by,
Perhaps but lightly noticed by dull pain's lack-lustre eye;
The chain which bound their spirits here is still more loosely cast
Around the wintry hours which draw them nearer to their last.

VI

The poet hath a different gaze—a tear he gives to thee;
Thy waning phantom hath its charms, though mournful they may be;
Thy ghostlike form still conjures up some thought, some dear delight,
And marks thy latest moments with a flash of torchlike light.

VII

I too have had some hours with thee, thou pale and wasted year!—
Hours od'rous with summer-flowers, though gem'd by mem'ry's tear;
Have caught at times the poet's lyre, have knelt before his shrine,
Alas! it own'd no stranger's touch—the tear alone was mine.

VIII

Farewell, farewell December!—ere perhaps another year
The sun may gild with ev'ning rays my cold and silent bier;
This throbbing heart may be at rest, its fever'd pulses o'er,
And thou and I forgotten be, where time exists no more.

TO THE GILLY-FLOWER.

I

Come, lonely, melancholy flow'r,
Who lov'st with me the silent hour,—
Come shed abroad, when stars are high,
Thy faint perfume, thine od'rous sigh.

II

Yet why should all thy beauties shun
The warm embraces of the sun,
And only to pale Cynthia's ray
Reveal those sweets denied to day?

III

Ah! 'tis the shade thy spirit seeks,
And of sweet things thy spirit speaks;
With love and death thy vigils are,
Thy breathings of the ev'ning star.

IV

Thus 'tis with many a Child of Song—
When stung by insult and by wrong;
They fear another pang to bear,
And seek the shade and shelter there.

SONNET.

[Oh no!—I will not give my heart to thee]

Oh no!—I will not give my heart to thee,
Cold, mocking world!—I still would wish to be
Apart from thy caress; for thou canst smile
And weave thy meshes fraught with treach'rous guile,
Luring us to destruction;—thou hast power
To blight the freshness of the springtide flower,
To point the spear and pierce the trusting breast,
To rob the down-press'd pillow of its rest,
Snatching the laurel from the brow of fame,
The poet's dream dispel—the hope, the name,
Years of stern toil have won.—The faith, the love
Which kindred souls may feel all else above,
To thee is as a toy. Communion sweet!
Alas! alas! with thee, friendship and love ne'er meet.

TO THE SNOWDROP.

I

Flower of the Snow!—we hail thy birth,
Though cold and pale may be thy shrine,
A promise from all bounteous earth
To glad our northern clime.

II

Thou com'st to soothe us, star-like flower!
To check our dark despair;
And in the dim and wintry hour
To whisper God is there.

III

Sweet gem!—how like a faithful friend
Dost cheer our lonely hearth,
And, mid the world's unkindness, lend
Thy light around our path.

BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL SEA.

I

Bright and beautiful sea! I love thee well—
In sunshine, oh bear me away;
On thy bosom I'll ride, when the salt waves swell
'Neath the light of the moon's pale ray.

II

Still softly, oh! softly cradle my head,
And my sleep shall be sweet with thee,
For the planets keep watch o'er the dreamer's bed
On the bright and beautiful sea.

III

Earth is not thine, with her selfish decrees,
With her toils and her fading flow'rs;—
But the blue sky above—the sun—and the breeze,
And the bright and the laughing hours.

IV

Bright and beautiful sea! Oh! let me glide,
Forgetting the sorrows of earth—
For glad is the music of thy sparkling tide,
Thou sea, in thy billowy mirth!

V

Bright and beautiful sea! I love thee well—
In sunshine, oh bear me away;
On thy bosom I'll ride, when the salt waves swell
'Neath the light of the moon's pale ray.

WRITTEN ON SEEING THE QUEEN PASS THROUGH THE ROYAL GALLERY TO THE HOUSE OF LORDS,

December 23rd, 1837.

I

I saw her mid the glittering throng! upon her brow there shone
Gems only such as queens may wear upon the stately throne;
Yet she heeded not their brightness—Alas! stern thought had pressed
Upon her soul, and made her feel that rulers have no rest.

II

So young—to find youth's freshness—bloom—thus fading from thy heart,
The sunshine and the fairy hours mid actual toils depart,—
To grow so soon inured to know thou mayst not hope nor fear,
That love is only for the herd, not for the royal ear:

III

That thou art but an idol for the worship of the crowd,—
A beacon, whence a smile or frown may cheer or quail the proud;
That thou art unapproachable—none, none to share thy woe:
Oh! who would envy crownēd heads, or seek their path to know.

IV

I weep for thee, Victoria—I weep thy lonely state—
Alas! thy life has many thorns, no flow'rs thy crown may mate;
Alone, amid a courtly crowd, no hand may greet thine own,
Thou fair star shining in the west—thou queen upon thy throne.

ON SLEEP.

“Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their developement have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy.”—
Byron.

I

Shall I meet thee, gentle shade,
When from earth I fade away?
Weary on my pillow laid,
Dost thou hear the poet's lay?

II

Haunting thoughts and white-robed dreams
Guide me with prophetic pow'r—
Through my lattice morning streams,
Vanished is the Ideal hour.

III

Does the soul 'neath night's dark shroud
Roam amid the starry skies,
Riding on a drifting cloud,
Panting after Paradise?

IV

Does it seek communion sweet
With the purer world above,
Where the angel spirits meet
In Elysian bow'rs of love?

V

Or does earth still hold a part,
Claim one soft regret or tear;
Love keep ward above the heart,
Yet find no bright Eden here?

VI

Ah! in sleep how oft our wing
Droops before some idol's shrine;
Like the moth, we flutter—cling—
Our worship—altar—not divine.

VII

Oft we start from darker dreams
With a shriek of fell despair—
There a lurid blackness gleams,
And the night-wind's groan is there.

VIII

Death appals our sick'ning sight
As he flits across the scene,
While a pale sepulchral light
Dimly marks where he has been.

IX

There! oh! there do moans of woe,
There do fears and horrors rise;
Dark as Acheron below
Are those visions to our eyes.

X

Shade beloved, I turn to thee,
Thine the sigh and thine the tear;
Earth has only dreams for me—
Cease they in the silent bier?

STONEHENGE.

I

On Sarum's plains I trod,
Where many a Druid sleeps,
Upreared upon the sod,
The wind their altar sweeps.

II

There ghosts for ever glide,
Unseen by mortal eye,
Watching time's silent tide,
The wingēd moments fly.

III

Hundreds of years have pass'd,
Hundreds may pass away,
Their monuments shall last,
Defying dull decay.

IV

Circles are spread around,
And mossy tombs are there;
Alas! beneath the ground
Death doth his court prepare.

V

In vain would frailty flee
That drear and dread abode,
Gone forth is the decree
Of an Almighty God.

VI

Dust unto dust—yet pause—
Must all—must all—decay,—
Bow to stern nature's laws,
And mingle with her clay?

VII

Yes, all! the beautiful—
The poet and his lute—
The sepulchres are full,
The worshippers are mute.

THE FUTURE.

The future—ah! why do we anxiously pine
To gaze o'er that veilēd and shadowy line,
Where the sunshine—the hope—and the promise is found,
'Tis a beacon still leading us on—look around,
Is it here?—Is it here?

Oh no—we must pass through this valley of tears,
O'er the tide which has brought us our days and our years,
And gain that bright fount where the amaranth blows,
Where the river runs purple with hues of the rose.
It is there!—It is there!

DAVID'S LAMENTATION OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN.

[_]

[Samuel, chap. i. 18th to the 27th verse.]

I

Hark!—heard ye not that loud lament?
Lo! Saul and all his sons are slain;
The mighty fallen—wide o'er the plain
The wail of desolation's sent,
And David mourns o'er Israel's king:
Oh! Jonathan is dead!—
Thy might and beauty fled!—
Oh! tell it not in Gath—ye fields, no off'ring bring.—
Daughters of proud Philistia's host,
Rejoice not o'er the prostrate form;
Nor boasting nor vain triumph borne,
Nor dew upon the mount be lost—
The early nor the latter rain;
For there—oh! there—
Unheard the prayer
Arose—the mighty shield fell thund'ring o'er the plain.

II

Oh! ye were lovely in your life;
E'en death could not divide his prey—
Together on life's mazy way
Ye trod—together bore the battle's strife;
And drew the bow, and bared the sword—
Swifter than eagle's wing—
Strong as the forest king—
Let Israel's daughters weep with loud lament their lord;
Who clad them in their bright array,
And flung around their forms of love
The jewelled gem, all cost above.—
How fell the mighty on that day
Amid the battle's fearful ire!
Slain—slain—on high
Uprose the cry—
O Jonathan—no more shall wake to weep his prostrate sire!

III

And David is distressed for thee—
For thee, oh more than brother dear,
And mourns thee with a brother's tear:
How pleasant hast thou been to me!

Ah! where is Israel's chosen king?—
Lo! Jonathan is dead—
His might and beauty fled—
Oh! tell it not in Gath—ye fields, no off'ring bring!
More wonderful to me thy love
Than e'er fond woman's heart could know;
And death has passed and laid thee low—
Thee—whose affections round me wove,
Passing all earthly love beside—
The mighty—slain—
Far o'er the plain
Have perished—and their weapons lie all in the crimson tide.

LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE PAINTED ON AN INDIAN TABLE.

I

Oh! mark ye yon temple of azure and gold,
Where the pearly tints linger 'neath fillagree fold;
'Tis the palace of pleasure, ah! list to the song
Which floats on the wings of the west wind along.

II

The bulbul speeds on in his beauty and power,
He joys in the twilight—the dew—and the flower.
What to him is the sunshine, its splendour and pride,
When the fair rose is waiting his notes at her side?

III

There are forms on the terrace, and sounds of a lute,
And hushed is each whisper—the wind god is mute:
One sweet voice is waking the silence profound,
There is magic in music—we bow to its sound.

THE SLAVE'S SONG.

You bid me smile one joyous smile—
You think I do not weep;
My fatherland—mine own sweet isle—
Where waves do proudly sweep.

'Tis true you bought me—lavish still
On me your love, your gold.
Alas! my heart—my rebel will,
May not, may not be sold.

You bid me wake the lute and sing—
In thought I wildly roam,
And dream of those loved forms who cling
Around mine island home.

THE SLAVE'S SONG ANSWERED.

Ah! wherefore weep thy fatherland,
It boasts no home like mine;
No pearls are found upon its strand,
No buds of beauty shine.

Here golden treasures heaped around,
On every side appear;
Say, are they not a charm still found,
A balm for Leila's tear.

Do I not love thee?—list thy song
When others turn aside?—
Amid the hareem's beauteous throng
I seek thee as my bride.

Then stay those tears, my rose of love—
My Leila, do not weep.
Without thee what were heav'n above?
A joyless—dreamless sleep.

DESTINY.

[_]

A FREE TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF A. FONTANEY.

I

'Twas as a flow'r in nature's earliest spring
The mem'ry of that night. The sun may fling
His burning beams athwart the gay parterre—
The dust oppress the brightest gem—the fair
Young rose may fade, shedding its purple light
To the rude wind—ah! mem'ry has no blight.

II

The twilight found us musing on the time
When childhood should be o'er, and life's gay prime
Smiling might greet us with the rosy hours—
That future, pregnant fancy wreathes and dow'rs—
Hid by the curtains from each curious eye
We stood, scarce parted by a mutual sigh.

III

The light breeze mingled our warm breath—our hair—
To speak our tongues refused—we did not dare
To wake the voice of passion—but on high
Our eyes did wander o'er the starry sky—
Those heavenly lamps. Our destiny—our doom
That hour was sealed—how dark its after gloom.

SONNET.

[Time's chariot-wheels delay not—still he keeps]

“Time, with his scythe addrest,
Does mow the flow'ring herbs and goodly things,
And all their glory to the ground down flings,
Where they do wither, and are foully marred.”—
Spencer.

Time's chariot-wheels delay not—still he keeps
His destined course over the world's proud arch,
Hewing down human hearts like tender flow'rs
In Spring's first blush, ere yet they know decay.
His stealthy breath freezes the purple blood
And bows the haughty crest of lordly man;
Wrenches the well strung sinews—racks with pains,
And tortures the dull soul with childish fears.
Exhausted nature droops, yet lingering clings
To frail humanity, while gasp by gasp
The feeble life exhales—each quiv'ring pulse
Tells of the fearful warfare time and death
Hold o'er their victim—soon the conflict ends—
And death around the clay corruption's myriads sends.

TO MY DAUGHTER'S BIRD.

I

Sing on, sweet bird. Ah! wherefore fear;
There are no foes around,
Thy little note to all is dear,
A spell by which we're bound.

II

Still hour by hour, and day by day,
Untiring thou dost sing,
Thy song of praise—a soft sweet lay—
Thy grateful offering.

III

Ah! better far thy fate than mine,
Imprison'd though thou art,
Thy mistress' voice, the bright sunshine,
Sheds gladness o'er thy heart.

IV

Then sing, sweet bird, and to me bring
One joyous trustful hour,
And may the radiance of thy wing
Wave o'er my lonely bow'r.

GUIDO'S MAGDALENE.

I

She sat her down—the Magdalene—beneath the spreading trees,
While o'er her fair and silken hair swept many a lightsome breeze;
Before her gleams the holy cross—Ah! 'tis her solace now,
For lonely thoughts beam heavily upon her beauteous brow.

II

And there are books—“the Book of Life,”—within its sacred page
The young, the frail may read and glean some balm for helpless age.
Thy pardon thou mayst seek and find, poor weary wand'rer—thou;
While holy angels stoop to bless the record of thy vow.

III

Ah!—why dost fling thy soft white hand upon that eyeless skull?
The soul has fled its palace now, and left it empty—dull
Sad memories cling around it,—alas! thou too shalt be
All that our hearts would quail to hear, our cheeks turn pale to see.

IV

Where, where are all thy flat'rers now, in this thy great distress,
They, who once dwelt upon thy charms, in life's young happiness?
The flow'rs have ceas'd to bloom for thee, the birds forgot to sing,—
The golden draught has left enough of bitterness to sting.

V

Yet mid thy sorrows, lift thine eyes—the Holy One above
Yearns o'er thee with a parent's heart, and with a Saviour's love;
He sees thy penitence and tears, and marks thee for His own;
Thou,—wand'rer, hast a home above,—a refuge near His throne.

LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

I

Island of beauty—farewell! I am leaving
Thy shores, for a scene full of trouble and pain;
Unbidden, the tears from their fountains are stealing;
Shall I ever retrace thy sweet mountains again?

II

Perchance ere another bright summer is over,
A pall o'er my world-weary heart may be flung,
And the harp which has thrill'd with the song of the rover,
The harp which I love, be for ever unstrung.

III

Island of beauty, farewell!—Ah! how often
Thy mem'ry—thy brightness—will gleam through my tears;
Nature in wildness, the stern heart can soften;—
Thou hast soothed me in sorrow after long years.

IV

Island of beauty, farewell! and for ever,—
The years are fast fleeting, the loved ones are gone;
The freshness of feeling returns it? Ah! never,—
The fields may be green,—but the heart is alone.

ELEGY TO L. E. L.

I

Scarce had the wind, which rocked thine ocean bed,
Borne thee, oh! Landon, to a far-off strand:
Ere tears are falling o'er the minstrel dead,
And sounds of woe are wafted o'er the land.

II

Queen of the tuneful lyre!—those tears are thine—
Long will thy fatherland thy mem'ry keep;
The laurel which thy minstrel lute did twine,
Wreathed with the cypress, o'er thy tomb will weep.

III

Ah! 'tis thy legacy—thou ne'er mayst wake
Its silvery strings to charm the list'ning throng;
Hushed is the heart which could such music make,
Shivered the chords, and silent is the song.

IV

Thou wast too full of passion—and the shell,
Worn by the spirit, all too frail and weak;
The parting hour was as thy funeral knell,
Thou could'st not bear another home to seek.

V

To leave thy hearthstone, and thine early friends;
To burst the bonds which nature flings around
Sweet friendship's footsteps, and to life still lends
A hallowing charm, wherewith our hearts are bound.

VI

Alas! to lose thee thus! to hear no more
Th' enchanting echo of thine haunting song;
To know that, resting on a foreign shore,
To stranger hands thine obsequies belong.

VII

Ah! who will honour thine abandoned urn!
Will one fond hand strew roses o'er thy bier?
In vain, bright flowers await thy loved return;
In vain, we weep for one, alas! so dear.

VII

Bright is the sun, with rays of burning light,
The stars with silver radiance gild the sky;
Still, as of yore, the silent queen of night
Sheds a pale lustre from her throne on high.

IX

All—all endure, but where is now our boast?
The poet of all hearts—our pride is dead;
Wake—wake, sweet music o'er that far off coast;
Fling—fling sweet garlands o'er her lowly head.

TO SPRING.

I

I may not greet thee, smiling Spring,
Thou art too joyous,—bright;
Forgotten is my lute's soft tone,
The sunshine from my heart is flown.

II

Thy lap is strown with laughing flow'rs,
All nature hails thy birth,
Yet ah! thou bear'st not on thy wing
The raptures of life's early spring.

III

Thy birds are singing in the trees
A song of mirth and love;
I only seek a silent cave,
I weep above a loved one's grave.

IV

Ah! 'tis the lot of hearts like mine
To suffer and to die;
I may not share thy gladness—bloom,—
Thou canst not cheer my changeless doom.

PARAPHRASE.

“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.”—
Ecclesiastes, ch. xii. ver. 1—6.

Remember, oh! my child, thy God,
Ere all the spring of life is o'er;
And evil days
And years draw nigh,
When pleasure will no longer dawn,
And the faint spirit scarce illume thine eye:—
While the young sunbeams gild the morn,
And the pale moon its high watch keeps,
And stars shine out when tempest sleeps,
Remember, oh! my child, thy God—
Ere that day comes
When strength shall fail,
And thy scar'd heart like bird on wing,
Shall tremble,—and thy cold cheek pale,
And those lov'd eyes be dim—that voice refuse to sing.
Then fear shall scare thee, and desire shall fail;
The almond tree shall flourish on that day,—
The grasshopper a burden prove—
The grave, ah! then thy home shall be,

And mourners weep and sore lament for thee—
Ere loosed be the silver cord,
Or golden bowl all shiver'd lie—
Or by the fountain murmuring nigh
The broken pitcher shall be found,
Strown o'er the ground—
And the frail wheel refuse
From the deep cistern sparkling draughts to bring—
Ere all is gone of life's bright sunlit spring,
Remember, oh! my child, thy God.

SONG.

[List to my song in the lonely hour]

List to my song in the lonely hour,
When the moon shines with a spell and pow'r;
List to my prayer, when the haunted glen
Is hushed in silence—Ah! list to me then!

Ah! 'tis the time when the bulbul sings
To his sweet rose, while he folds his wings;
And 'tis the time when my prayer shall be—
List, my belovēd—Ah! listen to me!

In the lonely hour my song shall tell
All the deep love in my bosom's cell;
And my lute's strains shall reveal to thee
My passionate prayer—Ah! listen to me!

Then list to me in the lonely hour,
When the moon shines with a spell and pow'r;
List to my prayer, when the haunted glen
Is shrouded and still—Ah! list to me then!

THE SILENT LUTE.

I

They bid me string my silent lute
And strike some chords of mirth;
As if my breast no sorrow knew,
At will the strains had birth.
Alas! its music wakes but tears,
Memorials of my by-gone years.

II

I gaze upon the earth beneath,
Hope bids me gaze on high;
And still her light she does bequeath
My aching heart and eye.
Oh! may her shadow cheer my breast,
And wrap me in eternal rest.

III

Though death's drear caves have drank my tears,
Life's tree puts forth its bloom
Around the autumn of my years,
The rose above the tomb;
Yet the foot and the song alike are mute,—
How then should I string my broken lute?

TO JULIET.

“O blessed, blessed night.
All this is but a dream I hear and see;
Too flattering sweet to be substantial.”—
Shakespeare.

I.

Ah! why dost gaze with eyes of melting light
On yon cold moon—some moments' space so bright?
Dost thou deplore that am'rous clouds should veil
Her chastened beams, and dim her lustre pale,
Seeking this earth? or is it that thy breast
Some thought oppresses with a sad unrest—
Some demon-phantom haunting fancy flings
Across thy weary path which poisons as it clings?

II.

No more black night Cimerean empire holds—
Her queen appears—the gathering cloud unfolds.
Fair maiden, pause, and look again on high;
The silvery beacon floats along the sky,
And all is beauty, majesty, and peace.
Hushed be thy soul, the voice of passion cease;
No longer heed dire omens' mystic pow'r,
The gloomy night, the dim uncertain hour.
Some pleasure waits thee with Aurora's light;
Those tears may not be shed, tinging thy cheeks with blight.

TO THE NEW YEAR.

Welcome! should I welcome thee,
Year new born from time's deep stream;
Hast thou unalloyed for me
Blessings like my early dream?

Is thy sun as radiant—bright,
As it shone in childhood's time?
Have thy stars that mystic light?
Speak they to this heart of mine

As they did in days of yore?—
Where are now the blissful hours,
Friendship's early bosom store,
Youth enwreaths, and haunts and dow'rs?

All is changed with thee—with me;
Sadder is thine aspect now:
Darkly twines the cypress tree
Round my weary heart and brow.

Gone the light of other years,
Stars keep watch above the dead;
Flowers, ah! ye are gem'd by tears,
My girlhood's dream for ever fled.

LINES SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY MY DAUGHTER ON LEAVING HER SCHOOL GARDEN AT---

I

Adieu! ye flowers—ye happy hours,
Where childhood basked in sunny bow'rs;
Ye still will bloom—but not for me
Thine odours load the breeze;
The sun's bright rays will shine on ye,
And greenness clothe the trees.
Alas! that childhood thus should pass,
As shadows o'er a polished glass.

II

And must I leave the gems I love?
Ah! who will toil and watch above
My garden's store—my garden's pride?
There weeds at will may grow;
The primrose and the daisy pied
Will now unheeded blow.
For never more my hand may twine
The buds and flow'rs which once were mine.

III

Farewell! bright spot! in mem'ry's eye
Ye long will dwell; and if a sigh
Should sometimes start, 'twill be to think
How happy and how blest
My spring-tide hours—life's earliest link,—
Which flung o'er all a zest;
And made my garden seem to be
A paradise of rest to me.

THAT MOCKING LIP.

“And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep,
'Tis that our nature cannot always bring
Itself to apathy.”—
Byron.

I

That mocking lip—those sparkling words,
But hide the inward smart;
As cypress twines around the chords
Which vibrate o'er the heart.

II

How oft our hidden agony
Is shrouded by a jest!
The world within would fain belie
Itself with seeming rest.

III

The flushing cheek—the kindling eye—
Has misery beneath;
A vein of bitterness may lie
Above the shades of death.

IV

Oh! heed not then the loudest laugh,
There—lurks the deepest woe;
The wreathed cup we seek to quaff
Is dash'd with Marah's flow.

“HEARTS-EASE.”

ANSWER TO A CHARADE.

I

How oft are wishes vain! the things we prize,
If once attained are worthless in our eyes;
No matter what—each bauble we pursue,
When gained is left for what is rare and new.

II

Alas! 'tis thus with thee, fair maid, I ween;
Thy first a heart thou wouldst subdue as queen,
Not dreaming 'tis of earth—and earthly things
At best are fleeting—time doth give them wings.

III

Thy second, ease. Ah! think'st thou to obtain
That boon below, where all our lot is pain—
Where from the cradle to the lonely bier,
Pain is our birth-right—all we win a tear?

IV

Thy whole the hearts'-ease flow'r—perchance 'twas given
To raise our drooping thoughts from earth to heaven;
To wean the wand'rer from this drear abode,
And point from nature up to nature's God.

SONG.

“WHEN DARKNESS SHROUDS.”

When darkness shrouds the garish day,
And leaves with dews are weeping,
I love to stray
With thee away,
Far—far away.

And watch the world of waters glide,
And mark the moonbeams sleeping;
All on the tide,
Where we will ride,
Far—far away.

And seek another sunnier land,
Where love is bright and holy;
And waiting stand,
An Angel band,
Far—far away.

There—there our careworn hearts shall dwell,
No chains our spirits fetter:
Oh! none can tell,
What raptures swell,
Far—far away.

Then come, mine own dear love, with me,
Our barque is yonder waiting;
Far o'er the sea
Wilt ride with me,
Far—far away?

LINES ADDRESSED TO --- ON ATTAINING TWENTY-ONE YEARS OF AGE.

I

You ask me, my ---, some tones from my lyre,
And though fled is the muse, and faded the fire,
I'll fan the lone embers and kneel at the shrine
Which welcomed the day-dawn by mem'ry as thine.

II

Love still has watched o'er thee—thy mother's—more pure
Than the cold world may offer thy path to allure;
It will follow thee ever—mid sickness—decay;
When life's sunshine is darkened—a light on thy way.

III

Oh! cherish it ever—be honour thy guide;
Religion—a handmaid to wait at thy side;
When doubt shall assail thee—oh! list to the voice
Which conscience still whispers and hallows thy choice.

IV

Let folly not tempt thee with gaud and with snare:
'Tis a Syren—how treach'rous! yet outwardly fair;—
But wisdom's path choose, wherein pleasures abound,
While flow'rs of bright beauty enamel the ground.

V

Has nature around you a kindred chain flung?
'Tis a refuge—a safeguard—where oft thou hast clung.
Oh! keep it unsevered by coldness and strife—
Thy brothers—thy sisters—are blessings for life.

VI

Bear with me awhile—Ah! think not that now
Dissolved is thy duty, or cancelled thy vow—
'Tis ever abiding—midst night's darkest gloom,
A halo—a brightness in life's latest noon.

VII

Be thy days blessed for ever—an unbroken stream,
Nor ruffled by passion, nor pride's lofty dream;
A while flowing onward to join its pure source,
Nought causing thee sorrow—nought waking remorse.

SONG.

[List! to old Ocean's voice, oh list]

I

List! to old Ocean's voice, oh list,
Proudly he bounds along,
Flinging on high a briny mist,—
List! listen to his song.

II

“I come from many a far-off coast,
From where the diamonds shine;
From golden sands, the trav'lers' boast,
And em'ralds all are mine.

III

“I rock the pearls within their shells,
I haunt the coral groves;
I watch the Nereides weave their spells,
And guard their bright alcoves.

IV

“I bear upon my changeful breast
Full many a gallant sail;
I hush the seaman to his rest
When night-winds loudly wail.

V

“I wait around fair Albion's Isle,
And keep her from her foes;
And guard her fleet from rocks the while
The sterner Wind-God blows.

VI

“The loving heart—the aching head
Are pillowed on the sea,
And none may dare disturb the dead
Who ride and sleep with me.

VII

“Their winding-sheet—a thousand waves,
A world of waters hide
From man their bright untrodden graves
Beneath th' o'erwhelming tide.”

VIII

Then listen, Britons, to his voice!
Proudly he bounds along,
While sunbeams mid his waves rejoice—
List! listen to his song.

ACROSTIC.

Must all thine eloquence persuasive fail
Each heart to soften—o'er each sin prevail?
Love from thy tongue has caught a purer flame,
Vice still more hateful wears a blacker name.
In thy pure breast—a casket richly fraught—
Lie gems which sparkle with immortal thought;
Lo! round thy brow descending angels twine
Each early flower, their glories only thine.

ACROSTIC.

Earth is not thine eternal rest, fair flower;
Life's rosy garland blooms in Heav'n's own bower.
In the sweet breathings of the jocund spring,
Zephyrus may court thee with his pērfum'd wing;
Alas! how soon life fades! and flowers lie withering.

TO THE BIRD OF PARADISE.

I

Sweet bird of beauty! whence thy flight,
Oh! say—do climes of orient light
Gladden thine Iris wings?
Art thou from the haunts of the Houris fair,
Laden with hope as a spirit of air,
When a message from Heaven it brings?

II

Alas! this world is no place for thee,
Man has a cage, and a snare for the free—
And thy wing it may find no rest.
Thy once loved home is a lonely waste,
And the flowers which proffer'd their dews to thy taste,
Earth has folded them all on her breast.

III

Then why linger here, bright bird of the skies?
Go bathe thy glad wings where the rivers arise,
Abounding with bliss for ever.
O'er the far off mountains—thy home is there,
Where the eye may not reach—the tongue declare,
And where death never enters—never.

IV

I will gaze on thy flight—I will track thy way—
My soul mounting up from this prison of clay,
Search out for thy beauty above.
With thee my rest and my treasure shall be,
When the spirit may spurn all controul, and be free
As the light o'er the altar of love.

OH! CEASE THOSE BELLS.

I

Oh! cease those bells their jocund sound,
To me they are discordant now;
It cheer'd me once to hear their bound
Float, pealing o'er the crowd below.

II

But times are changed—and hark! they wake
Thoughts, which in mercy sometimes sleep—
And sad remembrances, which make
Deep furrows o'er my faded cheek.

III

Then hush those deep-toned bells—oh, hush
The mem'ries which ye still do bring;
Fairest of flowers—the maiden's blush—
In yon cold vault lies withering.

IV

Cease—cease to vibrate on mine ear;
Ah! pause ye o'er the silent dead:
No sound should mingle with the tear
A mother's love alone may shed.

TO THE OCEAN.

Ye blue waves which flow at my feet,
Say where do your glad waters hide;
'Mid the coral-caves haste ye to meet,
Or back to the Nautilus glide?

Oh! never thy brightness again
Will whiten the spot where I tread;
Swift ye hasten back—back to the main,
To the fathomless deeps ye are fled.

Oh! wilt thou one hope or one fear
Bear up on thy oft-changing breast?
I have shed o'er thy bosom a tear,
I have hail'd thee a haven of rest.

Wilt thou seek other lands,—other skies,
Nor leave one kind message for me?
I have breathed to the salt waves my sighs;
I have pray'd still in turning to thee.

'Twas a tear for the loved—for the lost—
A sigh from the worn spirit riv'n,
Awhile o'er thy waves to be tost,
While the prayer-thought ascended to Heaven.

THE SONG OF FINGAL.

I

No more along Balclutha's walls shall sound
The tuneful shell—the voice of other days,—
Nor cheerful fire shall lend its crackling blaze;
Deep in the stream the mould'ring walls are found,
And Clutha's welling waters have o'erflowed their bound.

II

Full many a year I mark'd the thistle spring,
Where once the warrior trod in proud disdain;
And humble moss o'er the grey walls did cling,—
A spot defying wind and time's rude wing;
And there the coward fox its progeny would bring.

III

There the rank grass wav'd round the ruin'd tow'r,
And desolation long had set his seal
On thy fair dwelling, Moina—there no peal
Of joy resounds—silent thy father's bow'r,
And voiceless is the echo of their chieftain's pow'r.

IV

Raise the song of thy mourning, O bards, o'er the land
Of the strangers, who fell by the sword and the brand:
They are gone but before us, we droop and we die—
Why the hall dost thou build up? the wingēd days must fly.

V

Hope still looks from her towers—alas! a few years
Will but find us surrounded by darkness and tears:
The simoon of the desert sweeps on, and its breath
Is laden with pestilence, suffering and death.

VI

Yet we fear not the blast, for renowned is our name;
In the battle the strength of our arm is our fame;
In the song of the bards shall our mem'ries resound,
While our spears and our bucklers are strown o'er the ground.

VII

Raise the song of thy mourning, O bards, raise the song—
Wake the shell in the hall, and the echo prolong;
Though the sun-light may fade, yet our names o'er the land
Shall survive still, who fell by the sword and the brand.

SONG.

[How beautiful is night!]

How beautiful is night!
Its weeping stars and bowers,
And sweet the bulbul's song in its flight,
Hushing the folded flowers.

How beautiful is night!
The moon with its silv'ry ray;
Ah! 'tis the time when the spirit is bright,
When the twilight fades away.

How beautiful is night!
When the lightnings cleave the sky;
And ocean heaves, with a giant's might,
The voice of his deeps on high.

How beautiful is night!
With its iv'ry palace dreams;
Yet the suff'rer pines for the morning light,
The sun with its orient beams.

How beautiful is night!
To the loving trustful breast;
Then soul meets soul in its upward flight,
Seeking a holier rest.

WOMAN'S HEART.

I

Ah! what is woman's heart? a mine
Where gems of purest ray do shine—
A garden full of radiant flow'rs,
Cheering this dull cold world of ours.

II

A beam of light—a beam of love
Transported from yon Heav'n above;—
Affections deep and clinging still,
Though sear'd by worldly blight and chill.

III

A palace for man's brightest hours—
A refuge when the storm-cloud low'rs;—
A breath, a sigh, a meteor giv'n
To startle and mount up to Heav'n.

IV

Its hopes as bright—as fleeting too
As rose-bud glitt'ring in the dew—
We mark it in the matin hour,
When trophied with a spell and pow'r;—

V

We look again—the sun above
Joys in the children of his love;
The rose-bud all its glory gone—
The hope has from the warm heart flown.

VI

And what its fears! of shadowy hue,
Camelion-like, as changeful too;
Shrinking—retiring—feeling still
The pressure of some coming ill.

VII

Its love—ah! who that love may paint—
Devoted as a dying saint,
Pure as the prayer which rose on high
When man first felt that God was nigh.

VIII

Its sorrows far too deep for tears,
And lasting as its fever'd years;
Man may not know, man may not dare
The cavern'd deeps of its despair.

THE POET'S WREATH.

LINES TO ---.

I

Be still—for lo! the poet's fire
Is very apt to end in ire;—
Already he appears to frown,
Because he boasts no Sapphic crown.

II

Alas! how few the brows that wear
The wreath, which genius still may share!
Not all may bask in muses' bow'r,
Not all may claim the muses' dow'r.

III

The poet's bays! ah! wouldst thou know
The pangs which from that guerdon flow—
The aching head—the burning heart—
The wasting hours—alone—apart?

IV

All the fond fev'rish hopes which bring
But sorrow as an offering;
The yearnings for a kindred mind,
Attuned in unison refined?

V

The poet's love! ah! wouldst thou bare
His soul? unveil love's altar there?
Too bright its blaze for mortal eye,
Too pure for aught beneath the sky.

VI

Unseen it breaths—it haunts the tomb
Where youth has shed its early bloom;
Weaving a fairy chain around,
Like holy flow'rs on earthly ground.

SONNET.

[Forgive this weakness—I had hoped to hide]

Forgive this weakness—I had hoped to hide
From ev'ry eye the deep o'erwhelming tide
In my heart's chambers;—foolish one, be still—
Think'st thou that tears obey frail mortal's will!
Bright are they in the sunshine—like the dew,
O'er the young grass they linger. Ah! how few
To those the storm—cloud show'rs,—then o'er the soul
Dashes the lava flood with fierce controul
Its mighty billows—all is borne along
Those dark, deep waters—silent is the song,
When mem'ry stops to weep o'er vanish'd hours,
O'er halls deserted, and o'er folded flow'rs.
Grim death has passed, and left a trace—a sting—
Pois'ning the honied cup at sorrow's baneful spring.

LIFE.

“Let thy heels spurn the earth; and thy raised ken
Fix on the line, which Heaven's eternal king
Whirls in the rolling spheres.”—
Dante.

I

Yes, life is but a feverish dream,
A drop snatch'd from the eternal stream—
An ignis-fatuus seen from far—
A drooping—trembling—falling star.

II

We wake too soon to sin and pain,
The drop rejoins the stream again;
Few are the lights our path to cheer—
Our star is shining o'er our bier.

FAREWELL TO THE YEAR.

Farewell to the year!—lo! dim shadows are veiling
Thy track o'er the past;—
A few more short days and the clouds which are sailing,
Behind us are cast.

How soon will those bells—which to-day have been ringing
From yon gothic pile,—
Peal loudly thy death-chaunt mid darkness up-springing,
Time's flight to beguile!

Thy spring and thy summer all golden are faded,
Their hopes too are dead—
The shrines which we wreathed with thy flowers are all shaded—
Thy beauty is fled!

Farewell to the year! I, like thee, am declining,—
My summer is o'er;
Feeble the torch-light, which, radiantly shining,
Flashed o'er me of yore.

Farewell! ah farewell! spectral ghost, and for ever—
Thy guerdon a tear;
Shall we meet thee again in this cold world? ah! never,
Thou pale fading year.

TO FLOWERS.

I

Oh! ye do charm our senses—gild the earth
With greater gladness, children of the sun!
And bounteous Nature, smiling at thy birth,
Bids art thy model take;
And friendship brings thy sweets,
A simple tribute which our hearts partake.

II

Love basks among your brilliant hues—ye flowers!
And, with a trembling hand, a wreath still weaves—
The fairest and the best—to deck the bowers
Where haunting beauty waits;
The altar of our hopes
Is twined with roseate hues, defying still the Fates.

III

E'en round the brow victorious art thou seen,
The laurel still has left a place for thee,
Where glancing mildly mid that trophy green—
Like paling stars at night—
Are seen thy beauteous forms,
So purely chaste and fair, to glad our ravished sight.

IV

Thy smiles are holiest when they beam around
The fretted shrine—the temple of our God,—
There thy sweet off'rings in the Spring are found;
The perfume of thy breath
Floats on a prayer to heaven,—
And garlands crown the marble bust in death.

V

But in our gardens is your happy home;
Born from the dew, ye gaze upon the sun;
There mid thy sweets the bee delights to roam—
Aurora bids thee rise
And hail her radiant light,
For ah!—too soon thy doom—thy short-lived beauty dies.

VI

Fields boast their wild flowers, and the earth is fraught
With gems whose breath is of a purer clime,—
The world teems far beyond the powers of thought
With colours from above;—
And Nature, taught by heaven,
Paints with a master hand, and with a parent's love.

VII

Long may ye twine around our ruined towers,
And shed your honours where the dead repose;
Long may love's garlands bloom around our bowers,
And cheer our path—
Frail tablets of our hopes!—
Bring flowers—wild flowers—to cheer our lonely hearth.

STANZAS TO---

I

When morning scatters dew-drops upon the hill and plain,
And sleep no more around us entwines his dreamy chain—
When heaven's own bird is wafting sweet incense to the morn,
I think on thee, thou dear one—I think on thee and mourn.

II

When, high in brightness blazing, the sunbeams gild the sky,
And nature's smiles are glowing while breezes softly sigh—
When garlands of fresh flowers are clustering on each tree,
I think on thee, thou dear one—ah! then I think on thee.

III

When night her sable mantle is folding o'er the earth,
And leaves are sadly weeping the glory of their birth—
When faintly pales the crescent, and stars look on the sea,
I think on thee, thou dear one—ah! then I think on thee.

ON BEING ASKED BY MY CHILDREN TO JOIN IN THEIR PASTIMES

I

Oh! ask me not to share thy mirth,
For one is absent there;
Oh! ask me not to quit my hearth
And join the young and fair.

II

For what may lonely heart like mine
Seek mid the youthful crowd?
The past is not with them a shrine,
Their joy is all too loud.

III

I could not smile—th' unbidden tear
Would flow and mar the scene;—
Remembrance still would tell how dear
The loved—the lost—had been!

TWILIGHT.

I

The Sun is leaving the western sky,
And the clouds have caught a crimson dye;
Shadows are resting on ev'ry flow'r;
Shadows are marking the twilight hour;
There are shadows haunting hill and dell,
Bidding the glorious day farewell.

II

Sweet is the hush of the dewy shade
When the curtain of day around is laid;
As the sad gleamings of love's last light
Are moments which usher in the night:
Cool is the wind o'er my faded brow,
Beamings of beauty dwell with me now.

III

Why art thou sad, oh! thou weary heart?
Altho' thy sunshine of life depart,
Are there not beauty and bloom for thee?—
Ah! no, the twilight of love must be
Like phantom pale, to wither and scare;
Dreams of bright beauty linger not there.

THE FLOWER GIRL'S SONG.

Fair lady, buy my flowers,
Like thine are their sunlit hours;
They bloom and they vie
With thy cheek and eye,
Yet alas! with a sigh they fade.

Come buy, oh! buy my flowers,—
Ere yet the storm-cloud lowers,
And their leaves are cast
On the wintry blast,
To wither and die on earth's breast.

Then lady, buy my flowers;—
Thine, thine are the golden hours;
Nor pass me thus by
With averted eye,—
For alas! with a sigh they fade.

OH! WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.

I

Oh! weep for him whose peace is gone,
Whose toilsome hours and days pass on
Amid the dark and fearful strife,
The agony of mortal life.
Ah! weep not for the dead.

II

Weep for the lone heart's burning tears,
Its wild despair—its fever'd years,—
That dim sepulchral urn whose light
Is quench'd in hope's eternal night.
Ah! weep not for the dead.

III

Their storm of life is passed away,
Their spirit has a purer day;
Safe landed on th' eternal shore,
No tears may dew their eye-lids more.
Ah! weep not for the dead.

IMPROMPTU

ON SOME LILIES THAT WERE CRUSHED AND WITHERED BEFORE EVENING.

I

Flowers of the spring-tide!—sweet lilies,—ye bring
Memories whose shadows around me cling;
Breathings of Eden so vivid, so true,
Oh! hours that were tinged with thy virgin hue.

II

Flowers of the springtide! why ask ye a tear?
Mark ye the sorrows of life's short career?
Must your frail beauty but serve to recall
The darkness which dwells 'neath the funeral pall?

III

Flowers of the springtide!—sweet lilies,—your bloom
Is but as a type of man's early doom;
Lo! in the morning your beams are of light,
How trodden—how withered—ere yet it is night!

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY.

A ROMAUNT.

I

The time has passed in converse sweet,
And lady's lute is cast aside,
While o'er the sea the shadows meet
From belted hills which watch the tide.

II

Full many a mound of waking flowers
Flings its sweet odours to the gale,
O'er citron grove and myrtle bowers
The breeze has stole with dying wail.

III

The sea is coloured with the rose
And purple tints the sun bequeaths
The twilight—when he seeks repose
Far in the west the waves beneath.

IV

Th' enchanted coast is sparkling, where
Flits the gay fire-fly's meteor-light;
While far above the forest, there
The moon has shed her sacred light.

V

The glittering pennon proudly floats,
Gleaming o'er yon pavilion gay;
Half-shaded by the giant oaks
The ardent mail-clad warriors lay.

VI

Together there the coursers stand,
Beneath the solemn cypress shade;
In peace they graze—to-morrow's sand
Shall see their boasted courage fade.

VII

The Knight has risen—his train appear,
While sighs the Lady's bosom swell.
They part:—yet still on one so fair
He looks and breathes a last farewell.

VIII

They linger on the moonlit shore—
His wild host and that Peri one,—
While o'er his ear the night wind bore
From stranded waves a rippling moan.

IX

He ne'er shall see to-morrow's sun,
The assassin's steel is waiting near;
His proud steed neighs—'tis nearly won
The goal—ah! what has he to fear?

X

And yet he starts—his anxious soul
Labours with many an untold thought;
And sounds, as of a death-knell toll,
Darkling with sad presaging fraught.

XI

Lo! crouching deep within that cave
Lurks a dark form—a moment more,—
From treacherous steel no arm can save;—
The warrior-knight's last gasp is o'er!

XII

And whose the fearful deed? His band
Inquire, yet still inquire in vain;
His corse lies weltering on the strand;
He leaves—'tis all he had—a name.

DIRGE.

'Neath the cypress they will lay him,
As a soldier should be laid;
Martial honours they will pay him,
Mourn him as a brother dead.

Hark! the death-chaunt loud is pealing,
And those brave companions weep
Tears which courage gives to feeling,
When in death their comrades sleep.

Who shall lead them on to glory?
Who shall now their valour guide?
Resting in the grave all gory,
Earth shall be the young Knight's bride.

CHORUS.

Weep for the dead, Oh! weep,—
And thou, O earth,
Lie lightly on his head;—
Weave—weave a wreath of flowers,
And shed the cypress o'er his lonely bed.
There leave thy rays, O sun!
When evening dews proclaim thy race is run,
Watching while he does sleep.
And thou, sweet night-bird, stay,
Pouring a solitary lay,—
Like holy spirit sent
From Heaven's own bowers,
To win his soul
From death's control,—
Leaving us still to weep.

XIII

The morning rose o'er castle tower,
The bright waves gladly kissed the shore;
One breast alone in perfumed bower
Shall gaily wake to joy no more.

XIV

Alas! that woman's heart should be
A shrine, where love and sorrow dwell;—
A gilded bark on life's rough sea,
Up-borne upon the surge's swell,

XV

Too soon to sink—affection's blight;
The wild simoon of dark despair
Sweeps on o'er shoals and rocks its flight,
And leaves the wreck of passion there.

XVI

And such thy heart—thy hope—thy love,
Youth's morning had no storm-cloud known;
Lady, thy bark sailed bright above,
Nor feared that happiness was flown.

XVII

He comes—the messenger of death!
Coldly the words fall on thine ear;
Thy failing vision, labouring breath,
Foretell how much thou hast to fear—

XVIII

The blight and desolation, where
Dwells the internal withering strife,
Corroding all with secret care:
Such must be thine—a death in life;

XIX

A shoreless sea—an empty dream—
A flower which fades ere night—a blot,
Effacing hope—a stagnant stream;—
Ah! such is now thy weary lot.

XX

She moved not, spoke not, o'er her came
The chill from which no art may save:
The parian marble bears their name,
And points the trav'ler to their grave.

XXI

Oh! drop a tear, while thought may bring
Some loved form to thy memory's eye;
O'er the cold tomb death leaves a sting,
While hope soars upwards to the sky.

THE SNOWDROP.

I

Shrouded in snow, thy tiny form
Starts from its parent earth;
Thy beauty braves the howling storm,
It heralds forth thy birth.

II

Sweet flower!—a message dost thou bear
From God's high throne above,
In answer to some mourner's prayer,
A token of His love?

III

How like a tear art thou, sweet flower!—
The tear young joy would fling
O'er hearts, which, bright in beauty's bower,
Gleam o'er love's offering.

IV

Thou little pensive fairy, hail!
And bid us not despair;
Where hearts are sad and cheeks are pale,
Come!—shed thy blossoms there.

STANZAS.

[My mind is all chaotic, and the Muse no more]

My mind is all chaotic, and the Muse no more
Shines all propitious o'er me. Ah! I may not soar
Mid the bright realms of fancy—not to me is given
The power to waft sweet incense to the throne of Heaven.

Earth, earth is still around me—earthly hopes and fears
Have flung a heavy chain o'er all my fevered years,
Which I may not uncoil;—thus, I the fruit do reap
From off the tree I planted, and 'tis mine to weep.

Nature is frowning darkly, and the sun is hid.
Sweet Muse, I own thine influence; as a child, when chid,
Droops its bright eyes with sorrow, thus my fainting heart
Takes impress from thy radiance, and mourns thy beams depart.

Shine once again, O! bright sun, bathe and cheer my brow,
Chasing with thine effulgence thoughts which haunt me now;
They cease not e'en in sleeping—ah! how sad they flow,
Checking my very heart's blood with the chill of woe.

100

THE FLOWERS ARE ALL FADING.

“The grass withereth, the flower fadeth.”
Isaiah, ch. xl. ver. 7.

I

The flowers are all fading, the summer is o'er,
And the south wind no longer its odours may pour;
Gone, gone is the sweetness, the joy of the spring,
And the song bird is drooping and folding its wing.

II

Dark clouds are arising—where the sunshine had shone,
There the garden's gay trophies lie scattered and strown;
We look for the lily, yet still look in vain,
It has shed all its beauty and light o'er the plain.

III

And such, such is our fate; ah! how oft do we find
That the summer of hope leaves but darkness behind;
They may ask for the song of our happier hours,
But the lute is no longer entwined by the flow'rs.

101

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HER LEAVING ENGLAND.

I did not come to say farewell,
Let other lips than mine
Force from their fount the tears which tell
The anguish which is thine.

Sweet girl!—a vision unto me
Wilt thy remembrance seem;
When other hearts are hailing thee,
When other glances beam.

And when amid the glowing bowers
Of other lands you dwell,
Soft o'er the perfume of the flowers
I'll waft to thee farewell!

102

THE BRIDAL.

SUGGESTED BY THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND.

I

Bring flowers to deck that fair young brow, bring jewels rich and rare,
And I will weave a radiant wreath to bind her silken hair;
Bring robes of flowing whiteness, and a veil o'er all to fling,
For she must at the altar stand—her heart the offering.

II

Haste, hasten hither, maidens—why starts that crystal tear?
Young hope and faith are ever strong—the aged only fear.
Alas! her thoughts still linger with the dear, the haunting hours,
When parents—kindred—round her strewed her sunlit path with flow'rs.

III

And now she kneels—she breathes the vow!—another form is there
To clasp her to his heart of hearts, and share with her each care;
Protect her—soothe her—watch around in peril and in pain,
And prove that Hymen only weaves of brightest hues his chain.

103

IV

The bells are ringing merrily, yet stay not those bright tears;
They are the guerdon memory claims for long departed years,
They speak of former happiness—of love they fain would tell—
And when the parting hour arrives, they fondly say farewell!

104

WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF QUEEN VICTORIA'S VISIT TO THE CITY OF LONDON,

NOVEMBER 9th, 1837.

Hail! hail! all hail, fair Queen!—the Isles afar
Greet the mild radiance of bright Brunswick's star.
Thy people's hope—great London's proudest boast—
O'er hearts an empress—as thou reign'st a toast!—
Deign to accept the offering which we bring,
The hearts we proffer, and the praise we sing.

In Gothic Hall the sumptuous feast is spread,
We wait thy presence light o'er all to shed.
What is the jewelled cup—the golden bowl—
The gorgeous robes—the beamings of the soul—
The minstrel's art, and music's echoed note—
The blazing stars, where banners proudly float—
The wreath of dewy flowers?—Wert thou not here,
Lo! night would darken o'er the bounteous cheer;
And all the stores from Nature's bosom riven,
The Tyrian dye—hues caught from yon far heaven—

105

Soft tones of melting harmony, which bring
Quick to the eye the tear from memory's spring—
All the enraptur'd feelings, which still flow
O'er sterner thoughts which patriots only know,
These—these would fail—untouched the viands remain,
The ruby wine-cup stand unquaffed—in vain
The list'ning ear—warm heart—and speaking eye—
All—all would languish, if thou wert not nigh.

Fair maid!—from royal race—how honoured—sprung,
By Britons' bosoms be thy pæans sung.
Queen of the Sea!—thy ships as castles rise,
And British flags wave upwards to the skies,
Rule o'er the world, and find each port a home,
Where commerce smiles, and tempts them still to roam;—
Be thy reign crowned with glory—good as great—
Worthy the freedom of a polished state,
May every bliss thine onward path pursue,
Proud England's Queen! the nations look to you.

106

STANZAS.

[When Aurora first uncloses her eyes of orient light]

When Aurora first uncloses her eyes of orient light,
And leaves the ebon chambers of the dreamy god of night—
When dews are brightly gleaming upon each flow'r and tree,
Ah then I mourn for thee, my love—dear love, I mourn for thee!

When in meridian splendour Sol blazes in the sky,
And droop earth's fairest daughters 'neath the brightness of his eye—
When every song-bird rests awhile amid the shade so free,
Ah then I mourn for thee, my love—dear love, I mourn for thee!

And when the moon at evening hour looks sadly o'er the earth,
And sheds a ghostlike shadow o'er th' abode of gone by mirth—
When thoughts and teeming fancies are with the happy, free,
Then, then I mourn for thee, my love—I mourn, dear love, for thee!

107

And if the stars are shining bright, do I not call one thine?
And then methinks 'twere wickedness at thy high lot to pine;
But should one envious cloud o'ershade their glory all from me,
Ah then! ah then! I mourn thee, love—dear love, I mourn for thee!

108

AUTUMN.

[_]

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.

I

Hail! ye deep woods, whose crown of yellow leaves,
Borne on the gale, o'erspreads the verdant lawn—
Hail! the last sunshine gleaming through the trees,
For mourners love to dwell thy scenes among.

II

Yes! mid autumnal shades a charm I find;
There nature's beauties glow ere yet they fade,
Like friendship's farewell wafted on the wind,
Or the last sigh from lips of fairest maid.

III

Mine are the days, which, hastening to their goal,
Leave nought but wasted hope and dark despair;
Mine is the mournful gaze o'er memory's tome,
Mine the regrets for many a wasted year.

IV

Earth, ere thou press me to thy folded breast,
And thou, O sun! receive my latest tear;
Pure is the air, and radiant in the west
Thy beams are lingering o'er the lonely bier,

109

V

Bring,—bring life's cup,—I still would fondly drain,
E'en to the dregs, that bitter cup of care;
Still madly dream to find unmixed with pain
Some honied sweetness lurk in secret there.

VI

Flowers breathe their odours to the passing gale,
Then bow their heads enamoured of decay;
These their adieus which haunt the lowly vale,
These their last off'rings to the parting day.

VII

I too must fade, must too like flow'rets die,
My soul be wafted to the bowers above;
There be exhaled,—in soft entrancement lie,—
Like sounds melodious breathing fondest love.

110

ON THE DEATH OF A NEPHEW.

Scarce had the spring breathed o'er thine infant years,
And woke the hours which childhood gives to song,
Ere pain assailed thee,—blight thy path annoyed.
We saw thy bloom, and when we saw, we sighed
To see thy cheek so fair, and thy young eyes
Beam forth their pensive light like two pale stars,
Which, trembling, seemed to hail thy young decay.
No sage's lore was thine, yet did thy soul
Plume her bright wings, and Angels bent them down
To meet thine upward flight, and bear thee hence.
Farewell, blest shade!—Oh! let us not deplore
As those who have no hope; for even now,
Perchance, thou dost look down with pitying eye
And love most pure from out thy bright abode.
What, though no marble column proudly rise
To tell thy worth?—the lowly grassy mound
A more enduring emblem will be found:
Like it thou grewest—flourished,—ere the sun
Inhaled the fresh'ning dew, the scythe of time
Has passed and laid thee low.—Ah! happier far,
Thus snatched to bloom where day shall know no night!

111

IMPROMPTU

ON A TEAR.

I

What pearl is that on beauty's cheek,
Its name I fain would hear?
Say, purest joy, the gem I seek?
That pearl is called a tear.

II

Again its brightness meets mine eye,
And pity too is near;
She gives to erring man a sigh,
And this is pity's tear.

III

It starts again, and sorrow's voice
With plaint assails mine ear;
No mirth can make that heart rejoice,
That gem is called a tear.

IV

As dewdrops o'er a beauteous rose
So bright does love appear,
And beauty's cheek as sweetly glows;
That drop is young love's tear.

112

SONG.

SAPPHO TO PHAON.

I

When the dew is in the flower,
When thy barque is on the sea,
Then I'll breathe from yon lone tower,
Adieu! adieu! remember me.

II

O'er the darkling waters far
Shall my thoughts, upspringing free,
Waft a prayer to yonder star,
Adieu! adieu! remember me.

III

I will hail the seamew's note,
Bid it bear these words to thee;
On the breeze their sound shall float,
Adieu! adieu! remember me.

IV

Remember years by friendship tried,
They will not sure forgotten be,
Nor start to hear still at thy side,
Adieu! adieu! remember me.

113

A MOTHER TO HER SLEEPING CHILD.

Rest on, dear boy, thy mother still is near;
Oh!—wherefore start,—whence comes that briny tear?
Begot by trouble in so young a breast,
E'en sleep has nursed thee by her own unrest;
Rude thing, away—go dim the eye of age,
Teach sin to feel, nor blot so fair a page.
Tears are best seen, when, o'er another's woe,
Hearts bleed for sufferings which thou ne'er may'st know.
On thy dear cheek—so innocently fair,
May troubles' offspring lurk no longer there;
Peace to thy slumbers,—long may'st thou enjoy
Sweet dreamless sleep, the blessing of the boy:
Oh! may thy mother's tears have ransomed thine—
Wake, wake, and bless her with a smile divine!

114

STANZAS TO SPRING.

Oft have I hailed thee—nurse of birds and flowers!
And joyed to see the sunlight mid the showers,
Making earth look all bright,—the bow above
A radiant trophy of supernal love.

Far in the vale the lowly lily grows,
I mark the bright green which its leaves disclose,
And seek the fairy bells—sure magic wrought
Those pearly flowers—with light and beauty fraught.

Do I not love the violet's modest dye,
Whose pendant bloom perfumes the Wind-God's sigh!
Asking no praise from man, it drinks the dew
Fresh from Heaven's fount, blushing cerulean hue.

Thou breath'st o'er all, and lo! the fields are green,
And coronals of odorous flowers are seen;
All beauty and all light—a lovely band,—
While the rapt Hours are waiting thy command.

115

Bring me the daisy,—like an infant's dream
Its child-like beauty—brief, but how serene,—
And prodigal it stars the upland lawn,—
Kissing the feet of the ambrosial morn.

Thou bid'st the wildlings of the earth appear,
Sweet nature's heralds of the early year!
Amid the tangled brake—in mercy given,—
To cheer life's path and point above to Heaven.

'Tis Spring! sweet Spring! which soothes the troubled breast,
Hushing our sorrows to a holier rest;
Flinging around, above, beneath, a charm,
A haunting vision and a dreamless calm.

116

A HYMN,

WRITTEN WHEN ENGLAND WAS VISITED BY THE CHOLERA IN 1832.

And does the tyrant reign,
Will nought his power disarm?
Must youth and age together feel
The icy pressure of his zeal,
And writhe distorted, torn by horrid pain?

Mysterious are the ways
Of God with sinful man;
With cords of love he sometimes draws
Rebellious hearts o'er sin to pause,
And oft with death the crimes of nations pays.

Our boast is all in vain,
At best a fleeting shade;
The morning sun beholds us fair,
We wither in the evening air,
Consumed and troubled are our days with pain.

117

Yet God is all our trust,
Jehovah is our king;
Iniquity he will forgive,
His love still bids the sinner live,
Remembering that we are but breathing dust.

Oh! may his anger stay,
And save our souls from death;
May evil spirits lose their pow'r,
Nor pestilence around us lour,
A troubled cloud t' obscure a brighter day.

Then shall the people praise
The God who rules on high;
Jehovah is the name alone,
The Heavens above His glorious throne,
The earth His footstool—in the deep His ways!

118

IMPROMPTU ON A BLADE OF GRASS.

WRITTEN IN A FIELD NEAR WORTHING.

Ask this blade of humble verdure,
Whence it caught its emerald die?
Did th' Almighty God of Nature,
Guard it with his watchful eye?

Yes! from earth, its cradle, peeping,
God its colour did impart;
He a watch o'er all is keeping—
The lowly flower—the trustful heart.

119

THE BIBLE.

Book of the myriads' faith—thy firm decree
Within these pages still but tells of Thee.
Here beams the star which sages led of yore,
And taught the knee to worship and adore.
Here hope still shines a bright unerring light,
To guide, sustain our feeble steps aright;
Around the weary heart—the drooping head—
Some drops of holy Gilead's balm to shed,—
Point, mid the storm, to realms beyond the sky,
Where angel-spirits still look down from high,
Watching o'er lowly man—and watching bless
That heir of sin and utter wretchedness.
Ah! 'tis from mercy's throne they wing their flight,
Cleave the thick clouds to cheer a mortal's sight,
Shed holy tears o'er earthly passion's shrine,
And rear an altar to a God divine!

120

STANZAS.

[I sigh for the mountain—I sigh for the wild—]

I

I sigh for the mountain—I sigh for the wild—
For the welcome that nature still gives to her child;
Where the forest is wrapt in its mantle of green,
And the castle's grey turrets are glancing between.

II

Oh! bear me along to old Ocean's retreat,
Where the proud wave in scorn flings its foam o'er my feet;
And I'll stray by the waters and list to their roar,
When the sunset shall leave his last rays on the shore.

III

And I'll take down my lute from the lone cypress tree,
And Zephyrus shall wake the wild note and the free;
While the high beetling rock shall the echo prolong,
And Cynthia shine brightly and herald my song.

IV

O'er thy bright bosom heaving the vessel shall glide,
And the small fairy boat like an atom shall ride;
While the nets of the fishermen hid in thy flow,
On the morrow their draught shall exulting show.

121

V

Oh! how many a heart now high beating is bound
To the land where their Eden of promise is found,
And they heed not the white cliffs of fam'd England's shore,
Nor the tempest which soon o'er their vessel shall pour.

VI

Hark! O hark! to the death-song now borne on the blast,
And the dark flitting cloud o'er the bright moon has passed;
And the waters are lashing the oft beaten shore,
And fearful and loud is the wide ocean's roar.

VII

Those sounds tell of sorrow—those sounds tell of pain—
They start in the night wind, they come o'er the main;
And the thunder is pealing, the red lightning's glare
Shows mid its bright flashes the wreck which is there.

VIII

No succour can reach them, nor save them from death,
He has breathed in the storm and the tempest his breath;
The cold wind shall chill them, and freeze o'er their blood,
And their graves shall be found with the wave and the flood.

122

TO-MORROW.

A FRAGMENT.

To-morrow and to-morrow!—who can say
That our To-morrow will o'ertop to-day
With more abundance—with a greater good?
E'en from primæval time, when man first stood
Without the gates of Eden, have the hours
But brought sad weeds, yet always promised flow'rs.
Alas! that thus the seeds of ill have sprung
From the young world—when iron tears were wrung
Mourning for what was lost;—sorrow, and sin, and shame—
Man's brief inheritance, from that time came.
Then how should we foretell a coming joy—
Heedless to-day—To-morrow to employ?

See the young mother o'er her sleeping child:
Have no white dreams her morrow all beguiled—
Are not her hopes all radiance—o'er his cot
Dwell not her thoughts upon that young heart's lot?
On his fair brow, her kiss,—on bended knee
Her latest prayer—sweet babe!—is all for thee.

123

What shadow passes in the starry night,
Leaving his signet there?—the morning light
Is with To-morrow;—listening for thy breath
The hopeful mother starts, and finds dark Death.
Say, can the morrow charm away the past?
Alas! her hope is to the wild wind cast.

Proud man! how weak—how impotent thou art,
With all thy knowledge—all thy boasted art,
When even one short hour can master thee,
And make thy breath to fail, thy courage flee.

And yet how bright a light the morrow flings
O'er childhood's happy hours! the bird that sings
Upon the topmost bough—the rill which flows
In sunshine—and the dew upon the rose—
The little daisy with its starry eye—
And all that swims the sea or skims the sky—
Have a bright heaven of bliss—a morrow all
For thy young heart—the beauty—not the pall.

124

SONG.

THE TWILIGHT HOUR.

I

Will you meet me in the glade,
When the sun begins to fade?
Will you trust me, fairest flow'r,
In soft twilight's witching hour?

II

'Tis the time I love the best,
When the sun is in the west;
Meet, oh! meet me, fairest maid!
'Neath the twilight's length'ning shade.

125

WHY WAKE THE LONG FORGOTTEN LAY?

I

Why wake the long forgotten lay
Of my neglected lute?
No throbbing heart will list to-day;
Alas! the chords are mute.
Time was when they would echo long
The tones of many a heart-wove song.

II

Where, where art thou—the Angel one,
The planet of my night,
The soother of my deeper woes,—
My sun—my beam of light?—
Thy steps are round th' Eternal throne,
And Heaven above thy glorious home.

III

I dare not think on times gone by;
Oblivion's waters roll
O'er all the past;—then let me die:
Dread memory, 'tis thy goal.
Ah! none may offer at my shrine
Such tears as I have poured o'er thine.

126

IV

Then wake not the forgotten lay
Of my neglected lute,
Alas! I fear the melody—
Still let the chords be mute.
Time was when they would echo long
The tones of many a heart-wove song.

127

FLOWERS.

Sunny blossoms twining childhood's hours pass by;
Dewdrops gleam above them, o'er them spreads the sky;
Roses shed their odours round the young and fair;
At the bridal hour, starry wreaths are there.

Brightest blossoms blooming spring still bids ye stay,
Summer's sun shall hail ye, hasten not away;
Beauty's bowers will shield ye, when the storm is near,
Flowers of summer, listen,—ye to us are dear.

Autumn's blossoms whisper—“We our task have done;
We have breathed our odours, worshippēd the sun;
Age has chased our beauty, stolen our perfume;
Earth, our mother, calls us—haste we to our doom!”

128

TO ------.

I

The day returns—long years have passed, and still I mourn for thee,
In solitude and silence weep such tears as none may see;
Dream mid the stillness of the night, but ah! thou art not there,
My dreams are only as the dreams of those who know despair.

II

I gaze above—yon high blue vault is bathed in orient light,
And joy and gladness reign around where all is gay and bright;
Alas! it is no scene for me, my seared and blighted heart
Mid sunshine and festivity is lonely and apart.

129

III

Where memory strays I pensive turn—hope is no longer there,
But silence reigns where once there trod the beautiful and fair;
Dark are the haunting shades I see, 'tis all the past e'er gave
To future hours of faded joys which time from death may save.

IV

The twilight gathers around me—alas! my life has been
A struggle and a fearful coil—a passion and a dream;
I never knew the buoyancy of childhood's happy years,
My treasured flowers were tended oft in silence and in tears.

V

And still in solitude I mourn—ah yes! I mourn for thee,
Child of my torn and bleeding heart—the holy and the free!
Dream mid the stillness of the night—but ah! thou art not there,
My dreams are not of such as thee, the beautiful and fair.

130

IMPROMPTU

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Songstress of the woodland glade!
Seeking silence and the shade;
Haunting night with thine unrest,
Hushing the bright day to rest—
Come to me.

Melancholy night-bird stay,
Charm my worldly thoughts away;
Wake my lyre! while thou dost sing,
Heavenly music round me fling—
Come to me.

Come to me when stars are shining,
When the moon high Heaven is climbing,
When the dewdrops kiss the flowers,
Clust'ring in the silent bowers—
Come to me.

131

Come to me when earth is sleeping—
Angels then their watch are keeping;
When my heart is sad and lowly,
Come, sweet night-bird, pure and holy—
Come to me.

132

TO DEATH.

Stay—stay, insatiate Death!
Strike not the babe upon its mother's knee,
'Tis all too bright and beautiful for thee:
Wait longer for thy prey.

Leave the fair cheek to bloom,
The glancing eye to shed its holy beam,
Stay not the glad step on the village green:
Wait yet awhile, O Death!

Arrest not manhood's dream!
Fling not the cypress o'er the lover's bower!
Chill not the soft blush of the roseate flower
Which blooms before thee, Death!

Touch not the poet's heart—
Worship the burning shrine thou findest there;
Gaze on his wreath-bound brow; spare—spare—oh spare
The lute—the coronal!

133

Too soon—too soon, O Death!
Thy shaft will strike th' impassioned votary down,
The shrine extinguish—and the wreathēd crown
Wither within thy grasp.

Hie to the battle-field,
Call the proud soldier mid his glories won,—
The flags are waving, and the setting sun
Shall gleam above his grave!

Go to pale Misery's door,
List to the breathings of despair and pain;
Stay the rash hand, nor let one fatal stain
Witness against thee, Death!

List to the lone heart's prayer;
Breathe gently o'er that one whose faith is dead,
Whose hopes are withered and whose dream is fled;
Take—take the lonely—Death!

Yet stay awhile, O Death!
Strike not the babe upon its mother's knee,
'Tis all too bright and beautiful for thee,
Wait longer for thy prey!

134

CONRAD TO MEDORA.

I

Beloved Medora! still to thee
Thy Conrad turns mid battle's strife;—
Dost thou, my Peri, think on me,
When Azreel's near and danger's rife?

II

Thou art to me the fairest flower,
That e'er in eastern climes may bloom;
Thy lute sounds sweetest in the bower,—
'Twill sound above thy Conrad's tomb.

III

Medora!—bird beloved—bright star!
Receive his soul when Conrad dies—
Ah! happier here to haunt thee far,
Than lonely dwell in yonder skies.

135

MEDORA TO CONRAD.

I

We met, my Conrad!—From that hour
My every thought reflected thee;
If but a cloud did o'er thee lour
Medora prayed its shade might flee.

II

Thou wert my God,—my guide,—my all,—
The lode-star of my waking hours;
Thy voice in ev'ry breeze did call;—
I saw thee in the perfum'd flow'rs.

III

I rear'd an altar to thy name,—
I worshipped at no other shrine;—
Ah! brightly blazed love's lambent flame,
Still, still my heart is wholly thine!

136

WHAT IS THE SUNSHINE OF THE HEART?

I

What is the sunshine of the heart?
'Tis pictured on the summer sky;
Our happiness is shown in part
Mid fields and flowers of beauteous dye.

II

Our cares—oh! they are passing clouds
That for a space obscure the light,—
The nightly sleep, which only shrouds,
Not dims the morning beams so bright.

III

Our tears are but the falling leaves
Which Autumn scatters round our bowers,
Soon—soon forgotten as the trees
Bear promise of the springtide flowers.

137

IV

But the heart's deeper sorrows shoot
Their leaves within themselves—and grow—
Alike the stem the cankered root;—
While the dull sap flows downward—slow—

V

There nourishes the hidden grief,
Within its bare and withering form;
And stunted stands, in sad relief,
Amid the desert's fiercest storm.

138

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND,

ACCOMPANIED BY A BROOCH CONTAINING HAIR ARRANGED AS A LUTE.

Go little lute with tresses bound,
Affection's messenger thou art;
Mute—mute to all beside thy sound,
Thine is the language of the heart.

Though time flies fast, and dull decay
Broods o'er all sublunary things;
Though sorrow darkens o'er our day,
There's healing on sweet friendship's wings.

Then scorn not to accept, my friend,
An offering from a heart sincere;
Though small and worthless what I send,
'Tis hallowed by affection's tear.

139

WRITTEN ON VISITING BLACK GANG CHINE,

AND HEARING OF THE LOSS OF A VESSEL IN CHALE BAY.

I

Beautiful sea! which for ever art flowing,
How bright are thy waters beneath the pale moon;
Though fearful thy deeps when the storm-wind is blowing,
Yet no trace now is left of the mariner's doom.

II

Softly he sleeps—none may waken his slumbers,
Pillowed his head rests in thy green pearly caves;
For ever the sea-nymphs bemoan him in numbers,
And the sounds of their requiem are caught by thy waves.

III

Thoughts of the past, ah! to me thou art bringing,—
Of tides which in darkness and bitterness roll;
Death's dwelling is there, and his shadow is flinging
A blackness which chills the pure light of my soul.

140

IV

Queen of the night, I will worship thee ever,—
Over the glad sea shall my vesper song pour;
Mid the solemn silence I gaze on thee never,
But my spirit is bowing, thy shrine to adore.

V

Stars, which are burning in undying splendour,
To me speak of destiny from your high dome;
Ah! that lamps of such radiance should darkness engender
And point to the grave as our doom and our home.

VI

Spirit of Beauty! who walkest the waters,
And dwellest above in the arch of the sky;
Over the green earth with her loveliest daughters,
E'en now thou art roving—I hear thy faint sigh.

VII

Stay, Spirit,—oh, stay! and gladden my dreaming,
Be seen o'er the mountain and heard o'er the flood;
May I ever hail thee when morning is streaming,
And meet thee when Sol is just setting in blood!

141

FRAGMENT.

Our life is one long childhood—and each toy
Palls on our sick'ning fancy—all our joy
Is but imperfect—something, something still
Lacks the full power to gratify our will.
From the down pillow to the lowly sod,
Man wars with man—with nature—and with God:
Subdues whole cities, yet still wants the art
To quell that enemy the human heart.
Ambition, envy, pride, all rule by turns;
With hope it lingers, and with love it burns:
That master passion, whose impetuous wave,
Spurning controul, still haunts the lowly grave.

Bring—bring my lyre—perchance, its tones may wing
My soul to mount and quaff the living spring
Fast by the throne of God—where holy flowers
For ever bloom mid amaranthine bowers;
Where hope ne'er droops nor dies, nor love destroys
By mortal frailty all its highest joys;

142

Where pride ne'er scorns, nor envy disallows
The bays which wreathe around another's brows;
Where red ambition enters not, nor mars
The silver lustre of the moonēd stars.

Companion—solace—hail! Oh! soothe my breast
With sounds low breathing of a purer rest.
Though earthly ties may sever and decay,
Though tears and darkness mark my lonely way,
My lyre shall still some echoing notes prolong,
And teach my soul to lose itself in song;
This frame may quiver, but my spirit's free;
Adieu! false world—yet not adieu to thee!

143

SPRING.

Spring is the time when the sunshine is stealing
And breaking through clouds o'er a landscape of green,
Awakening new hopes, when first we see gleaming
Buds and sweet herbs by the deep quiet stream.

Then come the sweetest thoughts, born of day-dreaming,
Joys which nor time nor decay can impair;
Rapturous scenes and carols loudly pealing,
And blushing flowers unfolding in the fresh balmy air.

Myriads of violets secluded lie sleeping,
Encumbered with dews to refresh the young Spring;
And budding young clusters of tender grapes weeping,
Hang by their tendrils a promised store to bring.

Daisies are here too—the little English blossom—
Flower hailed by peasant when meadows are green,
Gem of the garden, and a star on earth's bosom,
Displaying thy beauties—thou Nature's fair queen!

144

Spring loves the celandine, the lily and the wallflower,
Sighs o'er the sweets of the roses as they blow,
Clust'ring young honeysuckles twine round her bower,
And beauty and freshness and greenness there glow.

Trees, which stern boreas had left all quite leafless,
Awaken to life 'neath the sun's cheering rays;
And birds seek their old haunts, and build there with gladness,
Whilst lone woods resound with sweet Philomel's lays.

Thou season for painter—for poet—and for lover,
I have drank of thy spirit, and watched thy decline;
My hopes once so bright, as thy sunshine, are over,
And the last rose of summer may only be mine!

145

LA GIROFLEE.

[_]

A FREE TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF TRENOUIL.

Say what is that sweet flower, whose balmy breath
Floats from afar on the breezes lightsome wings?
Hast thou left the temple and the haunts of death,
Lonely stealing from ruins to grace our kings?
Ah! since terror has bowed down the lily,—our bower,—
Our gardens are mourning—they hail thee their queen!
Without rival thy triumph,—may'st thou, holy flower,
O'er the tomb—and the throne—and the mourner be seen!

146

TO THE MOON.

A FRAGMENT.

“The balmiest sigh,
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to this speaking quietude
That wraps this moveless scene.”—
Shelley.

I love to gaze upon thee, silent moon!
For in thy mild and quiet beams I find
A thrilling calm, a something like to peace
Come o'er my soul, and breathe a short repose.
Still is each leaf,—no more the grove resounds
With carol loud; the village bell is mute,
And the last vesper prayer ascends to Heaven.
I pause—recal the past—remembering still
How yon pale queen has lent her silvery light
To guide my childhood home to peace and love.
Still would she gaze upon the tall old trees—
Majestic poplars—which a father's hand
Had planted—reared—and which I dearly prized;
Still would her beauteous rays—how beauteous still!—
Shine full on all I loved, and lull to rest.
Those times are gone, and Cynthia now no more
May o'er my dreams of happiness preside,
For at the fount of sorrow long and deep
Have been my draughts!

147

THE WISH.

Take this wish, and may it be
Ever in thy heart enshrined,
That thy God may bless e'en thee
With a pure and spotless mind;

That thy life to latest age
May with joys serenely flow,
With nought to ruffle virtue's page,
With nought the world would blush to know.

148

TO ---

“I would wake the shell
And lull my senses to forgetfulness
With its sweet melody.”—
Unpublished Poem.

Oh pardon for a moment's space
The gushings of affections deep—
Thine early fate, lost one, to trace,
And o'er my broken treasure weep.

The blast and tempest o'er my barque
Have raged—and still the clouds are near;
The land lies far, and all is dark,
The death-song strikes upon mine ear.

There is a shadow o'er my path,
A vision in the midnight hour;—
A low still voice that shadow hath,
That dream a prophecy and pow'r:

149

It tells me it is better far
Where turmoil is at rest—to sleep;
Where contests cease, and night's pale star
Its faithful vigil loves to keep;—

To sleep—before all dear ones die,
Before all love and hope are flown;
For who would crave unmourned to lie,
Or live to garland memory's tomb?

150

INVOCATION TO MY MUSE.

And does my Muse refuse to sing,
And will she not one wild note bring
The opening Spring to greet?
Spring sheds her soft refreshing showers,
And lovers seek her fragrant bowers,
Each echo to repeat.

Come then, sweet Spring, recal each tone,
And deign to make my harp thine own,
'Tis still to feeling true;
Its chords the softest zephyrs wake,
A wanton hand its strings may break;
The task I leave with you.

Oft has it passed a painful hour,
Oft armed me 'gainst the Tempter's pow'r,
And calmed each troubled thought;
Taught my desponding soul to climb
Beyond the narrow bounds of time,
With heavenly visions fraught.

151

Oft loved dear childhood's joys to tell,
And o'er the spring of love to dwell,
Which ne'er returns again;
Told of sweet infancy and youth,
And softly swelled with heavenly truth,
Then ceased with earthly pain.

And cease it must; for I no more
On fancy's pinions now may soar,
My votive offering bring:
For poesy no lovely flowers
Can bring to deck thy rosy bowers,
Fairest of seasons, Spring!

152

VENUS AND CUPID.

They say that Venus once did stray,
Where Spring had put on her array
Of cowslips, daffys, lilies too,
And hyacinths of every hue.

The goddess viewed each beauteous flow'r
Frail offspring of a sunny hour,
Till stooping down in eager haste,
A hearts-ease in her side she plac'd.

“Within my zone shalt thou remain,
And Cupid I thy arts disdain;
Thine arrows now I will defy,
Whilst thou in turn shalt learn to sigh.”

The little god his danger knew,
When straight beneath his feet there grew
A lowly flower to true love dear,
Moistened with many a dewy tear.

153

The graceful child the emblem caught,
His spirits mounted with the thought:
“Sweet Venus, I thy threats deride,
Without this flow'ret by thy side!

“'Tis true I cannot wound thy heart,
Thus guarded by thine utmost art;
Yet still methinks this violet blue
Would prove a double charm for you.”

She saw—she smiled—no thorn it bore,
And longed to add it to her store;
“For sure,” she said, “from Heaven it came,
Its colour like yon arch the same.”

With silken chain its stem he bound,
And dash'd the dew upon the ground;
Myrtea took the flower and prest
Its azure bloom within her vest.

Softly in play the amorous child
Took up his bow, then inly smil'd;
An arrow from his quiver drew,
And quick to pierce her breast it flew.

She saw—she sighed, “That artful boy
Is born to work me much annoy;
Go hearts-ease! fragile is thy reign,
For love they say is linked with pain.”

154

THE BRANCH OF THE ALMOND TREE.

[_]

A FREE TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE.

The almond tree,—the almond tree—how lovely is its bloom,
It flourishes and fades away before the summer noon;
Alas! it is the symbol sad of beauty's young decay,
The flower of life whose early glow will quickly pass away.

Oh! cherish it—oh! cherish it—and drink its pērfum'd breath,
And bind it round thy forehead fair, ere yet it droop in death;
Soon will its leaves forsake the stem, tho' gathered by the Hours,
And, like our pleasures, day by day, lose all its short-lived flow'rs.

Yes! we will taste thine odorous sweets thus swiftly wafted by,
And claim from Zephyrus thy tear—thy fondest, latest sigh,
Drain from the laughing chalices the honied nectar there;
Oh! why should death and pale decay e'er blight a thing so fair?

155

Like morning flower or vision bright is beauty's shortlived bloom,
It vanishes before the sun proclaims the hour of noon;
Night closes in, and like a tomb it veils the beauteous form,
And on the morrow brighter flowers the hills and vales adorn.

The wings of Time untired sail on, and cheeks are waxing pale,
And all the days are vanishing and spring begins to fail;
And every flower the soft wind fans, speaks thus and seems to say—
“Oh! hasten to enjoy us ere we—we—too fade away.”

And since they must—the beautiful—droop o'er their common urn,
And perish from the bright blue sky, no, never to return,
Spare—spare, oh! spare the bulbul's flower—his song be heard above,
And may the rose for ever bloom beneath the lips of love.

156

TO HOPE.

Hail! hope, delicious hope!
Return once more with thy seductive smile,
And chase away these fears;
My weary heart thou dost beguile
Of many tears.

Bright are thy beauteous wings,
And all thy seemings of a roseate hue;
Thy deepest breathings are
Of radiant joys,—yet how untrue
Thy visions fair!

I gaze upon the glowing dream,
And still would gaze, and cheat myself awhile;
Soon will the gay scene fade;
Soon destiny forbid the smile,
And I must wake.

157

Wake to the daily pains,
To the harsh duties which enthral me round,
And keep me all from thee;
Soon will time pass with leaden sound,
And I must flee.

Flee from thy shrine, bright star,
And leave each idol scattered and o'erthrown;
Nor claim one simple flow'r
From thy gay chaplet o'er the cold earth strown
In that dark hour!

158

SONG.

THE FAREWELL.

Bid me sigh it in thine ear,
I may scarce its utterance tell;
Bid me hide it in a tear,
'Tis the word—farewell! farewell!

When away you may forget
O'er the parting scene to dwell,
I will treasure fondly yet
The sad word—farewell! farewell!

Still its knell is on mine ear,
Still do sighs my bosom swell,
Still unbidden flows the tear
O'er that word—farewell! farewell!

Go—forget—when all is past,
Love which then may lose its spell,
Yet a love like mine must last
Beyond the word—farewell! farewell!

159

A MOTHER TO HER SON ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

Thy natal day returns again,
Full fourteen suns have sped
Since first you woke to sin and pain,
Safe cradled in your bed.

'Twas then my dearest cares began,
My fondest hopes and fears;
To see your baby form a man,
To soothe you mid your tears.

From mid-day sun, from noisome damp,
To shade my darling boy;
To watch the waning flickering lamp,
When sickness did annoy.

To teach thy stubborn will to bend,
To lead thy mind aright;
To pray that God his power would lend,
And make thy virtues bright.

160

This since thy birth has been my care,
And now I would renew
Again my fondest latest pray'r
For every gift for you.

Implore of Him His grace to give,
His wings of love to spread;—
To teach you early how to live,—
Protect your infant head.

Thy mother's warmest accents hear,
My dearest blessing thou!
Reward her pangs, her cares, her fear;
Receive her dictates now!

161

TO A FAVORITE POET.

Thy plaintive muse responds to mine,
And bids me speak no more of pain;
Ah! could I sweep some chords of mirth,
And bid the laughing hours have birth,
Thou hadst not all awoke thy lyre in vain.

Yet in the treasury of my heart
Shall some short years for ever dwell,
And sounds and tones engraved shall lie,
Unheard save in a swelling sigh—
Fond woman's language, joys or griefs to tell.

The moon shall gleam—but not for me;
Her paly light shall find my grave—
Ah! there shall cease my hopes—my fears—
My faintest sighs—my latest tears—
Remembrance only all the boon I crave!

162

TO A YOUTH ON THE DEATH OF HIS MOTHER.

While o'er thine infancy thy mother smiled,
A thousand wishes all her thoughts beguiled:
To see thine opening youth to manhood grow,
To watch the bud expand and fully blow,
Was all her care,—but God had marked her doom,
And Death's cold hand conveyed her to the tomb!
Yet still, dear boy, one anxious parent lives;
Heaven, all indulgent, yet a treasure gives:
Be his thy will, learn early to obey,
And may he ever bless thy natal day!

163

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

Oh! bring me the lily—the pure and the pale,
See, yonder it grows in the far lonely vale,
And its perfume is fanning the balmy breeze,
And the dewdrops gleam o'er its sheathlike leaves;
Oh! bring me that sweet flower, so pure and so pale,
Ere it shake in the rush of the night-wind's wail.

Oh! bring me the lily with its pearly light,
Ere nature shall fling o'er its blossoms a blight,
And the fair rose shall blush a far deeper red
When its lamps are pendant, its sweet breathing shed;
Oh! bring me the lily, the lily I'll wear
When I shall be shrouded with the loved and the fair.

Oh! bring me the lily, that springtide flower,
And I'll bear it away to my lonely bower;
And the white fairy bells o'er my lute shall sweep,
Like some sudden light zephyr which woke to weep;
And the strains shall be of thine early decay,
Thou Heaven breathing flower!—thou lily of the May.

164

CLEOPATRA TO MARC ANTHONY.

I

I have gazed o'er the hills in the day's soft decline,
And my thoughts they have wandered to that fairer clime,
Where thou wast reposing mid sunshine and song,—
Oh! say, did thy smile or thy sigh e'er belong
One moment to me?

II

Ah! no.—Other forms—how much brighter—more fair
Than mine own—were around thee thy presence to share;
While Joy, on her pinions of azure and gold,
Shed her light o'er the lovely—the thoughtless—the bold,
Unmindful of me.

III

And my proud heart that stooped not to flatter the crowd,
In its solitude pined—yet its grief was not loud;
For ah! as the blossom that turns to the sun
Shuts its beauty as soon as his race he has run,—
Its fond worship o'er;

165

IV

So my heart had its twilight—its sun—and its showers,—
But lonely it drooped in sad memory's bowers,
For its hope and its sunlight had faded away;—
Thy star again shone, and its bright quivering ray
Brought peace unto me.

166

TO THE MEMORY OF ------.

I

I once could hope—alas! no more
Her bright wings wave for me;
The sunlit hours of life are o'er,
I weep, dear love, for thee!

II

And in those tears—and in that sigh
Will fond remembrance dwell;
'Tis all remains when dear ones lie
Within death's darksome cell.

III

So young! so pure!—alas! that thou
In marble tomb should sleep!
And leave the weary heart and brow
Thy vigils lone to keep.

167

IV

And yet 'tis better thus than feel
The crushed heart's mad despair;
Alas! no balm those woes may heal
Love—death—have planted there.

V

Farewell! farewell! my buried love,
No pangs may wring thy heart;
Enough for me to gaze above,
To meet where none may part!

168

ASPASIA TO PERICLES.

I still would pen some hurried lines
To ask thy weal—my friend—of thee,
Although thy memory's faintest chords
May wake no thought which tells of me.

Forbid that I should e'er perplex
One moment of thy bright career,
Yet pardon woman's weaker sex,
And wipe from woman's eye the tear,

I dreamt I saw thee wan and pale:
Ah! 'twas a dream I would forget,—
Yet still its hauntings make me quail;
My heart's pulse fails—mine eyes are wet.

Ah! say, does pain or sorrow dwell
Around thy couch—thy peaceful hearth;
Has dire disease or phantom spell
Scattered its mildew o'er thy path?

169

Yet should it be too much to ask
One line my fainting heart to cheer,
Forget the all-unwelcome task,
And be remembrance buried here!

170

A SICK PARENT'S BEDSIDE.

I

Dearest, let me sit still watching by thee,
Softly will I breathe, and softly weep;
Sorrow's cup is now familiar to me:
Sleep, my dearest parent—sleep, oh! sleep.

II

Hast thou not my cradled limbs protected
When in helpless infancy I smiled?—
Hast thou not for me thyself neglected,
And my hours of fretfulness beguiled?

III

Life itself thou gave—a fatal treasure—
All the yearnings of my passionate heart,
Hopes too high for earthly fallen nature,
Ideal musings from the world apart.

171

IV

Ah! for these I never can repay thee!
All my powers—my gratitude—I owe;
In affliction—rest, oh! rest upon me;
Stay awhile, and bless thy child below!

V

Sleep, my dearest,—let me kneel beside thee,—
Softly will I pray, and softly weep;
Sorrow's cup is now familiar to me:
Sleep, my dearest parent—sleep, oh! sleep.

172

SONG.

THE WESTERN STAR.

I

The sun is bright o'er hill and dale,
And summer's breath is on the gale;
While mirth and jest are heard afar,
I only watch the western star.

II

What is the pomp of life to me?—
My soul would plume its wings and flee,
To hold communion where night's car
Appears to greet the western star.

III

Mine are the hours alone—apart—
Mine the pale thoughts—the weary heart—
Long years of stern intestine jar;
Yet seek I still the western star.

IV

It soothes my spirit when I gaze
Upon yon bright lamps as they blaze;
Though friends are fickle, loved ones far,
I worship still the western star!

173

TO OBLIVION.

I

Fill, fill me a goblet from those dark and silent waters,
Where the lovēd song of the minstrel for ever is mute;
Where the genius and beauty of earth's fairest daughters
Avail not,—there still is the sweet harp and silent the lute.

II

Murky and tideless is that black and waveless ocean,
Time may never venture over its broad and stagnant breast;
There dim shadows flit around with an unearthly motion,
And beckon to the fainting souls with promise and with rest.

III

Stillness is reigning there—Lethean stillness o'ershrouding
That space over which no mortal eye may gaze on and live;
Oblivion alone and Cimmerian gloom clouding
The bowl which broken at the fount no living waters give.

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IV

Yet will I pause once more ere I drink of oblivion,
Some sweets may still lingering fling a honied charm o'er life;
Are there no clear gushing streams, no glad sunlit vision,
To chase back from my sad bosom this weariness and strife?

V

Yes—are there glorious gifts high Heaven deigns bestowing
Over those hearts where affections can never fade and die;
Far o'er this wilderness a bright fountain is found flowing,
And mid the desert waste will some perfumed flowerets lie.

VI

Courage, my care-worn soul!—see fond hope's rosy pinions
Flinging back the bitter chalice over the folded tomb,
Far over the ocean of death's dark dominions
Opening a fair Paradise, where Eden's roses bloom.

175

FRAGMENT.

DESCRIPTION OF A THUNDER STORM.

Hark, how the thunder roars!—along the sky
Shivers the ghastly bolt from east to west;
A burning canopy o'er all is hung;
No quiet star is seen with sober light,—
But from the dome and quarters of high Heaven
Blaze after blaze, and peal on peal succeed—
The light and converse of the elements.
But nature is too stern for gentle tears,
And the forked flash from out the sullen clouds
More deadly fierce cleaves through the stagnant air;
The streets are hushed and void, a fearful doom
Seems to deliver the huge city up
To the storm's wrath,—while ever and anon
The lightnings pause, and shake and quivering
Threaten destruction—but an angel waits,
And bids them vanish to their gloomy tents.—

176

FAREWELL TO THE YEAR WHICH IS PAST.

Farewell! to the year which is past.
No longer we reckon its hours;
Like a shadow behind us 'tis cast,
And its sorrows may only be ours.

The stream which has carried us by,
Ne'er stops for a moment its course;
On—onward, o'er rapids we fly,
Then plunge in the shoals of remorse.

Our joys are as light as the air,
Which in bubbles oft dance on the wave;
And as rocks the frail barque may impair,
So our troubles will find us a grave.

177

SONG.

[I will weave for thee a wreath, love]

I will weave for thee a wreath, love,
Of roses bright and fair;
I will breathe for thee a sigh, love,
As I twine it mid thy hair.

Thy cheek is softly blushing, love,
The rose has tinged thy brow,
The sigh has it revealed, love,
All I may not avow?

Ah! pardon the presumption, love,
Of one who owns thy spell;
I may not linger near thee, love,
Farewell!—sweet maid—farewell!

178

TO THOUGHT.

I may not give to thee
One hour again;
The past is not for me,
It burns my brain.

Thy haunts are treasuries now
I may not see;
Dark cypress binds my brow,
The willow tree.

And yet I linger here,
With thee would stay;
Thy shrine! receive my tear,
My parting lay.

Time wings his flight along
O'er memory's glass;
Years given to mirth and song
Too quickly pass.

179

Few—few—how few my lot!
Like early flowers,
Which blow and are forgot
Mid summer bowers.

My infant hopes and joys,
Too bright—too brief—
I flung with childhood's toys,
To nurse my grief.

And what my riper years—
An aching breast,
Cradled by hopes and fears,
Still asking rest.

Farewell!—a long farewell!
Pale thought,—we part—
Oblivion's waters swell
Around my heart.

180

FAREWELL TO GUERNSEY.

Sarnia farewell! farewell thy rocky shore;
Far o'er the main I ne'er may see thee more;
Yet will I not regret thee—save thy flowers—
They well were worthy the immortal bowers
Which poets love to wreathe, and oft have sung.
Thine are the hues, which once o'er Eden flung
Their charm of fragrance—when our parents' gaze
First met in paradise—that holy maze
Of beauty and of love; thine island's pride
Is worthy of thee, thus with sea allied.
Thy roses bloom!—but where is the fair cheek?
The eye of eloquence in vain we seek
Mid Sarnia's daughters—and the graceful form
Dwells not with thee—thou isle begirt with storm!—
Save in thy gardens:—there the lily's grace,
Verbena's odour breathes—a hardy race—
The fuschia's bloom its pendant drops disclose,
While thousand plants with richest shading glow;
Camelias too their waxlike beauties spread,
Where orange-flowers their choicest pērfume shed;

181

And Nature, niggard to thy forest trees,
Fans e'en thy wild flowers with her softest breeze.
Farewell!—a long farewell!—no tear will start,
With thee I leave no fond, devoted heart;
And memory's tracery of bygone years,
And all that love still hopes, believes, and fears,
Is not with thee—child of old Ocean's foam!
The poet's heart is now—e'en now—at home.

182

HIS NAME.

FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.

A lily's odour—holy angels' light—
The tints of twilight bidding day farewell—
The plaint of friends—the bosom's heaving swell—
The parting hour's mysterious sounding knell,
And the soft echo of a lover's kiss;—

The crested arch, whose rays are seen on high,
Which Phœbus' shrine a trophy still retains—
The voice which pours its soothing o'er our pains—
The holy vow the vestal heart proclaims—
Or the first breathings of an infant's dream;—

The song of distant choir—the sigh which gave
Hyperion's daughter to embrace her child—
The murmur of a trembling wood note wild—
All that by which swift thought may be beguiled—
These, oh my lyre! must fail before His name.

183

Breathe it—oh! breathe it softly—like a sound
Borne on a cloud of incense in its flight;
Oh! be it, like the temple's mystic light,
Enshrined, a sacred word—where all of bright,
And pure—the loved—eternally do dwell.

Yet oh! my friends!—no more my muse may dare
To syllable with meaner sounds that name,
Till my rapt soul take wing in words of flame
To wander mid Elysium's blissful plain,
Where treasures fail not, and where all is love.

There shall mine early chaunt like incense rise
Harmonious—faithful—as a holy pray'r
Or cloistered vesper song—an angel's care
Above—intense—invisible—the air
Trembling with mystic melody around.

184

SONG.

[Forget!—Ah! 'tis a bitter word]

Forget!—Ah! 'tis a bitter word
When spoken thus by thee,
The music of life's fitful chord
Will now unheeded be.

The hope which told of brighter hours
Is faded all and fled;
The light and perfume of the flow'rs
Rest only with the dead.

And is it so?—and is it so?
Vain is my tearful eye;
When hope is gone, and love lies low,
Ah! better 'tis—to die!

185

“OH! HEED NOT THOSE BEAMS.”

“Our visions are deceiving lights that lead us on to our destruction; our
idols are always broken in pieces before our eyes.”—
Lady C. Bury.

Oh! heed not those beams, though awhile they illumine,
And shed o'er thy soul the repose of the blest;
They gleam but to leave thee mid night's darkness glooming,
And only deceive thee and mock thy unrest.

Too long have I gazed o'er false visions, foretelling
Of joy and of happiness ne'er to be mine;
Too long—oh! too long—has this lone breast been dwelling
O'er bright dreams, alas! which destroy as they shine!

Our idols, what are they?—that thus they should linger
And cling round our hearts mid disease and decay:
All earthly—they die—touched by Time's leaden finger,
And leave us to weep o'er the close of life's day.

186

And yet how we love them, and wreathe them with beauty,
While the sunlight of day is in its first prime;
And e'en in maturity, heedless of duty,
We loiter—we worship—we turn to their shrine.

And many a prayer, from the full heart ascending,
Is caught from Heaven's throne by some loved ones on earth;
While devotion's warm flame, a bright halo lending,
In death haunts the idols which fostered its birth!

187

TO MY LYRE.

And have I flung my once loved lyre
Thus heedless by,
Unstrung are all its chords and hushed
Its melody.
The young—the loved—no more awake
A kindred tone;
My heart has lost its music now,
It is alone;
Life is with me but on the wane—
A faded thing.
The roses too have ceased to bloom,
Yet wear a sting;
The past—it tells of bitterness
And dark despair,
And though the future call me on,
I answer, where?
'Tis to the valley of the dead
Where I may rest—
There—not a moan may dare disturb
My quiet breast.

188

And thou, my lyre, when I shall lie
Thus silent by,
Mayst to the hollow winds sound one
Funereal cry—
The last! 'Tis all I claim from thee,
Companion dear;
The last reward from those I love
I ask—a tear!

189

REBECCA.

[_]

(IN ENGLISH HEXAMETER VERSE.)

Child of an alien creed, thy heavier sorrows bewailing,
Weep not—for ah! more pure—more fair—none with thee may compare them:
What though the foe should exultingly scoff, thy God will preserve thee.
Maiden, a champion for thee will arise, and, the boaster defying,
Again shall the daughter of Judah rejoice with exceeding rejoicing.
Vain is the torture—the strength of the battle—the wrath of the Templar;
Undishonoured thy name shall resound—thy cause still prevailing,
No more may the toils and the snares of the wicked thy footsteps entangle;
But flowers for thee—fair fragrant flowers—thy forehead adorning,
Again shall thy harp from the willows descend, sweet harmony pealing.

190

By the waters of Babylon's stream, by fountains where erst ye awoke them,
Ah! how pure in thy beauty thou walkest, too lovely Rebecca;
Even now are the prayers of thy father for thee interceding:
Ivanhoe shall conquer—shall loosen the bonds that enthral thee,
But his love is not thine: Ah no! the fair Saxon maiden
Awaits his return;—whilst thou—thou still with tears wilt deplore him;
Vainly, ah! vainly, they gush—unseen, unknown and for ever.
Alas! that the daughters of Eve should love and thus be requited.

191

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON A DEPARTED PARENT.

I

The sweet South-wind is breathing o'er
Fair beauty's flower of love;
The birds a gladsome song do pour
On all—around—above:
The dew-drops bright, the green grass lave,
Alas! it grows upon thy grave.

II

The earth is glad—the spring is here,
The woods—the fields rejoice;
Why falls the sad—the silent tear,
While listening to her voice?
'Tis that we miss thee on the lawn—
Dearest, ah! wherefore art thou gone?

192

III

And yet 'tis selfish to repine
At thy far happier fate;
The storms of life may be but mine,
The worldling's scorn or hate:
I prized them not—so I might twine
In filial love thy hand with mine.

IV

All is too bright—the Heavens above,
The sun—the stars—the flowers,
Mocking the mournful heart with love,
Within its lonely bowers:
Alas! ah, what avails the bloom?
Save that it waves above thy tomb!

193

SONG.

[Why do I think on thee]

I

Why do I think on thee,
Dearest, oh! say?
Why do I think on thee,
Far—far away?

II

Wan is my cheek and pale
Watching for thee;
Why should I weep and wail?
Come, love, to me.

III

Though fair ones surround thee,
The witty—the gay—
Wilt thou remember me,
Far—far away?

194

MY SUMMER-HOUSE.

I

Here rest my friend,—thy wanderings stay,
And take a seat, while yet ye may,
Within this hallowed spot;
Here taste the sweets of rural joys,
And leave the city's golden toys—
The worldly groveller's lot.

II

Here Nature breathes—cold Art is there,
The scarlet robe and sumptuous fare,
No lily of the vale;—
There Envy rears her crest on high,
And Pity e'en forgets the sigh
She gives to Misery's tale.

195

III

When cares intrude here may I rest,
In solitude supremely blest,
Adoring Nature's God;
The birds in harmony will join
Their hymns of praise, surpassing mine,
Obedient to His nod.

IV

The rising sunbeams here will play,
And lingering, still prolong the day
With golden streams of light;
While lovely in the west a star
Peeps o'er the world, and from afar
Proclaims 'tis Nature's night.

V

And night shall not regret the day;
Her zone of stars—the Milky Way—
As bright as Sol shall shine.
Calm contemplation, lend thine aid,
Religion's offspring—gentle maid!
Thy solace still be mine.

196

VI

Here will I bid the world adieu;
While holding converse sweet with you,
No fond regrets I'll bring.
For me no boasted charms remain,
Life is at best but toil and pain,
A waste where weeds will spring.

VII

Then enter, friend, this calm retreat,
And find with me a vacant seat,
A rest from worldly care;
If griefs intrude, here may you find
A solace for your wounded mind—
Hope's blossoms passing fair.

197

TO MARY.

Mark the soft lustre of her eye,
As shining through its fringe;
Roses have spread their faintest dye,
Young beauty's cheek to tinge.

At every step her fairy feet
Now brush the morning dew:
No danger shall those footsteps meet,
Each sylph to Mary true.

198

YES, WE WILL MEET.

Yes, we will meet in yonder skies,—
Ah! wherefore tarry here,
Where all we love still pines and dies,
And only claims a bier?

Yes, we will meet when all is o'er,
Our souls commingling there,
Beyond that river's shadowy shore,
Which rose so bright and fair.

Yes, we will meet—ah! soon will fate
The slender thread divide;
The marble tomb alone relate
Who lived—who loved—who died!

199

TO---.

Love has entwin'd a rosy bower,
Earth offers every beauteous flower,
On which my child may rest.
Ne'er may the storms of life annoy,
One sunlit hour of radiant joy
Rich with health's treasures blest.

Ah! may no passion's sting be thine,
Jarring the music of thy prime,
Asking only tears;
Nor may one moment's thought of thine
Ever cloud thy years.

200

HE COMES NOT YET.

He comes not to the springtide bower,
When the leaves are green 'neath the violet flower,
When the cuckoo flits from tree to tree,
And the butterfly leaves her loved Psyche for thee;
He comes not yet!

He comes not when the rose is blowing,
And the summer-lit sun in his fervour is glowing;
When the twilight is haunting the castle tower,
And distant sounds have a memory and power;
He comes not yet!

He comes not at the festive time,
When Nature is yielding her corn and wine,
When the autumn moon looks o'er the earth,
And birds have ceased their fairy mirth;
He comes not yet!

201

But when all beautiful things are gone,
And winter nights are cold and lone,
And thought is holding high carnival,
And shadows are gleaming along the wall;
Ah! then he comes!

202

HAMPTON COURT.

Fair are thy gardens, Hampton—haunts of kings,—
Where nature lingers, and where art still clings;
Thine are the fountains and the silvery streams
Which fling their music o'er a land of dreams.
Each gnarled tree which rears its head appears
Fraught with the history of bygone years;
When the gay princely train have sought thy shade,
The plumēd warrior and the high-born maid.
The shrubs which bloom, the statues seem to be
As chroniclers, unfolding mystery;
And waking up the dead.—Lo! lo! they rise,
To people once again earth's paradise!—

See Wolsey's form advance with measured pace,
Veiling his pride beneath a show of grace;

203

And Henry too, his master, stands and frowns,—
Dark meanings lurk beneath those earthly crowns
Which princes wear—there passion's voice has power,
Urging the soul to madness—fatal dower!
Ah! I remember, how within these gates
A captive queen bemoaned her adverse fates,
And drooped, and pined, and died,—unmourned her doom
By him, whose harshness laid her in the tomb.
Oh! Henry—what a catalogue of crimes
History still furnishes to latest times,
And bears thy name to nations yet unborn,
A blessing and a curse—a praise and scorn!

Power is a gift from Heaven to rulers sent,
The seal to mark a rightful government,
In justice and in mercy,—not t' oppress
The weak, the suffering in their great distress,
But rather to protect the laws which bind
The king enthronēd, as the lowly hind;
Example leads the crowd, and woe to thee
Oh! king, whose subjects groan to be set free—
Free from thy tyranny's despotic pow'r,—
When life was sacrificed to pleasure's hour,
And all that beauty, all that virtue gave,
Was cast by thee within the dreary grave.

204

Within thy regal chambers, let me gaze
O'er all the painter there has left for praise;
View the rich colours in the landscape glow,
And steep my senses in the streamlet's flow;
Entrancēd stand before each beauteous face,
And own that art has nature's polished grace.
Cold is the heart which does not own thy power,
Oh! beauty, sovereign in the court and bower!
Cold is the heart which would neglect thy shrine,
Nor lingering bow, and own thy sway divine!
E'en kings have worship'd thee, have lost their crown,
For thy sweet solace sacrificed renown;
Ventured their hopes below, their Heaven above
For the soft rapture of some houri's love.
Here beam those love-lit eyes, which, Charles, for thee
Shone all too brightly, and enslaved the free;
And lips which speak of passion; cheeks, whose dye
Is like the rose-leaf'neath an orient sky.

These are thy boast, oh! Hampton,—and more rare
Than these are Raphael's works beyond compare;
His was the poetry—the fire—the mind
Which genius flings around her sons refined—
The rich conception—the divine controul—
The vast sublimity which stamps the whole.

205

Thou, great immortal Raphael! souls like thine
May leave a monument and raise a shrine
For future ages' worship; and the flame
Shall light full many a votary to fame,—
Give to the quivering lip—the palid brow
A calm assurance, and accept their vow.

Yet art thou now deserted!—Kings no more
Doze on thy beds of down, nor tread thy floor;
No tables groan beneath their rich repast,
And all is silent as the dreamy past.
Where once the prince had led the festal train,
A menial waits and hopes for public gain
From souls perchance as mean; they look—they stare,
And with the crowd applaud where most is glare;
The echoing walls respond the senseless sound
Prolonging clamour with repeated bound,
Till the doors close and locks are duly turned,
And art and beauty are again inurned.

Hampton, farewell! I burst the bonds which bind
My haunted fancy, my enraptured mind,
And quit thy charm'd retreat—yet still a sigh
Back to thy shades will all unheeded fly;

206

Imagination lends her fervid glow,
And bids again thy bowers to bud and blow—
Wakes the low singing of the bright cascade,
And fans the flowers which all too quickly fade.
Intensity o'erwhelms my o'erwrought soul,
And memory's glass reflects the splendid whole!

University of Virginia Library

POMPEII.

CEASE TO WEEP.

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THE WREATH.

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LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING MY DAUGHTER SING MRS. NORTON'S “THERE IS NO TRACE OF THEE AROUND.”

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A LAMENT FOR PERSIA.

OH! BRING MY LUTE.

LINES WRITTEN ON RECOVERING FROM SEVERE ILLNESS.

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STANZAS TO ---.

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TO THE MEMORY OF MALIBRAN.

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DECEMBER.

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TO THE GILLY-FLOWER.

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SONNET.

[Oh no!—I will not give my heart to thee]

TO THE SNOWDROP.

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BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL SEA.

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WRITTEN ON SEEING THE QUEEN PASS THROUGH THE ROYAL GALLERY TO THE HOUSE OF LORDS,

December 23rd, 1837.

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ON SLEEP.

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