 | Poems |  |
224
L'Envoy.
“My soul's child!”
Byron.
Byron.
Child of my Spirit, go!—
Hope not the world's regard to steal;
Thy little worth too well I know,
Too sadly feel!
Hope not the world's regard to steal;
Thy little worth too well I know,
Too sadly feel!
Yet fondly weak, I wait,
Not much in Hope—much more in Fear—
Soul of my Solitude! thy fate—
My comrade dear!
Not much in Hope—much more in Fear—
Soul of my Solitude! thy fate—
My comrade dear!
Thy fate, of frequent nights
And days, my Comrade dear—my Child!
Who whence I know not, brought delights
Deep, deep and wild!—
And days, my Comrade dear—my Child!
Who whence I know not, brought delights
Deep, deep and wild!—
Yet go!—no laurel crown,
No darling meed of Fame expect;
But with Oblivion lay thee down,
And woo Neglect!
No darling meed of Fame expect;
But with Oblivion lay thee down,
And woo Neglect!
225
What though, sweet Muse! when Day
Poured joy profuse with liberal hand
O'er all the glistering display
Of sea and land,—
Poured joy profuse with liberal hand
O'er all the glistering display
Of sea and land,—
Or chiefly when at Night
Silence held soft solioquy,
Grown vocal with extreme Delight
And Liberty,—
Silence held soft solioquy,
Grown vocal with extreme Delight
And Liberty,—
With me thou didst commune,
And lapse of linkëd numbers bring,
If with a Spirit out of tune
I heard thee sing!
And lapse of linkëd numbers bring,
If with a Spirit out of tune
I heard thee sing!
If with their amber flow
My Soul chimed not in pure concent,
But with them jarring notes of woe
Discording blent;
My Soul chimed not in pure concent,
But with them jarring notes of woe
Discording blent;
As silver raindrops strewn
Brightly by dark clouds sun-bestrid,
Are stained by fogsmokes which festoon
A City hid!—
Brightly by dark clouds sun-bestrid,
Are stained by fogsmokes which festoon
A City hid!—
No! thou couldst not impart
The Hope elastic, Fancy strong,
Which o'erinform the joyous heart
With crystal song!
The Hope elastic, Fancy strong,
Which o'erinform the joyous heart
With crystal song!
226
From feelings of its own
Some respite must the Spirit gain,
Ere those by thee divinely shown
It well can feign.
Some respite must the Spirit gain,
Ere those by thee divinely shown
It well can feign.
Then wing, my Soul! thy flight—
On lowly verse, a voyage brief;
Success not proffering much delight,
Nor failure, grief!
On lowly verse, a voyage brief;
Success not proffering much delight,
Nor failure, grief!
Go forth! despising Fame;
With nought of Hope, with little Fear:
A few, few years—and praise or blame
Thou wilt not hear!
With nought of Hope, with little Fear:
A few, few years—and praise or blame
Thou wilt not hear!
Till then—there is a Pride,
A stern nor bitter Hopelessness,
Which gives the Mind, o'er worlds defied,
Serene success!
A stern nor bitter Hopelessness,
Which gives the Mind, o'er worlds defied,
Serene success!
| Poems | |