Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Stilly as sinks on a Flower of June,
The weight of dusk Eve or of sultry Noon—
Mutely and densely as fog-mists enthral
The elegant Fabric on which they fall—
Thus mutely and deeply, with novelty laden
Has the pall of Love mantled the beautiful Maiden!

And the downcast light of the eye, half-hid
By the heavily drooping, transparent lid;—
And the long jetty lashes, imbedded that lie
In the liquidly lustrous glow of the eye,
As, when the Sun, with a mournful glare
Is setting behind a wood all bare,
The black naked branches by which he is crost
In the indistinct brightness are almost lost;—
Those glossy dark fringes that seem to seek
To pillow themselves on the damask cheek,

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Whose delicate sheen with a warm-blush is burning,
Like the Daisy away from you modestly turning;—
And the rose-lips, down sinking in sweetest of sadness,
Undimpled,—unwreathed by the smilings of gladness;—

Nay, the head that is bowed, as the blue-bell may be,
When it folds to its bosom the searching bee,—
And the arm, that can scarcely its own weight sustain,
But unweetingly losing its hold again
Of the curtain it clung to, is ready to glide
Slowly adown to her gentle side—
Sooth to say, her whole graceful but buoyantless frame,
Unupheld and so languid—all tell us the same,
The same soft tale of the o'ermastering weight
Of her spirit's tyrannical tender freight!—

The attitude was suggested by Mr. Newton's beautiful picture of the Dutch Girl.

II.

Yes! Love doth deeply oppress her—I trow:—
As noiselessly, softly as clouds of snow
Do weigh down the boughs of a cedar-tree,
Thus overladen with Love is she.
Gently and tenderly every limb
He hath brought into quiet subjection to him—
Smoothing them down with a softening touch,
As ye smoothe a Dove's feathers when ruffled too much—

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And each feature is stamped with the impress intense
Of his pervading influence.

And as sunbeams, in which they transparently sleep,
A Flower's rich-hued petals steep,
Through and through them free-flowing, till the floweret seems
To be made of the Light which on it streams;
Thus are the gushes of subtle feeling
To her Frame's and her Spirit's recesses stealing;—
Her Soul, and the Frame where it meekly doth rest,
Like a lovely bird in a lovely nest,
Both with that Feeling so fully are fraught
That she seems but the Essence of passionate Thought!

And like as the Flower, its light-mingled hues
Doth o'er the air it respires diffuse,
So the Maid breathes an atmosphere, round and above,
An atmosphere sated and teeming with Love!

III.

But is not Sadness in her air,
And on her brow a tinge of Care?
And feels she then that Weariness
Which repose can make no less?
Without fatigue, that Want of Rest,
For aching heart, and weary breast?

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And does she prove that dear Distress,
The workings of sweet bitterness—
The crave—the void—the restlessness?
The darling Woe which 'tis a pain
To relinquish or retain?

And does she fondly, sadly cherish
Thoughts that drain Life's fountains dry,
With obstinate love resolved to perish,
Ere her heart's poor nestlings die?
And does she nurse the Pelican-brood
Of Wishes not to be withstood,
Which, like that Desert-winger's young,
Too often drain the dear life-blood
That warms the breast from which they sprung?—

Alas! that ever Pleasure paineth!
That Woe so deep such Joy containeth!
And well-a-day! that ever Gladness
Should be but a phase of Sadness!

IV.

Have you seen when the Summer's day is done,
And the Earth turns away from her lord, the Sun,
Like a love-sated weary one,
By his gifts and his kisses no more to be won?

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Though he had pranked her in glorious braverie,
In cloud-robe of purple, far-flowing and free,
And of crimson adornment, as rich as may be?
All braided with water-gold, gorgeous to see,
And jasper-streak, sheening bewitchingly?—
His labour is thrown away, I guess,
The Ladye-Earth turns from his rich caress,
And himself and his favours capriciously spurning
For a new Paramour is the faithless One burning!
And lo! the sweet awe of the fading twilight,
Prepareth the way for her new-love Night!—

And then have you seen the first lone Star,
Faint with its journeying from afar—
In the surfaceless Heaven's paly blue
Still liquidly warm with a roseate hue—
Hanging with a motionless light,
Innocently calm, and timidly bright?

Belike, unperceived she hath stolen away,
From the flashing halls where her Sisters play,
In golden troops eternally dancing,
Like glittering sun-sparks on wavelets glancing!—
She hath come to the outskirts of Heaven awhile
On some Meteor-Genie of Earth to smile,
And throbbingly list to his harrowing tale,
Of the woes and the dangers that did him assail

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While fettered he lay on the dismal swamp,
Chained to the marish-floor, cold and damp—
Like a purple-winged Peri when doomed by the rage
Of the Demons of Evil to pine in a cage—
And how he escaped with such danger and pain,
And is come to his Angel, his fair One again!

But alas for the ear that will list to his tale,
And alas for the cheek that will turn so pale,
And the innocent heart that will meekly believe
And fondly confide in the words that deceive!
For soon she will see him glide down the steep sky,
Nor care though he leave her to mourn till she die,
Or to wander heart-broken, disconsolate, pining,
Through the airy-built halls where her sisters are shining!

V.

And a Star seems the Maiden all brightly to be,
In the light of her Angel purity!
A young, fair Star, such an one as is given,
To make of this dull Earth a radiant Heaven!

And she resteth now, star-like and still,
Expectant on the window-sill;
And watcheth, like that horizon-gem,
The sweetest in Night's diadem!

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So be the light, her heart alluring,
Than that Meteor more enduring!
So may her Love-mate be truer
Than that meek Star's Meteor-wooer!

Feb. 1832.