The Dream and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Once more the people meet,
With glad expectant faces: once again
The fair young monarch and her lovely train,
With slow and gentle feet,
Move in a solemn ceremony on;
And jewels glitter in the morning sun!

II

Not long, oh! Time, not long
It seems, since crown'd as Britain's welcome Queen,
The like fair sight in fair array was seen;
And the hush'd listening throng,
Watching those steps thro' Westminster's proud aisle,
Wept with full hearts, tho' joyous all the while.

126

III

And they come forth anew,
In bridal white, that gentle virgin band,
The chosen flowers of Britain's happy land;
For holy love and true
Hath wrought an hour of hope without alloy—
A fairy sight of splendour and of joy.

IV

There,—with her locks of light,
Gleaming like gold around her noble head,—
The orphan'd Eleanor, with stately tread,

The exact order in which the young ladies present on this eventful occasion, as trainbearers, followed Her Majesty, is not preserved in the poem; the names being necessarily arranged as would suit the verse. Taking the names in the order of the poem, the trainbearers were,—The Lady Eleanor Paget, daughter of the Earl of Uxbridge (Lord Chamberlain to the Queen), by his first Countess. The Lady Fanny Cowper, daughter of Countess Cowper (now Viscountess Palmerston). The Lady E. Howard, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Carlisle, and sister of the Duchess of Sutherland. The Lady Anne Howard, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Suffolk. The Lady Anne Bouverie, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Radnor. The Lady Sarah Villiers, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Jersey. The Lady Ida Hay, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Errol. The Lady Caroline Lennox, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Richmond. The Lady Elizabeth West, daughter of the Earl and Countess Delawarr. The Lady Mary Grimstone, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Verulam. The Lady Adelaide Paget, daughter of the Marquis and Marchioness of Anglesea. The Lady Wilhelmine Stanhope, daughter of the Earl and Countess Stanhope.

Went by, a vision bright;
Bidding sweet thoughts of love and triumph start
Into a father's and a sister's heart.

V

There,—in her beauty, pass'd
Young Frances Cowper; her transparent cheek
Blushing the greetings which she might not speak,
As on the crowd she cast
The shy soft glances of those dark-blue eyes,
In whose unfathom'd depth such sweetness lies!

127

VI

There, with her spotless name,
The gentle Howard, good, and fair, and mild,
And bright-eyed Bouverie, noble Radnor's child,
And rose-bud Villiers came;
And, with her sweet frank smile, young Ida Hay,
Looking all gladness, like a morn in May.

VII

There, brilliant Lennox moved;
The Paget beauty shining from her brow,
And the dark, deer-like eyes that glanced below:
While, gentle and beloved,
Amid the glories of that courtly throng,
Delawarr's youthful daughter pass'd along.

VIII

There, (theme for poet's praise!)
With swanlike throat, and clear majestic eye,
Verulam's stately Mary glided by;—
And, with her quiet gaze
Fix'd smiling on the scene which she survey'd,
The soldier Anglesea's bright Adelaide.

128

IX

And she, whose orbs of blue,
Like mountain lakes beheld by moonlight, gleam
With all the shadowy softness of a dream
Such as Endymion knew:
Whose glossy locks with rich luxuriance twine
Around her brow: the Lady Wilhelmine.

X

Young were they all—and fair,—
But thou, Victoria, held'st thy fitting place,
As amongst garden-flowers the lily's grace,
Blooms with a royal air;
And from that lovely various group, apart,
Dids't stand, and gently look the Queen thou art.

XI

The smile thy young lip wore,
Spoke joy to Him, who, from his distant home,
Hath sped in wintry time o'er ocean's foam—
To seek our island shore,
With his frank heart, and brow so fair and true,
Claiming thy love—and England's welcome too.

129

XII

Oh! may that welcome prove
The herald of deep gladness;—since in thee
Old England's brightest hopes renew'd we see,
All-hallow'd be thy love;
And still with proud content the day allied,
When Princely Albert claim'd his Royal Bride!

XIII

May He, whose gifted hand,
Hath twined sweet wreaths of Poetry and Song;

His Royal Highness Prince Albert is himself a poet and musician; and some of his early compositions, written in German and set to music, have been lately published in this country.

Live happy among English hearts so long
That, native to the land,
He shall forget that e'er his harp was strung
To any accents but our mother-tongue:

XIV

And Thou,—Oh! may the Crown
Which in youth's freshest, earliest moment, graced
The brow, whose childhood's roses it replaced,
Ne'er weigh thy spirit down;
Nor tearful hours, nor careful thoughts, beguile
One ray of gladness from thy gracious smile:

130

XV

But brightly to the last,
Fair Fortune shine, with calm and steady ray,
Upon the tenor of thy happy way;
A future like the past:
And every prayer by loyal subjects said,
Bring down a separate blessing on thy head!

133

ON SEEING ANTHONY, THE ELDEST CHILD OF LORD AND LADY ASHLEY.

I

It was a fair and gentle child
Stood leaning by his mother's knee;
His noble brow was smooth and mild—
His eyes shone bright with frolic glee—
And he was stately, though so young;
As from a noble lineage sprung.

II

So, gazing on him, as we gaze
Upon a bud, whose promise yet
Lies shut from all the glowing rays
Which afterwards illumine it:
I marvell'd what the fruit might be
When that fair plant became a tree.

134

III

Ah! then, what dreams of proud success,
That lordly brow of beauty brought,
With all its infant stateliness,
And all its unripe power of thought!
What triumphs, boundless, unconfined,
Came crowding on my wand'ring mind!

IV

I gave that child, the voice might hold
A future senate in command;
Head clear and prompt—heart true and bold—
As quick to act as understand:
I dream'd the scholar's fame achieved—
The hero's wreath of laurel weaved!

V

But as I mused, a whisper came
Which (like a friend's reproachful tone,
Whose gentleness can smite with shame
Far more than fiercest word or frown;)
Roused my vex'd conscience by its spell,
And thus the whisper'd warning fell:—

135

VI

“Ah! let the shrouded future be,
With all its weight of distant care!
Cloud not with dreams of vanity
That blue bright eye, and forehead fair!
Nor cast thy worldly hopes and fears
In shadow o'er his happy years!

VII

“Desire not, even in thy dreams,
To hasten those remoter hours
Which, bright although their promise seems,
Must strip his spring-time of its flowers!—
What triumph, in the time to come,
Shall match these early days of home?

VIII

“This is the Eden of his life,—
His little heart bounds glad and free:
Amid a world of toil and strife,
All independent smileth he!
Nor dreams by that sweet mother's side
Of dark Ambition's restless pride.

136

IX

“But, like a bird in winter,—still
Fill'd with a sweet and natural joy,
Tho' frost lies bleak upon the hill,
And mists obscure the cold grey sky,
Which sings, tho' on a leafless bough,—
He smiles, even at the gloomiest brow!”

X

Oh! looking on a child's fair face
Methinks should purify the heart;
As angel presences have grace
To bid the darker powers depart,
And glorify our grosser sense
With a reflected innocence!

XI

And seeing thee, thou lovely boy,
My soul, reproach'd, gave up its schemes
Of worldly triumph's heartless joy,
For purer and more sinless dreams,
And mingled in my farewell there
Something of blessing and of prayer.

137

THE DYING HOUR.

“Te teneam moriens, deficiente manu.”

I

Oh! watch me; watch me still
Thro' the long night's dreary hours,
Uphold by thy firm will
Worn Nature's sinking powers!

II

While yet thy face is there
(The loose locks round it flying),
So young, and fresh, and fair,
I feel not I am dying!

III

Stoop down, and kiss my brow!
The shadows round me closing
Warn me that dark and low
I soon shall be reposing.

138

IV

But while those pitying eyes
Are bending thus above me,
In vain the death-dews rise,—
Thou dost regret and love me!

V

Then watch me thro' the night,
Thro' my broken, fitful slumber;
By the pale lamp's sickly light
My dying moments number!

VI

Thy fond and patient smile
Shall soothe my painful waking;
Thy voice shall cheer me while
The slow grey dawn is breaking!

VII

The battle-slain, whose thirst
No kindly hand assuages,
Whose low faint farewells burst
Unheard, while combat rages,—

139

VIII

The exiled, near whose bed
Some vision'd form seems weeping,
Whose steps shall never tread
The land where he lies sleeping,—

IX

The drown'd, whose parting breath
Is caught by wild winds only,—
Theirs is the bitter death,
Beloved, for they die lonely!

X

But thus, tho' rack'd, to lie,
Thou near, tho' full of sadness,
Leaves still, e'en while I die,
A lingering gleam of gladness!

XI

I feel not half my pain
When to mine thy fond lip presses,—
I warm to life again
Beneath thy soft caresses!

140

XII

Once more, oh! yet once more
Fling, fling thy white arms round me,
As oft in days of yore
Their gentle clasp hath bound me;

XIII

And hold me to that breast
Which heaves so full with sorrow—
Who knows where I may rest
In the dark and blank to-morrow?

XIV

Ah! weep not—it shall be
An after-thought to cheer thee,
That while mine eyes could see,
And while mine ears could hear thee—

XV

Thy voice and smile were still
The spells on which I doated,
And thou, through good and ill,
To me and mine devoted!

141

XVI

And calmly by my tomb,
When the low bright day declineth,
And athwart the cypress gloom
The mellow sunset shineth,—

XVII

Thou'lt sit and think of Him,
Who, of Heaven's immortal splendour,
Had a dream on earth, though dim,
In thy love so pure and tender,—

XVIII

Who scarcely feels thy touch,—
Whom thy voice can rouse no longer,—
But whose love on earth was such,
That only death was stronger.

XIX

Yes, sit, but not in tears!
Thine eyes in faith uplifting,
From thy lot of changeful years,
To the Heaven where naught is shifting.

142

XX

From this world, where all who love
Are doomed alike to sever,
To the glorious realms above,
Where they dwell in peace for ever!

XXI

And then such hope shall beam
From the grave where I lie sleeping,
This bitter hour shall seem
Too vague and far for weeping—

XXII

And grief—ah! hold me now!
My fluttering pulse is failing,—
The death-dews chill my brow,—
The morning light is paling!

XXIII

I seek thy gaze in vain,—
Earth reels and fades before me;
I die!—but feel no pain,—
Thy sweet face shining o'er me!

143

I CANNOT LOVE THEE!

I cannot love thee, tho' thy soul
Be one which all good thoughts control;
Altho' thy eyes be starry bright,
And the gleams of golden light
Fall upon thy silken hair,
And thy forehead, broad and fair;
Something of a cold disgust,
(Wonderful, and most unjust,)
Something of a sullen fear
Weighs my heart when thou art near;
And my soul, which cannot twine
Thought or sympathy with thine,
With a coward instinct tries
To hide from thy enamour'd eyes,
Wishing for a sudden blindness
To escape those looks of kindness;

144

Sad she folds her shivering wings
From the love thy spirit brings,
Like a chainéd thing, caress'd
By the hand it knows the best,
By the hand which, day by day,
Visits its imprison'd stay,
Bringing gifts of fruit and blossom
From the green earth's plenteous bosom;
All but that for which it pines
In those narrow close confines,
With a sad and ceaseless sigh—
Wild and wingéd Liberty!

Can it be, no instinct dwells
In th' immortal soul, which tells
That thy love, oh! human brother,
Is unwelcome to another?
Can the changeful wavering eye,
Raised to thine in forced reply,—
Can the cold constrainéd smile,
Shrinking from thee all the while,—
Satisfy thy heart, or prove
Such a likeness of true love?

145

Seems to me, that I should guess
By what a world of bitterness,
By what a gulf of hopeless care,
Our two hearts divided were:
Seems to me that I should know
All the dread that lurk'd below,
By the want of answer found
In the voice's trembling sound;
By the unresponsive gaze;
By the smile which vainly plays,
In whose cold imperfect birth
Glows no fondness, lives no mirth;
By the sigh, whose different tone
Hath no echo of thine own;
By the hand's cold clasp, which still
Held as not of its free will,
Shrinks, as it for freedom yearn'd;—
That my love was unreturn'd.

When thy tongue (ah! woe is me!)
Whispers love-vows tenderly,
Mine is shaping, all unheard,
Fragments of some withering word,

146

Which, by its complete farewell,
Shall divide us like a spell!
And my heart beats loud and fast,
Wishing that confession past;
And the tide of anguish rises,
Till its strength my soul surprises,
And the reckless words, unspoken,
Nearly have the silence broken,
With a gush like some wild river,—
“Oh! depart, depart for ever!”

But my faltering courage fails,
And my drooping spirit quails;
So sweet-earnest looks thy smile
Full of tenderness the while,
And with such strange pow'r are gifted
The eyes to which my own are lifted;
So my faint heart dies away,
And my lip can nothing say,
And I long to be alone,—
For I weep when thou art gone!

Yes, I weep, but then my soul,
Free to ponder o'er the whole,

147

Free from fears which check'd its thought,
And the pain thy presence brought,
Whispers me the useless lie,—
“For thy love he will not die,
Such pity is but vanity.”
And I bend my weary head
O'er the tablets open spread,
Whose fair pages me invite
All I dared not say to write;
And my fingers take the pen,
And my heart feels braced again
With a resolute intent;—
But, ere yet that page be sent,
Once I view the written words
Which must break thy true heart's chords;
And a vision, piercing bright,
Rises on my coward sight,
Of thy fond hand, gladly taking
What must set thy bosom aching;
While too soon the brittle seal
Bids the page the worst reveal,
Blending in thy eager gaze—
Scorn, and anguish, and amaze.

148

Powerless, then, my hand reposes
On the tablet which it closes,
With a cold and shivering sense
Born of Truth's omnipotence:
And my weeping blots the leaves,
And my sinking spirit grieves,
Humbled in that bitter hour
By very consciousness of power!
What am I, that I should be
Such a source of woe to thee?
What am I, that I should dare
Thus to play with thy despair,
And persuade myself that thou
Wilt not bend beneath the blow?

Rather should my conscience move
Me to think of this vain love,
Which my life of peace beguiles,
As a tax on foolish smiles,
Which—like light not meant for one
Who, wandering in the dark alone,
Hath yet been tempted by its ray
To turn aside and lose his way—

149

Binds me, by their careless sin,
To take the misled wanderer in.

And I praise thee, as I go,
Wandering, weary, full of woe,
To my own unwilling heart;
Cheating it to take thy part
By rehearsing each rare merit
Which thy nature doth inherit.
To myself their list I give,
Most prosaic, positive:—
How thy heart is good and true,
And thy face most fair to view;
How the powers of thy mind
Flatterers in the wisest find,
And the talents God hath given
Seem as held in trust for Heaven;
Labouring on for noble ends,—
Steady to thy boyhood's friends,—
Slow to give, or take, offence,—
Full of earnest eloquence,—
Hopeful, eager, gay of cheer,—
Frank in all thy dealings here,—

150

Ready to redress the wrong
Of the weak against the strong,—
Keeping up an honest pride
With those the world hath deified,
But gently bending heart and brow
To the helpless and the low;—
How, in brief, there dwells in thee
All that's generous and free,
All that may most aptly move
My Spirit to an answering love.

But in vain the tale is told;
Still my heart lies dead and cold,
Still it wanders and rebels
From the thought that thus compels,
And refuses to rejoice
Save in unconstrainèd choice.

Therefore, when thine eyes shall read
This, my book, oh take thou heed!
In the dim lines written here,
All shall be explained and clear;

151

All my lips could never speak
When my heart grew coward-weak,—
All my hand could never write,
Tho' I planned it day and night,—
All shall be at length confest,
And thou'lt forgive,—and let me rest!
None but thou and I shall know
Whose the doom, and whose the woe;
None but thou and I shall share
In the secret printed there;
It shall be a secret still,
Tho' all look on it at will;
And the eye shall read in vain
What the heart cannot explain.
Each one, baffled in his turn,
Shall no more its aim discern,
Than a wanderer who might look
On some wizard's magic book,
Of the darkly-worded spell
Where deep-hidden meanings dwell.
Memory, fancy, they shall task
This sad riddle to unmask,—
Or, with bold conjectural fame,
Fit the pages with a name;—

152

But nothing shall they understand,
And vainly shall the stranger's hand
Essay to fling the leaves apart,
Which bear my message to thy heart!

153

THE POET'S CHOICE.

I

'Twas in youth, that hour of dreaming;
Round me, visions fair were beaming,
Golden fancies, brightly gleaming,
Such as start to birth
When the wandering restless mind,
Drunk with beauty, thinks to find
Creatures of a fairy kind
Realised on Earth!

II

Then, for me, in every dell
Hamadryads seem'd to dwell
(They who die, as Poets tell,
Each with her own tree);
And sweet mermaids, low reclining,
Dim light through their grottos shining,
Green weeds round their soft limbs twining,
Peopled the deep Sea.

154

III

Then, when moon and stars were fair,
Nymph-like visions fill'd the air,
With blue wings and golden hair
Bending from the skies;
And each cave by echo haunted
In its depth of shadow granted,
Brightly, the Egeria wanted,
To my eager eyes.

IV

But those glories pass'd away;
Earth seem'd left to dull decay,
And my heart in sadness lay,
Desolate, uncheer'd;
Like one wrapt in painful sleeping,
Pining, thirsting, waking, weeping,
Watch thro' Life's dark midnight keeping,
Till thy form appear'd!

155

V

Then my soul, whose erring measure
Knew not where to find true pleasure,
Woke and seized the golden treasure
Of thy human love;
And, looking on thy radiant brow,
My lips in gladness breathed the vow
Which angels, not more fair than thou,
Have register'd above.

VI

And now I take my quiet rest,
With my head upon thy breast,
I will make no further quest
In Fancy's realms of light;
Fay, nor nymph, nor wingèd spirit,
Shall my store of love inherit;
More thy mortal charm doth merit
Than dream, however bright:

156

VII

And my soul,—like some sweet bird
Whose song at summer eve is heard,
When the breeze, so lightly stirr'd,
Leaves the branch unbent,—
Sits and all-triumphant sings,
Folding up her brooding wings,
And gazing out on earthly things
With a calm content.

157

THE GERMAN STUDENT'S LOVE-SONG.

“Ich liebe dich!”

I.

By the rush of the Rhine's broad stream,
Down whose rapid tide
We sailed as in some sweet dream
Sitting side by side;
By the depth of its clear blue wave
And the vine-clad hills,
Which gazed on its heart and gave
Their tribute rills;

By the mountains, in purple shade,
And those valleys green
Where our bower of rest was made,
By the world unseen;

158

By the notes of the wild free bird,
Singing over-head,
When nought else in the sunshine stirr'd
Round our flowery bed;

By these, and by Love's power divine,
I have no thought but what is thine!

II.

By the glance of thy radiant eyes,
Where a glory shone
That was half of the summer skies
And half their own;
By the light and yet fervent hold
Of thy gentle hand,—
(As the woodbines the flowers enfold
With their tender band;)

By the voice when it breathes in song,
And the echo given
By lips that to Earth belong,
Float up to Heaven;

159

By the gleams on thy silken hair
At the sunset hour,
And the breadth of thy forehead fair
With its thoughtful power;

By these, and by Love's soul divine,
I have no hope but what is thine!

III.

By the beauty and stilness round
When the lake's lone shore
Scarce echoed the pleasant sound
Of the distant oar;
By the moonlight which softly fell
On all objects near,
And thy whisper seemed like a spell
In thy Lover's ear;

By the dreams of the restless past,
And the hope that came
Like sunshine in shadow cast
With thy gentle name;

160

By the beat of thy good true heart
Where pure thoughts have birth;
By thy tears, when Fate bade us part,
And thy smiles of mirth;

By these, and by Love's power divine,
I have no hope but what is thine!

IV.

By the gloom of those holy fanes
Where the light stream'd through
Dim orange and purple panes
On the aisles below;
By the ruin'd and roofless wall
Of that castle high,
With its turrets so grey and tall
In the clear blue sky;

By beauty, because its light
Should thy portion be,
And whatever is fair and bright
Seems a part of thee;

161

And by darkness and blank decay,
Because they tell
What the world would be, thou away,
Whom I love so well;

By these, and by Love's power divine,
My heart, my soul, my life, are thine!

162

THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMAGNE.

[_]

[Among other relics preserved in the Cathedral at Aix-la-Chapelle is the ivory hunting-horn of Charlemagne. It is massive and heavy, and the attempt of the guide to sound it (for the amusement of tourists and strangers) is singularly unsuccessful, the note produced being the most faint and lugubrious which it is possible to conceive.]

Sound not the Horn!—the guarded relic keep:
A faithful sharer of its master's sleep:
His life it gladden'd—to his life belong'd,—
Pause—ere thy lip the royal dead hath wrong'd.
Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand;
Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand.
Not such the sound it gave in days of yore,
When that rich belt a monarch's bosom wore,—
Not such the sound! Far over hill and dell
It waked the echoes with triumphant swell;

163

Heard midst the rushing of the torrent's fall,
From castled crag to roofless ruin'd hall,
Down the ravine's precipitous descent,
Thro' the wild forest's rustling boughs it went,
Upon the lake's blue bosom linger'd fond,
And faintly answer'd from the hills beyond:

Pause!—the free winds that joyous blast have borne:—
Dead is the hunter!—silent be the horn!

Sound not the horn! Bethink thee of the day
When to the chase an Emperor led the way;
In all the pride of manhood's noblest prime,
Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time,
Life's pulses throbbing in his eager breast,
Glad, active, vigorous,—who is now at rest:—
How he gazed round him with his eagle eye,
Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky,
Grasp'd the long spear, and curb'd the panting steed
(Whose fine nerves quiver with his headlong speed),
At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn,
And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn!

164

Ah! let no touch the ivory tube profane
Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne;
Let not like blast by meaner lips be blown,
But by the hunter's side the horn lay down!

Or, following to his palace, dream we now
Not of the hunter's strength, or forest bough,
But woman's love! Her offering this, perchance,—
This, granted to each stranger's casual glance,
This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes,
Was giv'n with blushes, and received with sighs!
We see her not;—no mournful angel stands
To guard her love-gift from our careless hands;
But fancy brings a vision to our view—
A woman's form, the trusted and the true:
The strong to suffer, tho' so weak to dare,
Patient to watch thro' many a day of care,
Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile,
And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile;
Even such I see! Her maidens, too, are there,
And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air;
But tho' her proud heart holds her country dear,
And tho' she loves those happy songs to hear,

165

She bids the tale be hush'd, the harp be still,
For one faint blast that dies along the hill.
Up, up, she springs; her young head backward thrown;
“He comes! my hunter comes!—Mine own—mine own!”

She loves, and she is loved—her gift is worn—
'Tis fancy, all!—And yet—lay down the horn!

Love—life—what are ye?—since to love and live
No surer record to our times can give!
Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name
Could fire with glory, or with love inflame;
Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride,
And dim tradition dreameth by his side.
Desolate stand those painted palace-halls,
And gradual ruin mines the massy walls,
Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome guest,
And loudly rang the beaker and the jest;—
While here, within this chapel's narrow bound,
Whose frozen silence startles to the sound
Of stranger voices ringing thro' the air,
Or faintly echoes many a humble prayer;

166

Here, where the window, narrow arch'd, and high,
With jealous bars shuts out the free blue sky,—
Where glimmers down, with various-painted ray,
A prison'd portion of God's glorious day,—
Where never comes the breezy breath of morn,
Here, mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn!

167

THE FAITHFUL FRIEND.

“Coming through the churchyard he re, I espied a young man who had flung himself down on a grave to weep, and who ever and anon repeated, with most passionate lamentations, “O, friend! faithful friend!” Respecting his grief, I passed on, marvelling as I went what manner of man he had been who slept under that stone.”—Letters of a Tourist.

O, friend! whose heart the grave doth shroud from human joy or woe,
Know'st thou who wanders by thy tomb, with footsteps sad and slow?
Know'st thou whose brow is dark with grief? whose eyes are dim with tears?
Whose restless soul is sinking with its agony of fears?
Whose hope hath fail'd, whose star hath sunk, whose firmest trust deceived,
Since, leaning on thy faithful breast, he loved and he believed?

168

'Tis I!—Return and comfort me, for old remembrance' sake,—
From the long silence of the tomb—the cheerless tomb—awake!
I listen—all is still as death—no welcome step is nigh,—
I call thee, but thou answerest not—the grave hath no reply!
But mournfully the strange bright sun shines on thy funeral stone,
And sadly, in the cypress bough, the wild wind makes her moan.

When we were young, and cheerfully the promised future glow'd,
I little thought to stand alone by this thy last abode;
I little thought, in early days, O generous and kind!
That thou, the first, shouldst quit the earth, and leave me, wreck'd, behind.

Thine was the pure unjealous love! I know they told us then
That Genius's gifts divided me from dull and common men;

169

That thou wert slow to science; that the chart and letter'd page
Had in them no deep spell whereby thy spirit to engage;
But rather thou wouldst sail thy boat, or sound thy bugle horn,
Or track the sportsman's triumph thro' the fields of waving corn,
Than o'er the pond'rous histories of other ages bend,
Or dwell upon the sweetest page that poet ever penn'd:
And it was true! Our minds were cast as pleased the will of Heaven,
And different powers unto me, and unto thee, were given!
No trick of talent deck'd thy speech and glorified thy youth,—
Its simple spell of eloquence lay in its earnest truth;
Nor was the gladsome kindliness which brighten'd on thy brow,
The beauty which in fiction wins Love's fond romantic vow;
But gazing on thine honest face, intelligently bold,
Oft have I doubted of the gifts which men so precious hold,—
Wit, learning, wealth, seem'd overprized, since thou, dear friend, couldst be
So closely knit unto my heart by thy simplicity.

170

The worldly-wise may sneer at this, and scorn thee, if they will,—
Thy judgment was not sharpen'd by the cunning of their skill;
No deep and calculating thoughts lay buried in thy breast,
To chill and vex thy honest heart, and startle it from rest;
No dream of cold philosophy, to make thee doubt and sigh,
And fawn and flatter half thy kind, and pass the others by!
And there thou liest forgotten—thou faithful friend, and true—
Thy resting-place beneath the cold damp shadow of the yew;
And quietly within the tomb's dark precincts wert thou laid,
As a faded leaf unnoticed drops within the forest's shade.

How should the world have tears for thee?—the world hath nothing lost—
No parent's high ambitious hope thy early death hath crost;
No sculptured falsehood gives to fame thy monumental stone,—
From the glory of our Senate-house, no orator is gone:

171

Science hath lost no well-known name,—no soldier's heart shall bound,
Linking old England's victories with that inglorious sound;
No jealous and tomb-trampling foe shall find it worth his while,
With a false history of thy acts, thy country to beguile;
No mercenary hand in haste prepare the letter'd tome,
And publicly reveal the fond small weaknesses of Home;
Nor some vainglorious friend (who yet hath lov'd thee to the last)
Permit all men to buy and sell his records of the past;
Nor give thy living letters up, nor print thy dying words;
Nor sweep with sacrilegious hand Affection's holy chords;
Nor with a frozen after-thought dissect thy generous heart,
And count each pulse that bid thy blood gush with a quicker start.

No! Blest Obscurity was thine! In sacred darkness dwells
The mem'ry of thy last fond looks and faltering farewells;

172

And none shall drag thy actions forth, for Slander or for Praise,
To that broad light which never glowed round thy unnoticed days.
At times a recollected jest, or snatch of merry song,
Which was so thine, that still to thee its ringing notes belong,
To boon companions back again thy image may recal,—
But lightly sits thy memory, oh Faithful Friend, on all!
The old house still hath echoes glad; tho' silent be thy voice,
Thy empty place at bed and board forbids not to rejoice!
Still with its white and gleaming sail, by strangers launch'd to float
Across the blue lake in the sun, glides on thy little boat;
Thy steed another rider backs,—thy dogs new masters find,
But I,—I mourn thy absence still, thou generous and kind:
Since I have lost thy pleasant smile, and voice of ringing mirth,
A silence and a darkness seems come down upon the earth;
A weight sits heavy on my heart, and clogs my weary feet,
For, wander where I will, thy glance I never more shall meet.

173

I cannot knit my soul again; my thoughts are wide astray
When others by my side would wile an hour or two away;
My door flings wide to welcome in some less familiar face,
And my heart struggles hard to fill thy ever vacant place;
But all in vain! Dim thoughts of thee across my bosom steal,
And still, the louder mirth around, the lonelier I feel;
Yea, even that should make me proud, the laurel wreath of Fame
But brings me back our early days, and the echo of thy name;
But brings me back thy cheerful smile, when yet a careless boy,
Mine was the toil, but thou didst share the glory and the joy;
And bright across the awarded prize thy kind eye answer'd mine,
As full of triumph and delight as though that prize were thine.
Yes! all is vain! I want not Wit, I want not Learning's power,
I want thy hand, I want thy smile to pass the cheerless hour;

174

I want thy earnest, honest voice, whose comfort never fail'd;
I want thy kindly glance, whose light no coldness ever veil'd;
I feel at every turn of life thy loss hath left me lone,
And I mourn the friend of boyhood's years, the friend for ever gone!

175

TO FERDINAND SEYMOUR.

Rosy child, with forehead fair,
Coral lip, and shining hair,
In whose mirthful, clever eyes
Such a world of gladness lies;
As thy loose curls idly straying
O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing,
Blend her soft lock's shadowy twine
With the glittering light of thine,—
Who shall say, who gazes now,
Which is fairest, she or thou?

In sweet contrast are ye met,
Such as heart could ne'er forget:
Thou art brilliant as a flower,
Crimsoning in the sunny hour;
Merry as a singing-bird,
In the green wood sweetly heard;

176

Restless as if fluttering wings
Bore thee on thy wanderings;
Ignorant of all distress,
Full of childhood's carelessness.

She is gentle; she hath known
Something of the echoed tone
Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes,
In this world of many woes.
On her brow such shadows are
As the faint cloud gives the star,
Veiling its most holy light,
Tho' it still be pure and bright;
And the colour in her cheek
To the hue on thine is weak,
Save when flush'd with sweet surprise,
Sudden welcomes light her eyes;
And her softly chisel'd face
(But for living, moving grace)
Looks like one of those which beam
In th' Italian painter's dream,—
Some beloved Madonna, bending
O'er the infant she is tending;

177

Holy, bright, and undefiled
Mother of the Heaven-born child;
Who, tho' painted strangely fair,
Seems but made for holy prayer,
Pity, tears, and sweet appeal,
And fondness such as angels feel;
Baffling earthly passion's sigh
With serenest majesty!

Oh! may those enshrouded years
Whose fair dawn alone appears,—
May that brightly budding life,
Knowing yet nor sin nor strife,—
Bring its store of hoped-for joy,
Mother, to thy laughing boy!
And the good thou dost impart
Lie deep-treasured in his heart,
That, when he at length shall strive
In the bad world where we live,
Thy sweet name may still be blest
As one who taught his soul true rest!

Maiden-Bradley, 1838.

178

THE WINTER'S WALK.

[_]

[Written after walking with Mr. Rogers.]

Mark'd—as the hours should be, Fate bids us spend
With one illustrious, or a cherish'd friend—
Rich in the value of that double claim,
Since Fame allots the friend a Poet's name,—
My “Winter's Walk” asserts its right to live
Amongst the brightest thoughts my life can give,
And leaves a track of light on Memory's way
Which oft shall gild the future Summer's day.

Gleam'd the red sun athwart the misty haze
Which veil'd the cold earth from its loving gaze,
Feeble and sad as Hope in Sorrow's hour,—
But for thy soul it still had warmth and power;
Not to its cheerless beauty wert thou blind,
To the keen eye of thy poetic mind

179

Beauty still lives, tho' nature's flow'rets die,
And wintry sunsets fade along the sky!
And nought escaped thee as we stroll'd along,
Nor changeful ray, nor bird's faint chirping song;
Bless'd with a fancy easily inspired,
All was beheld, and nothing unadmired;
Not one of all God's blessings giv'n in vain,
From the dim city to the clouded plain.

And many an anecdote of other times,—
Good earnest deeds,—quaint wit,—and polished rhymes,—
Many a sweet story of remembered years
Which thrilled the listening heart with unshed tears,—
Unweariedly thy willing tongue rehearsed,
And made the hour seem brief as we conversed.

Ah! who can e'er forget, who once hath heard,
The gentle charm that dwells in every word
Of thy calm converse? In its kind allied
To some fair river's bright abundant tide,
Whose silver gushing current onward goes,
Fluent and varying; yet with such repose

180

As smiles even through the flashings of thy wit,
In every eddy that doth ruffle it.
Who can forget, who at thy social board
Hath sat,—and seen the pictures richly stored,
In all their tints of glory and of gloom,
Brightening the precincts of thy quiet room;
With busts and statues full of that deep grace
Which modern hands have lost the skill to trace,
(Fragments of beauty—perfect as thy song
On that sweet land to which they did belong,)
Th' exact and classic taste by thee displayed;
Not with a rich man's idle fond parade,
Not with the pomp of some vain connoisseur
Proud of his bargains, of his judgment sure,
But with the feelings kind and sad, of one
Who thro' far countries wandering hath gone,
And brought away dear keepsakes, to remind
His heart and home of all he left behind.

But wherefore these, in feeble rhyme recal?
Thy taste, thy wit, thy verse, are known to all;
Such things are for the World, and therefore doth
The World speak of them; loud, and nothing loth

181

To fancy that the talent stamped by Heaven
Is nought unless their echoed praise be given,
A worthless ore not yet allowed to shine,
A diamond darkly buried in its mine.
These are thy daylight qualities, whereon
Beams the full lustre of their garish sun,
And the keen point of many a famed reply
Is what they would not “willingly let die.”
But by a holier light thy angel reads
The unseen records of more gentle deeds,—
And by a holier light thy angel sees
The tear oft shed for humble miseries,—
The alms dropp'd gently in the beggar's hand,
(Who in his daily poverty doth stand
Watching for kindness on thy pale calm brow,
Ignorant to whom he breathes his grateful vow).
Th' indulgent hour of kindness stol'n away
From the free leisure of thy well-spent day,
For some poor struggling Son of Genius, bent
Under the weight of heart-sick discontent;
Whose prayer thou hearest, mindful of the schemes
Of thine own youth;—the hopes, the fever-dreams
Of Fame and Glory which seemed hovering then,
(Nor only seemed) upon thy magic pen;

182

And measuring not how much beneath thine own
Is the sick mind thus pining to be known,
But only what a wealth of hope lies hushed
As in a grave,—when men like these are crushed!

And by that light's soft radiance I review
Thy unpretending kindness, calm and true,
Not to me only,—but in bitterest hours
To one whom Heaven endowed with varied powers;
To one who died, e'er yet my childish heart
Knew what Fame meant, or Slander's fabled dart!
Then was the laurel green upon his brow,
And they could flatter then, who judge him now;
Who, when the fickle breath of fortune changed,
With equal falsehood held their love estranged;
Nay, like mean wolves, from whelp-hood vainly nurst,
Tore at the easy hand that fed them first.
Not so didst thou the ties of friendship break—
Not so didst thou the saddened man forsake;
And when at length he laid his dying head
On the hard rest of his neglected bed,
He found,—(tho' few or none around him came
Whom he had toiled for in his hour of Fame;—

183

Though by his Prince, unroyally forgot,
And left to struggle with his altered lot;—)
By sorrow weakened,—by disease unnerved,—
Faithful at least the friend he had not served:
For the same voice essayed that hour to cheer,
Which now sounds welcome to his grandchild's ear;
And the same hand, to aid that Life's decline,
Whose gentle clasp so late was linked in mine!

184

THE REPRIEVE.

[_]

[Suggested by a beautiful little Picture painted by J.R.Herbert, Esq.,representing, in the foreground, a Woman pleading with a Warrior, and, in the background, preparations for an Execution.]

A moment since, he stood unmoved—alone,
Courage and thought on his resolvèd brow;
But hope is quivering in the broken tone,
Whose bitter anguish seems to shake him now:
Her light foot woke no echo as it came,
The rustling robe her sudden swiftness told;
She pleads for one who dies a death of shame;
She pleads—for agony and love are bold.

“Oh! hear me, thou, who in the sunshine's glare
So calmly waitest till the warning bell
Shall of the closing hour of his despair
In gloomy notes of muffled triumph tell.

185

Let him not die! Avenging Heaven is just;
Thine, a like fate in after years may be:
Thy forfeit head may gasping bite the dust,
While those thou lovest, plead in vain for thee!
Thou smilest sternly: thou could'st well brave death;
Hast braved it often on the tented field.
So fought my hero on th' ensanguined heath,
With desperate strength, that knew not how to yield:
But oh! the death whose punctual hour is set,
And waited for mid lingering thoughts of pain;
Where no excitement bids the heart forget,
And skill and courage are alike in vain;
Who shall find strength for that?—Oh! man, to whom
Fate, chance, or what thou wilt, hath given this hour—
Upon whose will depends his dreaded doom—
Doth it not awe thee, thinking of thy power?
In the wide battle's hot and furious rage,
Where the mix'd banners flutter to and fro,
Where all alike the desperate combat wage,
One of a thousand swords may pierce him through:
But, now, his life is in thy single hand:
To thee the strange and startling power is given—
And thou shalt answer for this day's command
When ye stand face to face in God's own Heaven.

186

Bear with me! pardon me this sudden start!
My words are bitter, for my heart is sore;
And oh! dark soldier of the iron heart,
Fain would I learn the speech should touch thee more!
He hath a mother—age hath dimm'd her sight—
But when his quick returning step comes nigh,
She smiles, as though she saw a sudden light,
And turns to bless him with a stifled sigh.
When to her arms a lonely wretch I go,
And she doth ask for him, the true and brave,
While on her cheek faint smiles of welcome glow,
How shall I answer ‘he is in the grave!’
He hath a little son—a mirthful boy,
Whose coral lips with ready smiles are curl'd;
Wilt thou quench all the spring-time of his joy,
And leave him orphan in a friendless world?
Hast thou no children?—Do no visions come,
When the low night-wind through the poplar grieves—
Echoes of farewell voices—sounds of home—
For which thy busy day no leisure leaves?
Some one doth love thee—some one thou dost love—
(For such the blessed lot of all on earth,)
Some one to whom thy thoughts oft fondly rove,
The sharer of thy sorrows and thy mirth;

187

Who with dim weeping eyes, and thoughts that burn,
Sees thy proud form lead forth th' embattled host;
To whom ‘a victory’ speaks of thy return—
And ‘a defeat’ means only thou art lost!
If such there be, (and on thy helm-worn brow
Sternness, not cruelty, doth seem to reign,)
Think it is she, who kneels before thee now,
Her heart which bursts with agony of pain.

“Hark!—-'Tis the warning stroke—his hour is come—
I hear the bell slow clanging on the air—
I hear the beating of the muffled drum—
Thou hast a moment yet to save and spare!
Oh! when returning to thy native land,
Greeted with grateful tears and loud acclaim;
While gazing on thy homeward march they stand,
And smiling children shout thy welcome name:
How wilt thou bear the joyous village chimes,
Whose ringing peals remind thee of to-day—
Will not my image haunt thee at those times?
And my hoarse desperate voice seem yet to pray?
When thy long term of bloody toil is past,
And the hush'd trumpet calls no more to arms—
Will not his death thy tranquil brow o'ercast,
And rob that peaceful hour of half its charms?

188

When thy child's mother bends thy lip to press,
And her true hand lies clasp'd within thine own—
Will her low voice have perfect power to bless,
Remembering me, the widow'd and the lone?
When they embrace thee—when they welcome thee—-
By all my hopes of Heaven, thy brow relents!
Oh! sign the paper—let his life go free—
Give it me quick!”—
“What ho! Raise her—the woman faints!”

189

THE FAITHFUL GUARDIAN.

[_]

[Suggested by Mr. Edwin Landseer's celebrated Picture of the Marquis of Abercorn's Children.]

Two beautiful and rosy babes are pictured here alone,
Two infants of a noble race, as any near the throne:—
And, in the cradle's shadow, lies a stately-looking hound,
His fine limbs full of strength and grace, couched humbly on the ground:
Humbly upon the ground lies he: while from the young child's arm
A jealous spaniel snarling peeps, whom no caress can charm;
Though close that dimpled arm is bent, as though its clasp would fain
Its spoiled companion's idle wrath to gentleness restrain;

190

Small need of care! The stately hound, still calm and couchant lies,
With lazy kindness lifting up his wise and honest eyes;
Declaring by the emblem meet of his serene repose,
How frankly generous hearts can bear the baiting of mean foes.

Not so, O! noble-natured brute, would'st thou quiescent rest,
If the sound of danger roused the blood within thy valiant breast;
If near these helpless little fays,—thy master's children—came
The doubtful tread of stranger's feet, on whom they had no claim;

Then, then, upspringing with a bound,—aroused for their defence,—
Each nerve would arm with savage strength thy keen and eager sense,
And the darkly gleaming eyes where now such softened shadows play,
Would burn like watch-fires, lit at night, to scare the foe away.

191

And were the danger real to these, by whom thy watch is kept,—
E'er a rough hand should dare profane the cradle where they slept,
E'er a rude step should reach the spot where now they smile at play,—
Thy fangs would meet within his throat, to hold the wretch at bay!

Thou would'st battle, noble creature, for these children of thy lord's,
As men fight for a Royal Prince, whose crown hangs on their swords;—
Soldiers, who hear their General's cry, by treachery hemm'd in,—
Freemen, who strike for home and hearth, 'gainst Tyranny's proud sin,—
So would'st thou strive! And bold were he who then could lay thee low,
For still thy fierce and mighty grasp would pin the struggling foe,
And if keen sword, or human skill, cut short thy gasping breath,
Should he be thought thy conqueror?—No!—Thy conqueror would be
Death.

192

Oh, tried and trusted! Thou whose love ne'er changes nor forsakes,
Thou proof how perfect God hath stamped the meanest thing he makes;
Thou, whom no snare entraps to serve, no art is used to tame,—
(Train'd, like ourselves, thy path to know, by words of love and blame;)
Friend! who beside the cottage door, or in the rich man's hall,
With steadfast faith still answerest the one familiar call,—
Well by poor hearth and lordly home thy couchant form may rest,
And Prince and Peasant trust thee still, to guard what they love best!

193

THE FORSAKEN.

[_]

[Suggested by an Italian picture, of a dying girl, to whom the lute is being played.]

I

It is the music of her native land,—
The airs she used to love in happier days;
The lute is struck by some young gentle hand,
To soothe her spirit with remember'd lays.

II

But her sad heart is wandering from the notes,
Her ear is fill'd with an imagined strain;
Vainly the soften'd music round her floats,
The echo it awakes is all of pain!

III

The echo it awakes, is of a voice
Which never more her weary heart shall cheer;
Fain would she banish it, but hath no choice,
Its vanish'd sound still haunts her shrinking ear,—

194

IV

Still haunts her with its tones of joy and love,
Its memories of bitterness and wrong,
Bidding her thoughts thro' various changes rove,—
Welcomes, farewells, and snatches of wild song.

V

Why bring her music? She had half forgot
How left, how lonely, how oppress'd she was;
Why, by these strains, recal her former lot,
The depth of all her suffering, and its cause?

VI

Know ye not what a spell there is in sound?
Know ye not that the melody of words
Is nothing to the power that wanders round,
Giving vague language to harmonious chords?

VII

Oh! keep ye silence! He hath sung to her,
And from that hour—(faint twilight, sweet and dim,
When the low breeze scarce made the branches stir)—
Music hath been a memory of him!

195

VIII

Chords which the wandering fingers scarcely touch
When they would seek for some forgotten song,—
Stray notes which have no certain meaning, such
As careless hands unthinkingly prolong,—

IX

Come unto her, fraught with a vivid dream
Of love, in all its wild and passionate strength,—
Of sunsets, glittering on the purple stream,—
Of shadows, deepening into twilight length,—

X

Of gentle sounds, when the warm world lay hush'd
Beneath the soft breath of the evening air,—
Of hopes and fears, and expectations crush'd,
By one long certainty of blank despair!

XI

Bear to the sick man's couch the fiery cup,
Pledged by wild feasters in their riotous hours,
And bid his parch'd lips drink the poison up,
As tho' its foam held cool refreshing powers,—

196

XII

Lift some poor wounded wretch, whose writhing pain
Finds soothing only in an utter rest,
Forth in some rude-made litter, to regain
Strength for his limbs and vigour for his breast;—

XIII

But soothe ye not that proud forsaken heart
With strains whose sweetness maddens as they fall;
Untroubled let her feverish soul depart—
Not long shall memory's power its might enthral;

XIV

Not long,—tho' balmy be the summer's breath!
In the deep stillness of its golden light,
A shadowy spirit sits, whose name is Death,
And turns, what was all beauty, into blight;

XV

And she, before whose sad and dreaming eye
Visions of by-gone days are sweeping on,
In her unfaded youth shall drooping die,
Shut from the glow of that Italian sun:

197

XVI

Then let the organ's solemn notes prolong
Their glory round the silence of her grave,
Then let the choral voices swell in song
And echo thro' the chancel and the nave;

XVII

For then her heart shall ache not at the sound,
Then the faint fever of her life shall cease;
Silence, unbroken, calm, shall reign around,
And the long restless shall be laid at peace.

198

THE VISIONARY PORTRAIT.

I

As by his lonely hearth he sate,
The shadow of a welcome dream
Pass'd o'er his heart,—disconsolate
His home did seem;
Comfort in vain was spread around,
For something still was wanting found.

II

Therefore he thought of one who might
For ever in his presence stay;
Whose dream should be of him by night,
Whose smile should be for him by day;
And the sweet vision, vague and far,
Rose on his fancy like a star.

199

III

“Let her be young, yet not a child,
Whose light and inexperienced mirth
Is all too wingéd and too wild
For sober earth,—
Too rainbow-like such mirth appears,
And fades away in misty tears.

IV

“Let youth's fresh rose still gently bloom
Upon her smooth and downy cheek,
Yet let a shadow, not of gloom,
But soft and meek,
Tell that some sorrow she hath known,
Tho' not a sorrow of her own.

V

“And let her eyes be of the grey,
The soft grey of the brooding dove,
Full of the sweet and tender ray
Of modest love;
For fonder shows that dreamy hue
Than lustrous black or heavenly blue.

200

VI

“Let her be full of quiet grace,
No sparkling wit with sudden glow
Bright'ning her purely chisell'd face
And placid brow;
Not radiant to the stranger's eye,—
A creature easily pass'd by;

VII

“But who, once seen, with untold power
For ever haunts the yearning heart,
Raised from the crowd that self-same hour
To dwell apart,
All sainted and enshrined to be
The idol of our memory!

VIII

“And oh! let Mary be her name—
It hath a sweet and gentle sound
At which no glories dear to fame
Come crowding round,
But which the dreaming heart beguiles
With holy thoughts and household smiles

201

IX

“With peaceful meetings, welcomes kind,
And love, the same in joy and tears,
And gushing intercourse of mind
Thro' faithful years;
Oh! dream of something half divine,
Be real—be mortal—and be mine!”

202

THE PICTURE OF SAPPHO.

I

Thou! whose impassion'd face
The Painter loves to trace,
Theme of the Sculptor's art and Poet's story—
How many a wand'ring thought
Thy loveliness hath brought,
Warming the heart with its imagined glory!

II

Yet, was it History's truth,
That tale of wasted youth,
Of endless grief, and Love forsaken pining?
What wert thou, thou whose woe
The old traditions show
With Fame's cold light around thee vainly shining?

203

III

Didst thou indeed sit there
In languid lone despair—
Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying—
Thy soft and earnest gaze
Watching the lingering rays
In the far west, where summer-day was dying—

IV

While with low rustling wings,
Among the quivering strings
The murmuring breeze faint melody was making,
As though it wooed thy hand
To strike with new command,
Or mourn'd with thee because thy heart was breaking?

V

Didst thou, as day by day
Roll'd heavily away,
And left thee anxious, nerveless, and dejected,
Wandering thro' bowers beloved—
Roving where he had roved—
Yearn for his presence, as for one expected?

204

VI

Didst thou, with fond wild eyes
Fix'd on the starry skies,
Wait feverishly for each new day to waken—
Trusting some glorious morn
Might witness his return,
Unwilling to believe thyself forsaken?

VII

And when conviction came,
Chilling that heart of flame,
Didst thou, O saddest of earth's grieving daughters!
From the Leucadian steep
Dash, with a desperate leap,
And hide thyself within the whelming waters?

VIII

Yea, in their hollow breast
Thy heart at length found rest!
The ever-moving waves above thee closing—
The winds, whose ruffling sigh
Swept the blue waters by,
Disturb'd thee not!—thou wert in peace reposing!

205

IX

Such is the tale they tell!
Vain was thy beauty's spell—
Vain all the praise thy song could still inspire—
Though many a happy band
Rung with less skilful hand
The borrowed love-notes of thy echoing lyre.

X

Fame, to thy breaking heart
No comfort could impart,
In vain thy brow the laurel wreath was wearing;
One grief and one alone
Could bow thy bright head down—
Thou wert a woman, and wert left despairing!

206

THE SENSE OF BEAUTY.

Spirit! who over this our mortal Earth,
Where nought hath birth
Which imperfection doth not some way dim,
Since Earth offended Him—
Thou who unseen, from out thy radiant wings
Dost shower down light o'er mean and common things;
And, wandering to and fro,
Through the condemn'd and sinful world dost go,
Haunting that wilderness, the human heart,
With gleams of glory that too soon depart,
Gilding both weed and flower;—
What is thy birth divine? and whence thy mighty power?

The Sculptor owns thee! On his high pale brow
Bewild'ring images are pressing now;
Groups whose immortal grace
His chisel ne'er shall trace,

207

Though in his mind the fresh creation glows;
High forms of godlike strength,
Or limbs whose languid length
The marble fixes in a sweet repose!
At thy command,
His true and patient hand
Moulds the dull clay to Beauty's richest line,
Or with more tedious skill,
Obedient to thy will,
By touches imperceptible and fine,
Works slowly day by day
The rough-hewn block away,
Till the soft shadow of the bust's pale smile
Wakes into statue-life and pays the assiduous toil!

Thee, the young Painter knows,—whose fervent eyes,
O'er the blank waste of canvas fondly bending,
See fast within its magic circle rise
Some pictured scene, with colours softly blending,—
Green bowers and leafy glades,
The old Arcadian shades,
Where thwarting glimpses of the sun are thrown,
And dancing nymphs and shepherds one by one

208

Appear to bless his sight
In Fancy's glowing light,
Peopling that spot of green Earth's flowery breast
With every attitude of joy and rest.

Lo! at his pencil's touch steals faintly forth
(Like an uprising star in the cold north)
Some face which soon shall glow with beauty's fire:
Dim seems the sketch to those who stand around,
Dim and uncertain as an echoed sound,
But oh! how bright to him, whose hand thou dost inspire!

Thee, also, doth the dreaming Poet hail,
Fond comforter of many a dreary day—
When through the clouds his Fancy's car can sail
To worlds of radiance far, how far, away!
At thy clear touch (as at the burst of light
Which Morning shoots along the purple hills,
Chasing the shadows of the vanish'd night,
And silvering all the darkly gushing rills,
Giving each waking blossom, gemm'd with dew,
Its bright and proper hue;)—
He suddenly beholds the chequered face
Of this old world in its young Eden grace!

209

Disease, and want, and sin, and pain, are not—
Nor homely and familiar things:—man's lot
Is like his aspirations—bright and high;
And even the haunting thought that man must die,
His dream so changes from its fearful strife,
Death seems but fainting into purer life!

Nor only these thy presence woo,
The less inspired own thee too!
Thou hast thy tranquil source
In the deep well-springs of the human heart,
And gushest with sweet force
When most imprison'd; causing tears to start
In the worn citizen's o'erwearied eye,
As, with a sigh,
At the bright close of some rare holiday,
He sees the branches wave, the waters play—
And hears the clock's far distant mellow chime
Warn him a busier world reclaims his time!

Thee, Childhood's heart confesses,—when he sees
The heavy rose-bud crimson in the breeze,

210

When the red coral wins his eager gaze,
Or the warm sunbeam dazzles with its rays.
Thee, through his varied hours of rapid joy,
The eager Boy,—
Who wild across the grassy meadow springs,
And still with sparkling eyes
Pursues the uncertain prize,
Lured by the velvet glory of its wings!

And so from youth to age—yea, till the end—
An unforsaking, unforgetting friend,
Thou hoverest round us! And when all is o'er,
And Earth's most loved illusions please no more,
Thou stealest gently to the couch of Death;
There, while the lagging breath
Comes faint and fitfully, to usher nigh
Consoling visions from thy native sky,
Making it sweet to die!
The sick man's ears are faint—his eyes are dim—
But his heart listens to the Heavenward hymn,
And his soul sees—in lieu of that sad band,
Who come with mournful tread
To kneel about his bed,—
God's white-robed angels, who around him stand,
And waive his Spirit to “the Better Land!”

211

So, living,—dying,—still our hearts pursue
That loveliness which never met our view;
Still to the last the ruling thought will reign,
Nor deem one feeling given—was giv'n in vain!
For it may be, our banish'd souls recal
In this, their earthly thrall,
(With the sick dreams of exiles,) that far world
Whence angels once were hurl'd;
Or it may be, a faint and trembling sense,
Vague, as permitted by Omnipotence,
Foreshows the immortal radiance round us shed,
When the Imperfect shall be perfected!
Like the chain'd eagle in his fetter'd might,
Straining upon the Heavens his wistful sight,
Who toward the upward glory fondly springs
With all the vain strength of his shivering wings,—
So chain'd to earth, and baffled—yet so fond
Of the pure sky which lies so far beyond,
We make the attempt to soar in many a thought
Of Beauty born, and into Beauty wrought;
Dimly we struggle onwards:—who shall say
Which glimmering light leads nearest to the Day?

212

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

I

When first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

II

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that lean'd to Heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given—
Obedient—easy to be reconciled—
And meekly-cheerful—such wert thou, my child!

213

III

Not willing to be left; still by my side
Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying;—
Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide
Thro' the dark room where I was sadly lying,
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.

IV

O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made
Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness,—prone to fade,—
And bending weakly to the thunder-shower,—
Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,
And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind!

V

Then thou, my merry love;—bold in thy glee,
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free,
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,
Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth!

214

VI

Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy!
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth;
Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,
And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth;
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply,
Lurk'd in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye!

VII

And thine was many an art to win and bless,
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming;
The coaxing smile;—the frequent soft caress;—
The earnest tearful prayer all wrath disarming!
Again my heart a new affection found,
But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound.

VIII

At length thou camest; thou, the last and least;
Nick-named “The Emperor” by thy laughing brothers,
Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast,
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others;
Mingling with every playful infant wile
A mimic majesty that made us smile:—

215

IX

And oh! most like a regal child wert thou!
An eye of resolute and successful scheming!
Fair shoulders—curling lip—and dauntless brow—
Fit for the world's strife, not for Poet's dreaming:
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

X

Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim,
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;
Nor injured either, by this love's comparing,
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call—
But in the Mother's Heart, found room for all!

216

MAY-DAY, 1837.

I

May-day is come!—While yet the unwilling Spring
Checks with capricious frown the opening year,
Onward, where bleak winds have been whispering,
The punctual Hours their ancient playmate bear;
But those who long have look'd for thee, stand by,
Like men who welcome back a friend bereaved,
And cannot smile, because his sadden'd eye
Doth mutely tell them how his soul is grieved.
Even thus we greet thine alter'd face to-day,
Thou friend in mourning garb!—chill, melancholy May!

217

II

To thee the first and readiest smiles of Earth,
Lovely with life renew'd, were always given,—
To thee belong'd the sunshine and the mirth
Which bathed all Nature with a glow from Heaven,—
To thee the joy of Childhood's earnest heart,
His shouting song, and light elastic tread,
His brows high arch'd, and laughing lips apart,
Bright as the wreath that bound his rosy head:—
Thou wert of Innocence the holiday,
Thou garlanded and glad!—thou ever-blooming May!

III

Yet will I not reproach thee for thy change:
Closed be the flower, and leafless be the tree!
Smile not as thou wert wont; but sad, and strange,
And joyless, let thy tardy coming be!
So shall I miss those infant voices less,
Calling each other through the garden bowers,
Meeting and parting in wild happiness,
Leading a light dance thro' the sunny hours;
Those little mirthful hearts, who, far away,
Breathe, amid cloud-capp'd hills, a yet more wintry May!

218

IV

Ah, boys! your play-ground is a desert spot,
Revisited alone, and bathed with tears;
And where ye pass your May-day, knoweth not
The mother who hath watch'd your dawning years.
Mine is no more the joy to see ye come,
And deem each step hath some peculiar grace!
Yours is no more the mother's welcome home,
Smiling at each beloved, familiar face!
And I am thankful that this dreary May
Recals not, save by name, that brighter, happier day!

V

I should have felt more mock'd, if there had been
More peace and sunshine round me,—had the grove,
Clad in transparent leaves of tender green,
Been full of murm'ring sounds of Nature's love;
I should have wept more bitterly beneath
The frail laburnum trees, so faint and fair,—
I should have sicken'd at the lilac's breath,
Thrown by the warm sun on the silent air;
But now, with stern regret I wend my way—
I know thee not,—thou cold, and unfamiliar May!

219

THE FEVER-DREAM.

It was a fever-dream; I lay
Awake, as in the broad bright day,
But faint and worn I drew my breath
Like those who wait for coming death;
And my hand lay helpless on my pillow
Weak as a reed or bending willow;
And the night-lamp, with its shadowy veil,
And its light so sickly, faint, and pale,
Gleamed mournfully on objects round;
And the clock's stroke was the only sound;
Measuring the hours of silent time
With a heavy and unwelcome chime,
As still monotonously true
To its pulse-like beat, the minutes flew.

I was alone, but not asleep;
Too weary, and too weak to weep,

220

My eyes had closed in sadness there;
And they who watched o'er my despair
Had placed that dim light in the room,
And deepened the surrounding gloom,
By curtaining out the few sad rays
Which made things present to my gaze;
And all because they vainly thought
At last the night its rest had brought,—
Alas! rest came no more to me
So heavy was my misery!

They left me, and my heart was filled
With wandering dreams, whose fancies thrilled
Painfully through my feeble brain,
Till I almost wished them back again.
Yet wherefore should I bid them stay?
They could not chase those dreams away,
But only watch me as I lay.

They left me, and the midnight stroke
From the old clock the silence broke;

221

And with a wild repining sigh
I wished it were my time to die!
And then, with spirit all dismayed,
For that wild wish, forgiveness prayed,
Humbling myself to God's high power
To bear His will, and wait His hour.

And while I darkly rested there,
The breath of a young child's floating hair,
Perfumed, and warm, and glistening bright,
Swept past me in the shrouding night;—
And the footsteps of children, light and quick,
(While my heart beat loud, and my breath came thick)
Went to and fro on the silent floor;—
And the lock was turned in the fastened door,
As a child may turn it, who tiptoe stands
With his fair round arms and his dimpled hands,
Putting out all their strength in vain
Admittance by his own means to gain:
Till his sweet impatient voice is heard
Like the chirp of a young imprisoned bird,
Seeking an entrance still to win
By fond petitions to those within.

222

A child's soft shadowy hair, bright smiles,
His merry laugh, and coaxing wiles,
These are sweet things,—most precious things,—
But in spite of my brain's wild wanderings,
I knew that they dwelt in my fancy only,
And that I was sad, and left, and lonely;
And the fear of a dreadful madness came
And withered my soul like a parching flame;
And I felt the strong delirium growing,
And the thread of my feeble senses going,
And I heard with a horror all untold
Which turned my hot blood icy-cold,
Those light steps draw more near my bed;
And by visions I was visited,
Of the gentle eyes which I might not see,
And the faces that were so far from me!

And blest, oh! blest was the morning beam
Which woke me up from my fever-dream!

223

TO THE LADY H. O.

[Isle of Wight, September, 1838.]

I

Come o'er the green hills to the sunny sea!
The boundless sea that washeth many lands,
Where shells unknown to England, fair and free,
Lie brightly scatter'd on the gleaming sands.
There, 'midst the hush of slumbering ocean's roar,
We'll sit and watch the silver-tissued waves
Creep languidly along the basking shore,
And kiss thy gentle feet, like Eastern slaves.

II

And we will take some volume of our choice,
Full of a quiet poetry of thought,
And thou shalt read me, with thy plaintive voice,
Lines which some gifted mind hath sweetly wrought;

224

And I will listen, gazing on thy face,
(Pale as some cameo on the Italian shell!)
Or looking out across the far blue space,
Where glancing sails to gentle breezes swell.

III

Come forth! The sun hath flung on Thetis' breast
The glittering tresses of his golden hair;
All things are heavy with a noonday rest,
And floating sea-birds leave the stirless air.
Against the sky, in outlines clear and rude,
The cleft rocks stand, while sunbeams slant between;
And lulling winds are murmuring thro' the wood,
Which skirts the bright bay with its fringe of green.

IV

Come forth! All motion is so gentle now,
It seems thy step alone should walk the earth,—
Thy voice alone, the “ever soft and low,”
Wake the far-haunting echoes into birth.
Too wild would be Love's passionate store of hope,
Unmeet the influence of his changeful power,—
Ours be companionship, whose gentle scope
Hath charm enough for such a tranquil hour.

225

V

And slowly, idly wandering, we will roam,
Where the high cliffs shall give us ample shade;
And watch the glassy waves, whose wrathful foam
Hath power to make the seaman's heart afraid.
Seek thou no veil to shroud thy soft brown hair,—
Wrap thou no mantle round thy graceful form;
The cloudless sky smiles forth as still and fair
As tho' earth ne'er could know another storm.

VI

Come! Let not listless sadness make delay,—
Beneath Heaven's light that sadness will depart;
And as we wander on our shoreward way,
A strange, sweet peace shall enter in thine heart.
We will not weep, nor talk of vanish'd years,
When, link by link, Hope's glittering chain was riven:
Those who are dead, shall claim from love no tears,—
Those who have injured us, shall be forgiven.

VII

Few have my summers been, and fewer thine;—
Youth blighted is the weary lot of both:
To both, all lonely shows our life's decline,
Both with old friends and ties have waxéd wroth.

226

But yet we will not weep! The breathless calm
Which lulls the golden earth, and wide blue sea,
Shall pour into our souls mysterious balm,
And fill us with its own tranquillity.

VIII

We will not mar the scene—we will not look
To the veil'd future, or the shadowy past;
Seal'd up shall be sad Memory's open book,
And childhood's idleness return at last!
Joy, with his restless, ever-fluttering wings,
And Hope, his gentle brother,—all shall cease:
Like weary hinds that seek the desert springs,
Our one sole feeling shall be peace—deep peace!

227

THE FALLEN LEAVES.

I

We stand among the fallen leaves,
Young children at our play,
And laugh to see the yellow things
Go rustling on their way:
Right merrily we hunt them down,
The autumn winds and we,
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifts lie,
Or sunbeams gild the tree:
With dancing feet we leap along
Where wither'd boughs are strown;
Nor past nor future checks our song—
The present is our own.

228

II

We stand among the fallen leaves
In youth's enchanted spring—
When Hope (who wearies at the last)
First spreads her eagle wing.
We tread with steps of conscious strength
Beneath the leafless trees,
And the colour kindles on our cheek
As blows the winter breeze;
While, gazing towards the cold grey sky,
Clouded with snow and rain,
We wish the old year all past by,
And the young spring come again.

III

We stand among the fallen leaves
In manhood's haughty prime—
When first our pausing hearts begin
To love “the olden time;”
And, as we gaze, we sigh to think
How many a year hath pass'd
Since 'neath those cold and faded trees
Our footsteps wander'd last;

229

And old companions—now perchance
Estranged, forgot, or dead—
Come round us, as those autumn leaves
Are crush'd beneath our tread.

IV

We stand among the fallen leaves
In our own autumn day—
And, tott'ring on with feeble steps,
Pursue our cheerless way.
We look not back—too long ago
Hath all we loved been lost;
Nor forward—for we may not live
To see our new hope cross'd:
But on we go—the sun's faint beam
A feeble warmth imparts—
Childhood without its joy returns—
The present fills our hearts!

230

THE AUTUMN WIND.

I

Hush, moaning autumn wind! be still, be still!
Thy grieving voice forbiddeth hearts to rest;
We hear thee sweeping down the lonely hill,
And mournful thoughts crowd o'er the human breast.
Why wilt thou haunt us, with thy voice unkind,
Sadd'ning the earth? Hush, moaning autumn wind!

II

Toss not the branching trees so wildly high,
Filling the forest with thy dreary sound:
Without thy aid the hues of summer die,
And the sear leaves fall scatter'd to the ground.
Thou dost but hasten, needlessly unkind,
The winter's task, thou moaning autumn wind!

231

III

Sweep not thro' Ocean's caves with hollow roar,
Driving our fair ships to some rock-bound strand!
While the vex'd sea foams wrathful to the shore,
The seaman's wife looks shuddering from the land,
And widow'd hearts for many a year shall find
Death in thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind!

IV

Round our calm dwellings, when our hearths are gay,
Roam not, oh howling spirit of Despair!
As tho' thou wert a creature seeking prey,
And where the land look'd richest, found it there.
We have enough of memories unkind
Without thy voice, thou moaning autumn wind!

V

Thee the sad mourner lists, and turns to weep,
In the blank silence of her lonely home;
The sick man hears, and starts from broken sleep,
And the night-wanderer sighs—compell'd to roam;
While the poor shiver, for their huts unkind
Bar thee not out, thou searching autumn wind!

232

VI

Back to the barren hill and lonely glen!
Here let the wandering of thy echoes cease;
Sadly thou soundest to the hearts of men,—
Hush thy wild voice, and let the earth have peace;
Or, if no chain thy restless will can bind,
Sweep thro' the desert, moaning autumn wind!

233

THE BLIND MAN'S BRIDE.

I

When first, beloved, in vanish'd hours
The blind man sought thy love to gain,
They said thy cheek was bright as flowers
New freshen'd by the summer rain:
They said thy movements, swift yet soft,
Were such as make the wingéd dove
Seem, as it gently soars aloft,
The image of repose and love.

II

They told me, too, an eager crowd
Of wooers praised thy beauty rare,
But that thy heart was all too proud
A common love to meet or share.

234

Ah! thine was neither pride nor scorn,
But in thy coy and virgin breast
Dwelt preference, not of passion born,
The love that hath a holier rest!

III

Days came and went;—thy step I heard
Pause frequent, as it pass'd me by:—
Days came and went;—thy heart was stirr'd,
And answer'd to my stifled sigh!
And thou didst make a humble choice,
Content to be the blind man's bride,
Who loved thee for thy gentle voice,
And own'd no joy on earth beside.

IV

And well by that sweet voice I knew
(Without the happiness of sight)
Thy years, as yet, were glad and few,—
Thy smile, most innocently bright:
I knew how full of love's own grace
The beauty of thy form must be;
And fancy idolized the face
Whose loveliness I might not see!

235

V

Oh! happy were those days, beloved!
I almost ceased for light to pine
When thro' the summer vales we roved,
Thy fond hand gently link'd in mine.
Thy soft “Good night” still sweetly cheer'd
The unbroken darkness of my doom;
And thy “Good morrow, love,” endear'd
Each sunrise that return'd in gloom!

VI

At length, as years roll'd swiftly on,
They spoke to me of Time's decay—
Of roses from thy smooth cheek gone,
And ebon ringlets turn'd to grey.
Ah! then I bless'd the sightless eyes
Which could not feel the deepening shade,
Nor watch beneath succeeding skies
Thy withering beauty faintly fade.

VII

I saw no paleness on thy cheek,
No lines upon thy forehead smooth,—
But still the blind man heard thee speak
In accents made to bless and soothe:

236

Still he could feel thy guiding hand
As thro' the woodlands wild we ranged,—
Still in the summer light could stand,
And know thy heart and voice unchanged.

VIII

And still, beloved, till life grows cold,
We'll wander 'neath a genial sky,
And only know that we are old
By counting happy years gone by:
For thou to me art still as fair
As when those happy years began,—
When first thou cam'st to soothe and share
The sorrows of a sightless man!

IX

Old Time, who changes all below,
To wean men gently for the grave,
Hath brought us no increase of woe,
And leaves us all he ever gave:
For I am still a helpless thing,
Whose darken'd world is cheer'd by thee—
And thou art she whose beauty's spring
The blind man vainly yearn'd to see!

237

THE WIDOW TO HER SON'S BETROTHED.

I

Ah, cease to plead with that sweet cheerful voice,
Nor bid me struggle with a weight of woe,
Lest from the very tone that says “rejoice”
A double bitterness of grief should grow;
Those words from thee convey no gladdening thought,
No sound of comfort lingers in their tone,
But by their means a haunting shade is brought
Of love and happiness for ever gone!

II

My son!—alas, hast thou forgotten him,
That thou art full of hopeful plans again?
His heart is cold—his joyous eyes are dim,—
For him the future is a word in vain!

238

He never more the welcome hours may share,
Nor bid Love's sunshine cheer our lonely home,—
How hast thou conquer'd all the long despair
Born of that sentence—He is in the tomb?

III

How can thy hand with cheerful fondness press
The hands of friends who still on earth may stay—
Remembering his most passionate caress
When the long parting summon'd him away?
How can'st thou keep from bitter weeping, while
Strange voices tell thee thou art brightly fair—
Remembering how he loved thy playful smile,
Kiss'd thy smooth cheek, and praised thy burnish'd hair?

IV

How can'st thou laugh? How can'st thou warble songs?
How can'st thou lightly tread the meadow-fields,
Praising the freshness which to spring belongs,
And the sweet incense which the hedge-flower yields?
Does not the many-blossom'd spring recal
Our pleasant walks through cowslip-spangled meads,—
The violet-scented lanes—the warm south-wall,
Where early flow'rets rear'd their welcome heads?

239

V

Does not remembrance darken on thy brow
When the wild rose a richer fragrance flings—
When the caressing breezes lift the bough,
And the sweet thrush more passionately sings;—
Dost thou not, then, lament for him whose form
Was ever near thee, full of earnest grace?
Does not the sudden darkness of the storm
Seem luridly to fall on Nature's face?

VI

It does to me! The murmuring summer breeze,
Which thou dost turn thy glowing cheek to meet,
For me sweeps desolately through the trees,
And moans a dying requiem at my feet!
The glistening river which in beauty glides,
Sparkling and blue with morn's triumphant light,
All lonely flows, or in its bosom hides
A broken image lost to human sight!

VII

But thou!—Ah! turn thee not in grief away;
I do not wish thy soul as sadly wrung—
I know the freedom of thy spirit's play,
I know thy bounding heart is fresh and young:

240

I know corroding Time will slowly break
The links which bound most fondly and most fast,
And Hope will be Youth's comforter, and make
The long bright Future overweigh the Past.

VIII

Only, when full of tears I raise mine eyes
And meet thine ever full of smiling light,
I feel as though thy vanish'd sympathies
Were buried in his grave, where all is night;
And when beside our lonely hearth I sit,
And thy light laugh comes echoing to my ear,
I wonder how the waste of mirth and wit
Hath still the power thy widow'd heart to cheer!

IX

Bear with me yet! Mine is a harsh complaint!
And thy youth's innocent lightheartedness
Should rather soothe me when my spirits faint
Than seem to mock my age's lone distress.
But oh! the tide of grief is swelling high,
And if so soon forgetfulness must be—
If, for the dead, thou hast no further sigh,
Weep for his Mot r!—Weep, young Bride, for me!

241

THE TRYST.

I

I went, alone, to the old familiar place
Where we often met,—
When the twilight soften'd thy bright and radiant face
And the sun had set.
All things around seem'd whispering of the past,
With thine image blent—
Even the changeful spray which the torrent cast
As it downward went!
I stood and gazed with a sad and heavy eye
On the waterfall—
And with a shouting voice of agony
On thy name did call!

242

II

With a yearning hope, from my wrung and aching heart
I call'd on thee—
And the lonely echoes from the rocks above
They answer'd me!
Glad and familiar as a household word
Was that cherish'd name—
But in that grieving hour, faintly heard,
'T was not the same!
Solemn and sad, with a distant knelling cry,
On my heart it fell—
'T was as if the word “Welcome” had been answer'd by
The word “Farewell!”

243

THE BANNER OF THE COVENANTERS.

[_]

[At the Mareschal College at Aberdeen, among other valuable curiosities, they show one of the banners formerly belonging to the Covenanters; it is of white silk, with the motto, “Spe Expecto,” in red letters; and underneath, the English inscription, “For Religion, King, and Kingdoms.” The banner is much torn, but otherwise in good preservation.]

I

Here, where the rain-drops may not fall, the sunshine doth not play,
Where the unfelt and distant breeze in whispers dies away;
Here, where the stranger paces slow along the silent halls,
Why mutely art thou hanging thus against the massive walls?
Thou, that hast seen blood shed for thee—that midst the battle-tide
Hast faintly lit the soldier's eye with triumph ere he died;
Bright banner, which hath witness'd oft the struggles of the free,
Emblem of proud and holy hope, is this a place for thee?

244

II

Wake! wave aloft, thou Banner! let every snowy fold
Float on our wild, unconquer'd hills, as in the days of old:
Hang out, and give again to Death a glory and a charm,
Where Heaven's pure dew may freshen thee, and Heaven's pure sunshine warm.
Wake, wave aloft!
I hear the silk low rustling on the breeze,
Which whistles through the lofty fir, and bends the birchen trees;
I hear the tread of warriors arm'd to conquer or to die;
Their bed or bier the heathery hill, their canopy the sky.

III

What, what is life or death to them? they only feel and know
Freedom is to be struggled for, with an unworthy foe—
Their homes—their hearths—the all for which their fathers, too, have fought,
And liberty to breathe the prayers their cradled lips were taught.

245

On, on they rush—like mountain streams resistlessly they sweep—
On! those who live are heroes now—and martyrs those who sleep!
While still the snow-white Banner waves above the field of strife,
With a proud triumph, as it were a thing of soul and life.

IV

They stand—they bleed—they fall! they make one brief and breathless pause,
And gaze with fading eyes upon the standard of their cause;—
Again they brave the strife of death, again each weary limb
Faintly obeys the warrior soul, tho' earth's best hopes grow dim;—
The mountain-rills are red with blood, the pure and quiet sky
Rings with the shouts of those who win, the groans of those who die;
Taken—re-taken—raised again, but soil'd with clay and gore,
Heavily, on the wild free breeze, that Banner floats once more.

246

V

I hear the wail of women now: the dreadful day is done:
God's creatures wait to strive and slay until to-morrow's sun:
I hear the heavy breathing of the weary ones who sleep,
The death-sob and the dying word, “the voice of them that weep;”
The half-choked grief of those who, while they stifle back their breath,
Scarce know if what they watch be hush'd in slumber or in death;
While mournfully, as if it knew and felt for their despair,
The moon-lit Banner flaps and falls upon the midnight air.

VI

Morning! the glad and glorious light! the waking of God's earth,
Which rouses men to stain with gore the soil that gave them birth.
In the still sunshine sleeps the hill, the stream, the distant town;
In the still sunshine—clogg'd and stiff—the battle-flag hangs down.

247

Peace is in Heaven, and Heaven's good gifts, but war is amongst men—
Red blood is pouring on the hill, wild shouts are in the glen;
'T is past—they sink, they bleed, they fly—that faint, enfeebled host,
Right is not might—the Banner-flag, the victory, are lost!

VII

Heaven's dew hath drunk the crimson drops which on the heather lay,
The rills that were so red with gore, go sparkling on their way;
The limbs that fought, the hearts that swell'd, are crumbled into dust,
The souls which strove are gone to meet the spirits of the just;
But that frail silken flag, for which, and under which, they fought,
(And which e'en now retains its power upon the soul of thought,)
Survives—a tatter'd, senseless thing—to meet the curious eye,
And wake a momentary dream of hopes and days gone by.

248

VIII

A momentary dream! oh! not for one poor transient hour,
Not for a brief and hurried day that flag exerts its power;
Full flashing on our dormant souls the firm conviction comes,
That what our fathers did for theirs, we could for our homes.
We, too, could brave the giant arm that seeks to chain each word,
And rule what form of prayer alone shall by our God be heard:
We, too, in triumph or defeat, could drain our heart's best veins,
While the good old cause of Liberty for Church and State remains!

249

THE ROCK OF THE BETRAYED.

I

It was a Highland chieftain's son
Gazed sadly from the hill:
And they saw him shrink from the autumn wind,
As its blast came keen and chill.

II

His stately mother saw,—and spoke
With the heartless voice of pride;
“'Tis well I have a stouter son
The border wars to ride.”

III

His jealous brother saw, and stood,
Red-hair'd, and fierce, and tall,
Muttering low words of fiendish hope
To be the lord of all.

250

IV

But sickly Allan heard them not,
As he look'd o'er land and lea;
He was thinking of the sunny climes
That lie beyond the sea.

V

He was thinking of the native land
Whose breeze he could not bear;
Whose wild free beauty he must leave,
To breathe a warmer air.

VI

He was dreaming of his childhood's haunts,
And his grey-hair'd father's praise;
And the chance of death which hung so near
And darken'd his young days.

VII

So he turn'd, and bade them both farewell,
With a calm and mournful smile;
And he spoke of dwelling far away,
But only for a while.

251

VIII

And if a pang of bitter grief
Shot wildly through his heart,
No man heard Allan Douglas sigh,
Nor saw the tear-drop start:

IX

For he left in Scotland none who cared
If e'er he should return,
In castle hall, or cottage low,
By river or by burn.

X

Only upon the heather brae
His quivering lip he press'd;
And clasp'd the senseless birchen tree,
And strain'd it to his breast;

XI

Because the human heart is full
Of love that must be given,
However check'd, estranged, and chill'd,
To something under Heaven.

252

XII

And these things had been friends to him
Thro' a life of lonely hours—
The blue lake, and the waving birch,
And the low broom's scented flowers.

XIII

Twice had the snow been on the hills,
And twice the soft spring rain,
When Allan Douglas bent his way
To his native land again.

XIV

More healthful glow'd his hollow cheek,
His step was firm and free,
And he brought a fair Italian girl
His bonny bride to be.

XV

But darkly sneer'd his brother cold,
When he saw that maiden fair,
“Is a foreign minion come to wed
The Highland chieftain's heir?”

253

XVI

And darkly gloom'd the mother's brow
As she said, “Am I so old,
That a stranger must so soon come here
The castle keys to hold?”

XVII

Then spoke the young Italian girl
With a sweet and modest grace,
As she lifted up her soft black eyes
And look'd them in the face:

XVIII

“A stranger and an orphan comes
To Allan's native land,
And she needs the mother's welcome smile,
And the brother's friendly hand.

XIX

“Be thine! oh, stately lady—thine—
The rule that thou dost crave,
For Allan's love is all I earn'd,
And all I seek to have.

254

XX

“And trust me, brother, tho' my words
In foreign accents fall,
The heart is of no country born,
And my heart will love you all.”

XXI

But vain the music of her tongue
Against the hate they bore;
And when a babe her love had bless'd
They hated her the more.

XXII

They hated her the more because
That babe must be the heir,
And his dark and lovely eyes at times
His mother's look would wear.

XXIII

But lo! the keen cold winter came
With many a bitter blast:
It pierced thro' sickly Allan's frame,—
He droop'd and died at last!

255

XXIV

Oh! mournfully at early morn
That young wife sat and wept,—
And mournfully, when day was done,
To her widow'd couch she crept,—

XXV

And mournfully at noon she rock'd
The baby on her knee;
“There is no pity in their hearts,
My child, for thee and me.

XXVI

“There was no pity in their hearts
For him who is at rest:
How should they feel for his young son
Who slumbers at my breast?”

XXVII

The red-hair'd brother saw her tears,
And said, “Nay, cease thy moan—
Come forth into the morning air,
And weep no more alone!”

256

XXVIII

The proud step-mother chid her woe;—
“Even for thy infant's sake
Go forth into the morning air,
And sail upon the lake!”

XXIX

There seem'd some feeling for her state;
Their words were fair and mild;
Yet she shudder'd as she whisper'd low,
“God shield me and my child!”

XXX

“Come!” said dead Allan's brother stern,
“Why dost thou tremble so?
“Come!”—and with doubt and fear perplex'd,
The lady rose to go.

XXXI

They glided over the glassy lake,
'Till its lulling murmur smote,
With a death-like omen, to and fro',
Against the heaving boat.

257

XXXII

And no one spoke;—that brother still
His face averted kept,
And the lady's tears fell fast and free
O'er her infant as it slept.

XXXIII

The cold faint evening breeze sprang up
And found them floating on;
They glided o'er the glassy lake
Till the day's last streak was gone—

XXXIV

Till the day's last streak had died away
From the chill and purple strand,
And a mist was on the water's face
And a damp dew on the land;

XXXV

Till you could not trace the living hue
Of lip, or cheek, or eye,
But the outline of each countenance
Drawn dark against the sky.

258

XXXVI

And all things had a ghastly look,
An aspect strange and drear;—
The lady look'd to the distant shore
And her heart beat wild with fear.

XXXVII

There is a rock whose jutting height
Stands frowning o'er that lake,
Where the faintest call of the bugle horn
The echo's voice will wake:—

XXXVIII

And there the water lifts no wave
To the breeze, so fresh and cool,
But lies within the dark rock's curve,
Like a black and gloomy pool.

XXXIX

Its depth is great,—a stone thrown in
Hath a dull descending sound,
The plummet hath not there been cast
Which resting-place hath found.

259

XL

And scatter'd firs and birch-trees grow
On the summit, here and there—
Lonely and joylessly they wave,
Like an old man's thin grey hair.

XLI

But not to nature's hand it owes
Its mournfulness alone,
For vague tradition gives the spot
A horror of its own.

XLII

The boatman doffs his cap beneath
Its dark o'er-hanging shade,
And whispers low its Gaelic name,—
“The Rock of the Betray'd.”

XLIII

And when the wind, which never curls
That pool, goes sweeping by,
Bending the firs and birchen trees
With a low and moaning sigh,—

260

XLIV

He'll tell you that the sound which comes
So strange, and faint, and dim,
Is only heard at one set hour,
And call'd “the Lady's Hymn.”

261

THE LAMENT FOR SHUIL DONALD'S DAUGHTER.

I

In old Shuil Donald's cottage there are many voices weeping,
And stifled sobs, and murmurings of sorrow wild and vain,
For the old man's cherish'd blessing on her bed of death lies sleeping,—
The sleep from which no human wish can rouse her soul again.
Oh, dark are now those gentle eyes which shone beneath their lashes
So full of laughter and of love—it seems but yesterday—
Well may Shuil Donald mourn beside his hearth's forsaken ashes,
His lily of the valley is wither'd away!

262

II

The spring shall come to other hearts with breezes and with showers,
But lonely winter still shall reign in old Shuil Donald's home;
Others may raise the song of joy, and laugh away the hours,
But he—oh! never more may joy to his lone dwelling come.
Her name shall be an empty sound, in idle converse spoken,
Forgotten shall she be by those who mourn her most to-day—
All, all but one, who wanders with his Highland spirit broken,
His lily of the valley is wither'd away!

III

And he—long, long, at even-tide, when sunset rays are gleaming,
That sad old man shall sit within his lonely cottage door,
Desolate, desolate shall sit, and muse with idle dreaming
On days when her returning step came quick across the moor.

263

Oh! never more her quiet smile, her cheerful voice of greeting,
Shall rouse to warmth his aged heart, when darkly sinks the day—
Never, oh! never more on earth those loved ones may be meeting—
His lily of the valley is wither'd away!

264

WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH.

“Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country.”— Jeremiah xxii. 10.

I

Weep not for him that dieth—
For he sleeps, and is at rest;
And the couch whereon he lieth
Is the green earth's quiet breast:
But weep for him who pineth
On a far land's hateful shore,
Who wearily declineth
Where ye see his face no more!

II

Weep not for him that dieth,
For friends are round his bed,
And many a young lip sigheth
When they name the early dead;

265

But weep for him that liveth
Where none will know or care,
When the groan his faint heart giveth
Is the last sigh of despair.

III

Weep not for him that dieth,
For his struggling soul is free,
And the world from which it flieth
Is a world of misery;
But weep for him that weareth
The captive's galling chain:
To the agony he beareth,
Death were but little pain.

IV

Weep not for him that dieth,
For he hath ceased from tears,
And a voice to his replieth
Which he hath not heard for years;
But weep for him who weepeth
On that cold land's cruel shore—
Blest, blest is he that sleepeth,—
Weep for the dead no more!

266

THE CHILD OF EARTH.

I

Fainter her slow step falls from day to day,
Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow;
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,
“I am content to die, but, oh! not now!
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring
Make the warm air such luxury to breathe;
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing;
Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe.
Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow!
I am content to die—but, oh! not now!”

267

II

The spring hath ripen'd into summer-time,
The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reach'd his burning prime;
Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last?
“Let me not perish while o'er land and lea
With silent steps the lord of light moves on;
Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee
Greets my dull ear with music in its tone!
Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow;
I am content to die—but, oh! not now!”

III

Summer is gone, and autumn's soberer hues
Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn;
The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,
Shouts the halloo, and winds his eager horn.
“Spare me awhile to wander forth and gaze
On the broad meadows and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays
Slant thro' the fading trees with ruddy gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow;
I am content to die—but, oh! not now!”

268

IV

The bleak wind whistles, snow-showers, far and near,
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath pass'd away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks on, with frozen mantle bound.
Yet still that prayer ascends:—“Oh! laughingly
My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,
And the roof rings with voices glad and loud;
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die—but, oh! not now!”

V

The spring is come again—the joyful spring!
Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread;
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing:—
The child of earth is number'd with the dead!
“Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,
Beaming all redly thro' the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,
Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darken'd brow;
Why didst thou linger?—thou art happier now!”

269

THE CHRISTENING.

[_]

(Of my Brother's infant Son, February 21, 1839.)

I

There is a sound of laughter light and gay,
And hurried welcomes, as of joyful greeting;
The stir and murmur of a holiday,
The grouping of glad friends each other meeting:
And in the midst art thou—thou tiny flower,
Whose coming hath so cheer'd this wintry hour!

II

Helpless thou liest, young blossom of our love!
The sunshine of fond smiles around thee beaming,
Blessings call'd down on thee from Heaven above,
And every heart about thy future dreaming:—
Meek peace and utter innocence are now
The sole expression of thy baby brow.

270

III

Helpless thou liest, thy little waxen face
Eagerly scann'd by our inquiring glances,
Hoping some lovely likeness there to trace,
Which fancy finds, and so thy worth enhances;
Clothing with thought mature, and power of mind,
Those infant features, yet so faintly lined.

IV

And still thy youthful mother bendeth down
Her large, soft, loving eyes, brimful of gladness,
Her cheek almost as waxen as thine own,
Her heart as innocently free from sadness:
And still a brighter smile her red lip wears,
As each her young son's loveliness declares.

V

And sometimes as we gaze a sigh is heard,
(Though from the happy group all grief seems banish'd,)
As thou recallest, little nestling bird,
Some long familiar face whose light hath vanish'd;
Some name, which yet hath power our hearts to thrill—
Some smile, whose buried beauty haunts us still!

271

VI

Ah! most to Her, the early widow'd, come
Thoughts of the blossoms that from earth have perish'd;
Lost to her lone and solitary home,
Though in her brooding memory fondly cherish'd:—
Her little grandson's baby-smiles recall
Not one regretted hope of youth, but all!

VII

Her Son's son lies upon her cradling knee,
And bids her heart return, with mournful dreaming,
To her own first-born's helpless infancy,
When hope—youth's guiding star—was brightly beaming;
And He, who died too soon, stood by and smiled,
And bless'd alike the mother and her child.

VIII

Since then, how many a year hath fleeted past!
What unforeseen events, what joys, what sorrows,
With sunshine or with clouds have overcast
The long succession of her lonely morrows;
Ere musing o'er this fair and new-born face,
A fresh link carried on her orphan'd Race!

272

IX

Fair child, that race is not by man's award
Ennobled,—but by God; no titles sounded
By herald's trump, or smooth and flattering bard,
Proclaim within what lines thy rank is bounded:—
Thy power hereditary none confine,
The gift of Genius, boy, by right is thine!

X

Be humble, for it is an envied thing;
And men whose creeping hearts have long submitted
Around the column'd height to clasp and cling
Of Titled Pride—by man to man transmitted,—
Will grudge the power they have less cause to dread,
Oppose thee living, and malign when dead.

XI

One of thy lineage served his country well
(Though with her need her gratitude departed);
What in her memory now is left to dwell?
The faults of him who died half broken-hearted:—
And those, whose envious hands ne'er stretch'd to save,
Pluck down the laurels springing from his grave.

273

XII

Yet hush! it is a solemn hour; and far
Be human bitterness and vain upbraiding;
With hope we watch thy rising, thou young star,
Hope not all earthly, or it were too fading;
For we are met to usher in thy life,
With Prayer,—which lifteth hearts, and quelleth strife!

XIII

Hush'd is the busy group, and still as death;
All at the sacred altar meekly kneeling;
For thy sake, who so lately drew thy breath,
All unto Heaven with earnest heart appealing.
A solemn voice addresses the Most High,
And with a murmuring echo we reply.

XIV

All holy be the hour! and, oh! may Heaven
Look down and bless the anxious mother's part,
As meekly she confides the treasure given
So lately to her young and hoping heart;
And pleads that God's great love may be his stay,
And guide her little Wanderer on his way.

274

XV

So let it be! and when the noble head
Of thy true-hearted father, babe beloved,
Now glossy dark, is silver-gray instead,
And thy young birth-day far away removed;
Still may'st thou be a comfort and a joy,—
Still welcome as this day, unconscious boy!

275

THE MOTHER'S LAST WATCH.

[_]

Written on the occasion of the death of the infant daughter of Her Grace the Duchess of Sutherland.

I

Hark, through the proudly decorated halls,
How strangely sounds the voice of bitter woe,
Where steps that dread their echo as it falls
Steal silently and sadly to and fro.
There, wither'd lies the bud so lately given,
And, beautiful in grief as when she smiled,
Bow'd 'neath the unexpected stroke of Heaven,
The mourning Mother watches o'er her Child.

II

'Tis her last Watch! Sleep seals those infant lids,
Dark fall the lashes on that roseleaf cheek—
But oh!—the look is there, which Hope forbids;
Of Death—of Death those heavy eyelids speak!—

276

'Tis her last Watch!—no more that gentle hand
With cautious love shall curtain out the light—
No more that graceful form shall mutely stand
And bless thy slumbers thro' the shadowy night.

III

Hush'd is the innocent heart which throbbing pain,
Vain hope, and vain regret had never moved.
The God who gave hath claim'd his gift again,
And angels welcome her, on earth so loved.
Yet still of hope and fear the endless strife
Within that Mother's bosom faintly swells,
Still, still she gazes on, and dreams of life,
Though the fond falsehood Reason's pow'r repels.

IV

Unheard each word of comfort faintly falls
From lips whose tones in other days were dear,
Her infant's smile is all her heart recalls,—
Her infant's voice is all her heart can hear;—
She clasps its hand, the feverish glow of hers
Wakes into warmth the freezing current's flow;
She bends,—her sobbing breath a ringlet stirs
With mimic life upon its pallid brow.

277

V

Oh! what a mournful thing is human love!
In happier days of hope and bliss gone by
The Mother's heart with pitying throb would move
If but a teardrop dimm'd that laughing eye:
And now she prays that Heaven the boon may give
To hear from those pale lips a cry of pain—
Aught that could bid her sinking soul revive,
And tell the mourner thou wert hers again!

VI

Ah! never more that dream of hope may be!—
The summer breeze among the boughs shall wave,
The summer sun beam bright o'er land and lea,
But thou, no spring shall wake thee from the grave!
No more those little rosy lips shall greet
With brightly sudden smile her look of pride;
No more with falt'ring steps those fairy feet
Shall totter onward to her cherish'd side.

VII

All, all is over! See, with painful start
She wakens from her trance to feel the whole,
And know the pang even from thy corse to part—
Thou vainly guarded treasure of her soul!

278

The hand that, ah! so often hath caress'd,
Aids now to place thee in thy narrow bed!
The last wild kiss upon thy cheek is press'd—
The last fond tear upon thy coffin shed!
And all is hush'd: but oft thro' Life's dull track
(When time her present sorrow hath beguiled)
That pale, sweet brow shall dimly bring us back
The Mother's last Watch o'er her fairy Child!