The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
 |
 | TENDRILS.
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
225
TENDRILS.
BY REUBEN.
“Poets are a sensitive race, whose sweetness is not to
be drawn forth, like that of the fragrant grass near the
Ganges, by crushing and trampling upon them.”
Lalla Rookh.
227
[_]
TO THE FRIENDS OF MY EARLY BOYHOOD THE FOLLOWING PAGES ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED AND DEDICATED.
231
SONNET.
The vine puts forth her buds—and Heaven may shedIts gentlest dews; and they may spring and grow,
And rains may fall, and softening nightwinds blow,
To bid them live and multiply—and spread
To branches clustering with goodly fruit!
But yet that vine may fade, and hang in vain,
Cumbering the ground; and there may fall no rain,
Or dew of evening round its withered root!
Go forth, my Tendrils, may some fostering eye,
Smile on your weakness, and ye shall not die!
THE FAIRY VISION.
“Oh! then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.”
Shakespeare.
Introduction.
There is a popular tradition that whoever enters a Fairy-ring at night is spell-bound, and receives the visionary faculty, until the dawn of morning dispels
232
The liberty I have taken with the metre will, I trust, be pardoned, when it is remembered that a regular versification would but ill accord with the nature of the subject.
Stranger.Who art thou, form of loveliness,
With light blue eye and silken tress,
Wing like the eagle's spread for flight,
Foot of wandering, and brow of light?
Spirit.
I am a daughter of the air,
And the lands of the South are given to my care,
I slept until the morning's birth,
My pillow a cloud, and my couch the earth;
But I was call'd up from my rest,
To breathe upon a warrior's breast,
Who was fleeting away on the battle-plain,
And I won him back to life again!
Then I wav'd my pinions and sought a bower,
Where, teeming with fragrance, there budded a flower.
I hovered around and sigh'd o'er its brow,
Till it burst into life, and is flourishing now.
I was sent to the bed of a dying man,
And slow in his veins the life-blood ran,—
I fanned with my wings the fever of death,
And bare away gently his parting breath.
I stole to a place where a maiden was weeping,
And long had her heart a sad vigil been keeping,
But true were her vows though cherish'd in grief,
And her tear on my wing was as dew to the leaf;
A sigh full of hope I breathed on her bosom,
And her cheek bloomed afresh like a rain-wash'd blossom!
A bark was sailing and a lover it bare
To one who was faithful, and chaste, and fair:
I filled the sail, and it swiftly rode on,
Till the place of love and hope was won.
Stranger! many deeds have I done,
With the dawn, and the noon, and the fall of the sun.
The sunset is gone, and the evening advances,
And moonbeams are throwing their loveliest glances;
And now in the dewdrops I freshen my limbs,
And fly where the air-sylphs are chanting their hymns;
I perfume my wings with the breath of the rose,
And the sigh of the violet where sweetest it grows.
Then light in my gladness I wanton away,
Where soft eyes are shining with love in their ray;
I play with each ringlet that curls o'er her brow,
And in gentleness murmur my whispering vow,—
But the stars are come forth in their chariots of blue,
And I mount up to greet them,—
And the lands of the South are given to my care,
I slept until the morning's birth,
My pillow a cloud, and my couch the earth;
But I was call'd up from my rest,
To breathe upon a warrior's breast,
Who was fleeting away on the battle-plain,
And I won him back to life again!
Then I wav'd my pinions and sought a bower,
Where, teeming with fragrance, there budded a flower.
I hovered around and sigh'd o'er its brow,
Till it burst into life, and is flourishing now.
233
And slow in his veins the life-blood ran,—
I fanned with my wings the fever of death,
And bare away gently his parting breath.
I stole to a place where a maiden was weeping,
And long had her heart a sad vigil been keeping,
But true were her vows though cherish'd in grief,
And her tear on my wing was as dew to the leaf;
A sigh full of hope I breathed on her bosom,
And her cheek bloomed afresh like a rain-wash'd blossom!
A bark was sailing and a lover it bare
To one who was faithful, and chaste, and fair:
I filled the sail, and it swiftly rode on,
Till the place of love and hope was won.
Stranger! many deeds have I done,
With the dawn, and the noon, and the fall of the sun.
The sunset is gone, and the evening advances,
And moonbeams are throwing their loveliest glances;
And now in the dewdrops I freshen my limbs,
And fly where the air-sylphs are chanting their hymns;
I perfume my wings with the breath of the rose,
And the sigh of the violet where sweetest it grows.
Then light in my gladness I wanton away,
Where soft eyes are shining with love in their ray;
I play with each ringlet that curls o'er her brow,
And in gentleness murmur my whispering vow,—
But the stars are come forth in their chariots of blue,
And I mount up to greet them,—
Stranger, adieu!
234
Soft breasted Spirit! peace and love
Go with thee to thy dwelling above,
Wherever thy rose-strewn way thou wingest,
Wherever the breath of gladness thou bringest.
But, lo! a fair sister of beauty is nigh,
And her form wears the tint of an evening sky
When the sun throws off his robe of splendour,
When his smile is soft and his shining tender.
On her brow the rose and the myrtle-wreath meet,
And the pinions of a dove spread from her feet;
Her cheeks are all bloom and her eyes all brightness,
And a lyre she is sweeping with fingers of lightness.
Spirit
(sings).
By the first rose of spring, when its fragrance is sweetest,
By the nightingale's song, when her coming is fleetest,
By the tender light of the evening beam,
By the whispering breeze and flowing stream,
By the stars that nightly shine over the sea,
Mortal! I charge thee, listen to me!
I come from a lovely and blessed place,
Where birds never die and leaves never fall,
Where the winds steal on and leave no trace,
And a rainbow light melts over all.
I come, and the flowers spring fresher around,
And wherever I tread it is magical ground;—
I watch where the blossoms of harmony swell,
And the soul of the minstrel I charm with a spell;
235
At the first of the morn, and when evening is nigh,
To the mood of his spirit, the night is not dim,
For I brighten the stars of the heaven for him;
Though mantled in clouds, the morning is sweet,
For I strew with fair flowers the path of his feet,—
O'er the curl of the fountain, the foam of the sea,
The bloom of the field, and the leaf of the tree,
O'er the clouds that roll on with the storm in its breast,
And the mist that comes down on the mountain to rest,
O'er the raindrop of morn, and the evening tear,
My magic I breathe, and to him they are dear!
There are hearts where I dwell, and bright eyes where I shine,
There are visions I form, and fair chaplets I twine.
In the ebb and the flood,
From the birth to the tomb,
From the myrtle's first bud
To the laurel in bloom,
I watch o'er the children of Poetry's love
While their bosoms are glowing with flame from above.
But the flowers are opening to welcome the day.
Stranger mortal—away! away!
Stranger.
There's a chain that is golden entwined round my heart,
It is linked by delight—and I may not depart
Though sorrow befell me I would not away,
While visions so sweet, so beautiful, stay.
Another is with me—
It is linked by delight—and I may not depart
236
While visions so sweet, so beautiful, stay.
Another is with me—
And who art thou,
With a milk-white bird on thy Angel brow,
Blooming thy cheek, though tearful thine eye,
Mingling the smile on thy lip with a sigh?
With a milk-white bird on thy Angel brow,
Blooming thy cheek, though tearful thine eye,
Mingling the smile on thy lip with a sigh?
Spirit.
Hast thou a sorrow?—come, tell it to me,
Have I a comfort?—thine it shall be,—
I seek where the tears of the mourner are flowing,
And breathe on his brow till its throbbing is calm;
I steal where the heart of the chastened is glowing,
And as rain to the flower my smile is his balm.
Where the exile is wandering my pinions are nigh,
Where the pilgrim is weary, to soothe him am I.
I whisper them tales of the home of their youth,
Of the hearts that are fond, and the prayers that are truth.
I fly where the sailor-boy watches aloft,
And though storms gather round him his slumbers are soft.
Then I bear his young spirit away on my wings,
Where the thrush that he lov'd in his childhood still sings;
Where the woodbine is 'twining its wreaths on the wall,
And dear ones again on their wanderer call;—
There is one bending o'er him whose lip cannot speak,
And the tear of affection falls warm on his cheek.
There is one standing near him with words in her eye,
And he seeks the embrace which she may not deny;—
But the sea-bird sails past—and shrill is her scream,
And in tears he awakens, but blesses his dream.
The sigh of the lonely—the teardrop of pain,
Where hope is wasted, and prayers are vain,—
The lips that are pale, the cheeks that are wan,
Where joy is bitter—and comfort is gone,—
The flowers that fade where the spring-blight is flying,
The leaves that are falling, the birds that are dying,
The blasted sapling, the withering tree,
Are sacred to Pity, and cherished by me.
Peace to thee, peace!
Have I a comfort?—thine it shall be,—
I seek where the tears of the mourner are flowing,
And breathe on his brow till its throbbing is calm;
I steal where the heart of the chastened is glowing,
And as rain to the flower my smile is his balm.
Where the exile is wandering my pinions are nigh,
Where the pilgrim is weary, to soothe him am I.
I whisper them tales of the home of their youth,
Of the hearts that are fond, and the prayers that are truth.
I fly where the sailor-boy watches aloft,
And though storms gather round him his slumbers are soft.
Then I bear his young spirit away on my wings,
Where the thrush that he lov'd in his childhood still sings;
Where the woodbine is 'twining its wreaths on the wall,
And dear ones again on their wanderer call;—
There is one bending o'er him whose lip cannot speak,
And the tear of affection falls warm on his cheek.
237
And he seeks the embrace which she may not deny;—
But the sea-bird sails past—and shrill is her scream,
And in tears he awakens, but blesses his dream.
The sigh of the lonely—the teardrop of pain,
Where hope is wasted, and prayers are vain,—
The lips that are pale, the cheeks that are wan,
Where joy is bitter—and comfort is gone,—
The flowers that fade where the spring-blight is flying,
The leaves that are falling, the birds that are dying,
The blasted sapling, the withering tree,
Are sacred to Pity, and cherished by me.
Peace to thee, peace!
I have yet far to go;
There are streams on the earth and their fountain is woe:
There are hearts that are breaking, and wounds none can bind,
There are brows that are drooping, and balm I must find.
There are streams on the earth and their fountain is woe:
There are hearts that are breaking, and wounds none can bind,
There are brows that are drooping, and balm I must find.
The voice of the Fourth Spirit is heard.
Thou see'st me not, mortal, and yet I am nigh,
Where flowers spring around thee, and stars are on high.
I burst into life from the cradle of day,
And shine where the waters steal evening away;
Where the rose is unfolding I sleep on its leaves,
And smile where the lily in loneliness grieves,—
To the rock that by sea-waves of summer is kiss'd,
To the hill when the autumn hath robed it in mist,
238
And the breath of the south-wind plays round me the while.
I rest on the billow that curls from the deep,
Till its breast, like an infant, is murmur'd asleep:
By the wanderer then I am seen from afar,
My robe is a moonbeam, my crown is a star.
I glide o'er the waters with thought-speeding feet,
My paths they are lovely, my smiles they are sweet;
I fly to the earth on the pinions of spring,
With life in my bosom, with bloom in my wing,
Where nature is fairest my footsteps have been,
Where bowers are fruitful, where valleys are green;
Stranger, there's not a lovely hue,
Where summer flowers shine,
There's not a charm thine eye can view,
That is not mine,—
I was sent with the sun, from my birthplace above,
The spirit of Beauty, the chosen of Love!
Stranger.
Farewell to thee, angel of sweetness, farewell!
There's a charm in thy presence—thy voice is a spell.
It will live in my memory for many a year,
At the opening of spring, and when summer is near,
And when autumn is breathing her sighs to the gale,
The lip of wild Fancy shall murmur thy tale.
But there is one stealing now on my sight,
Like a mellow'd ray of heaven's own light,
Robed in the cloud of a rainless sky,
A blush on her cheek, and a smile in her eye,
239
And she plays with the wind like a hawk from her jesses.
Spirit.
I may not come near thee, thou hast tasted of sin,
My path will not be where thy footsteps have been,
I may not come down where thou breathest the air,
Lest I sully my robe with the guilt that is there.
Mortal of sorrow, thou know'st me not now,
Yet the time it hath been when I dwelt on thy brow,
When thy lips to the bosom of Innocence clung,
And her's were the accents that flowed from thy tongue.
I dwell in a valley where man never trod,
Where daisies and snowdrops are spangling the sod.
There's a stream flowing through with its silvery wave,
And sunlight the purest the sky ever gave,
There are lambs sporting onward to drink of that stream,
And turtle-doves spreading their wings to that beam
There are eyes full of love which all passionless shine,
On the babes who come hither while yet they are mine.
The sighs that are sinless float there from the earth,
And the whispering hope that is pure in its birth,
They come, and the breeze bears them gently along,
Till they melt into music, and sweet is their song!
It speaks of the vows that for ever endure,
The hearts that are changeless—the love that is pure;
240
To my fostering bosom, and nestle them there.—
Stranger! Stranger! would'st thou seek
Where my earthly dwelling is won?
I bloom in childhood's rubied cheek,
Mellowing to affection's sun;
My home is the guileless lip of youth,
The eye, pure as light from above,
The smile of Beauty pledging her truth,
The painless sigh, whose spirit is love.
They are mine—and oh! that they never would cease,
In my bower of gladness to whisper me peace,
But they fly from the bosom that nursed them in vain,
And their songs are but sorrow, their murmurs but pain.
Fare thee well! for the light of the morning is near,
For thy sins, child of darkness, I leave thee my tear.
Chorus of Fairies.
First Fairy.Stranger, away! the stars on high
Are rayless and dim,
And there is music in the sky,
'Tis the lark's sweet hymn.
Second.
There's a flower beside thee and the dewdrops hang on,
As if they were weeping the moon that is gone;
241
'Tis the glance of the morning, the first smile of day.
Third.
On the mist we rode down from our mansions of blue,
With a cloud for our chariot, we bid thee adieu—
The sun beam'd upon us his last look of light,
The stars shone above, and the moonbeams were bright;
But they all are departed—their beauty is o'er:
Our charms they are broken—our spells are no more.
All.
Son of earth! farewell, thine eyes have seen
What never again they may see;
For no more in our revelry-bower of green
Will a spell for the wanderer be.
Uncharm'd is the sod
Where a mortal hath trod,
While weeps the midnight dew,
And Fairies no more
Will wander o'er
The place where we bid thee adieu.
242
HOME.
A FRAGMENT.
“There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!”
Moore.
When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die!”
Moore.
In days of boyhood, when young Feeling springs
Fresh from the heart, on Hope's unblighted wings,
When Innocence enthron'd on Beauty's brow,
Hath won the soul and taught the heart to bow;
Fair are the visions of the youthful breast,
Of bowers of happiness and homes of rest,
Of vows that change not, lips that know not guile,
And love for ever bright in woman's smile.
Lo! the proud sunbow bends its arch of light,
And earth is lovelier and heaven more bright,
The Guebre kneels to breathe his whisper'd prayer,
He turns to worship—and it is not there,
Or veil'd in mist its fading hues remain,
Melt into clouds, and speak his homage vain.
So shines o'er life while yet a waveless stream
The star of hope with silver-vested beam;
So flow the vows from early feeling's tongue,
When her soft harp by Beauty's hand is strung,
And thus for ever fade that light, that tone,
E'er we can hail their loveliness our own.
Fresh from the heart, on Hope's unblighted wings,
When Innocence enthron'd on Beauty's brow,
Hath won the soul and taught the heart to bow;
Fair are the visions of the youthful breast,
Of bowers of happiness and homes of rest,
Of vows that change not, lips that know not guile,
And love for ever bright in woman's smile.
Lo! the proud sunbow bends its arch of light,
And earth is lovelier and heaven more bright,
The Guebre kneels to breathe his whisper'd prayer,
He turns to worship—and it is not there,
Or veil'd in mist its fading hues remain,
Melt into clouds, and speak his homage vain.
So shines o'er life while yet a waveless stream
243
So flow the vows from early feeling's tongue,
When her soft harp by Beauty's hand is strung,
And thus for ever fade that light, that tone,
E'er we can hail their loveliness our own.
Yet are there some, like beacons o'er the deep,
Or forms that comfort when the weary sleep,
Lamps to our path and stars to guide our way,
Truth in their light and beauty in their ray;
Theirs that pure flame, the magic of the mind,
A charm to lure us, and a spell to bind!
Dear to the heart in after-days of wrath
Our infant joys, and childhood's thornless path;
For ever dear the life-bestowing breast,
The arms that held us and the lips that prest.
But dearer, lovelier yet, are those that claim
Our all of feeling in affection's name;
Dearer to eyes that weep, and feet that roam,
Love's olive bower, an angel-guarded home.
Or forms that comfort when the weary sleep,
Lamps to our path and stars to guide our way,
Truth in their light and beauty in their ray;
Theirs that pure flame, the magic of the mind,
A charm to lure us, and a spell to bind!
Dear to the heart in after-days of wrath
Our infant joys, and childhood's thornless path;
For ever dear the life-bestowing breast,
The arms that held us and the lips that prest.
But dearer, lovelier yet, are those that claim
Our all of feeling in affection's name;
Dearer to eyes that weep, and feet that roam,
Love's olive bower, an angel-guarded home.
'Tis worth an age of wandering to return
To souls that still can feel, and hearts that burn;
We have not bent the chasten'd brow in vain,
To hear the whisper, “Thou art mine again!”
To see in eyes we love the tear-drop swell
With more of feeling than the lip could tell.
The weary pilgrim's wish—the exile's prayer,
Breathe of their home—that they may wander there,
And like the sun when summer days are past,
Sink into rest, their calmest hour their last,
Heave the death-sigh where those around will weep,
And sleep for ever where their fathers sleep.
To souls that still can feel, and hearts that burn;
We have not bent the chasten'd brow in vain,
To hear the whisper, “Thou art mine again!”
To see in eyes we love the tear-drop swell
With more of feeling than the lip could tell.
The weary pilgrim's wish—the exile's prayer,
Breathe of their home—that they may wander there,
And like the sun when summer days are past,
Sink into rest, their calmest hour their last,
244
And sleep for ever where their fathers sleep.
Even in the desert will the night-bird sing,
And track the mountain with her lonely wing;
Where woods are wild the rose of spring will bloom,
Unveil her brow, and breathe her sweet perfume.
In strains as soothing, and in hues as fair,
Warbles that bird, and springs that flow'ret there
As if their birth-place were the haunt of men,
Or heaven smiled on them in the water'd glen.
And true the faith that woman's love should claim,
When chaste the whispered vow and pure the flame,
True in all climes, from Asia's burning sky,
To where the west wind wafts the lover's sigh,
From vales where summer streams for ever flow,
Far as where Greenland rears her hills of snow;
From plains where Arab maids are free and fond,
To Sina's daughters
and their loveless bond.
Wild must the desert be, and lone the spot,
And cold the wayward heart, where love is not.
And track the mountain with her lonely wing;
Where woods are wild the rose of spring will bloom,
Unveil her brow, and breathe her sweet perfume.
In strains as soothing, and in hues as fair,
Warbles that bird, and springs that flow'ret there
As if their birth-place were the haunt of men,
Or heaven smiled on them in the water'd glen.
And true the faith that woman's love should claim,
When chaste the whispered vow and pure the flame,
True in all climes, from Asia's burning sky,
To where the west wind wafts the lover's sigh,
From vales where summer streams for ever flow,
Far as where Greenland rears her hills of snow;
From plains where Arab maids are free and fond,
To Sina's daughters
and their loveless bond.
Wild must the desert be, and lone the spot,
And cold the wayward heart, where love is not.
O'er Bergia's
wall rolls battle's
spareless tide,
Fall'n is her glory, and subdued her pride;
O'er Bergia's wall the wing of conquest waves,
No strength that succours, and no arm that saves:
Yet check'd by mercy's voice the warrior stood:
“Shall victory's steel be red with woman's blood?
No! bid them flee, with all they value most,
Ours is no ruffian band nor lawless host;”
Glad were the tidings, and with rapture came,
The bride of yesterday, and matron dame.—
No precious gold nor costly gems they bare,
No robe nor goodly vesture claimed their care.
But, lo! with holy zeal, with generous art,
Each bears her lord, the worshipp'd of her heart.
No arm withstands their path, no foe they fear,
For he hath turn'd to hide the softening tear,
To ask if she who gave the parting kiss
Cherish such pure, such sacred love as this!
spareless tide,
Fall'n is her glory, and subdued her pride;
245
No strength that succours, and no arm that saves:
Yet check'd by mercy's voice the warrior stood:
“Shall victory's steel be red with woman's blood?
No! bid them flee, with all they value most,
Ours is no ruffian band nor lawless host;”
Glad were the tidings, and with rapture came,
The bride of yesterday, and matron dame.—
No precious gold nor costly gems they bare,
No robe nor goodly vesture claimed their care.
But, lo! with holy zeal, with generous art,
Each bears her lord, the worshipp'd of her heart.
No arm withstands their path, no foe they fear,
For he hath turn'd to hide the softening tear,
To ask if she who gave the parting kiss
Cherish such pure, such sacred love as this!
Such the high sphere where woman's faith should shine,
A flame of purity, a light divine,
Kindling in sorrow, bursting into life
Through pain's thick darkness and the storms of strife;
Her love, the balm by weeping mercy shed
To soothe the broken heart and drooping head.
Not this the star the Roman warrior hail'd,
When beauty strove with valour and prevail'd,
Nor this the faith her lawless spirit gave
When kingdoms bowed to him, and he her slave.
But wild, and strange, and wayward was the flame
That mark'd her path, and led the way to shame.
To glory's tomb, and hope's expiring pang,
A sting more bitter than the aspen fang.
A flame of purity, a light divine,
Kindling in sorrow, bursting into life
Through pain's thick darkness and the storms of strife;
Her love, the balm by weeping mercy shed
To soothe the broken heart and drooping head.
Not this the star the Roman warrior hail'd,
When beauty strove with valour and prevail'd,
Nor this the faith her lawless spirit gave
When kingdoms bowed to him, and he her slave.
246
That mark'd her path, and led the way to shame.
To glory's tomb, and hope's expiring pang,
A sting more bitter than the aspen fang.
And lives there one whose demon-heart can seek
To steal the blush of truth from woman's cheek?
To make the light of earth's most lovely state
A name to scoff at, and a thing to hate?
Be his the joy the serpent tempter felt,
No voice to charm him, and no tear to melt;
Be his the soul no love, no peace can bless,
Despair his portion, for his curse, success.
But darker yet the crime, more foul the deed
In nature's soul-taught law, in holy creed,
To lure with fiendish wile the gentle bride,
The wife of gladness, from her loved one's side;
To stain the page of truth with thoughts unblest,
And hatch the serpent in the turtle's nest!
Oh! dark the crime and strange, and woe to him
Who bids the lamp of purity be dim,
Who wrings the tear from young affection's eye,
And wakes the worm within that will not die.
To steal the blush of truth from woman's cheek?
To make the light of earth's most lovely state
A name to scoff at, and a thing to hate?
Be his the joy the serpent tempter felt,
No voice to charm him, and no tear to melt;
Be his the soul no love, no peace can bless,
Despair his portion, for his curse, success.
But darker yet the crime, more foul the deed
In nature's soul-taught law, in holy creed,
To lure with fiendish wile the gentle bride,
The wife of gladness, from her loved one's side;
To stain the page of truth with thoughts unblest,
And hatch the serpent in the turtle's nest!
Oh! dark the crime and strange, and woe to him
Who bids the lamp of purity be dim,
Who wrings the tear from young affection's eye,
And wakes the worm within that will not die.
Not this the path the youthful Persian
trod,
Though his a dark'ning faith and heathen god;
For him there shone not love's all-gladdening ray,
But virtue smiled, and hallow'd was his way;
And there he reign'd o'er many a princely throng,
Lord of his passions, a command more strong.
Oh! 'twas a lovely sight to see that bride,
Who pined for one nor lov'd the world beside,
Led forth by him, the high, the lordly youth,
The chief of nations, but the slave of truth.
And whence is he who comes that pair to meet,
With eyes of fearing and with trembling feet,
Who scans with look of dread that maiden's face,
As if for guilty blush, or spoiler's trace?
Oh! none need ask that saw the heaving breast,
The grateful glance which scarcely love repress'd,
Who mark'd the quivering lip that could not speak,
The tear of gladness, and the bloodless cheek!
Though his a dark'ning faith and heathen god;
247
But virtue smiled, and hallow'd was his way;
And there he reign'd o'er many a princely throng,
Lord of his passions, a command more strong.
Oh! 'twas a lovely sight to see that bride,
Who pined for one nor lov'd the world beside,
Led forth by him, the high, the lordly youth,
The chief of nations, but the slave of truth.
And whence is he who comes that pair to meet,
With eyes of fearing and with trembling feet,
Who scans with look of dread that maiden's face,
As if for guilty blush, or spoiler's trace?
Oh! none need ask that saw the heaving breast,
The grateful glance which scarcely love repress'd,
Who mark'd the quivering lip that could not speak,
The tear of gladness, and the bloodless cheek!
Woe to the Circean glance, the truthless smile
Of her whose love is strange, whose ways are guile!
Woe to the foot that treads in pleasure's bower,
Nor heeds the serpent coil'd beneath the flower!
To her the dark with guilt, the fallen so low,
That purity is hate, and virtue woe!—
Alas! that she whose very smile is balm,
All that in strife can soothe or sorrow calm,
That she, the child of innocence and love,
Sent as a star, a herald from above,
Should draw the veil of shame around her head,
And walk with men as worms among the dead.
Of her whose love is strange, whose ways are guile!
Woe to the foot that treads in pleasure's bower,
Nor heeds the serpent coil'd beneath the flower!
To her the dark with guilt, the fallen so low,
That purity is hate, and virtue woe!—
Alas! that she whose very smile is balm,
All that in strife can soothe or sorrow calm,
That she, the child of innocence and love,
Sent as a star, a herald from above,
Should draw the veil of shame around her head,
And walk with men as worms among the dead.
Yon murmuring stream that flows so gently by,
While minstrel willows o'er its waters sigh,
Spreads to the arching sky its mirror tide,
And shows the face of heaven in imaged pride.
Each beaming star that distant ages gave
Saw its bright semblance in that silvery wave,
And now no cloud can tremble on the hill,
But there its darkness is reflected still!
'Tis thus with woman's mind—in every clime
Pure with affection's light, or dark with crime;
The bower of virtue and the home of vice,
A venom'd waste, and fruitful paradise,
The fount whence every gentler feeling flows,
The fire where tameless passion springs and glows;
'Tis hers to bind with faith's all-sacred chain,
Or rend the heart-strings of that faith in twain;
Yes! the thawed snake will sting—the evening dew,
That roses love, will nurse the hemlock too.
While minstrel willows o'er its waters sigh,
248
And shows the face of heaven in imaged pride.
Each beaming star that distant ages gave
Saw its bright semblance in that silvery wave,
And now no cloud can tremble on the hill,
But there its darkness is reflected still!
'Tis thus with woman's mind—in every clime
Pure with affection's light, or dark with crime;
The bower of virtue and the home of vice,
A venom'd waste, and fruitful paradise,
The fount whence every gentler feeling flows,
The fire where tameless passion springs and glows;
'Tis hers to bind with faith's all-sacred chain,
Or rend the heart-strings of that faith in twain;
Yes! the thawed snake will sting—the evening dew,
That roses love, will nurse the hemlock too.
Yet life may brighten and the world may bring
Joys born in peace, and hopes that ever spring.
Wealth to allure, and fame with siren tone
Welcoming the pilgrim to her heaven-built throne.
And earth may teem with never-fading flowers,
With blooming palm-wreaths and with rose-clad bowers;
Vain are they all and frail, when sorrows spread
Their veil of darkness round the wanderer's head,
When strife-born chastenings bid the mourner bow,
And pour their vengeance on a lonely brow;
Oh! welcome, lovely then, the home of rest
By peace endear'd, by warm affection blest,
Where all is pure and calm, where all is fair,
As if a seraph held her dwelling there;
Where as on turtle-wings the moments fleet,
And seasons steal away on downy feet.
But night will come, though fair the opening day,
In gloomy pride, and who shall cry, Away!
And those whom youthful life and love have join'd,
Whose hearts were one, like wreaths by nature twin'd,
Even they must sever, and their faith so dear
Leave but a wreck, and plead but for a tear;
Even they must part, and pity's sigh they claim,
Their peace a vapour, and their pride a name.
Joys born in peace, and hopes that ever spring.
Wealth to allure, and fame with siren tone
Welcoming the pilgrim to her heaven-built throne.
And earth may teem with never-fading flowers,
With blooming palm-wreaths and with rose-clad bowers;
Vain are they all and frail, when sorrows spread
Their veil of darkness round the wanderer's head,
When strife-born chastenings bid the mourner bow,
And pour their vengeance on a lonely brow;
Oh! welcome, lovely then, the home of rest
By peace endear'd, by warm affection blest,
Where all is pure and calm, where all is fair,
249
Where as on turtle-wings the moments fleet,
And seasons steal away on downy feet.
But night will come, though fair the opening day,
In gloomy pride, and who shall cry, Away!
And those whom youthful life and love have join'd,
Whose hearts were one, like wreaths by nature twin'd,
Even they must sever, and their faith so dear
Leave but a wreck, and plead but for a tear;
Even they must part, and pity's sigh they claim,
Their peace a vapour, and their pride a name.
Alas, for him! the desolated one,
On whom no more will shine affection's sun,
Doom'd the dark flowing, ceaseless tear to shed,
O'er love departed and the lonely bed:
Whose fate it is with weary heart to rove
On memory's wing through bowers which gladness wove,
Where she, the lov'd one, beauty's fairest child,
Gladden'd life's path and every care beguil'd;
Whom youthful passion gave him fond and free,
Who clung to him like ivy round the tree,
Until the spoiler rent her faith away,
And seem'd rejoic'd to grasp so fair a prey!
On whom no more will shine affection's sun,
Doom'd the dark flowing, ceaseless tear to shed,
O'er love departed and the lonely bed:
Whose fate it is with weary heart to rove
On memory's wing through bowers which gladness wove,
Where she, the lov'd one, beauty's fairest child,
Gladden'd life's path and every care beguil'd;
Whom youthful passion gave him fond and free,
Who clung to him like ivy round the tree,
Until the spoiler rent her faith away,
And seem'd rejoic'd to grasp so fair a prey!
But flowers bear venom, poison-trees will spring,
In fragrant pride and lovely blossoming;
Sweet is the breeze that wafts the Upas' breath,
And pure the hemlock-stream whose taste is death:
Fair to the stranger came the sacred dove,
That spread her wings and brought him peace and love,
Truth rose to him as morning's cloudless bloom,
But passion gather'd like the thunder-womb,
Yet love remain'd though purity was past, Though sorrow came like plague upon the blast!
In fragrant pride and lovely blossoming;
Sweet is the breeze that wafts the Upas' breath,
And pure the hemlock-stream whose taste is death:
Fair to the stranger came the sacred dove,
250
Truth rose to him as morning's cloudless bloom,
But passion gather'd like the thunder-womb,
Yet love remain'd though purity was past, Though sorrow came like plague upon the blast!
The Guebres were a sect of ancient Persians who worshipped the sun, and the rainbow they esteemed a peculiar manifestation of his favour. “On the appearance of this ‘beautiful wonder,’ they prostrated themselves on the earth, toward the sun, muttering inwardly a form of adoration; after which they arose and repeated their prostrations to the rainbow while it remained visible, and according to the shortness or length of its duration, they supposed their deity to be more or less propitious.”
In Sina, or China, the marriage contract is generally concluded by the parents while the parties are perfect children, and the bridegroom never sees the lady until after the nuptials are celebrated.
The following lines refer to the siege of Bergia, or Hensberg, or Henneberg, in Bavaria defended by the Duke of Bavaria against the Emperor Guelphus. The town at length capitulated and the conqueror granted permission to the female inhabitants to escape with as many of their valuables as they could carry. Their heroic conduct on this occasion I have attempted to deseribe.
The memorable defeat of Antony in the Gulf of Actium, and its subsequent fatalities, through the flight of Cleopatra, are well known. “Though the lips of a strange woman drop as the honeycomb, her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.”
It is related by Xenophon, that when Cyrus had taken the wife of Tigranes, Prince of Armenia, captive, her husband, who had just married, and was passionately fond of her, offered his own life as the ransom of her liberation. Cyrus was so struck with the generosity of this proposal, that he released the fair bride to her husband, after having treated her during her captivity with the utmost delicacy and honour.
NIGHT.
Fair Night, I love thy advent! comest thou
Wrapt in thy diamond-spangled robe of peace,
Or crowned with moonbeams: be thy bosom soft
As youthful love, or wild as wronged affection.
I love thee, Night! when not a summer leaf
Stirs in its place of birth, nor holds communion
With its kindred; and when autumn clouds
Roll at the coming of a tempest like a host
When death pursues them; when the rill of spring
Flows like the vow of innocence to faith,
Pure and unruffled—or the winter stream,
Swoll'n to a flood, is rolling on in strength.
I have been a young pilgrim from the place
Which holds my all of love: and though my staff
Of wandering is but green, I love to think
Upon the hour when my warm heart shall hail
Its vanished home once more.
Wrapt in thy diamond-spangled robe of peace,
Or crowned with moonbeams: be thy bosom soft
As youthful love, or wild as wronged affection.
I love thee, Night! when not a summer leaf
Stirs in its place of birth, nor holds communion
With its kindred; and when autumn clouds
Roll at the coming of a tempest like a host
When death pursues them; when the rill of spring
Flows like the vow of innocence to faith,
Pure and unruffled—or the winter stream,
Swoll'n to a flood, is rolling on in strength.
I have been a young pilgrim from the place
Which holds my all of love: and though my staff
Of wandering is but green, I love to think
Upon the hour when my warm heart shall hail
251
It should be night,
A night of many stars, and pure, and calm,
I would not have a cloud upon the sky
That welcomed me, nor breeze among the trees
Whose smiles should greet my path.
A night of many stars, and pure, and calm,
I would not have a cloud upon the sky
That welcomed me, nor breeze among the trees
Whose smiles should greet my path.
Then could I gaze
In all the hope of feeling on that place,
Cradle of many a joy; and I would listen
If all were silent, if the breath of sleep
Broke not upon my ear, to whisper there
That all around was calm and full of peace,
As the blue sky that shaded it.
In all the hope of feeling on that place,
Cradle of many a joy; and I would listen
If all were silent, if the breath of sleep
Broke not upon my ear, to whisper there
That all around was calm and full of peace,
As the blue sky that shaded it.
There is a spot
Where I have wandered in my lonely gladness,
And asked for no communion save the link
Which memory cherisht;—and have sought no joy
Save those which hope would bear on fancy's wing;
'Tis a lone rock, and sea-waves swell around
As soft and gently as the heaving bosom
Of matin-beauty at affection's tale!
The moon would throw her light so sweetly there,
As if a seraph came upon each beam
To lave his pinions in the rippling foam,—
I do believe that I should weep, if aught
Had marr'd its beauty, if it did not smile
As when I last was there to sigh farewell.
I love thee, Night! my best affections love thee,
My warmest feelings and my tenderest hopes
Thou hast charmed forth to life; as summer flowers
Will breathe their sweetest fragrance to the breeze
That bears thy dew; and every loathsome thought
Shrinks like the venomous serpent from thy smile,
And coils within its birthplace.
Where I have wandered in my lonely gladness,
And asked for no communion save the link
Which memory cherisht;—and have sought no joy
Save those which hope would bear on fancy's wing;
'Tis a lone rock, and sea-waves swell around
As soft and gently as the heaving bosom
Of matin-beauty at affection's tale!
The moon would throw her light so sweetly there,
As if a seraph came upon each beam
To lave his pinions in the rippling foam,—
I do believe that I should weep, if aught
Had marr'd its beauty, if it did not smile
As when I last was there to sigh farewell.
I love thee, Night! my best affections love thee,
My warmest feelings and my tenderest hopes
Thou hast charmed forth to life; as summer flowers
Will breathe their sweetest fragrance to the breeze
252
Shrinks like the venomous serpent from thy smile,
And coils within its birthplace.
Fair thou art,
And dear to youthful lover, to the child
Of nature's poetry; and he whose harp
Bears not a string for thee is one of earth's
Unfavoured sons, a mere existing man!
And dear to youthful lover, to the child
Of nature's poetry; and he whose harp
Bears not a string for thee is one of earth's
Unfavoured sons, a mere existing man!
ON LEAVING HOME.
God bless thee! was the last endearing word
The lip could utter or the heart could feel!
Many did pray for the young exile's weal,
But there was one from whom was only heard,
God bless thee! and it was affection's knell
For many a lonely day.
The lip could utter or the heart could feel!
Many did pray for the young exile's weal,
But there was one from whom was only heard,
God bless thee! and it was affection's knell
For many a lonely day.
The very phrase
Was oft repeated by the parting voice
Of youthful friendship; and the last farewell
Of some who loved me in my boyish days
Was warm and tearful.
Was oft repeated by the parting voice
Of youthful friendship; and the last farewell
Of some who loved me in my boyish days
Was warm and tearful.
Yet there was but one
Whose heart beat quicker than her eyes ran o'er,
Whose trembling lip refused to whisper more
Than that warm prayer.
Whose heart beat quicker than her eyes ran o'er,
Whose trembling lip refused to whisper more
Than that warm prayer.
It was a hallow'd tone.
253
A TRIBUTE.
Peace to the memory of the brave!
He died as warriors ought to die,
His tomb the plain he fought to save,
His dirge the shout of Victory!
And ne'er in death a nobler slept,
Nor held the grave a prouder trust,—
He shall not perish there unwept,
Nor mingle with forgotten dust.
He died as warriors ought to die,
His tomb the plain he fought to save,
His dirge the shout of Victory!
And ne'er in death a nobler slept,
Nor held the grave a prouder trust,—
He shall not perish there unwept,
Nor mingle with forgotten dust.
The cypress branch shall mark his tomb
With friendship's sigh and beauty's tear,
And there the laurel-wreath shall bloom
O'er deeds to freedom's children dear.
His eagle wing was spread for fame,
And high on valour's plume he soared,
And history's page shall trace his name
In minstrel song and high record.
With friendship's sigh and beauty's tear,
And there the laurel-wreath shall bloom
O'er deeds to freedom's children dear.
His eagle wing was spread for fame,
And high on valour's plume he soared,
And history's page shall trace his name
In minstrel song and high record.
Oh! may the star that set in tears,
Though bright its dawning was, and fair,
Rise into life in other spheres,
And shine in holier beauty there.
Peace to the spirit of the brave!
He died as warriors ought to die,
His tomb the plain he fought to save,
His dirge the shout of Victory!
Though bright its dawning was, and fair,
Rise into life in other spheres,
And shine in holier beauty there.
Peace to the spirit of the brave!
He died as warriors ought to die,
His tomb the plain he fought to save,
His dirge the shout of Victory!
254
ON A WILD VIOLET.
Thou lovely flower! child of the wilderness,
Giving thy sweetness to the desert's breath,
Thou art like virtue in this world of death.
In bower or garden we should love thee less
Than in this wild, uncherished solitude.
Where nought were beautiful, wert thou not good,
Yea! lovely to the sight.
Giving thy sweetness to the desert's breath,
Thou art like virtue in this world of death.
In bower or garden we should love thee less
Than in this wild, uncherished solitude.
Where nought were beautiful, wert thou not good,
Yea! lovely to the sight.
Thou art too fair
For dews to nurture long, or winds to spare.
Thou art so chaste in thy wild innocence
That it were half profane to tear thee hence.
But heaven's best gifts and earth's least mortal flowers
Soon fall to dust in this strange world of ours!
For dews to nurture long, or winds to spare.
Thou art so chaste in thy wild innocence
That it were half profane to tear thee hence.
But heaven's best gifts and earth's least mortal flowers
Soon fall to dust in this strange world of ours!
LUCRETIA.
Lucretia, who shall praise thee? Many hearts
Have softened at thy tale, and many eyes
Have wept for thee!
Have softened at thy tale, and many eyes
Have wept for thee!
Thou wert a lovely flower
Till a foul worm dared to pollute thy bosom;
And when thou pour'dst thy tarnish'd beauties forth,
Like rose-leaves scattered to the breeze that loved them,
A star thou wert, beauteously eminent
In lustrous purity: but a dark cloud
Gathered upon thy brow, and thou didst fall
From the high sphere where none have shone like thee;
Thy bosom was the shrine where injur'd faith
Gave innocence a sacrifice to virtue!
Few after thee have seen the rose of love,
And chastity's lily, sisters on a stem,
And partless in their being.
Till a foul worm dared to pollute thy bosom;
And when thou pour'dst thy tarnish'd beauties forth,
Like rose-leaves scattered to the breeze that loved them,
255
In lustrous purity: but a dark cloud
Gathered upon thy brow, and thou didst fall
From the high sphere where none have shone like thee;
Thy bosom was the shrine where injur'd faith
Gave innocence a sacrifice to virtue!
Few after thee have seen the rose of love,
And chastity's lily, sisters on a stem,
And partless in their being.
Alas! the heat
Of brutish love, beguiled them of their fragrance,
And they did fade.
Of brutish love, beguiled them of their fragrance,
And they did fade.
The silver-plumaged bird,
When crime's foul breath defiled her spotless wings,
Closed them for ever.
The voice of whispering calumny did not dare
Breathe of her memory; envy's spotted tongue
Was silent o'er her deathbed; and she fell
Like a young blooming plant before the wind,
With sorrow's blessing.
When crime's foul breath defiled her spotless wings,
Closed them for ever.
The voice of whispering calumny did not dare
Breathe of her memory; envy's spotted tongue
Was silent o'er her deathbed; and she fell
Like a young blooming plant before the wind,
With sorrow's blessing.
SONNET.
Pure, lovely fountain! flinging thy white foamLike swandown to the wind! dost thou not lave
Some nymph of beauty with thy silver wave?
Some child of air, making thy breast her home?
Or murmurest thou sweet music to the breeze
256
Thy fickle lover to be fond and true?
Or enviest thou the sigh that summer trees
Breathe at his coming? Pure and lovely spring!
Mermaids might choose thee for their proper dwelling,
And when the flowers around thy banks are swelling
Forth into beauty, and the mavis' wing
Hath sought thy own dear willow, there would be
A scene as fair, as full of harmony,
As that of old where Helle's daughters sung,
And charmed the moonbeams with unearthly tongue.
ON THE “PLEASURES OF MEMORY.”
To him whose soul with strife is rent,What gladness can remembrance bring?
The tree that winter storms have bent,
Revives not with the breath of spring;
And evening sheds her dews in vain,
It will not bud nor bloom again.
Though memory dwell on days of peace,
Our present woes will not be less,
And when our strifes with age increase,
'Twere well to learn forgetfulness.
Oblivion's hand might better try
The heart to soothe—the cheek to dry.
257
On many a withered summer bough,
And thus the joy of happier days
Shines on the sorrow-wrinkled brow.
Thus memory loves to wander o'er
The spot where she may dwell no more.
THE SEA.
A FRAGMENT.
I love the ocean! from a very child
It has been to me as a nursing breast,
Cherishing wild fancies.—
It has been to me as a nursing breast,
Cherishing wild fancies.—
I was wont to rest
Gazing upon it, when the breeze was wild,
And think that every wave reared its white arms
To grasp and chide the wind that rolled along
In fitful buffetings, chanting its hoarse song
As in stern mockery! Such a scene had charms
For my young heart.
Gazing upon it, when the breeze was wild,
And think that every wave reared its white arms
To grasp and chide the wind that rolled along
In fitful buffetings, chanting its hoarse song
As in stern mockery! Such a scene had charms
For my young heart.
And when the autumn moon
Laughed o'er the waters, it was mine to trace
Her imaged form; as if her tiring-place
Were the wave's bosom, or seeking there some boon
Of sea-god in his coral bower, she stayed,
Wronging Endymion—then the wind would cease,
And every murmur melt away in peace,
And all be gentle as a softening maid
Breathing love's tell-tale sigh.
Laughed o'er the waters, it was mine to trace
Her imaged form; as if her tiring-place
Were the wave's bosom, or seeking there some boon
Of sea-god in his coral bower, she stayed,
Wronging Endymion—then the wind would cease,
And every murmur melt away in peace,
258
Breathing love's tell-tale sigh.
'Tis said,
In such a night the daughters of the sea
Wake their wild harps in siren minstrelsy;
And on their crystal-pillow'd couches spread
Their clustering tresses, wooing the young breeze
To wanton with their ringlets, or whispering tales
Of passionate homage to some chosen star,
Beautifully journeying in its azure car
Through paths of loveliness.
In such a night the daughters of the sea
Wake their wild harps in siren minstrelsy;
And on their crystal-pillow'd couches spread
Their clustering tresses, wooing the young breeze
To wanton with their ringlets, or whispering tales
Of passionate homage to some chosen star,
Beautifully journeying in its azure car
Through paths of loveliness.
Joys such as these,
Visions of wayless fancy, were the fire
That burnt within me, and they strung the lyre My feeble hands have swept.
Visions of wayless fancy, were the fire
That burnt within me, and they strung the lyre My feeble hands have swept.
A NIGHT-SKETCH.
Day sinks upon the wave—the first-born ray
Of earth's fair lamp is stealing o'er the hill;
It is a night of loveliness—the breeze,
Hush'd on the waters, slumbers like a babe
Upon its mother's breast; heaven seems to smile,
And draw its star-gemmed veil in mercy o'er
The deeds of darkness. 'Tis a night of peace,
And the grief-stricken spirit should be forth.
'Tis sweet to be alone on such a night:
The vanisht joys of youth and youthful days,
Borne upon memory's pinions, waken then
The long hushed note of gladness—hope's fair dreams
Whisper of joy, and they will cheat the soul,
And woo us to forgetfulness of self.
The dew is sparkling on the heather-bell,
Pure as the griefless tear that dims the eye
Of sleeping childhood, and the night-bird's song
Breaks on the holy loneliness of earth,
Like seraph's music o'er the slumbering dead!
The exiled wanderer, at an hour like this,
Loves the wild beauty of the mountain brow;
And he will comfort him that the same beam
Which meets his gaze, shines on the distant land,
The dwelling of his fathers.
Of earth's fair lamp is stealing o'er the hill;
It is a night of loveliness—the breeze,
Hush'd on the waters, slumbers like a babe
259
And draw its star-gemmed veil in mercy o'er
The deeds of darkness. 'Tis a night of peace,
And the grief-stricken spirit should be forth.
'Tis sweet to be alone on such a night:
The vanisht joys of youth and youthful days,
Borne upon memory's pinions, waken then
The long hushed note of gladness—hope's fair dreams
Whisper of joy, and they will cheat the soul,
And woo us to forgetfulness of self.
The dew is sparkling on the heather-bell,
Pure as the griefless tear that dims the eye
Of sleeping childhood, and the night-bird's song
Breaks on the holy loneliness of earth,
Like seraph's music o'er the slumbering dead!
The exiled wanderer, at an hour like this,
Loves the wild beauty of the mountain brow;
And he will comfort him that the same beam
Which meets his gaze, shines on the distant land,
The dwelling of his fathers.
'Tis a night
When nought unhallowed dares to be abroad;
Guilt crouches in its den and shuns the view
Of the bright gladness which it cannot mar.
Pure in her loveliness the evening rose
In playful fondness wooes the moonbeam's glance,
Which seeks not to retire; as beauty's eye
Courts the dear smile it fain would seem to shun.
There is a goodly oak upon the hill,
Which many a winter's blast hath smote in vain,
The fathers of the forest once were there,
And twined their boughs in joyfulness around;
The tender ivy built herself a bower,
Among its branches.—
When nought unhallowed dares to be abroad;
Guilt crouches in its den and shuns the view
Of the bright gladness which it cannot mar.
Pure in her loveliness the evening rose
In playful fondness wooes the moonbeam's glance,
Which seeks not to retire; as beauty's eye
Courts the dear smile it fain would seem to shun.
There is a goodly oak upon the hill,
Which many a winter's blast hath smote in vain,
The fathers of the forest once were there,
260
The tender ivy built herself a bower,
Among its branches.—
They are with the dust,
But still it lifts its head in aged strength,
And proudly glories in its solitude!
Fair is the moonbeam o'er that lonely tree
As when its brow was green in youthful pride;
So in the dawn of life, and o'er the grave
Of all that made life dear, shines on alike
The peace of heaven.
But still it lifts its head in aged strength,
And proudly glories in its solitude!
Fair is the moonbeam o'er that lonely tree
As when its brow was green in youthful pride;
So in the dawn of life, and o'er the grave
Of all that made life dear, shines on alike
The peace of heaven.
THE COSSACK'S ADIEU.
Pride of my spirit! farewell to thy beauty,
The war-trump hath blown, and thy Cossack must go:
Though affection would silence the summons of duty,
What warrior would hear not the call of the foe?
The war-trump hath blown, and thy Cossack must go:
Though affection would silence the summons of duty,
What warrior would hear not the call of the foe?
I leave thee, my love, for the bosom of danger,
And dear thy fair image in death as in life;
But it shall not be said in the land of the stranger
That the race of the Danube were last in the strife.
And dear thy fair image in death as in life;
But it shall not be said in the land of the stranger
That the race of the Danube were last in the strife.
Nay, weep not, thou dear one, nor banish in sorrow
The hope that should whisper of victory now;
For the gloom of to-day may be brighten'd to-morrow,
And who should rejoice in my laurels but thou?
The hope that should whisper of victory now;
For the gloom of to-day may be brighten'd to-morrow,
And who should rejoice in my laurels but thou?
261
Bound on, my brave steed, and be proud in thy glory,
For thy hoofs shall be red with the blood of the slain.
Should the deeds of thy master be cherish'd in story,
Thou wilt not have braved the wild battle in vain.
For thy hoofs shall be red with the blood of the slain.
Should the deeds of thy master be cherish'd in story,
Thou wilt not have braved the wild battle in vain.
I may not return to my father's dear dwelling,
But breathe forth my soul on the steel of the foe,
But when sorrow is there, and her tear-drop is swelling,
Remember my spirit shrank not from the blow.
But breathe forth my soul on the steel of the foe,
But when sorrow is there, and her tear-drop is swelling,
Remember my spirit shrank not from the blow.
Farewell, love. In vain for thy Cossack thou weepest,
His heart will adore thee as ever it hath.
Plunge on, my proud barb! where the death-groans are deepest,
And woe to the arm that is raised in thy path!
His heart will adore thee as ever it hath.
Plunge on, my proud barb! where the death-groans are deepest,
And woe to the arm that is raised in thy path!
THE FADED ROSE.
There was a rose of nature's choicest growth,Meet for the night-bird's home or fairy bower;
The breeze would sigh around it as 'twere loth
To bear the perfume from so sweet a flower.
The dew of evening loved it, and the ray
Of fading moonbeams sought its latest smile.
Ye would have deem'd that it could not decay,
So loved, so sweetly nurtured, but the guile
Of autumn night-winds stole its bloom away:
262
Hung as in mockery on the withered stem!
And there was one, a lonely, lovely one,
Who faded like that flower; the blast of grief
(Though sigh nor 'plaining word was heard by none),
Of very bitterness that mocked relief,
Breathed on her beauty's flower, and leaf by leaf
It fell to nothingness. Some thought she strove
With that unslumbering serpent, blighted love.
A REMEMBRANCE.
Smiles have been mine, and gentle hearts have yearned
In love toward me in my pilgrimage!
And there was one, whose smile was valued more
By my young soul than all the common lurings,
The snares of beauty for unpractised feeling.
More suns had shone on her than had been mine
By many a summer; but she still was fair,
And every charm was mellowed into sweetness.
In love toward me in my pilgrimage!
And there was one, whose smile was valued more
By my young soul than all the common lurings,
The snares of beauty for unpractised feeling.
More suns had shone on her than had been mine
By many a summer; but she still was fair,
And every charm was mellowed into sweetness.
Her form rose up in grace, and not a feature
Bloomed in her loveliness that was not soul:
Her voice was harmony's spirit, and the soft,
Mellifluous breathings of her fairy lip
Were like the air-harp's music, and the sound
Of waters murmuring, in mingled sweetness.
In scenes where hearts beat high and eyes were bright,
Where common love and joy were found in union,
She would sit silent, in delight's abstraction,
Communing with her feelings, wrapt in dreams
Of fancy's vision, and she would be sad
That all around her was—reality.
'Twas said that many strove to gain the heart
Bestowed on none—they could not love like her.
Bloomed in her loveliness that was not soul:
Her voice was harmony's spirit, and the soft,
Mellifluous breathings of her fairy lip
Were like the air-harp's music, and the sound
Of waters murmuring, in mingled sweetness.
263
Where common love and joy were found in union,
She would sit silent, in delight's abstraction,
Communing with her feelings, wrapt in dreams
Of fancy's vision, and she would be sad
That all around her was—reality.
'Twas said that many strove to gain the heart
Bestowed on none—they could not love like her.
I went to say farewell, before the world
Knew of my footsteps.—
Knew of my footsteps.—
'Twas a summer eve,
And day was melting into chastened beauty:
I found her in her bower, her place of life,
A spot that overlooked the wrathless ocean:
She bade me gaze upon a swelling wave,
That rushed unbridled on—a frowning rock
Reared in its path, and it was lost in foam!
Another came in gentleness, and soft
It glided by in silvery loveliness;
“And this,” she said, “is life,” and as she spake
A tear was trembling in her eloquent eye.
“Thy way is all before thee, and thy path
“None can point out: but may the peace of heaven
“Be to thy goings a star of light!”
She prest my forehead with her trembling lip,
And was to me no more.
And day was melting into chastened beauty:
I found her in her bower, her place of life,
A spot that overlooked the wrathless ocean:
She bade me gaze upon a swelling wave,
That rushed unbridled on—a frowning rock
Reared in its path, and it was lost in foam!
Another came in gentleness, and soft
It glided by in silvery loveliness;
“And this,” she said, “is life,” and as she spake
A tear was trembling in her eloquent eye.
“Thy way is all before thee, and thy path
“None can point out: but may the peace of heaven
“Be to thy goings a star of light!”
She prest my forehead with her trembling lip,
And was to me no more.
I could not leave that place of many thoughts
Till I had wept.
Till I had wept.
264
THE ROSE OF THE VALLEY.
Cydwelew! Cydwelew! thy beauty is o'erAnd the Rose of the Valley will flourish no more.
The spring may return, and the summer may beam
Through the mist of the hill and the spray of the stream,
On flowrets as sweet and on roses as fair,
But the pride of thy loveliness will not be there.
We will weep for thee, Ellen, though tears are in vain,
And the rose that is withered will bloom not again,
Though the joys that are gone we may never recall,
And the love be departed that hallowed them all:
We will weep for thee, Ellen, and mourn for the hour
That saw thy young beauty a withering flower!
The dews may descend, and their softness will bring
The favour of heaven to the blossoms of spring,
And the breeze of the evening, when earth is at rest,
Will woo the young rosebud to open her breast.
But the Rose of the Valley will flourish no more,
And Cydwelew will weep that its beauty is o'er!
A DREAM.
I had a dream—a dream of happiness,
And when I rose up in my bed to bless
Him who had given it, my heart was glowing
With fancy's warmth, and tears of joy were flowing.
Methought that I was wandering in a land
I know not, and no voice, no hand,
Guided me in my path—but yet I went
Where earth was lovely, where fresh flowers were springing
Forth in their joyfulness, where birds were singing,
And beautiful rainbows in their richness blent
Formed the sweet sky above me.
And when I rose up in my bed to bless
Him who had given it, my heart was glowing
With fancy's warmth, and tears of joy were flowing.
265
I know not, and no voice, no hand,
Guided me in my path—but yet I went
Where earth was lovely, where fresh flowers were springing
Forth in their joyfulness, where birds were singing,
And beautiful rainbows in their richness blent
Formed the sweet sky above me.
A bower appeared
Twined with spring roses, and an olive reared
Her tender brow, and branches weeping dew
In soft luxuriance—bending vine-trees grew
Around that place of loveliness, and hung
Sheltering their clusters from the midlight beam.
A stream of peace, a clear and sparkling stream,
Flowed on its gentle course—though kingbirds sung,
And willows kissed its waves to woo their stay.
It seemed a dove came near on trembling wing,
And sought my bosom, and she nestled there
In peace, as if she were afraid to spring
Again on high—as if the fowler's snare
Were spread for her—
Twined with spring roses, and an olive reared
Her tender brow, and branches weeping dew
In soft luxuriance—bending vine-trees grew
Around that place of loveliness, and hung
Sheltering their clusters from the midlight beam.
A stream of peace, a clear and sparkling stream,
Flowed on its gentle course—though kingbirds sung,
And willows kissed its waves to woo their stay.
It seemed a dove came near on trembling wing,
And sought my bosom, and she nestled there
In peace, as if she were afraid to spring
Again on high—as if the fowler's snare
Were spread for her—
My dream is gone! but often still I hear
That stream's sweet music murmuring in my ear,
And feel that dove draw near my softening heart,
As she would cling there, never to depart.
That stream's sweet music murmuring in my ear,
And feel that dove draw near my softening heart,
As she would cling there, never to depart.
266
MEMORY.
There are moments in life which we cannot forget,
Which for ever in memory's brightness shine on.
Though they seem to have been but to teach us regret,
And to sadden our hearts when their beauty is gone.
But still they are fountains of blessing that flow,
Like the spring in the desert, to freshen our path;
They are streamlets of peace in this valley of woe
When the flowers of gladness are blighted in wrath.
Which for ever in memory's brightness shine on.
Though they seem to have been but to teach us regret,
And to sadden our hearts when their beauty is gone.
But still they are fountains of blessing that flow,
Like the spring in the desert, to freshen our path;
They are streamlets of peace in this valley of woe
When the flowers of gladness are blighted in wrath.
There are joys over which the fond spirit hath sighed,
And in bitterness found that its sighs were in vain;
As the roses of summer will bloom in their pride,
But to tell us how soon they will wither again.
And yet there are some which cannot be effaced,
Which in peace and in strife will for ever be dear,
And without them this life were a thorn-bearing waste,
Too dark for a smile, and too vain for a tear!
And in bitterness found that its sighs were in vain;
As the roses of summer will bloom in their pride,
But to tell us how soon they will wither again.
And yet there are some which cannot be effaced,
Which in peace and in strife will for ever be dear,
And without them this life were a thorn-bearing waste,
Too dark for a smile, and too vain for a tear!
It is said that the nightingale cannot forget
The spot whence her wild wing first bore her away,
But when evening draws near she will warble there yet,
And more soft is her note and more tender her lay.
She will love not the valley and seek not the hill,
And though she may wander, it will not be long,
For when spring fades at last she is singing there still,
Till her death-note is breathed in the birthplace of song.
The spot whence her wild wing first bore her away,
But when evening draws near she will warble there yet,
And more soft is her note and more tender her lay.
She will love not the valley and seek not the hill,
And though she may wander, it will not be long,
For when spring fades at last she is singing there still,
Till her death-note is breathed in the birthplace of song.
267
And the harp which the love-wing of feeling hath swept
Will memory waken and hallow its strain,
And to hearts that have mourned and to eyes that have wept,
The voice of its sweetness will not be in vain.
For in moments of suffering it whispers of peace,
Like music which none but the dying may hear,
As the song of the nightingale never will cease,
But will always be sweetest when darkness is near.
Will memory waken and hallow its strain,
And to hearts that have mourned and to eyes that have wept,
The voice of its sweetness will not be in vain.
For in moments of suffering it whispers of peace,
Like music which none but the dying may hear,
As the song of the nightingale never will cease,
But will always be sweetest when darkness is near.
SHAKESPEARE.
A FRAGMENT.
I saw thee, Shakespeare, in a morning dream,
Seated upon a throne—beautiful spirits
Ministered unto thee, and lovely songs
They murmur'd in thy ear.
Seated upon a throne—beautiful spirits
Ministered unto thee, and lovely songs
They murmur'd in thy ear.
First Fancy came
In cherubine sweetness—braidless her soft hair,
Unzoned her robe; and yet in every tress,
In every wantoning fold, there was a charm
Of natural chastity.
In cherubine sweetness—braidless her soft hair,
Unzoned her robe; and yet in every tress,
In every wantoning fold, there was a charm
Of natural chastity.
She drew near
Delicately, like maiden to her lover,
And with a smile of dimpling witchery
She said, thou wast her own dear love, the first,
The chosen one her youth delighted in!
Then with harmonious step came Music nigh,
Bearing a broken harp; and aye she swept
Its varying chords, mingling irregular notes
Into a lay of sweetness—and she told thee
'Twas thine own harp—with all its fairy breathings
Sacred to thee! and dearer to her heart Than all the measured cadences of song.
Delicately, like maiden to her lover,
And with a smile of dimpling witchery
She said, thou wast her own dear love, the first,
The chosen one her youth delighted in!
268
Bearing a broken harp; and aye she swept
Its varying chords, mingling irregular notes
Into a lay of sweetness—and she told thee
'Twas thine own harp—with all its fairy breathings
Sacred to thee! and dearer to her heart Than all the measured cadences of song.
TO NATURE.
Nature, I love thee! in thy varying form,
Soft with the dew, and maddening with the storm;
The wild wind struggling with the tameless sea,
The zephyr murmuring in the greenwood tree;
I love thee, Nature, from the withered leaf
That falls the tribute tear of autumn grief,
To the proud forest clad by summer-love,
Calm in its bed, but rock'd by winds above!
Spirit of song! the minstrel's nurturing breast,
Where is thy dwelling, where thy place of rest?
Lov'st thou the fountain of the autumn rill,
When breezes slumber, and the birds are still?
Or soarest thou when thunder's womb is rent,
On eagles' pinions through the firmament?
Dost thou not wander through the peaceless sky,
Its fire the lightning of thy meteored eye?
Dost thou not fly where ocean tempests are,
Tread on the waves, and veil the evening star?
Thou dost, fair queen! I see thy image rise,
Poised on the earth, and grasping at the skies,
Around thy brow the clouds of evening meet,
And morning flowers are opening at thy feet,
Blent with the hues of earth thy broidered vest,
The tints of heaven soft mingling o'er thy breast,
Lovely thy dwelling-place, thy throne of air,
For beauty ministers a handmaid there!
There's not a flower that summer suns can warm
That does not bless thee for its meted charm;
There's not an autumn breeze that wantons by
Which bears not music from thy whispered sigh.
All love thee, Nature, from the Switzer-maid,
Culling thy blossoms for a ringlet-braid,
To the proud Arab girl with loosened hair,
Winning thy fragrant breath a bridegroom there!
Soft with the dew, and maddening with the storm;
The wild wind struggling with the tameless sea,
The zephyr murmuring in the greenwood tree;
I love thee, Nature, from the withered leaf
That falls the tribute tear of autumn grief,
To the proud forest clad by summer-love,
Calm in its bed, but rock'd by winds above!
Spirit of song! the minstrel's nurturing breast,
Where is thy dwelling, where thy place of rest?
Lov'st thou the fountain of the autumn rill,
When breezes slumber, and the birds are still?
Or soarest thou when thunder's womb is rent,
On eagles' pinions through the firmament?
269
Its fire the lightning of thy meteored eye?
Dost thou not fly where ocean tempests are,
Tread on the waves, and veil the evening star?
Thou dost, fair queen! I see thy image rise,
Poised on the earth, and grasping at the skies,
Around thy brow the clouds of evening meet,
And morning flowers are opening at thy feet,
Blent with the hues of earth thy broidered vest,
The tints of heaven soft mingling o'er thy breast,
Lovely thy dwelling-place, thy throne of air,
For beauty ministers a handmaid there!
There's not a flower that summer suns can warm
That does not bless thee for its meted charm;
There's not an autumn breeze that wantons by
Which bears not music from thy whispered sigh.
All love thee, Nature, from the Switzer-maid,
Culling thy blossoms for a ringlet-braid,
To the proud Arab girl with loosened hair,
Winning thy fragrant breath a bridegroom there!
Yes! Art may gild with bright and varied beam
The sculptor's vision and the painter's dream,
But thou art fairer on thy own green sod
Than Luxury templed with her Dagon-god:
Thy smiles are brighter where young roses spring
Than all that imaged loveliness can bring!
To pride's high dwelling—glory's pillared dome,
Ruin will fly and claim a Samson tomb.
But where thy robe is mantling o'er the hill,
Sunbeams and flowers will shine and blossom still.
Where chieftains dwelt the ivy-wreaths have grown,
And foxes earth'd beneath the sculptured stone.
Where goblets circled and where minstrels sung,
The midnight bird is nestling o'er her young!
The sculptor's vision and the painter's dream,
But thou art fairer on thy own green sod
Than Luxury templed with her Dagon-god:
Thy smiles are brighter where young roses spring
Than all that imaged loveliness can bring!
To pride's high dwelling—glory's pillared dome,
Ruin will fly and claim a Samson tomb.
But where thy robe is mantling o'er the hill,
Sunbeams and flowers will shine and blossom still.
270
And foxes earth'd beneath the sculptured stone.
Where goblets circled and where minstrels sung,
The midnight bird is nestling o'er her young!
Heard ye the eagle screaming on the blast,
As o'er her plumes the quivering lightning passed?
The rain-drops sound, the music of the rill,
The breeze awakening on the eastern hill?
Saw ye the wild-bird droop his wing of fear?
The earth is listening if the storm be near—
There stirs no leaf, there floats no wavy cloud,
And yet the distant fountain's gush is loud!
These are thy charms, fair Nature, this the scene,
Where, like the Tishbite's robe, thy soul hath been,
Breath'd thy sweet sigh, and shed thy gentle tear,
O'er gladness clinging to the breast of fear!
Oh! thou art lovely in thy storms of night,
Thy rainless clouds that herald summer light,
Thy stars sweet shining, and thy suns of fire,
Thy breezy music and proud tempest lyre!
As o'er her plumes the quivering lightning passed?
The rain-drops sound, the music of the rill,
The breeze awakening on the eastern hill?
Saw ye the wild-bird droop his wing of fear?
The earth is listening if the storm be near—
There stirs no leaf, there floats no wavy cloud,
And yet the distant fountain's gush is loud!
These are thy charms, fair Nature, this the scene,
Where, like the Tishbite's robe, thy soul hath been,
Breath'd thy sweet sigh, and shed thy gentle tear,
O'er gladness clinging to the breast of fear!
Oh! thou art lovely in thy storms of night,
Thy rainless clouds that herald summer light,
Thy stars sweet shining, and thy suns of fire,
Thy breezy music and proud tempest lyre!
And I will hail thee, love thee as the flower
Loves the young night-wind and the morning shower;
For thou hast nurtured me, and thine the breast
My infant minstrel lips in fear have prest,
And thine the voice that cheered my trembling way,
To song's high shrine with boyhood's tribute-lay.
Loves the young night-wind and the morning shower;
For thou hast nurtured me, and thine the breast
My infant minstrel lips in fear have prest,
And thine the voice that cheered my trembling way,
To song's high shrine with boyhood's tribute-lay.
271
AN INSCRIPTION FOR AN AGED OAK.
Come hither, stranger! I would commune with thee!
Art thou but young? but tender in thy years?
I was a sapling once, and bent my brow
To every breath of heaven that greeted me!
They pass me now, and scarcely move the leaf
That stronger winds have left.
Art thou but young? but tender in thy years?
I was a sapling once, and bent my brow
To every breath of heaven that greeted me!
They pass me now, and scarcely move the leaf
That stronger winds have left.
There was a time
When the soft zephyring spring came joyfully,
Like a young bride, with bloom upon her cheek—
And mine her earliest smile; but she is fled
To her young loves, and scorns my hoary locks.
Learn, then, that friendship passeth as the wind,
That love will fade: and trust thou not in man!
But art thou stricken with departed years,
And bent beneath their burden?
When the soft zephyring spring came joyfully,
Like a young bride, with bloom upon her cheek—
And mine her earliest smile; but she is fled
To her young loves, and scorns my hoary locks.
Learn, then, that friendship passeth as the wind,
That love will fade: and trust thou not in man!
But art thou stricken with departed years,
And bent beneath their burden?
Nearer yet
I bid thee come, there's sympathy between us.
The warmth of many summer suns hath beamed
In kindliness upon me—many dews
Have wept their freshening influence on my leaf.
But now the flowers that spring up at my root
Upbraid my shadeless branches; for the heat
Shines in its parching strength and withers them.
Hast thou a child, old man? Bid him come here,
And I will tell him what it is to live
An isolated thing without a bond
Spun from affection's web; without a tie,
Though but of flax, to bind him to the earth.
And he shall cherish thee, old man, and heed
Even the poor counsel of an aged tree!
I bid thee come, there's sympathy between us.
The warmth of many summer suns hath beamed
In kindliness upon me—many dews
Have wept their freshening influence on my leaf.
But now the flowers that spring up at my root
Upbraid my shadeless branches; for the heat
Shines in its parching strength and withers them.
Hast thou a child, old man? Bid him come here,
And I will tell him what it is to live
An isolated thing without a bond
272
Though but of flax, to bind him to the earth.
And he shall cherish thee, old man, and heed
Even the poor counsel of an aged tree!
DIANA.
Star of the buskined goddess! chastely shiningAmong the highborn children of the skies!
Thou'rt like the stolen glance of bashful eyes,
Making love, fear; and timidly divining
From half-breathed words the wish they dare not know.
Thou loveliest light that steals down from above!
And could'st thou tell young feeling not to love
Thy spirit-kindling smile? It is as though
The rose should whisper that she is not fair,
And scorn the amorous night-bird's vesper-prayer;
It is as if the summer wind should blow
Delayed with fragrance, and in pride declare
It breathes no sweetness. Beauty loves thy ray,
Fair star! for thou dost tremble in the sky
As if in fear lest some unholy eye
Should mock with wanton glance thy stainless way!
273
TO AMA.
Thou canst not, when the night's own beam
Is trembling o'er the summer stream
Bid its charm'd ray be ever fair,
And shine in fadeless beauty there.
Is trembling o'er the summer stream
Bid its charm'd ray be ever fair,
And shine in fadeless beauty there.
And when the rippling sea's at rest
And sunlight slumbers on its breast,
Thou canst not make its shining stay,
Nor bind with love one western ray.
And sunlight slumbers on its breast,
Thou canst not make its shining stay,
Nor bind with love one western ray.
But thou canst woo the star of truth
To beam upon thy gentle youth,
And that will shine, and that will stay,
Though love and gladness fleet away.
To beam upon thy gentle youth,
And that will shine, and that will stay,
Though love and gladness fleet away.
AN EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.
Farewell! farewell! Like flowers that wither,
Thou'st fled upon the wing of death,
And love and sorrow flew together,
To bear away thy parting breath!
Thou'st fled upon the wing of death,
And love and sorrow flew together,
To bear away thy parting breath!
Pain's gentlest tear was sorrow weeping
That thus thy blossoming promise fled,
While love his holiest shaft was steeping
In the warm tears that sorrow shed.
That thus thy blossoming promise fled,
While love his holiest shaft was steeping
In the warm tears that sorrow shed.
274
“WHAT LOVEST THOU?”
I love the song of tender feeling
Fair lips begin;
I love soft eyes of light, revealing
The soul within.
Fair lips begin;
I love soft eyes of light, revealing
The soul within.
I love the lark of summer, winging
Its song-cheered way;
And dear to me the mavis, singing
Her evening lay.
Its song-cheered way;
And dear to me the mavis, singing
Her evening lay.
Sweet is the violet returning
To starlit sleep;
And fair the rosebud of the morning,
Where dewdrops weep.
To starlit sleep;
And fair the rosebud of the morning,
Where dewdrops weep.
I seek the stream of gentle flowing,
Where suns are bright;
And hail the chastened moon bestowing
Her silver light.
Where suns are bright;
And hail the chastened moon bestowing
Her silver light.
I trace the shades of sunset, fleeting
O'er the blue tide;
And dancing waves the day-beam meeting
As if in pride.
O'er the blue tide;
And dancing waves the day-beam meeting
As if in pride.
I seek the spot where fairies dancing
Have traced their path
(When midnight stars are brightly glancing)
To tempt their wrath.
Have traced their path
(When midnight stars are brightly glancing)
To tempt their wrath.
275
Lady, there's not a light ray streaming
From skies above,
On earth there's not a flowret beaming
I do not love!
From skies above,
On earth there's not a flowret beaming
I do not love!
INTRODUCTORY AND FAREWELL ADDRESSES.
[_]
The following lines were written to be recited as Introductory and Farewell Addresses at the Public Examination of Mr. Tucker's Pupils, at Ham House, Charlton-Kings. The repetition of the latter depended, of course, on the success it anticipated.
Introductory Address.
“Concurritur.”—Hor.
Hard is the task, ill fit for youthful days,
To gain from judgment's voice the meed of of praise,
And deep the pain that youthful souls must feel,
When censure damps the glow of early zeal.
The flower that dies before the eastern gale,
Once promised fragrance to its native vale,
And many a bud that genius hailed her own,
Reproof hath blighted ere its tints were known.
Knew ye the joy your cherished smiles will give,
While life shall brighten or remembrance live;
Knew ye how valued, nay, how loved by youth,
Its first-gained laurel from the lip of truth:
Then would ye not withhold the approving smile,
The cheap-bought recompense of youthful toil.
276
To welcome joy or sink beneath distress.
But school-boy pleasures and the much-loved spot
Where once they flourished, ne'er will be forgot;—
Should happiness be ours, or fortune bring
Life's dearest blessings on her welcome wing,
Proud shall we be to drop the gentle tear,
And midst our joys to own their birth-place, here!
Should sorrow haunt the evening dreams of life,
And tears be mingled with the cup of strife,
Still shall your smiles be traced on memory's page,
To gladden manhood, and to soothe old age!
As the young fledgling leaves its mother's breast,
And flies the covert of the sheltering nest,
To track with feeble wing the untried air,
And find its safety or destruction there:
Behold us now with anxious hearts draw near,
Hope in our souls, though not unmixed with fear.
Yet will we trust that not in vain we plead
That candour may prevail, and youth succeed;
And long 'twill be our first, our dearest pride,
Should praise await our toil where you preside.
Farewell Address.
“Victoria Lœta.”—Hor.
'Twere vain to whisper what we all must feel,
The joy of heart, the proud success of zeal;
And vain the gratitude our lips could pay
For the high triumph we have won to-day!
277
Around each youthful heart shall memory bind,
The gentler feelings of that heart to share,
And long to bloom in fadeless beauty there.
Dear will our triumph be, and doubly dear,
Since we have won our first-born laurels here;
Well may applause like yours the heart beguile,
And Fear be mute, when Judgment deigns to smile:
Proud is the conquest when the victors gain
A prize so often sought and sought in vain!
Take with you, then, in fervency, in truth,
The cheerful gratitude of guileless youth.
Cloth'd in no glozing phrase, no practis'd art,
The pure unmingled incense of the heart.
The high-born boast, “we did not vainly sue”
The generous praise our feeble efforts drew,
Speak to the soul, and justly, deeply tell,
Vain is our gratitude, and thus, farewell!
“THE AXE IS LAID AT THE ROOT OF THE TREE.”
The Chieftain is fallen! and in anguish of spirit,
The vial of vengeance is poured on his head;
Let his fate then atone for the wrath he may merit,
And pity a tear to his memory shed.
Though freedom rejoice, and her children may glory
In the valour that laid the proud enemy low,
Yet it shall not be read in the page of her story,
That England could smile at the death of a foe.
The vial of vengeance is poured on his head;
Let his fate then atone for the wrath he may merit,
And pity a tear to his memory shed.
278
In the valour that laid the proud enemy low,
Yet it shall not be read in the page of her story,
That England could smile at the death of a foe.
When the pride of the forest is blighted and perished,
We mourn for the whirlwind that breathed on its bud,
But the garlands of conquest, the laurels he cherished,
Were planted in slaughter and watered with blood.
And soon were they withered and laid in the furrow,
O'er liberty's birthplace to bloom not again,
And the arm of her children soon plucked them in sorrow
From the brow of the warrior, who wreathed them in vain.
We mourn for the whirlwind that breathed on its bud,
But the garlands of conquest, the laurels he cherished,
Were planted in slaughter and watered with blood.
And soon were they withered and laid in the furrow,
O'er liberty's birthplace to bloom not again,
And the arm of her children soon plucked them in sorrow
From the brow of the warrior, who wreathed them in vain.
Yet, though dark his proud soul with the lust of ambition,
Though banish'd his name from the lips of the brave,
Let us hope that his solitude cherished contrition,
Let the voice of his crimes be unheard from the grave!
It behoves not the mighty to crush the defeated,
Nor to trample the brow which is laid in the dust,
And the measure of woe that for him hath been meted,
Claims from mercy a sigh in the hearts of the just.
Though banish'd his name from the lips of the brave,
Let us hope that his solitude cherished contrition,
Let the voice of his crimes be unheard from the grave!
It behoves not the mighty to crush the defeated,
Nor to trample the brow which is laid in the dust,
And the measure of woe that for him hath been meted,
Claims from mercy a sigh in the hearts of the just.
The warrior is fallen—and low lies the proud-hearted,
And the sigh of oblivion is passed from the brave,
The warrior is fallen—and his pride is departed,
To mingle with earth and to reign in the grave.
And Conquest shall mourn for the victim she nourish'd,
And weep for the soul that was breathed at her feet,
For his laurels but bloom'd and their glory but flourish'd
To render the pride of the victor more sweet.
And the sigh of oblivion is passed from the brave,
The warrior is fallen—and his pride is departed,
To mingle with earth and to reign in the grave.
279
And weep for the soul that was breathed at her feet,
For his laurels but bloom'd and their glory but flourish'd
To render the pride of the victor more sweet.
DAVID'S LAMENT.
Let the voice of the mourner be heard on the mountain,And woe breathe her sigh over Besor's blue wave,
Upon Gilboa's hill there is opened a fountain,
And its fast-flowing stream is the blood of the brave!
Oh! dry be that hill from the rains of the morning,
On its brow may no dew of the evening fall,
But the warriors of Israel from conquest returning
View herbless and withered the death-place of Saul!
From the borders of Judah let gladness be banish'd,
Ye maidens of Israel be deep in your woe,
For the pride of the mighty in battle is vanish'd
The chief of the sword, and the lord of the bow.
And long shall the chieftains of Gilead deplore them,
And mourn the dark fate of the high and the brave,
The song of the minstrel will oft be breath'd o'er them,
And holy the tear that shall fall on their grave.
280
“IS NATURE COME TO THIS?”
There was a man who died with rage—they said
It was a fearful sight—his spirit fled
In hate and cursing, and no tears were shed
By those around.
It was a fearful sight—his spirit fled
In hate and cursing, and no tears were shed
By those around.
The oaths came rolling forth
Like fire from a volcano—and they forced
Their way with difficulty through the throat,
Which seemed with very hellishness to burst,
Till with one inward-breathed and deep-drawn note,
He howled his last.
Like fire from a volcano—and they forced
Their way with difficulty through the throat,
Which seemed with very hellishness to burst,
Till with one inward-breathed and deep-drawn note,
He howled his last.
And when he sank to earth,
All turned away—they could not bear to look
Upon the dreadful page of nature's book
Which lay before them—wherein hearts might read
In words of fire, how many a loathsome deed
Of strange, unholy darkness must have been
Before the world could bring forth so much sin!
All turned away—they could not bear to look
Upon the dreadful page of nature's book
Which lay before them—wherein hearts might read
In words of fire, how many a loathsome deed
Of strange, unholy darkness must have been
Before the world could bring forth so much sin!
DEBORAH'S SONG
Warriors of Israel! sheathe the sword,
And dash the waving plume away,
With triumph spread the festal board,
And shout on high the joyful lay.
Fallen is the pride of Jabin's host,
And ceased the triumph of the foe;
Yet let not Israel's warriors boast,
A woman's hand hath dealt the blow.
And dash the waving plume away,
With triumph spread the festal board,
And shout on high the joyful lay.
281
And ceased the triumph of the foe;
Yet let not Israel's warriors boast,
A woman's hand hath dealt the blow.
Frail though by nature woman be,
Ill fit to lift the avenging rod,
Yet is her soul from weakness free,
And strong, the instrument of God.
Loud is the wail in Jabin's band,
And deep the woe their souls must feel.
Where is their chief's resistless hand?
Where his proud arm and vengeful steel?
Ill fit to lift the avenging rod,
Yet is her soul from weakness free,
And strong, the instrument of God.
Loud is the wail in Jabin's band,
And deep the woe their souls must feel.
Where is their chief's resistless hand?
Where his proud arm and vengeful steel?
He died a death that none should die,
Whate'er their deeds, whate'er their guilt,
His pangs were dear to woman's eye,
By woman's hand his blood was spilt:
For him no hostile bow was bent,
For him was drawn no foeman's sword:
His death-place was the peaceful tent,
His death, the judgment of the Lord!
Whate'er their deeds, whate'er their guilt,
His pangs were dear to woman's eye,
By woman's hand his blood was spilt:
For him no hostile bow was bent,
For him was drawn no foeman's sword:
His death-place was the peaceful tent,
His death, the judgment of the Lord!
282
TRANSLATION OF AN EPITAPH ON ROSA, COUNTESS OF WARWICK, IN BROADHIMSON CHURCHYARD.
Rose of the world! thy tender bloomWill live no more in earthly bower,
The grave hath drank the sweet perfume
Which once was thine, thou lovely flower!
Yet thou hast left this place of tears,
To breathe in sweetness purer air,
For thou shalt bloom in happier spheres,
And none shall steal thy fragrance there!
283
INSCRIPTION, CARVED IN STONE, OVER THE PORCH DOOR OF THE VICARAGE HOUSE, MORWENSTOW.
A House, a Glebe, a Pound a Day;A Pleasant Place to Watch and Pray.
Be True to Church—Be Kind to Poor,
O Minister! For Evermore.
THE END.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |