 | Judas Iscariot |  |
45
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
46
“The delightful World comes after Death, and Paradise succeeds
the Grave; since the verdant state of things is the Symbol of the
Resurrection, and to flourish in the state of Glory, we must first be
sown in Corruption. Beside, the ancient practice of Noble Persons,
to conclude in Garden-Graves,—and Urns themselves, of old, to be
wrapt up in Flowers and Garlands.”
Sir Thomas Brown's Hydriotaphia; Epist. Dedicat.
Patet Ætheri; clauditur Orbi.
Quarles' Emblems.
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THE URN,
A PASTORAL MONODY.
Sacred To the Memory of C. M. W.
Oh Marble Semblance—undecaying Grace!
What intellectual rapture holds thy thought?
Eternity hath breathed upon thy face,
And vainly shall thy heavenly dream be sought
By those who dwell on earth, and fain would trace
The wonders of the change upon thee wrought.
But see!—midst hovering shades of airy vines
There gleams a Funeral Urn!—a glory round it shines!
What intellectual rapture holds thy thought?
Eternity hath breathed upon thy face,
And vainly shall thy heavenly dream be sought
By those who dwell on earth, and fain would trace
The wonders of the change upon thee wrought.
But see!—midst hovering shades of airy vines
There gleams a Funeral Urn!—a glory round it shines!
A Visionary Urn is more intense
Than aught that holds the lost decaying form;
So many claims disturb the external sense,—
Confuse, divide, or wreck in its own storm;
But the soul's grief hath for its influence
Eternity, whereto all things conform:
And yet—the dark clay wraps thee—silence cold—
Reality hath whispers—scarcely wise, though old.
Than aught that holds the lost decaying form;
So many claims disturb the external sense,—
Confuse, divide, or wreck in its own storm;
But the soul's grief hath for its influence
Eternity, whereto all things conform:
And yet—the dark clay wraps thee—silence cold—
Reality hath whispers—scarcely wise, though old.
Seek then her grave. Fields, lanes, I heed ye not—
Trees, brooks, nor all the pastoral hopes of spring;
I think but of the lone and hallowed spot
Within the rustic church, where I would wing
A bird's flight, every object else forgot,
Which outward sense and fancy thronging bring:
Yet, as the small, grey, ivy'd tower appears
Above the trees—it seems to stand in distant years.
Trees, brooks, nor all the pastoral hopes of spring;
I think but of the lone and hallowed spot
Within the rustic church, where I would wing
A bird's flight, every object else forgot,
Which outward sense and fancy thronging bring:
Yet, as the small, grey, ivy'd tower appears
Above the trees—it seems to stand in distant years.
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With slower pace—with many a sighing pause—
With hesitation, and love's sacred fear
Without his warmth, and thoughts of mortal laws
That bind the spirit for a season here—
I deeply feel all endeth in its Cause,
And touch Futurity, while drawing near
Those patient walls,—round which I stealing tread:—
The graves look conscious—nought to me seems dead.
With hesitation, and love's sacred fear
Without his warmth, and thoughts of mortal laws
That bind the spirit for a season here—
I deeply feel all endeth in its Cause,
And touch Futurity, while drawing near
Those patient walls,—round which I stealing tread:—
The graves look conscious—nought to me seems dead.
The sun streams through a lattice up the aisle,
And gilds the chancel of that rustic fane,
Streaming across the pavement's dull red tile.
Silence, without a breath, holds there Time's chain.
A hollow thoughtfulness—a bright cold smile—
Pervade the place. Can a dark vault contain
What late I saw in life's sweet brilliancy?
Is this chill, vacant, gleam, all that is left of thee?
And gilds the chancel of that rustic fane,
Streaming across the pavement's dull red tile.
Silence, without a breath, holds there Time's chain.
A hollow thoughtfulness—a bright cold smile—
Pervade the place. Can a dark vault contain
What late I saw in life's sweet brilliancy?
Is this chill, vacant, gleam, all that is left of thee?
Can narrow, brick'd-up darkness, under foot,
Hold thee, Pale Maid, in death's pathetic trance?
And hath thy fair flower sunk into a root,
No more to shine with morning radiance,
For earthly eyes—thy gentle accents mute—
The white neck shadow'd—the lost countenance—
Only in Paradise again to bloom;
But here paved down in sad though sacred gloom.
Hold thee, Pale Maid, in death's pathetic trance?
And hath thy fair flower sunk into a root,
No more to shine with morning radiance,
For earthly eyes—thy gentle accents mute—
The white neck shadow'd—the lost countenance—
Only in Paradise again to bloom;
But here paved down in sad though sacred gloom.
Look back—how brief the time—when sunset's gold
Mingling with autumn's beauty, spread its gleam
Athwart those woods, and gradually unrolled
A soft swathe down the green slope to the stream,
Touching the thickets, tree-trunks, moss, and mould,
And grass-paths wandering into shades of dream:
The platforms of the woodland midway hang;
And as we stroll'd along, some bird, or spirit, sang.
Mingling with autumn's beauty, spread its gleam
Athwart those woods, and gradually unrolled
A soft swathe down the green slope to the stream,
Touching the thickets, tree-trunks, moss, and mould,
And grass-paths wandering into shades of dream:
The platforms of the woodland midway hang;
And as we stroll'd along, some bird, or spirit, sang.
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She sat in silence on a mossy stone,
Looking across the lake that gleam'd below;
One cheek was bright with heaven's love, and her own—
The other cold in shade. While yet the glow
Was there, I heard the sad-voiced stockdove's tone,
Too deeply sweet to warn of coming woe;
And yet the water-lilies bred a spell—
'Neath those broad floating leaves, methought I could sleep well.
Looking across the lake that gleam'd below;
One cheek was bright with heaven's love, and her own—
The other cold in shade. While yet the glow
Was there, I heard the sad-voiced stockdove's tone,
Too deeply sweet to warn of coming woe;
And yet the water-lilies bred a spell—
'Neath those broad floating leaves, methought I could sleep well.
What thoughts were hers? Soft lights and shades pursuing
The clouds, were pictured in the moving lake;
Her grave sweet eyes some vision were reviewing,
Yet from this scene an influence seem'd to take:
And now a rising sigh is she subduing,
As though pale hopes, like snow, fell flake by flake.
Ah, somewhat in the air full often shows
Fate to the soul—which yet believes not half it knows.
The clouds, were pictured in the moving lake;
Her grave sweet eyes some vision were reviewing,
Yet from this scene an influence seem'd to take:
And now a rising sigh is she subduing,
As though pale hopes, like snow, fell flake by flake.
Ah, somewhat in the air full often shows
Fate to the soul—which yet believes not half it knows.
After the dark and unforeseen event,
We gather lights from previous thoughts, acts, dreams,
Whereby we might have pictured fate's intent,—
Or, thus to our immediate grief it seems.
The warning vision all in vain was sent;
And vain, if credited, these baleful gleams;
In proof whereof are many stories old;
One I remember—sad as ever poet told.
We gather lights from previous thoughts, acts, dreams,
Whereby we might have pictured fate's intent,—
Or, thus to our immediate grief it seems.
The warning vision all in vain was sent;
And vain, if credited, these baleful gleams;
In proof whereof are many stories old;
One I remember—sad as ever poet told.
There was a Florentine in years gone by,
Who of an Arab mystic bought a ring:
The small grey onyx pleased his musing eye.
He went his way; and fancy's summer wing
Joyously urged him 'neath the hopeful sky,
Whereon he gazed and smiled, and oft would sing;
Until one day between wild fruit-tree rows
He sat near fields, o'er which inspired sky-larks rose.
Who of an Arab mystic bought a ring:
The small grey onyx pleased his musing eye.
He went his way; and fancy's summer wing
Joyously urged him 'neath the hopeful sky,
Whereon he gazed and smiled, and oft would sing;
Until one day between wild fruit-tree rows
He sat near fields, o'er which inspired sky-larks rose.
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And as he gazed across the fields afar,
She whom he loved came walking o'er the mead;
And in her hair one white flower, like a star,
Shone sweetly on her forehead. A pale reed
She waved to him with motion regular—
Smiling yet sad; while sunset's dying brede
Gleam'd on her saint-like bosom, pearly fair:—
It was a waking dream—and what he saw was air!
She whom he loved came walking o'er the mead;
And in her hair one white flower, like a star,
Shone sweetly on her forehead. A pale reed
She waved to him with motion regular—
Smiling yet sad; while sunset's dying brede
Gleam'd on her saint-like bosom, pearly fair:—
It was a waking dream—and what he saw was air!
To rise and fly to her he strove in vain;
A charm was on him, baffling each essay,
Yet through his veins there ran delicious pain,
Such as he had not known until that day.
When—as she look'd on him and smiled again—
An Arm came out of heaven!—caught her away—
Through the far firmament in silence bore—
And the clouds closed behind—as quiet as before!
A charm was on him, baffling each essay,
Yet through his veins there ran delicious pain,
Such as he had not known until that day.
When—as she look'd on him and smiled again—
An Arm came out of heaven!—caught her away—
Through the far firmament in silence bore—
And the clouds closed behind—as quiet as before!
Breathless he sate, and staring in the sky:
Then raised one hand to press his doubting brow,
And, on the onyx 'graven, met his eye
A Funeral Urn—which was not there till now!
Away he fled, and the ring hastily
Drew off, in fear of omens it might show;
Sought out the Arab; but while on the way
He heard a death-mass! From that hour his hair turn'd grey.
Then raised one hand to press his doubting brow,
And, on the onyx 'graven, met his eye
A Funeral Urn—which was not there till now!
Away he fled, and the ring hastily
Drew off, in fear of omens it might show;
Sought out the Arab; but while on the way
He heard a death-mass! From that hour his hair turn'd grey.
For she had died. His heart-strings scarce could hold:
The breath of Florence seem'd a wintry blast,
And a lone Voice came echoing o'er the wold,
And through bleak woods and hills o'er which he pass'd.
A broken record doth its griefs unfold,
Which else were into Time's oblivion cast.
The accents moan'd, like to a far-off sea;
And in the ear of Night was breathed a monody.
The breath of Florence seem'd a wintry blast,
And a lone Voice came echoing o'er the wold,
And through bleak woods and hills o'er which he pass'd.
A broken record doth its griefs unfold,
Which else were into Time's oblivion cast.
The accents moan'd, like to a far-off sea;
And in the ear of Night was breathed a monody.
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It seem'd to sigh—‘I would recall the dead:
I search and hope for what I ne'er shall find;
The loveliness wherewith my dreams were fed—
Heart-rapture, grace, and fortitude of mind.
A spectral goddess meets my arms instead:
It smiles, it fades—I ne'er shall be resigned.
The paths where thou hast trod look all forlorn;
I wander up and down—and cry ‘Where art thou gone?’’
I search and hope for what I ne'er shall find;
The loveliness wherewith my dreams were fed—
Heart-rapture, grace, and fortitude of mind.
A spectral goddess meets my arms instead:
It smiles, it fades—I ne'er shall be resigned.
The paths where thou hast trod look all forlorn;
I wander up and down—and cry ‘Where art thou gone?’’
Lovers of Old Romance, ye know such tales;
But those who ere the tidings see the Shade,
To them, if true or fabulous, nought avails.
In vain the warning Urn that gentle maid
Might see in clouds or lake. God's sacred veils
Float o'er the life-spring of the green grass blade;
And round on all sides of the common earth
Move constant miracles—death hand-in-hand with birth.
But those who ere the tidings see the Shade,
To them, if true or fabulous, nought avails.
In vain the warning Urn that gentle maid
Might see in clouds or lake. God's sacred veils
Float o'er the life-spring of the green grass blade;
And round on all sides of the common earth
Move constant miracles—death hand-in-hand with birth.
The bright spring comes—primrose and snow-drop fair,
The purple crocus and the freshening breeze;
But where art thou? White clouds are in the air;
Hoar frost is on the barn-roofs, ricks, and trees;
The thin ice glistens—melts—the fields prepare
For infant growths—the lark sings o'er the leas—
But where art thou? Those broad pools and sweet lanes
Look lonely, and the roads are wet with last night's rains.
The purple crocus and the freshening breeze;
But where art thou? White clouds are in the air;
Hoar frost is on the barn-roofs, ricks, and trees;
The thin ice glistens—melts—the fields prepare
For infant growths—the lark sings o'er the leas—
But where art thou? Those broad pools and sweet lanes
Look lonely, and the roads are wet with last night's rains.
It is too cold for thee to be abroad,—
Yet, at each turn, methinks thou may'st appear;
E'en now I glimpse thee o'er yon sunny ford
Gliding, with white camelias in thy hair,
And in thy bosom! Art thou then restored?
Ah me!—it is a Swan. As I draw near,
The arch'd neck veers with gracious tenderness—
'Tis very like. It glides away from my caress.
Yet, at each turn, methinks thou may'st appear;
E'en now I glimpse thee o'er yon sunny ford
Gliding, with white camelias in thy hair,
And in thy bosom! Art thou then restored?
Ah me!—it is a Swan. As I draw near,
The arch'd neck veers with gracious tenderness—
'Tis very like. It glides away from my caress.
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In the old churchyard still some hoar frost lingers
Upon the graves in shady places chill,
But infant spring smiles on death's stony fingers,
And with soft radiance checks the solemn thrill.
Full are the window-nooks with chirping singers,
That round their nests keep up a merry trill;
The blackbird preludes in his woodland home;
But high winds break the clouds—thou wilt not come.
Upon the graves in shady places chill,
But infant spring smiles on death's stony fingers,
And with soft radiance checks the solemn thrill.
Full are the window-nooks with chirping singers,
That round their nests keep up a merry trill;
The blackbird preludes in his woodland home;
But high winds break the clouds—thou wilt not come.
I saw a full-grown tree, through which, mid-way,
Another tree had grown, and both were blooming:
Strong, large, luxuriant, knowing not decay;
A thousand chances vainly were o'erglooming
Their health and symmetry. Chance hath grown grey:
They flourish still. Ah, wherefore, then, entombing
Far nobler life, thus prematurely marred,
Oh, evil Chance!—and leaving hearts for ever scarred!
Another tree had grown, and both were blooming:
Strong, large, luxuriant, knowing not decay;
A thousand chances vainly were o'erglooming
Their health and symmetry. Chance hath grown grey:
They flourish still. Ah, wherefore, then, entombing
Far nobler life, thus prematurely marred,
Oh, evil Chance!—and leaving hearts for ever scarred!
'Twas not the hand of Chance, but the intent
Of wise, though fathomless Beneficence:
A seraph with a fiery banner sent
Waved thee a sign that thou should'st hasten hence.
We weep and wonder, or in prayer are bent,
And ache at the recoil of human sense:
For why so soon to vanish?—to what end
Singled from this world, where death is oft a friend?
Of wise, though fathomless Beneficence:
A seraph with a fiery banner sent
Waved thee a sign that thou should'st hasten hence.
We weep and wonder, or in prayer are bent,
And ache at the recoil of human sense:
For why so soon to vanish?—to what end
Singled from this world, where death is oft a friend?
Fronting yon ancient wooden porch, dark sweeping,
An aged yew-tree stands, wherefrom a storm
Hath rent one limb; in gloom the boughs hang weeping,
And yet the seat beneath betokens calm.
Sad silence through the churchyard now is creeping;
Pale twilight o'er the cold church casts a charm:
And on the roof, grey with dead crusted moss,
The robin sings of love, upon the old stone cross.
An aged yew-tree stands, wherefrom a storm
Hath rent one limb; in gloom the boughs hang weeping,
And yet the seat beneath betokens calm.
Sad silence through the churchyard now is creeping;
Pale twilight o'er the cold church casts a charm:
And on the roof, grey with dead crusted moss,
The robin sings of love, upon the old stone cross.
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If thou the Visionary Urn hast seen,
Thou may'st a Service hear within that fane,
Though nought but gloom and stillness there convene.
The spiritual music of the brain
Swells with æolian choir of memories keen,
Then dimly sinks into a murmurous strain.
Hist!—'tis a chaunt—beneath the vaults' broad stones—
It whispers of white wings to all those mouldering bones.
Thou may'st a Service hear within that fane,
Though nought but gloom and stillness there convene.
The spiritual music of the brain
Swells with æolian choir of memories keen,
Then dimly sinks into a murmurous strain.
Hist!—'tis a chaunt—beneath the vaults' broad stones—
It whispers of white wings to all those mouldering bones.
Cold relics of life's garment mouldering here,
Nothing of what ye really were remains,
Save in the visions which our memories bear
Of undecaying beauty. Hope retains
Its fond prerogative, and thou so fair
Of late—so sweet and noble 'midst death's pains,
Hast left thine image in our souls impressed,
Where we may see thee still—though thou art with the Blest.
Nothing of what ye really were remains,
Save in the visions which our memories bear
Of undecaying beauty. Hope retains
Its fond prerogative, and thou so fair
Of late—so sweet and noble 'midst death's pains,
Hast left thine image in our souls impressed,
Where we may see thee still—though thou art with the Blest.
The churchyard now is folded round in gloom;
Black night hangs clotted in the yew-tree old.
I stand beneath a darkness, as of doom.
Where shall I go?—the world is wide and cold.
Wilt thou, blest Spirit, call me? I will come:
My heart's life bounds from time's dark grass and mould!
What is't that through the boughs breaks forth afar?
The clouds divide—retire;—It is the Evening Star!
Black night hangs clotted in the yew-tree old.
I stand beneath a darkness, as of doom.
Where shall I go?—the world is wide and cold.
Wilt thou, blest Spirit, call me? I will come:
My heart's life bounds from time's dark grass and mould!
What is't that through the boughs breaks forth afar?
The clouds divide—retire;—It is the Evening Star!
The hedges drip, the paths are moist with dew,
The silent fields in shadow all are sleeping;
The dark lanes need good faith and footsteps true,
With care and firmness in the centre keeping.
The sheep-bell sounds—like a far-off ‘adieu’
From childhood, to the present sad hour leaping.
Behind the trees the red moon rises slow,—
But thou, bright Star of Night, direct me where to go!
The silent fields in shadow all are sleeping;
The dark lanes need good faith and footsteps true,
With care and firmness in the centre keeping.
The sheep-bell sounds—like a far-off ‘adieu’
From childhood, to the present sad hour leaping.
Behind the trees the red moon rises slow,—
But thou, bright Star of Night, direct me where to go!
Berkshire, 1844.
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GENIUS.
Far out at sea—the sun was high,
While veered the wind and flapped the sail,—
We saw a snow-white butterfly
Dancing before the fitful gale,
Far out at sea.
While veered the wind and flapped the sail,—
We saw a snow-white butterfly
Dancing before the fitful gale,
Far out at sea.
The little stranger, who had lost
His way, of danger nothing knew;
Settled awhile upon the mast,
Then flutter'd o'er the waters blue;
Far out at sea.
His way, of danger nothing knew;
Settled awhile upon the mast,
Then flutter'd o'er the waters blue;
Far out at sea.
Above there gleam'd the boundless sky;
Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen;
Between them danced the butterfly,
The spirit-life in this vast scene;
Far out at sea.
Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen;
Between them danced the butterfly,
The spirit-life in this vast scene;
Far out at sea.
Away he sped with shimmering glee!
Dim, indistinct—now seen—now gone.
Night comes, with wind and rain,—and he
No more will dance before the Morn—
Far out at sea.
Dim, indistinct—now seen—now gone.
Night comes, with wind and rain,—and he
No more will dance before the Morn—
Far out at sea.
He dies unlike his mates, I ween;
Perhaps not sooner, nor worse cross'd;
And he hath felt, and known, and seen,
A larger life and hope,—though lost,
Far out at sea!
Perhaps not sooner, nor worse cross'd;
And he hath felt, and known, and seen,
A larger life and hope,—though lost,
Far out at sea!
Gulf of Florida, 1830
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THE KITE.
In a field
Where no shrub
Earth could yield
Man or grub;
Where no grass
Could be seen,
Goose or ass—
Leaf of green;
But all black
As a stack
Of old bean;
A collier boy, who drudged all day and night,
One Sunday slipt away from school, and flew a paper kite.
Where no shrub
Earth could yield
Man or grub;
Where no grass
Could be seen,
Goose or ass—
Leaf of green;
But all black
As a stack
Of old bean;
A collier boy, who drudged all day and night,
One Sunday slipt away from school, and flew a paper kite.
O'er grey cinder
And coal dust,
Ash and tinder
And iron rust;
O'er black holes
Of old shafts,
Wheels and rolls—
Engine crafts,
The kite flies
Tow'rd the skies,
And they seem
A sweet dream
To his eyes:
The boy found out he had a soul—not like his hands and tools!
It never rose so high before, in any Sunday schools.
And coal dust,
Ash and tinder
And iron rust;
O'er black holes
Of old shafts,
Wheels and rolls—
Engine crafts,
The kite flies
Tow'rd the skies,
And they seem
A sweet dream
To his eyes:
The boy found out he had a soul—not like his hands and tools!
It never rose so high before, in any Sunday schools.
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The boy's heart
Grew more light
At each start
Of the kite;
He ran hither—
It pull'd tight—
And thither,
Till his sight
Fixt above,
Dreamt of love
And wings white;
And to heaven
It was given
While 'twas bright;
For down a shaft he fell! down—down—O, do not look!
And good folks drew the moral—“'Twas because he left his book!”
Grew more light
At each start
Of the kite;
He ran hither—
It pull'd tight—
And thither,
Till his sight
Fixt above,
Dreamt of love
And wings white;
And to heaven
It was given
While 'twas bright;
For down a shaft he fell! down—down—O, do not look!
And good folks drew the moral—“'Twas because he left his book!”
Bilston, 1841.
AN IRISH FUNERAL.
“On Wednesday the remains of a poor woman, who died of hunger,
were carried to their last resting-place by three women and a blind
man, the son in law of the deceased. The distance between the
wretched hut of the deceased and the grave-yard was nearly three miles.”
—Tuam Herald.
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
An old door's the hearse
Of the skeleton corpse,
And three women bear it,
With a blind man to share it:
Over flint, over bog,
They stagger and jog:—
Weary, and hungry, and hopeless, and cold,
They slowly bear onward the bones to the mould.
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
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Of the skeleton corpse,
And three women bear it,
With a blind man to share it:
Over flint, over bog,
They stagger and jog:—
Weary, and hungry, and hopeless, and cold,
They slowly bear onward the bones to the mould.
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
Barefoot ye go,
Through the frost, through the snow;
Unsteady and slow,
Your hearts mad with woe;
Bewailing and blessing the poor rigid clod—
The dear dead-and-cold one, whose soul is with God.
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod.
This ruin and rod
Are from man—and not God!
Through the frost, through the snow;
Unsteady and slow,
Your hearts mad with woe;
Bewailing and blessing the poor rigid clod—
The dear dead-and-cold one, whose soul is with God.
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod.
This ruin and rod
Are from man—and not God!
Now spake out her sister,—
“Can we be quite sure
Of the mercy of Heaven,
Or that Death is life's cure?
A cure for the misery, famine, and pains,
Which our cold rulers view as the end of their gains?”
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
“Can we be quite sure
Of the mercy of Heaven,
Or that Death is life's cure?
A cure for the misery, famine, and pains,
Which our cold rulers view as the end of their gains?”
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
59
“In a land where there's plenty,”
The old mother said,—
“But not for poor creatures
Who pawn rags and bed—
There's plenty for rich ones, and those far away,
Who drain off our life-blood so thoughtless and gay!”
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
The old mother said,—
“But not for poor creatures
Who pawn rags and bed—
There's plenty for rich ones, and those far away,
Who drain off our life-blood so thoughtless and gay!”
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
Then wailed the third woman—
“The darling was worth
The rarest of jewels
That shine upon earth.
When hunger was gnawing her—wasted and wild—
She shared her last morsel with my little child.”
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
“The darling was worth
The rarest of jewels
That shine upon earth.
When hunger was gnawing her—wasted and wild—
She shared her last morsel with my little child.”
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
“Oh Christ!” prayed the blind man,
“We are not so poor,
Though we bend 'neath the dear weight
That crushes this door;
For we know that the grave is the first step to Heaven,
And a birthright we have in the riches there given.”
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
“We are not so poor,
Though we bend 'neath the dear weight
That crushes this door;
For we know that the grave is the first step to Heaven,
And a birthright we have in the riches there given.”
Heavily plod
Highroad and sod,
With the cold corpse clod,
Whose soul is with God!
Limerick, 1847.
60
THE CATARACT OF THE MOHAWK.
Ye black rocks, huddled like a fallen wall,
Ponderous and steep,
Where silver currents downward coil and fall
And rank weeds weep;
Thou broad and shallow bed, whose sullen floods
Show barren islets of red stones and sand,—
Shrunk is thy might beneath a fatal Hand,
That will erase all memories from the woods!
Ponderous and steep,
Where silver currents downward coil and fall
And rank weeds weep;
Thou broad and shallow bed, whose sullen floods
Show barren islets of red stones and sand,—
Shrunk is thy might beneath a fatal Hand,
That will erase all memories from the woods!
No more with war-paint, shells, and feathers grim,
The Indian chief
Casts his long frightful shade from bank or brim.
A blighted leaf
Floats by—the emblem of his history.
For though when rains are strong, the cataract
Again rolls on, its currents soon contract,
Or serve for neighbouring mill and factory.
The Indian chief
Casts his long frightful shade from bank or brim.
A blighted leaf
Floats by—the emblem of his history.
For though when rains are strong, the cataract
Again rolls on, its currents soon contract,
Or serve for neighbouring mill and factory.
A cloud,—of dragon's blood in hue—hangs blent
With streaks and veins
Of gall-stone yellow, and of orpiment,
O'er thy remains.
Never again, with grandeur, in the beam
Of sun-rise, or of noon, or changeful night,
Shalt thou in thunder chaunt thine old birth-right:
Fallen Mohawk! pass to thy stormy dream!
With streaks and veins
Of gall-stone yellow, and of orpiment,
O'er thy remains.
Never again, with grandeur, in the beam
Of sun-rise, or of noon, or changeful night,
Shalt thou in thunder chaunt thine old birth-right:
Fallen Mohawk! pass to thy stormy dream!
Mohawk River, 1830.
61
THE LAST WORDIS O' THE THANE O' CAWDOR.
AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD.
My Marion loose your braid, your braid sae lang behind.
O! loose your yellow hair—cast its gold upon the wind!
For your father now maun die, and yon grave a traitor hold,
And nane beside yoursel' will bless his ashes cold.
O! loose your yellow hair—cast its gold upon the wind!
For your father now maun die, and yon grave a traitor hold,
And nane beside yoursel' will bless his ashes cold.
O nane but ye, my child, will pause beside yon grave;
They'll pass wi' sic a shudder, as though the foul fiend drave;
They'll pile their stony thoughts aboon thy father's bones,
An' curse the restless ghaist that ay maun bleat his moans,
They'll pass wi' sic a shudder, as though the foul fiend drave;
They'll pile their stony thoughts aboon thy father's bones,
An' curse the restless ghaist that ay maun bleat his moans,
When I am hid, ye'se gang unto the Norway's king;
May be he'll hold his promise for a' this news may bring:
But for thee, I'd hate him now, as I hate my treacherie;
Yet nane shall ken the secret cause why thus disgraced I die.
May be he'll hold his promise for a' this news may bring:
But for thee, I'd hate him now, as I hate my treacherie;
Yet nane shall ken the secret cause why thus disgraced I die.
Gin Sweno will na' wed thee, yet bide a gentler time,
Wi' patience o' the angels wha' bear wi' human crime,
An' pray God his soul be wrung that his false aiths to thee
Dazzled my een, an' wyled my hand to this disloyalty.
Wi' patience o' the angels wha' bear wi' human crime,
An' pray God his soul be wrung that his false aiths to thee
Dazzled my een, an' wyled my hand to this disloyalty.
Hie to the gude King Duncan, wi' a' thy winsome grace;
Tho' you love his mortal foeman, yet look up in his face:
The truth, my Marion, tell, that allbe my acts were foul,
Yet did I love my gude king wi' a' my harte and soul.
Tho' you love his mortal foeman, yet look up in his face:
The truth, my Marion, tell, that allbe my acts were foul,
Yet did I love my gude king wi' a' my harte and soul.
62
I wadna' he forgave me,—I could ne'er forgie mysel':
Deep, dark down 'neath the cairn my shame doth hunger for to dwell:
Farewell, kind gentlemen! I praye ye dinna greete,
But tak my head, and lay it at gude king Duncan's feet.
Deep, dark down 'neath the cairn my shame doth hunger for to dwell:
Farewell, kind gentlemen! I praye ye dinna greete,
But tak my head, and lay it at gude king Duncan's feet.
These last wordis o' my bleedin' harte, I wad sue to have
maist humblie made knowne unto the kinge by my dochter;
for whom, in deeth, together wi' his majestie, shall my restless
spirit constantlie praye. Amen.
64
A THOUGHT FOR MICHAEL ANGELO.
Mighty, yet reverent is the Sculptor's mind,
That in the solid quarry can conceive
Heroes imprisoned—statues of the gods—
And prophets locked up in the marble deep:
Distinguishing, and seeing with closed eyes,
Form midst confusion—midst the darkness light—
And through the density, an atmosphere.
That in the solid quarry can conceive
Heroes imprisoned—statues of the gods—
And prophets locked up in the marble deep:
Distinguishing, and seeing with closed eyes,
Form midst confusion—midst the darkness light—
And through the density, an atmosphere.
To free these images of Power and Truth,
Of Grace, and Majesty, to take their stand
Within the temple, or among the clouds,
He meditates; while aspirations, hopes,
And energies flash through his glowing frame,
As doth a fire-brand in besieging hands,—
Or rather, like a multitude devout
That rush in a cathedral up and down,
Before the hour of some high ceremony.
Of Grace, and Majesty, to take their stand
Within the temple, or among the clouds,
He meditates; while aspirations, hopes,
And energies flash through his glowing frame,
As doth a fire-brand in besieging hands,—
Or rather, like a multitude devout
That rush in a cathedral up and down,
Before the hour of some high ceremony.
But when Supreme Creation from itself
Stupendous dreams to equal substance calls,
Filling imagination's utmost moulds
With mind, form, colour, life, and active power,—
No further force of effluence, O, Great God,
Originates the whole than serves to waft
The pregnant fabric from infinity
Unto these human shores,—where time and space
Teach us to work, that so we may enlarge
Our soul's abode in the ascending Scheme.
Stupendous dreams to equal substance calls,
Filling imagination's utmost moulds
With mind, form, colour, life, and active power,—
No further force of effluence, O, Great God,
Originates the whole than serves to waft
The pregnant fabric from infinity
Unto these human shores,—where time and space
Teach us to work, that so we may enlarge
Our soul's abode in the ascending Scheme.
Finchley, 1848.
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