Poems and Essays :: :: University of Virginia Library

Clouds and mists and vapours dim,
Wrap no more the ethereal sky,
But below the horizon's rim
Dip your wreathed forms and fly:
Let no revellers' voices dare
Start the undisturbed air.

Lo! the Moon full-orbed is wheeled
Toward the occidental gate,
Guardians of her lucent field
Two immortals hold their state:
Breathing on the charmed air
Reverence sits and Silence fair,

Side by side, in strictest union,
Linked together on their chair,
Holding with their eyes communion,
Lover-like, a sainted pair,
Stretching forth their silver hands
O'er the seas and silent lands.

1844.

THE FALSE FONTANLEE.

I

Alas, that knight of noble birth
Should ever fall from fitting worth!
Alas, that guilty treachery
Should stain the blood of Fontanlee!

II

The king hath lent a listening ear,
And blacker grew his face to hear:
“By Cross,” he cried, “if thou speak right,
The Fontanlee is a traitor knight!”

III

Outstepped Sir Robert of Fontanlee,
A young knight and a fair to see;
Outstepped Sir Stephen of Fontanlee,
Sir Robert's second brother was he;
Outstepped Sir John of Fontanlee,
He was the youngest of these three.

IV

There are three gloves on the oaken boards,
And three white hands on their hilted swords:
“On horse or foot, by day or night,
We stand to do our father right.”

V

The Baron Tranmere hath bent his knee,
And gathered him up the gages three:

“Ye are young knights, and loyal, I wis,
And ye know not how false your father is.

VI

Put on, put on your armour bright;
And God in heaven help the right!”
“God help the right!” the sons replied;
And straightway on their armour did.

VII

The Baron Tranmere hath mounted his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
The young Sir Robert lifted his eyes,
Looked fairly up in the open skies:

VIII

“If my father was true in deed and in word,
Fight, O God, with my righteous sword;
If my father was false in deed or in word,
Let me lie at length on the battle-sward!”

IX

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
Sir Robert's vizor is crushed and marred,
And he lies his length on the battle-sward.

X

Sir Stephen was an angry blade—
I scarce may speak the words he said:
“Though Heaven itself were false,” cried he,
“True is my father of Fontanlee!

XI

And, brother, as Heaven goes with the wrong,
If this lying baron should lay me along,
Strike another blow for our good renown.”
“Doubt me not,” said the young knight John.

XII

The Baron Tranmere hath turned his horse,
And ridden him down the battle-course;
In bold Sir Stephen's best life-blood
His spear's point is wet to the wood.

XIII

The young knight John hath bent his knee
And speaks his soul right solemnly:
“Whatever seemeth good to thee,
The same, O Lord, attend on me.

XIV

What though my brothers lie along,
My father's faith is firm and strong:
Perchance thy deeply-hid intent
Doth need some nobler instrument.

XV

Let faithless hearts give heed to fear,
I will not falter in my prayer:
If ever guilty treachery
Did stain the blood of Fontanlee,—

XVI

As such an ‘if’ doth stain my lips,
Though truth lie hidden in eclipse,—
Let yonder lance-head pierce my breast,
And my soul seek its endless rest.”

XVII

Never a whit did young John yield,
When the lance ran through his painted shield;
Never a whit debased his crest,
When the lance ran into his tender breast.

XVIII

“What is this? what is this, thou young Sir John,
That runs so fast from thine armour down?”
“Oh, this is my heart's blood, I feel,
And it wets me through from the waist to the heel.”

XIX

Sights of sadness many a one
A man may meet beneath the sun;
But a sadder sight did never man see
Than lies in the Hall of Fontanlee.

XX

There are three corses manly and fair,
Each in its armour, and each on its bier;
There are three squires weeping and wan,
Every one with his head on his hand,

XXI

Every one with his hand on his knee,
At the foot of his master silently
Sitting, and weeping bitterly
For the broken honour of Fontanlee.

XXII

Who is this at their sides that stands?
“Lift, O squires, your heads from your hands;
Tell me who these dead men be
That lie in the Hall of the Fontanlee.”

XXIII

“This is Sir Robert of Fontanlee,
A young knight and a fair to see;
This is Sir Stephen of Fontanlee,
Sir Robert's second brother was he;
This is Sir John of Fontanlee,
He was the youngest of those three.

XXIV

For their father's truth did they
Freely give their lives away,
And till he doth home return,
Sadly here we sit and mourn.”

XXV

These sad words they having said,
Every one down sank his head;
Till, in accents strangely spoken,
At their sides was silence broken.

XXVI

“I do bring you news from far,
False was the Fontanlee in war!
Unbend your bright swords from my breast,
I that do speak do know it best.”
Wide he flung his mantle free;
Lo, it was the Fontanlee!

XXVII

Then the squires like stricken men
Sank into their seats again,
And their cheeks in wet tears steeping
Fresh and faster fell a weeping.

XXVIII

He with footsteps soft and slow
Round to his sons' heads did go;
Sadly he looked on every one,
And stooped and kissed the youngest, John.

XXIX

Then his weary head down bending,
“Heart,” said he, “too much offending,
Break, and let me only be
Blotted out of memory.”

XXX

Thrice with crimson cheek he stood,
And thrice he swallowed the salt blood;
Then outpoured the torrent red;
The false Fontanlee lay dead.

1845.

F. M.

Beauty, not orient, but sweet as nightfall
In starry June;
Not resplendent, but no less delightful
Than airy music played in tune.

Motion, not fanciful, but no less graceful
Than wind-blown tree;
And a voice, whereat amazeful
Listening we lend our souls to thee.

Feeling, not passionate, but smoothly centred
In thy breast;
Not an angel hither ventured,
But a maiden heaven addressed.

1845.

AD PYRRHAM.

[_]

Horace, Book I. Ode. 5.

What slender youth, with sweets besprent,
And crowned with rosy flowers,
Pyrrha, sues thy coy consent
Within the pleasant bowers?

For whom dost thou with simple art
Bind up thy yellow hair?
Ah! oft will he deplore the heart
He trusted to thy care,

And the changed gods, but late so kind;
And stand amazed to see,
Poor novice, how the cloudy wind
Stirs up the bristling sea!

Who now, too much believing boy,
Enjoys thy golden charms,
Expects a heart without alloy,
And ever open arms;

Expects,—nor knows the treacherous air;—
Oh, hapless men are they,
On whom, an unattempted fair,
Thou shinest to betray.

The sacred wall can show for me,
By votive slab expressed,
How I to th' saving God of Sea
Have hung my dripping vest.

1844.

TO LAURA R.,

CROWNED WITH PRIMROSES.

So Flora looks when, flowret-crowned,
She leads the scented Spring;
So Psyche floats above the ground,
Upborne by Cupid's wing.

The Oread on the mountain side,
The Naiad in her well,
The Nereid underneath the tide,
The Dryad in the dell,

Though well they may, with changing grace,
Delay the jealous hours,
About such tresses never placed
So choice a wreath of flowers.

The pale-eyed blooms thyself did pull
Best emblem thee, sweet child;
As modest and as beautiful,
As tender and as wild.

November 1842.

ARIADNE.

Flushed Ariadne, laid
Upon her bridal bed,
Stretched forth at morn her half-awakened hand,
But found no lover's breast,
Where warmly it might rest,
And still, half-slumbering, by his breath be fanned;
She found the spot desert and cold,—
No sleeping lover couched where he had done of old.

Whereat, in half-surprise,
She oped her orbed eyes,
Gathering her thoughts from the domain of sleep;
And dazzled by the bright
And streaked rays of light
That through the cavern's silver chinks did peep,
Fancies she sees him as of yore,
And blames her sleepy hand that troubled her so sore.

But when indeed she spied
He lay not by her side,
She sprang upon her feet with throbbing breast;
And pacing the cold floor
She oped the cavern door,
Through which the eager light exulting pressed,
And spreading wide on every side
Left no unlighted nook throughout the cavern wide.

But all within its round
He was not to be found;
In growing fear she fled from out the cave;
It opened on the sand,
And far away from land
Her lover's keel was cutting the blue wave;
At which sad sight she swooned away,
And on the yellow sand all helpless long she lay.

Her pale lips lie apart,
Nor beats her broken heart;
Her light smock floating doth lay bare her beauties;
Her white limbs, all astray,
In tangled disarray
Lie helplessly, nor heed their bounden duties.
In heavy masses, all unbound,
Her golden glittering hair lies heaped upon the ground.

Old Ocean, all aghast
At the sad scene that passed,
On crested waves stole sadly to the shore,
And sighing made his way
To where the maiden lay,
And kissed her cold feet in affliction sore;
Whereat she started from her trance,
And rising, gazed around with sad and troubled glance.

But soon rushed back again
The torrent of her pain,

Her lover's vessel was in sight no longer;
Dreaming he may be found,
She roams the isle around,
And ever as she roams her grief grows stronger;
Until the doubt is dreadful truth,
That he hath fled the isle, and left her without ruth.

Then, yielding to despair,
She tears her yellow hair,
And beats her bursting breast in hopeless sorrow;
Thinks of her native land,
Curses the desert strand,
And fain from frenzy would she comfort borrow.
Then sinking into milder grief,
In shedding floods of tears she seeks a sad relief.

The birds and beasts are all
Melted at her sad call;
But Philomela, from a neighbouring bush
Adding her grief to hers,
Such plaintive numbers pours,
Bids from her throat such thrilling notes to gush,
And from her soul such woes she calls,
That drowned in liquid music down she dying falls.

Sad Ariadne's grief
Found in the song relief,
And half in listening she forgot her woes;

But when she saw her slain
By her excess of pain,
Envying the bird that thus her grief could close,
She hied her homewards to her cave,
And rather slew herself than would her sorrows brave.

1843.

A NIGHTINGALE IN EASTBURY WOODS.

Queen of clear song!
Thou, in the evening's hour,
Hid the thick brakes among,
What time the blue-eyed May doth shower
Blossoms upon awakening Spring,
Weavest thy tangled web of tune.
Still, still as death!
Peace from the corner of the crescent moon
Hath stooped to earth, and hovering holds her breath,
Fearing to mar thy pauses.
Still, O still!
Echo forgets her art,
Leaned listening from some hollow-ivied tree,
Knowing her second part
Would jar upon thy single harmony.

Thou, swoll'n with song,
Suitest thy numbers to the listener's ear,
Charming the varied throng.

Thou to the lover tellest tales of love
When, sick with changing fears,
He walks the accustomed grove,
Taking his soul with sweeter lays
Than Sappho tongued with fire,
Or mild Eurydice in happier days
Hymning to Orpheus' lyre.

The mourner with wan cheeks, bent o'er the hoary stones,
Weeps at thy sweetly sorrow-soothing art,
Arousing old love-tones
In his dejected heart.
But most the poet,
Wooing the Muse among the dewy shades,
Weaves, of the fragments of thy wild-wood song,
More airy palaces
Than do to earth belong.

I none of these:
Stretched on the gray trunk of some fallen tree,
In perfect silence of this Sabbath eve,
Learn wondrous things of thee.
Thou bidst me leave
The cankering cares and low desires that feed
On my immortal soul,
Seeking my meed
In Duty's goal.

To me thy lay
Seems like the expiration of pent love,
Breaking restraint away,
Scaling the eternal bowers above,
Nectar-bedewed;
Taking the willing ear of God
With simple gratitude.

Teach me, O Nightingale,
The fervour of thy tale.
I, filled with holy peace, would fain
Breathe my faint thanks up to the God of light,
Mounting on thy celestial strain,
O tuned child of Night!

1843.

AFTER THE HUNGARIAN WAR.

“The shadows of our martyrs pass before my eyes.”

THE LIVING.

Sleep, dead Hungarians, sleep in peace!
Would we might sleep so! Your release,
By shameful halter or the sword,
Was soft compassion of the Lord.
You do not break your hearts, or shed
Bitter tears;
Your sons are not in exile led;
You eat no begged, no stranger bread:
Would we, too, pressed our biers!

THE DEAD.

Living Hungarians, watch and pray!
And wait the breaking of the day.
The Lord yet liveth. Baneful night
Lies thick on justice and on right;
But the day-spring, slow yet sure,
Lies behind.
Wait! In the Lord's appointed hour,
High o'er these shades his sun shall tower,
And strike the oppressor blind.

THE LIVING.

O dead! we hear your voice and wait:
The Lord yet liveth, and is great!
We will take patience in one hand,
And in the right a sword. O Land!
Ancestral, honourable, grave,
Abide the wrong!
Thy children, thrust from forth thy door,
Shall repossess the ancient floor.
How long, O Lord, how long?

1851.

Kossuth's speech at Birmingham in 1851.

OPPORTUNITY.

O Opportunity, thou gull o' the world!
That, being present, winnest but disdain,
So small thou seem'st; but once behind us whirled,
A grim phantasma, shadowest all the plain.

Thou Parthian! that shoot'st thine arrows back,
Meeting our front with terror-feigning doles;
But often, turning on thy flying track,
With memory-winged shafts dost wound our souls.

Thou air! which breathing we do scarce perceive,
And think it little to enjoy the light;
But when the unvalued sun hath taken leave,
Darkly thou showest in the expanse of night.

Thou all men's torment, no man's comforter,—
Lost Opportunity! that shut'st the door
On all unworked intentions, and dost stir
Their fretting ghosts to plague our heart's deep core.

Thou sword of sharp Remorse, and sting of Time!
Passionate empoisoner of mortal tears!
Thou blaster of fresh Hope's recurring prime!
Crutch of Despair, and sustenance of fears!

But oh, to those that have the wit to use thee,
Thou glorious angel, clasped with golden wings,
Whereon he climbing that did rightly choose thee
Sees wondrous sights of unexpected things.

Thou instrument of never-dying fame
To those that snatch thy often-offered hilt;
To those that on the door can read thy name,
Thou residence of glory ready-built.

Used Opportunity! thou torch of Act,
And planted ladder to a high desire;
Thou one thing needful, making nothing lacked;
Thou spark unto a laid, unlighted, fire.

Thou double-faced god and double-souled!
They that look on thy front find thee most true;
But most remorseless, pitiless, and cold,
Who on thy backward visage bend their view.

1846.

LINES AFTER MY FATHER'S DEATH.

[_]

(Written in his accustomed walk.)

Another Sabbath-day
Now wraps the meads in mist;
Another sun's declined autumnal ray
Now shines upon these pastures hoar and gray,
That long thy steps have missed.

Chilled with the year's decline;
I pluck the crimson bloom with reverent tear,
And scatter it on thine autumnal bier,
With this unpolished rhyme.

Thou, like the autumnal rose,
Careless of storms unkind,
Flungest thy fragrance on the world around;
Now, plucked by God, a lasting home hast found,
Sheltered from winter's wind.

November 1843.

TO THE PLANET VENUS,

SHINING ON A WREATH OF FLOWERS HUNG OVER A LADY'S NAME CARVED ON A BEECH-TREE.

Again i' th' year's slow flight
I stand beneath this tree,
Where once I carved, apart from common sight,
With reverent handicraft thy name, O Emilie,
And now renew the rite.

For since she may not hear,
Nor I lay bare, my passion,
Or breathe one love-word in her listening ear,
I'll carve my love on trees, in ancient lover's fashion,
And woo some favouring sphere.

Lo, golden Aphrodite
Appears to pay her duty;
See where she rises wrapped in robes of light,
And, like some crimson spot dyeing the cheek of beauty,
Flushes the face of night!

O amorous child of Even,
The sky is all too cold;

Turn earthward, Queen, thy burning eye from heaven;
Quit the pale crowd of stars;—no love-tales there are told,
Or changing love-signs given.

But I can breathe a tale
More passionately true
Than ever flashed a maiden's cheek with pale;
O Planet Queen, delay thy course across the blue;—
O, furl thy flickering sail!

She hears and gives a sign,
Pouring in golden rain
Mysterious glory on my flowery shrine;
The enwreathed blossoms bent lift their blue heads again,
Tasting her breath divine.

So shall my love, though now
Signless and dull it lies,
Fearing to shade with care that ivory brow,
Read once again love-tokens in her responsive eyes,
And breathe no common vow.

[Rarely to our mortal eyes]

Rarely to our mortal eyes
Comes perfect Beauty from the skies;
But in some poet's, painter's breast,
Loves rather her white feet to rest;
There sits, and bids his trembling art
Reveal the secret of his heart.

Now only, in the rolling years,
To outward vision she appears;
Treads in our halls, touches our hands,
And moves to music in our bands:
All hearts, like ever-mounting tides,
Are upward drawn where she abides.

Her eyes are twin stars Lucifer
In a quivering atmosphere;
And those cheeks they overshine,
Understained with crimson wine,
Are like torches to our hearts,
Burning up their inmost parts.

Her mouth, O carved miracle,
Is a caverned oracle,
Which more potent whispers fill
Than the old Apollian hill;
And a dear delicious death
Hides in her honey-poisoned breath.

Within her tresses, like a grove,
Walks the young enraptured Love;
And his shining face discovers
Often to the eyes of lovers,
Who, struck to find their god so near,
Turn white and red with sudden fear.

She moves like clouds on windy night,
A floating posture of delight;
As if the Music clasping charms
Conveyed her in its airy arms;—
An angel treading transient things,
But needing not the aid of wings.

Within this mansion doth Delight
Dwell, like the Darkness in the Night;
And from the windows looking forth
Of all her aspect, radiant Mirth
Shines like the clustered stars in heaven
When no moon burns or mists are driven.

1846.

TO THE MARCH SUN.

THROWING GORSE BLOSSOMS INTO THE AIR AS A SACRIFICE.

Kingly Prophet! laying down
At foot of Night thy gilded crown,
And thy glittering forehead fair
Wrapping round with clouded hair,
Hang a moment in the skies,
And accept our sacrifice.
In the air,
Lo, we fling
Golden bloom and blossoming.

Kingly bridegroom! wake the bride
From her slumbers at thy side;
From her dreams bid Earth arise,
And assume her freshest guise.
For a wreath around her hair,
Knitted sunbeams let her wear.
For her tire,
Lo, we fling
Golden bloom and blossoming.

Kingly father! lay a bed
For thy daughter's new-born head;
And that the infantine Spring,
On her first awakening,

May unfold her azure lights
On a scene of fresh delights,
On her crib,
Lo, we fling
Golden bloom and blossoming.

1844.

A DREAM AND NO DREAM.

I dreamt last night,—indeed, 'tis true,—
That I walked hand in hand with you;
And as we talked in gentle wise,
I read your favour in your eyes.

And when I trembling dared inquire
How far you felt my bosom's fire,
A faultering whisper broke from you—
You loved me much;—indeed, 'tis true.

Despairing lover, now awake!
A flattering hint from visions take;
And dare at last,—ah, would 'twere true!—
To think she loves as much as you.

While these I wrote, oppressed with care,
My mistress stole behind my chair;
With blushing cheeks she read them through,
And whispered me, “Indeed, 'tis true.”

VENIT.

When my dear love too long delays,
And makes the moments years,
I break my heart a thousand ways,
And drown my cheeks in tears.

But when I hear his hasty step,
And see those darling eyes,
I tremble, and would fain escape
In exquisite surprise.

My heart, like an imprisoned bird,
Beats wildly at the wires,
And all my vision is obscured
With thronging sweet desires.

He takes me in those loving arms,
And sucks the sweetest kiss,
And I forget my fond alarms
In unimagined bliss.

[When I asked her, “Wilt thou kiss me?’]

When I asked her, “Wilt thou kiss me?’
Naught she said, but hung her cheek so;
As if she were thinking, thinking
Whether she might do't or no.

Then her fair kind face upturning,
One sweet touch I there did win;
As if she were thinking, thinking
Such small graces are no sin.

She therein lost no composure,
Nor ashamed did she seem;
Truly chaste may grant such favour,
And therein lose no esteem.

THE GOLDEN DAYS.

Dark-eyed Helen, when I loved thee
In the green year's early prime;
When I loved thee and approved thee,
In the sunny April time;

Swiftly the delightful season
Over our young heads did pass;
Much of love we then did reason,
Or read the Poets in the grass.

I remember, that sweet Easter,
How the cuckoo overhead
Perched, and, singing, never ceased her
Ill-betiding note of dread.

I remember how we laughed then
That the bird should waste her throat,
Yet our strained ears had not quaffed then
Philomel's enchanting note.

Nor any love's still-burning ember
Have here these idle verses sung;—
But only that we might remember
The golden days when we were young.

Oh, golden days, untouched by sorrow,
Fair, fair, you shine from where I stand,
The tenant of a bitter morrow,
And dweller in a different land.

LOVE'S CREED.

Sitting once with my beloved,
When our inmost hearts were moved
With love and joy,
She leaned her head upon my breast,
And, “Oh,” she said, “a girl so blest!—
Darling boy!

Since first the rolling world went round,
Upon its face was never found
As this of thine.
Love never was so richly heaped
On any heart, none e'er so steeped
In joy divine.”

“Ah, child,” I said, “since Love first laid
His kingly finger on a maid,
And bowed her tongue
The sacred secret to disclose,
How, deep among her virgin snows,
His waters sprung,

None worthy to sustain his power,
But felt in his fresh morning-hour
A bliss supreme;—
But felt as if she stood alone,
Clothed in a joy none else could own,—
A heavenly dream!”

But she, “There are degrees in this,—
Degrees in love, degrees in bliss,
As I can show.
Some more, some less of heaven may prove;
But only I have thee to love,
And this I know.

When you enfold me in your arms,
Secure of love, secure from harms,
As now you do,—
You may go search Time's kingdom over,
A peace you never shall discover,
So full, so true.”

I smiled, and bending down did close
Eyes that in fond remonstrance rose
With kisses sweet.
I said, “No girl that ever pressed
Into a lover's happy breast
Since heart first beat,

But did esteem herself the first;
And thought no babe was ever nursed
In such sweet rest.”
Yet still she would not be denied,
But shook her shining head and cried,
“None e'er so blest!”

[On many an English lady's face]

On many an English lady's face
Fair Fortune grants these eyes to gaze;
Not fair alone in form or hue,
But gracious, guileless, tender, true.
I do not say you shall not find
A fairer face or loftier mind;
But none where Love's deep fervour lies
More deep in secret-keeping eyes;
None where fair Truth from more sincere
Unstained windows gazes clear,
Or consecrated Duty made
Eyes more abashed, yet less afraid;
Where pain so quietly hath hid
Beneath an unrevealing lid;
Or quick-accepted comfort smiled
With all the freshness of a child.
None whence shyer, sweeter laughter
Shot, the soft voice following after;
Nowhere hath Pity bidden rise
Tenderer tears in truer eyes.

Fountain of my contentment, the swift years,
Joy-bringers hitherto, bring also tears;
Short are the respites unto mortals given,
To stand on earth, yet touch the gates of heaven.

Dolgûog, 1856.

EXCUSE.

Blame me not, love, that I do wear
An ever-changing hue;
You are my sunshine, and I bear
My lights and shades from you.

Do not your lover, love, upbraid
To show a hasty mind;
The heaven itself is not more staid,
So you continue kind.

I am your instrument, dear love;
And if the tone be jarred,
Those strings which should in concord move
Are touched amiss and marred.

[A presence! a glory celestial!]

A presence! a glory celestial!
O Eros, how great is thy gain!
Divinity walks the terrestrial;
Away, away, ye prophane!

Give me thy hand, O Delightful!
I too am the child of a god;
And the long-locked Apollo at nightfall
Will linger to kiss me, and nod.

Tread as becomes us in duty,
That mortals may know the divine;
For I am a prophet of Beauty,
And thou art the statue and shrine.

1846.

SONG.

Turn hither, turn your widely-wandering eyes,
All Love's true lieges;
Look, to this child your winged monarch flies,
And all old faith reneges.
“We come! we come!
This is no common child, or earth-born infant only,
But stol'n from Fairy-land!”
Oh, no! oh, no!

These are not golden clouds that hang i' th' air,
But mortal tresses,
Which, with a fondling and delicious care,
Love's wing caresses.
“We see! we see!
This is no common child, or earth-born infant only,
But stol'n from Fairy-land!”
Oh, no! oh, no!

These are her eyes whereat ye wondering gaze,
Not stars down charmed
Through the blue night-air. Mounted on their rays,
Look, Love stands armed!
“We fear! we fear!
This is no common child, or earth-born infant only,
But stol'n from Fairy-land!”
Oh, no! oh, no!

This, not that winter rosebud for the which
Young Beauty grew sick;
'Tis but her mouth and small lips rosy rich:
These make Love's music.
“We hear! we hear!
This is no common child, or earth-born infant only,
But stol'n from Fairy-land!”
Oh, no! oh, no!

This is her brow, not fairy-carved stone,
By chaste thoughts owned,
Canopied o'er by shining hair alone;
Here Love sits throned.
“We bow! we bow!
This is no common child, or earth-born infant only,
But stol'n from Fairy-land!”
Oh, no! oh, no!

Lo, where she stands in presence most complete,
A child, yet queenly!
Here turn your eyes, and this bright infant greet,
Love loves supremely.
“We bend! we bend!
This is no common child, or earth-born infant only,
But stol'n from Fairy-land!”
Oh, no! oh, no!

December 1846.

Composed while skating, of which the metre bears traces.

OVER THE WEST.

“Over the West and wide away,
And have you seen my lady?”
“Over the West and wide away,
And I come from your lady.”

“Over the West and wide away,
And, well, what does my lady?”
“Over the West and wide away,
There kneels a man on his bended knee.”

“Over the West and wide away,
And, well, what does my lady?”
“Over the West and wide away,
She looks him through with her blue blue eye.”

“Over the West and wide away,
And will my lady marry?”
“Over the West and wide away,
Do ladies love to tarry?”

“Over the West and wide away,
I'll love my love no longer.”
“Over the West and wide away,
And is your faith no stronger?”

“Over the West and wide away,
False, false is my love to me.”
“Over the West and wide away,
True, true is thy love to thee.

“Over the West and wide away,
In thy true love abiding;
Over the West and wide away,
Come I thy lady riding.”

“FREI IST DER BURSCH!”

Free is the Student! thus they sing,
Their glasses all resounding;
Freedom, the fairest, noblest thing,
And here alone abounding!

So little birds may be alleged
Quite free at nestling ages;
But when King Fred believes you fledged,
You'll soon be clapped in cages.

So sucking bears are left alone,
To run about unguarded;
But when the rascals' teeth are grown,
They must be chained and warded.

Thus you that scorn a slave's estate
Shall find you've but delayed it:
Some shall be driven through the gate,
And some poor souls persuaded.

But, sir, if we give Freedom up,
We've stars of large dimensions;
And if we drink of slavery's cup,
Professorships and pensions.

Dear Liberty! cries every tongue,
And echoes every rafter,
We'll sing about thee while we're young,
And live without thee after.

Bonn, June 1846.

TO LITTLE A. C. IN THE GARDEN AT EASTBURY.

Come, my beauty, come, my bird;
We two will wander, and no third
Shall mar that sweetest solitude
Of a garden and a child,
When the fresh elms are first in bud,
And western winds blow mild.

Clasp that short-reaching arm about a neck
Stript of a deeper love's more close embrace,
And with the softness of thy baby-cheek
Press roses on a care-distained face.

What? set thee down, because the air
Ruffles too boldly thy brown hair?
Walk then, and as thy tiny boot
Presses the greenness of the sod,
Teach me to see that tottering foot
Uplifted and set down by God;

Teach me a stronger, tenderer hand than mine
Sways every motion of thy infant frame;
Bid me take hold, like thee, and not repine,—
Weak with my errors and deserved shame.

How? home again? ah, that soft laughter
Tells me what voice thou hankerest after.
Run, run, with that bright shining face,
And little hands stretched forth apart,
Into a mother's fond embrace,
Close, closer to her heart.

I too will turn, for I discern a voice
Which whispers me that I am far from home;
Bids me repent, and led by holier choice
Back to a Father's open bosom come.

FOR EVER.

Thrice with her lips she touched my lips,
Thrice with her hand my hand,
And three times thrice looked towards the sea,
But never to the land:
Then, “Sweet,” she said, “no more delay,
For Heaven forbids a longer stay.”

I, with my passion in my heart,
Could find no words to waste;
But striving often to depart,
I strained her to my breast:
Her wet tears washed my weary cheek;
I could have died, but could not speak.

The anchor swings, the sheet flies loose,
And, bending to the breeze,
The tall ship, never to return,
Flies through the foaming seas:
Cheerily, ho! the sailors cry;—
My sweet love lessening in my eye.

O Love, turn towards the land thy sight!
No more peruse the sea;
Our God, who severs thus our hearts,
Shall surely care for thee:
For me let waste-wide ocean swing,
I too lie safe beneath His wing.

AFTER MY SISTER'S DEATH.

The westering sun in copious floods
Pours thick his slanting beams,
Fair show the shining eastern woods,
And fair the glancing streams.

Just such another glittering scene,
And just a year gone by,
As if no time did intervene,
Met my rejoicing eye.

Spring with loose hand rich gifts did share
Through her advancing realm;
White showed the bloom upon the pear,
And green the bursting elm.

Cheerly the thrush with broken notes
Did give the day adieu;
And through the trees the red-tiled cotes
Broke brightly into view.

Just such another spring so fast
Repairs the earth again,
But, oh, a brighter spring is past
I never shall regain.

Spring of my soul! my being's May
Departed, and for ever!
There is no voice but speaks to say
For ever, and for ever!

The sun's hot rays may soon unloose
Pale Winter's frozen grasp,
New life in Nature soon induce
The warm air's circling clasp.

But what reviving summer sun
Shall thaw thy hand, O Death?
Or breezy South, when once 'tis flown,
Restore the stolen breath?

What! shall the faithful God, who leads
The long revolving year,—
Who in his bosom warms the seeds,
And breathes on Nature's bier,—

Let lapse in earth our mortal goal—
This life, our seed immortal?
Or this diviner spring—our soul,
Let freeze in Death's cold portal?

It may not and it cannot be!
Cease, doubtful, trembling heart!
Trust then thy God; nor doubt that she
Survives, not far apart.

AT THE SAME TIME.

Sweet fragrance and soft springtide air,
Green bursting leaves, most fresh, most fair,
Your charms show bright in wood and plain;
But, oh, for me, in vain—in vain!

For this warm breath can never start
The sap of hope in my dead heart;
This vital season hath no spell
In me a bud of joy to swell.

The icy season melts apace
From the young sun's celestial face;
Far in the future summer shows,
And farther golden autumn glows.

But the cold passion of my grief
Must last and never find relief;
Fresh springs renew the rolling year,
But winter sits eternal here.

1846

AT NIGHT, AFTER MY SISTER'S DEATH.

At night, low wrapped in sleep, thou visitest me
Visibly and audibly, and those old times return
When I, reclined at thy preceptoral feet,
First learned to love divine Philosophy,
And saw the unveiled face of true Religion.
For if in this my life's distracted music
Be any tone that strives for harmony
With that sweet harping of the Nazarene,
Pleasant to God's ears, and heard in times gone by
On the Galilean shore, perfect and unjarred,—
Or if I, with a reverent searching spirit,
Should touch the vesture of unchangeable Truth,—
From thee the harmony came and the endeavour,
And live in the remembrance of thy voice.
Thou plantedst, and with penitential tears
Often, alas, I water. Give Thou the increase,
God, and thy Holy Spirit oft let stand
In the entrance of my heart, visiting
As of old the angels did the patriarchs,
And casting out things dissonant and unworth!
Or, sweet Imagination taking wing
Lower, but to themes delightful, smiling I hear
Thy laugh, and see thee gaily minister
Social delights;—or (O dear memory!)
Lead thy adventurous feet o'er those rough rocks
Where we were wont to sit, high-precipiced, and hear

Old Ocean made the mouthpiece of the winds,
And far below our unsupported feet
Behold his foaming face;—or not unlike
Knight and fair lady in chivalrous times,
Rode side by side through the unfrequented land,
Visiting old castles, Carew and Manorbeer—
While the dear Muses, harsh now, and unvoiced,
Sprinkled our lips with Helicon, each with each
Sharing the rhymed meditation.
Ah, whither now shall I bear these sad notes,
Children of memory and not musical?
Where is thine eye, thy voice, O Solitude?
I dream, and yet I wake; am not alone,
And yet am the only lonely one of the world.
Ah, quit these mortal memories, dull sleep!
What radiant vision through the purple night
Comes to my pillow, clothed in a shining glory?
She stands and smiles, her voice breaks not the silence,
And yet the inaudible sound comes to my soul:
“Walk thou thy mortal path as if thou trod'st
On heavenly soil and fear'dst to desecrate.
Believe, and let thy Faith not be a thing
Of temporary use, but the universal light
Wherein thy soul doth live and move. Fear not,
Yet be most reverent; cast out sloth, and let not
Pause interpose between thy duty and deed.
So shalt thou, when the angelic messenger
Unchains thy spirit, ascend the golden stair
Into God's mansion; and those before thy time

Thither conducted, meet, and joy for ever
Before the face of the All-beneficent.”
I wake, and in the solemn hour of night
The airy winnowing of celestial wings
Strikes with sweet awe upon my trembling ears.
I turn, and pray that Death be not yet visitant:
Not that I love not Death, but fain would live
Till I dare hope to climb the heavenly courts;
And that when I behold that face again,
I stand not empty-handed of good deeds.

August 1846.

[Why fear that the departed grieves]

“How is it? Canst thou feel for me
Some painless sympathy with pain?”
In Memoriam.

Why fear that the departed grieves,
Far from the mourner whom she leaves?
Who shall deny that when he stands,
With aching breast and strained hands,
His wan face raised to empty air,
And his hopes darkening to despair,—

E'en then the spirit whom he loved,
By close affection deeply moved,
Comes, with a swift angelic grace,
And gazes on the dear loved face,
Yearns to wipe off the raining tears,
And whisper comfort in his ears?

Or rather, from beyond the flood
Leaning her young beatitude,
Sighs only gently to behold
How grief's sharp fires transmute her gold,
And, rich in insight newly given,
Counts every faltering step to Heaven?

Rests tenderly a soft distress
Upon the coming happiness;

And blest to think how short a time
Severs these frosts from golden prime,
Smiles, as a mother smiles to trace
Brief showers roll down her baby's face.

FORD GREY OF WERKE TO HIS MISTRESS.

[_]

Written after reading the trial of Ford Lord Grey for a conspiracy to induce Lord Berkeley's daughter to leave her father's home.

When I perceive thee weeping, I am broken
With bitterer anguish than my heart can bear,
And in thy troubled face when I see spoken
The mixture of thy passion and despair,
My spirit rushes to my rainy eyes
With weariness of our long miseries.

What I endure! O woe! what I endure
To hear thee paint our lies and wickedness!
And that worst grief, shameful detection sure,
All our brief joys outlasting wretchedness,—
With quivering lips and wide-appealing palms
Accusing me, the author of thy harms.

But when I picture thee, with locked-up door,
Alone, flung on the ground, and with faint cries
Beating the senseless and obdurate floor
In thy grief's insupportable ecstasies,
As thou didst tell me once thou didst,—oh, why
Make me believe you suffer more than I?

For now this picture makes a slave of me:
Whether to stale ambition I return,
Or shake the days with monstrous revelry,
Or through the long nights watch the white stars burn,
Still, still thine image doth like death pursue me,
And cold despair in place of blood runs through me.

1848.

[I have a thought that fain would speak]

I have a thought that fain would speak
And tell thy praise, O Lord;
But, oh, my faltering lips are weak,
And tremble at the word.

Let those that have not broke thy laws
Aspire to speak thy praise;
These falling tears are all the voice
That I may dare to raise.

Yet the fond mercy of our God
Outgoes our faithless thought;
He comes to meet us on the road,
Nor lets Himself be sought.

Father, to my repentant heart
Thy sheltering wing extend;
Henceforward let me not depart,
Henceforth no more offend.

April 1846.

“IF IT DIE, IT BRINGETH FORTH MUCH FRUIT.”

The nectarine before its fall
Glows through green foliage on the wall,
Crimsoned with sunshine, and made fair
By summer rain-drops and soft air.

Soon bitter wind and changing skies
Wither its bloom, it droops and dies;
The hidden worms make it their prey,
Or yellow wasps eat it away.

This is its outward vestiture;
Deep in the centre lies secure
The living promise of the seed,—
So hides the soul in mortal weed.

And first the northwind strips away
Green sheltering fancies' rustling play,
And icy Winter lays his hand
On loved associates,—till it stand

Alone: thus richest souls are rent
Down from their joy and dear content,
And grief and anguish eat away
The freshness of their early day.

Take, then, this seed, laid bare with pain,
Softened with suffering's bitter rain,
And lay in the abhorred earth
Of isolation all this worth.

Throw on a spadeful of despair;
Shut out the hopeful healing air;
In cold and darkness bury deep,
And bid the prisoner watch and weep.

Then, even then, mysterious love
Within the prison's walls shall move;
A new sensation, new desires,
Shall stir the soul with secret fires.

Sweet undiscovered hid relations,—
Not faint surmises,—revelations,
Shall swell the soul beneath the sod,
And it shall feel the living God.

Deep down in grief it strikes its roots,
Swift up to heaven its head it shoots,
Serenely spreads its boughs abroad,
And fronts the chilly blast unawed.

O happy soul, thus sorely tried!
Happy, thus strangely dignified!
Come joy or grief, thou canst but see
A father leaning over thee.

Bryn Rhedyn, 1854.

MUSIC.

When I am weary of the blows
Of Fate, and my dejected mind
Sees phantom forms of future woes
Still rising up behind,

Then a white hand like thine, my dear,
Flung o'er the enchanted keys,
Up and down, in joy or fear,
Is the only art to please.

Then as I lie, the winged airs,
In ranged procession holy,
Shall mount of spirit and brain the stairs,
And cast out melancholy;

Disperse the cloudy fumes of care,
And shed, from swinging hands,
Calm, and the quiet hopefulness
Of the eternal lands.

Bryn Rhedyn, September 1854.

A BLIND GIRL'S QUESTIONINGS.

[_]

(Fragment.)

Soft Beauty, clothed in music,
Comes whispering through the woods;
I hear her lift the branches,
And brush the rustling buds.
Onward I hear her stealing
With low aerial pace,
Till with a mouth of fragrance
She kisses all my face.

O you endowed with vision,
Who talk of shapes and light,
Tell me what other aspect
Belongs to my delight!
In solemn silent night-time,
Between the hours of sleep,
What is the sacred Darkness
In which I wake and weep?
In which no sound familiar
Accosts my straining ear,
But low continuous murmurs
Of emptiness and fear?

Do you perceive her walking
About the voiceless ground,
As you detect my presence
Although I make no sound?

BEFORE DAWN.

[_]

(A Fragment.)

No sun with her; but, far below
Her rising bosom's ebb and flow,
Rocked on her heart's first whisperings,
Couches the babe with folded wings;
Dreaming, yet half awake, he lies,
And starts and trembles in her eyes.

Virgin of any mortal stain,
Untouched by passion or by pain;
Not yet, O young delicious morning,
Have Love's rays overshot the dawning;
But cool light airs of childhood play
About the breaking of thy day.

BY THE SEASHORE.

[_]

(Fragment.)

Upon the reedy margin of the shore,
Shallow and waste, I stand,
And hear far Ocean's low continuous roar
Over the flats and sand.

The wide gray sky hangs low above the verge,
No white-winged sea-bird flies;
No sound, save the eternal-sounding surge,
With equal fall and rise.

While the salt sea-wind whispers in my ears,
Fitful and desolate,
I seem absolved from the departed years,
Not grieved and not elate.

A VISION.

[_]

(Fragment.)

Methought I saw a figure clasped with wings,
And with a countenance as sad as death,
Where an immortal beauty's hidden springs
Shone like a mirror clouded with cold breath.
A trembling, such as imminent freezing flings
Over the troubled waters, seized my heart.
Like a new-lighted bird, ready to start
She stood, her eyelids sick with wanderings,
And cried, “I am the sister of white Faith,
Who sits serenely in the open heaven,
To whom I minister; thus ever driven
About the world, and Anguish named.

Yet I
Too am divine.” Swift weeping choked her breath;
She touched me, and fled forth.

[Lord, at thy feet we do not kneel]

Lord, at thy feet we do not kneel
For worldly wealth or temporal weal,
And sue not with these dropping tears
Exemption from our mortal fears.

Only whatever be our grief,
Not to miss Thee, our sure relief:
What loss, what pain, what woe betide,
To see this Angel by our side;

That Thou, our God, in this sad land
Sustain our feet, hold up our hand;
And the bright lamp of faith for ever
Shine in our path and fail us never.

Bonn, 1846.

THE YEAR OF LOVE.

[_]

(To my Wife.)

Ask me not, sweet, when I first loved thee,
Nor bid me carry back
Love's meditative memory
Down through a narrowing track.

Remember how, in the sweet spring-time's
First faint prophetic hours,
The golden-headed aconite
Began the time of flowers.

Then seemed it to our happy hearts,
As we stood hand in hand,
As if the promise were fulfilled,
And summer in the land.

Slowly the sap rose in the tree,
Slowly the airs blew mild;
Softly the seasons grew, as grows
The sweetness of thy child.

And when the March-wind sowed the banks
With early violets,
Or April hung the larchen trees
In green and crimson nets;

Or, with white hawthorn-buds in hand,
Through yellowing oaken woods,
The young light-footed May came down,—
We knew no changing moods.

We taxed not by comparisons
The season's growing prime;
But stood each present day and said,
“This is the happy time.”

Now in the royal day of roses,
Our love being in its June,
Stand so, nor ask what note began
This full harmonious tune.

I know thy love hath broadened, yet
I know when it began
It seemed the fullness of the grace
That could be granted man.

So deem of mine, nor with spring thoughts
The fuller June-tide cummer;
My love grew like the year, and grows
Up through an endless summer.

1857.