Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch :: :: University of Virginia Library

Voice of the human heart! Thou voice divine!—
First-born of love and beauty—Poesy!—
Once more I bend a votary at thy shrine;
My wild-flower wreaths I dedicate to thee:—
And all ungraced and simple as they be,
Embalm their leaves and they shall ne'er decay;
But live a token and a memory
With those I love, when I am far away,
And set—for ever set—my young life's fleeting day!

BEAUTIES OF THE MIND.

“Our senses, as our reason, are divine;
But for the magic organ's powerful charm,
Earth were a rude, uncolour'd chaos still.”
Young.

I

Ray of the living God!—Ethereal Mind!—
Immortal atom of the Deity!—
Spirit, by whatsoever name defined,
My young adoring lyre would sing of thee!—
For thou art of the Great Sublimity,
A portion and a sign;—the mighty seal
Of an Almighty writer:—hence to be
A glory round the throne where Angels kneel,
Or festering in the woes which tongue may not reveal!

II

From the Creator thou creative art!—
Inspiring knowledge is thy splendid dower!—
The faculties which can alone impart
Honour and truth and universal power:—
The glorious gift that cheers the wildest hour,
And elevates the heart beyond its sphere,
To scenes where sorrow may no longer lower;
To worlds where loftier destinies appear—
Eternity their date!—not fading year by year!

III

Thou hast dominion over space and time!
The treasures of all nations are thine own;
Whate'er of vast—or noble—or sublime
Lies stretch'd within the shadow of each zone,
Is thine—imperishably thine—alone!—
The destiny of worlds affects thee not;—
Age may consume the monarch and his throne—
Oblivion whelm the palace and the cot—
But thou wilt yet survive when these are all forgot.

IV

Thine are the magic colours which delight
The artist in his visionary mood!—
Thou art the inspiration and the might—
The deep enchantment of his solitude!
What time nor breath—nor sounds of life intrude—
Where Alps on Alps eternally seem piled—
Then is thy best—thy holiest impulse wooed!
Amid the grand—the wonderful—the wild—
For ever have thy loftiest revelations smiled.

V

The fateful volume of the mighty past
Opens before thee—and thy mother earth
Reveals her ancient stores—the rich—the vast!—
Treasured in secret from her very birth!—
With annals of her guilt—remorse—and mirth—
Her solemn catalogue of Sorrow's seeds—
Her hoarded memories of departed worth—
Her gory list of blind Ambition's deeds—
And all the frightful acts at which the bosom bleeds.

VI

Thou art the strength of Freedom—and the light
That animates the Patriot to declaim
Against the venders of his Country's right,
And stamp their deeds with everlasting shame!
Upon thy pinions soars the Bard to fame,
And emulates the grandeur of the sky!—
His sole ambition to deserve a name
Within his Island's records, pure and high;
To win one fadeless wreath—then bless his lyre—and die!

VII

Oh, my own land!—my beautiful free land!—
Soil of the gifted!—Mother of the brave!—
I love the very shells that gem thy strand—
I gaze with pride upon thy bounding wave!—
Though o'er my head the thunder-storm may rave,
Thus do I greet the elemental ire:—
Rage on, and strike!—if thou can'st find a slave—
A heart that doth not glow with freedom's fire,—
Strike!—these are Albion's shores—we bend but to thy Sire!

VIII

The dust we tread is portion of the bold—
The heroic ashes of the charnell'd dead—
Whose arms were mighty in the days of old:
Chivalrous days!—brave hearts!—for ever fled;—
For this—for this their gallant bosoms bled;
No selfish honour—but a Nation's gain!—
That free might be the shrines—the homes we tread—
Free,—free the mountain and the vernal plain—
And shiver'd every link of Gaul's despotic chain.

IX

A glorious object breasts the stately main!—
A winged wonder of the sunny air!—
With loveliness to make a Seraph vain—
With strength the furious elements to dare—
To 'front the tempest in his treacherous lair,
And dash the ruin, smiling, from her wings!—
Oh, gaze upon her!—looks she not most fair
Of all terrestrial, perishable things,
Save only that which from the eternal Godhead springs.

X

Onward to distant climes—romantic lands—
Where'er the glowing waves of ocean roll,
The queenly Ship conveys her wide commands,
From realm to realm—from pole to utmost pole!—
Reckless of danger—vanquishing control—
She rides the surges like a thing divine!—
A living creature with a dauntless soul;—
A form in which the finer powers combine:—
And this—Majestic Mind—this noble work is thine!

XI

Far as existence glows, thy gifts are thrown
Like stars around creation—thou dost raise
Forth from the valley and the desert lone,
Kingdoms whose stately beauty is the gaze
And marvel of the world!—a theme of praise
To after ages—and, for each, a name
That while the last recording stone decays,
Shall light the memory with as proud a flame
As when supreme they stood—the idolized of fame.

XII

When at the Word, the earth from chaos rose,
And Life's vast circle in His glory moved;
For thee, sweet Woman, thy Creator chose
What in his works his Wisdom most approved;
To thee he gave the tenderness he loved,—
The voice, melodious as the passing sigh
Of harps, o'er which the summer winds have roved:
The bloom of roses—and the azure eye—
The lustre and the hue of his immortal sky.

XIII

The first and fondest—last and dearest power—
The master-passion of the Mind, yet known,
Is Love—deep love—the sole remaining flower
Of all that bloomed in Paradise!—the lone
Celestial bud, whose tender seeds were sown,
Upon the desert and the mount sublime:—
And if Affection could indeed atone
For all that Madness lost us—sin and crime;—
Our spirits might, perchance, forget that banished clime.

XIV

For, oh! the bliss to love, and to believe
Ourselves beloved!—to linger o'er each dream
Of happiness, we cannot choose but weave,—
To breathe but only in the beauteous beam
Of Love's fond, eloquent, delicious eyes!—to deem
One form the paragon of earth!—Oh, fair
As moonlight upon lilies of the stream!—
Those water-jewels—delicate and rare—
Those chaste and fitting wreaths for Beauty's raven hair.

XV

Where lives the power to touch—to soothe—to charm—
To animate—depress—appal—inspire
The human Mind!—its energies to warm
With all a Hampden's patriotic fire?—
To stir the bosom with unquench'd desire
Of war's triumphant glory and renown?—
Hark!—'tis the sound of clarions and the lyre—
Banners are waving through the festal town—
The Hero comes!—he comes with his victorious crown!

XVI

Feel ye it not?—'tis Music's matchless spell
Thrilling from nerve to nerve—gushing the sight
With tears of feeling indescribable,—
With sensibility's refined delight!—
List!—Hear ye through the still and lonely night
The hymn of mournful voices swell afar,
Solemn and low!—It is the burial rite—
The requiem of the dead!—another star
Hath sunk,—to show how frail, how insecure, we are!

XVII

And 'mid the shadowy forms of beauty fled,
Pale Memory takes her seat, majestic, free;—
Light of Reflection!—Mirror of the dead!—
The Spirit of the Mind's eternity!—
For what the past is to the Memory
The future is to God!—Thou blessed dower,
That can'st restore the loved—the lost—to me!—
Thou dear delight of life's brief chequer'd hour!—
Take—take to Heav'n the praise, which thus through thee I pour.

XVIII

What penetrates the mystery that lies,
The splendid azure and the stars beyond—
Explores the depths of the religious skies—
Opens the vault, as with a Prophet's wand—
What comprehends the ever-during bond—
The imperishable law—the chain of might
Which links each secret feeling—fast and fond—
Connects the finite with the Infinite—
Save thou—resplendent Mind—our Spirit's guide and light!

XIX

Thou art the temple of thy God!—the home
Of sacred truth!—Religion's vital shrine!—
How far—how wide soe'er beliefs may roam,
Still thou'rt the glass that mirrors the divine!—
The hope round which unsetting glories shine;—
The seal of immortality:—the scroll
On which is writ the everlasting line
Of an Almighty love!—Death may control,—
Destroy the outward form—but never reach the soul.

XX

I look upon the Past—into the gray
And silent heart of Time—and I behold
A City in its grandeur, like the day,
Emerging from the East in lines of gold!—
I look again—and what doth Time unfold?—
A shapeless ruin—and a wasted crowd—
The young—the ag'd—the beautiful—the bold;—
All, by some strange o'erwhelming ill, seem bowed,
And pale and wild rush on—and shriek and weep aloud.

XXI

All—all save one—and she bends by his side,
Whose arms were first to clasp her with a love,
Fond as a bridegroom's for his blushing bride—
Strong as a parent's heart alone may prove!
And she is there, beside him, like a dove
Tending his drooping form with pitying care;—
And oft her tearful eyes she lifts above,—
And offers to her God a quiet prayer—
With looks like angel's,—mild, and beautifully fair.

XXII

I look once more—'tis midnight—and the sound
Of arms and revelry burst on mine ear!—
Some sudden horror hath profaned the ground—
Slaughter and wreck!—the shivered sword and spear!
Oh, gentle Love!—so young, so true, so dear,—
Could she not 'scape the Victor's wrath—for this
Sought she her sire—while thousands fled in fear!
To calm his anguish with a daughter's kiss;
To tend his dying form—and soothe his soul to bliss.

XXIII

Alas! there is no chord of human life
Whose natural tone breathes not of woe!—there seems
Even in boyhood, when the world is rife
With buds and birds—with flowers and sunny beams
Along our being's course, where'er it streams,
Some haunting fever of decay—some shade
From whose destructive taint, no aid redeems!
Woe, that it reached thy generous heart, sweet maid;
Woe! that so white a breast should be so darkly laid!

XXIV

In that distracting—agonizing hour,
Thou reap'dst the grief, which seem'd for ages sown;
What then sustain'd and gave thy spirit power,
To wrestle with the horrors round thee thrown?—
It was the Mind—the god-like Mind—alone!—
That rock of virtue 'mid a stormy sea;—
That spell which lends to truth its noblest tone—
Shatters the chain and sets the captive free;—
And mitigates the throes even of Mortality.

XXV

Oh! thou mysterious and eternal Mind!—
Haply I sing of thee but as a bird,
Whose lonely notes float feebly on the wind,
Passing away unnoticed or unheard:—
But, oh! had I the energy of word—
The eloquence to utter all I feel—
The gift—the power to grasp Thought like a sword,
And what I know as I could wish reveal;—
My song should find a voice deep as the thunder's peal!

XXVI

Exquisite Spirit!—if thine aspect here
Is so magnificent;—if on earth thou art
Thus admirable:—in thy sainted sphere,
What newer glories wilt thou not impart?
What powers—what unknown faculties may dart
Like sunlight through the heaven of thy mould!—
What rich endowments into life may start!—
What hidden splendours may'st thou not unfold,—
Which earthly eyes ne'er view'd—which human tongue ne'er told.

XXVII

When Time stands mute before Eternity,
And the god-gifted Mind, new filled with light
From living fountains, glorified and free,
Soars in transcendent majesty and might;
An Angel in its first immortal flight!—
Gazing upon the heaven of heavens, to find
The bliss of wings!—the extacy of sight!—
A glory amidst glories of its kind!—
A disembodied Soul!—a recreated Mind!—

XXVIII

Then—and then only—may the clouds that hide
The stars of inspiration burst away;
Then may the gates of Knowledge open wide,
And Genius find its own eternal ray:—
Oh! for the coming of that future day!—
The Spirit-light—the Intellectual dower—
The melody of that undying lay—
The bliss—the bloom of that Elysian bower—
When Time shall breathe no more!—when Tombs have lost their power!

LAYS, HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC.

NINEVEH.

(From the celebrated Painting by Martin.)

“The masters of the earth have died,—
Their kingly strength is dust and air!
Within their breasts of fire and pride,
The worm has made its quiet lair.
I feel the world is vanity,
And take my lute and sing to thee!”
Croly.

I

A deep and wild lament,
As of a nation's woes;
With the fearful clash of battle blent,
And the shout of midnight foes:
The burning flash of a mournful sky—
And the startling thunder rolling by!

II

The city walls are red
With the life-blood of the brave;
Mothers behold the forms fall dead—
They strive, in vain, to save!
Sons rush amidst the ghastly strife,
And die—to shield a parent's life!

III

Mourn Nineveh—thy halls,
Thy palaces o'erthrown,—
Thy gorgeous temples,—sculptured walls,—
Thy towers of brass and stone!—
Mourn for thy power and glory fled!
Weep—'midst the ashes of thy dead!

IV

Still onward sweeps the foe,
Through the dark and gory street,
Like ocean's wild, tumultuous flow,
When gathering tempests meet!—
Fierce as an earthquake's rending birth,
Unawed rebellion shakes the earth!

V

Grasp—grasp thy battle-blade!
Dash forward to the fight!
Summon thy spirit from the shade
Of cowardice and night!
Off, from thy breast that minion fling,
And die—as thou hast lived—a king!

VI

Oh! for the swords of old,
That gleamed on Ganges' shore!
Oh! but for one of all the bold,
Who fought and fell of yore!
Still do they call thee to the van?
Still stand'st thou here? thou less than man!

VII

Then yield thy sword to me!
Ascend thy gilded grave!
I die a freeman 'midst the free,—
A brave man 'midst the brave!
Go to thy women!—fitter far
For thee, pale king!—than hosts of war!

VIII

Light ye sacrific fires?
Proud priests, 'tis mockery all!
Without the valour of our sires,
How may their sons not fall!
If ye have spells—bring here your best,
And bid them warm a dastard's breast!

IX

Oh, Nineveh!—my own—
My native city—weep!—
Thou wilt become a name unknown
Beyond the mighty deep!—
A wreck upon a desert land—
My own!—my beautiful!—my grand!

EUDOCIA.

“The passion of a Syrian youth completed the ruin of the exiles of Damascus. A nobleman of the city, of the name of Phocyas, was betrothed to a wealthy maiden; but her parents delayed the consummation of his nuptials, and their daughter was persuaded to escape with the man whom she had chosen. They corrupted the nightly watchmen of the gate Keisan: the lover, who led the way, was encompassed by a squadron of Arabs; but his exclamation in the Greek tongue—‘The bird is taken,’ admonished his mistress to hasten her return. In the presence of Caled, and of death, the unfortunate Phocyas professed his belief in Mahomet. When the city was taken, he flew to the monastery where Eudocia had taken refuge; but the Apostate was scorned!”

Gibbon's Roman Empire.

I

Away!—Speak not to me of days
Of hopes that erst have been;
Speak not to me—nor mock my gaze
With tears—as false as mean!
I tell thee—but, oh! words are vain—
Thou traitor to thy land—thou stain—
Would I had never seen
The hour which paralysed thy fame,
And gave thee an Apostate's name!

II

Oh, hadst thou foremost led the fight,
Where Syria's banners wave,
In aid of thine own country's right,
To perish—or to save!
If thou hadst crushed the Moslem foe
That dared to lay our altars low—
True to the vow I gave,
I would have loved thee to the last,
But, go!—that hope is lost—is past!

III

Still stand'st thou here, with breast and brow
Thus servilely arrayed;—
Where is the light of honour now,
The pride—thou once displayed:
Thine eye is dim—thine arm is weak—
The dastard's hue imbues thy cheek—
Thou shameless Renegade!
Speak'st thou of my recorded vow!—
He was a Man I loved—not Thou!

IV

Go!—Scorned by all, thy monument
Shall register thy shame;
Thou delegate of evil—sent
To scourge with sword and flame!
False to thy God!—thy Country's woe!—
Oh! grief, that I should ever know
Thy miserable name!
Would when this day arose, its gloom
Had burst upon Eudocia's tomb!

XERXES.

“Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard thro' Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,
Man's conscience is the oracle of God!”
Byron.

I

He looked upon the ocean bright—

“A throne was erected for Xerxes upon an eminence; and there seeing all the sea crowded with his vessels, and the land covered with his troops, he at first felt a secret joy in surveying with his own eyes the vast extent of his power, and considered himself the most happy of mortals; but reflecting soon afterwards, that of so many thousands, in one hundred years' time there would not be one living soul remaining, his joy was turned into grief, and he could not forbear weeping at the instability of human things. Rollin.

And, far as he could gaze,
One glorious vision met his sight,
Lit with triumphant rays!—
His ships in thousands swept the wave,
In thousands stood his warriors brave,
Worthy a monarch's praise!—
From east to west—o'er sea and land—
Wav'd scarf and plume—flash'd spear and brand!

II

He turn'd—what to the monarch then
Was splendidly reveal'd?—
Rank upon rank—two million men
Spread mountain, rock, and field:
Amazing host!—before his eye
They marched, array'd for victory!—
To conquer—not to yield!
Ambition fired his lofty soul—
The world seem'd laid 'neath his control!

III

That vast and valiant multitude
Own'd none save him their lord;
Nations to him for safety sued,
Thrones trembled at his word:
He moved!—shook earth and boundless deep;
He spoke!—and far as tempests sweep
His mighty voice was heard!—
He fought!—deep pestilence and blight
Polluted long the field of fight.

IV

Yet now, while gathering far and wide,
His legions shone to view;
A breath of woe o'er vaunting pride,
Its withering shadow threw:
O power! where are thy glories now?
Thy votaries own, with burning brow,
They're fleeting, frail, and few;
They find thy lustre, when most proud,
Is but the gilding on a cloud.

V

In light of youth, eager to bleed
For honours to be won;
Or pride of age and martial deed,
Victors of battles done;
They throng'd around him, while one thought
Into his brain like poison wrought,
He strove, in vain, to shun;
Like the destroyer's breath it came,
With chain and rack—with steel and flame.

VI

'Twas this—that in one hundred years,
Which leave us like a dream,
Recording but life's many tears—
Lost youth nought may redeem:
Not one of all the breathing host,
That moment gladdening sea and coast,
Which god-like then might seem,
But would be mouldering in the grave
With worms or monsters of the wave!

VII

And 'tis a thought the mind to sear
In brightest days of life,
To lay the hopes we hold most dear,
Bare to the torturer's knife:
It is a thought of bitter woe
To find with all we love below
Disease and death is rife!
To see the beauteous forms we prize
Fade day by day before our eyes!

VIII

The mighty monarch, in that hour
Of pageantry, descried
How transient was all human power,
How weak all human pride;
How poor the objects art may gild;
The very rock on which we build
Our fame—how false, when tried!
His conscience, which so long had slept,
Reprov'd him—and he wept!—he wept!

THE FESTIVAL.

(A Painting by Perigal.)

It was a scene of beauty!—music, soft
As fairy mandolins by moonlight lake
Or river far remote, entranced the ear
And modulated every voice to love!
A thousand lamps sent forth their brilliant light
O'er the proud carvings of the gorgeous halls;
And roses sweet as from the royal groves
Of scented Araby, like lovers' lips,
Kissed the white marble of each sculptured vase:
And splendid mirrors glittered with the crowd
Of fairy shapes, like the clear heaven with stars!

It was a scene of beauty!—Sorrow fled
As in despair of moving hearts so light!—
And Joy unbound her rich and odorous hair,
Forming her floating robes of gossamer
To graceful wings, and full of smiles tripped on.
The night was redolent of loveliness!
The sylphed forms of many a ladye bright,
With snowy brow half shining 'neath her curls,
Like moonlight from the raven clouds of eve!
And eyes, whose passionate beauty filled the mind
With voiceless adoration, glanced along!
Who then might dream of change?—there came no voice
To stir the bosom with the hymn of death;
There flashed no sudden vision of the tomb;
No faded leaf to mark the blight to come!—
And yet, oh God!—how many a young light heart
Since then hath beat its last—how many a lip
Lies silent in the tomb—and the sweet eyes
That were the planets of our happiness
Are dark and closed for ever!—Two I knew,

In all the dignity and strength of youth,
Delighted actors in that gala hour,
Who now within the church-yard moulder lone;
Minute by minute, ghastly, dark and cold!

Thus I look on thee, thou bright portraiture
Of past magnificence, and from thy glow
Of noble beauty teach my inmost soul
A lesson and a moral, sad and true.

THE TEMPLE OF VICTORY.

“Spectandus in certamine martio,
Devota morti pectora liberæ
Quantis fatigaret ruinis;
Indomitas prope qualis undas.”
Horace.

I

The glorious spears of war,
Gleam o'er the calm blue wave;
Voices and lutes afar,
Sing pæans to the brave:
Cittern, and lyre, and trumpet-strain,
Breathe of the red victorious plain!

II

Wreath, wreath the laurel crown;
Swell forth the glad acclaim;
Bid glory and renown
Record each valiant name:
The mighty ones who by your side,
For Hellas fought!—for Hellas died!

III

Fill, fill the banquet board,
Your standards wave on high,
Chiefs of the shrine and sword!—
Brothers of victory!—
Bring forth the guerdon of your toil,—
The gold, the captives, and the spoil.

IV

Brightly and fast the waves
Bear on the warriors now;
The tide in beauty laves,
Each tall barque's silver prow:
A myriad dashing oars sweep by,
And shouts of conquest shake the sky!

V

Open your gates of brass,
Ye temples!—and receive
The brave whose deeds surpass
What ages may achieve!
Pour on the consecrated shrine,
The offering bright of ruby wine.

VI

Upon your tablets trace
In characters of light,
Which time shall ne'er efface,
The victors of the fight!
Immortal be they on your page,—
Stars—which may light an after age!

VII

O! beautiful thou art,
Land of my sires!—to me
Of heaven thou seem'st a part;—
A charm—a mystery
Broods o'er thy hills—thy pleasant bowers—
Thy vine-clad plains—thy leaves and flowers.

VIII

Mother of heroes!—long
May valour guard thy breast,
Thou, terror of the strong!
Thou, shield of the opprest!—
Wither the tyrant's deadly hand,
That would enchain my native land!

IX

Evan Evohe!—Hear!—
Thy noble patriots come:
They have brought golden cheer,
Riches, and triumph home!—
Sound, sound the tidings far and free,—
Evan Evohe!—Victory!

THE MISANTHROPE TO HIS SON.

“Yet suffer not scowling Mistrust
To make thee to the world unjust,
And think the whole one blot;
For some there are,—Alas, how few!—
With souls to every virtue true:—
Heaven cast with these thy lot!”
W. JERDAN.

I

Thou leav'st me for the world—the false, the vain,
The treacherous world;—Alas! too soon to know
How bitter is the fruit thou wouldst obtain!—
How mean the core of that vast gilded shew!
How deep the arts there practised to beguile!—
How black the purpose veil'd there 'neath a smile!

II

Spare not thy father—bid his aged eyes
Turn to the grave, forgetting earthly love;
Leave him—with not a hope beneath the skies,
Save that swift death his sorrows may remove;
Bid the last link of life be like the first;
Go!—leave this bruised and aching heart to burst.

III

Clasp the alluring world to thy young breast;
Believe it the great glory it appears;
Though it brought daggers to thy father's rest—
Though it brought poison to thy father's tears—
Deem thou the world as noble as it seems,
And wake to madness from thy splendid dreams.

IV

If Happiness on earth hath an abode,
She dwells among the forest leaves and flowers;
She speaks before the shrine of Nature's God;
She smiles in beauty through the summer hours;
Not in bright hall—nor crowded citadel—
Not with the high nor wealthy may she dwell.

V

Not with the high,—even though all be won—
They're fretted by the very toys they crave;
Not with the wealthy,—for their souls are gone
With their adventurous vessels o'er the wave;
Not in the glittering dance,—there Envy sips
The blushing rose from young and lovely lips.

VI

Return to our rude cave; still be thy hand
My gentle guide through the tall ancient woods—
The only lasting glory of the land,
God's arm hath rear'd within his solitudes;
Then perfect not the deed thou hast begun—
Break not thy father's heart, my son!—my son!

His mother heard his final doom,
With shrieks that thrilled through all;
Could nothing save him from the tomb—
Must he—oh God!—thus fall!
The arrow pierced her aged head,
With cold and deadly pain;
She tottered senseless to her bed—
And never rose again!

IV

His father spoke not—but the pale
And quivering lip confest,
The agonies which did assail
His miserable breast:
His eyes were closed,—as if the light
Was loathsome to behold;
But tears burst from the lids to sight—
They could not be controled!

V

Fast flew the fatal hours,—he trod
Life's very brink, alone;
Yet had no hope—no fear—no God!—
His heart was turned to stone:
I saw him as he passed along,
A branded death to die;
Wild curses were upon his tongue—
Despair, and blasphemy!

VI

If there be one these lines may teach
A moral; not in vain
Have I endeavoured thus to reach
A more reflective strain:
The picture is from life—each day
As sad a tale records;—
Virtue! may thy eternal ray
Light all our deeds and words!

ABDOULRAHMAN III.

“Ce qu'on cherche pour être heureux est trop souvent
précisément ce qui empêche de l'être.”
Fenelon.

I

Around the sumptuous palace-hall

“Three miles from Cordova, in honour of his favourite sultana, the third and greatest of the Abdoulrahmans constructed the city, palace, and gardens of Zebra. Twenty-five years, and above three millions sterling, were employed by the founder: his liberal taste invited the artists of Constantinople, the most skilful sculptors and architects of the age; and the buildings were sustained or adorned by twelve hundred columns of Spanish and African, of Greek and Italian marble. The hall of audience was encrusted with gold and pearls, and a great basin in the centre was surrounded with the curious and costly figures of birds and quadrupeds. In a lofty pavilion of the gardens, one of these basins or fountains, so delightful in a sultry climate, was replenished, not with water, but with the purest quicksilver.

The days gone by—oh! is there not
A charm—a feeling in those words—
A music ne'er to be forgot—
Struck from the memory's sweetest chords.
With many a tone to wake a tear,
And many a thought we fain would fly;
Oh! still to every heart are dear
The days gone by—the days gone by!

III

The days gone by—they have a spell
To burst the cerements of the grave;
And from oblivion's deepest cell,
The forms we loved and lost—to save!
Time may not fade those looks of light,—
Still beauteous to the mental eye
As the first hour they blest our sight,
In days gone by—in days gone by!

IV

The days gone by—Man's best essay—
One fadeless work to leave behind—
Before their might hath passed away
Like dust upon the desert wind:
The very mountains have grown grey—
And stars have vanished from the sky—
The young—the fair—oh! where are they?—
With days gone by—with days gone by!

V

The days gone by—from shore to shore
Their ever lengthening shadows spread
On—on—'till Time shall breathe no more—
And Earth itself be with the dead:
Each brief—unnoticed—minute bears
The mandate of its God on high:
And death and silence are the heirs
Of days gone by—of days gone by!

THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

AN HISTORICAL BALLAD.

“Jam nunc minaci murmure cornuum
Perstringis aures; jam litui strepunt;
Jam fulgor armorum fugaces
Terret equos, equitumque vultus.
Horace.

I

It was the Duke of Normandy
Rode forth at break of day,
With pennons curling on the breeze
In bright and proud array:
The flower of all the continent
Composed his valiant train;
The knights of Flanders and Poictou,
Bologne, Orleans, and Maine.

II

It was at ancient Pevensey,
On the noble Sussex coast,
The bold Duke William landed
With a fierce and warlike host,
Of sixty thousand gallant men,
With splendid arms supplied—
Cross-bows and quivers at their back,
And broad-swords by their side.

III

To win fair England's glorious crown,
Duke William rode that morn,
With battle-axe, and spear, and dart,
With sounding drum and horn.
Nor long nor weary was the way
They marched ere fall of night,
When by the brave King Harold led,
Came the rival host in sight!

IV

Then spake the Duke of Normandy:
“Speed, herald, bold and free,
To the leader of yon martial host,
This challenge bear from me—
In single combat to decide
Our stern and mortal feud;
Thus blood of thousands may be spared
If either falls subdued.”

V

One moment, in the monarch's sight
The fearless herald stood,
And gallantly the challenge gave
To spare the waste of blood.
Scarce breathed the word, ere on him lowered
Full many a dark'ning glance—
A hundred warriors struck the shield,
And grasped the ponderous lance!

VI

Straight answer made the wrathful king:
“Return thou to the duke;
To meet his chivalrous desire
Would rouse our chiefs' rebuke:
Unto the God of Arms we leave
The chances of the fight;
And wear his brow the victory
Whose sword is in the right!”

VII

With banquet-song, and revelry,
Within the British tent,
The hours from dusky evening
To twilight dawn were spent.
Not thus within the Norman camp—
A different scene shone there—
Hands clasped in deep solemnity,
Knees lowly bent in prayer!

100

VIII

Ere yet the purple morning hour
Illumined the eastern sky,
The clash of arms rang merrily
With the stirring battle-cry.
A fatal shower of piercing steel
From the Norman cross-bows flew,
And many a valiant Kentishman
On the stormy onset slew!

IX

But swift to closer fight they rushed,
And brisker warmed the strife;
And deadlier the contention grew,—
Fiercer the thirst for life!
Beneath the bold, adventurous duke,
Three fiery steeds were slain!—
His falchion waved the goriest,
Upon that gory plain!

101

X

On spurred the Saxons to the charge,
While axe and glaive swept far;
And bravely smote they to the hilt,
Like lions bred to war!
Full to the centre of their square
The Normans felt the shock;
Yet stood they firm and stedfastly,
As stands the giant rock!

XI

Like lightning through the element
A trenchant arrow flashed,
And into Harold's royal brain
Through helm and temple dashed!
He sank: yet to the death his voice
Was heard in hoarse command;
And fiercely grasped, his reeking blade
Gleamed in his red right hand!

102

XII

Then joyous shouts of victory
Far shook the circling air;
And helms were doffed, and banners waved,
And knees were bended there!
With—Live, long live the Conqueror!—
Did thousand voices ring:
God save illustrious William,
Our great, our glorious King!

103

THE LAST REQUEST.

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'er fraught heart, and bids it break.”
Shakespeare.

I

Come, while the clear stars shine,
On cottage-home, and vine,
While shadeless slumber wraps the heaven's blue height:
And not a voice is heard,
Save of some lonely bird,
Warbling a low sweet welcome to the night.

104

II

Come, while the fond flowers sleep,
In fragrance soft and deep,
While like a quiet dream the waters move:
And we will wander o'er
The green fields, as of yore,
Ere our young bosoms knew the pain of love!

III

Come, in this hour of rest,—
It is my last request;
For, ah!—too well I feel my coming doom!—
Not long this frame may bear
Its passion and despair;
Not long remain, thus blighted!—from the tomb.

IV

My tears, perchance, may tell,
How wild is that “farewell,”
Which withers earthly hope within my heart;
But, oh! thou may'st not fear,
From one who loves thus dear,
One word beyond those saddening words “we part!”

105

V

It must be weak—be vain,
To wish to meet again,
To roam once more the fields we oft have trod;
My spirit seems to be
But held to earth by thee,—
But waiting this “farewell,” to meet its God!

106

A FATHER'S REPROOF.

“How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child.”

I

Come not to me!—thy words are vain,
False as thy treacherous heart within;
Come not to me!—'tis grief, 'tis pain,
To listen to thy voice of sin!
My pardon wouldst thou hope to win,
Blot from my mind thy later years;
I'm weak—despair hath worn me thin!
I'm blind—my sight is lost with tears!

112

II

What wouldst thou say? An angel's tongue
Could not excuse that guilty deed;
Is not thy life one scene of wrong!
Crime after crime, like waves, succeed!
My heart, my aged heart, doth bleed,
To name such infamy as thine:
Begone! my spirit would be freed;
Away! thou art no son of mine.

III

Alas! that I must bless the day
On which thy virtuous mother died;
She said her loss thou shouldst repay,
Shouldst be my help, my joy, my pride!
My help!—it made me poor to hide
Thine earliest character from blame!
My joy!—look! blindness hath replied:
My pride!—what, thou!—oh shame! oh shame!

113

IV

Bend thy proud knees, and from the dust
Call on thine injured God to hear;
Forsake thy wretched haunts: be just,
Ere shameful death end shame's career;
Wring from those eyes of stone a tear,
And may it be a star to save;
But never more approach me near,
Till I am dead, in my calm grave!

114

A SINGLE HORN.

I

A single horn at the warder's gate
Was sounding at eventide:
Now who art thou, quoth the warder bold,
Who so late and lone dost ride?
Oh! an aged warrior-knight am I,
From the distant battle-plain;
Where the bravest troops of Normandy
In their gory mail lie slain.

115

II

Now Heaven forefend, the warder said,
That thy tale it true should be;
Or that ever the Norman arms should yield
To the Saxon chivalry!
But hie thee within, thou aged man,
And the cup we'll fill with wine;
And thou of the good old wars shalt speak,
That were fought in Palestine.

III

When the midnight hour was rung and past,
From the warder's grated door
A youthful knight with his lady bright
Fast gallop'd o'er the moor!
No aged man, but a courtly youth,
To the gate so late did ride;
And his love-won lives in his castle now,
A fair and honoured bride!

116

FIRST INQUIRIES.

(Affectionately inscribed to Master William Agnew.)

I

Father, who made all the beautiful flowers,
And the bright green shades of the summer bowers?
Is it the warm beaming sun that brings
The emerald leaves and the blossomings—
Flowers to the field, and fruits to the tree?
—Not the sun, my dear child, but one greater than he!

117

II

Father, whose hand formed the blue tinted sky,
Its coloured clouds and its radiancy?
What are those stars we view shining in air?
What power ever keeps them suspended there?
Was it man formed the skies and the glories we see?
—Not man, my dear child, but one greater than he!

III

Father, from whence came our own lovely land,
With its rivers and seas, and its mountains so grand;
Its tall frowning rocks, and its shell-spangled shore?
Were these not the works of some people of yore?
Owe these not their birth to man's own good decree?
—Not to man, my dear child, but one greater than he!

IV

From God came the trees, and the flowers, and the earth,
To God do the mountains and seas owe their birth;
His glory alone, love, created on high,
The sun, moon, and stars, and the beautiful sky.
It was He formed the land, and no people of yore:
Bend thy knee, my sweet child, and that God now adore.

118

TRUTH, YOUTH, AND AGE.

TRUTH.

What is Immortality?

YOUTH.

It is the glory of the mind,
The deathless voice of ancient Time;
The light of genius—pure—refined!—
The monument of deeds sublime!—
O'er the cold ashes of the dead
It breathes a grandeur and a power,
Which shine when countless years have fled,
Magnificent as the first hour!

119

TRUTH.

What is Immortality?

AGE.

Ask it of the gloomy waves,
Of the old forgotten graves,
Whereof not one stone remains;
Ask it of the ruined fanes,
Temples that have passed away,
Leaving not a wreck to say—
Here an empire once hath stood!
Ask it in thy solitude,
Of thy solemn musing mind,
And, too truly, wilt thou find
Earthly immortality
Is a splendid mockery!

120

THE YOUNG COTTAGERS.

“Years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb;
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles at the brim.”
Byron.

I.

The blue streams know them—and the birds
Have grown familiar to their voice;
The echoes of the woods rejoice
In the glad music of their words!
Blithe creatures of the summer air,
Companions of the flower and bee;
Whose homeless feet find every where
The free sweet rest of liberty:

121

My weary spirit leaps to see,
Their young forms in my wanderings;
Lone seated by some ancient tree—
Or brook that through the valley sings
A pleasant melody!

II.

Their voice my heart to gladness stirs,
Amid its utter loneliness;
And half unconsciously I bless,
The young, the mountain cottagers!
True, they are poor—but He whose power
Hath dressed the floweret of the vale,
Will not forget them in that hour,
The tempest-winds prevail!
His eye—that rank nor wealth prefers;
But on Earth's humblest children falls,
Bright as though born in palace-halls—
Will shield the mountain cottagers!

128

COUNT JULIAN.

“And she was lost—and yet I breathed,—
But not the breath of human life:
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my every thought to strife.”
Byron.

I

The midnight lamps shone dim and low,

“Rodrigue, le dernier des Rois Goths, souilla le trône par ses vices. Personne n' ignore l' histoire de la fille du Comte Julien, à qui Rodrigue, dit-on, fit violence. Ainsi les débauches des tyrans ont presque toujours été la cause ou le prétexte de leur ruine.” Florian, Précis historique sur les Maures.

In the old Castilian hall,
On the solemn couch of the shrouded dead—
On the sable plume and pall:
And mournfully a voice was heard,
To wail the Spirit's flight;
And pour its weight of sorrow forth
Upon the lonely night!

129

II

“My daughter—my own beauteous one—
My flower of love—that grew
In brightness, like a forest-rose,
'Mid summer light and dew:
Thine eyes—thy deep, blue, laughing eyes—
Were like the rays of morn
First sparkling in the dewy east
O'er violets newly born!

III

Thy step—methinks I hear it now!—
As light, and wild, and free,
As when thou cam'st a little one,
To climb thy father's knee:
Or graceful as a fawn, just roused,
Thou boundedst by my side;
My friend and my companion—
My blessing and my pride!

130

IV

And was it but to see thee thus
I watched the early trace
Of genius in thine ardent mind—
And beauty in thy face:
Was it for this,—'mid smiles and tears
I blessed thy natal day;
That thou might'st thus become, oh, shame!—
A hated Despot's prey!

V

The sun of many years hath set
On thy poor mother's grave;—
Oh! did her spirit hear thy voice—
Yet lack the power to save!—
Heard she thy frantic shriek for aid
Upon the midnight gloom;
And was it not a spell to rend—
To burst the marble tomb!

131

VI

Look on me, Heaven!—whilst here I kneel
Beside the young—the dead,
And cry for vengeance!—Be her death
A curse upon his head!
Ne'er may he know a quiet heart,
A calm and painless rest;
But be a father's agony
Like mountains on his breast!”

VII

There are warlike spears and sabres bright,
And many a martial strain,—
For the forces of the Saracen
Are 'midst the hills of Spain!
And earth thrills 'neath the gathering tread,
Of thrice twelve thousand feet;
Where the rival armies pitch their tents,
By the stream of Guadalete.

132

VIII

And Roderick—the King—rides there,
On his triumphal car;
In robes of pearl and silver dight,
And glittering like a star:
Oh! for the sword that gleam'd of old,
In Alaric's mighty hand;
How had he blushed to view thy cheek,
Thou woman in command!

IX

'Twas not the lightning crossed the path—
It was the flash of arms—
Hark to the onset cry!—what heart
But to the battle warms!—
Allah il Allah!—to the vault
The Moslem shouts ascend,—
And fast beneath the rushing steel
The quailing Spaniards bend!

133

X

Allah il Allah!—Hark!—again
That fierce tremendous strain:
Yet through the storm one voice is heard,—
“Where art thou—King of Spain—
'Tis vain to flee—thou shalt be found,
Though at the festive board;
A father's curse is on thy path—
And vengeance on his sword!”

XI

And on he rode—and on he rode—
A wild and desperate man—
Until his foamy charger stood
Where the Guadalquivir ran;
And there he still'd his bursting heart,
And bowed his weary head—
For deep within the waters lay
The King—the Monarch—dead!

134

XII

Eight hundred years had swept away,
And a thousand hearts had wept
The form in which Count Julian's oath
Of vengeance had been kept!
Eight hundred years had passed away,
Ere the homes of Spain were freed
From the evil and the woe which rose
From Roderick's guilty deed.

135

THE BILLET-DOUX.

“For nought but love
Can answer love, and render bliss secure.”
Thomson.

I

May I not see thee, Genevieve, to-night?
'Tis sweet to wander when the summer moon
O'er vale and river throws her clear, soft light,
And star with star seems almost to commune;
'Tis joy to gaze upon that splendid sphere,
When thou, my own dear Genevieve, art near.

136

II

Thou know'st thou art the sunlight of my thought,
Fount of my memory—the hope, the pride,
The essence of my being; earth holds nought
Of hope or bliss but is to thee allied!
Around thee floats an atmosphere of love,
Wherein alone I speak, and think, and move!

III

Mountain and plain, the mild blue sky, the sea,
The beautiful green leaves, the gorgeous flowers,
Yield double interest when beheld with thee,
Give thrice the pleasure in those happy hours
We are together: feel'st thou thus, my sweet?
Then once again, to-night, oh! let us meet!

IV

There are a host of melancholy fears
Passing, like clouds, upon my heart and brain;
And oft my aching eyes are filled with tears,
Struck with forebodings I may not explain:
My soul is lonely!—I implore—entreat—
To-night—if but a moment—let us meet!

137

GIVE ME THE NIGHT.

I

Give me the Night, love, the beautiful Night!
When the stars in the heavens are glittering bright;
When the flowers are asleep on their pillow of leaves,
And no murmur is near, save the sigh the heart heaves:
When the spirit of tenderness hallows each scene,
And Memory turns fondly to days that have been,
When the valley's sweet waters reflect the moonlight,—
Oh! give me the Night, love, the beautiful Night!

138

II

Give me the Night, be it starless and long,
When the gay hall is sounding with music and song,—
When the genius of poetry breathes her deep power!
And, oh! Love itself is more lovely that hour,—
When the dark curls of beauty more gracefully shine,
And the eyes bright by day are at evening divine!—
When all is enchantment that blesses the sight;—
Oh! give me the Night, love, the beautiful Night!

139

THE VISIONARY.

“But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised!
Wordsworth.

I

He had been superstitious from a child;
Haunted by fancies strangely beautiful—
Visions and thoughts magnificently wild—
Rend'ring earth's splendours valueless and dull:
The common air—sunless and vast and dim—
Opened a sphere of loveliness to him!

140

II

A spiritual world!—of which the eyes
Imaged no portion—oft and oft he sought
By gazing on the glad green fields, the skies;
To lose the phantasies his brain had wrought:
Flashes of mind and madness!—but in vain—
They lived—'till loftier influence burst the chain!

III

He loved—and, oh! what language may the truth,
The full devotion of his soul impart?
She was the melody of his lone youth!—
The light—the poesy of his young heart!—
The ring-dove of the birds—rose of the flowers—
The music and the idol of his hours!

IV

Yet, to the gentle spirit of his love,
The richness of his voice was all unknown;
Perchance her lineage ranked high above,
The fallen power and station of his own:
And pride—for he had pride few might control—
Kept all untold the passion of his soul!

141

V

A glance—a brief—a transient glance hath made
His young lips tremble with unuttered bliss;
She was the star 'neath whose pure light he strayed—
And, oh! what light's so exquisite as this?
His proudest aspirations after fame,
Sprang from one hope—that she might breathe his name!

VI

And lives he now?—remains the lady yet
The mirror of his musings?—and the light
Of his lone life—or have they never met?
Like streams that wander near but ne'er unite!
Still breathes unknown the sweetness of his word,
Or hath his long, deep love at last been heard?

VII

The moon is shining on the quiet leaves
Of the dim cypress, whose low drooping head—
(Like one who through the midnight bends and grieves!)—
Shadows a tomb!—his tomb!—the young—the dead:
The secret of his death, who may declare?—
Enough to know—he perished—and sleeps there!

142

HEARTSEASE.

(From Mrs. Ward's Picture of a Girl with a wreath of Heartsease.)

I

“Flower!—bright flower!—beautiful flower!—
Radiant gem of the summer hour!—
Favourite sweet of the graceful and young—
Honoured in painting, and loved in song!—
Joy of the garden—delight of the vale—
Woo'd by the sunlight—caressed by the gale—
Dim is the spot where thy smile is unknown;
Cold are the hearts thy enchantment disown.”

143

II

Heard is the lay which thy lips, maiden, breathe
To the favourite flower of thine elegant wreath!
Oh! long may the song of thy home be as gay;
And Heartsease for ever bloom sweet on thy way!
May no shade ever visit thine innocent brow;
No blight pale the roses—so beautiful now.
Still, still may thy form court as lightly the breeze—
And the flower of thy bosom be ever Heartsease!

144

THE LAND OF SPIRITS.

“Desolate in each place of trust,
Thy bright soul dimmed with care,
To the land where is found no trace of dust,
Oh! look thou there!
M. J. Jewsbury.

I

Over the last long seas,
That leave the level coast for evermore;
Rolling for centuries
On to the shadowy land—the spirits' shore!

II

The soul had gift—and power
To travel swift as light;—for light it seemed—
A beam—a starry flower
From whence, like perfume, dazzling glory streamed!

145

III

On—with the waters on—
The long, wide waters of eternity:
Swift as a thought is gone—
The ransomed soul sped on its mission free.

IV

Silent as were the waves—
Whose swiftness gave no sound—no murmur back;
As o'er a sea of graves,
Wandered the spirit on its lonely track.

V

The azure breeze swept by—
Hushed—as an apparition!—not a sound
From farthest sea to sky,
Woke the eternal sleep—the calm profound.

VI

The vault hung like a glass,
In which we might behold the things to be—
Where shapes of beauty pass
Mirror'd in worlds of immortality!

146

VII

Oh! never since the Word
Spake to the living floods, and said—“Be still!”—
Had one low murmuring chord,
Broke the divine commandment of HIS will.

VIII

'Twas glorious when the first
Pure spirit from the nearest heaven past,—
And the white waters burst
Full to the shore—the spirits' shore at last!

IX

'Twas glorious when the stream
Of silvery voices—like an unknown song
Heard in some minstrel's dream—
Came wasted with the sainted breeze along.

X

Distant, yet, oh! how clear—
How exquisitely sweet—Earth's finest tone
Were discord to the ear,
When heard that burst of harmonies unknown!

147

XI

The splendour of the soul—
The beauty born of God—what harp may tell?
Angels know not the whole,
Bright marvels of the sphere in which they dwell.

XII

As colours light the gem—
Yet none perceive from whence their hues arise—
So shone God's rays on them;
Beautiful mysteries of the elder skies.

XIII

The eloquence of grace—
A gladness beyond name—a dove-born air—
Lighted each holy face,
Each radiant feature of the spirit there.

XIV

The innocent spring flower,
Blooming in whiteness near some moonlight brook,
Undimmed by cloud or shower,
May image best that purity of look.

148

XV

The land—the spirits' land—
Earth hath its thousand shadows—heaven hath none—
Why call “The Shadowy Band,”
Spirits that visit the celestial throne?

XVI

All shroud, and shade, are rife
Within the world of death—decay—and gloom:
Here, reigns the light of life!—
Eternal brightness, and immortal bloom!

XVII

The temples and the fanes,
Built by archangel hands, fall not away!—
On earth—oh! what remains
Of all its pomp—its glory of a day?

XVIII

Build your proud arches high—
Raise your bright domes—your architectural shrines—
Behold—how low they lie!
Can this be substance which thus soon declines?

149

XIX

Your monuments are dust—
And your “Eternal City” reels and falls!—
So ends all human trust,
Though built by Kings on adamantine walls!

XX

The land—the spirits' land—
There only may the heart in surety love;
The beautiful—the grand
Are emanations from a world above!

XXI

Were there a word could tell,
A colour paint—a tone—a look convey
The thoughts that in me dwell,
Not unforgot this song should pass away!

XXII

But I return from things
Beyond my nature's grasp—the quest of mind;
And fold my spirit's wings,
With a deep inward prayer—a will resign'd.

152

WHEN EVE HATH CALL'D HER STARS.

I

When Eve hath call'd her stars to light,
And the moon, like hope, shines clear,
Oh! come in thy beauty to bless my sight,
My first—my only dear!
For ne'er had Love so sweet an hour,
As that which the moonlight wreaths;
When young hearts and lutes have the fondest power,
And the spirit of gladness breathes!

153

II

There's a charm for some in the gay sunshine,
In the golden lighted flowers,
But night—oh, night! with its spell divine,
Was made for hearts like ours!
Then come when the last red ray departs
From earth and heaven above,
When each breeze hath a whisper of lovers' hearts,—
My first—my only love!

154

LIBERTY.

“Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,
A boon, an offering heaven holds dear,
'Tis the last libation liberty draws
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause!”
Moore.

Blest be the land, where'er it lies,
'Neath brilliant blue Arcadian skies;
Or far in dreary solitude,
'Mid cataract and forest rude,
It shores a desert sea:
To me it shall be holy ground,
If in its air there lives one sound,
And that glad sound is Liberty!

155

Dear Liberty!—thou ray of Heaven!
Bright emanation from our God!
Spirit, to whom a power is given
Co-equal with the prophet's rod;
Where'er! thou touchest—flows a stream
Of grace and grandeur, brightening all!
Beauty awakes as from a dream—
Wealth hears, and straight obeys thy call!

Brave are thy youths, and fair thy maids,
The very soul of love pervades
Their every word and sigh;
Around thou turn'st thine eagle gaze,
And tyrants wither in the blaze
Of thine insulted eye!
There is no attribute of mind
No glow of faculties refined,
No charm (that genius gave)
But grows and strengthens in thy light:
And lives there one such gifts to blight?
Go!—cast the traitor from thy sight,
To crawl an abject slave!

156

Yes! by whatever ocean bound,
That land to me is hallowed ground,
If from its heart there springs one sound,
The lofty sound of Liberty!

157

CANZONET.

I

The flower thou lov'st—the flower thou lov'st—
Oh! would I were that blesséd flower;
To be with thee where'er thou rov'st,
Thine own young breast my beauteous bower:
To feel thy warm lips, soft and sweet,
Breathe fondly o'er my crimson bloom:
'Twere bliss to die—if thus to meet
So kind a death—so fair a tomb!

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II

The flower thou lov'st—oh! 'twere indeed
A fate of unalloyed delight;
Thus on thy beauty's breath to feed,
And gently fade in thy loved sight:
For, oh! when every leaf was gone,
That once thine eyes with light could fill;
In spirit I would linger on,
And float, in fragrance, round thee still.

159

THE PEASANT'S SONG.

I

Oh, say not man's faith is a flower, love,
That lives but a day, and is past;
A star which gives light but an hour, love,
A sky that is soon overcast:
There may be such men, it is true, love,
And ladies, perhaps, much the same;
But these—are these like me and you, love?
Oh, no! our love's more than a name.

163

II

I know that thy beauty may gain, love,
The wealthiest lord of the isle;
I know he hath sued, and in vain, love,
To win the sweet bliss of thy smile.
For me—that reward wilt thou keep, love,
For me—to adore whilst I live!—
When I think of thy truth, I could weep, love,
To find I've so little to give!

III

Yet amidst splendid banquets and show, love,
Gay dances with roses and light;
Affection thou never couldst know, love,
So fond as I plight thee to-night!
The soul of a husband is lost, love,
In pleasure's enchanting career;
And, oh! thou might'st find to thy cost, love,
That riches bring many a tear!

164

IV

My cottage, though small, is my own, love,
'Tis shaded by woodbine and tree;
I wish, for thy sake, 'twere a throne, love,
Oh, proudly I'd share it with thee!—
'Tis humble, yet not very poor, love,
And wouldst thou but yield thy consent,
Thou wilt feel—if thou lovest me—I'm sure, love,
The gold of the earth—is content.

165

REMINISCENCES.

“That breathless agoniz'd suspense,
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching,
The heart hath no relief but breaking!”
Moore.

I

I know it is not beautiful!
That in the vale below,
Far gayer gifts of summer bloom,
And brighter waters flow;
I know it is not beautiful!
But, oh! unto my heart,
It breathes a charm of vanished days,
No other scenes impart.

171

II

The days once eloquent with tones,
They never more may bring,
Sweet as e'er wooed a woman's lip
To Love's delicious spring;
Deep as the distant clarion's breath
Upon the moonlight air,
Inspiring high and glorious deeds,
It were a pride to share!

III

The form whose beauty imaged forth
The vision of my sleep,
The painting of a youthful heart,
Romantic, warm and deep;
The voice—that music of my mind!—
Are with the spells of yore,
On which the morn may brightly rise,
But never waken more!

172

IV

No gift of thine, love, meets my gaze—
No token fond and fair—
No, not—to soothe me in my tears—
A single lock of hair;—
Thou'st passed, my love, like some pale star
We look in vain to find,
Nor left to cheer my blighted path
One lonely ray behind!

V

They tell me I am waning fast,
That leaf by leaf I fade,
They bear me forth with wreathed hair,
In jewelled robes arrayed;
They deem the festive dance may woo
My memory from this spot,
But, ah! amidst the courtly crowd,
Thou art the least forgot.

173

VI

My eyes are wandering fast and far
To other shores away,
My soul is with thee in thy grave!—
How can I then be gay?—
I perish in their festive light—
I die amidst their mirth—
Oh! take me to thine arms, dear love,
From this cold, cheerless earth!

174

FOREST TREES.

“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods.”
Byron.

Ye trees, ye forest trees,
In beauty mantled by the touch of God—
Ye hand-marks of his love—high monuments
Of his eternal power—bulwarks of Time—
Great archetypes of Nature's majesty!—
That to the sun-smile of the summer, lift
Your wreathed branches—green and beautiful,
And strong, as when the living breath of God
First brought you forth—ye trees—ye forest trees!

175

Imagination spreads her hundred wings,
From desert coast to alpine solitude,
And fleet as light pursues her devious track;
But whither may she speed and find Thee not,
Thou great first cause—Supreme, Almighty Lord!—
The wilderness is vocal with thy name—
The solitudes are conscious of their God!

Glory of Egypt and the Temple's pride!—
Thou Titan of the woods—whose stately form
Assumes an air of immortality—
Cedar of Lebanon, begin the theme:
The gusts of centuries dash o'er thy head—
The thunders strike thy foot—yet all unharmed
Thou stand'st superior to the elements,
Firm in thine own unmatched magnificence;—
And lift'st thy branches in triumphal song,
A song of praise and power!—thy regal boughs,
As eastern velvet—smooth, luxurious, soft;

176

Thy tufted leaves, low drooping—like a veil—
Glossy and green, and delicately curved,
Gracing the vigour of their parent stem,
Like Beauty round the neck of Hercules!

Proud tree, from out whose glorious heart were formed
Temples and palaces and statues vast;
And ships, whose mighty prows defied the blast,

The ship of Seostris the Egyptian Conqueror was formed of this timber, as also the gigantic statue of Diana in the Temple of Ephesus.

Still be thy presence honoured, and thy name
A stirring record to all after-time;
A chronicle of greatness—desolate!

Linger the mountain waters on their track,
Charmed by thy modest beauty—weeping Birch—
Lone Widow of the Woods—sad monitress—
Bending like Piety before the shrine
Of God-born Nature!—thou divinest tree!—
Well may the waters linger 'neath thy glance,
And kiss thy pendent tresses with cool lips,
And float around thee in perpetual song!

177

And thou,
That midst the mountains of Calabria tow'rst
Thy hundred heads, thy continent of leaves,
Thou model of the picturesque, that won
The soul of him whose genius lit the world
With visions of the wonderful and grand!—
Pride of Salvator Rosa—whose high name
Evokes a sound familiar to our ears,
And gladsome to our thoughts; brave Chesnut tree!—
The sun-rise sheds its glory on thy leaves,
And sun-set robes thee still; on every shore
Fertile or barren art thou resident;
The hunted stag beneath thy covert hides—
And the gaunt wolf and spotted panther howl
Through the long watch of night, scared by the gleam
Of spectral moonlight on thy forked crest!

Come forth, Spring calls thee forth, beautiful Elm,—
Thy purple blossoms ope the first to hail
The April sun-beam, and thy foliage, light
As ocean spray—swells first to wreath the air:—

178

Come forth, Spring calls thee forth, beautiful Elm—
Thou and thy sister, the luxuriant Larch—
The Lady of the Grove!—whose taper boughs
Robed in their proud prosperity of leaves,
O'ertop the shadowy level of the woods
Like a rich obelisk of beryl!—Rise!
Come forth! and glad the birds—and glad the sun—
And fill the heart with meditative joy!

And ever be thou consecrate—dark Yew,
Whose shadow, like a midnight spectre, stands
Close by the mouldering chancel, whose drear sigh
Falls like the voice of graves—low, startling, deep:
Whose branches through the long, cold, wintry night,
Spread like dim shrouds—precursors of the tomb!
Oh! ever be thou consecrate—thou wert
A sacred symbol in the olden days;
And art a moral, and shalt be a guide
To future ages, when the living crowd
Have glittered—smiled—exulted—and decayed!

179

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I

I'll meet thee—I'll meet thee—my love!
When the wild hare her covert forsakes;
And called by the voice of the dove,
The spirit of beauty awakes:
When dews light the amaranth flower,
And stars smile, like lovers, above;
Oh! then in that beautiful hour,
I'll meet thee—I'll meet thee—my love!

180

II

There is not a charm that the day,
With its loveliest hues may impart;
So dear as the moon's holy ray,
Oh! Night keeps the key of the heart!—
And spirits that worship her power,
Her tenderest influence prove;
Oh! then in that beautiful hour,
I'll meet thee—I'll meet thee—my love!

181

LAST WORDS OF LORD BYRON.

“I must sleep now!”
Vide “Life of Byron.”

I

The splendour of the Poet's lyre—
The eloquence of fame—
The spirit's intellectual fire—
The glory and the name—
The eagle wing that leaves behind,
The proud stars in its flight—
The power—the energy—the mind
Unutterably bright:

182

II

The heart that sheds its own bright hues,
And sings its own sweet strain;
Imagination's gorgeous views—
(That rainbow of the brain!)—
Are all but transcripts of one truth—
Reflections of one ray—
And speak to man, and hint to youth,
Of future dust—decay!

III

Sleep!—with thy glory round thy head—
Far from the grasp of wrong;
Sleep!—mightiest of the mighty dead—
Thou idolized of Song!
Sleep!—thou hast won a living tomb,
Within the heart's warm core;
And grief, nor care, nor blight, nor gloom,
Shall never reach thee more!

183

IV

I fling my young song like a leaf,
On Time's disastrous stream;
To find existence frail and brief,
The record of a dream;
But earth shall be a thing forgot—
Existence but a name—
When British hearts remember not
Thy genius and thy fame!

V

Sleep!—in thy majesty alone—
No earthly shroud is thine;
Sleep!—with a kingdom for thy throne—
Eternity thy shrine!
Sleep!—monarch of the human heart—
Until the sign is given
Which calls thee—glorious as thou art—
To melodies of heaven!

184

ANTOINETTE.

“She was a phantom of delight,
When first she gleamed upon my sight.”
Wordsworth.

Look, where she kneels—oh! never moonlight shone
Upon a form more elegantly fair;
The upraised eyes, bathed in the radiant dew
Of youthful loveliness—the vermeil lip
Half opened—like the scarlet pomegranate
Budding in warmth and fragrance—curved and small,
Oh! delicately small and slightly curved,—
Beautiful lip! ah, soft and brilliant shrine
Of love and harmony—and hope and thought!—
Sweet oracle—delicious counsellor—
Young, fervent, fond—how eloquent thou art!

185

The tresses—like a warm and sunset cloud—
Half gold, half auburn; braid a brow whereon
Nature hath set her own immortal seal—
Her sign of seraph glory:—temple meet
For such a soul, instinct with love's best gifts,
With all life's sweet affections redolent:
Faith steadfast to the death—Love sanctified
By hope—and Hope immortalized by love!

Oh! I could gaze upon thee—till mine eyes
Became idolaters, and worshipp'd nought
Save thy surpassing beauty—oh! to leave
The gay, proud world, its tinsel and its toys,
And mid some green seclusion build a home
Fit for thy gentle beauty, my fair love;
Roses should twine for ever round the porch
Of our white cot, the snow anemone,
The blue germander, purple hyacinth,—
Like a pure augury of happiness,—
Should crown our lattice with their quiet grace,

186

And I would love—oh! were it possible
To treasure up the whole dear sum of love
Possessed since the creation, I would deem
Almost that mine of bliss diminutive
To the deep passion of my soul for thee,—
My flower, my deity, my graceful girl!

187

FIRST LOVE.

“Was not my work fulfilled and closed below?
Had I not lived and loved? my lot was cast.”
From the German of Schiller.

I

Love?—I will tell thee what it is to love!
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine,
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove;
Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine.
All tastes—all pleasures—all desires combine
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss.
Above—the stars in shroudless beauty shine;—
Around—the streams their flowery margins kiss—
And if there's heaven on earth; that heaven is surely this!

188

II

Yes, this is Love,—the stedfast and the true—
The immortal glory which hath never set;
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew:—
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet!
Oh! who but can recall the eve they met
To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow,
While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet,
And winds blew soft around the mountain's brow,—
And all was rapture then—which is but memory now!

III

Honour may wreath the Victor's brow with bays,
And Glory pour her treasures at his feet;—
The Statesman win his country's honest praise—
Fortune and Commerce in our cities meet:
But when—ah! when were earth's possessions sweet—
Unblest with one fond friend those gifts to share?
The lowliest peasant in his calm retreat,
Finds more of happiness, and less of care,
Than hearts unwarm'd by love mid palace halls must bear!

189

YOUTH.

“Verse, a Breeze! mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding like a bee—
Both were mine! Life went a maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young? Ah, woful When!”
Coleridge.

Youth is like a fairy wave,
Glittering in the morning light;
Where the storm-winds never rave—
Where the shore's for ever bright—
Flowers exhale their glad perfume,
O'er its calm, unruffled breast;
And the coral's fadeless bloom,
Wreaths its soft and moonlight rest:

190

Joy and freedom light its track,
Sun and song their beauty cast;
Never doth it once look back
On the green shore lessening fast:
For gayer songs and purer skies
Seem far away to have their birth;
And Hope points onward to the prize—
That prize so seldom found on earth!
Oh! Happiness is rarely won,
'Tis like the Moon now beaming o'er us,
Which still, however fast we run,
Is faster fleeting on before us!
The glad to-morrow of the mind,
That idol of the human heart;
Which myriads seek but never find,
Still lures the wave to isles apart!
Until the last sweet kindred flower
Sighs to the wandering wave farewell;
And like a dark and evil power,
Glooms on the billows' swell!

191

The tempest mutters deep and long,
Ere yet its bolts in thunder burst;
And Light and Beauty, Joy and Song,
Flee to the home where they were nurst!
No more a gay and rippling wave—
But in its wild, ambitious pride,
'Tis hurling proud ships to a grave
Within the channels wide!
Ruin and wreck bestride its path—
And with the foam of million steeds,
Before the billows in their wrath,
The “Ocean Conqueror” speeds!
Till dashing in its fierce career
Through caverns like a mighty tomb,
'Tis left—where ray ne'er wakes to cheer
Its miserable doom!
Its strength enfeebling day by day,—
Impell'd by some unknown decree;—
It wins its dark and rapid way,
And wastes into Eternity!

197

FINIS.