University of Virginia Library

TO MY SISTER MARY.

Sister! accept these lays: as yet I ween
No lay but mine has open'd with thy name;
I would I were a bard of mightier fame,
Then would this tribute of more price have been,
And thou hadst worn a costlier pledge, in sign
Of my deep love: My name is all unknown,
And daring not to venture forth alone
It fondly seeks companionship of thine—
And thou dost love me more than to believe
Thy brother's lay can furnish shame to thee:
Critics! be your dispraise from harshness free
And scornful gibe, nor give me cause to grieve,
For, if ye sternly say I cannot sing,
My Sister's name is on a shamed thing!

SONNETS.

IV. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O! honey-throated mourner of the grove!
That in the glooming woodland art so proud
Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud,
Thou dost not own a note we do not love!
The moon is o'er thee—laying out the lawn
In mighty shadows—and the twilight skies,
Imbued with their unutterable dyes,
A thousand hues from Summer sources drawn;
While wandering for the dreams such seasons give
With lonely steps thro' this transcendant scene,
The Poet weeps for joys that fled yestreen
And staid not here to bless this purple eve,
Too lately fled, and brought him here to grieve
In passionate regret for what hath been.

VII.

[Hence with your jeerings, petulant and low]

Hence with your jeerings, petulant and low,
My love of home no circumstance can shake,
Too ductile for the change of place to break,
And far too passionate for most to know—
I and yon pollard-oak have grown together,
How on yon slope the shifting sunsets lie
None knew so well as I, and tending hither
Flows the strong current of my sympathy;
From this same flower-bed, dear to memory,
I learnt how marigolds do bloom and fade
And from the grove that skirts this garden glade
I had my earliest thoughts of love and spring:
Ye wot not how the heart of man is made,
I learn but now what change the world can bring!

XII.

[O be thou keen to guess when Flattery's near!]

O be thou keen to guess when Flattery's near!
His face is not the shadow of his heart;
The Court is all for lucre, like the mart,
And fraught with perils that a king should fear—
Trust not the flatterer's hollow sympathy
For should'st thou fathom that dishonest sound,
The line would rise with noisome clays hung round
And not the fruitful loam of love for thee:
O ill-starr'd royalty! Love's balmy sighs
Where Truth breathes on us from her sweetest shrine—
The access to all pure delights and ties,—
Say are they less the peasant's lot than thine?
Beyond the Shepherd's bliss thou can'st not rise
And many snares to steal ev'n that combine.

XIII.

[No trace is left upon the vulgar mind]

No trace is left upon the vulgar mind
By shapes which form upon the poet's thought
In instant symmetry: all eyes are blind
Save his, for ends of lowlier vision wrought;
Think'st thou, if Nature wore to every gaze
Her noble beauty and commanding power
Could harsh and ugly doubt withstand the blaze
Or front her Sinai Presence for an hour?
The seal of Truth is Beauty—When the eye
Sees not the token, can the mission move?
The brow is veil'd that should attach the tie
And lend the magic to the voice of Love:
What wonder then that doubt is ever nigh
Urging such spirits on to mock and to deny?

XV.

[The foot of Time so soundless never pass'd]

The foot of Time so soundless never pass'd
As when sweet fancy wove her magic thralls—
Go, mourner, to the Muses, haste thee, haste,
And bring thy gifts where Peter's shadow falls
To heal thee in his passing: call for aid
Of joy, that quenches being and it's gall—
Sad! that the consciousness of Life must fade
Before the bliss it yields be felt at all:
We cannot sit, inertly calm'd, to hear
The silence broken by the step of life;
We must have music while we languish here,
Loud music, to annul our spirit's strife,
To make the soul with pleasant fancies rife,
And soothe the stranger from another sphere!

XVIII.

[We cannot keep delight—we cannot tell]

We cannot keep delight—we cannot tell
One tale of steady bliss, unwarp'd, uncrost,
The timid guest anticipates farewell,
And will not stay to hear it from his host!
I saw a child upon a Summer's day,
A child upon the margin of a pond,
Catch at the boughs that came within his way,
From a fair fruit-tree on the bank beyond;
The gale that sway'd them from him aye arose,
And seldom sank into such kindly calm
As gave his hand upon the bunch to close,
Which then but left it's fragrance on his palm;
For the wind woke anew from its repose,
And bore the fruit away, but wafted all its balm.

XXII.

[See'st thou her blushes, that like shadows sweet]

See'st thou her blushes, that like shadows sweet
Pass upward from the silence of the heart,
Avowing it's fond dream by token meet—
Their crimson traits dissolve, but not depart
The hopes they usher to the lover's breast;
The signature has melted from the bond,
But he doth trust it, asking nought beyond
What promise all so briefly hath imprest:
Deep in her virgin heart has sunk the glow—
But thou hast cull'd its promise, and to thee
If lapse of faith or dark misdoubt should be,
'Twill steal into the blenching face of wo,
Chide back thy pulse to its remitted flow,
And tinge despondent thought and misery.

XXXI.

[O! it is sweet to weave aërial ties]

O! it is sweet to weave aërial ties
With fair and fond creations of our own,
To keep the spirit buoyant on the rise
Of that unebbing joyance which alone
Engrosses life,—The consciousness of power
To sluice pure waters from the fount of song,
And far in lordly eminence to tower
Above the world on pinions swift and strong;
Confronting greatness in her every form,
By the deep sea, and where the thunders lower
To pour from out their skirts th' Atlantic storm;
To keep unfading impress of each hour
That Nature's beauty hallows, and to know
Which is the purest tone her voice doth yield below!

XXXIX. GREECE.

Now are we free to roam thy flowery dales,
Fair Greece! and where each ancient fountain flows;
Now are we frée to cull the lily' and rose,
That bloom so sweetly down thy noble vales:
And ye are free, Arcadian nightingales,
To lavish on the air your tuneful woes,
That sweetly rise and with all sweetness close
Where high Lycæus breathes of rural tales
And Pan, and jealous Lucretil surpast:
The fanes upon each ruin-cover'd wold,
They too are free to crumble undefac'd,
For Britain's future poets to behold,
That they may hold that sum of memories fast
Which is their dowry from the days of old!

XL.

[On from the spot that saw it's first essay]

On from the spot that saw it's first essay
The earthquake travell'd—mark ye how he strove!
While ruin, aye attendant on his way,
Sped swiftly o'er the cleaving realms above:
Slowly the seasons do transform the grove,
All other change is wrought with soft delay
But this, which drives the course of streams astray
Once and for evermore: When to remove
Earth from her deep foundations God doth will,
The work is done with noises thunder-loud
And lightning-speed: Such ministers fulfil
The 'hests of Him, by whom the Heavens are bow'd
When he descendeth down on Zion hill,
While darkness is beneath him like a cloud!

XLII.

[His was a chamber in the topmost tower]

His was a chamber in the topmost tower,
A small unsightly cell with grated bars;
And wearily went on each irksome hour
Of dim Captivity and moody cares!
Against such visitants he was not strong,
But sate with laden heart and brow of woe,
And every morn he heard the stir and song
Of birds in royal gardens far below,
Telling of bowers and dewy lawns unseen,
Drench'd with the silver steam that night had left—
Part blossom-white, part exquisitely green,
And ringing all with thrushes on the left,
And finches on the right, to greet the sheen
Of the May-dawn; while he was thus bereft!

XLIV.

[Sweet brother-soul! I may not tarry here]

Sweet brother-soul! I may not tarry here,
The grave is made for me—if joy had been
But rarely visitant or dimly seen,
I would not thus have call'd the distance near,
Or summon'd for my peace this early bier:
But happiness long-while hath kept aloof,
An alien to my heart, which was not proof
Against the lacking of a thing so dear:
The hour is drawing nigh, when this wild heart
Shall be the thrall of worms, and know it not,
As calm as peace can be. No pulse or start
Of reviviscence, till the life hath got
Its flow again, which had but ebb'd in part:
But never more to feel the sinner's earthly lot!

XLV. TO A. H. H.

When youth is passing from my hoary head,
And life's decline steals brightness from thine eye—
But that it cannot soon, nor quench the red
Upon thy cheek that hath so rich a dye—
Then of what crowns of fame may thou and I
Avow ourselves the gainers? with what balm
Of christian hope, devotionally calm,
Shall I be then anointed? will this sigh,
Born of distempered feeling, still come forth
As thus, unjoyous? or be left to die
Before the rapid and unpausing birth
Of joyous thoughts succeeding momently?
What would not such recoil of bliss be worth,
Replacing in our age this early loss of joy?

XLVII. TO ------

A lovely vision fading out of sight,
Pure waters fast a-draining, these may be
Apt semblance of a truth well known to thee,
Poor pallid maid! thou can'st not reunite
Nor blend again the colours of thy heart,—
The secret nurture of a healthy mind
Will long preserve, perchance may half impart,
The cheek's pure glow, to sorrow ne'er assigned;
But thine is cold and pale, as might beseem
A rose-bud planted in a vase of snow,
Which droops full soon, as it did surely know
Of the thin flakes collapsing round its stem;
E'en thus thy cheek has lost its vital glow,
Because there is no source of kindly warmth below!

LINES.

[And art thou gone unto the skies]

[Ye mighty forests, deep and old]

A FATHER TO HIS SLEEPING CHILD.

DIXIT ET AVERTENS &c.

VIRG. ÆN. II.

TO A DYING FRIEND.

[The council of the brave are met]

COMETS.

With mighty bulk along the sky
They sped—I saw their trains so bright!
Yet never taper's spark went by
With less delay upon the sight—
I mark'd they were too vast for thought,
Yet sudden distance made them nought.

ANACR. εις τεττιγα.

Μακαριζομεν σε, τεττιξ, &c.

Cicala, we pronounce thee blest
For that, on topmost shrubs at rest,
When thou has quaff'd a little dew,
Thou singest as a king may do:
For thine is each and every thing
Thou viewest in the meads of spring,
Or what the other seasons bring.
Thou art the friend of those that till,
For working none the least of ill.
We men revere thee far and wide,
Sweet prophet of the summer-tide!
The Muses love thee. Phœbus loves
As his own gift, thy song, approves:
Thou art not worn away by age,
Earth-born, a songster, and a sage;
A pangless and a bloodless frame,—
Thou art a god, or much the same.

Ερως ποτ' εν ροδοισι.

ANACR.—

A bee, within a rose-bud lying,
'Scap'd the Infant Love's espying;
With finger stung and sobbing cry
Quick to fair Venus did he fly,
“Mother,” he said, “I faint, I die!”
This wound, a little winged snake,
Which rustics call a bee, did make.
But she answered, “If the sting
“Of bees be such a painful thing,
“What think'st thou of their bitter smart,
“The hapless Victims of thy dart?”

Αι Μουσαι τον Ερωτα, &c.

ANACR.—

Cupid, bound in flowery bands,
The Muses placed in beauty's hands:
And still, in vain, does Venus sue
To win him back by ransom due;
Little recks he of such demands,
Nor whence they come—but stays with beauty,
He hath learnt a bondsman's duty.

[O, but this hollow skull]

O, but this hollow skull
Hangs heavy on the noblest hopes we have!
Dost thou not think it doth? That passion's host
Are all disbanded, and the war is done,—
This is the best of promise proffer'd here:
Thou tell'st me that all argument from hence
Is matter out of place; that when I deem
We may not live again, pitching my doubt
On the most obvious spot for doubt to fall,
That I do idly thus, to step aside
From the high road of Truth to see a skull;
That God hath given the Victory to hope,
A giant of great strength, whom heaven hath form'd
To battle with all poison? That mistrust
Would vanish, were I conscious of the strength
Of this Messiah—I will muse awhile—
The Creed, that makes thee happy, shall be mine.

TO ------

[We all must die—but to the good]