Days and Hours :: :: University of Virginia Library

The golden-throated merle, and mellow thrush
Chant to us yet; the woodlark will not fly
His ancient sylvan solitude, or hush
His dewy pipings for a softer sky;
But the swallow flies away,
I would that I were he,
He follows the flown May
Across the sea.

II

The swallow hath a fickle heart at best,
He bears off the sweet days he brought us o'er,
And sounds retreat like an ungrateful guest
That shuns the flatter'd host he sued before;
Should kind Mirth be forgot
When his dark locks are gray,
And Love remember'd not?
Ah! stay, ah! stay!

273

III

Know ye of Gladness, that with jocund hearts
Can cast away old loves for love of new?
O friends, the music of a thousand arts
Charms not so sweetly as a voice that's true:
I sang ye songs of sorrow,
I sang ye songs of glee,
I cried, await to-morrow;
Ye heard not me.

IV

Know ye of Sorrow? can ye understand
Mortality, that hung unto the robe
Of Summer, as she flies from land to land,
Follow swift Youth around the rolling globe?
Joy's winged heart is light,
But blind are his bright eyes;
Grief seeth in the night
Of tears and sighs.

274

V

The feathers of Time's wings, ere yet they fall
Ye pluck, and from his plumes ye trim your own;
Ye answer to the Southwind's silver call,
Ah! whither wend ye, leaving me undone?
Ah! stay, dear friends, ah! stay,
And leave me not forsaken;
Care takes not the same way
That ye have taken.

VI

In our lorn woods the morn and evensong
Will fail, and things of sunshine cease to be;
Lo! shrilling Winter leadeth Death along,
I see the tyrant shake his lance at me.
Delight hath fled the earth,
The evil days are come;
So I will light my hearth,
And sing at home.

275

VII

Ye seek the blue isles, and the happy hills,
Ye rush into the heart of Summer skies,
Ye leave behind ye unremember'd ills,
Ye fly like happy souls to Paradise.
Oh! could ye, blissful things,
On my dark, utter day,
Lend me those selfsame wings
To flee away!

276

A DREAM OF AUTUMN.

I

I heard a man of many winters say,
‘Sometimes a sweet dream comes to me by night,
Fluttering my heart with pulses of delight,
In glory bright as day;

II

‘'Tis not the song of eve, the walks of morn,
Nor hearth-lit jokes, nor lamp-lit revelries,
That haunt mine ears, and flit across mine eyes,
And mock my heart forlorn.

III

‘'Tis not the memory of my school-day years,
The hours, when I was a wild-hearted boy,
Of stormy sorrow, and of stormy joy,
That fills mine eyes with tears.

277

IV

‘'Tis not the stir of manhood, nor the pain,
The flood of passions, and the pomp of life,
The toils, the care, the triumphs, and the strife
That move my soul again;

V

‘Ah! no, my prison-gates are open thrown,
There is a brighter earth, a lovelier sun,
One face I see, I hear one voice, but one,
'Tis She, and She alone!

VI

‘It is a golden morning of the Spring,
My cheek is pale, and hers is warm with bloom,
And we are left in that old carven room,
And she begins to sing;

VII

‘The open casement quivers in the breeze,
And one large muskrose leans its dewy grace
Into the chamber, like a happy face,
And round it swim the bees;

278

VIII

‘Sometimes her sunny brow she loves to lean
Over her harp-strings; sometimes her blue eyes
Are diving into the blue morning skies,
Or woodland shadows green;

IX

‘Sometimes she looks adown a garden walk
Whence echoes of blithe converse come and go,
And two or three fair sisters, laughing low,
Go hand in hand, and talk.

X

‘And once or twice all fearfully she gazed
Up to her gray fore-fathers, grim and tall,
With faded brows that frown'd along the wall,
And steadfast eyes amazed.

XI

She stays her song; I linger idly by;
She lifts her head, and then she casts it down,
One small, fair hand is o'er the other thrown,
With a low, broken sigh;

279

XII

‘I know not what I said; what she replied
Lives, like eternal sunshine, in my heart;
And then I murmur'd, Oh! we never part,
My love, my life, my bride!

XIII

‘And then, as if to crown that first of hours,
That hour that ne'er was mated by another,
Into the open casement her young brother
Threw a fresh wreath of flowers.

XIV

‘And silence o'er us, after that great bliss,
Fell, like a welcome shadow; and I heard
The far woods sighing, and a summer bird
Singing amid the trees;

XV

‘The sweet bird's happy song, that stream'd around,
The murmur of the woods, the azure skies,
Were graven on my heart, though ears and eyes
Mark'd neither sight nor sound.

280

XVI

‘She sleeps in peace beneath the chancel stone,
But ah! so clearly is the vision seen,
The dead seem raised, or Death hath never been,
Were I not here alone.

XVII

‘Oft, as I wake at morn, I seem to see
A moment, the sweet shadow of that shade,
Her blessed face, as it were loth to fade,
Turn'd back to look on me.’

281

LOVE AND THE POET.

I

The thunder roll'd o'er land and sea,
The storm howl'd over rock and river,
‘The Past hath been, and shall not be
For ever, and for ever!’
Blue lightnings streaming over deserts vast
Glimmer on flying phantoms dimly shown,
And threatening spectres that pursue in haste
Thro' dismal aisles, and cities overthrown.

II

Hark! 'tis the sound of War in heaven,
Death leads the armies of the air,
His Giants o'er the moonlight driven
Blow trumpets of despair;
I hear a cry as of departing Powers,
And ere the banners of the foe be furl'd,
Beauty and Strength shall perish with the hours,
'Mid the fall'n fragments of a ruin'd world.

282

III

Three dead leaves of an aged vine
Tap doleful at my window-pane;
The cold stars shudder, as they shine
Thro' wind, and gusty rain;
Far off I hear the torrent waters thrown
Into the valley, like a battle-host,
The ancient forests in their sorrow groan,
And frighted Nature echoes ‘I am lost!’

IV

The voice of one forlorn and blind,
A piteous voice, yet golden-sweet,
Comes in the pauses of the wind,
And makes my heart to beat;
‘Ah! Death, ah! Night, ah! whither shall I fly
To some fond heart, as in the days of old?
Take me, O friends, or surely I shall die,
The world is dark, and I am faint and cold!’

283

V

A voice more solemn than the other
A tender voice, sublime in sadness,
Like brother speaking unto brother,
Soars thro' the storm's shrill madness;
‘Come to me, I will shield thee from the wind,
Forsaken Wanderer, wheresoe'er thou art;
Come to my stricken heart, and thou shalt find
A home, and thou and I will never part.’

VI

The thunder roll'd o'er land and sea,
The storm howl'd on o'er waste and city:
I knew that voice of agony,
I knew that voice of pity:
'Twas Love, fond Love, dejected and forsaken,
Seeking the Poet thro' the stormy clime;
'Twas the sad Poet by the night o'ertaken,
That found lost Love amid the wrecks of Time.

284

THE SONGS OF SORROW.

I

I saw pale Sorrow in her Autumn bower,
Athwart its fluttering woof of sombre green
The flying banners of the Day were seen
Over cloud-walls that on the world did lower;
And the sad lustre of the twilight air
Shone thro' her falling tears and streaming hair.

II

By the cold marble of her open tomb
She sate, and mourn'd; and when the wailing blast
Sway'd the dark ivy curtain, as it pass'd,
She raised her eyes, and peer'd into the gloom,
And smote her breast, and wept, and look'd afar
With folded palms towards the evening star.

285

III

And she began to sing; her mystic chant
Shook down the last drops of a morning shower,
Drew forth the owl in silence from his tower,
And scared the nightingale from out his haunt;
Fall'n from the rustling darkness overhead
The raindrops mingled with the tears she shed.

IV

She sang low ditties, desolate and sweet,
A tender mother pleading, old, and poor;
A bounteous sire turn'd from his daughter's door;
A little hungry child with bleeding feet;
Her only son from a poor widow taken;
Love, early love despised, and forsaken.

V

A sobbing Echo mock'd her from a cave;
On sudden gusts she heard lamenting cries,
Far tumults, terrors, plaints, and agonies;
And faint afflicting tongues, as from the grave;
And forked fires upon the darkness scroll'd
Weird signs of woe, and muffled thunders knoll'd.

286

VI

She sang great hearts by evil cares estranged;
A father's pride become his curse and shame;
Faithfulness slain, and dying without blame;
Kindness to Hate, and Grief to Madness chang'd:
Sadder the sunken sun began to glow,
Her voice grew fainter, and her heart more slow.

VII

The mournful dirge of one slow village bell
Burthen'd her song, and the low evening wind;
With dusk-red poppyflowers she strove to bind
Her trembling brows—but one by one they fell
Earthward; again she wept, and look'd afar
With folded palms towards the evening star.

VIII

Dimly she look'd from forth her ivy and bay;
Thro' loopholes of gray turrets, grim and bare,
The wild wind shrill'd like spirits in despair;
Deep down the plain a ruin'd city lay,
The stormy dust flew o'er its towers afar,
And wrathful clouds shut out the evening star.

287

IX

Her voice rose keen upon the wind, like Pity
Pleading to Fate; she sang the old and blind
Wandering and poor, the last of all their kind;
She sang mad mothers in a stormed city
Sitting by their slain sons, and daughters fair
Dragg'd o'er the burning threshold by the hair.

X

The wind rush'd down; the dark leaves overhead
Hiss'd like a sea; from battlements of thunder
Great signals flamed, and fill'd the twilight under
With doleful shapes, and shadows of the Dead;
Swifter across the waste the death knoll swung,
Like Lamentation with an iron tongue.

XI

She sang meek Virtue struck by her own hand;
Honor dishonor'd; Truth in strange attire
Flying forlorn, and Faith in burning fire;
And wild-eyed Ruin sweeping o'er the land;
And Horror with a hundred voices blown
On every wind, and Death upon a throne.

288

XII

She shriek'd—the tempest answer'd from the skies,
Dark woods, and rushing waters from below,
To the storm-wind she bared her ancient brow,
And to the lightnings raised her awful eyes,
That show'd her a wreck'd world, all dim and dire,
And earthquake rocking mountain-peaks on fire!

XIII

‘Oh! heaven,’ she cried, ‘it is the end of Time,
And God is parting!’ Great and terrible
Her voice went upwards in its last farewell
Above the torrent floods, and stormy clime,
Sad as an exiled Angel's, or a cry
Of God gone forth in mortal agony!

XIV

Down by her tomb she fainted, and she fell;
The storm swept onwards—in her dreaming ears
Leaving sad murmurings like a sound of tears;
And Nature slumber'd at the midnight bell;
But still she heard the parted thunders roll
In echoes thro' the desert of her soul.

289

XV

And there was silence after that great cry,
And Death stole forth from icy mountain-caves,
He laid his wand upon the eager waves,
And shed the forest leaves in passing by,
And the drear glitter of his moonlit bones
Whiten'd the stilly trees, and desert stones.

XVI

But at the dawning birds began to sing,
And softer voices of a fairer wind;
The orient splendors trembled from behind,
She heard the music of a little spring:
She rose—She wept no more—She look'd afar
With folded palms towards the morning star.

290

TO SORROW.

I

O Sorrow, whose inviolable soul
The God of all things made his dwelling-place,
Sorrow, whom all must look on face to face
Between their mortal barriers and the goal,
Whose is the infant's plaint, the funeral knell,
Thy voice is better than a marriage bell.

II

Better it is to sit awhile with thee,
And listen to thy melancholy shell,
Than sound of festal harpings, and the swell
Of choral triumphs waxing like a sea;
Better it is to hear thy still small voice
Than Pæans thunder'd forth when Kings rejoice!

291

III

O holy Sorrow, whom the iron Fates
Alone on earth pass by without a frown,
When I behold how rebel years discrown
Imperial Youth; how lordly Pleasure waits
To pass beneath Affiction's dungeon door;
I'll sit with thee, though thou be old and poor.

IV

How Hope's blue eyes grow dim and blind with tears;
How Love unplumed, and crazy Mirth forlorn
Halt after winged Time pursued by Scorn;
How Vanity the last of Youth's frail peers
Arm'd with a crooked crutch, and wither'd wreath
Goes with Despair to fight the strength of Death;

V

How Glory hears the echoes of his name
Die down the wind, that wafteth swiftly on
The thundering sound of victories newly won,
And triumphs louder in the throat of Fame;
Sorrow, in thy deep bower I'll sit with thee,
And hear thee sing of Immortality.

292

THE GOLDEN CITY.

PART I.

I

Two aged men, that had been foes for life,
Met by a grave, and wept—and in those tears
They wash'd away the memory of their strife;
Then wept again the loss of all those years.

II

Two youths discoursing amid tears and laughter
Pour'd out their trustful hearts unto each other:
They never met before, and never after,
Yet each remember'd he had found a brother.

III

A boy and girl amid the dawning light
Glanced at each other at a palace door;
That look was hope by day, and dreams by night,
And yet they never saw each other more.

293

IV

Should gentle spirits born for one another
Meet only in sad death, the end of all?
Should hearts, that spring, like rivers, near each other,
As far apart into the Ocean fall?

V

Should heavenly Beauty be a snare to stay
Free Love, and ere she hear his tongue complain,
Forsake him, as a lily turns away
From the air that cannot turn to it again?

VI

Ah! hapless Zephyr, thou canst never part
From the rare odor of the breathing bloom;
Ah! flower, thou canst not tell how fair thou art,
Or see thyself, or quaff thine own perfume.

VII

Ah! Lover unbeloved, or loving not
The doomed heart that only turns to thee,
In this wild world how cureless is thy lot,
Who shall unwind the old perplexity?

294

PART II.

I

Fond hearts, not unrequited shall ye be
For ever—I beheld a happy sight,
Heaven open'd, and a starry company
Far off, like Gods, and crowned Sons of Light.

II

On beacon-towers, and citadels sublime
They stood, and watch'd with their unsleeping eyes
Where two or three across the sea of Time
Held on unto the shores of Paradise.

III

All day they rock'd upon the stormy Deep,
Till night beset them; and they could not tell
The signal lights—and they began to weep—
And the dark waters smote them, and they fell.

IV

But oh! they woke in wonder! and behold
A mighty City!—'twas a summer-morn,
And dazzling sunshine smote on walls of gold,
And blessed voices on their ears forlorn.

295

V

Soon as the gray prow touch'd upon the sands
Wild birds from from fadeless woods, and inland streams,
Shower'd o'er them those same notes of Faery lands,
Which they had heard in far, forgotten dreams.

VI

And on the morning breezes come and part
Gushes of those enchanted melodies,
Which for brief moments born within the heart
Make sad the earth with echoes of the skies.

VII

Odors from silent fields of Asphodel
Breathe o'er them, steeping them in sudden bliss,
That once had touch'd their sense, as with a spell,
And made them yearn for parted lives in this.

VIII

Visions, which some pale bard had seen afar
Burn in the sunset, or the morning cloud,
And then depart into the scornful air,
Leaving his heart with earthly sorrows bow'd,

296

IX

From forth broad portals into daylight pour'd,
While songs were peal'd, and trumpets stream'd above,
And by those shores in triumph took their way,
While he stood rapt in ecstacy and love.

X

And men of sorrows, whose dejected eyes
Had sought the earth, and look'd for Death in vain,
Lifted their heads unto the glorious skies,
And sigh'd with perfect bliss, unthrall'd of pain.

XI

And they were borne into a vale of bowers,
And heard infantine voices, and those tones
Link'd in their hearts with the rejoicing hours
Ere mortal anguish smit their weary bones.

XII

Amid the tumult who are they that call
In well-known tongues sweet welcomes? Who are they
Amid the multitudes that throng the wall,
With well-known faces, now so young and gay

297

XIII

Who are the foremost on the shore to find,
And clasp those weary mariners, pale with woes?
Friends, lovers, tender children, parents kind,
Lost soon as loved—or loved too long to lose.

XIV

They took those storm-beat mariners by the hand,
And thro' their worn and weary senses pour'd
Sweet snatches of old songs, and to the land
They led them, whispering many a tender word.

XV

Up to the golden Citadel they fare,
And as they go their limbs grow full of might,
And One awaits them on the topmost stair—
One whom they had not seen, but knew at sight!

XVI

Hark! there is music, such as never flow'd
Thro' all the Ages—for the Lost are found—
Sorrow is sitting by the throne of God—
Justice and Mercy meet—and Love is crown'd!

298

A BIRD OF EVEN

I

Deeper the shadows frown;
The winds have furl'd their wings, and thro' the trees
Burns the red West; upon the flaming sky
Some purple clouds, like happy islands, lie,
Kiss'd by the ebbing tide of magic seas;
The crested hills are dark, the champaign and the town.

II

Deeper the shadows spread;
Along the vineyards the last songs have ceased,
The mountain streams thro' rocky valleys torn
Moan from afar; but lo! the Ghost of Morn,
The breathless Moon soars thro' the sombre East,
And dimly shows the World, like Memories of the Dead.

299

III

But one sweet Mourner keeps
Lone vigils; in that hour 'twixt Night and Day,
When the proud streams of the great sea of Light
Were ebbing slowly out of mortal sight,
I heard a wild bird in the twilight gray
Singingsad notes divine, like Love that wakes and weeps.

IV

In gloom of cypress bowers
He sang apart of glories past away;
Oh! of young love he sang, of lovely things
Of Youth, of hopes flown by upon the wings
Of Sunset, of proud strength no arts could stay,
Of bliss no strength can bind, dead triumphs, crownless powers:

V

The weary and heartbreaking
He sang, who see from off Time's dim gray shore
The sunken tide of the World's blessed years,
And thro' the twilight stretch their arms with tears
To those wing'd shapes that flee for evermore
Thro' amber gates of Eve, and leave the sad forsaken.

300

VI

Then was there silence deep
Like Death—and to the West the Moon descended;
But when I heard no more that song forlorn,
Ah! then it seemed that I was left to mourn,
I only on the Earth, forgot, unfriended,
No heart should beat again, no eye awake from sleep.

VII

No tongue should speak again—
No loving eyes again look into mine—
Nor silver stream be heard, nor winged breeze,
Nor the sun soar again above the seas,
On the hush'd World no resurrection shine,
And with Despair my heart lie as the moonless plain.

301

PAST AND FUTURE.

I

There were some thoughts which made the new-born Time
Stretch forth its arms unto the Infinite,
And mighty Nature in her godlike prime
From this poor Earth climb to the gates of Light!

II

When the first Prophet in his cavern shade
Heard the great voices of Futurity
Knoll like far thunders, and was not afraid—
And Cycles rolling like the tide o' the Sea!

III

When the first Lawgiver in the Holy Land
Came forth from cloud and fire with awful eye,
And show'd the Tablets written with God's hand
To that astonish'd Host at Sinai!

302

IV

When the first Poet in a blessed clime
Saw Heaven unfold, and spirits earthward borne,
And in the pauses of his voice sublime
Heard Glory streaming like the winds at morn!

V

When the first Orator with armed soul
Stood like a present God of human minds,
And saw the passions of a People roll
Beneath him, like a sea before the winds!

VI

When the first Patriot clothed in dust and blood
Rode by the walls of his own native town,
And look'd upon the citizens, as they stood
Thundering his name, and flinging garlands down!

VII

But Thou shalt be more glorious than all these
Who shalt subdue Despair by any art,
Whose hand shall cope the pyramid of Peace,
And heal again sad Nature's broken heart;

303

VIII

Shalt make Man walk, as if his God were near,
Stirr'd in the winds, and lighten'd in the sky;
And pale Guilt trembling with a sudden fear
Whisper unto his fellow—He is by!

IX

Shalt lead Truth to her throne without the might
Of steel to force, or music to persuade,
Show Beauty changed into her acolyte,
And all the Muses at her footstool laid:

X

Teach Pride to weep—teach Sorrow spells of cheer—
Teach all to feel a portion of that zeal
Ray'd from the Lamp upheld by Love and Fear,
Which Prophets felt, which raptured Poets feel!

IX

Thou who shalt make unarmed Love to wield
The World's wide Empire, King without a throne,
Stronger than Death to vanquish, or to shield,
A silent Presence crown'd with Light alone!

304

TO THE POET.

I

O Gentle Poet, whosoe'er thou art,
Whom God hath gifted with a loving eye,
A sweet, and mournful voice, a tender heart,
Pass by the world, and let it pass thee by;
Be thou to Nature faithful still, and she
Will be for ever faithful unto thee.

II

Let them disdain thee for thy just disdain;
Shield thou thy heart against the world accurst,
Where they discourse of joy, and ache with pain,
And babble of good deeds, and do the worst;
Shed dews of mercy on their wither'd scorn,
And touch their midnight darkness with thy morn.

305

III

There blind Ambition barters peace for praise:
There Pride ne'er sleeps, nor Hatred waxeth old;
And dwarfish Folly can his cubit raise
To godlike stature on a little gold;
There Madness is a king, and ev'n the wise
Sell truth to simpletons, and live on lies;

IV

There Pleasure is a sickly meteor-light,
A star above—a pestilence below;
There Knowledge is a cup of aconite,
That chills the heart, and makes the pulses slow;
Remorse, a scorpion's self-destroying sting,
Sorrow, a Winter without hope of spring.

V

There Love's clear torch is quench'd as in a tomb,
Or bound for ever in a golden band
He drags, with eyes fix'd on his early doom,
Behind lean Avarice with the iron hand:
Fancy, that fill'd the woodlands with his glee,
Scorns at himself, and murmurs to be free.

306

VI

There Justice mindless of her holy name,
Creeps o'er the slime with adder's ears and eyes,
Stirs with dark hand the World-involving flame,
Thirsteth for tears, and hungers after sighs;
There Honor is a game to lose or win;
And Sanctity a softer name for Sin.

VII

For thee 'tis better to remain apart,
Like one who dwells beneath the forest green,
And listens far off to the beating heart
Of the wide world, all-seeing, though unseen;
In a cool cavern on a mountain side
With rare, sweet flowers, and virgin springs supplied.

VIII

Hark thou the voices from the peopled plain
In tuneful echoes murmuring in thine ears,
Watch thou the sunshine mingle with the rain,
And mark how gladness interweaves with tears,
And ply thy secret, holy alchemy,
Like God, who gives thee work, when none are by.

307

IX

And from the twilight of thy solitude
Note thou the lights and shadows of the sky,
And cast the mighty shapes of Evil and Good
In perfect moulds of Immortality,
Till they are seen from far, like mountain-light,
That burns on high, when all below is night.

308

THE POET'S HEART.

I

When the Poet's heart is dead,
That with fragrance, light, and sound,
Like a Summerday was fed,
Where, Oh! where shall it be found,
In Sea, or Air, or underground?

II

It shall be a sunny place;
An urn of odors; a still well,
Upon whose undisturbed face
The lights of Heaven shall love to dwell,
And its far depths make visible.

III

It shall be a crimson flower
That in Fairyland hath thriven;
For dew a gentle Sprite shall pour
Tears of Angels down from Heaven,
And hush the winds at morn and even.

309

IV

It shall be on some fair morn
A swift and many-voiced wind,
Singing down the skies of June,
And with its breath and gladsome tune
Send joy into the heart and mind.

V

It shall be a fountain springing,
Far up into the happy light,
With a silver carol ringing,
With a magic motion flinging
Its jocund waters, starry-bright.

VI

It shall be a tiny thing
Whose breath is in it for a day,
To fold at Eve its weary wing,
And at the dewfall die away
On some pure air, or golden ray,

310

VII

Falling in a violet-bloom;
Tomb'd in a sphere of pearly rain;
Its blissful ghost a wild perfume
To come forth with the Morn again,
And wander through an infant's brain;

VIII

And the pictures it should set
In that temple of Delight
Would make the tearless cherub fret
With its first longing for a sight
Of things beyond the Day and Night.

IX

But one moment of its span
Should thicker grow with blissful things
Than any days of mortal Man,
Or his years of Sorrow can,
Though beggars should be crowned kings.

311

X

It shall be a tuneful voice
Falling on a Lover's ear,
Enough to make his heart rejoice
For evermore, or far, or near,
In dreams that swallow hope and fear.

XI

It shall be a chord divine
By Mercy out of Heaven hung forth,
Along whose trembling, airy line
A dying Saint shall hear on earth
Triumphant songs, and harped mirth!

XII

It shall be a wave forlorn
That o'er the vast and fearful Sea
In troubled pride and beauty borne
From winged storms shall vainly flee
And seek for rest where none shall be.

312

XIII

It shall be a mountain Tree,
Thro' whose great arms the winds shall blow
Louder than the roaring Sea,
And toss its plumed head to and fro;
But a thousand flowers shall live below.

XIV

It shall be a kingly Star
That o'er a thousand Suns shall burn
Where the high Sabaoth are,
And round its glory flung afar
A mighty host shall swiftly turn.

XV

All things of beauty it shall be—
All things of power—of joy—of fear;
But out of bliss and agony
It shall come forth more pure and free,
And sing a song more sweet to hear.

313

XVI

For methinks, when it hath pass'd
Thro' wondrous Nature's world-wide reign,
Perchance it may come home at last,
And the old Earth may hear again
Its lofty voice of Joy and Pain.

314

THE GARLANDS OF MEMORY.

I

When Memory in the gloom of cypress bowers
Unwove her garlands, she laid down with sighs
Mournfully, one by one, the wither'd flowers
That were at morn the light of her sad eyes;
The wild buds she had gather'd had drunk up
Their matin dew, and died; gray dust of Death
Lay desolate in the Lily's silver cup,
The red Rose breathed not its voluptuous breath;

She said ‘the light is dying,
'Tis nigh the end of Day,
Cease, heart, Oh! cease thy sighing,
We must away, away!’

315

II

Their drooping graces, and their dusky hues,
Their faint sweets telling of the morning time,
Pleaded to her so well, she could not choose
But love them faded better than their prime;
She held them up before her aching sight,
She breathed fond sighs to spread them out again;
She laid their dim soft leaves across the light,
And gave them tender tears, like Autumn rain:
She sang ‘the Sun is leaving
The blessed Summer-day,
Cease, heart, ah! cease thy grieving
We must away, away!’

III

Then blamed she the swift Sun, whose eager touch
Had stolen all their beauty's early treasure—
The Wind, that had been wanton overmuch,
And drawn their life forth with excess of pleasure;
Her tears could not awake their bloom again,
In vain against her mournful heart they lay;
Her tenderest tears could wash away no stain,
Her beating heart but shed their leaves away:

316

She mourn'd ‘the Sun is setting,
It is the end of Day,
Cease, heart, ah! cease regretting,
We must away, away!’

IV

At last she found some leaves of Eglatere,
Whose circling spray had bound those flowers in one;
She said ‘I will not weep, while thou art here,
Whose odor, and fresh leaf outlives the Sun;
Green wert thou in the early morning shine,
Green art thou still at even—a holy wreath
Of pale, sweet flowers for me thou still mayst twine,
When I go forth to be the bride of Death!’

She sigh'd, ‘the Sun is set,
It is no longer Day;
Oh! heart, couldst thou forget!—
But, come, away, away!’

317

THE PHANTOM.

Last even, when the sun was low,
I walk'd, where those bright waters flow,
Where we two wander'd long ago;

With sad, slow steps I linger'd o'er
The ancient woods, the river-shore,
Where thou, alas! art found no more;

The winds that shook the dying flowers,
The echoes stirring in the bowers,
Seem'd as the voices of those hours;

With raptured eyes I pierced the gloom,
With tears that might have thaw'd the tomb
I cried unto thy Spirit ‘Come,’

‘Come forth,’ I cried, 'twixt hope and fear,
‘It is the hour when none are near,
Oh! come, beloved, meet me here.’

318

The sere leaves flitting in the dell
Whisper'd scornfully, as they fell,
‘Death is Death, immutable.

‘Thou that wouldst with impious haste
Call the Spirit from the vast
Of Nature, and recall the past;

Can thy love unlock the earth?
Canst thou bid dry bones come forth,
And give dead dust another birth?

Relume the flowers that fallen be,
Bring back the odors as they flee,
Or set the sere leaf on the tree?

If the soul might come to-day,
And with its old companions stay,
And tell them what the Angels say;

Such converse couldst thou live and bear,
That deep-eyed presence standing there
Love, even Love would never dare:

319

Weep not the past, but hope instead,
Mourn not, nor be discomforted,
The Living cannot love the Dead.’

The low winds murmur'd, as they went
‘Sigh not, weep not, be content,
Death is Death, can he relent?’

Still I cried, 'twixt hope and fear,
‘It is even, none are here,
Awake, beloved—come anear.’

Was it sad fancy's dreaming eyes,
Or an answer to my sighs?
Methought I saw a shadow rise.

Slowly it pass'd into the gray,
With mournful eyes half turn'd away;
And I heard a pale voice say,

In tones beyond imaginings,
As when the wind with tangled wings
Is fluttering amid tuneful strings,

320

‘The Living cannot know the Dead,
But the Spirit that is fled
In good things past is perfected:

The bliss of life it felt before
Thrills the Spirit o'er and o'er,
Love increaseth more and more;

Never sorrow, never fear;
I am near thee, ever near,
Wakeful, more than eye or ear;

Sometime, dearest, we shall greet
Each other in this valley sweet—
The Future and the Past shall meet;

Sometime, we shall linger o'er
These ancient woods, this river-shore,
These walks where I am found no more;

Sometime, when the sun is low,
We shall wander, well I know,
Where we two wander'd long ago.

321

THE HOLYTIDE.

I. PART I.

I

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
When flowers have ceased to blow, and birds to sing,
Where shall the weary heart of Man abide,
Save in the jocund memories of the Spring?
As the gray twilight creeps across the snow,
Let us discourse of walks when leaves are green;
Methinks the roses are more sweet that blow
In Memory's shade, than any that are seen.

II

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Drear clouds have hid the crimson of the West,
And, like the winged Day, Delight hath died
Within me. and proud Passions gone to rest.
In this dusk hour, before the lamps are lit,
Thro' the Heart's long long gallery I will go,
And mark pale Memory's taper fall on it
Starting strange hues, like firelight on the snow.

322

III

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Ye, whom I may not see for evermore,
Oh! I will dream, tho' Death's great waste is wide,
That ye may hear me from your silent shore.
And ye who wander, and are far apart,
(Oh! this great World is bleak, and years are growing,)
I have a sunny corner in my heart
Where I do set ye when rough winds are blowing.

IV

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
There is a welcome in the porch—I hear
The voice of one that I have loved and tried,
A voice I have not heard this many a year.
Ah! me, that face is as the wither'd flowers,
Paler with pain, with sorrows more forlorn,
But still the smile, the soul of other hours,
Shines from that face, the Even like the Morn.

323

V

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
We speak together while the daylight dies;
I see not he is old, for to my side
The ghost of Youth comes up between our sighs;
The charm is broken by a single word—
He answers—‘thou wilt hear no more on Earth
The faithful voice that we so oft have heard,
Or see that face that was the Sun of Mirth.’

VI

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Now let the last words of departed friends
Be sweeter to thee than a singing bride,
Weigh hearts, and for oblivion make amends;
Spurn not the penitent with haggard eye,
Seat thou the hungry outcast by thy chair,
The son whose Spring hath fled in tempest by,
The weeping daughter with dishevell'd hair.

324

VII

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Let Wealth, and Glory, as they take their fill,
Think how Mischance to Fortune is allied,
Let Hope look up again thro' cloud of ill;
Let us look down into our children's eyes,
And think amid the mirth, and festal flow,
How once we were as they are—think with sighs
Of them that were as we are, long ago.

VIII

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Cleanse off the ills of Time, the hates of years,
Hush forked Scorn, and vail the crest of Pride,
Kiss humble Love, and wipe away his tears;
Let vain things be forgot for evermore,
Let good things rise from out these mournful days,
Bring out forsaken memories from thy store,
If there be any pity, any praise.

325

IX

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Ah! let the Grief, that knocks against thy gate,
Sit by thy heart, and murmur at thy side,
Think of Truth, think of Mercy, think of Fate;
Think what kind dews have fallen on thy head,
What thou shouldst do, but what thou hast not done;
Cast out the flaunting Sirens that have led
Thy heart, and once for all, and everyone.

X

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Hark! in the drifting tempest, and the roar
Of darkling waters, are the Powers that guide
The wreck of Nature to a Summer shore;
Let Man too in the darkness arm, and strive
With the dark host within him, rise and fight,
And, ere the morrow morn, begin to live,
Sorrow brings strength, as Day is born of Night.

326

XI

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
The Sun is on the hearth, the World at home;
Over the frozen heath the Whirlwinds ride;
Drink to the Past, and better days to come;
Wreathe we our goblets with the evergreen,
Fadeless as Truth, sad as Humanity;
Let no bright flower, nor wither'd leaf be seen;
These Hours are sisters to Adversity.

XII

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
The Wintermorn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
With deathless thoughts, and echoed in sweet song:
And thro' the sunset of this purple cup
They will resume the roses of their prime,
And the old Dead will hear us, and wake up,
Pass with dim smiles, and make our hearts sublime!

327

XIII

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
Be dusky misletoes, and hollies strown,
Sharp as the spear that pierced his sacred side,
Red as the drops upon his thorny crown;
No haggard Passion, and no lawless Mirth
Fright off the sombre Muse—tell sweet old tales,
Sing songs, as we sit bending o'er the hearth,
Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails.

XIV

The days are sad, it is the Holytide:
But ere we part this blessed night, to dreams
Of Angel songs on the hush'd mountainside,
And wondrous Shapes that came upon the light,
Let us lift up our voices all together
In one deep harmony, a rapt farewell,
So sweet we shall not hear the stormy weather,
And dying Sorrow wake to hear it swell.

328

II. PART II.

I

Ah! me, I never left a merrymaking,
Or saw kind friends go laughing from the door,
But under all my mirth my heart was aching
To think that happy day could rise no more.

II

To-day hath been the harvest of the heart,
From far and near mine old companions met,
And now the gate stands wide, and they must part,
Leaving me here 'twixt triumph and regret.

III

The nimble wit that might not be withstood,
The song, the merry tale, the jokes like rain,
The untamed laughter tingling in the blood,
The selfsame moments ne'er can fall again.

329

IV

Haply as bright a hearth shall burn again,
As fair a company around it sit,
Children, and bright-eyed maids, and joyous men,
As warm the welcome, and as bright the wit;

V

But ah! who can unlock the barred Morrow,
Or see what fates lie hid in flattering years,
No cheerier hearth can glow than this—but Sorrow
May cloud with sighs, or quench it with her tears.

VI

Tho' the bright drops of the swift-flowing River
See us no more, we do not weep for them,
For others like to them come up for ever,
Tho' every drop be lovely as a gem.

VII

When Summer nightingales have ceased to sing,
And Autumn storms have quench'd their tongues of flame,
If throstles chant, we can await the Spring,
We mourn not that their songs are not the same.

330

VIII

Day yields to night, and days as fair are born,
But, O dear friends, will my forlorn regret
Bring back your absent faces like the Morn,
And some of ye are gone since last we met.

IX

Not idly have I drank your faithful words,
Your hopes, your fears, your sorrows freely spoken,
I tell ye they will echo, till the chords
Of this old solitary heart are broken.

X

Oh! when I look'd on them I loved of old,
I heard the many tongues of life-long years,
There were the proud grown meek, the fearful bold,
Sighs born of joy, and songs the end of tears.

XI

Some there had fought the fight, and others lay
Like Warriors arm'd, that helmed vigils keep,
And wait the rising of a battle-day
To win them Honour—iron ev'n in sleep.

331

XII

And some with Death were wrestlers day by day,
And slept with Sorrow—sisters of Despair,
Who smile serenely, knowing none can stay
Their sombre steps to Him—their Hope is there.

XIII

Who love to laugh, because it stills the cry
Of lamentation piercing thro' the whole,
Who love to speak, but only with a sigh
Whisper the sleepless voices of the Soul.

XIV

There is that holy thing, sweet Children's mirth,
Which they can only feel, nor feel for long,
That light from glories older than the Earth,
Heart-broken Nature's one diviner song.

XV

And there were Children grown to mighty Men,
And plumed with hopes both beautiful and dread;
And some that I shall never see again;
Some newly widow'd, and some newly wed.

332

XVI

And some could laugh and sing like revellers,
And yet beneath the festal robe and flowers
Close by the heart they held a hundred scars,
Mintage of painful Youth, and cruel hours.

XVII

Honor to them! who for their earthly brothers
Can veil their sorrows with a rosy crown,
And without Hope can make it spring in others,
And comfort cares, the likeness of their own.

XVIII

And one—but his bright promise has been shed
By evil thunders, like March blossoms torn
Untimely—and he bears a wreath instead
Of glittering poisons lifted as in scorn.

XIX

Look in his eye, and in it ye may see
The tortured Spirit, like a whirling flame,
Burn with a light that is not Hope or Glee,
But Pride, that scoffs at thought, and tramples shame.

333

XX

Look in his heart—it is a Cavern dim
Where doleful things in endless twilight be—
And by the little light that enters in
See the waste waters of a sunless sea.

XXI

Yet is there one who leans upon his arm—
Ah! sweet pale blossom of a tangled brere,
Who breathest out rare odor in the storm,
Sweet Pity pleading to an iron ear,

XXII

Thy deeds are written in the sealed Book
Tho' darkness to the World—while thou dost wake,
By all good Angels he is not forsook,
Let him be welcome—welcome for thy sake.

XXIII

Daughter of Darkness, lovely as a star,
Who passest meekly thro' the unheeding crowd,
Thy Beauty and thy Love like sunbeams are,
Sweeter, because they reach us thro' a cloud.

334

XXIV

But who is there? I see an aged man—
And there are other scars than those of Time
Dinted into his brow—his lips are wan,
But dark his cheek with many a care and clime.

XXV

Alas! is this the playmate of my youth,
Foremost in mirth or peril, swift and bold,
The first in all mad ventures, and in truth
A heart and frame that never should grow old?

XXVI

Is this the Head of Armies I behold
With that dim eye, gray head, and wither'd hand,
Whose name is wonderful, whose fame is roll'd
On waves of Song, and over Sea and Land?

XXVII

He took me by the hand—we sate apart—
He told me all the tempest of his life,
His fiery trials of the Head and Heart,
Hot nights of care, and thunderdays of strife.

335

XXVIII

Awful his accents sounded in mine ears
As the last moan of stormy winds at Even,
When the torn forest weeps its angry tears,
And bloodred sunset lights the piled Heaven.

XXIX

And as a Spirit that has snatch'd a sight
Thro' Hellgate, and hath heard the utter woe,
And bears upon his face the dreadful light,
And hears the torment wheresoe'er he go,

XXX

His whisper'd words are echoes of alarms,
The momentary lightning of his eye
Comes to me like the distant flash of arms,
A World of Sorrow hovers on his sigh.

XXXI

He lifts his arm—he shows me, and I see
A midnight shore—a city on a height—
And burning towers that fall into the sea,
And flying hosts whose terrors cleave the night.

336

XXXII

Faint Age that clasps the knees of armed men,
And mazed Innocence that yearns to play
With the pale fingers it unclasps in vain,
And seeks the breast where just before it lay.

XXXIII

A lifted sword—a banner on the wall—
A youth with eager aspect—then a cry
Drown'd in the flood that overwhelms his fall—
‘He was my firstborn—but 'twas Victory!’

XXXIV

Temples, the glory of a thousand years,
Arts that no toil could match, no wealth could buy,
Whole Ages sank that night in blood and tears,
‘My friends were dead—but it was Victory

XXXV

That night a stripling with the dead was laid,
An only child—no other wealth he had
But the fond vows of his true-hearted maid,
And mother's blessing when she kiss'd the lad.

337

XXXVI

Now his few days were ended—but a tear
Was frozen on his cheek, and in his hand
He held a ringlet of her sunny hair
Still clutch'd in anguish when he grasp'd the sand.

XXXVII

In their lone cot upon the mountain slope
Sate that sad maid and mother—one would sigh,
The other look'd, and smiled, and bade her hope,
‘He must return—for it is Victory!’

XXXVIII

One burning tear roll'd o'er the wasted cheek
Of that old man—he parted, and I mourn'd—
Oh! where shall he find what the weary seek
The peace he troubled, and the rest he scorn'd?

XXXIX

Another comes, who, since his heart beat high
With hope and promise, as a Mayday Morn,
Hath conquer'd—and he too hears Victory!
Shouted into his ears, but is forlorn.

338

XL

His was another warfare, other arms;
He strove with Spirits, and he won the fight
With music, and with beauty, and the charms
Of woven arts, and thoughts like shafts of light.

XLI

Downward he gazes, with his eyes in tears,
Upon the perils of that rocky way
That lifted him to Honor, and he hears
Like far off music, the first note of praise.

XLII

His sense is dead—the odors of the green
That others breathe, the songs they hear, are lost
Upon him now—yet their delight hath been
Dearest to him, for he hath felt it most.

XLIII

There is a silence on the topmost peak,
The mighty purpose, and the earnest will,
That shadow'd all things, while they were to seek,
Sleep, like the thunders underneath the hill.

339

XLIV

But here is solitude with icy cold,
Or loveless light—his blessed Youth is gone—
Go back he cannot—and his Pride must hold
With weary gripe the sceptre he hath won.

XLV

Perchance he thinks, and shudders at that thought,
That all he hath done is but done in vain,
Around the pyramid that he hath wrought
To his own glory, howl Misery and Pain.

XLVI

The marble Beauty smiling at the top
What hath it done to shield the shafts of Fate,
To lull the smart of Anguish, kindle Hope,
To solace Hunger, or to vanquish Hate?

XLVII

His Earth is growing dark, his Sun is dim,
The golden sceptre trembles in his hand,
The very Mountaintop rocks under him,
For it is slipping from its base of sand.

340

XLVIII

Perchance he sees, now that his eyes are clear,
All that Ambition spurring in his haste
Drives by unmark'd; he cannot bring them near,
And Death is standing 'twixt him and the Past.

XLIX

Ah me! the little lovely wayside flowers,
The dewy blossoms breathing in his face,
The springs that murmur'd under quiet bowers,
The wildbirds piping out of lonely ways.

L

Maybe, some gentle face comes to his mind,
A lowly flower that turn'd to him its day,
Some tender, loving heart, too fondly blind,
That shrank, and perish'd, as he turn'd away.

LI

He sees the mountain village where she sleeps,
Far as that memory, lovely as that feeling,
And though he wept not then—ah! now he weeps,
lnly he weeps—but hark! the Music pealing.

341

LII

And it is She who sings, that mournful Maid
That dove-eyed daughter of hard-hearted Pride,
All that her eyes had left untold, is said;
Methinks I hear an Angel at his side.

III. PART III.

I

‘Farewell!’ she sang—her sweet voice seemed to run
Along the surface of the Sea of Sound,
Like the last glories of the setting Sun,
That strikes the Deep, and flies from bound to bound.

II

I closed mine eyes—and in the dark went forth
As 'twere the cry of this lamenting Sphere
Issuing at midnight 'twixt the Heaven and Earth,
A cry of Love, Faith, Anguish, Hope, and Fear.

III

‘Farewell!’—and the far-fluttering notes were drown'd
In floods of music, like the lark in light,
And when the choral thunders ceased to sound,
That voice soar'd forth again in endless flight.

342

IV

Again the deeper Voices rolling under
Took up the sound; and still that fiery tongue
Burn'd, like new lightnings striking thro' the thunder,
And rose alone above the quiring throng.

V

‘Farewell!’—and now, methought, her face from far
Look'd o'er the battlements of cloud-built towers;
Bright in angelic beauty, pure of care,
And threw back garlands of Earth-gather'd flowers.

VI

Bluebells of Hope, Beauty that early blows,
And Fancy's wondrous blossoms of all hues,
Friendship's green leaf, and Passion's crimson rose,
All lovely things it seem'd so sad to lose.

VII

‘Farewell!’ she sang—and higher still and higher
Her soul seem'd passing on that voice sublime
To other Being—as the heat of fire
Up o'er the flame invisibly will climb.

343

VIII

‘Farewell!’—and the last sweet departing thrill
Of that enraptured utterance seem'd to say,
‘Look on me now; I feel not dole or ill;
Come to me, suffering Spirits, come away.’

IV. PART IV.

I

It is the dawning of a funeral day,
Put out the lights, and cast away the flowers,
And bid the merry Minstrel cease his lay,
Or sing the deathsong of these festal hours.

II

The jocund Hours I loved to entertain
Mantle themselves to leave the festival,
And gaily part with songs, but I remain
Lone in the centre of my banquet-hall.

III

Oh! ere ye part, come, let me look once more,
My well-beloved Guests, while yet I stand
Your Host beneath the lintel of the door,
Into your eyes, and take me by the hand;

344

IV

And as ye past me into darkness move,
I shall remember the last look ye cast,
And ye shall take some token of my love
Precious and pure, for it must be the last.

V

Ah! sure in all our revels I ne'er heard,
Until this bitter moment of Farewell,
Your tongues so sweet as on that mournful word,
Nor on mine eyes such beauty ever fell,

VI

As now from those reverted eyes ye shower
Soften'd with tears that answer to my own,
Thro' the chill shadows of this twilight hour,
Leaving me with mute Memory here alone.

345

V. PART V.

I

At midnight rose a mighty Wind, and spread
Like Lamentation over Land and Sea,
It seem'd a mournful Voice that said to me—
‘Time sorroweth, and will not be comforted,
Because his youngest-born is dead, is dead!
His diadem of golden-linked Hours
Is fallen to the dust, and all its flowers
Are scatter'd—mourn ye for that lovely Head!

‘I saw the Giant stand with folded wings
At noon of Night upon the River-shore,
Hard by the tumult where the Torrent flings
Its waters seaward, that are seen no more;
I mark'd the Spectre sailing swiftly down
Into the Ocean without robes or crown—

346

II

‘He was a Conqueror terrible and strong
In Life—and he is beautiful in Death;
He was a Poet with harmonious breath;
He was a Lover with a charming tongue;
His festal nights, his triumphs, and his songs,
Mourn ye—his beauty to the Deep descended;
His very tears are sweeter, being ended,
Than aught that to Futurity belongs.

‘Futurity is dark, the Past is dim:
He was the fairest out of all his race;
In strength and glory none were like to him,
Mourn—for to-day ye saw him face to face;
And let us sing a dirge about his grave,
And speak good words of one we cannot save.’

THE END.