Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Wonderful Spirit, whose eternal shrine
Is in great Poets' souls, whose voice doth send
High truths and dreams prophetic without end
Into the blind world from those founts divine,—
Deep adoration from such souls is thine;
But I have loved thee, Spirit, as a friend;
Woo'd thee, in pensive leisure, but to lend
Thy sweetness to this wayward heart of mine,
And charm my lone thoughts into joyousness.
And I have found that thou canst lay aside
Thy terrors, and thy glory, and thy pride;
Quit thy proud temples for a calm recess
In lowly hearts, and dream sweet hours away,
Winning from sterner thought a frequent holiday.

SONNET II. TO ------, ON HER VOYAGE TO INDIA.

Now, like a shooting star, thy bark doth flee
Over the azure waters, which convey
Thee and thy soldier-husband far away
From England's shores. Soon, soon on the wide sea,

When the hoarse waves are moaning sullenly,
And absent far is Friendship's cheering ray,
Shall ye two know how mighty is the sway
Of wedded love;—how dear those fetters be
Which the free heart doth wear. Oh! we who doze
In tranquil homes, and with domestic mirth
Season the warmth of the calm evening hearth,
Can know but little of the love of those
Who, in the lonely waste of sea and skies,
Find home and comfort in each others' eyes.

SONNET III.

The gorgeous ranks of flaming cherubim,—
The light, the rushing of unnumber'd wings,—
The choral voices of the host that sings
Unceasing anthems at the Throne of Him,
Th' Eternal, the Unknown,—to me are dim
And unattractive dreams;—my weak soul clings
To joys and hopes that flow from earthly things,
E'en when the inward eye of faith doth swim
In dreams that wander through eternity.
I cannot long for unimagined joys;
My trust is that hereafter I shall see
Forms dear to me on Earth—that many a voice
Well known in Paradise shall speak to me,
And earthly love be free from Earth's alloys.

SONNET IV. TO A LADY, WITH A POEM BY A FRIEND.

Lady! there's scarce a holier thing on earth
Than the first dream of a young poet's brain;
Therefore with reverence view this wayward strain,
And should it, haply, seem of doubtful worth,

Yet, as the premature but wondrous birth
Of a great mind, respect it, and refrain
From captious censure or cold scorn, nor stain
Thy Spirit's brightness with unseemly mirth.
Thou hast the vision and the soul divine,
Exquisite thoughts, and fancies high and proud;
And never, never, hath my spirit bow'd
In woman's presence as it bows in thine;
Nor have I found on earth a heart more fit
Than thine to feel this lay and cherish it.

SONNET V.

So, froward maiden, thou wilt quit for ever
Thy country and her many-weather'd skies;
All old home-thoughts and early sympathies
Abjuring, and wilt strive, with vain endeavour,
To quench thine English spirit:—never, never,
Though herding with our natural enemies,
May'st thou do this; for thou art bound by ties
Which neither thou, nor time, nor fate can sever.
Therefore, although thy children must not claim
Freedom, the Briton's birth-right,—though the song
Of Milton be to them an idle name,
And Shakspere's wisdom vain, thou wilt not wrong
Thy country with cold scorn, nor think it shame
To weep when thoughts of home into thy bosom throng.

SONNET VI. TO ADINE.

Lady! I know three poets who know thee;
And all write sonnets, in the which they sware
That thou art most superlatively fair,
Meek, silver-voiced—and so forth. As for me,
Not having seen thee, I am fancy-free;
And, pretty lady, little do I care

Whether thou art indeed beyond compare,
A being to whom Bards must bow the knee,
Or a mere woman, with good face and shape;—
I only know that I'm so tired of hearing
The list of thy perfections, that I gape
Sometimes instead of duly sonnetteering;
And therefore am I called brute, bear, and ape,
And other names ‘past mentioning or bearing.’

SONNET VII. ON SEEING THE SAME LADY.

I look'd on the pale face which poets love,
And scann'd its sweetness with a stedfast eye;
I listen'd to the eloquent witchery
Of her low, plaintive song:—awhile she wove
Her fairy meshes round me, and did move
My soul to a wild worship. Then did I,
By the strong aid of wakeful Memory,
Whose sprites for ever at Love's bidding rove,
Summon Ione from her silent cell.
Sudden, in all the glory and the pride
Of intellectual beauty, at my side
She stood, and on my soul her bright eyes fell,
Beaming with earnest thought.—I heard one tone
Of her far voice—and straight that phantom pale was flown.

SONNET VIII. TO THE SAME.

Oh! not for worlds, thou simple-soul'd Adine,
Would I be loved by thee.—Yet I confess
That thou dost wear a deeper loveliness
Than the most lovely whom these eyes have seen,
Save One—and she is of a different mien;
Wild-eyed and how wildhearted!—yet no less

Fit than thyself a poet's love to bless—
My Gloriana bright, my Faery Queen!
Thou, Lady, in thy meek, affectionate eyes,
Bearest such magic as, I well believe,
Few can resist; to me the charms they weave
Spring from thy gentle wedded sympathies:
And couldst thou less adore thy wayward mate,
Oh! I should hate thee with a poet's hate!

SONNET IX.

In heaven “are many mansions”—what if thou,
Hereafter cleansed from taint of mortal sin,
By paths untrod by me, shouldst chance to win
Some separate Paradise?—The hope which now
Soothes my bruised heart, and calms my sleepless brow,
Oh! must it perish?—when the stormy din
Of life is o'er, shall we not meet within
The halls of heaven, as once my soul did vow?
Oh! not for centuries of happy years,
Would I endure that thought!—'twere hell to know,
Beloved Friend, that all our hopes and fears,
Yearnings, and dreams of future joy and woe,
Hung upon different creeds!—With fervent tears,
I'll kneel, and pray that it may not be so!

SONNET X.

Now, lady, that our parting is so nigh,
Fain would I think that thou, in future hours,
Amidst thine own Dunedin's queenly towers,
Or, haply, Scotland's mountain scenery,
Wilt tow'rd the South turn no unkindly eye,
No scorn to think of these poor woods of ours,
And friends who dwelt in Windsor's sylvan bowers,
And him who frames this sorry minstrelsy.
Believe me, in no false or hollow guise
Sing I to thee my parting madrigal;

For I have found thee gentle, good, and wise,
High-minded, simple-hearted—and withal
Beloved of Her whose deep, soul-beaming eyes
Hold my rapt spirit in such pleasant thrall.

SONNET XI. SCOTCH QUADRILLES.

Perish the coxcomb who united first
To these vain whimsies, hatch'd beyond the seas,
Old Caledonia's touching melodies;
Wedding the follies of that land accurst,
To strains whose high and soothing music nursed
Heroic hearts, or gave crush'd spirits ease,
Awakening the bright Past's remembrances
While grief's fierce tempest o'er the Present burst.
Oh! ye sweet notes, ye were not meant to lead
The measured steps of fashion: ye should tell
Of Highland glen, wild rock, and pastoral dell,
And scenes like those of which the world doth read
In that bright page, which many a wondrous deed
Of Scottish story hath embalm'd so well.

SONNET XII.

Maiden, there's many a fairer face than thine
Flitting to-night around me, many an eye
As lustrous, locks as glossy in their dye,
And haply some few shapes scarce less divine:
Yet for no other brow must I entwine
This coronal of rhymes; the time's gone by,
When, like a lover, I could sit and sigh,
And breathe despairing vows at beauty's shrine
My gaze hath now grown passionless; yet long
Have I, (poor foolish dreamer,) through the dance

Track'd thee to-night amidst this glittering throng,
Watching thy gay and artless countenance,
And form that floats so lightsomely along
With grace by nature fashion'd—not by France.

SONNET XIII.

Why dost thou haunt me with thy bright wild eyes
Through the long sleepless night? when I should be
Plodding through tomes of old divinity,
And learning to be holy, pure, and wise,
And worthy to obtain that twofold prize
I pant for—Immortality and thee.
Oh! my sweet friend, I fear my phantasy
Clings to thee over fondly; in the skies
I have no hope, no purpose, no desire
With which thou minglest not; and if I lose
Thy love on earth, I fear lest I should tire
Of life's dull race too soon, and, in the dearth
Of my twice crush'd affections, cease to aspire
To the lone bliss of an immortal birth.

SONNET XIV.

Are there no marriages in heaven?—then why
Is earthly love so quenchless and so strong?
Why doth the lover wish and yearn and long
For bliss that dies not in eternity?
No! no! the grave doth only purify
Love's ore from its alloy—the sordid throng
Of earth's defilements, change, and chance, and wrong
And jealous fears, and chill adversity.
My Margaret, when I think on what thou art,
How spirit-like a being, how refined
From all that chains to earth our human heart,
From all that now pollutes our human mind,
I cannot think that death will tear apart
The links thy magic round my soul hath twined.

THE LAY OF THE LOVELY.

I

The mirth and music of the festal hall,
And sunshine of bright eyes, had past away;
And, till late slumber should mine own enthrall,
Circled with deep tranquillity I lay;
Thinking, (as Bards should think,) in amorous wise,
Of those sweet faces and love-beaming eyes.

II

And soon upon my weary soul descended
The dreamy sleep which is the Poet's waking;
But still before my fancy's eye were blended
The night's past joys, more rapturous still and taking
Unearthly glory from the gleams which come,
When sleeps the body, of the spirit's home.

III

I saw the many forms which I had deem'd
So fair that fairer nought on earth could be;
But now from out their Human Beauty stream'd
Effulgence as of Immortality;
And when they lifted up their gentle eyes,
I saw swift thoughts and winged phantasies

IV

Throng thro' those azure gates, like gathering stars
In summer-evening's sky; and when they spoke
A sound more touching than the wild guitar's,
Heard o'er the waters, on their lips awoke;
Which did my ear in such sweet music steep,
That my charm'd spirit could not choose but weep.

V

And then, methought, the Muse, (whom I adore,)
In that wild dream was standing by my side,
Who in her radiant hand a garland bore
Of all sweet flowers which Nature's hand hath dyed
And Nature's breath perfumed:—rich gems whose worth
Decks the maternal bosom of the earth.

VI

Methought the Muse laugh'd archly in my face
As she presented that fair wreath: “And now,”
Quoth she, “Sir Poet, 'tis thy task to place
My sacred garland on the worthiest brow
Of all that float, to-night, before thine eye,
In this so fair and gentle company.

VII

“Oh! pure and holy must the maiden be,
Whose brow may be encircled by that wreath,
Twined near the living spring of Castaly,
When the world's eye was slumber-seal'd—beneath
The cold, calm gaze of the Queen-Moon, whose look
No dream impure, no tainted thought can brook.

VIII

“And (for the Muses wove it) she must bear
The Muses' lightning in her radiant eyes,

Which (though most mirthful) must have tears to spare,
In graver moods, to gentlest sympathies;
She must be wise, imaginative, fair:—
Now say what brow shall this bright garland wear.”

IX

It was an awful thing, (as ye may guess,
Fair Ladies), to behold those visions bright,
Which swam encircled in such loveliness
As Spirits dream of, in my dazzled sight;
Seeking the worthiest forehead among them
Whose worst was worthy of a diadem.

X

And first two fair-hair'd sisters side by side
I saw—the graceful leaders of the dance:
Of gentle aspect, mild, and thoughtful-eyed;
And as I gazed on either countenance
Almost I deem'd that they that wreath might share,
And yet I felt a worthier brow was there.

XI

Next pass'd a delicate form, in whose deep eyes
Beam'd the tranquillity of wedded love;
Follow'd by one who, in more mirthful guise,
Did like a spirit of the breezes move.
Each was unutterably fair—and yet,
I knew for neither was that coronet.

XII

And then came one, the Fairy of the Hills,
With open brow and laughter-loving eye,
And voice whose sound was as the sound of rills
Gushing at summer-noon refreshingly;
And she bent on me her bright, laughing eyes,
As if, almost she would demand the prize,

XIII

But felt that one was worthier. Then there came
A grave-eyed maiden of most gentle mien,
Whose looks, elate with triumph, seem'd to claim,
Not for herself, the glory of the scene,
But for some honour'd friend.—As on she pass'd
Rose three bright forms—the loveliest and the last.

XIV

One was array'd in the last splendid gleam
Of parting childhood; on the verge she stood
Of that sweet age, when life's first fairy dream
Dissolves into the dawn of womanhood;
And to her soul's young gaze were still unfurl'd
Those radiant glimpses of an earlier world.

XV

The next had riper years; no longer child,
And yet scarce woman; restless was her eye,
And never, never hath on poet smiled
A look more full of youthful ecstasy.
It seem'd those wandering orbs could scarce repress
The springing tears of the soul's happiness.

XVI

But who is she the last of that fair band?—
Methinks the room grows bright as she advances,
As from the touch of an enchanter's wand;
And oh! what aspect can endure the glances,
The piercing glances of those sunny eyes,
Lit by gay dreams and rapturous phantasies?

XVII

On as she came, methought wild strains were heard
Of such sweet music, that my garland bent

Its quivering leaves, and every flow'ret stirr'd
And trembled in that sudden ravishment,
As if the Spring-breeze kiss'd it—This is she,
The child of Genius and of Poesy.

XVIII

Her Spirit was upon me, and I felt
The might, and gentleness, and majesty
Which in that fair and wild-eyed maiden dwelt;
And, in my dream, I hasten'd joyfully
Her brow to circle with the wreath divine.
Whose was that brow?—Ione, whose but thine.

THE MANIAC.

They say that the light of her eyes is gone,
That her voice is low, and her cheek is wan;
That her looks are sad, and strange, and wild,
Yet meek as the looks of a sinless child.

For the melting glance of her soft blue eye
Is chill'd by cold insanity;
And the beauty that her bright form wore,
Is the shrine of a living soul no more.

And her words discourse not music sent
From reason's govern'd instrument;
But, borne by her troubled fancies, stray,
Like notes of the harp which the wild winds play.

I would not look on her alter'd brow
Nor her eye, so dim and soulless now;
I would not view her pale, pale cheek,
Nor hear her, in her madness, speak;

Nor see her smile, she knows not why,
While her tears flow down unmeaningly;
Nor her vacant gaze, the piteous token
Of a brain o'er-wrought, and a young heart broken;

No—on these things I would not look
For the brightest gift in Fortune's book;
For she was join'd with the fairest things
That rose in my youth's imaginings.

And oh! how oft have I turn'd away
From a brighter eye and a cheek more gay,
That my soul might drink, to sweet excess,
The light of her pensive loveliness.

But her languid eye shall charm no more,—
Her smiles and her tears—they are nearly o'er;
For found hopes lost, and a heart o'er-laden,
Have crush'd, in her bloom, the guiltless maiden.

TO HELEN.

The gift, dear maid, which thou hast sent
To gladden me to-day,
I'll treasure as thy monument
When thou art far away.
'Twill lighten many a dreary mood,
To think how young, how fair, how good,
How fancifully gay
Was she whose smiles once deign'd to bless
My spirit in its loneliness.

The sunshine of thine open brow
For me is nearly o'er,
And dim forebodings tell me now
That we shall meet no more:
But thou art with the vision'd things,
The dreams and dear imaginings,
The treasured thoughts of yore,
Which in my breast still swarm and play
On many a mental holiday.

Thy living presence, heartless one,
Oh! bear it far from me;
I know not what its charms had done
Had I been fancy-free:
But now e'en from thy smiles I shrink,
And oh! 'twould break my heart to think
That I was loved by thee;

For, maiden, not that angel eye
Must shake my soul's fidelity.

Farewell! and if for aye we part,
May grief ne'er cloud thy brow,
Nor Fashion make thy guileless heart
As cold—as mine is now.
Yet, trust me, wheresoe'er I rove,
I'll love thee with a brother's love,
Nor thou despise my vow;
But grant me still, in woe or weal,
Such love as gentle sisters feel.

SONG.

I

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !—here's a hearty health to thee!
For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;
For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace,
For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy face;
For thy guileless looks, and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be,—
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie !—here's a hearty health to thee.

II

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !—though my glow of youth is o'er,
And I, as once I felt and dream'd, must feel and dream no more;
Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chill'd my soul at last,
And genius with the foodful looks of youthful friendship past;
Tho' my path is dark and lonely now, o'er this world's dreary sea,—
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie !—here's a hearty health to thee!

III

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !—tho' I feel that not for me
Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;
Tho' thou with cold and careless looks wilt often pass me by,
Unconscious of my swelling heart and of my wistful eye;
Tho' thou wilt bless some happier love, nor care a jot for me,—
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee.

IV

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !—when I meet thee in the throng
Of merry youths and maidens dancing lightsomely along,
I'll dream away an hour or twain still gazing on thy form,
As it flashes thro' the baser crowd, like lightning thro' a storm;
And I perhaps shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee,
And for once, my Scottish lassie! dance a giddy dance with thee.

V

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !—I shall think of thee at even,
When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up thro' Heaven;
I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that grieves,
As it whirls from the abandon'd oak its wither'd autumn leaves;
In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea,
I shall think, my Scottish lassie—I shall often think of thee.

VI

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !—in my sad and lonely hours
The thought of thee comes o'er me like the breath of distant flowers:
Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye,
Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky,
Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossom on the tree,
Is the thought, my Scottish lassie—is the lonely thought of thee.

VII

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie—tho' my muse must soon be dumb,
(For graver thoughts and duties, with my graver years are come)
Tho' my soul must break the bonds of earth and learn to soar on high,
And to look on this world's follies with a calm and sober eye;
Tho' the merry wine must cease to flow, the song be mute for me,—
Still to thee, my Scottish lassie! still I'll drink a health to thee.

VIII

Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !—here's a parting health to thee!
May thine be still a cloudless lot, tho' it be far from me:
May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow,
Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now!
And whatsoe'er may be my fate, my dearest toast shall be
Still a health, my Scottish lassie, still a hearty health to thee!

TO MARY.

I

My muse hath long with silence dwelt,
My harp been long unstrung;
I cannot feel as I have felt,
Nor sing as I have sung.
E'en to the verge of middle age
I've brought my earthly pilgrimage,—
My heart's no longer young;
And, sooth, 'tis time, at twenty-seven,
My muse should be the bride of Heaven.

II

Yet, Mary, ere I cease to float
For aye on Fancy's sea,
I'll freight once more my “crescent boat,”
With fairy gifts for thee:
And thou, I trust, wilt not despise
Such scant and sorry merchandize,
Unworthy though it be
Of him, who, in his better day,
Was rich in rhyme and roundelay.

III

But if my lyre hath now decay'd,
'Tis not from age alone;—
Sore havoc with its strings was made,
Ere yet my youth was flown:

And haply, Mary, thou canst tell
Of one who nursed my fancy well,
And rear'd it with his own,
'Till discord fell 'twixt him and me,
And left me—what I now must be.

IV

My heart hath found a resting place
Since then, at love's sweet shrine;
And he, now freed from grief's embrace,
Shall soon repose in thine.—
A patient fight ye both have fought,
To which shall found and fervent thought
Look back in life's decline,
When youthful passion's reign is o'er,
And fancy's dreams delude no more.

V

'Twill be a joy in after years,
That I've beheld thy face;
Have seen thee in thy smiles and tears,
Thy goodness and thy grace;
That I shall know, whate'er betide,
How lovely and how loved a bride
My friend's fond arms embrace;
What beauty, worth, and talent shed
Their brightness on his nuptial bed.

VI

And though beneath remoter skies
Our lot must now be cast;
Though different cares and sympathies
Round each must gather fast;
Though brief the computation be
Of future hours which ye and we
Together shall have past;
And feelings, now too deep for tears,
Must perish in the wear of years;—

100

VII

Yet still, in feeling's late decline,
When Hope and Fancy flee,
'Twixt thee and me, 'twixt thine and mine,
A bond of love must be:
And though a month hath scantly flown
Since first our friendship's seed was sown,
I trust no time shall see
Our souls bereft of thoughts like these,
And yet more dear remembrances.

101

“FORGET THEE?”

I

“Forget thee?”—If to dream by night, and muse on thee by day,
If all the worship, deep and wild, a poet's heart can pay,
If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's protecting power,
If winged thoughts that flit to thee—a thousand in an hour,
If busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot,—
If this thou call'st “forgetting,” thou, indeed shalt be forgot!

II

“Forget thee?”—Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune;
“Forget thee?”—Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon;
Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew;
Thyself forget thine “own dear land,” and its “mountains wild and blue;”
Forget each old familiar face, each long remember'd spot;—
When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot!

102

III

Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancyfree,
For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me;
Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh! bid not mine to rove,
But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining love;
If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not,
Forget me then;—but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot!

103

EPITAPH IN WINDSOR CHURCH-YARD.

FEBRUARY 20, 1828.

Bright, tho' brief, were thy days on earth,
For the light of genius crown'd thee;
And we blessed thee for the sinless mirth
Which thy presence pour'd around thee.

Darkly the cloud of sickness came,
And we saw thy beauty smitten;
And our weak hearts droop'd, tho' we knew thy name
In the Book of Life was written.

But oh! as we knelt by thy dying bed,
And pray'd in vain to save thee,
By thy faith in Christ we were comforted,
And the strength His Spirit gave thee.

Sadly we turn from thy resting-place
To the cold, hard world about us,
And gird our loins for the Christian race,
Which thou hast won without us.

And we raise to Heaven our tearful eyes,
And feel thou watchest o'er us,
And shin'st like a star from thine own bright skies
On the path thou hast trod before us.