University of Virginia Library

From the lone silence of my dreamless cell
A wizard voice hath call'd me:—I obey,
And fain would greet that summons with a lay
Which should outshine my brightest.—Oh! 'tis well,
That the last notes that ever this weak shell
Perchance shall utter, thus should melt away,
Hymning the name of that most gentle fay
That e'er on Poet's spirit laid a spell!

Come, my own Muse—thou Feeling, who dost rest
In my heart's inmost sanctuary; thou
Who art the soul of all my musings blest,
Dreams, wishes, hopes, affections! aid me now
To twine for Her, the brightest and the best,
A wreath which shall not shame her peerless brow.

I

There is a witch, whose freaks in English story,
Ballad, or ode, have never yet been sung:
Although 'tis said that poets, young and hoary,
Sages, and wizards, at her feet have flung
Rich tribute: warriors, from their dreams of glory
Drawn by her potent charms, have meekly hung
Their laurels on her threshold: lawyers wise
Have bowed before the magic of her eyes.

II

Within a Northern cavern, dim and vast,
This lady-witch was born: a twilight gleam
Of everlasting icicles was cast,
From the arch'd roof, on the maternal dream
Wherein she was conceived; faint music past
From the earth's bosom, while each breeze and stream
Murmur'd and sigh'd delight, and every flower
Breath'd tenfold fragrance on her natal hour.

III

A fairy form was her's and well she wore
Its light aërial beauty; from her cave
Into the Northern vapours, thick and hoar,
When first she pass'd, a path the vapours gave
To her, as to a sunbeam; the wild roar
Of torrents paused, as o'er Loch Lomond's wave
She glided like a zephyr; each fir-grove
Grew bright in the effulgence of her love.

IV

Amidst the Northern forests, lakes, and hills,
Her infancy was nurtured, and she grew
Remote, and unacquainted with the ills
Of the corrupted South: 'tis said, she drew
Sweet inspiration from the rocks and rills,
From the free air, and from the mountain dew
Of her wild clime, and that her wizard ken
Pierced far beyond the dreams of elves or men.

V

And to her beck, while yet she was a child,
A thousand strange and savage natures came;
Yea, whatsoe'er of wonderful and wild
The grim North teems with, her sweet looks could tame;
The kelpie crouched before her, when she smiled,
With claws curled in, and eyes of softened flame;
Brownie, and elf, and warlock, came to enrich
The festal pageants of this wondrous witch.

VI

Her's was a reign of love; her mild dominion
Was o'er the heart and will of living things;
Her gentle voice could bind the eagle's pinion,
Her gentle looks rob dragons of their stings:
Yet more than this—'tis the received opinion,
That the sly witch held secret communings
With dread mysterious powers, and made her eye
Familiar with the realms of phantasy;

VII

So that the Muses, from their viewless bowers,
Would oft descend, obedient to her spells,
And crown her forehead with Pierian flowers;
With music and with light they fill'd the dells
Wherein the witch abode; and she for hours,
Would listen to their harpings, till the cells
Of her most secret thought began to teem
With shapes unknown to woman's brightest dream.

VIII

Some say that Germany sent forth her sages
To do meet homage at the witch's feet,
Bearing that wondrous science, hid for ages;
The witch received them in her calm retreat,
Heard them discourse, and, from their mystic pages,
Drain'd secret draughts of knowledge pure and sweet,
Which the fool scoffs at:—but the witch well knew
That this same knowledge was both wise and true.

IX

Thus childhood pass'd, but ere her young cheek shone
With the first blush of womanhood—ere yet,
Encircled in the Queen of Beauty's zone,
The perfect graces of her form had met,—
Ere her young heart had love's first rapture known,
Or love's first sorrow made her eyelids wet,
From her enchanted cell the witch went forth,
And left the fruitful vineyards of the North.

X

What drew her from her solitude, and why,
Quitting that mountain paradise, she came
To shiver in our frosty Southern sky—
And whether on the tempest's wings of flame,
Or on a broomstick, she thought fit to fly,
No record now informs us; but the dame,
Beyond all doubt, in after years, was found,
Playing her wicked pranks on English ground.

XI

Beneath the shadow of a castled steep,
In which the ashes of ancestral kings,
Rocked by the roll of ages, soundly sleep,—
Hard by a forest, where, in moon-lit rings,
The fairies still those gamesome revels keep
Hallow'd by Shakspere's sweet imaginings,
The witch her dwelling fixed, and with strange power
Raised, and adorned, a bright enchanted bower;

XII

Wherein, with potent cabalistic scrolls,
And spells contrived by necromantic lore,
And charm'd elixirs, mixed in magic bowls,
Of power to penetrate the inmost core
Of human hearts, and e'en in rudest souls
Love's quenchless flame to kindle or restore—
Framing strong lures to tempt and to betray,
The wizard-maiden dwelt for many a day.

XIII

The deep recesses of her inmost cell
Were garnish'd with strange treasures: lovers' sighs
Fill'd many a magical receptacle,
And tears were there, distill'd from rival eyes,
In crystal phials, seal'd and labell'd well;
And, mixt with these, lay quips and phantasies,
And dark enigmas brought from Faëry-land,
Which none but bards and witches understand.

XIV

And daily did the witch, by her sweet wiles,
Increase these treasured hoards; pale youths would come,
Laden with vows and raptures, miles and miles,
To do her wayward bidding; friends and home
Poets would barter for her thrilling smiles;
And studious sages burnt full many a tome
Of the old crabbed lore, that from her eye
They might imbibe love's sweet philosophy.

XV

She had a chariot, which the muses brought her
Built by themselves, shaped like the horned star
Which gems the forehead of Latona's daughter,
And drawn by winged dreams; and in this car
Whene'er the witch was wearied with the slaughter
Of Southron hearts, she used to roam afar
Into the realms of shadowy thought, and spy
The secrets of the land of poesy.

XVI

O'er the steep mountains, on the pathless air,
Through the unfathom'd depths of the dim sea,
Did these swift dreams the magic chariot bear,
Wherein she sat unharm'd and terror-free;
In heaven and earth's veil'd regions whatsoe'er
Man's thought hath imaged, it was her's to see
With an undazzled eye;—such power the Muse
Into her favour'd children doth infuse.

XVII

The witch ne'er slept at night, but, in a trance,
Within her car lay folded; the moon's ray
Gilded her pale and tranquil countenance,
As the fleet dreams conveyed her, far away,
Through the star-spangled, limitless expanse
Of this mysterious universe; she lay,
Surveying all things, tho' it seem'd she slept,
And, as the view might move her, laugh'd or wept.

XVIII

Her soul's deep eyes were open'd; in that hour
All daylight's dull realities were laid
Asleep, and in her flight was given her power
To view the phantoms of the night, which stray'd
Through human haunts; on many a young girl's bower
She gazed, still haunted by her lover's shade;
Gay dreams she saw, and fancies bright and fair,
Couch'd on young eyes which had not look'd on care.

XIX

She saw the lean and dull-eyed Night-mare feed
On the crown'd tyrant's breath; a demon foul,
The fearful rider of that shadowy steed,
From its black wings cast terror on his soul.
While, one by one, full many a ruthless deed
From the dark caverns of his conscience stole,
Making sleep hideous:—in his prison cell,
Meanwhile, the fetter'd patriot slumber'd well.

XX

And oft she saw the thirsty Vampyre drain
The life-blood from the heart that loved him best,
And the pale Goule, with terror and with pain,
Gorge his foul meal, Death's lone and loathly guest.
But there were gentler phantoms; love's strong reign
The grave dissolves not; from their buried rest
Maidens, in bridal white, and wives arose,
To lighten many a broken heart's repose.

XXI

Throng'd by that pale and wandering company,
The midnight streets seem'd busy, as by day,
Save that no sound was heard, but silently
Each phantom glided on its lonely way:—
Meanwhile, in distant woods, the witch could see,
Threading their moon-lit mazes, elf and fay;
And many another wondrous sight was her's,
Not to be dreamt of by philosophers.

XXII

These were her midnight pranks; by day, she wander'd
In the fair bowers of old romantic lore;
And now o'er Spenser's sweet creations ponder'd,
And now o'er sweeter Shakspere's.—Hell's dread door
The Florentine unbarr'd to her; she wonder'd
And wept o'er Ariosto's countless store
Of sad and mirthful fancies; Milton gave
To her the knowledge which o'er-leaps the grave.

XXIII

And, besides these, a household troop she kept,
Of poet-genii, by her spells fast bound
To work her will, and each was an adept
In his own trade; some roam'd the world around
From East to West, and never stay'd or slept,
Till they the choicest phantasies had found
And all the honey'd thoughts that might be worth
The witch's quest, in heaven, or hell, or earth:—

XXIV

Which when these swift and subtle sprites had caught
In their strong toils, straight to the witch's home
(As bees their gleanings to their queen) they brought
The nectarous freight, which to a honey-comb
Of labyrinthine fancies others wrought;
And all was treasured in a magic tome,—
Some favour'd spirit's present:—but the history
Of this same present still remains a mystery.

XXV

Howe'er, 'tis certain that each page was fill'd
With sweet and witching rhymes, while, day by day,
Immortal ink the poet-genii spill'd,
To swell the precious store, and many a lay
Was weekly added, whose rich music thrill'd
All gentle hearts, and bore men's thoughts away
To a dream-paradise:—such wondrous skill
These Genii had to work the witch's will.

XXVI

Yet, ere such fiery spirits could be tamed
Down to complete subjection, charms were used,
Too dreadful (save by witches) to be named,
And many a potent herb was cull'd and bruised,
And many a philtre mix'd and fetter framed,
And many a mystic page full oft perused;
For, of all sprites that roam beneath the sky,
The wildest are the sprites of poesy.

XXVII

Philosophy hath grasp'd the lightning's pinions
And tamed the rebel sprites of frost and snow,
Hath ridden on the storm through air's dominions,
And chain'd the myriad forms that sleep below
Ocean's dread depths; but on her dearest minions
Philosophy herself could ne'er bestow
Power to control that wild fantastic brood,
Which the strong magic of the witch subdued.

XXVIII

The wars, and all the triumphs which she won
O'er these rebellious Genii, and the pains
Wherewith she tamed them, when the fight was done,
Are themes, too mighty for the puny strains
Of a poor Southern bard:—but there was one,
A stubborn genius, whom, 'tis said, her chains
Could scarcely bind; dread punishment had he,
Which must be sung in saddest poesy.

XXIX

This Genius came from a fair Western land,
A wilderness of woods and streams and vales,
And rocks rough-hewn by nature's giant hand;
And (if in old traditionary tales
We may believe) on musings, lone and grand,
His soul once fed, and he had spread the sails
Of his broad wings for many a venturous flight,
Which baffled e'en the wizard-maiden's might.

XXX

But he was sadly changed;—his once proud wings,
Which used to bear him, swift as Dian's sphere,
Through thought's vast realms, in rapturous wanderings,
Hung weak and plumeless now; his leaf was sere,
Though he had seen but four-and-twenty springs;
And, on his lip, a cold habitual sneer
Had quell'd thought's outward workings:—you might trace
Anticipated years upon his face.

XXXI

He look'd on beauty (though it pleased him well)
With a most calm and unimpassion'd eye,
As if he knew some antidote to quell
The poison of Love's darts:—none heard him sigh,
Or any tale of amorous passion tell;
But he would prate, with careless courtesy,
To woman, or to witch, as might befall,—
View their enchantments—and despise them all.

XXXII

'Twas rumour'd of him, that, in former years,
A crush'd and tortured victim he had been
Of that relentless power, whose anger sears
E'en super-human hearts: some anguish keen
Had dried the inward fountain of his tears,
And lent strange coldness to his heart and mien;
And 'twas this coldness taught him to defy,
As he long did, the witch's sorcery.—

XXXIII

Fool!—Fool!—with taunting and irreverent speech,
And sneers, and scornful gibes, he durst provoke
The spells and dread enchantments, from whose reach
He seem'd secure; with many a bitter joke,
He scoff'd at fays and witches, all and each,
Vowing, that Genii who could wear their yoke
Were mean and abject slaves—and chiefly they
Who bow'd beneath the Northern witch's sway.

XXXIV

For in the North, this foolish sprite averr'd,
No charms could e'er be forged, of force to bind
A noble heart;—the country, he had heard,
Was peopled by the dregs of human kind;—
A race barbarian, ignorant, absurd—
To thought profound, and genuine wisdom, blind—
As for the witch—she might have tamed his betters,
But he must still decline to wear her fetters:—

XXXV

Which when the lady knew, for wrath she tore
Her raven tresses, while, from either eye,
Flash'd a bright light, such as the vapours frore
Kindle, at evening, in the Arctic sky;
She knit her brows, and clench'd her hand, and swore,
By all the nameless powers of sorcery,
That, if to magic art she had pretence,
The Genius soon should rue his insolence—

XXXVI

That night, the Wizard lady sat awake,
Weaving dread charms in her most secret cell,
And muttering rhymes which made all nature quake,
Wherewith she was accustom'd to compel
The strongest of her spirits to forsake
Their favourite haunts in heaven, or earth, or hell;
For, ere the morning, by their potent aid,
A spell, to bind the Genius, must be made.

XXXVII

Anon they came;—pale dream and solemn vision
Spread their light pinions at that awful call,
And silently and swiftly, through the Elysian
Portal, arose to her enchanted hall;
Aërial troops, in many a quaint division
Ranged by their several leaders,—each and all
Observing, in the most respectful manner,
The signals of Queen Mab's imperial banner.—

XXXVIII

And all night long, with swift, unwearied hands,
Those patient spirits toil'd incessantly,
Obedient to the witch's dread commands:
Some brought strange herbs, some bruised them skilfully;
Some for ingredients flew to the far lands
Of fiery Ind, and spicy Araby.—
Yet, all was finish'd ere the lark awoke,
Or, through the darkness, morn's first twilight broke.

XLVI

What pass'd in that impenetrable drift
Of supernatural hail, and rain, and snow,
Is yet a secret, which, that man should sift,
Fate wills not; so the world must never know
Whether the witch's demons did uplift
The Genius (some assert that it was so)
In their strong arms, and bear him swiftly forth
To some enchanted cavern in the North;—

XLVII

Or whether, by their dark, infernal power,
He, on that spot, was cast into a trance,
Wherein he saw more sights, in one brief hour,
And feller, than e'er blasted waking glance;—
Or whether pangs, that did his soul devour,
Compell'd him (while, in swift and frightful dance,
Those demons yell'd around him) to obey
The witch's pleasure, boots not here to say:

XLVIII

But 'tis most certain, that, from that dire morn,
His looks were strangely alter'd—that his brow,
Which such a steadfast calm of late had worn,
Grew fever'd, and his eye was restless now:
And if his lip still curl'd with outward scorn,
'Twas that no mortal eye might ever know
The spell that did torment his inmost soul,—
The secret fire, which he could not controul.

XLIX

O thou, whose wild, and oh! most potent verse
Did, from the Tuscan Muse, such favour win
As taught thee the dread frenzy to rehearse
Of Charlemagne's most famous paladin,—
If my deep reverence for thy strains could nurse,
In me, a power and tenderness akin
To thine, I might describe, in fitting strain,
The pranks that spoke this sprite's distracted brain;

L

And how, at night, from his perturbed slumber
He oft would start, and, with wild gestures, cry
That Northern imps and goblins, without number,
Were tearing him piece-meal remorselessly;
And that strange fetters did his limbs encumber,
And that strange visions danced before his eye:—
And how, ere daylight broke, he used to wander
Into lone woods, to poetise and ponder.

LI

Sometimes, in moody and abstracted fit,
He sat for hours, and then would start, and swear
The North produced all genius and all wit,—
All that was bright, and wonderful, and fair;
And that no poesy was ever writ
Which with the Northern could at all compare;
And that---but he discover'd, in a word,
That all his former notions were absurd.

LII

And from the boldest and most scornful sprite
That ever mock'd at necromantic power,
He grew a slave, tamed down and humbled quite
The most submissive in the witch's bower;
And did her bidding meekly, day and night,
Toiling, at her command, through sun and shower;
And ran, and flew, to please her, miles and miles,
And never ask'd for wages—save her smiles!

LIII

And his old pinions, which had droop'd so long,
(As if he had been moulting,) soon began
To reproduce their feathers, fair and strong,
Of hues unnumber'd, like an Indian fan;
So that, again, through all the realms of song
He soar'd at will, and wheresoe'er he ran
Or soar'd (as you may guess) he brought each sweet,
That he could gather, to the witch's feet.

LIV

Yet was he discontented, though subdued;
For the fair witch would never smile on him;—
Witches, in fact, it should be understood,
Like mortal maids, are sometimes ruled by whim.
Whence this most cruel witch esteem'd it good
To fill his soul e'en to the very brim,
With adoration of her charms, that so
Her cold despite might work him fiercer woe.

LV

Therefore, not yet abandon'd she her wiles,
But rack'd his bosom still, and, when she saw
His eyes fixed on her, oft would lavish smiles
On many a peacock, whom he deem'd a daw
In pilfer'd plumes,—base rabble that defiles
A poet's pen,—fops learned in the law,—
Coxcombs, and drones, and dandies,—brainless knaves,
Who the poor Genius wish'd were in their graves.

LVI

Ye he complain'd not,—but ador'd her still,
In dumb and patient hopelessness;—such fear
Temper'd his love, such charms were wont to thrill
His sinking heart, whene'er the witch was near;
Yet oft with secret tears his eyes would fill,
And when he deem'd that no intrusive ear
O'erheard him, in wild words of rage and grief,
The fulness of his bosom found relief.

LVII

Still rail'd he not on her, but madly flew
On her chief minions, with irreverent gibes,
And stung them, with keen satire, thro' and thro',
Reviling the whole race, through all its tribes:
He laugh'd at all her lovers old and new,
And call'd them rogues, and dolts, and lying scribes;
(To jeer at folks, who were esteem'd so sensible,
It must be own'd, was highly reprehensible.)

LVIII

And then he vow'd by those love-beaming eyes,
It was a grievance not to be endured,
That some vain, shallow, witless imp should rise,
And of the witch's favour reign assured,—
Nay—haply make her very heart his prize,—
While he, a spirit to her tasks inured,
And gifted with high power to work her will,
Was thus cast off,—despised,—rejected still!

LIX

This could not last:—One day, the Magic Book
Fell in his way, (by chance or by design),
And, tempted thus, these artful means he took
To end his grief;—in many a mystic line
He traced (although his hand with terror shook)
His soul's most secret workings, in such fine
And subtle phrase involved, that none but She,
For whom 'twas meant, could solve the mystery.

LX

And he petition'd (this presumptuous elf)
That, if his lady's heart was yet unwon,
He might adventure for the prize himself,
And do whate'er by prowess could be done,
To throw all rival suitors on the shelf,—
Adding, with grave audacity, that none
(Save only He) were competent to prize,
According to their worth, those soul-lit eyes.

LXI

And then he vow'd, with many a solemn oath,
That should the witch e'er deign to let him be
Her earthly guide, he then would plight his troth
To serve her with most strict fidelity,
And show her all his wonders, nothing loth;
For he possess'd Apollo's master-key,
By which are open'd, to the sons of verse,
The hidden chambers of the universe.

LXII

And that with love which none but poets feel,
And reverence such as none but poets pay,
He would watch over all her future weal,
And deem her his sole treasure, night and day;
And when Death's slumber should her eyelids seal,
And her soul flit to Paradise, away,
Still, upon earth, her sacred name should be
Link'd with his own in Immortality.

LXIII

Here pause we,—for the night is on the wane.
Whether the Genius still was doom'd to grieve,
Or some kind fortune eased him of his pain,—
Is matter which, in verse, I yet may weave:—
But months must first roll by,—for such a strain
Is fitter far for some calm summer eve
Than for these merry winter nights, when we
Begin to dream of Christmas revelry.

INTRODUCTORY SONNET.

In youth's wild fervour, ere my heart had yet
Submissive bow'd to the acknowledged sway
Of loftier duty, did I frame this lay,
Which haply 'twould be wisest to forget,
Mingled as 'tis with food for late regret,—
The unpruned blossoms of my wit's warm May;—
Rank wild-flowers, more fantastically gay
Than now beseems my sober coronet.
Yet chide not, thoughtful reader, though thine ear,
Attuned already to my graver strain,
These sportive warblings listeth not to hear,
Nor deem them altogether base and vain,
Though ill accordant they perchance appear
With the ripe produce of my heart and brain.

CANTO I.

1

Beneath these willow-boughs, whose hovering shade
Shifts with the breeze o'er this secluded stream,
'Midst reeds and waving bulrushes embay'd,
My boat hath floated since the noon-day gleam;
And now the light of eve begins to fade,
And I am scarce awaken'd from my dream—
My long day-dream of thee.—O! gentle friend,
When will this thraldom of my spirit end?

2

The storm, by which my heart so late was shaken,
Is over, and my thoughts are tranquil now,
And I can bear to feel myself forsaken—
Yea, with a placid and unalter'd brow;
Though, ever and anon, doth Memory waken
The slumbering gusts which make my spirit bow
And reel to its foundations—still my sleep
Is throng'd with passionate dreams, from which I start to weep.

3

And though these lovely haunts have never seen
Thy beauty—nor, perchance, shall ever see,
Yet here the shadow of thy charms hath been,
And here are fresh remembrances of thee.
This lonely creek—these islands wild and green—
These woods and hills, speak feelingly to me;
For here that wild and secret passion grew,
In the first solitude my heart e'er knew.

4

But I must dream no more:—and if I borrow
From the cold world one last and pensive day
To bury my dead hopes and soothe fond sorrow
With the last tears these eyes will ever pay
To passion—thou wilt pardon me. To-morrow
Breaks the last spell, and bears me far away
From this dream-haunted region;—here I part
With the last folly of my hardening heart.

5

So now farewell to Love,—but not to thee,
High-hearted Friend!—The hour of my despair
Did first reveal thy being's depths to me;
I saw the beauty of thy soul laid bare,—
Its power, and gentleness, and majesty,
Its deep and strong affections; and I swear,
Here, while my hopes lie crush'd and bleeding yet,
Thou art the noblest spirit I have met.

6

High converse, since that hour, we two have held,
Which will not be forgotten; thou alone
Hast search'd my inmost bosom, and beheld
My nature in its weakness;—thou hast known
The thoughts that shook, the passions that rebell'd,
The dreams that made me tremble;—like thine own,
Have been my spirit's faintings.—O! that thou
Couldst feel the fulness of my triumph now!

7

Methinks I could embrace my desolation,
And say “Farewell” serenely, were I sure
That thy young spring of joyous expectation
From that far gathering tempest were secure,
Which yet may shake thy peace to its foundation—
But I believe that thou wilt well endure
The fury of the storm, and lift thy brow
To heaven, unscathed, and more serene than now.

8

For in thy thoughtful forehead's clear expanse,
And in the lightning of thy quick, wild eye,
And in the restless dreams, that shift and glance
Through all thy eloquent looks incessantly—
In each bright movement of thy countenance—
In thy most thrilling converse—I descry
Heaven's stamp; nor e'er shall human error bind
The strength and genius of thy mighty mind.

9

O! had I known thee earlier—but one year—
One little year—when thou wast fancy-free,—
While both our natures trembled with one fear,
And panted with one thirst—I vow to thee,
By all that to my soul on earth is dear,
By all thy hopes of final victory,
By all we feel within, around, above—
Thou shouldst have loved me with a Spirit's love.

10

Nor vain had been my hope that I had found
In thee the embodied phantasy, whose gleams
Kindled my sleep for years, and pour'd around
My path the brightness of a poet's dreams—
Whose voice was to my ear a phantom-sound,
So sweet, that its ideal music seems
E'en now to haunt my sense—that thou wert She
To whom my dearest hopes must cling eternally.

11

'Tis o'er—but there are words, which thou hast spoken,
Writ on my heart in fire—and now I know
The slumber of my soul at length is broken,
Yea, by the stroke that laid its visions low;
Perchance hereafter I may find a token
Worthy to speak to thee of all I owe,
But never can repay thee—but e'en now
I must fulfil one unforgotten vow.

12

Have I not said that from this alter'd lyre
The strains thou lov'st not shall be heard no more?
Have I not said my spirit shall aspire
(If yet its weaken'd wing hath power to soar)
To nobler darings with a pure desire?
That when this tale is told—these wanderings o'er,
My song shall be attuned, with high endeavour,
To loftier music—or be mute for ever?

13

Haply, asleep in Reason's secret cells,
A power is hid, which yet may make me strong;
Haply, the desert of my soul hath wells
Which yet may pour a deeper stream of song;
Haply—but oh! awaken'd conscience tells
That I have trifled with my heart too long—
Deaden'd each nobler impulse, and profaned
The strength which Nature for high toils ordain'd.

14

Yet, from this hour, will I, with earnest thought,
Heap knowledge from neglected mines of lore;
If, haply, by long process, may be wrought
To steadfast ends my mind's unfashion'd ore:
Nor vain shall be the lessons thou hast taught,
Nor vain that purpose which, for thee, I swore
I would pursue in silence.—But 'tis time
To end this idle and presumptuous rhyme.

15

The task, which I began in happier hours,
Lies yet a shapeless fragment—and 'twill be
Hard to renew, with worn and drooping powers,
That toil whose fruits will yield no joy to thee.
Yet—for the feelings that so late were ours—
Thou wilt forgive my foolish phantasy,
Dallying with bitter jests, as if to ease
The aching of unheal'd remembrances.

16

Perhaps amidst my laughter, thou wilt hear,
At times, a sadder and more solemn tone,
Recalling to thine unforgetful ear
Things which are yet reveal'd to thee alone;
And thou, I think, wilt hold those accents dear,
And greet them with a pleasure all thine own;
Nor shall these gifts, which I so coldly bring,
Seem in thy sight a worthless offering.

CANTO II.

CANTO III.