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137

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

139

AN INVOCATION.

I

If, at this dim and silent hour,
Spirits have a power
To wander from their homes of light,
And on the winds of night
To come, and to a human eye
Stand visible, like mortality—

II

Come thou, the lost Marcelia, thou—
And on thy sunny brow
Bear all thy beauty as of old,
For I dare behold
Whatever sights sublime there be,
So I may once more look on thee.
140

III

Or be thou like a dæmon thing,
Or shadow hovering,
Or like the bloody shapes that come
With torch and sound of drum,
Scaring the warrior's slumbers, I
Will welcome thee, and wish thee nigh.

IV

And I would talk of the famous brave,
Of the dead, and their house the grave,
And feel its wondrous silentness,
And pity those whom none may bless,
And see how far the gaping tomb
Stretches its spectral arms—and hear my doom.

V

And I would know how long they lie
On their dark beds who die,
And if they feel, or joy, or weep,
Or ever dare to sleep
In that strange land of shadows. Thou
Whom I do call, come hither—now.
141

VI

But there thou art, a radiant spirit,
And dost inherit
Earlier than others thy blue home,
And art free to roam
Like a visiting beam, from star to star,
And shed thy smiles from skies afar.

VII

Then, soft and gentle beauty, be
Still like a star to me;
And I will ever turn at night
Unto thy soothing light,
And fancy, while before thine eyes,
I am full in the smile of Paradise.
142

ON THE STATUE OF THESEUS,

ONE OF THE ELGIN MARBLES.

Aye, this is he,
A proud and mighty spirit: how fine his form
Gigantic! moulded like the race that strove
To take Jove's heav'n by storm and scare him from
Olympus. There he sits, a demigod,
Stern as when he of yore forsook the maid
Who doating saved him from the Cretan toil,
Where he had slain the Minotaur. Alas!
Fond Ariadne, thee did he desert
And heartless left thee on the Naxos shore
To languish.—This is he who dared to roam
The world infernal, and on Pluto's queen,
Ceres' own lost Proserpina, did lay
His hand: thence was he prison'd in the vaults
Beneath, 'till freed by Hercules. Methinks,
(So perfect is the Phidian stone) his sire,
The sea-god Neptune, hath in anger stopped
The current of life, and with his trident-touch
Hath struck him into marble.
143

“WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN.”

When shall we three meet again?
We will meet when the storms and rain
Of Autumn come, and the winds go by
Our dwelling with a fearful cry,
And shake the red leaves from the trees;
And when they say that the year must die,
Amongst their dreary harmonies
We'll mingle a wild but livelier strain,
And sing “We three have met again.”
Three sprightly spirits are we now;
One upon her maiden brow
Bears life and beauty, and her smile
Shall cheer me on for many a mile;
144

For I am going far away,
To see the blue and cloudless day
Shine on the fields of Italy:
What tho' full many a heavy hour
May press me with its silent power,
And I, upon a foreign shore
A stranger, feel that touch the more;
Yet, from amidst my sadness, I
Will look upon futurity,
And half forget my moody vein,
In the thought that “We shall meet again.”
When the Autumn nights are long
We will sing some pleasant song;
And you, my friend, whose silver tone
Makes Music's very voice your own,
You shall pour your richest numbers,
And 'wake the silent night from slumbers;
And gentle Helen thou shalt be
Queen of the hour to him and me,
And we will braid amidst thy hair
Roses like thy bosom fair,
And we will laugh and worship thee,
As the spirit of poetry.
145

Away, away—for I must go
Over the wild and bounding waters;
But amongst the Roman daughters
I shall think of thee, as now:
And— —if a lofty line
Remind me of thy verse divine,
Or if some sweet melody
Should bring a thought of home to me,
I will neglect the soothing strain,
To sigh “Oh! may we meet again.”
146

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

[_]

[HE DIED AT ROME OF THE MAL' ARIA.]

O Rome! amongst thy temples high,
And columns with the wild weed crown'd,
And sculptured capitals that lie
Struck down, and in the grasp of Time,
How many a mighty heart sublime
Lies dead and stripp'd of all its fame,
Like those who never earn'd a name,
Or played a base or vulgar part;
And now—thou hast another heart,
(No better in the wide world found)
Buried in thy immortal ground.
For thou—(altho' thy works of stone,
All in their times renowned known
147

As things of mere mortality
Must perish—) thou canst never die.
But he, the burthen of my song,
Who came, but might not tarry long,
In summer strength hath perished.
Oh! many a thing beside the grave
Whom few could love, and none could save,
Hath he, with weak but hurrying tread
Passed.— And he is with the dead!
‘The dead’—whom now 'twere vain to call
While lying in their silent sleep,
And yet we cannot help but weep,
Albeit 'tis idle, idle all.
Then, let this poor memorial
Remind some of his early day,
And to all who lov'd him, say
Though gone, he is not quite forgot.
While to those who knew him not,
It is enough to tell that he
Was such a man as men should be;
That pray'r, nor art, nor love could save;
And that he lies in a foreign grave.
148

MARCELIA.

—It was a dreary place. The shallow brook
That ran throughout the wood, there took a turn
And widened: all its music died away,
And in the place a silent eddy told
That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees
Funereal (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine,
And spicy cedar,) clustered, and at night
Shook from their melancholy branches sounds
And sighs like death: 'twas strange, for thro' the day
They stood quite motionless, and looked methought
Like monumental things, which the sad earth
From its green bosom had cast out in pity,
To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves
Disown'd their natural green, and took a black
And mournful hue: and the rough brier, stretching
149

His straggling arms across the rivulet,
Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching
With his tenacious leaf, straws, withered boughs,
Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which
Swam with the current, and with these it hid
The poor Marcelia's death-bed. — Never may net
Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope,
For not a fish abides there. The slim deer
Snorts as he ruffles with his shorten'd breath
The brook, and panting flies the unholy place,
And the white heifer lows and passes on;
The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds
Go higher up the stream. And yet I love
To loiter there: and when the rising moon
Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks
Red and dilated thro' the evening mists,
And chequered as the heavy branches sway
To and fro' with the wind, I stay to listen,
And fancy to myself that a sad voice,
Praying, comes moaning thro' the leaves, as 'twere
For some misdeed. The story goes that some
Neglected girl (an Orphan, whom the world
Frown'd upon) once stray'd thither, and 'twas thought
Cast herself in the stream: You may have heard
Of one Marcelia, poor Molini's daughter, who
150

Fell ill and came to want? No?—oh she lov'd
A wealthy man who mark'd her not. He wed,
And then the girl grew sick and pined away
And drown'd herself for love. Some day or other
I'll tell you all the story.
151

PORTRAITS.

I dreamt, and o'er my enchanted vision pass'd
Shapes of the elder time (beautiful things
That men have died for!) as they stood on earth,
But more ethereal, and each forehead bore
The stamp and character of the starry skies.
First came that Roman Lady from whose bosom
The Gracchi twins were born, gracious Cornelia:
Her raven hair was wreath'd about her brow
Severe, yet fair and lovely. Like a queen
She trod, majestic as when Juno thron'd
Above the Deities, by the side of Jove,
Lends her proud smile celestial, while her Lord
Showers Heaven's bounties on the world below.
Behind her followed an Athenian dame,
(The pale and elegant Aspasia)
Like some fair marble carved by Phidias' hand,
And meant to imitate the nymph or muse:
152

Mistress of poetry and song was she,
And fit to be beloved of Pericles.
Shadowed by myrtle boughs she floated onwards.
Then came a dark-brow'd spirit, on whose head
Laurel and withering roses loosely hung:
She held a harp amongst whose chords her hand
Wandered for music—and it came. She sang
A song despairing, and the whispering winds
Seem'd envious of her melody, and streamed
Amidst the wires to rival her, in vain.
Short was the strain, but sweet: Methought it spoke
Of broken hearts, and still and moonlight seas,
Of love, and loneliness, and fancy gone,
And hopes decay'd for ever: and my ear
Caught well remember'd names, ‘Leucadia's rock’
At times, and ‘faithless Phaon:’ Then the form
Pass'd not, but seem'd to melt in air away:
This was the Lesbian Sappho.—Then pass'd by
Another, and another, without names.
At last came one whom none could e'er mistake
Amidst a million: Egypt's dark-eyed Queen:
The love, the spell, the bane of Antony.
O, Cleopatra! who shall speak of thee?
Gaily, but like the Empress of a land
153

She mov'd, and light as a wood-nymph in her prime,
And crown'd with costly gems, whose single price
Might buy a kingdom, yet how dim they shone
Beneath the magic of her eye, whose beam
Flash'd love and languishment: Of varying humours
She seem'd, yet subtle in her wildest mood,
As guile were to her passions ministrant.
At last she sank as dead. A noxious worm
Fed on those blue and wandering veins that lac'd
Her rising bosom: aye, did sleep upon
The pillow of Antony, and left behind,
In dark requital for its banquet—death.
154

LINES WRITTEN UNDER AN ENGRAVING OF MILTON.

He, tho' he dwelt in seeming night,
Scattered imperishable light
Around, and to the regions of the day
Sent his winged thoughts away,
And bade them search the ways on high
For the bright flame of Poetry.
—'Tis to adventurous spirits given
Alone, who dare themselves obey,
And look at the face of the inmost heaven.
He saw the burning fire that keeps,
In the unfathomable deeps,
Its powers for ever, and made a sign
To the Morning Prince divine,
Who came across the sulphurous flood
Obedient to that master call,
And, in Angel beauty, stood
Proud on his star-lit pedestal.
145

Then the mighty limner drew,
And tincted with a skiey hue,
The king of all the damned: the same
Who headlong from the Empyrean came,
With all his fiery cherubim,
Blasted, and millions fell with him.
He saw the dreary regions where
Eternal Chaos sate, and there
Learnt secrets of the whispering gloom,
And faced the father of the tomb,
Orcus; and many an awful thing
That comes in wild freams hovering,
Tumult, and Chance, and Discord, Fame,
And heard and saw “the dreaded name
Of Demogorgon,” and his soul
Felt the shadowy darkness roll
From night's throne, and then he told
To man those signs and wonders old.
156

TO A STAR.

WRITTEN (FOR A COMMON-PLACE BOOK) UNDER THE SKETCH OF A CAVALIER CONTEMPLATING A STAR.

Now, from thy skiey road, look down upon me,
Hesper—Star of my sad nativity!
—With no unholy thought I dare to court
Thy lustrous eye on me: and as to one
Known in some happier hours I bid thee hail
After my many wanderings. I have seen
Thy burning glance on bare and peopled lands,
Civil and savage: on the parched plains
Of India and the sands of Palestine,
On tropic waters and on iced shores,
And on the far and solitary seas
O' the south. I've roam'd this circular world, and thou
Hast follow'd me like fate, yet never look'd
Before with such kind aspect: Thou art now
Shining above my home, and hallowing
The sweet haunt of my infancy — I come
157

After my toils and dangers to seek rest,
And love, and welcoming eyes, and gentle hearts.
Oh! thou bright Star, be now my messenger,
And from thy cloudy palace (for the clouds
Are rolling 'round about thee) glance upon
My mother's house with thy expressive eye,
And to the dear inhabitants, gentle Star,
Dart smiling tidings that the boy they loved
Is come indeed. Shipwrecked and lost for years,
He lives redeemed from his watery grave,
Lives, and will be a blessing. And on the cheek
Of one supremely soft and beautiful,
Light like the cheerful ray of a Summer morning;
So may my own Olympia know that still
Juan, the wanderer, lives.
158

SONG.

[Sleep, my Leila: do not fear]

1

Sleep, my Leila: do not fear;
Close thine eyes; thy Hassan's here.
Thy lover's still beside thee:
Then how can harm betide thee?

2

Sleep, my rose of beauty, sleep,
And I will hush thy murmurs deep,
And watch thee while thou sleepest,
And kiss thee if thou weepest.

3

Yet, may no fears, nor aught that seems
Evil ever haunt thy dreams.
Dream thou of love and flowers,
Blue skies and happier hours.
159

4

And I, beneath this summer moon,
Will sing an old remember'd tune,
Such as the winds awaken
When slumbering leaves are shaken.

5

Such as comes, when o'er smooth sands
The sea-maid spreads her silver hands,
And sinks, with scarce a motion,
Back in the calm green ocean.

6

Sweet as when as the star-light goes,
Thy dark eyes now begin to close
On all, on me thy lover:
They're shut: my song is over.
160

SONG. A MAID TO HER LOVER.

Where's the ring I gave to thee,
Juan, when our love was young,
And I upon thy bosom clung
With all a girl's credulity?
In the narrow circlet lay
An emblem as I thought (ere fears
And doubt sprung up in after years)
Of endless love, that mock'd decay.
And its golden round contained
For gentle hearts a silent spell,
Within whose magic we might dwell,
I hoped, as long as life remained.
And am I then forgot by you?
Oh! then send back the idle token,
For rings are nought when vows are broken,
And useless all while love is true.
161

SERENADE.

Listen! from the forest boughs
The voice-like angel of the spring
Utters his soft vows
To the proud rose blossoming.
And now beneath thy lattice, dear!
I am like the bird complaining:
Thou above (I fear)
Like the rose disdaining.
From her chamber in the skies
Shouts the lark at break of morning,
And when day-light flies
Comes the raven's warning.
This of gloom and that of mirth
In their mystic numbers tell;
But thoughts of sweeter birth
Teacheth the nightingale.
162

A DRYAD'S HAUNT.

TRAVELLER.
This is a lovely spot. Here let us rest,
Beneath this branching oak, and make the grass
Our bed awhile. Shepherd! this spot indeed
Were worthy some tradition: hast thou none
Stored in thy memory, to beguile the time
While the sky burns above us? Why, methinks,
The very seasons meet, flinging the buds
Of Spring in the lap of Summer. Every tree
That prodigal Nature gives springs forth, and seems
The fairest of its kind. The poplar there
Shoots up its spire and shakes its leaves i' the sun
Fantastical, while 'round its slender base
Rambles the sweet-breath'd woodbine: There beside,
Glooms the dark cypress, and the ash seems to sigh
Lest it should fling its berries to the blast:
There crawls the vine; there the pale rose doth hang
Her head like a love-sick girl: on high the cedar
Stoops, like a monarch to his people bending,
And casts his sweets around him—Where are we?

163

GUIDE.
I had almost forgot the place. This was
A Dryad's home: Beneath this ancient oak
(First o' the forest) that doth spread its arms
Abroad, and stands again regenerate,
She liv'd. She loved, it seems, a mortal, but
The fairest youth in Phocis: on his brow
Sate a mild beauty, (such the ancients paint
Hylas or Hyacinth, or who died self slain
Narcissus;)—Here she passed her life, and caught
Youth from the changing year. She lov'd to lie
At noontide on yon slope, and muse upon
Her sad and lonely destiny. At last,
Quitting her sacred tree (here had she dwelt
The spirit of the place) she plunged within
Yond bend of the Cephisus, where you see
The waves flow darker and the ripples sink
To silence: yet she died not, for some god
(Then watching from his orb) saved the poor nymph
And fixed her in the skies, a star 'tis thought,
For ever when the setting sun departs
On April evenings or in early May,
(That time she left us) a pale star is seen
Brightly to shine on that part of the stream
Wherein she plunged; and ever when it shines
The trees around the place are mov'd, as if
164

By airs from Heav'n, and sweetness steams about:
The dark pines bend their heads: that sacred oak
Lets falls its leaves, as when on Autumn nights
The north wind (Winter's fierce precursor) roams
Amongst the branches howling, and disrobes
The shrubs of all their green: pale Syrinx then
Moans in the reeds, and sweet Aglaia (she
Still constant to the inconstant rivulet,)
Troubles the faint Cephisus' course, and breathes
Music along the waters.

165

THE LAST DAY OF TIPPOO SAIB.

That day he 'rose Sultan of half the East.
—The guards awoke, each from his feverish dream
Of conquest or of fear: the trumpet plain'd
Thro' the far citadel, and thousands trooped
Obedient to its mournful melody,
Soldier and chief and slave: And he the while
Traversed his hall of power, and with a look
Deeply observant glanced on all: then, waving
His dusky arm, struck thro' the listening crowd
Silence and dumb respect: from his fierce tongue
Stream'd words of vengeance: Fame he promised,
And wealth and honours to the brave, but woe
To those who fail'd him.—There he stood, a king
Half-circled by his Asian chivalry,
In figure as some Indian God, or like
166

Satan when he beneath his burning dome
Marshall'd the fiery cherubim, and called
All Hell to arms. The Sun blazed into day:
Then busy sights were seen, and sounds of war
Came thickening: first the steed's shrill neigh; the drum
Rolling at intervals; the bugle note,
Mix'd with the hoarse command; then (nearing on)
The soldier's silent, firm, and regular tread;
The trampling horse; the clash of swords; the wheel
That, creaking, bore the dread artillery.
How fierce the dark king bore him on that day!
How bravely! Like a common slave he fought,
Heedless of life, and cheer'd the soldier on;—
Deep in his breast the bullets sank, but he
Kept on, and this looked nobly—like a king.
That day he earned a title with his life,
And made his foes respect him.—Towards night
He grew faint, very faint with many wounds:
His soldiers bore him in: they wept: he was
Their old commander, and, whate'er his life,
Had led them on to conquest. Then (it was
His wish) they placed him on his throne—He sate
Like some dark form of marble, with an eye
Staring, and strained with pain, and motionless,
And glassy as with death: his lips compressed
167

Spoke inward agony, yet seem'd he resolute
To die a king. An enemy came, and strove
To tear away his regal diadem:
Then turned his eye; he rose—one angry blush
Tinted his cheek, and fled. He grasp'd his sword,
And struck his last, faint, useless blow, and then
Stood all defenceless—Ah! a flash, and quick
Fled the dark ball of death: right thro' the brain
It went, (a mortal messenger) and all
That then remain'd of that proud Asian king,
Who startled India far and wide, and shook
The deserts with his thunder, was—a name
168

SONG.

[My love is a lady of gentle line]

My love is a lady of gentle line,
Tow'rds some like the cedar bending,
Tow'rds me she flies—like a shape divine
From heaven to earth descending.
Her very look is life to me,
Her smile like the clear moon rising,
And her kiss is as sweet as the honied bee,
And more and more enticing.
Mild is my love as the summer air,
And her cheek (her eyes half closing)
Now rests on her full-blown bosom fair,
Like Languor on Love reposing.
169

[Once, in a dream, I saw a shape of power]

Once, in a dream, I saw a shape of power
And unimaginable beauty, clad
In a vest of brightness star dropt, armed with
A spear (celestial temper) while around
Blaz'd circling light—intense—and far beyond
Those sheeted lightnings that, by night, cast out
Their splendours near the line. The vision spoke
Cheering, and as it spoke, the air became
Painfully sweet. Such odours as the rose
Wastes on the summer air, or such as rise
From beds of hyacinths, or from jasmine flowers,
Or when the blue-ey'd violet weeps upon
Some sloping bank remote, while the young sun
(Creeping within her sheltering bower of leaves)
Dries up her tears, were nought—fantastical.
It spoke—in tones cathedral organs (touched
By master hands) ne'er gave—nor April winds,
Wandering thro' harps Æolian—nor the note
Of pastoral pipe, heard on the Garonne banks
At eventide—nor Spanish youth's guitar,
Night-touch'd—nor strains that take the charmed ear,
Breath'd by the 'witching dames of Italy.
170

SONG.

[Thou shalt sing to me]

Thou shalt sing to me
When the waves are sleeping,
And the winds are creeping
'Round the embowering chesnut tree.
Thou shalt sing by night,
When no birds are calling,
And the stars are falling
Brightly from their mansions bright.
Of those thy song shall tell
From whom we've never parted,
The young, the tender-hearted,
The gay, and all who loved us well.
But we'll not profane
Such a gentle hour
Nor our favourite bower,
With a thought that tastes of pain.
171

SONNETS.

SPRING.

This and the three following sonnets were given to Messrs. Ollier, and have already appeared in “The Literary Pocket Book for 1820.”

It is not that sweet herbs and flow'rs alone
Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep
In their great mother's iced bosom deep
For months, or that the birds, more joyous grown,
Catch once again their silver summer tone,
And they who late from bough to bough did creep,
Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep,
And seem to sing of winter overthrown.
No—with an equal march the immortal mind,
As tho' it never could be left behind,
Keeps pace with every movement of the year;
And (for high truths are born in happiness)
As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear,
And sees beyond the slave's or bigot's guess.
172

SUMMER.

Now have green April and the blue-eyed May
Vanish'd awhile: and lo! the glorious June
(While Nature ripens in his burning noon)
Comes like a young inheritor, and gay,
Altho' his parent months have passed away;
But his green crown shall wither, and the tune
That usher'd in his birth be silent soon,
And in the strength of youth shall he decay.
What matters this—so long as in the past
And in the days to come we live, and feel
The present nothing worth, until it steal
Away, and like a disappointment die?
For Joy, dim child of Hope and Memory,
Flies ever on before or follows fast.
173

AUTUMN.

There is a fearful spirit busy now:
Already have the elements unfurled
Their banners: the great sea-wave is upcurled:
The cloud comes: the fierce winds begin to blow
About, and blindly on their errands go,
And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled
From their dry boughs, and all the forest world,
Stripp'd of its pride, be like a desert show.
I love that moaning music which I hear
In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul
Seems gathering tidings from another sphere;
And, in sublime mysterious sympathy,
Man's bounding spirit ebbs and swells more high,
Accordant to the billow's loftier roll.
174

WINTER.

This is the eldest of the seasons: he
Moves not like Spring with gradual step, nor grows
From bud to beauty, but with all his snows
Comes down at once in hoar antiquity.
No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee
Before him, nor unto his time belong
The suns of Summer, nor the charms of song,
That with May's gentle smiles so well agree.
But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud,
Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound,
And with a gentle footstep prints the ground,
As tho' to cheat man's ear; yet while he stays
He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days,
And bid the dance and joke be long and loud.
175

SONNET.

[WRITTEN AFTER SEEING MR. MACREADY IN ROB ROY.]

Macready, thou hast pleas'd me much: 'till now
(And yet I would not thy fine powers arraign)
I did not think thou hadst that livelier vein,
Nor that clear open spirit upon thy brow.
Come, I will crown thee with a poet's bough:
Mine is an humble branch, yet not in vain
Giv'n, if the few I sing shall not disdain
To wear the little wreaths that I bestow.
There is a buoyant air, a passionate tone
That breathes about thee, and lights up thine eye
With fire and freedom: it becomes thee well.
It is the bursting of a good seed, sown
Beneath a cold and artificial sky:
'Tis genius overmastering its spell.
176

A STORMY NIGHT.

It is a stormy night, and the wild sea
That sounds for ever, now upon the beach
Is pouring all its power. Each after each
The hurrying waves cry out rejoicingly,
And crowding onwards, seem as they would reach
The height I tread upon. The winds are high,
And the quick lightnings shoot along the sky
At intervals. It is an hour to teach
Vain man his insignificance; and yet,
Tho' all the elements in their might have met,
At every pause comes ringing on my ear
A sterner murmur, and I seem to hear
The voice of Silence sounding from her throne
Of darkness, mightier than all—but all alone.
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