Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Father! who from the fountain of thy Love
Feedest thy worlds with never failing streams,
And, with the flooded fire of liquid beams,
Bathest thy Universe in healing light,—
Thou view'st thy starry systems roll,
Each atom one harmonious whole,
Thou watchest Earth revolve her Pole,
Nor is the daisy hidden from thy sight!
On all thy works thy studious cares attend:
The slightest glory of thy plastic hand
Thou, with some sapient, special aim hast planned,

And sanctified unto some separate end!
Obedient to thy wise behest,
When Morning opes her eyes serene,
Deep in the valley, not unseen,
The floweret blossoms in its dewy nest,
And, ere the Noon hath ceased to be,
Inanimate droops upon the mother breast;
Aloft, the sapling oak survives to crest
The mountain-top a century!
Endued with power to work thy various Will,
Thou fashionest forth thy creatures in their place,
Where each alone its destined part may fill,
Or fill alone with majesty and grace!
The oak, transplanted from its native hill,
Sickens and droops upon the stranger soil:
And he who to the short-lived flower
Would add a moment's vital power
Sees the sere plantling mock his foolish toil!
But he who, rebel to thy Laws which bind
Each Soul projected on her orbic way,
Who tampers with the immortal Mind,
To warp her from the course defined
Wherein thy hands her musical motions sway,
Shall hear in secret, from within,
Great Nature cry to scare him from the sin:
And, to her warning deaf, shall view
Tenfold Confusion's curse pursue

The staggering Planet as she swerves astray!
Unsphered and inharmonious life,
Perverted to a lawless aim,
What peace, what concord can it claim,
With Nature and with God at strife?
Though deathless Conscience cease her cries,
Vexed Hope's complainings yet will jar
The music of the Soul, and mar
The Spirit's matchless melodies;
Where Trust and Faith no longer dwell,
Thy Presence flees the truth-abandoned plan,
And in the desecrated heart of man,
Thy temple, reign the powers of Hell!

Early—almost with Life, with dawning Thought,
And in the morning of my Being—She
Who was, who is, and to the end will be
The Idol of my Soul, was found unsought!
Early from Heaven, her happy home, she came,
Muse! Guardian Spirit! Angel!—(by such name,
Sweet Visitant on earth, may I express
Thy sinless nature haply without blame!)—
And to this Soul, first vocal made to bless
Her advent to my heart's too humble shrine,
Vouchsafed her fair companionship divine.
Nightly these eyes she visited in dreams;
She came: she looked upon me, and the light

Of her immortal orbs' ineffable beams
Informed my Being with unknown delight!
Such nameless grace, such majesty of mien
Sat on her form, and in her face serene,
As moved my soul to worship as I saw;
Yet on her lips meek Reverence knew her place,
And conscious Dignity with Holy Awe,
And sweet Submissiveness to Highest Law,
Mingled in beauty on her saintlike face;
One arm, half-raised, upheld a laurel-bough,
And one oblique, athwart her bosom bent,
Sustained the lyre that on her shoulder leant:
A glory circled round about her brow!
So she approached me nightly, nor by day
Was absent; though of fleshly eyes unseen,
My soul, enamoured of its lawful queen,
Felt and beheld her gracious presence near;
Wert thou not with me, bland Instructress, say,
When opal light dissolved the darkness drear,
And, like a guilty thought scared by the grace
That harbours sweetly in an innocent face,
Night, at the glance of Morning, fled away!
Yea! oft together, ere the lark forsook
Her dwelling couched among the dewy corn,
Ere the stars died, before the day was born,
We on some Headland high our station took:
Together watched, well pleased, the modest Morn

Like some meek pilgrim (so thy whisper said!)
Go simply forth upon her solemn way,
Hooded in amice gray,
With sober gait demure, and virgin tread!
And, when the flaming Day-star gorgeous rose,
Full many a fable blazoned on the clouds
Thou to these wistful eyes didst fair disclose:
Full many a pictured glory, else unseen,
Rich emblems rare, and many a storied scene!
And oft again, when Twilight veiled the world,
Thou bad'st me mark where in his western bower,
To veil a fallen hero's latest hour,
The crimson clouds, like banners half unfurled,
Drooped low in Heaven above the dying Day,
Whose parting look forlorn upon them lay.
But chiefest rapture in the summer night!
When upwards soaring, spiritually free,
From world to world, from star to happy star
Thou fleddest through the heavens!—I with thee,
Borne on the sheeny pennons of thy flight,
Swept through the shining universe afraid!
For Fear fell on me, mortal, as I saw
A million systems, musically swayed
By unseen Hands, roll to one simple law;
And, ever as they threaded intricate ways,
I heard, unworthy with these carnal ears,
The magical music of the mighty Spheres

Hymning their Maker's unexpressive praise;
Haply not heard in vain!—if not in vain,
To thee the tribute and the meed belong,
Instructress! thou who mad'st my weakness strong,
Who purged my mental vision, and made plain
To mortal ears that heavenly-choral strain;
And thee, Divinest! thee my every thought
Salutes sole saviour!—Guardian, gracious Guide,
Who, o'er the dismal, dark, disastrous tide
Stretching pure hands, to thy rare Presence caught
My rescued Soul, not rescued before time!
For long it festered, weltering in the slime
And sloth and shame of this world's rottenness!
Till thou, from those foul waters of distress,
From abject anguish of heart-wringing crime,
Sav'dst me, first smitten with thy sacred song,
And took'st me unto thee, at thy fair side
Serene, in peace for ever to abide.

Wherefore, my soul, secure in love, and strong
In faith that knows thee missioned from on high,
Fair Messenger of Heaven's seraphic throng!
True to thy voice, true to thy sacred strain
Shall prove—and faithful to the end remain!
Though often to these eyes' distracted view,
In nightly visions or in dreams by day,
She comes, whose lips with cunning speech essay

To lure me from my lief allegiance due;
Of Power she prates, of Glory and the gains
Of him whose brows the civic wreath await,
Who to the gilded seat supreme attains,
And rules the factions of the giddy State;
But all too fair she gilds his guerdon proud
Who toils, who wrestles for the thankless crowd,
To lift their burden from dull hearts ingrate!
He haply, struggling in their righteous cause,
Lives, suffers, dies—and scarcely meets the applause
Of wise men, missed amid the shriek of fools!
Albeit, while Heaven the equal balance rules,
Eternal Truth shall triumph: and when Death
Frees the hurt Soul, and with cold finger kind
Stills the great heart that throbbed for human-kind,
The tardy tribute of the popular breath,
In utterance meet of Gratitude and Love,
Shall reach his Spirit in the realms above!

So, unseduced by her false Syren cries,
I in thy Presence lief and true remain,
And, on thy fair face fixing faithful eyes,
List the blent music of thy magic strain
And sweet, sage voice which blandly doth advise:
“Covet not Wealth, nor yet desire to gain
“Of Glory and of Power the pageant vain!
“If Wealth thou seek, so seek it amongst them

“Who in their minds those riches true contain
“Which silver may not purchase, nor the gold
“Of Ophir, nor the Ethiopian gem;
“And unto thee, if Truth hath purged thine eyes,
“Fame, that in Earth's rank praises grossly lies,
“Not glorious seems, nor worthy to be gained!
“Sole from Celestial founts doth Glory spring,
“And by the pure alone may be attained,
“To whom the all-righteous King,
“From Heaven's high throne in mercy bending down,
“Awards the meed of an immortal crown!
“And thou, if false Ambition's tinselled toys
“Lure not from Truth thy rebel soul aside,
“Guerdon shalt reap of more exceeding joys
“Than Earth's vain mask, amid its strife and noise,
“Can pander to the heart of human Pride;
“High Recompense and rich reversions rare!
“True laurel crowns immortal, which the breath
“Of Slander taints not, nor the blight of Death,
“In Heaven's mild courts which bloom for ever fair!
“Meanwhile I, with thee on Life's weary way,
“Teach thee to read great Nature's soul divine,
“Glory to Her and reverent love to pay,
“And, with such service as thy numbers may,
“To minister with music at Her Shrine!”

TO KATHLEEN.

I

When, in that hour which saw us part,
My faltering voice refused to tell
The anguish of an aching heart,
From thy sweet lips these accents fell:

II

“Thou leav'st me on a darkened strand,
“And, fading from my faithful eye,
“Like Light thou passest from the land,
“And I will follow—or I die.”

III

I wait, I watch, as from a tower,
On leaden wings the minutes move!
Thou comest not, nor comes the hour
That brings me tidings of my love.

IV

I wait—and Morning comes indeed!
I watch her glowing steps encroach
Upon the dark, and think to read
The signal of thy sweet approach;

V

Or draw, when twilight veils the world,
Vague promise from the rich array
Of clouds, like banners half unfurled,
That droop above the dying day.

VI

So Morn and Eve, that slow succeed,
By turns my futile fancy fire,
And bring but lying thoughts to feed
An ever-unfulfilled desire.

VII

But these blank, bitter hours that still
The daily death of hope renew,
Are weak to vanquish Love, and kill
The cherished thought that counts thee true.

TO THE SAME.

Kathleen! my saint, that art in heaven,
No griefs can cloud thy nature now;
Thy sin (if sin it were!) forgiven,
A glory girds thy guiltless brow:

And thou with all the sainted Dead,
Who watch God's throne with happy eyes,
Dwellest where tears are never shed,
And only Pity sometimes sighs.

Ah! turn not thy clear eyes below,
Lest thou, whose human tears would roll
Adown thy cheek, in streams of woe,
If ever sorrow dimmed my soul,

Should'st see me where I sit forlorn,
And rock and sway an aching breast,
And strive in vain, while so I mourn,
To lull my sleepless woe to rest:

Lest thou, my darling, noting this,
Should'st feel a vague sense o'er thee creep
Of something wanting to the bliss
Of Angel-souls—who cannot weep!

TO THE SAME.

I sailing on life's ocean lone,
Knew thee, Kathleen! while thou wast here,
A nature higher than my own,
And centred in a higher sphere!

And looking on thee from afar,
Fair beacon-light to my frail bark,
I saw thee lapse, a falling star,
And slide into eternal dark!

Ay me! what voice of piteous range,
What song of sorrow from my lips
Can paint the black, the bitter change
That marred my life at thy eclipse!

A helmless bark, by tempest torn,
At random on the wild waves cast,
Whose tattered colours float forlorn,
In signal, from the broken mast!

Which sail-less drives, with rigging bare,
Before the whirlwind's withering breath;
Blow on! bleak blast of keen despair,
And dash it on the rocks of Death!

SONNET

TO A CANARY-BIRD, TRAINED TO DRAW SEED AND WATER FROM A GLASS-WELL SUSPENDED TO ITS CAGE.

Thou should'st be carolling thy Maker's praise,
Poor bird! now fettered, and here set to draw,
With graceless toil of beak and added claw,
The meagre food that scarce thy want allays!
And this—to gratify the gloating gaze
Of fools, who value Nature not a straw,
But know to prize the infraction of her law
And hard perversion of her creature's ways!
Thee the wild woods await, in leaves attired,
Where notes of liquid utterance should engage
Thy bill, that now with pain scant forage earns;
So art thou like that bard who, God-inspired
To charm the world with song, was set to gauge
Beer-barrels for his bread—half-famish'd Burns!

TO MARGARET.

Not from that vanity of rhyme
Which leads the Muse, in flowery lays,
To lavish an unmeaning praise
On such as haply scorn her verse sublime;
Not from that vain conceit
Which thinks in solemn verse and slow,
With dull monotony of measured feet,
To ease the burthen of another's woe:
Do I intrude
Upon the stillness of thy solitude!

Far from the giddy throng,
The pensive mind, wrapt in a dream,
Broods o'er the recollected theme
In silent meditation long!
Shadowy thoughts sweep o'er the brain,
Wild Fancy leads the various train:
Some flash like light and flit away,
Some pause awhile upon their way,

Lo! others come—but will they stay?
The many pass—the few remain!

Nursed in the silent mind,
The slowly-gathered thought may dwell
Long time, locked in its secret cell,
Because no exit can it find;
For like that flower which, full of grace,
Shrinks from the garish eye of day,
And, when the sun would look into its face,
Folds all its fairness up and turns away:
Yet, when the darker hours serene
Lead up through heaven their radiant Queen,
Expands its bosom to the Moon,
And to the breeze delivers up
The gather'd sweetness of its cup,
Yielding to Night what it withheld from Noon:

So, midst the factious scenes of life,
Scared by the turmoil and the strife,
The pensive mind within itself retires;
And from the crowd's obtrusive gaze
Veiling its lofty thoughts and deep desires,
Nought but the surface of itself displays;
But when at length arrives the peaceful hour,
And, from her home beyond the sky

Descending, heaven-born Poesy
Puts forth about the heart her power;
With ecstacy of pleasure,
The mind, expanding slow, itself unfolds,
And to the Muse (sole mistress of its treasure)
Yields all the gather'd sweetness which it holds.

Now comes the sweet, the silent hour!
The Muse puts forth her plastic power,
And sheds her genial influence round:
And from their cavern unconfined,
Wild fancies, passing from my mind,
Shall clothe themselves in sound.
Nor thou, in thine exalted pride,
My lowly verse disdain;
Full well I know, if harshly tried,
My unpremeditated strain
Unto thy critic ear must seem
All too unworthy of its theme;
But such as I can give,—
An offering frail—O scorn not to receive!

I

The year lies bound in wintry chains,
The keen frost sparkles in the air,
The snow-sheet whitens all the plains,
The leafless trees are black and bare;
The swallow hath fled o'er the lea,
The songsters make no minstrelsy,
The bitter wind makes hollow moan;
Around each household hearth a throng
Is gathered for the tale or song;
But thou art not the groups among,
Thou sittest in the house alone!

II

The year is up, and full of mirth,
The laughing plains are decked with green,
Spring walks upon the happy earth,
The vernal breezes blow serene;
The birds pour song from every tree,
Beneath them hums the murmuring bee,
The air is rife with merriest sound;
All hearts are light—the hour is sweet,
Glad faces in the sunshine meet,
Both young and old leave their retreat,
But thou with Solitude art found!

III

Thou art not of a sullen mind,
For thou art loving, gentle, good;
Thou art no hater of thy kind,
But thou adorest Solitude.
The Seasons change, the fleeting years
Pass on;—in thee no change appears,
Thou art the same from day to day;
Calm, quiet, amorous of rest,
But, with an equal temper blest,
Not bitter to the stranger guest
Who traverses thy lonely way.

IV

All in thy solitary hours
What consolation dost thou find?
Large comfort from those heavenly Powers
That brood about the lofty mind;
The spirits of the Great and Good
Attend upon thy solitude,
With Wisdom's philosophic scroll;
And from the bright immortal page
Of bard inspired, and reverend sage,

(The Wise and Just of every age)
Is fed the fountain of thy soul.

V

Then let the silly blockhead prate
About “the joyous and the free!”
And gravely shake his empty pate,
And mourn the lot of such as thee!
He knoweth not (himself unblest)
The calm contentment of that breast
Where dwells divine Philosophy;
She takes the salt from human tears,
She leaps the gulf of countless years,
And, scorning abject doubts and fears,
Points upwards to her home—the sky!

VI

I will not say that thou art free
From thoughts which wring the tender heart:
The reflex of thy memory
May haply cause thy tears to start;
Thou art so full of mystery,
I will not scan thy history,
But let me speak that which I know:

If gentle in thy thoughts and deeds
Thou, having sown thy generous seeds,
Hast reaped in tears a crop of weeds,
Thou hast great comfort in thy woe!

VII

O'er countless wrongs the heart aggrieved,
In anguish for a space may brood;
But happy he, who hath received,
And not requited, ill for good!
The shining deeds by Virtue done,
(As through the tempest breaks the Sun)
Their rays through clouds of sorrow dart;
And, whatsoe'er thy griefs, I know
A thousand virtuous acts bestow
(Though breaking through thick mists of woe)
Their heavenly sunshine on thy heart.

VIII

But here I cease my minstrelsy,
Too fearful lest I miss my end;
And, tender heart, in wounding thee,
Against my better thought offend.
Thou hast no need of words from me,
For thine own soul's divinity

Can lift thee from the world below;
And, passing through thy upturned eyes
Into the regions of the skies,
Thy spirit can sublimely rise
Beyond the thoughts of earthly woe!

SONG.

The winds are lulled in perfect sleep,
The slumbering leaves they are not stirred,
And only from his covert deep
The nightingale's sweet note is heard;
He sings and trills, nor waiteth long
Ere from the hazel-copses nigh,
His happy mate her happiest song
Attunes into a sweet reply!

So answer, dearest! thou, nor wake
The echoes rudely to my ear,
Or this wild heart I feel will break
At sudden joy, to know thee near;
But softly sing that, through the trees,
Thy voice, before thee on the pad,
May reach me like a plaintive breeze,
And like a sigh that is not sad.

EPISTLE AD AMICUM.

Fair youth! to whom kind Fortune has assigned
A frame well fitted to thy graceful mind;
(Thy mind!—whose graver parts by all revered,
Whose gentler virtues are to all endeared!)
Thou! in whose happy nature rest combined
A serious judgment and a wit refined,
Grave when thy duty claims the soldier's part,
Prompt in the field and skilful in thy art:
Gay when the banquet crowns the circling board,
Quick with the sparkling jest and ready word—
All hail, my friend! may it through life be thine
To prosper, and to call thee “friend” be mine!

But say, my Cyril, tell the enquiring Muse,
(To one so courteous can thy lips refuse?)
What biting care, or what sore-wounding dart,
Hath pierced the tender surface of thy heart?
Caused thee to hang the head, to heave the sigh,
And fix thy languid gaze on vacancy?
To commune with thyself in serious mood,

To fly from all in search of Solitude?
Hath robbed thy cheek of all its native hue,
And set the lily where the rose once grew?
Hath sealed thy lips; where merriment once hung,
Hath set grave Silence on thy jocund tongue?

Still wilt thou not confess?—well, be it so!
Discretion wise all prudent lovers know:
Yet all in vain—what thou hast close concealed,
The observant Muse hath for herself revealed,
Tells thee “thou lov'st”—and in thy rash reply
Hears the low murmur of a gracious lie!
O! that the Muse might view the peerless fair,
Her virtues countless, and her beauty rare!
Soon should the groves her well-sung praise resound,
And echo, listening, catch the swelling sound;
While grateful gales the gentle song should bear,
In melodies of dreams to Cyril's ear!
But though thou dost ordain that none should know
The fair inflicter of thy pleasing woe,
And, selfish thus, the exclusive right dost claim
To hold the treasure of thy angel's name,
Yet may the Muse, though unendued with power
To paint the living beauties of the flower,
Tell, as she sails on Fancy's pinion free,
Not what she is, but what thy love should be!

Lo! on the margin of a crystal stream
Whose rippling waters—while the sunset's beam
Kisses the surface with its parting ray—
All sweetly warble to declining day,
A maiden stands!—the waters as they flow
Image her form reflected fair below,
And paint, with happiest imitative art,
Distinct the whole and each minuter part!
Ah! may the Muse, as fortunate as they,
Her faultless charms with equal truth portray!

Silent and motionless beside the stream,
Her soul all wrapt in some divinest dream,
Her every sense in trance ecstatic bound,
She stands unconscious of the scene around!
Loose o'er her limbs a folding drapery thrown,
Sits unconfined, save by a golden zone
Which circling clasps it round her slender waist;
(No modern maiden she, severely laced!)
And now behold! the kindly breezes blow
And lift the garment from that breast of snow,
More white than Parian marble! and the blue
Which streaks that white is of the harebell's hue;
With gentle undulations swells that breast,
As ocean heaves when storms are lulled to rest:
'Tis sweet to slumber rocked upon the deep,
But ah! 'twere rapture on such breast to sleep!

Her naked feet, so tiny and so fair,
Rest on the bank among the wild flowers there:
The flowers of every shape and every shade,
By Nature's hand in glittering hues arrayed,
Show like rare gems, through verdant mosses seen,
Cased in a setting of enamelled green;
But loveliest far of all the gems around
Are those small feet—like pearls, so smooth, so round!
As past the maid the waters wandering go,
They pause a space or e'er they forwards flow,
And, gliding to the bank with murmurs sweet,
They upwards leap and kiss her snowy feet,
Then fast retreating leave the verdant shore,
And onwards babble merrier than before!
But see! she moves—perchance her mind has caught
From out its musings some more happy thought,
Which prompts her thus to raise her downcast eyes
And lift them radiant to the ruddy skies!
Bright are those orbs as is the sapphire's blaze
Which shines resplendent with emitted rays;
Of equal fire, so of congenial hue,
Those eyes are bathed in clear crystalline blue;
The long-drawn lash which from the lid depends
A softening shadow to their lustre lends,
Tempers the fire which from beneath them darts,
And to their blue a deeper tint imparts.

Smooth is her brow! as yet remorseless Care,
With ruthless hand, hath ploughed no furrow there:
There bright Intelligence alone doth shine,
The god-like tenant of a throne divine!
Her cheek's pure tint is like the healthful glow
Which ripening blushes on the peach bestow;
Her lips are red as roses in their bloom,
And sweet as roses is her breath's perfume;
Her glossy hair, of dark luxuriant brown,
In rich profusion sweeps her form adown;
No silken fillets those long locks resist,
Which in thick clusters fall where'er they list;
No need has she Art's service to employ,
Art could not beautify, and might destroy,
Nature most richly, from her ample store,
Hath decked that head, and Art could do no more.
That fairy form, adorned by every grace!
The fascination of that saintlike face!
The perfect mould of that soft swelling breast,
The stamp of beauty on each limb impressed!
These who may sing? the trembling Muse surveys,
Glows as she sees, and knows not how to praise,
Beholds that form of symmetry divine,
And lacks the art its graces to define!
But ah! if this be Cyril's angel here,
Well is his love bestowed! “Fair youth, appear!”
Unnumbered voices rend the happy skies,

“Come, Cyril, come—and claim thy worthy prize:
“May the kind dews of Heaven fall from above,
“With richest blessings to anoint thy love!”
And now behold! fast fall the shades of Night,
And the fair vision fades before my sight;
One long, one lingering look!—the dream is o'er,
The spell dissolved, and I entranced no more!

My friend! for whom this simple lyre was strung,
If the fond Muse hath pleased thee as she sung,
And tuned her lay according to thy will,
Happy the Muse!—her votary happier still!

SONNET

TO LOUISA.

In the deep stillness of a summer even,
The noiseless death-hour of departing day!
Oftimes I haunt thy grave: the breeze from Heaven
Brings me thy voice—beside me lies thy clay!
A happy task! to watch thy lowly bed,
Peaceful, without a tear!—in earlier days,
I wept in torrents for that thou wast dead,
But now my love a calmer tribute pays!
Nursed by Affliction many a lengthened year,
My heart hath ceased to harbour vain regret,
But cherishes this thought—that thou art near,
And hoverest ever round thy brother yet!
I hear thy voice in every breeze that blows,
And intercourse with thine my happy spirit knows!

TO MINNA.

The lad, who holds his honour fast,
Writhes long beneath the scourging cane
In silence—but lets slip at last
A little stifled cry of pain:
And I—who hold this doctrine good,
That Silence oft reproveth best—
Send from an all-unwilling breast
A little murmur, long subdued!

Oh! rich in every charm that breathes
Enchantment on Love's plighted vows!
Oh! skilled to bind the sweetest wreaths
That ever crowned Love's happy brows!
How is't that petty Wrath destroys
So oft thy smile by frownlets crossed?
How is't thy sweet, sweet voice so oft
Doth vex my heart with wrangling noise?

“Truth by true love be not denied!”
(Thou answerest in a merry mood)

“And true is that reproach implied
“In thy low murmur long subdued;
“But love, if Love a changeling be,
“Now warm and kind, now cross and cool,
“Love follows but the golden rule
“Of pleasing by variety!

“Heaven's face, so fair, knows ceaseless change,
“And ceaseless change fair Ocean knows;
“Nature's fair voice delights to range,
“Each breeze a manifold music blows;
“All sights and sounds the Powers above
“Vouchsafe us vary, and are fair;
“And those same Powers, to make Love fair,
“Denied monotony to Love!”

Arch-sophist! jester! Thou for this
Shalt suffer, trust me, by and bye;
Trust me, I know a cruel kiss!
And thou shalt suffer by and bye;
Meanwhile the Muse, truth-loving Muse,
Hearing thy voice as she swept by,
Paused—and now prompts an apt reply,
Which gives to thee and Love your dues.

Wide-natured, manifold in change,
Eagle and nightingale and dove,

Endowed with voice of boundless range,
—The Powers who made him meant that Love,
Proud king, meek wretch, or merry loon,
Should chaunt a million airs divine;
They never meant that Love, like thine,
Should sometimes carol out of tune!

TO THE SAME.

Thy words imply that Love, which bides
In human breasts, perforce must know
A rise and fall, an ebb and flow,
As constant as the ocean-tides:

Be it so! with those whose petty cares
In narrow hearts have sown disease;
Dearest! thou art unlike to these,
Nor should thy love resemble theirs;

Be thy rare love like that sweet sea
Which, peerless, owns enchanted waves,
And in still beauty tideless laves
The happy shores of Italy.

NUNEHAM.

A FAREWELL.

As one who, wandering weary, faint with pain,
Across some desert plods his irksome way,
While, fierce from heaven, the burning eye of Day
Glares his full fervour on the herbless plain,—
Led by some spirit that guides his pathless feet,
Attains, surprised, some happy spot retired,
Where clustering boughs dispose a cool retreat:
Delicious shade appears!
Whispering of airs the charméd pilgrim hears,
And streams of babbling water, most desired
By fervid lips, make music in his ears;
Sweet thoughts of Peace, by calm content inspired,
Lap the bland soul in still delight, and throw
Th' oblivious veil upon her suffered woe:
As, prone beneath the pines,
Prone on the mossy, cool, umbrageous bank,
The wearied man reclines;
Nor sleeps unvisited by fancies fair
And visions of delight,

Which, uninvoked, his placid dream to grace,
The Genius of the place
Propitious leads before his trancéd sight;
And roused at length, when fall the shades of night,
Preparing sad to take his onward way,
Ere from that magic spot his steps depart,
On the smooth bole, whose branches wide dispread
O'ercanopied his head,
The happy date he carves with rudest art;
Uncouth memorial of one blissful day
Inscribed he leaves upon the graven rind,
Which, void of meaning to the stranger mind,
Well-pleased his eyes with fond regard survey;
And forth, with many a glance behind him sent,
He takes in peace his onward way content.

So I, retreating from this blissful scene,
Wherein the enchanting Genius of the place,
Gentle and fair, adorned by every grace,
Reigns of all frolic sports the festive Queen,—
Pause, ere I part, upon this page to trace
My tribute to a happy day declined;
Season to me of joy! wherein the mind,
Sheltered from burning thought and fears that scare
Peace from her threshold, here in peace reclined;
Reclined disburthened of her wonted care,
And, fed by fancies light,

Drained the full measure of unmixed delight,
Whereof these lines the faithful record bear.

To thee—bright Leader of the blithesome throng—
Whose graceful thought our jocund sports inspired,
Whose happy nature lent
Its Mirth to all, and taught this heart content,
Grateful, I dedicate an artless song;
And, passing from thy portal, pause to lay,
Such homage at thy feet as these frail verses may.

BRINDISI.

The wild wind whistles, sleet and rain,
Lashed downwards in a hurricane,
Beat loud the clattering, pattered pane,
But fair's the weather
To us, well housed, here met to drain
The bowl together!

The blustering storm shall not expel
Rare Mirth that means with us to dwell:
We'll hear without the fierce pell-mell,
And not sit surly:
But make mad noise within, to swell
The hurlyburly!

Come, John, my lackadaisic cousin,
Whom now some silly slut doth cozen,
Whimper not woe-begone because in
Love, nor fiercely sigh;
But drink—and hope to love a dozen
Or e'er you die!

Grave Sydney, whom the cares of State
Engage, in vain thou look'st sedate!
To-night thy wonted-wise debate
Shall turn to twaddle:
To-night thy brains belong to Fate,
Which shall them addle!

Who skulks behind the open door,
As loth to show?—'tis Willy More!
Come forth, best man that ever wore
An ugly feature!
Of God's best gifts thou lack'st not store,
Thou honest creature!

Come forth, the bowl is mantling high,
We'll drink the death of every lie,
The death of Cant until it die,
Drowned deep in wine;
We'll send the corpse to Curate Sly,
That sleek divine!

Let solemn knaves in hood and bands,
Let love-lorn youths with folded hands,
Let statesmen, monarchs—all the Grands
Sip tea with Sorrow!
We four with her have shaken hands
Until to-morrow!

My breath grows scant, my pulse beats low,
A sweet, sweet sound is gurgling slow;—
Pour, pour, man, pour the ruby flow
With hand unchary!
Our first draught to the lasses, O!
I drink to Sairey!

SONG.

TO BLANCHE.

When brightly dawns the enchantress, Morning,
From before her darkness flies,
She, the plains with dews adorning,
Fills the wood with harmonies!
When thou thy fairy face revealest,
Within my soul dark Sorrow dies,
These eyes with happy tears thou feedest,
And this heart with melodies!

TO LEONORA.

IN HER ALBUM.

Launched on the tide of life's tempestuous river,
Like an autumnal leaf cast on the wave
Of some wild restless brook—unknowing whither
The hurrying waters tend—I go to brave
The treacherous billows of a stormy world!
Oppression, Envy, and the sneers of Scorn,
Slander and Hate, their ample wings unfurl'd,
May fan to life a tempest yet unborn,
Before whose withering breath my frail bark driven
Shall struggle madly in the boiling surge,
With shiver'd sails and sides all widely riven,
Singing in groans its own unheeded dirge!

Thus, ere I go, I consecrate this page
A peaceful haven for my thoughts, where they,
In the brief pauses of the tempest's rage,
May on thy happy breast their heavy burthen lay;

Here, 'neath the steady beam of thy blue eye,
My soul shall oft communion hold with thine;
Hither the wounded Spirit often fly
To find a refuge in thy heart's pure shrine!

Enough! Farewell!—in the still hours of night,
When Sleep o'er earth extends her silent reign,
When the round moon and every star shines bright,
We oft shall meet—and part to meet again!

PHŒBE.

Fair, fickle Phœbe fired my heart,
And up sprung conflagration dire!
Red Jealousy was hatched, and screamed,
And flapped her wings and fanned the fire:

It burned so long!—it burned so strong!
I thought whole seas had failed to drench it;
Cool, with a cackle, rose Contempt—
She spat upon the flame and quenched it!

A FRAGMENT.

Bare of their gathered grain, the autumn fields
Sadden fond Memory—to whose eye they paint
The blank, waste Present, shorn of golden years
Now garner'd in the granaries of the Past;
And these look peace!—but peaceful not around
The Boreal bleak his boisterous course pursues,
Whirls through the boughs, and crops the shivering leaves
Which—saffron-dyed by time, or blighted black,
Or taken emerald-tinted—to the ground
Fall: like as when men's fluttering lives are reap'd
By Death's fell blast, they topple down decay'd
By age, or by the rude world's bitter breath
Untimely sered, or else yet verdant loosed
(By unseen Hands compassionate!) from care!

TO LYDIA.

As one who hears, against her will,
The echo of some sweetest strain,
Which will not cease, nor yet be plain,
But vaguely haunts her fancy still:

Who resteth not until she hear
Some voice which with fair skill awakes
The uncertain melody, and makes
It certain music to her ear;

So when in thy melodious heart
Vague thoughts and feelings echo fair,
Rest not—but to the Muse repair,
And she shall soothe thee by her art;

Tell her of vaguest sense of pain,
Of love, of joy, of hope or fear,
And she, in magic music clear,
Shall speak thy sweet thoughts back again!

A SIMILE.

A throned queen, listening the musical love
Of thronging multitudes, resembleth thee
Seated upon the waters, and above
Bearing thy bold brow, beautiful and free,
While at thy sovereign feet the subject Sea
Rolls—and vast multitudes of vocal waves,
With such strange din as Love and Liberty
Send from the wild hearts of new-franchised slaves,
Salute thy ear, and echo, Albion! through thy caves.

SONG.

I am far, far away, and the billows of Ocean
Divide me, belovéd, from thee;
I am far, far away—but the Spirit's devotion
Leaps o'er the broad waters to thee!
No bonds can controul
The passionate soul,
But away to its far home it flies!
The lark they may prison,
But her spirit hath risen
And soared to its own native skies!

And where is the haven for which my soul pineth?
Alone on thy fond, fond breast;
There often in fancy my Spirit reclineth,
And the restless is at rest!
To live for a while
In the hope of thy smile,
More full than the promise of May:
To forget this harsh life,
All the turmoil and strife,
And dream a short hour away!

Oh! strong is the magical spell of its power,
When Sympathy links heart to heart,
The hoarse winds may howl, and the tempest may lour,
Even Death shall not tear them apart;
For when, its bonds riven,
The soul flees to heaven,
And knows its more glorious birth:
By the night's tranquil beams,
In the music of dreams
Still it speaks to its kindred on earth!

Then think not, belovéd, because we are parted
I shall not be with thee this night:
We are two, single-souled: we are two, single-hearted:
Already my spirit takes flight!
I soar up on high,
I cleave the blue sky,
On the wings of wild fancy I flee:
And the winds lag behind
The swift swoop of my mind
Which flashes through darkness to thee!

FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.

As I each morning past thy dwelling,
Like some unrestful traveller, flit,
It glads my heart, O lovely maiden!
To see thee at the casement sit.

Thou seemest with thy dark-brown eyes
Me curiously to watch and scan;
“Who art thou? and what aileth thee?
Thou strange, forlorn, unhappy man!”

I am a German Poet, I!
Through German-land all-widely famed;
When men speak of their greatest men,
The name I bear is also named.

And that which aileth me, my girl,
Ails many a German heart untamed;
When men speak of their greatest woes,
The woe I feel is also named.

IDEM.

First Love, albeit a hapless passion,
He who feels it is a god!
But he who twice a hapless passion
Cherishes—he is a clod!

I, once again, a hapless passion
Cherish—what a clod am I!
Sun, Moon and Stars are laughing at me,
I laugh with them—and I die!

IDEM.

How canst thou lie sleeping so calmly,
And know that I still am alive?
My old passion returns, and the fetters
That hold me from thee will I rive!

Dost thou not remember the legend,
How once a deceased lover-knave
Came at midnight to visit the loved one,
And fetch'd her away to his grave?

Oh, believe me, my dearest and fairest,
Dearest love, fair asleep on thy bed,
I live, and am ten times as strong as
Twice ten lover-knaves that are dead!

IDEM.

To him, who much possesseth, shall be
Added more without delay;
From him, who little hath, that little
Shall be shortly ta'en away.

But supposing thou hast nothing—
Go, get thee gone into thy grave!
And know, O fool, that right of living
Those only have who something have.

FRAGMENT.

AN INVOCATION.

Come then, Celestial Power, whate'er thou art,
Sole, secret Mover of the poet's heart!
Pervade, great Spirit thou! my every sense,
Rain on me thy selectest influence!
I feel, I feel thy magic touch apply,
And my soul bounds elated, as on high
Springs the freed bird from her captivity.
Bear me aloft, thou Muse to whom 'tis given
To tread the star-paved palaces of heaven;
Nerve my young wing, instruct me how to rise,
Seize all my thought, and lift me to the skies!

TO OLIVIA.

When thy fair eyes upon me dwell,
A fever racks me, heart and brain;
I win the light I love too well,
I sit in torture with my gain!

When thy fair eyes are turn'd away,
Meek as the blind, my hands I cross;
I lose a light more dear than day,
I sit in stillness with my loss!

When thy fair eyes are closed, I find
In their eclipse both loss and gain:
Open, they look so sweetly kind,
Closed, they inflict no cruel pain!

MAUDE.

I folded my sweet little Maude in my arms,
And fondly I kissed and caressed her;
I gazed with delight on her manifold charms,
And close to my true heart I prest her;

And lo! of a sudden she sprung from her place
With a shriek, and ere I could spring after,
She folded her lily-white hands o'er her face,
And sobbed with hysterical laughter.

I fondled and soothed her and coaxed her in vain,
In vain I upbraided and scolded;
Then whisp'ring I woo'd her to tell me her pain,
And her lily-white hands I unfolded:

And wept when I saw that the tears she had shed
All o'er her sweet countenance trickled;
And laughed when at last, all in anger, she said,
“You know I can't bear to be tickled!”

A CHORAL ODE.

TO A CHILD.

Smooth and pleasant be the way!
And the lightly flying Hours
Strew your onward path with flowers,
As along Life's vale you stray!

But the thorns fall with the roses,
Which your footsteps shall perplex:
Nature thus her gifts disposes:
Part to pamper, part to vex!
Shall the smooth and glassy Ocean
Sleep for ever, lulled in rest?
Shall the Passion's roused emotion
Never shake the human breast?
But the thunder-clouds are shattered,
And the Tempest dies away;
When the nightly glooms are scattered,
Sweetly dawns the happier day!
Through Adversity and Sorrow,
Dawns the prosperous season bright:
And, we know, the blessed Morrow
Breaks upon the blackest night!

Thou, with gentle resignation,
Bow to Heaven's each wise decree:
There shall follow Compensation,
Large thy recompense shall be!
Go! by every joy attended
Which the human breast may know,
And our hopes and wishes blended
Follow wheresoe'er you go!

AGNES.

I heard her sing,
“I am forlorn, forlorn,
“The golden links are broken,
“And even the frailest token
“Of Love from me is torn!

“The slanderous asp, drawing near,
“Dropped venemous words in his ear,
“And my false love believed!
“Oh! love, thou art deceived!
“Ah! come thou back, restore my bliss,
“My heart for thee beats ever true,
“But like a flower which thirsts for dew,
“It withers for want of thy kiss!

“I followed him early, I followed him late,
“I uttered low plaint and he answered with hate,
“And, turning upon me, (ah! vainly I strove!)
“He forced from my finger the pledge of his love,
“And cursed me and left me alone on the shore:
“And he came not again, and he cometh no more:

“But I am left forlorn, forlorn,
“The golden links are broken,
“And even the frailest token
“Of Love from me is torn!”

Twelve Moons had rolled: I passed the self-same way,
She sang:

“With sleekest speech, with saint-like smile,
“He woo'd this simple heart too well!
“By his bland lips beguiled, alas!
“I loved him, and I fell!
“Forlorn and lost, in nameless pain,
“By Mis'ry taught, I know thee now:
“Traitor! flee me—flee in vain!
“My curse hath crossed thy brow.”

NECESSITY.

If Love all vigilant, my lost Kathleen!
(Love that around thee ever watched, unseen,)
Might from its course Death's cruel javelin turn,—
Thou hadst not now slept silent in thy shroud!
I had not wept upon thy holy urn!
But from on high proceeds the dread command,
And dire Necessity, with equal hand,
Slow as She moves, dispassionate and stern,
Alike unto the Gentle and the Proud,
Scatters the lot from her capacious urn!

THE DIRGE.

Kathleen sleeps silent on her lowly bed,
Fair by the stream that laves her native hill:
She sleeps—and nightly on her sacred head
The dews of Heaven their sweetest tears distil;
And, morn by morn, the rosy-bosomed hours,
To flood the world with light,
Lead up their King upon his chariot bright,
And wake the warbling birds and odorous flowers.
But her no more they wake!—though gladder none
Was wont to view the cheek of Morning rosed,
And gaze the glories of the risen Sun!
In vain, alas! the tears of Evening fall,
In vain the early breezes, as they sweep
Through the dark woodland, sigh, and from the spray,
Trilling their matins sweet, the wild bird's call!
For she no more upon the dawning Day,
Listening their joyous lay,
Shall bend her wistful eyes for ever closed:
Closed in the night of Death's long slumber deep,
But Angels wake to guard her dreamless sleep!

Refrain then, Muse! refrain, sad soul, to weep,
And to the vales no more, in dirges drear,
Lament Kathleen laid low!—She doth but sleep,
Stretched though she be upon her sable bier!
So on her couch the Hebrew maiden lay,
Nor spoke, nor stirred, nor drew the lightest breath,
Till the mild voice of Him who conquered Death
Oped the shut portals of her sullen ear,
And on her full orbs gushed the shining day:
So to the glories of ineffable Light,
She, who now sleeps in shades of thickest night,
Anon shall lift her Heaven-directed eyes;
Waked by the voice of Him who from afar
Summons His angels home, she shall arise,
And mount aloft, and through the riven skies
Soar to the City of the Morning-star!

THE COMPLAINT.

Wing, sacred Hours! wing swift your arrowy flight
From highest Heaven's unnamed, eternal throne,
And, through the silence of the vast Unknown,
Sweep the dark Future into present light!
Ye! who now reach your goal, and to the world,
Bearing new destinies, will brief appear,
I, watchful of your advent, seem to hear
The rustling of your rapid wings unfurled;
Come, with the measure of his Fate to each!
To one ye bear a blessing, and the breath
Of Life: to one the bane of bitter Death:
Ye bring the dying—dead December's bier,
For lo! with January you are here,
And in your bosom lies the baby-year.

Kathleen!—(a ceaseless dirge I sing!)—
Kathleen, thy seraph soul doth know
The New-year to my heart can bring
No comfort—only lengthened woe!

Unless from earth it set my Spirit free,
Void of thy Life it comes, and, void of Thee,
It may not mend the change thy loss hath wrought,
Nor from my fancy chase this bitter thought,—
That I no more, in this my black eclipse,
Shall see thee, hear thy voice, for ever mute!
Touch the rare riches of thy fragrant lips,
Nor even view their fair, forbidden fruit,
And contemplate the kiss I dare not cull!
Oh! World, shorn of thy lustre, dark and dull,
Dark grave, dull dungeon, dull, dark pit that holds
Me living, and entombs my dead desires,
What hateful thought thy sight abhorred inspires!
For ever unto me, left desolate here,
The mute, stoled hours a funeral march will lead,
Day unto day, and month to month succeed,
Bearing my dead Life forwards on a bier:
Void of all change of motion or of speed,
Through all the seasons of the joyless year!
Blow then, ye vernal breezes, and once more
Free the chilled Earth (less cold, less dead than I!)
From lifeless apathy;
Come, Spring! the plains and valleys to restore
To beauty: touch them with thy blessed feet!
While fair beneath thy smile the smitten flowers
(As erst my heart beneath a smile more sweet!)
Break into blossom round about thy bowers!

The air breathes love! the birds low carols sing,
In amorous pairs, on every happy spray!
Ah me! they serve, they only serve to sting
My heart with memory of those vernal hours,
When, plighting troth, we were as blest as they;
The nightingale loud trills his passionate lay!
Not wilder notes he sings than once I sung,
When loud and free, inspired by eager Love,
Thy name I chaunted through the merry grove,
And to thy praises all the woodland rung!
Annual to him his vernal note returns,
To woo a fresh mate under fresher skies,
But never more to these dull lips shall rise
The notes of my first passion, and my last!
Flown is my mate: my latest spring-tide past:
And past the voice of my once tender strains,
While in my heart eternal Winter reigns!

THE SIMILE.

Lo! in the fickle North fair blooms the Year!
Sweet as Kathleen's its summer smiles appear:
Ev'n in its prime, rude-nipped by Winter's breath,
Falls, like Kathleen, into the arms of Death!
On the fresh corpse the pitying skies bestow,
To veil the cold, cold limbs, a pall of snow:
Frost binds it in his adamantine chains,
And the bleak blast sweeps howling o'er the plains!
But soon the Sun with kindlier aspect beams,
The birds bid Spring awaken from her dreams,
O'er all the Land the mild infection creeps,
Morn sheds her tears: the rill, dissolving, weeps:
May strews the fields with many a floweret fair,
Ambrosial odours scent the genial air:
From every charm the girdle is unbound
And Nature reigns by naked beauty crowned!
So, from Death's wintry fangs Kathleen set free,
Springs from the tomb to Immortality!

Von jedem Reiz der Gürtel ist gelöst,
Und alles schöne zeigt sich mir entblöst.

Schiller.

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies my lost Kathleen!—a sinless name,
Too pure to pass the braggart lips of Fame!

THE LAY OF BRAGI.

[_]

NOTE.

Bragi is the God of Poetry; the Apollo of the Scandinavian Mythology. In the following poem he is introduced singing “the Death of Baldur.”

Baldur (the son of Odin, and the deified idea of Virtue and of Love) dreams that he shall die by an instrument of Nature. But the Gods of Walhalla impose an oath on all things in Heaven and upon Earth, which binds them never to injure his sacred person. All things are pledged, save only the sprouting Mistletoe, which Hertha (the spouse of Odin, and Mother to Baldur) hath contemptuously passed by. Lok (the Evil-Spirit) shapes it into a dart, and with subtle speech persuades Höder (brother to Baldur) to hurl the fatal weapon, and to effect the death of the most beloved among the Gods of Asgard.

The Myth of Baldur (says the Swedish Historian) represents the general dissolution of all things, as a consequence of the first God's death—the Death of Virtue and of Loveliness in the world.

I

My heart is sad, with heaviest care opprest,
My ardent soul is quenched by Sorrow now,
The life-spark glimmers feebly in my breast,
The dews of Death are gathering on my brow;—
Yet come my Harp—too long neglected, Thou!
Whose voice hath soothed me many a time before:
What! though my touch no longer can endow
The song with Inspiration!—yet once more
I would into thy own my soul's deep anguish pour.

II

Here let me sit amongst sequestered bowers
And, unmolested, tune my passionate lay;
Here, in these wilds where Solitude with flowers
Twines votive garlands for the brow of May;
To Her will I complain the livelong day,
Until she hearken to the boon I crave,
And those sweet wreaths, she twines so fresh and gay,

Shall be transferred from Beauty to the Brave,
And offerings culled for Spring shall hang on Baldur's grave.

III

The Warblers of the grove shall list my song,
Nor strive to imitate the plaintive tone;
Silent they sit, a melancholy throng!
To mourn a voice more joyous than their own:
Ah! not the music of his voice alone
But his sweet melody of Thought, which fed
Our minds with purest harmony, is flown:
Love, Hope, and Truth, and Charity lie dead—
The stream will cease to flow when dry the fountain-head.

IV

No more Walhalla's thousand joys beguile
The flagging hours, nor cheat the soul with bliss:
The very Land, dismantled of her smile,
Lies dark and cold in her great heaviness:
Even as the setting Sun is wont to dress
The cloud in borrowed radiance, which must die
When he withdraws—so Baldur's loveliness
Did beautify our Home, which now doth lie
A drear and desolate spot upon the darkened sky!

V

He stole upon my senses like a Dream
Peopled with happy thoughts—serene and mild!
More beautiful a vision ne'er, I deem,
Lit the touched features of the slumbering child!
Then—the vexed waking, strange, confused and wild—
Harsh voices grating on the startled ear:
Lo! the fair image all in ruins piled,
Which never more its beauteous form may rear,
But Memory yet shall bid the mimic show appear.

VI

Once more, once more, he steals upon my sight,
But faint and indistinct the vision glows,
Like new-born Spring which creeps into the light
But half-revealed—an undeveloped rose:
More palpable the form of Beauty grows,
The winds have caught the cloud which o'er him lowers,
The mists dissolving all his charms disclose:
He comes, He comes along the vale—the flowers
Beneath his footsteps spring, and grace the happy bowers.

VII

Even so in life he walked blest Asgard's grove,
A gentle Being, magically fair,
And little deemed the fatal Sisters wove
For him the meshy web of black despair;
But in his slumbers, through the midnight air,
Dread Hela's voice struck wildly on his ear,
And storms swept past, until his troubled hair
Stirred with his dreams, and his frame shook with fear,
As through the gloom was borne his own blood-spotted bier.

VIII

Then soon, where raised upon his glittering throne
Great Odin sits beneath the roof of gold,
Beside the sire reclined the gentle son,
And in a soft lament his vision told;—
Uprose the King of Gods, and frantic rolled
The glowing orbs of his majestic eyes,
As with a mighty voice he bade unfold
Walhalla's doors, and summoned all the skies,
In general synod met, their counsel to advise.

IX

And thus did they decree—“In every sphere
All Nature, Nature animate and dead,
Shall swear an oath our Baldur to revere,
And guard the sacred honours of his head.”
Then far and wide the Gods immediate fled
From all Creation to exact the vow,
And to her realm of Earth fair Hertha sped,
She came—she paused—a smile unbent her brow:
So passed she on and left unpledged the fatal bough!

X

The hawk's glance keenly sweeps along the sky:
Perchance the bramble screens the wily snake:
But through all space pierces the Evil eye,
And crafty Malice lurks 'neath every brake—
Lok, from his covert ambush, stole to take
The leafy prize, while she her Heavenly flight,
Unconscious, winged—and sought him for whose sake
She left her home: cheered by the hopeful sight,
He, happy, smiled, and all forgot the dreams of night.

XI

Oh! blest Forgetfulness! the passions swoon,
And fret no more the heart possessed by thee,
Thou, like a cloud spreading athwart the noon,
Veilest the burning sun of Memory;
And on the heart which droopeth heavily
(Welcome as Evening to the sun-parched rose)
Sheddest the dews of soothing Melancholy,
Till, wrapped in sweet oblivion of all woes,
It rests beneath thy shadow in profound repose.

XII

The Shepherd sleeps beneath the branching tree,
While upon high the storm is gathering;
The bird pours forth its carol blithe and free,
While o'er its head the hawk is hovering;
From Baldur's breast Terror had taken wing,
The memories of his dream had died away,
And Peace arose, upon his path to fling
Her thousand sweets, all redolent of May—
Then burst the storm: then stooped the treacherous bird of prey!

XIII

Thou cursed and envious Spirit!—Oh how foul
Smells the rank deed by treacherous Malice done!
“The falcon hawked at by the mousing owl,”
Virtue by Vice hurled headlong from her throne!
Now to the rocks fast-fettered thou dost groan,
While the fell snake distils his venom slow:
Thus for thy damning crimes shalt thou atone,
Who urged a brother's hand to deal the blow
Which crushed the voice of Truth, and laid Love's image low.

XIV

I stood beside his gentle corse, and wept:
The amorous wind was stirring round his head,
And o'er his brow and lifeless features crept,
As seeking for the Spirit which had fled!
Then heard I a soft voice which moaned and said,
“Virtue hath fallen from the desolate sky!
“The wise, the good, the beautiful is dead!
“Life bound us in one common bond—Oh why
“Should Death tear us asunder?—with him let me die!”

XV

She pressed his bloodless lips unto her own,
She brooked few words of solace or relief,
But with an ever low, continuous moan,
O'er her dead hopes she poured the dirge of grief:
And her frame quivered like an aspen-leaf
Ere the wind shiver it from off the spray:
And lo! a little while—such pangs are brief—
By the snapped rose, the broken lily lay:
Twined in the arms of Death, how beautiful were they!

XVI

The stars of Heaven had faded from their place,
None left of all the many twinkling throng!
The pale Moon hid her melancholy face,
No more did beauty to the Night belong;
The Nightingale forgot to tune her song,
Hushed were the waters of the billowy Ocean,
And, as the hours crept noiselessly along,
Silence whose eloquence, in mute devotion,
Transcends the voice of grief, spake Nature's deep emotion.

XVII

Great Nature, inconsolable, laments:
And like some maiden whose dishevelled hair,
In her great grief, sweeps o'er her lineaments,
Her loveliness is veiled in her despair;
Yet vainly doth she weep, since nought may tear
Our Baldur from dread Mistheim's fetid womb,
Till Time, progressive, all things shall prepare,
And God, the Everlasting, through the gloom
Shall lift his voice and speak the universal doom.

XVIII

Behold! even now 'tis here—round Hydrazil
The winds lie stagnant, yet its branches wave:
The portents are displayed, all things fulfil
Their end—ere long we drop into the grave;
My song hath ceased, yet this last boon I crave,
Since Baldur lives when I no more shall be,
May the kind echoes of some listening cave,
Surviving, say, “His latest melody
“Was dedicate to Love, to Virtue, and to Thee!”

XIX

'Tis done—all Nature groans and cries, 'tis done!
The trumpet sounds, the signal peal is given:
Marred at one potent stroke, the glorious Sun
Shapeless and black and blasted falls from Heaven;
Athwart the gloom the storms of Hel are driven,
The Royal Eagle screams in his distress:
The flames leap up, the seared skies are riven,
The fiery serpents all around me hiss,
The Gulf yawns wide—I sink through the immense abyss!

Epilogue.

Entranced, I heard this song; with sudden shock
I woke, and saw the Moon's pale, placid beam
Looking upon me, as it were to mock
The turbulence of thought that closed my dream;
And long I pondered on the stirring theme,
The fabric of an idol-faith forsooth!
Yet fanciful and lofty: nay, I deem,
Albeit Error heaped with hand uncouth
The shapeless Pile, She built upon the rock of Truth.

Virtue's sweet voice attunes the human soul,
Like a stringed lyre, to exquisite melody:
Her voice, where Life's tempestuous waters roll,
Whispers from Heaven to still the raging sea;
Shall then her Music fail? oh, can it be!
Heaven-born and Heaven-directed, She we know,
Her task fulfilled, shall wing by God's decree
Her Heavenly flight, and leave the world below,
No more by Her illumed, to darkness and to woe!

She to her Father's bosom shall return,
And, when at last the mighty Trump doth sound,
There, like a star, immortal will she burn,
The beauty of her radiance raying round;
Where Faith shrinks back, Error o'erleaps the bound
Of human prescience fixed by God's just laws,
And many a joy, with boldest license crowned,
She from Imagination vainly draws
To picture Heaven. Frail Fancy! know thyself—and pause!

Hela, the Goddess of Death.

Nanna, the spouse of Baldur, perished broken-hearted at his death.

The abode of the Goddess of Death.

The great Ash-tree on which the world was hung.

He was to rise and reign in Gimli, the new Heaven.

The Royal Eagle, which perched upon the throne of Odin.

JERUSALEM.

I

Oh! might that Muse which taught the Prophet-King,
In days of yore, to wake the ecstatic lyre
For thee, O Salem, move me while I sing;
My mortal lips touch with immortal fire,
And in fit strains the solemn theme inspire!—
It may not be. To such high majesty
Of song, oh! never more shall man aspire;
For she hath fled—(who taught that minstrelsy,
Sublimest Muse!)—hath fled back to her native sky.

100

II

A wanderer from Heaven's seraphic throng,
She came—instructress of God's perfect Will;
Forth from her lips outburst th' immortal song,
Which distance weakens not, nor Time shall still:
Valley to valley answers, hill to hill
Responsive echoes—with the rolling years
Growing, that mighty voice all space shall fill;
Heard latest, when, descending through the spheres,
With multitude of sound, the Lord of Hosts appears.

III

Such strains to hymn, no more to man is given,
Past those bright glories of the Poet's art!
But still (great boon of all-indulgent Heaven)
To ease the burthen of Life's grievous part,
The Muse's spirit in the human heart
(Absorbing its humanity) still dwells;
Strange beauty to man's Being she doth impart,
And, where so much deters, him most impels
To draw th' inspiring draught from Truth's eternal wells.

101

IV

So come, best loved! (thyself enamoured most
Of all things holy, beautiful, and good),
Thou guide and teacher, of whose care I boast,
Come, in thy wisely-meditative mood,
Approach and visit my heart's solitude!
Oh, lift my thoughts from this dull earth below,
Each gross idea from my mind exclude,
And, as I ponder o'er Judæa's woe,
Teach me in all Heaven's works its providence to know.

V

Favoured of Heaven, once Israel's chosen band
Its Laws observed, and all its mercies knew;
Fair spread the Vine by God's own bounteous Hand,
Planted, and reared, and fed with heavenly dew;
Green o'er the branch the clustering foliage grew,
The vigorous stem put forth the tender shoot;
But, when the stately growth was fair to view,
The Lord, in wrath, beheld th' ungenerous fruit,
And from the living soil uptare the thankless root.

102

VI

But first how oft forbore! th' avenging rod
How oft restraining through unnumbered years!
While Israel still defied the living God,
His word despised and mocked his holy Seers;
At first he fed them with the bread of tears,
And ministered a cup of deadly wine;
But when His Son's death-cry smote on His ears,
Then did He break the hedge around His Vine,
And to the Gentile's wrath His pleasant plant resign.

VII

Fair rose the Sun above Judæa's hills,
And all the heights were stained with purple day;
No sound was heard save of the warbling rills,
Or birds which piped their matins from the spray;
And bathed in light the tranquil city lay.
Even as a child which sleeps a happy sleep,
While the fell eagles, hovering o'er their prey,
In eddying circles round its cradle sweep—
So seemed th' unconscious City lapped in slumber deep!

103

VIII

And in the solitude of that sweet hour,
When all the plains, with Morning's tears bedewed,
Smiled peacefully, and Nature's mystic power
Informed with stillness mountain, vale, and wood:
On Olivet alone the Roman stood.
Touched was his soul, as fair beneath outspread
Salem in passive loveliness he viewed;
In silent rapture long his thought he fed
On that bright spectacle—then spake at length, and said:

IX

“Thou glorious City! Though Cæsar's heart be cold—
“(Schooled by severe Philosophy to still
“All passion)—not unmoved doth he behold
“The beauty of thy vale-encircled hill!
“Ah, fear not! He, his mission to fulfil,
“Judæa's factious people shall enthral,
“And bind obedience to Rome's sovran will:
“But, hear it heaven, all-judging Jove I call,
“Never by Cæsar's hand shall yon fair City fall!”

104

X

The lightning of God's Word hath clov'n the heaven,
The thunder of His wrath is muttering low,
And who, when the everlasting vault is riven
And cloud to cloud reflects the livid glow,
Shall ward the bolt of vengeance from the foe?—
Vain man, and impotent, 'tis not for thee
To spare what God has destined to o'erthrow;
Nor, should the Lord revoke His just decree,
Could all thy might achieve Judah's captivity:

XI

Soon should that hand which 'whelmed th' Egyptian's pride,
Fell'd the Philistine, and th' Assyrians slew,
Forth stretching sweep thy vaunted power aside,
And Rome her legionary host should view
Scattered like leaves which roaring tempests strew.
But Salem's doom is fixed—nor thou recoil
From that which Heaven appointeth thee to do;
'Tis thine to fire, to ravage, and despoil:
Be mercy then forgot,—move, Roman, to thy toil.

105

XII

Lo! Darkness reigns—no solitary star
Pierces with feeble ray the horrent gloom;
The watch-fires, gleaming on white tents afar,
Flit, in the gust, like spirits o'er a tomb;
And Night with Silence, childlike, in her womb
Broods above Sion. Hark! a sudden cry
Rends heaven—a marvellous glory doth illume
The flaming firmament, and from the sky
Come shrieks of death and woe, with shouts of victory.

XIII

Behold! the glowing clouds are riv'n asunder,
And backward roll in waves of surging light,
And as the chasm yawns wide, with sound of thunder,
Unearthly warriors, blent in fiercest fight
Round mighty cities, burst upon the sight—
A moment, and 'tis gone; but from below
A cry springs upwards through the gloom of night:
“On every side the warning voices grow,
“Woe to Jerusalem, to all her people woe!”

106

XIV

Look up, sad City! often on thy ears
The woe-prophetic song hath fall'n in vain;
It boots not now to listen—through thy tears,
Lift thy wan eyes and view thy ravaged plain;
Oh, loveliest once! behold with many a stain
How have they spoiled the beauty of thy pride!
Prophetic now no more the woeful strain,
For now, even now, the Gentiles, circling wide,
“Compass thee round, and close thee in on every side.”

XV

But though, without, thou view'st the Legions close,
More fearful sight thine eyes reversed survey:
Murder and Famine (these thy deadliest foes)
Howlthrough thy streets, contending for the prey,
And Pestilence still meets them on the way;
There, melancholy Madness droops alone:
Here, Frenzy prompts th' unnatural hand to slay,
While even the Mother's heart is turned to stone:
And black Despair and Death reign on one common throne.

107

XVI

And all the air echoes discordant yells,
The tyrant's cursing, or the sufferer's shriek;—
But hark! what sound!—a solemn thunder swells
Within the Temple—Angel voices speak!
The multitude look up, blanched every cheek!
A fearful hope lives in each fluttering heart,
‘God comes His vengeance on the foe to wreak.’
Untouched, the glowing gates asunder start,
And, issuing forth with light, a cry—“Let us depart!”

XVII

He (whom the Heaven of Heavens might not contain)
Who dwelt in Sion, hath gone up on high;
Shall heathen gods his Holy House profane?
“Save, save the Temple!”—Lo! unto that cry
Forth leap the flames in fearful mockery;
In one vast blaze they lap the fabric round,
And with fork'd tongues ascend the fiery sky;
All heaven and earth a mighty crash resound,
And dread Jehovah's fane lies level with the ground!

108

XVIII

'Tis done. Where once triumphantly she stood,
Lo! ruined Salem lies, a smouldering heap;
“On us and on our children rest His blood!”
There, by her side, her gore-stained children sleep,
Or, captives, o'er her ashes wail and weep.
But, ever mindful of His own, the Lord
Amidst the faithless knew his faithful sheep,
Revealed in Heaven the starry flaming sword,
And led His chosen forth to spread th' Eternal Word.

XIX

But come thou forth, whose terror-dealing hand
Hath spread this ravage o'er the wasted plain;
How art thou mocked!—the desolating brand,
Kindling the flames which thou might'st not restrain,
Hath balked thee of thy prize and rendered vain
The doubtful pity of thy stoic breast;
Yea! the vast ruins of that mighty fane
(Which Heaven from thy reluctant grasp did wrest)
Thine impotence of will, and not thy power, attest.

109

XX

Go thou to Rome to lead thy glittering show,
Let Pomp and Pageantry thy deeds requite!
Eternal Rome!—Ah! little dost thou know
How brief her Glory and how frail her Might!
The Lord on high hath spoken;—In His sight,
As fade nocturnal visions from the eyes,
Shall all her foes dissolve in endless night;
While, from the dust, Jerusalem shall rise
To flood with holiest Light the new-created skies!

113

DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. Abbreviations are as follows:

For Isab. read Isabel;
For Flor. read Florian.

Scene: A Garden.
(Enter Isabel.)
Isab.
(alone)
How close the pent, parched air is! and how dull
The face of Heaven that to my lonely Spirit
Lends its sad, leaden hue! Strange stillness broods
Above the swooning Earth: a Solitude
Sits on each living creature, and shuts up
Bird, flower, and leaf within itself to feed
On its lone thoughts, and all fair things appear,
Like Isabel, abandoned. Coy, light leaves,
That now in inarticulate sadness droop,
Wait but the whisper of the wooing wind
To flutter into music; here the lake
Presents its fair face, but no zephyr comes
To kiss it into dimples, and the rose
Sighs out its little scented soul, and lacks
A breeze to drink its fragrance and take off

114

The liquid sweet that hangs upon its lip:
While I, more sad, more lonely sad than these,
Droop, like a lily overcharged with tears,
And scarcely live till Florian come to bring
Life to my spirit, sunshine to my soul,
Peace to my heart, and joy to everything.
Oh! ye dull Hours,
That fly too fleet for life, the Happy say,
That fly too slow for Sorrow, and forget
To fly when Sorrow sits with eager Love,—
Why bring ye not my Florian to these arms?
Why doth he linger like the laggard Winds
And leave, as they the rose, his Isabel
To waste her soul in unrequited sighs?
Cheat me no longer—

(Voice in the distance.)
Isabel,

Isab.
Hark, hark,
Methought I heard his voice!—still, my fond heart,
It is not he, believe it is not he,
Lest from the summit of expectant Hope
Thou be again dashed down. I will not turn
Lest I should see, and hate, some other man,
And that might be my brother!

(Enter Florian.)
Flor.
Isabel!

Isab.
Dear God! in very truth 'tis he, my Florian!
So, in thy presence all my craven fears,

115

Disordered, take to flight: come to me, love,
And drive my melancholy after them.

Flor.
Thy melancholy!—where residesit, sweet?
I would it lay upon thy perfect lips
Thence with this chaste kiss to be chased away.

Isab.
I think it dwells indeed upon my lips,
Or in some outward part of me not proof
Against the witchery of thy look and touch,
Since in thy sight it faints, and quite expires
Beneath the pressure of this magic hand.
Come let me lay my head upon thy breast,
And while one ear takes in thy silver speech,
The other, pillowed on thy heart, shall hearken
If it beat still true music. Speak, dear lips,—
What tidings do they bring?

Flor.
Strange tidings, truly,
Which tell how this my heart, sent forth in tune,
Hath uttered barbarous dissonance since the hour
It parted from thee, but that now it beats
Once more a palpitating melody.

Isab.
Well, well, I do believe thee, and my hope
Fathers the fond belief;—but now disclose
The graver tale thou bearest with thee; speak,
State secrets I must learn.

Flor.
Well, thou shalt learn
State secrets, but my heart be still the state;
Light, tremulous creatures plied their fairy skill

116

Upon it, played with it amorously and strove,
Full many a busy hour and day, to draw
A thrilling tone responsive from its cords
Of manifold vibration—but in vain:
My heart or silence kept or, as I said,
Uttered harsh discord, and it seems that thou,
Cunningest artist of the world, alone
Canst touch it into music!

Isab.
Nay, nay, Florian,
This is ill jesting; sooner might I fear
That Earth should break her orbit and run riot
In Heaven, than fear that thy great, noble spirit
Could lightly wander from the thing it loves;
And this thou knowest—wherefore doth thy tongue
So lightly gambol from a graver theme,
Leaving untold those tidings which concern
Our Country's welfare and, through it, our peace,
As lovers and as loving citizens?
What ails thee, Florian? wherefore dost look down
So gaily on me, and with feverish mirth,
That seemeth scarce akin to happiness,
Smile down my earnest words—is all not well?

Flor.
All's well, my flower!

Isab.
And now I do remember,
Evenwhile, as thou cam'st to me, did I mark
A boisterous and unnatural gaiety,
Which, like a flaunting and false-favoured garment

117

Not suited to its wearer, ill became thee.
Oh! my fair Florian, prythee look more grave,
Do what thou wilt but smile; I fear thou bearest
Ill tidings that thou seem'st so wanton merry;
Say, is it so?

Flor.
Lynx-eyed! all masks are vain;
Transparent as they are to thy keen vision,
They but befool their wearer; thou hast pierced
My poor disguisement, and thy hawk-like glance
Hath spied the timid thought that in my breast
Nestled and crouched before thee. Wilt thou now,
Self torturer, with bird-like rashness stoop
And pounce upon a secret which may slay thee?

Isab.
Each little moment of thy silence heaps
More weight upon my heart than words can do,
So they but speak of woes to be endured
Through, by thee, with thee, and for thy dear sake.
Fear me not, Florian!

Flor.
From the court I come.
All night the Council of the State hath sat
Weighing the import of that haught reply
Returned by our fierce neighbour, Claudio,
Unto the King's late Embassage;—They find it
Mere froth of words and mouthing insolence
Wherein that stiff-necked Monarch doth abate
Nor jot nor tittle of his gross demands.
Fox-like, in circumambulating speech

118

Oozing with oily sentiment, he masks
His crafty course, and sidling through a maze
Of witless proverbs, on a sudden comes
Shear to his point—requiring that our King
(Whose office is to serve the State he rules)
Should trample on his country, should crush down
Her energies and sap her very life;
For this, no less, would he achieve if, servile
To the low bidding of this bastard mind,
He stretched a foresworn hand and, taking back
The compact with his people made, should set
A lawless foot upon the neck of slaves;
So, should he strangle his poor State, and prove
A parricidal and a perjured king,
Than whose dark, double crime none smells more rank,
Nor blacker shows before the face of God!
At break of day the Council rose, decreeing
Immediate war—and war hath been declared.

Isab.
War!—oh, ye heavenly powers, let this be all
A mocking dream, and let me wake to Peace,
Peace to my heart, and to the world. Oh! Florian,
Take back that cruel, dark, detested word,
And with it cancel all the hideous thoughts,
That in my mind upon its bloody train
Attendant wait—a legion of red woes!

119

Flor.
That must I not, whose voice first cried for war
Before the Council, and whose indignation
Burns for the chastisement of that proud knave
Who would drag down to his unworthy level
The King, my father—would reduce our State
To one as frail, decrepit and unhappy
As that which he misrules: How poor and mean
And miserable is that Land, despite
The pomp and pageantry of its vain King,
His teeming wealth, his mercenary hordes,
Bloat masses of corrupted soldiery,
Whereby he reigns, having crushed and trodden out
The spirit of his people. This it is
Which makes his kingdom mean and miserable,
While our's, free, happy, flourishing unchecked
In the pursuit of commerce and the arts,
He hates, and, envious, demands our King
To make it as his own. One rebel joins
With eagerness ten rebels, and ten tyrants
Move heaven and earth,—yea, and the darker Powers,
To gain one to their side; for fellowship
Is sweet in evil: the which knowledge makes
All villains find their comfort in the thought
That Hell is populous. So did I speak
Before the Council, or to this effect,

120

And then, as now, my voice was raised for War;
Knowing that mighty engine, though it bring
Calamities, disaster, and dismay,
Through seeming evil may attain to good,
Used in a righteous cause.

Isab.
How is't that Man,
Wearing the likeness of his heavenly Maker,
Dowered with the god-like attributes of Sense,
Reason, and Conscience and articulate Speech,—
At the first kindling of an angry thought
Drops his divinity, and likest shows
To fiend or fury in his rabid wrath!
Then blood alone can slake his hellish thirst,
And with his fellow man, unnatural foe,
Crowded in bestial battle, fierce as wolf
Or fiercer tiger in his brutal rage,
He takes his fill of slaughter: then besmeared,
Reeking with Murder, from the bloody kennel
Shameless he stalks before the savage crowd
That shouts him Glory;—and for this, for Glory,
Or, as I think, only from lust of blood,
Man, with the surging passion in him, keeps
Aloof from mother, sister, children, wife,
And slinks away to slaughter; or if these
Bar, with their acclamations and wild tears,
His passage—yea, though wife and children hang
Upon him, and the very babes, that cling

121

With babbling noise about his knees, impede
His way and bloody purpose—not from them
Shall he learn grace, nor pity from their dumb cries;
But by the thing he loves, if man can love,
By the slight thing he thinks to love he passes,
Harder than the cold steel which doth encase him,
To gory, glorious war. I marvel, Florian,
To see you here; wherefore, when your ears ring
With shouts of beauteous battle, and your nostrils
Sniff the rich pastime, wherefore are you come
To be importuned with a woman's tears?
Now go, go, chivalrous man, or while you dally
Perchance the merry clarion blows, and Murder
Shall miss you in her ranks, and you shall miss
Glory, more dear than any love of woman.
I will not bid thee stay: I will not tell thee
Of those high souls and true who have despised
The rabble's scorn, and, singular in virtue,
Unto the seraph Peace have clung, have served her,
Preached and proclaimed her blessed truths unmoved
By roar of human blood-hounds howling war—
I will not speak to thee of these, nor bid thee,
If popular scorn so scare thy soul, take flight
Unto some farthest end of the fair Earth,
And there, with some one whom thou lov'st, create
Perpetual summer of two happy lives

122

By Love's sweet offices—pardon me, I am
A fond and foolish woman who loves Peace,
Virtue and every gentle thing, and once
I thought mankind had hearts.

Flor.
Oh! yet believe it:
If in the secret chambers of his breast
To hold one woman-thought which, like a sun,
Diffuses life, light, warmth through all his Being,
The central glory in him, around which
Circle the constellations of his thoughts,
And all his lighter fancies and fond dreams
Cluster and round about it swarm, as bees
About a flower—Oh! if to fold within him
Such thought which is itself his very soul;
If this be love—then man can love, believe it,
And Florian is not heartless. Isabel!
Thou know'st I love thee; hope not, never think
That I would soil that love, which is my life,
By an unworthy act. What lot were mine,
What deep damnation of eternal shame,
If, while my King, my father, and my country,
Kinsmen and friends and all the great of soul
Fight, and in bloody battle die, for Right,
For Liberty, and in Truth's high cause—I,
A recreant villain and a craven slave,
A coward and a fugitive, accursed
Of God, despised of man, self-scorned, and scouted

123

By every noble woman, should live soft,
Sipping the honied breath of amorous sighs,
And take my pastime in the fields of Love!
Say, would'st thou see me thus?

Isab.
Heaven's light'ning scathe
These eyes, ere I behold it!

Flor.
Ay! and perchance
Defeat awaits my father and the cause
Wherein he fights, and oh! what life were mine
Should I behold my country vanquished, crushed
Beneath the Oppressor, spiritless and dead,
And the veiled form of Her who cannot die,
Immortal Liberty, pass from our shore,
Dishonoured and deserted, weeping tears
Of blood upon the ruins of her shrine—
Might I see this, and see myself alive
Longer than it takes time to sheathe a dagger
In a slave's sickly heart?

Isab.
Oh! pardon me,
Pardon my foolish words, pardon the weakness
Of a fond girl who uttered them in love,
And recked not what she spoke.

Flor.
Fairest! I knew
Thy noble nature never could rebel
'Gainst Truth and Duty's dictates; and for Peace,
Be still her friend as I her champion am;
There let her reign wherever reasoning man,

124

By use of God-like instincts, can rebuke
Injustice, rapine, wrong, and heal the breach
Of wounded Honour, levying war alone
Against the wolf and tiger; but there be
Tigers and wolves that do infest this earth,
Savagest natures, human in their form
Of intellect though bestial; when these rage,
To brute sense, wherewith Reason cannot cope,
Brute force must be opposed in Truth's high cause.
But see where issuing through his western gate
The Sun departs—slowly, as one who loathes
To leave the thing he loves. Oh! my sweet Saint,
Gentle dispenser of my every good,
Crown of my manhood, my sole Isabel,
Loved more than life and only worshipped less
Than Truth and Duty, fare thee, sweetest, well!
The troops march on the border, in his camp
My father doth await me, and I go.
So let me kiss thee, sweet, and from the kindness
Of thy pure, blushing, odorous lips receive
My dearest blessing!

Isab.
Take it and breathe down
Upon me from the great deeps of thy soul
That love whereon I live; and now delay not,
Go, and believe that Isabel's strong prayer
Shall win from infinite God the crowned success
Of thee and of thy cause; and thou shalt come

125

Ere long a Victor to these eager arms
Which shall encircle, fetter, and enthral thee
Never to loose thee more!

Flor.
That thought shall lend
Fresh courage to my soul, and shall invest
With superhuman strength the arm I raise
For thee and with thy prayer. Farewell, farewell!

[Exit.
Isab.
(alone)
Go Florian, and go Isabel!—for here,
To die ten thousand paltry deaths a day,
Ten thousand deaths of anguish and of fear,
Despair, suspense and doubt—shall I remain?
Forfend it, oh, my soul!—and be ye keen,
My woman-wits, about me: in an hour
Unsex me, and to every human eye
Convert me straight into a gallant page;
His high-souled purpose leads him to the wars,
And in the train of Florian shall he go!

[Exit.

127

SONNET.

WELLINGTON.

Eastward (up-rising Sun!) was first unfurled
That dawning Genius whose great Noon, forth sweeping
Cloudracks of Terror, Gloom, and Woe, blood-weeping,
Rayed down calm Peace upon a storm-lashed world!
Stedfast he held his high course, star-impearled
By Truth's fair lights, the path of Duty keeping:
And when from France her fiery comet, sweeping
O'er Earth, athwart his burning track was hurled—
As meteors fade before the undying sun,
So before Him, Truth's Light and blazing power,
Paled that licentious Lie of Gallic breath!
Saviour of Liberty, if not her son,
He yields, the mighty unto mightier Death,
And the world darkens in his dying hour!

128

SHELLEY'S GRAVE.

Come, weave the chaplet of a wreathéd song
To hang upon the grave of him who died,
Himself the soul of song. He did not die,
But, all too soon, cracking his chrysalis
Of earth's vile crust, ascended from our eyes;
On the strong pennons of his fiery Thought,
A winged Glory through the Universe
He flew, and, fading from our feeble gaze,
Swept to his immortality. But come,
Weave a grave offering, and let it be
A coronal of music, not of bays;
A coronal of sad sounds meet to mourn
His voice, who taught the latter world to sing.
Oh! therefore, to impregn our dull, dumb lips
With melodies of woe, to wake the lute
Most musical of grief, thee, sacred Muse,
Thee we invoke, unseen,—where'er thou dwellest,
Whether on the Delphic steep sublime,
Fabled Earth's central height, and by the waves
Of Castaly that lave thy hallowed feet;
Or whether Thou, to no straight region bound,

129

Fair through the boundless Universe of God,
Thy Maker, movest spiritually free;
Or yet, as some conjecture, in the heart
Of man, thy seldom sanctuary, though sole,
Abidest—thee we hail and do invoke
Thy heavenly voice, propitious to our song.
Lead Thou our choral harmony and teach
The dirge in melting melodies to weep.

She hath not heard: she cometh not: no string
Quivers, no lip is stirred, and not a sound
Ruffles the calm of Sorrow's waveless deep!
Go, then, ye noble-hearted, true of soul,
Who with sad vagrant steps, in pilgrim bands,
Haunt this grave-garden, whose wild beauty made
Our lost one amorous of Death—depart
In stillness; here, let no frail hand awake
An unimmortal harp; let not the shepherd
Pipe his shrill note, nor meaner minstrel fling
Poor, piteous flowers of dying song to shame
The grave of buried Music. Here let Silence
(Melodious among mourners since the hour
Shelley espoused her in the grave)—let her
Tend undisturbed upon his hallowed rest,
Till some high Muse immortal shall draw nigh,
Fitly to sing of him who wept the dirge
Of Adonais. Silent let us go!

130

LA FILEUSE.

I

Whirl, whirl fleet wheel your ringing round
Beneath my keen foot's rapid tread;
Your changeless circle swiftly sweep,
And twist the ever length'ning thread;
While fierce beneath my beating heart
That throbs, o'erwrought with pain and strife,
The swift blood, whirling through my veins,
Spins out the thread of weary Life.

II

Whirl, whirl, fleet wheel, and while you whirl
Beneath my keen foot's rapid tread,
A thousand filaments enwreathe
To swell the ever-growing thread;
And so beneath my beating heart
A thousand broken memories move,
A thousand tangled thoughts entwine
To twist the cord of hopeless Love.

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III

Now sinks the Day-Star to his rest,
The wheel shall cease its circling sweep,
The weary foot forego its toil,
The thread upon the spindle sleep;
Oh! that with these my breaking heart
Might cease to beat, to throb, and quiver,
The swift blood sleep within my veins
And Life and Love be still for ever!

132

LOVE'S QUERY.

Why do I love thee, maiden dear?
Say, thou who smilest, thou who weepest,
Do hearts love those who wound them deepest?
Why do I love thee, maiden dear?

My heart was wholesome, blooming and gay
All of a Summer's morn:
My heart was wholesome, blooming and gay
And fresh as a budding rose of the May,
All of a Summer's morn.
The Sun looked down through the clouds apart,
And many a wingéd insect fair
Came sailing down on the summer air
And settled upon my heart.
They passed away in their onward chase
(My heart but trembled as they took flight!)
They passed away and they left not a trace,
And my heart was wholesome, blooming, and bright
All of a Summer's morn!
At length a glittering, gorgeous bee
Lit on my lonely heart:

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Humming and buzzing in cruel glee
It thrust the virgin leaves apart,
And bathed itself in the scented dew
And, threading the leafy labyrinth through,
Came to the core of my heart!
And pierced it there with a wound so sore,
That my poor heart knew not for smart
Whether t'were bee or wasp that stung,
Whether t'were wasp or bee that wrung
The sweetness out of its core!
But anon it languished and pined away,
And the Passions came down, like a deadly blight,
And blackened the leaves once beauteous and bright,
Now shrivelled and dark with decay:
The dews still fall on my heart as before,
But the balmy breath of its rare perfume,
And the happy blush of its ancient bloom
Shall never return to it more!

Thou, who knowest the history
Of that glittering, gorgeous Bee,
Thou who, packed with every sweet,
Humming in thy cruel glee,
Foundest my poor heart's retreat
And fed'st on it cruelly!

134

Rifler of my ancient cheer
Say, thou who smilest, thou who weepest,
Do hearts love those who wound them deepest?
Why do I love thee, maiden dear?

I love Pleasure more than Pain
And thou dost dispense the twain:
All the pangs thy frowns award me,
All the smart thy tears afford me
With a smile thou heal'st again;
So my love for thee, my Pleasure,
Doth exceed, by fullest measure,
All my hate for thee, my Pain.
Thou the source of all my sadness,
Giver thou of all my gladness,
Minister of joy and woe,
Teachest me Love's happy madness,
Therefore 'tis I love thee so.

135

STANZAS.

Pain and Pleasure, thou hast wrought me,
Smiles that lighten, tears that roll,
All the madness thou hast taught me,
Woe and weal of Lover's soul.

Often in my Spirit's blindness
When, at midnight, thoughts will start
That, perchance, thy seeming kindness
Doth but mask a traitor heart:

Often then I think to slay thee,
Think, in misery, it were sweet
If Death's sudden hand should lay thee
Mine before my jealous feet:

But the rosy morn, succeeding,
Brings its solace to the breast,
And the sceptic, Love, believing,
Kisses Faith and is at rest;

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And my soul, new-winged, seems fleeing
Through a fairy world of light,
Every thought of thy sweet being
Thrills me with unknown delight.

Let me think when I am perished
In thy soul there shall remain
Grace for one whom thou hast cherished,
Blest, tormented, soothed, and slain:

On my grave (with wild-flowers sow it!)
Plant no stone of sculptured art:
There the bones sleep, but the Poet
Rests within his mistress' heart.

137

THE POET'S PETITION.

Kind Public! read me twice or thrice,
And gently treat a timid Muse:
Stern Critics! read me once or twice,
Nor let me miss my wretched dues!
Fair Phœbe read me fifty times!
Peruse and reperuse my rhymes:
Thy blame or praise I will repay
With interest,—such as kisses may!
But Lizzy! lest thy frown should fall
Upon me, read me not at all!
All else beside may hiss and jeer,
But blame from thee I dare not hear!

FINIS.