Poems of the late George Darley A memorial volume printed for private circulation |
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| POEMS.
Chiefly from “Labours of Idleness” and “Errors of Ecstasie.”
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 | Poems of the late George Darley |  |
168
POEMS. Chiefly from “Labours of Idleness” and “Errors of Ecstasie.”
171
THE DOVE'S LONELINESS.
Break not my loneliness, O Wanderer!
There's nothing sweet but Melancholy, here.—
'Mid these dim walks and grassy wynds are seen
No gaudy flowers, undarkening the green:
No wanton bird chirrups from tree to tree,
Not a disturber of the woods but me!
Scarce in a summer doth a wild bee come
To wake my sylvan echo with his hum:
But for my weeping lullaby I have
The everlasting cadence of the wave
That falls in little breakers on the shore,
And rather seems to strive to roar—than roar;
Light Zephyr, too, spreads out his silver wings
On each green leaf, and in a whisper sings
His love to every blossom in her ear,
Too low, too soft, too sweet for me to hear!
The soul of Peace breathes a wide calm around,
And hallows for her shrine this sacred spot of ground.
There's nothing sweet but Melancholy, here.—
'Mid these dim walks and grassy wynds are seen
No gaudy flowers, undarkening the green:
No wanton bird chirrups from tree to tree,
Not a disturber of the woods but me!
Scarce in a summer doth a wild bee come
To wake my sylvan echo with his hum:
But for my weeping lullaby I have
The everlasting cadence of the wave
That falls in little breakers on the shore,
And rather seems to strive to roar—than roar;
Light Zephyr, too, spreads out his silver wings
On each green leaf, and in a whisper sings
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Too low, too soft, too sweet for me to hear!
The soul of Peace breathes a wide calm around,
And hallows for her shrine this sacred spot of ground.
Her bird am I—and rule the shade for her,
A timid guard, and trembling minister;
My cradling palace hung amid the leaves
Of a wide-swaying beech: a woodbine weaves
Fine spinster of the groves! my canopy
Of purpling trellis and embroidery:
My pendant chair, lined with the velvet green
That nature clothes her russet children in,
Moss of the silkiest thread: This is my throne,
Here I do sit, queen of the woods, alone!
And as the winds come swooning through the trees,
I join my murmurs to their melodies;
Murmurs of joy,—for I am pleased to find
No visitors more constant than the wind:
My heart beats high at every step you come
Nearer the bosom of my woodland home;
And blame me not, if when you turn away
I wish that to some other scenes you'd stray,
Some brighter, lovelier scenes; these are too sad,
Too still, and deepen into deeper shade.—
See! the gay hillocks on the neighbouring shore,
Nodding their tufted crowns, invite thee o'er;
The daisy winks, and the pale cowslip throws
Her jealous looks ascant—red burns the rose—
Spare hawthorn all her glittering wealth displays,
Stars, blossoms, buds, and hangs them in the blaze,
To lure thine eye—the slope as fresh and sweet,
Spreads her lush carpet to entice thy feet.
Here are but weeds, and a few sorry gems
Scattered upon the straggling woodbine's stems,
Hoar trees and withered fern—Ah, stranger, go!
I would not stay to make thee tremble so
Were I a man, and thou a little dove;
I would, at thy least prayer, at once remove.
Then, stranger, turn!—and should'st thou hear me coo,
From this deep-bosomed wood, a hoarse adieu—
The secret satisfaction of my mind,
That thou art gone, and I am left behind—
Smile thou, and say Farewell!—the bird of Peace,
Hope, Innocence, and Love, and Loveliness,
Thy sweet Egeria's bird of birds doth pray
By the name best-beloved, thou'lt wend thy way,
In pity of her pain—Though I know well
Thou would'st not harm me, I must tremble still:
My heart's the home of fear—Ah! turn thee then.
And leave me to my loneliness again!
A timid guard, and trembling minister;
My cradling palace hung amid the leaves
Of a wide-swaying beech: a woodbine weaves
Fine spinster of the groves! my canopy
Of purpling trellis and embroidery:
My pendant chair, lined with the velvet green
That nature clothes her russet children in,
Moss of the silkiest thread: This is my throne,
Here I do sit, queen of the woods, alone!
And as the winds come swooning through the trees,
I join my murmurs to their melodies;
Murmurs of joy,—for I am pleased to find
No visitors more constant than the wind:
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Nearer the bosom of my woodland home;
And blame me not, if when you turn away
I wish that to some other scenes you'd stray,
Some brighter, lovelier scenes; these are too sad,
Too still, and deepen into deeper shade.—
See! the gay hillocks on the neighbouring shore,
Nodding their tufted crowns, invite thee o'er;
The daisy winks, and the pale cowslip throws
Her jealous looks ascant—red burns the rose—
Spare hawthorn all her glittering wealth displays,
Stars, blossoms, buds, and hangs them in the blaze,
To lure thine eye—the slope as fresh and sweet,
Spreads her lush carpet to entice thy feet.
Here are but weeds, and a few sorry gems
Scattered upon the straggling woodbine's stems,
Hoar trees and withered fern—Ah, stranger, go!
I would not stay to make thee tremble so
Were I a man, and thou a little dove;
I would, at thy least prayer, at once remove.
174
From this deep-bosomed wood, a hoarse adieu—
The secret satisfaction of my mind,
That thou art gone, and I am left behind—
Smile thou, and say Farewell!—the bird of Peace,
Hope, Innocence, and Love, and Loveliness,
Thy sweet Egeria's bird of birds doth pray
By the name best-beloved, thou'lt wend thy way,
In pity of her pain—Though I know well
Thou would'st not harm me, I must tremble still:
My heart's the home of fear—Ah! turn thee then.
And leave me to my loneliness again!
175
ROBIN'S CROSS.
A little cross,
To tell my loss;
A little bed
To rest my head;
A little tear is all I crave
Upon my very little grave.
To tell my loss;
A little bed
To rest my head;
A little tear is all I crave
Upon my very little grave.
I strew thy bed
Who loved thy lays;
The tear I shed,
The cross I raise,
With nothing more upon it than—
Here lies the little friend of Man!
Who loved thy lays;
The tear I shed,
The cross I raise,
With nothing more upon it than—
Here lies the little friend of Man!
176
[We Dryad Sisters exiled be]
We Dryad Sisters exiled beFrom our sweet groves in Thessaly:
Green Tempe calls us back again,
And Peneus weeps for us, in vain;
But here our oracles we breathe,
And here our oaken crowns we wreathe,
Or fleet along the slippery stream,
Or wander through the greenwood dim,
Or to its inmost haunts repair,
To comb our dark-green tresses there,
Or loose them to the whistling wind,
And then with flowers and ivy bind.
We've danced and sung on yonder glade
Whilst Pan on his rush-organ played,
And Satyr gambol'd and young Faun
Whirled us around the reeling lawn,
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Bid us to cease our antic round,
Else she would raise the hill with noise.
Then why should we for Tempe mourn,
Although we never can return?
This torrent rolls a wave as sweet
As ever Peneus uttered yet:
This Father oak which shelters me,
Hath not his peer in Thessaly;
This vale as deep, as wild, as green,
As Tempe is, or e'er hath been,
So like in wood, and stream, and air,
That oft we seem re-exiled there:
And scarce a Dryad here has flown,
But takes this Tempe for her own.
178
[O'er golden sands my waters flow]
O'er golden sands my waters flow,With pearls my road is paven white;
Upon my banks sweet flowers blow,
And amber rocks direct me right.
Look in my mother-spring: how deep
Her dark-green waters, yet how clear!
For joy the pale-eyed stars do weep
To see themselves so beauteous here.
Her pebbles all to emeralds turn,
Her mosses fine as Nereid's hair;
Bright leaps the crystal from her urn,
As pure as dew, and twice as rare.
Taste of the wave: 'twill charm thy blood,
And make thy cheek out-bloom the rose,
'Twill calm thy heart, and clear thy mood
Come! sip it freshly as it flows!
179
SONNET.
[You, the choice minions of the proud-lipt Nine]
You, the choice minions of the proud-lipt NineWho warble at the great Apollo's knee,
Why do you laugh at these rude lays of mine?
I seek not of your brotherhood to be!—
I do not play the public swan, nor try
To curve my proud neck on your vocal streams;
In my own little isle retreated, I
Lose myself in my waters and my dreams.
Forgetful of the world,—forgotten too!—
The cygnet of my own secluded wave,
I sing—whilst dashing up their silver dew
For joy—the petty billows try to rave;
There is a still applause in solitude
Fitting alike my merits and my mood.
180
[In my bower so bright]
In my bower so bright
As I lay last night,
The moon through the fresh leaves streaming,
There were sounds i' the air,
But I could not tell where,
Nor if I were thinking or dreaming.
As I lay last night,
The moon through the fresh leaves streaming,
There were sounds i' the air,
But I could not tell where,
Nor if I were thinking or dreaming.
'Twas the sound of a lute,
To a voice half mute,
That sunk when I thought it was swelling,
And it came to my ears,
As if drowned in the tears
Of the being whose woes it was telling.
To a voice half mute,
That sunk when I thought it was swelling,
And it came to my ears,
As if drowned in the tears
Of the being whose woes it was telling.
Some accents I heard
Were like those of the bird
Who the lee-long night is mourning;
And some were like those
That we hear, when the rose
Sighs for her Zephyr's returning.
Were like those of the bird
Who the lee-long night is mourning;
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That we hear, when the rose
Sighs for her Zephyr's returning.
The tones were so sweet,
I thought it most meet
They should not be tones of gladness;
There are notes so fine,
That were melody mine,
They should only belong to sadness.
I thought it most meet
They should not be tones of gladness;
There are notes so fine,
That were melody mine,
They should only belong to sadness.
And the air-creature sung,
And the wild lute rung,
Like the bell when a cherub is dying;
I can tell no mo,
But the tale was of woe,
For the sounds were all lost in the sighing.
And the wild lute rung,
Like the bell when a cherub is dying;
I can tell no mo,
But the tale was of woe,
For the sounds were all lost in the sighing.
And still it sung on
Till the stars were gone,
And the sun through the dews was peeping;
When I woke in my bow'r,
Ev'ry leaf, ev'ry flower,
Ev'ry bud, ev'ry blossom—was weeping!
Till the stars were gone,
And the sun through the dews was peeping;
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Ev'ry leaf, ev'ry flower,
Ev'ry bud, ev'ry blossom—was weeping!
183
SONNET.
[Why tell you me to lay the cittern by]
Why tell you me to lay the cittern by,And vex no more its disobedient strings;
That every clash the soul of Sweetness wrings
Quenching the lamp of bright Attention's eye?
What though the tender ear of Harmony
Shrinks, as the plant draws up its leafy wings
With a fine sense of pain!—the woodman sings
High in the rocky air, as rude as I;
Yon shepherd pipes upon a reed as shrill
As ever blew in Arcady of yore;
They sing and play to please their passion's will,
And waste the tedious hour;—I do no more!
Then leave me to my harp and to my lay,
Rebukable, yet unrebuked as they.
184
SONNET.
[Thou whom of all the beings I have seen]
TO ------
Thou whom of all the beings I have seen
I could adore most truly,—if our fate
Had so permitted it; but now I ween
To love were far more cruel than to hate:
O, had we met at some more happy date!
I might have won thee for my angel bride;
And thou in me hadst found a truer mate
Than Constancy had ever known beside
Our bodies as our kindred souls allied;
I know no state of happiness more blest;
For thee, deserting all, I could have died,
Or have died, all-deserted, on thy breast!
But, fare thee well!—I know that I am one
Condemned alike to live and die alone
185
SONNET.
[I thought that I could ever happy be]
TO THE SAME.
I thought that I could ever happy be,
Married to meditation, and my lyre,
Charming the moments on with melody,
That fills the ear with musical desire;
But now far other thoughts my breast inspire;
I find no happiness in poesy;
Within my soul burns a diviner fire,
For now my heart is full of love and Thee;
Yet 'tis a melancholy thing to love
When Fate or Expectation shuts the door,
When all the mercy I can hope, above
Mere friendship, is thy pity,—and no more,
For who could love a being such as me,
Thy most unhappy son, Fatality?
186
THE WILD BEE'S TALE.
When the sun steps from the billow
On the steep and stairless sky,
“Up!” I say, and quit my pillow,
“Bed, for many an hour, good-bye!”
On the steep and stairless sky,
“Up!” I say, and quit my pillow,
“Bed, for many an hour, good-bye!”
Swiftly to the East I turn me,
Where the world's great lustre beams,
Warm to bathe, but not to burn me,
In its radiant fount of streams.
Where the world's great lustre beams,
Warm to bathe, but not to burn me,
In its radiant fount of streams.
Then unto the glittering valley,
Where Aurora strews her pearls,
With my favourite flowers to dally,
Jewelled all, like princely girls!
Where Aurora strews her pearls,
With my favourite flowers to dally,
Jewelled all, like princely girls!
187
There I hum amid the bushes,
Eating honey, as it grows,
Off the cheek of maiden blushes,
And the red lip of the rose.
Eating honey, as it grows,
Off the cheek of maiden blushes,
And the red lip of the rose.
In the ear of every flower
Buzzing many a secret thing,
Every bright belle of the bower
Thinks it is for her I sing.
Buzzing many a secret thing,
Every bright belle of the bower
Thinks it is for her I sing.
But the valley and the river,
That go with me as I go,
Know me for a grand deceiver;
All my pretty pranks they know.
That go with me as I go,
Know me for a grand deceiver;
All my pretty pranks they know.
How I lull'd a rose with humming
Gentle ditties in her ear,
Then into her bosom coming,
Rifled all the treasure there.
Gentle ditties in her ear,
Then into her bosom coming,
Rifled all the treasure there.
How I kiss'd a pair of sisters
Hanging from one parent tree,
Whilst each bud-mouth as I kist her's,
Called me—Her own little bee!
Hanging from one parent tree,
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Called me—Her own little bee!
Now my Flower-gentle, sighing
To so wild a lover true,
Tells me she is just a-dying,—
So I must go kiss her too.
To so wild a lover true,
Tells me she is just a-dying,—
So I must go kiss her too.
Down the honeysuckle bending,
As I light upon her crest,
And her silken tucker rending,
Creep I bold into her breast.
As I light upon her crest,
And her silken tucker rending,
Creep I bold into her breast.
There entranced, but scarcely sleeping,
For one odorous while I lie;
But for all her woe and weeping,
In a moment out I fly.
For one odorous while I lie;
But for all her woe and weeping,
In a moment out I fly.
Golden-chain, with all her tresses,
Cannot bind me for an hour;
Soon I break her amorous jesses,
And desert the drooping flower.
Cannot bind me for an hour;
Soon I break her amorous jesses,
And desert the drooping flower.
189
They may talk of happy Heaven,
Of another world of bliss;
Were I choice and freedom given,
I would ask no world but this.
Of another world of bliss;
Were I choice and freedom given,
I would ask no world but this.
Have they lawns so wide and sunny?
Have they such sweet valleys there?
Are their fields so full of honey?
What care I for fields of air!
Have they such sweet valleys there?
Are their fields so full of honey?
What care I for fields of air!
Give me earth's rich sun and flowers,
Give me earth's green fields and groves;
Let him fly to Eden's bowers,
He who such cold bowers loves.
Give me earth's green fields and groves;
Let him fly to Eden's bowers,
He who such cold bowers loves.
O'er the broom and furze and heather,
That betuft the mountain side,
In the sweet sun-shiny weather,
Let me here for ever glide.
That betuft the mountain side,
In the sweet sun-shiny weather,
Let me here for ever glide.
Let me o'er the woodland wander,
On my wild bassooning wing,
Let me, as the streams meander,
Murmur to their murmuring.
On my wild bassooning wing,
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Murmur to their murmuring.
I can dream of nothing sweeter
Under or above the moon;
Tell me any thing that's better,
And I'll change my song as soon.
Under or above the moon;
Tell me any thing that's better,
And I'll change my song as soon.
But if Heaven must be,—I pr'ythee,
God of woodlands! grant my prayer—
Let me bring my woodland with me,
Or find such another there!
God of woodlands! grant my prayer—
Let me bring my woodland with me,
Or find such another there!
191
AILEEN ASTORE;
OR, THE GLEN OF THE GRAVE.
Lay me down, lay me down by the stream,
Where the willow droops over the wave,
And the heavy-headed daffodils dream,—
There I'll make my last couch in the grave.
Where the willow droops over the wave,
And the heavy-headed daffodils dream,—
There I'll make my last couch in the grave.
And the winds a soft chorus shall keep
With the robin that sings me my dirge,
While the streamlet shall lull me to sleep
With the noise of its own little surge.
With the robin that sings me my dirge,
While the streamlet shall lull me to sleep
With the noise of its own little surge.
Pretty flow'rets above me shall grow,
Breathing softly, to break not my rest;
And each dewy morn, as they blow,
Drop a tear, bright and pure, on my breast!
Breathing softly, to break not my rest;
And each dewy morn, as they blow,
Drop a tear, bright and pure, on my breast!
192
ELLINORE.
Upon a still and breathless night,
When Heav'n was hush'd and Earth was sleeping,
The green hills wet with dewy light,
And silver tears fresh flowerets weeping;
When Heav'n was hush'd and Earth was sleeping,
The green hills wet with dewy light,
And silver tears fresh flowerets weeping;
Young Ellinore sped forth to meet
In the still moon-lit vale her lover;
The turf scarce gush'd beneath her feet
As she ran up the hill and over.
In the still moon-lit vale her lover;
The turf scarce gush'd beneath her feet
As she ran up the hill and over.
Lovely and lonely vale it was,
One hollow glade of glimmering bowers,
And winding alleys smooth with moss,
The green repose of humble flowers.
One hollow glade of glimmering bowers,
And winding alleys smooth with moss,
The green repose of humble flowers.
A shallow stream roved through the dell,
With small discourse and rimpling laughter,
Wooing the reeds:—then wept farewell!
And mourn'd and murmured ever after.
With small discourse and rimpling laughter,
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And mourn'd and murmured ever after.
Soft mossy banks and rushy beds
Border'd this slow delaying river;
Too perilous a place for maids
When they are seized with love's sweet fever!
Border'd this slow delaying river;
Too perilous a place for maids
When they are seized with love's sweet fever!
Young Ellinore look'd up the glen,
Young Ellinore look'd down the valley,
Young Ellinore look'd homeward,—when
A youth sprung o'er the greenwood alley.
Young Ellinore look'd down the valley,
Young Ellinore look'd homeward,—when
A youth sprung o'er the greenwood alley.
The moonbeams kissed the sleeping trees,
The moonbeams kissed the sleeping flowers;
“Oh!” said the youth, “shall lips like these
Kiss,—and not kiss such lips as ours?”
The moonbeams kissed the sleeping flowers;
“Oh!” said the youth, “shall lips like these
Kiss,—and not kiss such lips as ours?”
He strewed his couch of rush and reed,
He strewed it o'er with bough and blossom,
He lay that night upon that bed,—
Young Ellinore lay in his bosom.
He strewed it o'er with bough and blossom,
He lay that night upon that bed,—
Young Ellinore lay in his bosom.
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Ah! luckless night! Ah, luckless hour!
Oh, had she loved less well, or never!
She blooms no more, a stainless flower,—
Young Ellinore is lost for ever!
Oh, had she loved less well, or never!
She blooms no more, a stainless flower,—
Young Ellinore is lost for ever!
195
SONG.
[I've been roaming! I've been roaming]
I've been roaming! I've been roaming
Where the meadow dew is sweet,
And like a queen I'm coming
With its pearls upon my feet.
Where the meadow dew is sweet,
And like a queen I'm coming
With its pearls upon my feet.
I've been roaming! I've been roaming!
O'er red rose and lily fair,
And like a sylph I'm coming
With their blossoms in my hair.
O'er red rose and lily fair,
And like a sylph I'm coming
With their blossoms in my hair.
I've been roaming! I've been roaming!
Where the honeysuckle creeps,
And like a bee I'm coming
With its kisses on my lips.
Where the honeysuckle creeps,
And like a bee I'm coming
With its kisses on my lips.
I've been roaming! I've been roaming!
Over hill and over plain,
And like a bird I'm coming
To my bower back again!
Over hill and over plain,
And like a bird I'm coming
To my bower back again!
| Poems of the late George Darley | |