The Venetian bracelet the lost Pleiad, a history of the lyre, and other poems. By L. E. L. [i.e. Landon] |
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| POETICAL PORTRAITS. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
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 | The Venetian bracelet |  |
173
POETICAL PORTRAITS.
175
No. I.
[O no, sweet lady, not to thee]
O no, sweet lady, not to thee
That set and chilling tone,
By which the feelings on themselves
So utterly are thrown:
For mine has sprung upon my lips,
Impatient to express
The haunting charm of thy sweet voice
And gentlest loveliness.
A very fairy queen thou art,
Whose only spells are on the heart.
That set and chilling tone,
By which the feelings on themselves
So utterly are thrown:
For mine has sprung upon my lips,
Impatient to express
The haunting charm of thy sweet voice
And gentlest loveliness.
A very fairy queen thou art,
Whose only spells are on the heart.
176
The garden it has many a flower,
But only one for thee—
The early graced of Grecian song,
The fragrant myrtle tree;
For it doth speak of happy love,
The delicate, the true.
If its pearl buds are fair like thee,
They seem as fragile too;
Likeness, not omens, for love's power
Will watch his own most precious flower.
But only one for thee—
The early graced of Grecian song,
The fragrant myrtle tree;
For it doth speak of happy love,
The delicate, the true.
If its pearl buds are fair like thee,
They seem as fragile too;
Likeness, not omens, for love's power
Will watch his own most precious flower.
Thou art not of that wilder race
Upon the mountain side,
Able alike the summer sun
And winter blast to bide;
But thou art of that gentler growth,
Which asks some loving eye,
To keep it in sweet guardianship,
Or it must droop and die;
Requiring equal love and care,
Even more delicate than fair.
Upon the mountain side,
Able alike the summer sun
And winter blast to bide;
177
Which asks some loving eye,
To keep it in sweet guardianship,
Or it must droop and die;
Requiring equal love and care,
Even more delicate than fair.
I cannot paint to thee the charm
Which thou hast wrought on me;
Thy laugh, so like the wild bird's song
In the first bloom-touch'd tree.
You spoke of lovely Italy,
And of its thousand flowers;
Your lips had caught the music breath
Amid its summer bow'rs.
And can it be a form like thine
Has braved the stormy Appennine?
Which thou hast wrought on me;
Thy laugh, so like the wild bird's song
In the first bloom-touch'd tree.
You spoke of lovely Italy,
And of its thousand flowers;
Your lips had caught the music breath
Amid its summer bow'rs.
178
Has braved the stormy Appennine?
I'm standing now with one white rose
Where silver waters glide:
I've flung that white rose on the stream,—
How light it breasts the tide!
The clear waves seem as if they love
So beautiful a thing;
And fondly to the scented leaves
The laughing sunbeams cling.
A summer voyage—fairy freight;—
And such, sweet lady, be thy fate!
Where silver waters glide:
I've flung that white rose on the stream,—
How light it breasts the tide!
The clear waves seem as if they love
So beautiful a thing;
And fondly to the scented leaves
The laughing sunbeams cling.
A summer voyage—fairy freight;—
And such, sweet lady, be thy fate!
179
No. II.
[Ah! little do those features wear]
Ah! little do those features wear
The shade of grief, the soil of care;
The hair is parted o'er a brow
Open and white as mountain snow,
And thence descends in many a ring,
With sun and summer glistening.
Yet something on that brow has wrought
A moment's cast of passing thought;
Musing of gentle dreams, like those
Which tint the slumbers of the rose:
Not love,—love is not yet with thee,—
But just a glimpse what love may be:
A memory of some last night's sigh,
When flitting blush and drooping eye
Answer'd some youthful cavalier,
Whose words sank pleasant on thine ear,
To stir, but not to fill the heart;—
Dreaming of such, fair girl, thou art.—
The shade of grief, the soil of care;
The hair is parted o'er a brow
Open and white as mountain snow,
And thence descends in many a ring,
With sun and summer glistening.
Yet something on that brow has wrought
A moment's cast of passing thought;
Musing of gentle dreams, like those
Which tint the slumbers of the rose:
Not love,—love is not yet with thee,—
But just a glimpse what love may be:
A memory of some last night's sigh,
When flitting blush and drooping eye
180
Whose words sank pleasant on thine ear,
To stir, but not to fill the heart;—
Dreaming of such, fair girl, thou art.—
Thou blessed season of our spring,
When hopes are angels on the wing;
Bound upwards to their heavenly shore,
Alas! to visit earth no more.
Then step and laugh alike are light,
When, like a summer morning bright,
Our spirits in their mirth are such,
As turn to gold whate'er they touch.
The past! 'tis nothing,—childhood's day
Has roll'd too recently away,
For youth to shed those mournful tears
That fill the eye in older years,
When Care looks back on that bright leaf
Of ready smiles and short-lived grief.
The future!—'tis the promised land,
To which Hope points with prophet hand,
Telling us fairy tales of flowers
That only change for fruit—and ours.
Though false, though fleeting, and though vain,
Thou blessed time I say again.—
When hopes are angels on the wing;
Bound upwards to their heavenly shore,
Alas! to visit earth no more.
Then step and laugh alike are light,
When, like a summer morning bright,
Our spirits in their mirth are such,
As turn to gold whate'er they touch.
The past! 'tis nothing,—childhood's day
Has roll'd too recently away,
For youth to shed those mournful tears
That fill the eye in older years,
181
Of ready smiles and short-lived grief.
The future!—'tis the promised land,
To which Hope points with prophet hand,
Telling us fairy tales of flowers
That only change for fruit—and ours.
Though false, though fleeting, and though vain,
Thou blessed time I say again.—
Glad being, with thy downcast eyes,
And visionary look that lies
Beneath their shadow, thou shalt share
A world, where all my treasures are—
My lute's sweet empire, fill'd with all
That will obey my spirit's call;
A world lit up by fancy's sun!
Ah! little like our actual one.
And visionary look that lies
Beneath their shadow, thou shalt share
A world, where all my treasures are—
My lute's sweet empire, fill'd with all
That will obey my spirit's call;
A world lit up by fancy's sun!
Ah! little like our actual one.
182
No. III.
[His hand is on the snowy sail]
His hand is on the snowy sail,
His step is on the prow,
And back the cold night-winds have flung
The dark curls from his brow;
That brow to which his native heaven
A something of itself has given.
His step is on the prow,
And back the cold night-winds have flung
The dark curls from his brow;
That brow to which his native heaven
A something of itself has given.
But all too mix'd with earthly stain,
The nameless shadowy care,
Which tells, that though Heaven gave it birth,
Its home has not been there;
And here, the earth and heaven seem blent
In one discordant element.
The nameless shadowy care,
Which tells, that though Heaven gave it birth,
Its home has not been there;
And here, the earth and heaven seem blent
In one discordant element.
183
It wears our nature's nobler part;
That spirit which doth spurn
The weary bondage of our world,
And show what man can earn;
Where, led by honourable pride,
Hero and sage are deified;—
That spirit which doth spurn
The weary bondage of our world,
And show what man can earn;
Where, led by honourable pride,
Hero and sage are deified;—
Those high imaginings which make
The glory which they hope;
Fine-wrought aspirings, lofty aims,
Which have in youth such scope;
Like tides which, haunted by the moon,
Rise but, alas! to fall too soon.
The glory which they hope;
Fine-wrought aspirings, lofty aims,
Which have in youth such scope;
Like tides which, haunted by the moon,
Rise but, alas! to fall too soon.
Vain are these dreams, and vain these hopes;
And yet 'tis these give birth
To each high purpose, generous deed,
That sanctifies our earth.
He who hath highest aim in view,
Must dream at first what he will do.
And yet 'tis these give birth
184
That sanctifies our earth.
He who hath highest aim in view,
Must dream at first what he will do.
Upon that youthful brow are traced
High impulses like these;
But all too purposeless, like gales
That wander o'er the seas;
Not winds that bear the vessel on,
Fix'd to one point, and only one.
High impulses like these;
But all too purposeless, like gales
That wander o'er the seas;
Not winds that bear the vessel on,
Fix'd to one point, and only one.
And meaner workings have deform'd
His natural noble mind;
Those wretched aims which waste the ore
For happier use design'd.
And petty wishes, idle praise,
Destroy the hopes of better days.
His natural noble mind;
Those wretched aims which waste the ore
For happier use design'd.
185
Destroy the hopes of better days.
And hath no earlier vision taught
A more exalted creed?
Alas! that such a mind should waste
Its powers away, to feed
That wretched vanity which clings
To life's debasing, paltry things.
A more exalted creed?
Alas! that such a mind should waste
Its powers away, to feed
That wretched vanity which clings
To life's debasing, paltry things.
The worthlessness of common praise,
The dry rot of the mind,
By which its temple secretly
But fast is undermined.
Alas! the praise given to the ear
Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere—
The dry rot of the mind,
By which its temple secretly
But fast is undermined.
Alas! the praise given to the ear
Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere—
186
And does but waste away the mind
On which it preys:—in vain
Would they in whom its poison lurks
A worthier state attain.
Indifference proud, immortal aim,
Had, aye, the demigods of fame.
On which it preys:—in vain
Would they in whom its poison lurks
A worthier state attain.
Indifference proud, immortal aim,
Had, aye, the demigods of fame.
The dew of night falls cold around,
Yet can it not allay
The fever burning on thy cheek,
That eats thy life away;
For thou dost know thy birthright sold
For even less than his of old.
Yet can it not allay
The fever burning on thy cheek,
That eats thy life away;
For thou dost know thy birthright sold
For even less than his of old.
Thou know'st what thou hast power to be,
Thou know'st, too, what thou art;
And heavily does discontent
Sit rankling at thy heart;
And thou dost mask thy grief the while
With scornful sneer, and bitter smile.
Thou know'st, too, what thou art;
187
Sit rankling at thy heart;
And thou dost mask thy grief the while
With scornful sneer, and bitter smile.
But yet thou art too indolent
From such weak bonds to free
Thy better self, and urge thy strength
To be what thou might'st be;
Thou dost repent the past, and blame,
And yet thy future is the same.
From such weak bonds to free
Thy better self, and urge thy strength
To be what thou might'st be;
Thou dost repent the past, and blame,
And yet thy future is the same.
Ay, leave thy rudder to the wave,
Thy sail upon the wind,
Leave them to chance, and they will be
Fit likeness of thy mind:
Unguided sail, unmaster'd prow,
Are only emblems;—What art thou?
Thy sail upon the wind,
Leave them to chance, and they will be
Fit likeness of thy mind:
188
Are only emblems;—What art thou?
No. IV.
[His brow is pale with high and passionate thoughts]
His brow is pale with high and passionate thoughts,
That come from heaven like lightning, and consume,
E'en while they brighten; youth has lost its hopes:
Those sweet and wandering birds, that make its spring
So happy with their music,—these are gone:
All scared by one, a vulture, that doth feed
Upon the life-blood of the throbbing heart—
The hope of immortality!—that hope,
Whose altar is the grave, whose sacrifice
Is life—bright, beautiful, and breathing life.
That come from heaven like lightning, and consume,
E'en while they brighten; youth has lost its hopes:
Those sweet and wandering birds, that make its spring
So happy with their music,—these are gone:
All scared by one, a vulture, that doth feed
Upon the life-blood of the throbbing heart—
The hope of immortality!—that hope,
Whose altar is the grave, whose sacrifice
Is life—bright, beautiful, and breathing life.
189
He stands amid the revellers with a joy,
A scarcely conscious joy, in their delight;
In it he has no part,—he stands alone;
But the deep music haunts his dreaming ear,—
But the fair forms flit o'er his dreaming eye,—
And exquisite illusions fill his soul
With loveliness to pour in future song.
A scarcely conscious joy, in their delight;
In it he has no part,—he stands alone;
But the deep music haunts his dreaming ear,—
But the fair forms flit o'er his dreaming eye,—
And exquisite illusions fill his soul
With loveliness to pour in future song.
He leant beside a casement, and the moon
Shed her own stillness o'er the hectic cheek
Whereon the fever of the mind had fed;
His eyes have turn'd towards th' eternal stars,
Drinking the light into their shadowy depths,
Almost as glorious and as spiritual.
The night-wind touch'd his forehead, with it ran
A faint slight shudder through his wasted frame,—
Alas! how little can bring down our thoughts
From their most lofty communings with heaven,
To poor mortality!—that passing chill
Recall'd those bitter feelings that attend
Career half follow'd, and the goal unwon:
He thought upon his few and unknown years,
How much his power, how little it had done;
And then again the pale lip was compress'd
With high resolve, the dark eye flash'd with hope
To snatch a laurel from the grasp of death,
For the green memory of an early grave.
Shed her own stillness o'er the hectic cheek
Whereon the fever of the mind had fed;
His eyes have turn'd towards th' eternal stars,
Drinking the light into their shadowy depths,
Almost as glorious and as spiritual.
The night-wind touch'd his forehead, with it ran
A faint slight shudder through his wasted frame,—
Alas! how little can bring down our thoughts
190
To poor mortality!—that passing chill
Recall'd those bitter feelings that attend
Career half follow'd, and the goal unwon:
He thought upon his few and unknown years,
How much his power, how little it had done;
And then again the pale lip was compress'd
With high resolve, the dark eye flash'd with hope
To snatch a laurel from the grasp of death,
For the green memory of an early grave.
No. V.
[Thy beauty! not a fault is there]
Thy beauty! not a fault is there;
No queen of Grecian line
E'er braided more luxuriant hair
O'er forehead more divine.
No queen of Grecian line
E'er braided more luxuriant hair
O'er forehead more divine.
191
The light of midnight's starry heaven
Is in those radiant eyes;
The rose's crimson life has given
That cheek its morning dyes.
Is in those radiant eyes;
The rose's crimson life has given
That cheek its morning dyes.
Thy voice is sweet, as if it took
Its music from thy face;
And word and mien, and step and look,
Are perfect in their grace.
Its music from thy face;
And word and mien, and step and look,
Are perfect in their grace.
And yet I love thee not: thy brow
Is but the sculptor's mould:
It wants a shade, it wants a glow,—
It is less fair than cold.
Is but the sculptor's mould:
It wants a shade, it wants a glow,—
It is less fair than cold.
192
Where are thy blushes, where thy tears?
Thy cheek has but one rose:
No eloquence of hopes and fears
Disturbs its bright repose.
Thy cheek has but one rose:
No eloquence of hopes and fears
Disturbs its bright repose.
Thy large dark eyes grow not more dark
With tears that swell unshed:
Alas! thy heart is as the ark
That floated o'er the dead.
With tears that swell unshed:
Alas! thy heart is as the ark
That floated o'er the dead.
Hope, feeling, fancy, fear, and love
Are in one ruin hurl'd;
Fate's dreary waters roll above
Thy young and other world.
Are in one ruin hurl'd;
Fate's dreary waters roll above
Thy young and other world.
193
And thou hast lived o'er scenes like these,
The terrible, the past,
Where hearts must either break or freeze,—
And thine has done the last.
The terrible, the past,
Where hearts must either break or freeze,—
And thine has done the last.
Thou movest amid the heartless throng
With school'd and alter'd brow:
Thy face has worn its mask so long,
It is its likeness now.
With school'd and alter'd brow:
Thy face has worn its mask so long,
It is its likeness now.
Where is the colour that once flush'd
With every eager word?
Where the sweet joyous laugh, that gush'd
Like spring songs from the bird?
With every eager word?
Where the sweet joyous laugh, that gush'd
Like spring songs from the bird?
194
Where are the tears a word once brought—
The heart's sweet social rain?
Where are the smiles that only sought
To see themselves again?
The heart's sweet social rain?
Where are the smiles that only sought
To see themselves again?
I knew thee in thine earlier hours,
A very summer queen
For some young poet's dream:—those flow'rs
Are just what thou hast been,—
A very summer queen
For some young poet's dream:—those flow'rs
Are just what thou hast been,—
Wild flow'rs, all touch'd with rainbow hues,
Born in a morning sky,
Lighted with sunshine, fill'd with dews,
Made for a smile and sigh.
Born in a morning sky,
Lighted with sunshine, fill'd with dews,
Made for a smile and sigh.
195
But now I look upon thy face,
A very pictured show,
Betraying not the slightest trace
Of what may work below.
A very pictured show,
Betraying not the slightest trace
Of what may work below.
Farewell, affection!—selfish, changed,
Thine it no more may be;
From love thou hast thyself estranged,—
It could not dwell with thee.
Thine it no more may be;
From love thou hast thyself estranged,—
It could not dwell with thee.
196
No. VI.
[The light is kindling in his eye]
The light is kindling in his eye,
The colour on his cheek;
And thoughts, the passionate, the deep,
Their charmed silence break;
The colour on his cheek;
And thoughts, the passionate, the deep,
Their charmed silence break;
Yet not to pour themselves in song,
But in those burning words
That come when some chance touch has waked
The spirit's secret chords.
But in those burning words
That come when some chance touch has waked
The spirit's secret chords.
How eloquent, how beautiful
Like morning in the north
Melting away the dreary ice,
His noble mind came forth!
Like morning in the north
Melting away the dreary ice,
His noble mind came forth!
197
He stood the centre of the ring,
Awakening in each breast
Feelings and thoughts, forgotten, though
Their noblest and their best.
Awakening in each breast
Feelings and thoughts, forgotten, though
Their noblest and their best.
'Twas but a moment while they own'd
The youthful poet's sway;
A beacon light upon the hill,
To warn and die away.
The youthful poet's sway;
A beacon light upon the hill,
To warn and die away.
Again his downcast eye was dim,
Again his cheek was pale;
Again around his beating heart
Closed its accustom'd veil.
Again his cheek was pale;
Again around his beating heart
Closed its accustom'd veil.
198
A moment's pause, a moment's praise,
Sufficed to change the scene;
And careless word and careless laugh
Arose where mind had been.
Sufficed to change the scene;
And careless word and careless laugh
Arose where mind had been.
So flings the lamp upon the wind
Its bright and dying flame:—
I thought, alas, the waste of life,
The vanity of fame!
Its bright and dying flame:—
I thought, alas, the waste of life,
The vanity of fame!
| The Venetian bracelet | |