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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| MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
 | The Venetian bracelet |  |
199
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Chance notes struck from the lute—fancies and thoughts—
Shadows that haunt the poet's fairy land. [OMITTED]
Love's words are writ on rose-leaves, but with tears. [OMITTED]
These are the dreams that light my solitude:
Warrior thoughts—had I been a young knight,
And curb'd a gallant steed, and worn a sword,—
Heaven knows I often wish it!—sadness, signs
I fancy many a cheek betrays of love;
Records of beauty, that has seem'd to me
A thing for worship; thoughts that sprung from flowers;
Feelings on which to meditate is all
Woman's philosophy; sorrows that flung
Darkness upon my heart; unkindness, wrong,
Gentle affection too; all that hath made
My minstrel annals, are upon these leaves.
Shadows that haunt the poet's fairy land. [OMITTED]
Love's words are writ on rose-leaves, but with tears. [OMITTED]
These are the dreams that light my solitude:
Warrior thoughts—had I been a young knight,
And curb'd a gallant steed, and worn a sword,—
Heaven knows I often wish it!—sadness, signs
I fancy many a cheek betrays of love;
Records of beauty, that has seem'd to me
A thing for worship; thoughts that sprung from flowers;
Feelings on which to meditate is all
Woman's philosophy; sorrows that flung
Darkness upon my heart; unkindness, wrong,
Gentle affection too; all that hath made
My minstrel annals, are upon these leaves.
201
THE NEGLECTED ONE.
And there is silence in that lonely hall,
Save where the waters of the fountain fall,
And the wind's distant murmuring, which takes
Sweet messages from every bud it wakes.
'Tis more than midnight; all the lamps are gone,
Their fragrant oils exhausted,—all but one,
A little silver lamp beside a scroll,
Where a young maiden leant, and pour'd her soul,
In those last words, the bitter and the brief.
How can they say confiding is relief?
Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring,
Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring;
But there are some too long, too well conceal'd,
Too deeply felt,—that are but once reveal'd:
Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart,
And then the life-blood follows from the heart;
Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh,
But which, once spoken, only hath to die.—
Save where the waters of the fountain fall,
And the wind's distant murmuring, which takes
Sweet messages from every bud it wakes.
'Tis more than midnight; all the lamps are gone,
Their fragrant oils exhausted,—all but one,
A little silver lamp beside a scroll,
Where a young maiden leant, and pour'd her soul,
In those last words, the bitter and the brief.
How can they say confiding is relief?
Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring,
Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring;
202
Too deeply felt,—that are but once reveal'd:
Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart,
And then the life-blood follows from the heart;
Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh,
But which, once spoken, only hath to die.—
Young, very young, the lady was, who now
Bow'd on her slender hand her weary brow:
Not beautiful, save when the eager thought
In the soft eyes a sudden beauty wrought:
Not beautiful, save when the cheek's warm blush
Grew eloquent with momentary flush
Of feeling, that made beauty, not to last,
And scarcely caught, so quickly is it past.
—Alas! she knew it well; too early thrown
Mid a cold world, the unloved and the lone,
With no near kindred ties on whom could dwell
Love that so sought to be beloved as well.
Too sensitive for flattery, and too kind
To bear the loneliness by fate assign'd,
Her life had been a struggle: long she strove
To fix on things inanimate her love;
On pity, kindness, music, gentle lore,
All that romance could yield of fairy store.
In vain! she loved:—she loved, and from that hour
Gone were the quiet loves of bird or flower;
The unread book dropp'd listless on her knee,
The untouch'd lute hung on the bending tree,
Whose unwreathed boughs no more a pleasant shade
For the lone dreamings of her twilight made.
—Well might she love him: every eye was turn'd
On that young knight, and bright cheeks brighter burn'd,
Save one, that grew the paler for his sake:
Alas! for her, whose heart but beat to break;
Who knew too well, not hers the lip or eye
For which the youthful lover swears to die.
How deep, how merciless, the love represt,
That robs the silent midnight of its rest;
That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone;
That hears in mingled footsteps only one;
That turns the poet's page, to only find
Some mournful image for itself design'd;
That seeks in music, but the plaining tone
Which secret sorrow whispers is its own!
Alas for the young heart, when love is there,
Its comrade and its confidant, despair!
Bow'd on her slender hand her weary brow:
Not beautiful, save when the eager thought
In the soft eyes a sudden beauty wrought:
Not beautiful, save when the cheek's warm blush
Grew eloquent with momentary flush
Of feeling, that made beauty, not to last,
And scarcely caught, so quickly is it past.
—Alas! she knew it well; too early thrown
Mid a cold world, the unloved and the lone,
203
Love that so sought to be beloved as well.
Too sensitive for flattery, and too kind
To bear the loneliness by fate assign'd,
Her life had been a struggle: long she strove
To fix on things inanimate her love;
On pity, kindness, music, gentle lore,
All that romance could yield of fairy store.
In vain! she loved:—she loved, and from that hour
Gone were the quiet loves of bird or flower;
The unread book dropp'd listless on her knee,
The untouch'd lute hung on the bending tree,
Whose unwreathed boughs no more a pleasant shade
For the lone dreamings of her twilight made.
204
On that young knight, and bright cheeks brighter burn'd,
Save one, that grew the paler for his sake:
Alas! for her, whose heart but beat to break;
Who knew too well, not hers the lip or eye
For which the youthful lover swears to die.
How deep, how merciless, the love represt,
That robs the silent midnight of its rest;
That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone;
That hears in mingled footsteps only one;
That turns the poet's page, to only find
Some mournful image for itself design'd;
That seeks in music, but the plaining tone
Which secret sorrow whispers is its own!
205
Its comrade and its confidant, despair!
How often leant in some unnoticed spot,
Her very being by the throng forgot,
Shrunk back to shun the glad lamp's mocking ray,
Pass'd many a dark and weary hour away,
Watching the young, the beautiful, the bright,
Seeming more lovely in that lovely light;
And as each fair face glided through the dance,
Stealing at some near mirror one swift glance,
Then, starting at the contrast, seek her room,
To weep, at least, in solitude and gloom!
And he, her stately idol, he, with eye
Dark as the eagle's in a summer sky,
And darker curls, amid whose raven shade
The very wild wind amorously delay'd,
With that bright smile, which makes all others dim,
So proud, so sweet,—what part had she in him?
And yet she loved him: who may say, be still,
To the fond heart that beats not at our will?
Her very being by the throng forgot,
Shrunk back to shun the glad lamp's mocking ray,
Pass'd many a dark and weary hour away,
Watching the young, the beautiful, the bright,
Seeming more lovely in that lovely light;
And as each fair face glided through the dance,
Stealing at some near mirror one swift glance,
Then, starting at the contrast, seek her room,
To weep, at least, in solitude and gloom!
And he, her stately idol, he, with eye
Dark as the eagle's in a summer sky,
And darker curls, amid whose raven shade
The very wild wind amorously delay'd,
206
So proud, so sweet,—what part had she in him?
And yet she loved him: who may say, be still,
To the fond heart that beats not at our will?
'Twas too much wretchedness:—the convent cell,
There might the maiden with her misery dwell.
And that, to-morrow was her chosen doom:
There might her hopes, her feelings, find a tomb.
Her feelings!—no: pray, struggle, weep, condemn,—
Her feelings,—there was but one grave for them.
'Twas her last night, and she had look'd her last,
And she must live henceforward in the past.
She linger'd in the hall,—he had been there;
Her pale lips grew yet paler with the prayer
That only ask'd his happiness. She took
A blank leaf from an old emblazon'd book,
Which told love's chronicles; a faint hope stole,—
A sweet light o'er the darkness of her soul—
Might she not leave remembrance, like the wreath,
Whose dying flowers their scents on twilight breathe;
Just one faint tone of music, low and clear,
Coming when other songs have left the ear?
Might she not tell him how she loved, and pray
A mournful memory for some distant day?
She took the scroll:—what! bare perhaps to scorn
The timid sorrow she so long had borne!
Silent as death, she hid her face, for shame
In rushing crimson to her forehead came;
Through the small fingers fell the bitter rain,
And tremblingly she closed the leaves again.
—The hall is lit with rose, that morning hour,
Whose lights are colour'd by each opening flower;
A sweet bird by the casement sat and sang
A song so glad, that like a laugh it rang,
While its wings shook the jessamine, till the bloom
Floated like incense round that joyous room.
—They found the maiden: still her face was bow'd,
As with some shame that might not be avow'd;
They raised the long hair which her face conceal'd,—
And she is dead,—her secret unreveal'd.
There might the maiden with her misery dwell.
And that, to-morrow was her chosen doom:
There might her hopes, her feelings, find a tomb.
Her feelings!—no: pray, struggle, weep, condemn,—
Her feelings,—there was but one grave for them.
'Twas her last night, and she had look'd her last,
And she must live henceforward in the past.
She linger'd in the hall,—he had been there;
Her pale lips grew yet paler with the prayer
That only ask'd his happiness. She took
A blank leaf from an old emblazon'd book,
207
A sweet light o'er the darkness of her soul—
Might she not leave remembrance, like the wreath,
Whose dying flowers their scents on twilight breathe;
Just one faint tone of music, low and clear,
Coming when other songs have left the ear?
Might she not tell him how she loved, and pray
A mournful memory for some distant day?
She took the scroll:—what! bare perhaps to scorn
The timid sorrow she so long had borne!
Silent as death, she hid her face, for shame
In rushing crimson to her forehead came;
Through the small fingers fell the bitter rain,
And tremblingly she closed the leaves again.
—The hall is lit with rose, that morning hour,
Whose lights are colour'd by each opening flower;
208
A song so glad, that like a laugh it rang,
While its wings shook the jessamine, till the bloom
Floated like incense round that joyous room.
—They found the maiden: still her face was bow'd,
As with some shame that might not be avow'd;
They raised the long hair which her face conceal'd,—
And she is dead,—her secret unreveal'd.
209
A NIGHT IN MAY.
A night not sacred to Spring's opening leaves,
But one of crowded festival.
But one of crowded festival.
Light and glad through the rooms the gay music is waking,
Where the young and the lovely are gather'd tonight;
And the soft cloudless lamps, with their lustre, are making
A midnight hour only than morning less bright.
Where the young and the lovely are gather'd tonight;
And the soft cloudless lamps, with their lustre, are making
A midnight hour only than morning less bright.
210
There are vases,—the flowers within them are breathing
Sighs almost as sweet as the lips that are near;
Light feet are glancing, white arms are wreathing,—
O temple of pleasure! thou surely art here.
Sighs almost as sweet as the lips that are near;
Light feet are glancing, white arms are wreathing,—
O temple of pleasure! thou surely art here.
I gazed on the scene; 'twas the dream of a minute;
But it seem'd to me even as fairy land fair:
'Twas the cup's bright inside; and on glancing within it,
What but the dregs and the darkness were there?
But it seem'd to me even as fairy land fair:
'Twas the cup's bright inside; and on glancing within it,
What but the dregs and the darkness were there?
—False wave of the desert, thou art less beguiling
Than false beauty over the lighted hall shed:
What but the smiles that have practised their smiling,
Or honey words measured, and reckon'd as said?
Than false beauty over the lighted hall shed:
What but the smiles that have practised their smiling,
Or honey words measured, and reckon'd as said?
211
Oh, heart of mine! turn from the revellers before thee;
What part hast thou in them, or have they in thee?
What was the feeling that too soon came o'er thee?—
Weariness ever that feeling must be.
What part hast thou in them, or have they in thee?
What was the feeling that too soon came o'er thee?—
Weariness ever that feeling must be.
Praise—flattery—opiates the meanest, yet sweetest,
Are ye the fame that my spirit hath dream'd?
Lute, when in such scenes, if homage thou meetest,
Say, if like glory such vanity seem'd?
Are ye the fame that my spirit hath dream'd?
Lute, when in such scenes, if homage thou meetest,
Say, if like glory such vanity seem'd?
O for some island far off in the ocean,
Where never a footstep has press'd but mine own;
With one hope, one feeling, one utter devotion
To my gift of song, once more, the lovely, the lone!
Where never a footstep has press'd but mine own;
With one hope, one feeling, one utter devotion
To my gift of song, once more, the lovely, the lone!
212
My heart is too much in the things which profane it;
The cold, and the worldly, why am I like them?
Vanity! with my lute chords I must chain it,
Nor thus let it sully the minstrel's best gem.
The cold, and the worldly, why am I like them?
Vanity! with my lute chords I must chain it,
Nor thus let it sully the minstrel's best gem.
It rises before me, that island, where blooming,
The flowers in their thousands are comrades for me;
And where if one perish, so sweet its entombing,
The welcome it seems of fresh leaves to the tree.
The flowers in their thousands are comrades for me;
And where if one perish, so sweet its entombing,
The welcome it seems of fresh leaves to the tree.
I'll wander among them when morning is weeping
Her earliest tears, if such pearls can be tears;
When the birds and the roses together are sleeping,
Till the mist of the daybreak, like hope fulfill'd, clears.
Her earliest tears, if such pearls can be tears;
When the birds and the roses together are sleeping,
Till the mist of the daybreak, like hope fulfill'd, clears.
213
Grove of dark cypress, when noontide is flinging
Its radiance of light, thou shalt then be my shrine;
I'll listen the song which the wild dove is singing,
And catch from its sweetness a lesson for mine.
Its radiance of light, thou shalt then be my shrine;
I'll listen the song which the wild dove is singing,
And catch from its sweetness a lesson for mine.
And when the red sunset at even is dying,
I'll watch the last blush as it fades on the wave;
While the wind, through the shells in its low music sighing,
Will seem like the anthem peal'd over its grave.
I'll watch the last blush as it fades on the wave;
While the wind, through the shells in its low music sighing,
Will seem like the anthem peal'd over its grave.
And when the bright stars which I worship are beaming,
And writing in beauty and fate on the sky,
Then, mine own lute, be the hour for thy dreaming,
And the night-flowers will open and echo thy sigh.
And writing in beauty and fate on the sky,
Then, mine own lute, be the hour for thy dreaming,
And the night-flowers will open and echo thy sigh.
214
Alas! but my dream has like sleep's visions vanish'd;
The hall and the crowd are before me again:
Sternly my sweet thoughts like fairies are banish'd;
Nay, the faith which believed in them now seems but vain.
The hall and the crowd are before me again:
Sternly my sweet thoughts like fairies are banish'd;
Nay, the faith which believed in them now seems but vain.
I left the gay circle:—If I found it dreary,
Were all others there, then, the thoughtless and glad?
Methinks that fair cheek in its paleness look'd weary,
Methinks that dark eye in its drooping was sad.
Were all others there, then, the thoughtless and glad?
Methinks that fair cheek in its paleness look'd weary,
Methinks that dark eye in its drooping was sad.
—I went to my chamber,—I sought to be lonely,—
I leant by the casement to catch the sweet air;
The thick tears fell blinding; and am I then only
Sad, weary, although without actual care?
I leant by the casement to catch the sweet air;
The thick tears fell blinding; and am I then only
Sad, weary, although without actual care?
215
The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it;
Or who ever read in the depths of their own?—
How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it,
But, even in feeling it, know it unknown!
Or who ever read in the depths of their own?—
How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it,
But, even in feeling it, know it unknown!
Sky of wild beauty, in those distant ages
Of which time hath left scarce a wreck or a name,
Say were thy secrets laid bare to the sages,
Who held that the stars were life's annals of flame?
Of which time hath left scarce a wreck or a name,
Say were thy secrets laid bare to the sages,
Who held that the stars were life's annals of flame?
Spirit, that ruleth man's life to its ending,
Chance, Fortune, Fate, answer my summoning now;
The storm o'er the face of the night is descending,—
Fair moon, the dark clouds hide thy silvery brow.
Chance, Fortune, Fate, answer my summoning now;
The storm o'er the face of the night is descending,—
Fair moon, the dark clouds hide thy silvery brow.
216
Let these bring thy answer, and tell me if sadness
For ever man's penance and portion must be;
Doth the morning come forth from a birthplace of gladness?
Is there peace, is there rest, in thine empire or thee?
For ever man's penance and portion must be;
Doth the morning come forth from a birthplace of gladness?
Is there peace, is there rest, in thine empire or thee?
Spirit of fate, from yon troubled west leaning,
As its meteor-piled rack were thy home and thy shrine,
Grief is our knowledge, 'twill teach me thy meaning,
Although thou but speak'st it in silence and sign.
As its meteor-piled rack were thy home and thy shrine,
Grief is our knowledge, 'twill teach me thy meaning,
Although thou but speak'st it in silence and sign.
I mark'd a soft arch sweep its way over heaven;
It spann'd as it ruled the fierce storm which it bound;
The moonshine, the shower, to its influence seem'd given,
And the black clouds grew bright in the beautiful round.
It spann'd as it ruled the fierce storm which it bound;
217
And the black clouds grew bright in the beautiful round.
I look'd out again, but few hues were remaining
On the side nearest earth; while I gazed, they were past:
As a steed for a time with his curb proudly straining,
Then freed in its strength, came the tempest at last.
On the side nearest earth; while I gazed, they were past:
As a steed for a time with his curb proudly straining,
Then freed in its strength, came the tempest at last.
And this was the sign of thy answer, dark spirit!
Alas! and such ever our pathway appears;
Tempest and change still our earth must inherit,—
Its glory a shade, and its loveliness tears.
Alas! and such ever our pathway appears;
Tempest and change still our earth must inherit,—
Its glory a shade, and its loveliness tears.
218
WARNING.
Pray thee, maiden, hear him not!Take thou warning by my lot;
Read my scroll, and mark thou all
I can tell thee of thy thrall.
Thou hast own'd that youthful breast
Treasures its most dangerous guest;
Thou hast own'd that Love is there:
Though now features he may wear,
Such as would a saint deceive,
Win a sceptic to believe,
Only for a time that brow,
Will seem what 'tis seeming now.
219
For Love's power o'er thee is spent.
That I love not now, oh true!—
I have bade such dreams adieu:
Therefore deemest thou my heart
Saw them tranquilly depart;
That they past, nor left behind
Wreck and ruin in my mind.
Thou art in the summer hour
Of first passion's early power;
I am in the autumn day,
Of its darkness, and decay.
—Seems thine idol now to thee
Even as a divinity?
Such the faith that I too held;
Not the less am I compell'd
220
Own my idol gilded clay,
And yet pine to dream again
What I know is worse than vain.
Ay, I did love, and how well,
Let thine own fond weakness tell:
Still upon the soften'd mood
Of my twilight solitude,
Still upon my midnight tear,
Rises image all too dear;
Dark and starry eyes, whose light
Make the glory of the night;
Brow like ocean's morning foam,
For each noble thought a home.
Well such temple's fair outline
Seem'd the spirit's fitting shrine.
221
Fields we shrink to think upon?
Patriot, on whose gifted tongue
Senates in their wonder hung?
Sage, before whose gifted eyes
Nature spreads her mysteries?
Bard, to whose charm'd lute is given
All that earth can breathe of heaven?—
Seems thy lover these to thee?
Even more mine seem'd to me.
Now, my fond belief is past;
Strange, methinks, if thine should last.
“Be content, thou lovest not now:”
Free, thou sayest,—dream'st thou how?
Loathing wouldst thou shun dismay'd
Freedom by such ransom paid.
222
Veil of smiles and mask of pride;
Shrowds that only ask of Fate
Not to seem so desolate.
—I am young,—but age's snow
Hides not colder depths below;
I am gay,—but such a light
Shines upon the grave by night.
—Yet mine is a common tale;
Hearts soon changed, and vows were frail;
Each one blamed the other's deed,
Yet both felt they were agreed;
Ne'er again might either prove
Those sweet fallacies of love.
—Still for what so vain I hold
Is my wasted heart grown cold.
223
When their sweetest have deceived?
Can affection's chain be trusted,
When its dearest links have rusted?
Can life's dreams again be cherish'd,
When its dearest ones have perish'd?
I know Love will not endure;—
Nothing now to me seems sure.
—Maiden, by the thousand tears,
Lava floods on my first years;
By the nights, when burning pain
Fed upon my heart and brain;
By the wretched days now past,
By the weary days to last;
Be thou warn'd, for still the same
Is Love, beneath whatever name.
224
Where Time never change may bring.
Vow thee to thine idol's shrine,—
Then, maiden! read thy fate in mine.
225
THE NAMELESS GRAVE.
A nameless grave,—there is no stone
To sanctify the dead:
O'er it the willow droops alone,
With only wild flowers spread.
To sanctify the dead:
O'er it the willow droops alone,
With only wild flowers spread.
“Oh, there is nought to interest here,
No record of a name,
A trumpet call upon the ear,
High on the roll of fame.
No record of a name,
A trumpet call upon the ear,
High on the roll of fame.
226
“I will not pause beside a tomb
Where nothing calls to mind
Aught that can brighten mortal gloom,
Or elevate mankind;—
Where nothing calls to mind
Aught that can brighten mortal gloom,
Or elevate mankind;—
“No glorious memory to efface
The stain of meaner clay;
No intellect whose heavenly trace
Redeem'd our earth:—away!”
The stain of meaner clay;
No intellect whose heavenly trace
Redeem'd our earth:—away!”
Ah, these are thoughts that well may rise
On youth's ambitious pride;
But I will sit and moralise
This lowly stone beside.
On youth's ambitious pride;
But I will sit and moralise
This lowly stone beside.
227
Here thousands might have slept, whose name
Had been to thee a spell,
To light thy flashing eyes with flame,—
To bid thy young heart swell.
Had been to thee a spell,
To light thy flashing eyes with flame,—
To bid thy young heart swell.
Here might have been a warrior's rest,
Some chief who bravely bled,
With waving banner, sculptured crest,
And laurel on his head.
Some chief who bravely bled,
With waving banner, sculptured crest,
And laurel on his head.
That laurel must have had its blood,
That blood have caused its tear,—
Look on the lovely solitude—
What! wish for warfare here!
That blood have caused its tear,—
Look on the lovely solitude—
What! wish for warfare here!
228
A poet might have slept,—what! he
Whose restless heart first wakes
Its life-pulse into melody,
Then o'er it pines and breaks?—
Whose restless heart first wakes
Its life-pulse into melody,
Then o'er it pines and breaks?—
He who hath sung of passionate love,
His life a feverish tale:—
Oh! not the nightingale, the dove
Would suit this quiet vale.
His life a feverish tale:—
Oh! not the nightingale, the dove
Would suit this quiet vale.
See, I have named your favourite two,—
Each had been glad to crave
Rest 'neath this turf's unbroken dew,
And such a nameless grave!
Each had been glad to crave
Rest 'neath this turf's unbroken dew,
And such a nameless grave!
229
FANTASIES, INSCRIBED TO T. CROFTON CROKER, Esq.
I
I'm weary, I'm weary,—this cold world of ours;I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers.
Farewell to the festal, the hall of the dance,
Where each step is a study, a falsehold each glance;
Where the vain are displaying, the vapidare yawning;
Where the beauty of night, the glory of dawning,
Are wasted, as Fashion, that tyrant, at will
Makes war on sweet Nature, and exiles her still.
230
2
I'm weary, I'm weary,—I'm off with the wind:Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind?
—Fair beings of moonlight, gay dwellers in air,
O show me your kingdom! O let me dwell there!
I see them, I see them!—how sweet it must be
To sleep in yon lily!—is there room in't for me?
I have flung my clay fetters; and now I but wear
A shadowy seeming, a likeness of air.
3
Go harness my chariot, the leaf of an oak;A butterfly stud, and a tendril my yoke.
Go swing me a hammock, the poles mignonette;
I'll rock with its scent in the gossamer net.
231
Yet far is the distance 'twill bear me to-night.
I must have a throne,—ay, yon mushroom may stay,
It has sprung in a night, 'twill be gather'd next day:
And fit is such throne for my brief fairy reign;
For, alas! I'm but dreaming, and dreams are but vain.
232
REVENGE.
Ay, gaze upon her rose-wreathed hair,
And gaze upon her smile;
Seem as you drank the very air
Her breath perfumed the while:
And gaze upon her smile;
Seem as you drank the very air
Her breath perfumed the while:
And wake for her the gifted line,
That wild and witching lay,
And swear your heart is as a shrine,
That only owns her sway.
That wild and witching lay,
And swear your heart is as a shrine,
That only owns her sway.
233
'Tis well: I am revenged at last,—
Mark you that scornful cheek,—
The eye averted as you pass'd,
Spoke more than words could speak.
Mark you that scornful cheek,—
The eye averted as you pass'd,
Spoke more than words could speak.
Ay, now by all the bitter tears
That I have shed for thee,—
The racking doubts, the burning fears,—
Avenged they well may be—
That I have shed for thee,—
The racking doubts, the burning fears,—
Avenged they well may be—
By the nights pass'd in sleepless care,
The days of endless woe;
All that you taught my heart to bear,
All that yourself will know.
The days of endless woe;
All that you taught my heart to bear,
All that yourself will know.
234
I would not wish to see you laid
Within an early tomb;
I should forget how you betray'd,
And only weep your doom:
Within an early tomb;
I should forget how you betray'd,
And only weep your doom:
But this is fitting punishment,
To live and love in vain,—
Oh my wrung heart, be thou content,
And feed upon his pain.
To live and love in vain,—
Oh my wrung heart, be thou content,
And feed upon his pain.
Go thou and watch her lightest sigh,—
Thine own it will not be;
And bask beneath her sunny eye,—
It will not turn on thee.
Thine own it will not be;
And bask beneath her sunny eye,—
It will not turn on thee.
235
'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel,
Far better had'st thou proved;
Ev'n I could almost pity feel,
For thou art not beloved.
Far better had'st thou proved;
Ev'n I could almost pity feel,
For thou art not beloved.
236
A SUMMER DAY.
Sweet valley, whose streams flow as sparkling and bright
As the stars that descend in the depths of the night;
Whose violets fling their rich breath on the air,
Sweet spendthrifts of treasure the Spring has flung there.
As the stars that descend in the depths of the night;
Whose violets fling their rich breath on the air,
Sweet spendthrifts of treasure the Spring has flung there.
My lot is not with thee, 'tis far from thine own;
Nor thus, amid Summer and solitude thrown:
But still it is something to gaze upon thee,
And bless earth, that such peace on her bosom can be.
Nor thus, amid Summer and solitude thrown:
But still it is something to gaze upon thee,
And bless earth, that such peace on her bosom can be.
237
My heart and my steps both grow light as I bound
O'er the green grass that covers thy beautiful ground;
And joy o'er my thoughts, like the sun o'er the leaves,
A blessing in giving and taking receives.
O'er the green grass that covers thy beautiful ground;
And joy o'er my thoughts, like the sun o'er the leaves,
A blessing in giving and taking receives.
I have heap'd up thy flowers, the wild and the sweet,
As if fresh from the touch of the night-elfin's feet;
A bough from thy oak, and a sprig from thy broom,—
I take them as keepsakes to tell of thy bloom.
As if fresh from the touch of the night-elfin's feet;
A bough from thy oak, and a sprig from thy broom,—
I take them as keepsakes to tell of thy bloom.
Their green leaves may droop, and their colours may flee,
As if dying with sorrow at parting from thee;
And my memory fade with them, till thou wilt but seem
Like the flitting shape morning recalls of a dream.
As if dying with sorrow at parting from thee;
238
Like the flitting shape morning recalls of a dream.
Let them fade from their freshness, so leave they behind
One trace, like faint music, impress'd on the mind;
One leaf or one flower to memory will bring
The light of thy beauty, the hope of thy spring.
One trace, like faint music, impress'd on the mind;
One leaf or one flower to memory will bring
The light of thy beauty, the hope of thy spring.
239
THE WREATH.
Nay, fling not down those faded flowers,
Too late they're scatter'd round;
And violet and rose-leaf lie
Together on the ground.
Too late they're scatter'd round;
And violet and rose-leaf lie
Together on the ground.
How carefully this very morn
Those buds were cull'd and wreathed!
And, mid the cloud of that dark hair,
How sweet a sigh they breathed!
Those buds were cull'd and wreathed!
And, mid the cloud of that dark hair,
How sweet a sigh they breathed!
240
And many a gentle word was said
Above their morning dye,—
How that the rose had touch'd thy cheek,
The violet thine eye.
Above their morning dye,—
How that the rose had touch'd thy cheek,
The violet thine eye.
Methinks, if but for memory,
I should have kept these flowers;
Ah! all too lightly does thy heart
Dwell upon vanish'd hours.
I should have kept these flowers;
Ah! all too lightly does thy heart
Dwell upon vanish'd hours.
Already has thine eager hand
Stripp'd yonder rose-hung bough;
The wreath that bound thy raven curls
Thy feet are on it now.
Stripp'd yonder rose-hung bough;
The wreath that bound thy raven curls
Thy feet are on it now.
241
That glancing smile, it seems to say
“Thou art too fanciful:
What matters it what roses fade,
While there are more to cull?”
“Thou art too fanciful:
What matters it what roses fade,
While there are more to cull?”
Ay, I was wrong to ask of thee
Such gloomy thoughts as mine:
Thou in thy Spring, how shouldst thou dream
Of Autumn's pale decline?
Such gloomy thoughts as mine:
Thou in thy Spring, how shouldst thou dream
Of Autumn's pale decline?
Young, lovely, loved,—oh! far from thee
Life's after-dearth and doom;
Long ere thou learn how memory clings
To even faded bloom!
Life's after-dearth and doom;
Long ere thou learn how memory clings
To even faded bloom!
242
SONG.
[Oh never another dream can be]
Oh never another dream can be
Like that early dream of ours,
When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep,
Like a child, among the flowers.
Like that early dream of ours,
When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep,
Like a child, among the flowers.
But Hope has waken'd since, and wept,
Like a rainbow, itself away;
And the flowers have faded, and fallen around—
We have none for a wreath to-day.
Like a rainbow, itself away;
And the flowers have faded, and fallen around—
We have none for a wreath to-day.
243
Now Wisdom wakes in the place of Hope,
And our hearts are like winter hours:
Ah! after-life has been little worth
That early dream of ours.
And our hearts are like winter hours:
Ah! after-life has been little worth
That early dream of ours.
244
THE DYING CHILD.
The woman was in abject misery—that worst of poverty, which is haunted by shame—the only relic left by better days. She shrunk from all efforts at recovery, refused to administer the medicines, and spoke of the child's death but as a blessing.
My God! and is the daily page of lifeDarken'd with wretchedness like this?
Her cheek is flush'd with fever red;
Her little hand burns in my own;
Alas! and does pain rack her sleep?
Speak! for I cannot bear that moan.
Her little hand burns in my own;
Alas! and does pain rack her sleep?
Speak! for I cannot bear that moan.
245
Yet sleep, I do not wish to look
Again within those languid eyes;
Sleep, though again the heavy lash
May never from their beauty rise.
Again within those languid eyes;
Sleep, though again the heavy lash
May never from their beauty rise.
—Aid, hope for me?—now hold thy peace,
And take that healing cup away:
Life, length of life, to that poor child!—
It is not life for which I pray.
And take that healing cup away:
Life, length of life, to that poor child!—
It is not life for which I pray.
Why should she live for pain, for toil,
For wasted frame, and broken heart;
Till life has only left, in death,
With its base fear of death to part!
For wasted frame, and broken heart;
Till life has only left, in death,
With its base fear of death to part!
246
How could I bear to see her youth
Bow'd to the dust by abject toil,
Till misery urge the soul to guilt,
From which its nature would recoil?
Bow'd to the dust by abject toil,
Till misery urge the soul to guilt,
From which its nature would recoil?
The bitterness of poverty,
The shame that adds the worst to woe,—
I think upon the life I've known,
Upon the life that I shall know.
The shame that adds the worst to woe,—
I think upon the life I've known,
Upon the life that I shall know.
Look through yon street,—a hundred lamps
Are lighting up the revels there,—
Hark! you can hear the distant laugh
Blending with music on the air.
Are lighting up the revels there,—
Hark! you can hear the distant laugh
Blending with music on the air.
247
The rich dwell there, who know not want;
Who loathe that wretchedness whose name
Is there an unfamiliar sound:—
Why is not my estate the same?
Who loathe that wretchedness whose name
Is there an unfamiliar sound:—
Why is not my estate the same?
I may have sinn'd, and punishment
For that most ignorant sin incur;
But be the curse upon my head,—
Oh, let it not descend to her!
For that most ignorant sin incur;
But be the curse upon my head,—
Oh, let it not descend to her!
Sleep, dear one! 'tis a weary world;
Sleep the sweet slumber of the grave!
Vex me no more with thy vain words:
What worth is that you seek to save?
Sleep the sweet slumber of the grave!
Vex me no more with thy vain words:
What worth is that you seek to save?
248
Tears—tears—I shame that I should weep;
I thought my heart had nerved my eye:—
I should be thankful, and I will,—
There, there, my child, lie down and die!
I thought my heart had nerved my eye:—
I should be thankful, and I will,—
There, there, my child, lie down and die!
249
A SUMMER EVENING'S TALE.
Come, let thy careless sail float on the wind;
Come, lean by me, and let thy little boat
Follow like thee its will; come, lean by me.
Freighted with roses which the west has flung,
Over its waters on the vessel glides,
Save where the shadowy boughs shut out the sky,
And make a lovely darkness, while the wind
Stirs the sad music of their plaining leaves.
The sky grows paler, as it burnt away
Its crimson passion; and the falling dew
Seems like the tears that follow such an hour.
I'll tell thee, love, a tale,—just such a tale
As you once said my lips could breathe so well;
Speaking as poetry should speak of love,
And asking from the depths of mine own heart
The truth that touches, and by what I feel
For thee, believe what others' feelings are.
There, leave the sail, and look with earnest eyes;
Seem not as if the worldly element
In which thou movest were of thy nature part,
But yield thee to the influence of those thoughts
That haunt thy solitude;—ah, but for those
I never could have loved thee; I, who now
Live only in my other life with thee;
Out on our beings' falsehood!—studied, cold,
Are we not like that actor of old time,
Who wore his mask so long, his features took
Its likeness?—thus we feign we do not feel,
Until our feelings are forgotten things,
Their nature warp'd in one base selfishness;
And generous impulses, and lofty thoughts,
Are counted folly, or are not believed:
And he who doubts or mocks at excellence
(Good that refines our nature, and subdues),
Is riveted to earth by sevenfold chains.
Oh, never had the poet's lute a hope,
An aim so glorious as it now may have,
In this our social state, where petty cares
And mercenary interests only look
Upon the present's littleness, and shrink
From the bold future, and the stately past,—
Where the smooth surface of society
Is polish'd by deceit, and the warm heart
With all its kind affections' early flow,
Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat,
At least for others;—tis the poet's gift
To melt these frozen waters into tears,
By sympathy with sorrows not our own,
By wakening memory with those mournful notes,
Whose music is the thoughts of early years,
When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore
The sweetness and the freshness of their morn.
Young poet, if thy dreams have not such hope
To purify, refine, exalt, subdue,
To touch the selfish, and to shame the vain
Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness,
Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise,
Lofty and pure, and meant for general good;
If thou hast not some power that may direct
The mind from the mean round of daily life,
Waking affections that might else have slept,
Or high resolves, the petrified before,
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense
Of inward and external loveliness,
Making imagination serve as guide
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth,—
Thine is a useless lute: break it, and die.
Come, lean by me, and let thy little boat
Follow like thee its will; come, lean by me.
Freighted with roses which the west has flung,
Over its waters on the vessel glides,
Save where the shadowy boughs shut out the sky,
And make a lovely darkness, while the wind
Stirs the sad music of their plaining leaves.
The sky grows paler, as it burnt away
Its crimson passion; and the falling dew
Seems like the tears that follow such an hour.
250
As you once said my lips could breathe so well;
Speaking as poetry should speak of love,
And asking from the depths of mine own heart
The truth that touches, and by what I feel
For thee, believe what others' feelings are.
There, leave the sail, and look with earnest eyes;
Seem not as if the worldly element
In which thou movest were of thy nature part,
But yield thee to the influence of those thoughts
That haunt thy solitude;—ah, but for those
I never could have loved thee; I, who now
Live only in my other life with thee;
Out on our beings' falsehood!—studied, cold,
Are we not like that actor of old time,
Who wore his mask so long, his features took
251
Until our feelings are forgotten things,
Their nature warp'd in one base selfishness;
And generous impulses, and lofty thoughts,
Are counted folly, or are not believed:
And he who doubts or mocks at excellence
(Good that refines our nature, and subdues),
Is riveted to earth by sevenfold chains.
Oh, never had the poet's lute a hope,
An aim so glorious as it now may have,
In this our social state, where petty cares
And mercenary interests only look
Upon the present's littleness, and shrink
From the bold future, and the stately past,—
Where the smooth surface of society
Is polish'd by deceit, and the warm heart
252
Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat,
At least for others;—tis the poet's gift
To melt these frozen waters into tears,
By sympathy with sorrows not our own,
By wakening memory with those mournful notes,
Whose music is the thoughts of early years,
When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore
The sweetness and the freshness of their morn.
Young poet, if thy dreams have not such hope
To purify, refine, exalt, subdue,
To touch the selfish, and to shame the vain
Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness,
Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise,
Lofty and pure, and meant for general good;
If thou hast not some power that may direct
253
Waking affections that might else have slept,
Or high resolves, the petrified before,
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense
Of inward and external loveliness,
Making imagination serve as guide
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth,—
Thine is a useless lute: break it, and die.
Love mine, I know my weakness, and I know
How far I fall short of the glorious goal
I purpose to myself; yet if one line
Has stolen from the eye unconscious tears,
Recall'd one lover to fidelity
Which is the holiness of love, or bade
One maiden sicken at cold vanity,
When dreaming o'er affection's tenderness,
The deep, the true, the honour'd of my song,—
If but one worldly soil has been effaced,
That song has not been utterly in vain.
All true deep feeling purifies the heart.
Am I not better by my love for you?
At least, I am less selfish; I would give
My life to buy you happiness:—Hush, hush!
I must not let you know how much I love,—
So to my tale.—'Twas on an eve like this,
When purple shadows floated round, and light,
Crimson and passionate, o'er the statues fell,
Like life, for that fair gallery was fill'd
With statues, each one an eternity
Of thought and beauty: there were lovely shapes,
And noble ones; some which the poet's song
Had touch'd with its own immortality;
Others whose glory flung o'er history's page
Imperishable lustre. There she stood,
Forsaken Ariadne; round her brow
Wreathed the glad vine-leaves; but it wore a shade
Of early wretchedness, that which once flung
May never be effaced: and near her leant
Endymion, and his spiritual beauty wore
The likeness of divinity; for love
Doth elevate to itself, and she who watch'd
Over his sleeping face, upon it left
The brightness of herself. Around the walls
Hung pictures, some which gave the summer all
Summer can wish, a more eternal bloom;
And others in some young and lovely face
Embodied dreams into reality.
There hung a portrait of St. Rosalie,
She who renounced the world in youth, and made
Her heart an altar but for heavenly hopes—
Thrice blessed in such sacrifice. Alas!
The weakness, yet the strength of earthly ties!
Who hath not in the weariness of life
Wish'd for the wings of morning or the dove,
To bear them heavenward, and have wish'd in vain?
For wishes are effectual but by will,
And that too much is impotent and void
In frail humanity; and time steals by
Sinful and wavering, and unredeem'd.
How far I fall short of the glorious goal
I purpose to myself; yet if one line
Has stolen from the eye unconscious tears,
Recall'd one lover to fidelity
Which is the holiness of love, or bade
One maiden sicken at cold vanity,
When dreaming o'er affection's tenderness,
254
If but one worldly soil has been effaced,
That song has not been utterly in vain.
All true deep feeling purifies the heart.
Am I not better by my love for you?
At least, I am less selfish; I would give
My life to buy you happiness:—Hush, hush!
I must not let you know how much I love,—
So to my tale.—'Twas on an eve like this,
When purple shadows floated round, and light,
Crimson and passionate, o'er the statues fell,
Like life, for that fair gallery was fill'd
With statues, each one an eternity
Of thought and beauty: there were lovely shapes,
And noble ones; some which the poet's song
Had touch'd with its own immortality;
255
Imperishable lustre. There she stood,
Forsaken Ariadne; round her brow
Wreathed the glad vine-leaves; but it wore a shade
Of early wretchedness, that which once flung
May never be effaced: and near her leant
Endymion, and his spiritual beauty wore
The likeness of divinity; for love
Doth elevate to itself, and she who watch'd
Over his sleeping face, upon it left
The brightness of herself. Around the walls
Hung pictures, some which gave the summer all
Summer can wish, a more eternal bloom;
And others in some young and lovely face
Embodied dreams into reality.
There hung a portrait of St. Rosalie,
256
Her heart an altar but for heavenly hopes—
Thrice blessed in such sacrifice. Alas!
The weakness, yet the strength of earthly ties!
Who hath not in the weariness of life
Wish'd for the wings of morning or the dove,
To bear them heavenward, and have wish'd in vain?
For wishes are effectual but by will,
And that too much is impotent and void
In frail humanity; and time steals by
Sinful and wavering, and unredeem'd.
Bent by a casement, whence her eye could dwell
Or on the countenance of that sweet saint,
Or the fair valley, where the river wound
Like to a fairy thing, now light, now shade,
Which the eye watches in its wandering,
A maiden pass'd each summer eve away.
Life's closing colour was upon her cheek,
Crimson as that which marks the closing day:
And her large eyes, the radiant and the clear,
Wore all the ethereal beauty of that heaven
Where she was hastening. Still her rosebud mouth
Wore the voluptuous sweetness of a spring
Haunted by fragrance and by melody.
Her hair was gather'd in a silken net,
As if its luxury of auburn curls
Oppress'd the feverish temples all too much;
For you might see the azure pulses beat
In the clear forehead painfully; and oft
Would her small hands be press'd upon her brow,
As if to still its throbbing. Days pass'd by,
And thus beside that casement would she spend
The summer evenings. Well she knew her doom,
And sought to linger with such loveliness:
Surely it soothed her passage to the grave.
Or on the countenance of that sweet saint,
Or the fair valley, where the river wound
Like to a fairy thing, now light, now shade,
Which the eye watches in its wandering,
257
Life's closing colour was upon her cheek,
Crimson as that which marks the closing day:
And her large eyes, the radiant and the clear,
Wore all the ethereal beauty of that heaven
Where she was hastening. Still her rosebud mouth
Wore the voluptuous sweetness of a spring
Haunted by fragrance and by melody.
Her hair was gather'd in a silken net,
As if its luxury of auburn curls
Oppress'd the feverish temples all too much;
For you might see the azure pulses beat
In the clear forehead painfully; and oft
Would her small hands be press'd upon her brow,
As if to still its throbbing. Days pass'd by,
And thus beside that casement would she spend
258
And sought to linger with such loveliness:
Surely it soothed her passage to the grave.
One gazed upon her, till his very life
Was dedicate to that idolatry
With which young Love makes offering of itself.
In the vast world he only saw her face.
The morning blush was lighted up by hope,—
The hope of meeting her; the noontide hours
Were counted for her sake; in the soft wind,
When it had pass'd o'er early flowers, he caught
The odour of her sigh; upon the rose
He only saw the colour of her cheek.
He watch'd the midnight stars until they wore
Her beauty's likeness—love's astrology.
Was dedicate to that idolatry
With which young Love makes offering of itself.
In the vast world he only saw her face.
The morning blush was lighted up by hope,—
The hope of meeting her; the noontide hours
Were counted for her sake; in the soft wind,
When it had pass'd o'er early flowers, he caught
The odour of her sigh; upon the rose
He only saw the colour of her cheek.
He watch'd the midnight stars until they wore
Her beauty's likeness—love's astrology.
259
His was the gifted eye, which grace still touch'd
As if with second nature; and his dreams,
His childish dreams, were lit by hues from heaven—
Those which make genius. Now his visions wore
A grace more actual, and one worshipp'd face
Inspired the youthful sculptor, till like life
His spirit warm'd the marble. Who shall say
The love of genius is a common thing,
Such as the many feel—half selfishness,
Half vanity?—for genius is divine,
And, like a god, doth turn its dwelling-place
Into a temple; and the heart redeem'd
By its fine influence is immortal shrine
For love's divinity. In common homes
He dies, as he was born, in nothingness;
But love, inspiring genius, makes the world
Its glorious witness; hence the poet's page
Wakens its haunting sympathy of pain;
And hence the painter with a touch creates
Feelings imperishable. 'Twas from that hour
Canova took his inspiration: love
Made him the sculptor of all loveliness;
The overflowing of a soul imbued
By most ideal grace, the memory
Which lingers round first passion's sepulchre.
—Why do I say first love?—there is no second.
Who asks in the same year a second growth
Of spring leaves from the tree, corn from the field?—
They are exhausted. Thus 'tis with the heart:—
'Tis not so rich in feeling or in hope
To bear that one be crush'd, the other faded,
Yet find them ready to put forth again.
It does not always last; man's temper is
Often forgetful, fickle, and throws down
The temple he can never build again;
But when it does last, and that asks for much,—
A fix'd yet passionate spirit, and a mind
Master of its resolves,—when that love lasts,
It is in noblest natures. After years
Tell how Canova felt the influence.
They never spoke: she look'd too spiritual,
Too pure for human passion; and her face
Seem'd hallow'd by the heaven it was so near.
And days pass'd on:—it was an eve in June—
How ever could it be so fair a one?—
And she came not: hue after hue forsook
The clouds, like Hope, which died with them, and night
Came all too soon and shadowy. He rose,
And wander'd through the city, o'er which hung
The darkness of his thoughts. At length a strain
Of ominous music wail'd along the streets:
It was the mournful chanting for the dead,
And the long tapers flung upon the air
A wild red light, and show'd the funeral train:
Wreaths—O what mockeries!—hung from the bier;
And there, pale, beautiful, as if in sleep,
Her dark hair braided graceful with white flowers,
She lay,—his own beloved one!
As if with second nature; and his dreams,
His childish dreams, were lit by hues from heaven—
Those which make genius. Now his visions wore
A grace more actual, and one worshipp'd face
Inspired the youthful sculptor, till like life
His spirit warm'd the marble. Who shall say
The love of genius is a common thing,
Such as the many feel—half selfishness,
Half vanity?—for genius is divine,
And, like a god, doth turn its dwelling-place
Into a temple; and the heart redeem'd
By its fine influence is immortal shrine
For love's divinity. In common homes
He dies, as he was born, in nothingness;
But love, inspiring genius, makes the world
260
Wakens its haunting sympathy of pain;
And hence the painter with a touch creates
Feelings imperishable. 'Twas from that hour
Canova took his inspiration: love
Made him the sculptor of all loveliness;
The overflowing of a soul imbued
By most ideal grace, the memory
Which lingers round first passion's sepulchre.
—Why do I say first love?—there is no second.
Who asks in the same year a second growth
Of spring leaves from the tree, corn from the field?—
They are exhausted. Thus 'tis with the heart:—
'Tis not so rich in feeling or in hope
To bear that one be crush'd, the other faded,
261
It does not always last; man's temper is
Often forgetful, fickle, and throws down
The temple he can never build again;
But when it does last, and that asks for much,—
A fix'd yet passionate spirit, and a mind
Master of its resolves,—when that love lasts,
It is in noblest natures. After years
Tell how Canova felt the influence.
They never spoke: she look'd too spiritual,
Too pure for human passion; and her face
Seem'd hallow'd by the heaven it was so near.
And days pass'd on:—it was an eve in June—
How ever could it be so fair a one?—
And she came not: hue after hue forsook
262
Came all too soon and shadowy. He rose,
And wander'd through the city, o'er which hung
The darkness of his thoughts. At length a strain
Of ominous music wail'd along the streets:
It was the mournful chanting for the dead,
And the long tapers flung upon the air
A wild red light, and show'd the funeral train:
Wreaths—O what mockeries!—hung from the bier;
And there, pale, beautiful, as if in sleep,
Her dark hair braided graceful with white flowers,
She lay,—his own beloved one!
No more, no more!—love, turn thy boat to land,—
I am so sorrowful at my own words.
Affection is an awful thing!—Alas!
We give our destiny from our own hands,
And trust to those most frail of all frail things,
The chances of humanity.
—The wind hath a deep sound, more stern than sweet;
And the dark sky is clouded; tremulous,
A few far stars—how pale they look to-night!—
Touch the still waters with a fitful light.
There is strange sympathy between all things,
Though in the hurrying weariness of life
We do not pause to note it: the glad day,
Like a young king surrounded by the pomp
Of gold and purple, sinks but to the shade
Of the black night:—the chronicle I told
Began with hope, fair skies, and lovely shapes,
And ended in despair. Even thus our life
In these has likeness; with its many joys,
Its fears, its eagerness, its varying page,
Mark'd with its thousand colours, only tends
To darkness, and to silence, and the grave!
I am so sorrowful at my own words.
263
We give our destiny from our own hands,
And trust to those most frail of all frail things,
The chances of humanity.
—The wind hath a deep sound, more stern than sweet;
And the dark sky is clouded; tremulous,
A few far stars—how pale they look to-night!—
Touch the still waters with a fitful light.
There is strange sympathy between all things,
Though in the hurrying weariness of life
We do not pause to note it: the glad day,
Like a young king surrounded by the pomp
Of gold and purple, sinks but to the shade
Of the black night:—the chronicle I told
264
And ended in despair. Even thus our life
In these has likeness; with its many joys,
Its fears, its eagerness, its varying page,
Mark'd with its thousand colours, only tends
To darkness, and to silence, and the grave!
265
LINES OF LIFE.
Orphan in my first years, I early learnt
To make my heart suffice itself, and seek
Support and sympathy in its own depths.
To make my heart suffice itself, and seek
Support and sympathy in its own depths.
Well, read my cheek, and watch my eye,—
Too strictly school'd are they,
One secret of my soul to show,
One hidden thought betray.
Too strictly school'd are they,
One secret of my soul to show,
One hidden thought betray.
I never knew the time my heart
Look'd freely from my brow;
It once was check'd by timidness,
'Tis taught by caution now.
Look'd freely from my brow;
It once was check'd by timidness,
'Tis taught by caution now.
266
I live among the cold, the false,
And I must seem like them;
And such I am, for I am false
As those I most condemn.
And I must seem like them;
And such I am, for I am false
As those I most condemn.
I teach my lip its sweetest smile,
My tongue its softest tone;
I borrow others' likeness, till
Almost I lose my own.
My tongue its softest tone;
I borrow others' likeness, till
Almost I lose my own.
I pass through flattery's gilded sieve,
Whatever I would say;
In social life, all, like the blind,
Must learn to feel their way.
Whatever I would say;
In social life, all, like the blind,
Must learn to feel their way.
267
I check my thoughts like curbed steeds
That struggle with the rein;
I bid my feelings sleep, like wrecks
In the unfathom'd main.
That struggle with the rein;
I bid my feelings sleep, like wrecks
In the unfathom'd main.
I hear them speak of love, the deep,
The true, and mock the name;
Mock at all high and early truth,
And I too do the same.
The true, and mock the name;
Mock at all high and early truth,
And I too do the same.
I hear them tell some touching tale,
I swallow down the tear;
I hear them name some generous deed,
And I have learnt to sneer.
I swallow down the tear;
I hear them name some generous deed,
And I have learnt to sneer.
268
I hear the spiritual, the kind,
The pure, but named in mirth;
Till all of good, ay, even hope,
Seems exiled from our earth.
The pure, but named in mirth;
Till all of good, ay, even hope,
Seems exiled from our earth.
And one fear, withering ridicule,
Is all that I can dread;
A sword hung by a single hair
For ever o'er the head.
Is all that I can dread;
A sword hung by a single hair
For ever o'er the head.
We bow to a most servile faith,
In a most servile fear;
While none among us dares to say
What none will choose to hear.
In a most servile fear;
While none among us dares to say
What none will choose to hear.
269
And if we dream of loftier thoughts,
In weakness they are gone;
And indolence and vanity
Rivet our fetters on.
In weakness they are gone;
And indolence and vanity
Rivet our fetters on.
Surely I was not born for this!
I feel a loftier mood
Of generous impulse, high resolve,
Steal o'er my solitude!
I feel a loftier mood
Of generous impulse, high resolve,
Steal o'er my solitude!
I gaze upon the thousand stars
That fill the midnight sky;
And wish, so passionately wish,
A light like theirs on high.
That fill the midnight sky;
And wish, so passionately wish,
A light like theirs on high.
270
I have such eagerness of hope
To benefit my kind;
And feel as if immortal power
Were given to my mind.
To benefit my kind;
And feel as if immortal power
Were given to my mind.
I think on that eternal fame,
The sun of earthly gloom,
Which makes the gloriousness of death,
The future of the tomb—
The sun of earthly gloom,
Which makes the gloriousness of death,
The future of the tomb—
That earthly future, the faint sign
Of a more heavenly one;
—A step, a word, a voice, a look,—
Alas! my dream is done.
Of a more heavenly one;
—A step, a word, a voice, a look,—
Alas! my dream is done.
271
And earth, and earth's debasing stain,
Again is on my soul;
And I am but a nameless part
Of a most worthless whole.
Again is on my soul;
And I am but a nameless part
Of a most worthless whole.
Why write I this? because my heart
Towards the future springs,
That future where it loves to soar
On more than eagle wings.
Towards the future springs,
That future where it loves to soar
On more than eagle wings.
The present, it is but a speck
In that eternal time,
In which my lost hopes find a home,
My spirit knows its clime.
In that eternal time,
In which my lost hopes find a home,
My spirit knows its clime.
272
Oh! not myself,—for what am I?—
The worthless and the weak,
Whose every thought of self should raise
A blush to burn my cheek.
The worthless and the weak,
Whose every thought of self should raise
A blush to burn my cheek.
But song has touch'd my lips with fire,
And made my heart a shrine;
For what, although alloy'd, debased,
Is in itself divine.
And made my heart a shrine;
For what, although alloy'd, debased,
Is in itself divine.
I am myself but a vile link
Amid life's weary chain;
But I have spoken hallow'd words,
Oh do not say in vain!
Amid life's weary chain;
But I have spoken hallow'd words,
Oh do not say in vain!
273
My first, my last, my only wish,
Say will my charmed chords
Wake to the morning light of fame,
And breathe again my words?
Say will my charmed chords
Wake to the morning light of fame,
And breathe again my words?
Will the young maiden, when her tears
Alone in moonlight shine—
Tears for the absent and the loved—
Murmur some song of mine?
Alone in moonlight shine—
Tears for the absent and the loved—
Murmur some song of mine?
Will the pale youth by his dim lamp,
Himself a dying flame,
From many an antique scroll beside,
Choose that which bears my name?
Himself a dying flame,
From many an antique scroll beside,
Choose that which bears my name?
274
Let music make less terrible
The silence of the dead;
I care not, so my spirit last
Long after life has fled.
The silence of the dead;
I care not, so my spirit last
Long after life has fled.
275
THE BATTLE FIELD.
It was a battle field, and the cold moon
Made the pale dead yet paler. Two lay there;
One with the ghastly marble of the grave
Upon his face; the other wan, but yet
Touch'd with the hues of life, and its warm breath
Upon his parted lips.
Made the pale dead yet paler. Two lay there;
One with the ghastly marble of the grave
Upon his face; the other wan, but yet
Touch'd with the hues of life, and its warm breath
Upon his parted lips.
He sleeps—the night wind o'er the battle field
Is gently sighing;
Gently, though each breeze bear away
Life from the dying.
Is gently sighing;
Gently, though each breeze bear away
Life from the dying.
276
He sleeps,—though his dear and early friend
A corpse lies by him;
Though the ravening vulture and screaming crow
Are hovering nigh him.
A corpse lies by him;
Though the ravening vulture and screaming crow
Are hovering nigh him.
He sleeps,—where blood has been pour'd like rain,
Another field before him;
And he sleeps as calm as his mother's eyes
Were watching o'er him.
Another field before him;
And he sleeps as calm as his mother's eyes
Were watching o'er him.
To-morrow that youthful victor's name
Will be proudly given,
By the trumpet's voice, and the soldier's shout,
To the winds of heaven.
Will be proudly given,
By the trumpet's voice, and the soldier's shout,
To the winds of heaven.
277
Yet life, how pitiful and how mean,
Thy noblest story;
When the high excitement of victory,
The fulness of glory,
Thy noblest story;
When the high excitement of victory,
The fulness of glory,
Nor the sorrow felt for the friend of his youth,
Whose corpse he 's keeping,
Can give his human weakness force
To keep from sleeping!
Whose corpse he 's keeping,
Can give his human weakness force
To keep from sleeping!
And this is the sum of our mortal state,
The hopes we number,—
Feverish waking, danger, death,
And listless slumber.
The hopes we number,—
Feverish waking, danger, death,
And listless slumber.
278
NEW YEAR'S EVE.
There is no change upon the air,
No record in the sky;
No pall-like storm comes forth to shrowd
The year about to die.
No record in the sky;
No pall-like storm comes forth to shrowd
The year about to die.
A few light clouds are on the heaven,
A few far stars are bright;
And the pale moon shines as she shines
On many a common night.
A few far stars are bright;
And the pale moon shines as she shines
On many a common night.
279
Ah, not in heaven, but upon earth,
Are signs of change exprest;
The closing year has left its mark
On human brow and breast.
Are signs of change exprest;
The closing year has left its mark
On human brow and breast.
How much goes with it to the grave
Of life's most precious things!
Methinks each year dies on a pyre,
Like the Assyrian kings.
Of life's most precious things!
Methinks each year dies on a pyre,
Like the Assyrian kings.
Affections, friendships, confidence,—
There 's not a year hath died
But all these treasures of the heart
Lie with it side by side.
There 's not a year hath died
But all these treasures of the heart
Lie with it side by side.
280
The wheels of time work heavily;
We marvel day by day
To see how from the chain of life
The gilding wears away.
We marvel day by day
To see how from the chain of life
The gilding wears away.
Sad the mere change of fortune's chance,
And sad the friend unkind;
But what has sadness like the change
That in ourselves we find?
And sad the friend unkind;
But what has sadness like the change
That in ourselves we find?
I've wept my castle in the dust,
Wept o'er an alter'd brow;
'Tis far worse murmuring o'er those tears,
“Would I could weep them now!”
Wept o'er an alter'd brow;
'Tis far worse murmuring o'er those tears,
“Would I could weep them now!”
281
Oh, for mine early confidence,
Which like that graceful tree
Bent cordial, as if each approach
Could but in kindness be!
Which like that graceful tree
Bent cordial, as if each approach
Could but in kindness be!
Then was the time the fairy Hope
My future fortune told,
Or Youth, the alchemist, that turn'd
Whate'er he touch'd to gold.
My future fortune told,
Or Youth, the alchemist, that turn'd
Whate'er he touch'd to gold.
But Hope's sweet words can never be
What they have been of yore:
I am grown wiser, and believe
In fairy tales no more.
What they have been of yore:
I am grown wiser, and believe
In fairy tales no more.
282
And Youth has spent his wealth, and bought
The knowledge he would fain
Change for forgetfulness, and live
His dreaming life again.
The knowledge he would fain
Change for forgetfulness, and live
His dreaming life again.
I'm weary, weary: day-dreams, years,
I've seen alike depart,
And sullen Care and Discontent
Hang brooding o'er my heart.
I've seen alike depart,
And sullen Care and Discontent
Hang brooding o'er my heart.
Another year, another year,—
Alas! and must it be
That Time's most dark and weary wheel
Must turn again for me?
Alas! and must it be
That Time's most dark and weary wheel
Must turn again for me?
283
In vain I seek from out the past
Some cherish'd wreck to save;
Affection, feeling, hope, are dead,—
My heart is its own grave!
Some cherish'd wreck to save;
Affection, feeling, hope, are dead,—
My heart is its own grave!
284
SONG.
[I pray thee let me weep to-night]
I pray thee let me weep to-night,
'Tis rarely I am weeping;
My tears are buried in my heart,
Like cave-lock'd fountains sleeping.
'Tis rarely I am weeping;
My tears are buried in my heart,
Like cave-lock'd fountains sleeping.
But oh, to-night, those words of thine
Have brought the past before me;
And shadows of long-vanish'd years
Are passing sadly o'er me.
Have brought the past before me;
And shadows of long-vanish'd years
Are passing sadly o'er me.
285
The friends I loved in early youth,
The faithless and forgetting,
Whom, though they were not worth my love,
I cannot help regretting;—
The faithless and forgetting,
Whom, though they were not worth my love,
I cannot help regretting;—
My feelings, once the kind the warm,
But now the hard, the frozen;
The errors I've too long pursued,
The path I should have chosen;—
But now the hard, the frozen;
The errors I've too long pursued,
The path I should have chosen;—
The hopes that are like failing lights
Around my pathway dying;
The consciousness none others rise,
Their vacant place supplying;—
Around my pathway dying;
The consciousness none others rise,
Their vacant place supplying;—
286
The knowledge by experience taught,
The useless, the repelling;
For what avails to know how false
Is all the charmer's telling?
The useless, the repelling;
For what avails to know how false
Is all the charmer's telling?
I would give worlds, could I believe
One half that is profess'd me;
Affection! could I think it Thee,
When Flattery has caress'd me?
One half that is profess'd me;
Affection! could I think it Thee,
When Flattery has caress'd me?
I cannot bear to think of this,—
Oh, leave me to my weeping;
A few tears for that grave my heart,
Where hope in death is sleeping.
Oh, leave me to my weeping;
A few tears for that grave my heart,
Where hope in death is sleeping.
287
STANZAS TO THE AUTHOR OF “MONT BLANC,” “ADA,” &c.
Thy hands are fill'd with early flowers,
Thy step is on the wind;
The innocent and keen delight
Of youth is on thy mind;—
That glad fresh feeling that bestows
Itself the pleasure which it knows,
The pure, the undefined;
And thou art in that happy hour
Of feeling's uncurb'd, early power.
Thy step is on the wind;
The innocent and keen delight
Of youth is on thy mind;—
That glad fresh feeling that bestows
Itself the pleasure which it knows,
The pure, the undefined;
And thou art in that happy hour
Of feeling's uncurb'd, early power.
288
Yes, thou art very young, and youth,
Like light, should round thee fling
The sunshine thrown round morning's hour,
The gladness given to spring:
And yet upon thy brow is wrought
The darkness of that deeper thought,
Which future time should bring.
What can have traced that shadowy line
Upon a brow so young as thine?
Like light, should round thee fling
The sunshine thrown round morning's hour,
The gladness given to spring:
And yet upon thy brow is wrought
The darkness of that deeper thought,
Which future time should bring.
What can have traced that shadowy line
Upon a brow so young as thine?
'Tis written in thy large dark eyes,
Fill'd with unbidden tears;
The passionate paleness on thy cheek,
Belying thy few years.
A child, yet not the less thou art
One of the gifted hand and heart,
Whose deepest hopes and fears
Are omen-like: the poet's dower
Is even as the prophet's power.
Fill'd with unbidden tears;
The passionate paleness on thy cheek,
Belying thy few years.
A child, yet not the less thou art
One of the gifted hand and heart,
289
Are omen-like: the poet's dower
Is even as the prophet's power.
Thy image floats before my eyes,
Thy book is on my knee;
I'm musing on what now thou art,
And on what thou wilt be.
Dangerous as a magic spell,
Whose good or evil none may tell,
The gift that is with thee;
For Genius, like all heavenly light,
Can blast as well as bless the sight.
Thy book is on my knee;
I'm musing on what now thou art,
And on what thou wilt be.
Dangerous as a magic spell,
Whose good or evil none may tell,
The gift that is with thee;
For Genius, like all heavenly light,
Can blast as well as bless the sight.
Thou art now in thy dreaming time:
The green leaves on the bough,
The sunshine turning them to gold,
Are pleasures to thee now;
And thou dost love the quiet night,
The stars to thee are a delight;
And not a flower can grow,
But brings before thy haunted glance
The poet days of old romance.
The green leaves on the bough,
290
Are pleasures to thee now;
And thou dost love the quiet night,
The stars to thee are a delight;
And not a flower can grow,
But brings before thy haunted glance
The poet days of old romance.
With thine “own people” dost thou dwell,
And by thine own fireside;
And kind eyes keep o'er thee a watch,
Their darling and their pride.
I cannot choose but envy thee;
The very name of home to me
Has been from youth denied;
But yet it seems like sacred ground,
By all earth's best affections bound.
And by thine own fireside;
And kind eyes keep o'er thee a watch,
Their darling and their pride.
I cannot choose but envy thee;
The very name of home to me
Has been from youth denied;
But yet it seems like sacred ground,
By all earth's best affections bound.
291
'Tis well for thee! thou art not made
Struggle like this to share;
Ill might that gentle, loving heart
The world's cold conflict bear;
Where selfish interest, falsehood, strife,
Strain through their gladiatorial life;
Save that the false ones wear
Seeming and softness and a smile,
As if guilt were effaced by guile.
Struggle like this to share;
Ill might that gentle, loving heart
The world's cold conflict bear;
Where selfish interest, falsehood, strife,
Strain through their gladiatorial life;
Save that the false ones wear
Seeming and softness and a smile,
As if guilt were effaced by guile.
I dare not speak to thee of fame,
That madness of the soul,
Which flings its life upon one cast,
To reach its desperate goal.
Still the wings destined for the sky
Will long their upward flight to try,
And seek to dare the whole,
Till, space and storm and sunshine past,
Thou find'st thou art alone at last.
That madness of the soul,
Which flings its life upon one cast,
To reach its desperate goal.
Still the wings destined for the sky
Will long their upward flight to try,
292
Till, space and storm and sunshine past,
Thou find'st thou art alone at last.
But love will be thy recompense,
The love that haunts thy line;
Ay, dream of love, but do not dream
It ever will be thine.
His shadow, not himself, will come;
Too spiritual to be his home,
Thy heart is but his shrine;
For vainest of all earthly things
The poet's vain imaginings.
The love that haunts thy line;
Ay, dream of love, but do not dream
It ever will be thine.
His shadow, not himself, will come;
Too spiritual to be his home,
Thy heart is but his shrine;
For vainest of all earthly things
The poet's vain imaginings.
Go, still the throbbing of thy brow,
The beating of thy heart;
Unstring thy lute, and close thy page,
And choose an humbler part;
Turn not thy glistening eyes above,
Dwell only in thy household love,
Forgetting what thou art;
And yet life like what this must be
Seems but a weary lot for thee.
The beating of thy heart;
293
And choose an humbler part;
Turn not thy glistening eyes above,
Dwell only in thy household love,
Forgetting what thou art;
And yet life like what this must be
Seems but a weary lot for thee.
Or trust thee to thy soaring wing,
Awake the gifted lay;
Fling life's more quiet happiness
For its wild dreams away.
'Tis a hard choice: on either side
Thy heart must with itself divide,
Be thy doom what it may.
Life's best to win, life's best to lose,—
The lot is with thee, maiden,—choose.
Awake the gifted lay;
Fling life's more quiet happiness
For its wild dreams away.
'Tis a hard choice: on either side
Thy heart must with itself divide,
Be thy doom what it may.
Life's best to win, life's best to lose,—
The lot is with thee, maiden,—choose.
294
Ah no!—the choice is not thine own,—
The spirit will rebel;
The fire within the poet's heart
Is fire unquenchable.
Far may its usual curse depart,
And light, but not consume, thy heart!
Sweet minstrel, fare thee well!
And may for once the laurel wreath
Not wither all that grows beneath!
The spirit will rebel;
The fire within the poet's heart
Is fire unquenchable.
Far may its usual curse depart,
And light, but not consume, thy heart!
Sweet minstrel, fare thee well!
And may for once the laurel wreath
Not wither all that grows beneath!
295
THE MOUNTAIN GRAVE.
She sate beside the rock from which arose
A mountain rivulet's blue wanderings;
And there, with careless hand, cast leaves and flowers
To float upon the surface, or to sink,
As the wind listed, for she took no heed,
Nor watch'd their progress. Suddenly she ceased,
While pass'd a cloud across her deep blue eyes:
“Are ye not symbols of me, ye fair flowers?
Thus in mere recklessness my wilful hand
Has wasted the whole beauty of a spring,
And I have thrown your fragrant lives away
In one vain moment's idleness.” 'Tis strange
How the heart, overpress'd with its own thoughts,—
And what oppresses the young heart like love?—
Grows superstitious, finds similitudes
And boding fears in every change and chance.
She bow'd her face upon her hands and wept,
When suddenly her bright hair was flung back,
Her cheek was turn'd to crimson, and the tears
Lay like dew on the rose. “Mine Agatha!
What! weeping, love? I am not late to-night;
Our meeting star but trembles in the sky,
In light as glistening as thine own sweet eyes.”
A mountain rivulet's blue wanderings;
And there, with careless hand, cast leaves and flowers
To float upon the surface, or to sink,
As the wind listed, for she took no heed,
Nor watch'd their progress. Suddenly she ceased,
While pass'd a cloud across her deep blue eyes:
“Are ye not symbols of me, ye fair flowers?
Thus in mere recklessness my wilful hand
Has wasted the whole beauty of a spring,
And I have thrown your fragrant lives away
296
How the heart, overpress'd with its own thoughts,—
And what oppresses the young heart like love?—
Grows superstitious, finds similitudes
And boding fears in every change and chance.
She bow'd her face upon her hands and wept,
When suddenly her bright hair was flung back,
Her cheek was turn'd to crimson, and the tears
Lay like dew on the rose. “Mine Agatha!
What! weeping, love? I am not late to-night;
Our meeting star but trembles in the sky,
In light as glistening as thine own sweet eyes.”
His words had a strange sound; she had forgot
Her sorrow and its cause in the deep joy
His presence brought. She gazed upon his face,
As if 'twould vanish if she did not gaze;
She stay'd her breath to listen to his words,
Scarce daring credit her own happiness.
There stood they, with the rich red light of eve
Yet lingering, like a glory, on their heads,
In the snow mirror of the mountain peak;—
A bright laburnum grew beside,—its boughs
Flung over them a golden shower: the wave
That wander'd at their feet was clear as Hope;
Their shapes were outlined in it; and one star,
Reflected too, shone like an augury
Of good between them.—There they leant, while hours
Pass'd, as time had no boundaries. O earth,
Yet art thou touch'd by heaven, though only touch'd,—
Thy pleasures are but rainbows, which unite
The glad heavens with thee in their transient beauty,
Then melt away again upon the clouds.
O youth, and love, which is the light of youth,
Why pass ye as the morning?—life goes on,
But like a bark that, first in carelessness,
And afterwards in fear of each rough gale,
Has flung her richest freightage overboard.
Who is there, though young still, yet having lost
The warmth, the freshness, morning's dew and light,
Can bear to look back on their earlier hours,
When faith made its own happiness, and the heart
Was credulous of its delight, and gave
Its best affections forth so trustingly,
Content to love, not doubting of return?
Her sorrow and its cause in the deep joy
His presence brought. She gazed upon his face,
As if 'twould vanish if she did not gaze;
297
Scarce daring credit her own happiness.
There stood they, with the rich red light of eve
Yet lingering, like a glory, on their heads,
In the snow mirror of the mountain peak;—
A bright laburnum grew beside,—its boughs
Flung over them a golden shower: the wave
That wander'd at their feet was clear as Hope;
Their shapes were outlined in it; and one star,
Reflected too, shone like an augury
Of good between them.—There they leant, while hours
Pass'd, as time had no boundaries. O earth,
Yet art thou touch'd by heaven, though only touch'd,—
Thy pleasures are but rainbows, which unite
298
Then melt away again upon the clouds.
O youth, and love, which is the light of youth,
Why pass ye as the morning?—life goes on,
But like a bark that, first in carelessness,
And afterwards in fear of each rough gale,
Has flung her richest freightage overboard.
Who is there, though young still, yet having lost
The warmth, the freshness, morning's dew and light,
Can bear to look back on their earlier hours,
When faith made its own happiness, and the heart
Was credulous of its delight, and gave
Its best affections forth so trustingly,
Content to love, not doubting of return?
'Twas Agatha broke the sweet silence first:
“My father told me he had seen to-day
The gathering, Herman, of your hardy troops:
You led them, mounted on your snow-white steed.—
He bade me fling to-night a double chain
Of sighs and smiles, for the young warrior's truth
Was sorely tried by absence. You will go,
Like our bold river, into other lands,
On its own proud free course; whilst I shall send
After thee hopes and prayers, like the poor leaves
That I have cast upon the waves to perish.”
“My father told me he had seen to-day
299
You led them, mounted on your snow-white steed.—
He bade me fling to-night a double chain
Of sighs and smiles, for the young warrior's truth
Was sorely tried by absence. You will go,
Like our bold river, into other lands,
On its own proud free course; whilst I shall send
After thee hopes and prayers, like the poor leaves
That I have cast upon the waves to perish.”
She spoke in mirth; yet as she spoke, her words
Caught such a sadness in their omen tone,
In silence Herman took her hand, and gazed
Upon her face as he would picture it
Within his inmost soul. A brow more fair
Ne'er caught the silver softness of moonlight.
Her cheek was as the mirror of her heart,
Eloquent in its blushes, and its hues
Now varied like the evening's;—but 'tis vain
To dwell on youthful lovers' parting hour.
A first farewell, with all its passionate words,
Its lingering looks, its gushing tears, its hopes
Scarcely distinguish'd from its fears, its vows,—
They are its least of suffering; for the heart
Feels that it needs them not, yet breathes them still,
Making them oracles. But the last star
Sinks down amid the mountains:—he must go;
By daybreak will his gallant vassals look
To hear their chieftain's bugle. Watch'd she there
His dark plume cast its shadow on the snows,
His rapid foot bound on from crag to crag:—
The rocks have hid him from her eager view,
But still she hears the echo of his step,—
That dies too into silence; then she feels
Her utter loneliness:—he is quite gone!
Caught such a sadness in their omen tone,
In silence Herman took her hand, and gazed
Upon her face as he would picture it
Within his inmost soul. A brow more fair
Ne'er caught the silver softness of moonlight.
Her cheek was as the mirror of her heart,
300
Now varied like the evening's;—but 'tis vain
To dwell on youthful lovers' parting hour.
A first farewell, with all its passionate words,
Its lingering looks, its gushing tears, its hopes
Scarcely distinguish'd from its fears, its vows,—
They are its least of suffering; for the heart
Feels that it needs them not, yet breathes them still,
Making them oracles. But the last star
Sinks down amid the mountains:—he must go;
By daybreak will his gallant vassals look
To hear their chieftain's bugle. Watch'd she there
His dark plume cast its shadow on the snows,
His rapid foot bound on from crag to crag:—
The rocks have hid him from her eager view,
But still she hears the echo of his step,—
301
Her utter loneliness:—he is quite gone!
Long days have pass'd—that evening star hath left
Its throne of beauty on the snow-crown'd hill,
Yielding its place to winter's thousand lights;—
Long days have pass'd:—again the twilight hour
Smiles in the influence of that lovely star;
The bright laburnum's golden wealth is heap'd,
The spring's first treasure, and beneath its shade
Rests Agatha alone:—what! still alone?
Its throne of beauty on the snow-crown'd hill,
Yielding its place to winter's thousand lights;—
Long days have pass'd:—again the twilight hour
Smiles in the influence of that lovely star;
The bright laburnum's golden wealth is heap'd,
The spring's first treasure, and beneath its shade
Rests Agatha alone:—what! still alone?
A few short words will tell what change has wrought
In their once love: it is a history
That would suit half mankind. In its first spring,—
For the heart has its spring of bud and bloom
Even as has the year,—it found a home
For all its young affections, gentle thoughts,
In his true maiden's bosom; and the life
He dream'd of was indeed a dream—'twas made
Of quiet happiness: but forth he went
Into the wild world's tumult. As the bloom
Fades from the face of nature, so the gloss
Of his warm feelings faded with their freshness;
Ambition took the place of Love, and Hope
Fed upon fiery thoughts, aspiring aims;
And the bold warrior, favourite of his king,
If that he thought of his first tenderness,
Thought of it but with scorn, or vain excuse,
And in her uncomplaining silence read
But what he wish'd,—oblivion; and at last
Her very name had faded, like the flower
Which we have laid upon our heart, and there
Have suffer'd it to die. A second spring
Has loosed the snowy waters, and has fill'd
The valleys with her joy; but, Agatha,
It is not spring for thee; it has not brought
Its sunny beauty to thy deep blue eyes,
Its dew to freshen thy lips' languid rose,
And its bloom is not for thy cheek. One year,
And thou didst hide thy misery, and seem,
With thy gay songs and smiles and gladsome words,
Still in thine aged father's sight the same.
His pride was wounded by young Herman's falsehood,
But not his happiness; and when he died,
It was with blessings breathed in trusting hope
Upon that dear child's head, whose tenderness
Had made him half forget the path he trod
Was hurrying to the grave. But he was dead,
And Agatha stood in his lonely halls,
An orphan, last of all her race and name,
Without one tie of kindred or of love
To bind her to the earth. Yet few there were
That dream'd the hidden grief that lurk'd within.
Too kind, too gentle not to be beloved,
Many a vassal mourn'd the coming death,
Whose sign was written on his lady's cheek.
In their once love: it is a history
That would suit half mankind. In its first spring,—
302
Even as has the year,—it found a home
For all its young affections, gentle thoughts,
In his true maiden's bosom; and the life
He dream'd of was indeed a dream—'twas made
Of quiet happiness: but forth he went
Into the wild world's tumult. As the bloom
Fades from the face of nature, so the gloss
Of his warm feelings faded with their freshness;
Ambition took the place of Love, and Hope
Fed upon fiery thoughts, aspiring aims;
And the bold warrior, favourite of his king,
If that he thought of his first tenderness,
Thought of it but with scorn, or vain excuse,
And in her uncomplaining silence read
But what he wish'd,—oblivion; and at last
303
Which we have laid upon our heart, and there
Have suffer'd it to die. A second spring
Has loosed the snowy waters, and has fill'd
The valleys with her joy; but, Agatha,
It is not spring for thee; it has not brought
Its sunny beauty to thy deep blue eyes,
Its dew to freshen thy lips' languid rose,
And its bloom is not for thy cheek. One year,
And thou didst hide thy misery, and seem,
With thy gay songs and smiles and gladsome words,
Still in thine aged father's sight the same.
His pride was wounded by young Herman's falsehood,
But not his happiness; and when he died,
It was with blessings breathed in trusting hope
304
Had made him half forget the path he trod
Was hurrying to the grave. But he was dead,
And Agatha stood in his lonely halls,
An orphan, last of all her race and name,
Without one tie of kindred or of love
To bind her to the earth. Yet few there were
That dream'd the hidden grief that lurk'd within.
Too kind, too gentle not to be beloved,
Many a vassal mourn'd the coming death,
Whose sign was written on his lady's cheek.
She died in silence, without sign or word
That might betray the memory of her fate;
But when they heard her last request, to lie
Beneath the shade of the laburnum tree,
Which grew beside the mountain rivulet,
Many a cheek grew red, and brow grew dark,
And many a whisper'd word recall'd the time
When, in unworldly and in happy youth,
The valley's chieftain and the mountain girl
Made it their favourite haunt; all call'd to mind,
Then was the morning colour on her cheek,
Then her life was as summer in its smile,
And all felt, as they laid her in the grave,
It was the lorn rest of the broken heart.
That might betray the memory of her fate;
But when they heard her last request, to lie
Beneath the shade of the laburnum tree,
Which grew beside the mountain rivulet,
305
And many a whisper'd word recall'd the time
When, in unworldly and in happy youth,
The valley's chieftain and the mountain girl
Made it their favourite haunt; all call'd to mind,
Then was the morning colour on her cheek,
Then her life was as summer in its smile,
And all felt, as they laid her in the grave,
It was the lorn rest of the broken heart.
Years pass'd:—the green moss had o'ergrown the stone
Which mark'd the orphan maiden's lowly grave,
When rode an armed train beside the stream.
Why does One pause beneath the lonely tree,
And watch the starlight fall on the white stone?
That martial step, that haughty brow, so traced
With lines of the world's warfare, are not such
As linger with a ready sympathy
O'er the foot-prints of sorrow; yet that cheek
Was startled into paleness as he read
Agatha!—and the mossy date which told
She had been tenant of that tomb for years.
Herman,—for he it was had sought the vale,
But upon warlike mission—if he thought
Of his once love, it was but how to shun
The meek reproaching of her mournful eye,
Or else to think she had like him forgot.
But dead!—so young!—he had not dream'd of this.—
He knelt him down, and like a child he wept:—
Gentle affections struggled with, subdued—
Tenderness, long forgotten, now burst forth
Like rain drops from the summer sky. Those tears
Pass'd, and their outward trace; but in his heart
A fountain had sprung up which dried no more.
He went on in his course, proud, bold, and never
The name of Agatha fell from his lips.
But he died early, and in his last field
He pray'd the brother of his arms to take
His heart, and lay it in the distant grave
Where Agatha was sleeping.
Which mark'd the orphan maiden's lowly grave,
When rode an armed train beside the stream.
Why does One pause beneath the lonely tree,
And watch the starlight fall on the white stone?
That martial step, that haughty brow, so traced
306
As linger with a ready sympathy
O'er the foot-prints of sorrow; yet that cheek
Was startled into paleness as he read
Agatha!—and the mossy date which told
She had been tenant of that tomb for years.
Herman,—for he it was had sought the vale,
But upon warlike mission—if he thought
Of his once love, it was but how to shun
The meek reproaching of her mournful eye,
Or else to think she had like him forgot.
But dead!—so young!—he had not dream'd of this.—
He knelt him down, and like a child he wept:—
Gentle affections struggled with, subdued—
Tenderness, long forgotten, now burst forth
Like rain drops from the summer sky. Those tears
307
A fountain had sprung up which dried no more.
He went on in his course, proud, bold, and never
The name of Agatha fell from his lips.
But he died early, and in his last field
He pray'd the brother of his arms to take
His heart, and lay it in the distant grave
Where Agatha was sleeping.
| The Venetian bracelet | |