Poetical Sketches :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poetical Sketches

With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. Fourth Edition. Illustrated with engravings from designs by T. Stothard, R. A. and W. Nesfield

Watts, Alaric Alexander (1797-1864)

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

vii

TO ZILLAH MADONNA WATTS THIS VOLUME IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

xiii

POETICAL SKETCHES.

THE PROFESSION.

A SKETCH.

For her the Fates, severely kind, ordain
A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain;
Her life, a long dead calm of fixed repose,
No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows.
POPE.

I

On Santa Croce's golden-pillared shrine,
A thousand tapers pour their blended rays
In one rich tide of radiance. Like a pine,
Lifting its lofty head amid the blaze
Of sunlit snows, stands forward to the gaze
Of the assembled throng, the Priest supreme,
In full pontificals. His hand he lays
Upon a gorgeous crucifix, the theme
Of the oracular words from his pale lips that stream.

II

Upon his open brow a dignity
That well beseems his office is enthroned;
And if the brightness of his coal-black eye
Is something tamed by time, it must be owned
It hath a chastened lustre far beyond
The fire of youthful glances;—and if Care,
With lines of premature decay, hath crowned
His thoughtful forehead, as in fervent prayer
He bends, unfailing faith, hope, peace, are beaming there!

III

The chancel-portals, with a crash, unfold,
And a long train of close-veiled nuns pour in,
And gather round the palisades of gold
That gird that glorious shriving-place for sin.
The stately Abbess enters:—then begin
Sweet far-off voices on the ear to steal
With dim, delicious melodies, that win
Their way to the deep heart,—till bursts the swell
From organ, harp, voice, lute, in one magnificent peal.

IV

The chaunt hath ended;—and throughout the throng
Heart-hushing silence reigns, and every brow
Is raised in keen expectancy.—Ere long,
Once more the Pontiff at the shrine doth bow
Before the golden crucifix; and now
Calls on the fated victim.—She attends
The awful summons, and with footstep slow
Draws near,—the altar's marble stair ascends,—
And on the velvet pall, with knee submissive, bends.

V

Then breathes the man of God, in eloquent strain,
The pious exhortation;—he dilates
Upon the wild varieties of pain
Which, in each labyrinth of life, awaits
‘The world's tired denizen;’—portrays their fates
Whom Pleasure 'witches with her syren charms;
And promises to her who dedicates
Her youth to God,—from Passion's vain alarms
A shield, and sure repose in mild Religion's arms!

VI

All hearts are stirred,—but chiefly hers who kneels
In silent homage there: she lifts her face
To Heaven, but still her milk-white veil conceals
Its features from the view. Her form of grace,
Through its dim, shadowy foldings you may trace,
Fair as those curves of beauty in the skies
Which speak of Hope when storms are near, and chase
The clouds of dark despondency. All eyes
Are fixed upon her, now, in pity or surprise:

VII

For, hark! In measured tones, the convent-bell
Booms heavily on the ear. With stooping brow—
As mindful of the duty its deep knell
Proclaims,—and voice, sweet as the musical flow
Of desert waters, she repeats the vow
That shuts her from the world. In accents mild,
The father questions, if the words that now
Are registered on high, are unbeguiled
By circumstance or wish, unstable, vain, or wild?

VIII

She answers him ‘they are.’—'Tis well, he cries,
And from the altar takes a golden ring,
And, gently bidding the young vestal rise,
'Tis fixed upon her finger.—Then they fling
The snow-white veil aside; but ere they bring
The last black ensign of the awful rite,
In shroudless beauty stands that lovely thing,—
A delicate star soft beaming on the sight,
Like Hesper when he breaks from curtaining clouds of night.

IX

O'er her white brow her wandering hair descends
In rich unbraided rings;—a coronal
Of lilies, wreathed amid each cluster, lends
An added grace: and, as at evening's fall
Day struggles with th' annihilating pall
That darkness would shed o'er it, so the gleam
Of her transparent forehead shines through all
The chestnut curls that shadow it:—so stream
With tremulous light the rays that from her deep eyes beam.

X

Hers is that nameless loveliness that sinks
On the beholder's heart; and if he seeks,
Whilst his full glance her blaze of beauty drinks,
To know where lurks the charm which thus bespeaks
His passionate admiration;—if in cheeks
Of rose—or ruby lips—or violet eyes—
It is in vain!—Not in the separate streaks
Of that rich bow of gathered beauty lies
The spell of power, but in its full, united dyes.

XI

She looks around:—upon her delicate lips
A smile of melancholy sweetness plays;
But soon a passing thought, in dark eclipse,
Hath veiled it from the view;—and now they raise
Once more to Heaven the pealing notes of praise:
Her eye grows brighter;—on her cheek a flush
Of deeper crimson mantles, and her gaze
With holy zeal upturns, as the full rush
Of the loud organ's tones grows gathering gush on gush.

XII

And now she joins the choir, whose voices swell,
Swell and subside, then rise, and sink again,
Like ocean's billows when the winds rebel,
And surge on surge prevails. Sudden the strain
Hath ceased; as when upon the watery plain
The oil of peace is poured, and the waves glide
Untroubled on their way. I list in vain!
Hushed is, at length, that wild and witching tide,
And organ, harp, voice, lute, have into silence died.

XIII

The sable veil is brought,—the prayer is said;
The silken tress and lily wreath removed;
And sighs are heaved, and silent tears are shed
By friends around, so loving and beloved.
Ah! who could view this last sad rite unmoved!—
Youth, beauty, virtue, in their earliest prime,
Crossing the threshold of a home unproved;
Where bigot forms are hallowed but by time,
And filial duty ends, and love becomes a crime!

XIV

Yet she is firm, and with unfailing voice
Pours forth the final hymn; and it would seem,
Taught by some secret instinct to rejoice
That she hath 'scaped the worldling's chequered dream.
Religion, now, must be the only theme
On which her heart may dwell. Life's darkest ills
Can ne'er again disturb the peaceful stream
Of her sweet thoughts, delayed Hope's withering chills,
Ambition's glittering gauds, nor Passion's thousand thrills,

XV

Wake discord on her mind's melodious lyre,
The convent's portal passed. Perchance her heart
Hath been too fiercely chastened in the fire
Of love's deep phantasies,—until the smart
Bade her all bleeding from the strife depart,
And seek nepenthe in a fate like this.
What marvel then, if no big tear-drops start;
If schooled in sorrow thus she bends submiss;
Since whatsoe'er her doom, to that it must be bliss.

XVI

But see! the altar is deserted now;
The crowd pours out from Santa Croce's walls.
Behind the gazing throng, with thoughtful brow,
I linger yet amid the flower-decked stalls,
Deep musing on the past:—the last foot-falls
Are faintly echoing o'er the marble floor;
Yet, still, some spell my conscious heart enthralls;—
At length I slowly gain the closing door,
And bid the scene farewell,—now and for evermore!

THE BROKEN HEART.

A SKETCH.

O melancholy Love! amidst thy fears,
Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein
Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears,—
The pride of sorrow that will not complain,—
The exultation that in after-years
The loved one will discover—and in vain,
How much the heart silently in its cell
Did suffer till it broke, yet nothing tell?
BARRY CORNWALL.

I.

The hand of Death upon his brow had stamped
Its never-changing impress;—yet his cheek
Had lost its wonted paleness, and appeared—
As if in mockery of the hues of health—

Tinged with a crimson flush, which came and went,
Like the red streaks of summer's evening sky,
When Phœbus floats upon the western wave;
And from the depths of his soul-searching eyes,
Glances, of more than mortal brightness, beamed
On those around him,—till they quailed in fear
From his so ardent gaze. Sadness had sunk
Into his inmost soul, though none knew why,
And few might guess the cause. Some deemed the grave
Had terrors for him; but, though he had need
(Like other earth-born creatures) of the grace
From Heaven to man accorded, no foul crime
Hung on his spirit's pinions;—and if grief,
Intensest suffering, those wild woes which wring
The human heart to breaking, may atone
For youthful follies,—then, the fear of death
Wrought not the gloom that clouded his young brow.

II.

But there were other feelings deeply shrined
Within his heart of heart;—thoughts he had nursed,

Through years, with fond inquietude, and hopes
Cherished in passionate silentness;—their source,
Love,—fadeless and unquenchable. Long time,
He strove, by mixing with the empty crowd,
In bowers of heartless revelry, to break
The charm that spelled his bosom; for he feared
The gentle one he prized, might ne'er be his.
Was it the Demon of Fatality
That whispered this dark omen in his ear?
It might, or might not be; yet still he wove
Her name with his rude minstrelsy, and poured
Full many a tender strain from his wild lyre,
She heeded not—perchance she never heard!

III.

Was he beloved again?—This, who may tell?
'Tis said, a strange and wayward chance first threw
The youth and maid together: she had leaned
Upon his arm, and listened to his lays
With seeming gladness, and had often praised
The earliest wreath of song his muse had twined;

And words of gentle import, on the soul
Of the young poet, waked a feeling sweet
He knew not to define;—they fell like dew
Upon the thirsting flowerets of his heart,
Giving them strength and freshness; for, till then,
The voice of soothing kindness ne'er had shed
Its rich, melodious music on his ear!

IV.

The minstrel loved, but never told the maid
His deep devotedness;—for he was one
On whom the smiles of Fortune seldom dwelt;
And though a Crœsus in his heart, had few
Of what the world calls riches; so he quelled,
Or strove to quell, the tumult in his breast,
And left his gentle Deity, to seek,
Not other idols, but forgetfulness!
The maiden knew not of his love, unless
His passionate glance at parting, when he clasped
Her hand in token of farewell, revealed
The tale his lips had uttered not. Howbeit,

He was not long remembered; for when time,
Whose days were years, had passed, and fate again
Led him to gaze a moment on the face
Of her he loved so well, her eye betrayed
No beam of kind acknowledgment, but turned
Hurriedly from his. He had not asked for love;
But, ah! how little had he looked for scorn!

V.

He bent him then, in silence, on his way,
To where the Alpine monarch, crowned with snows,—
The eminent Montblanc—heaves into Heaven
Its pure and stainless pinnacle. Amid
Nature's stupendous scenes the minstrel roved,
And half forgot his sorrows. He would climb
The lofty Jura, and from thence look down
Upon the world beneath him, till deep thoughts,
Passions and feelings, crowded on his mind
In swift and numberless succession; but
The first, the last, the sweetest, and the best,
Was love, though wild and hopeless! He would dwell

Intensely on the past, and oft evoke
Bright shades of visionary bliss from out
The inmost depths of his day-dreaming soul;
Till Reason, with her flaming sword, sprang up
And drove him from his Paradise of thought.

VI.

Moons rolled away; yet still it was his choice
To make the wilderness his home, and wander
'Mid Nature's giant offspring. When the sun
Shed its retiring beams of crimson on
The glittering snows that shroud their searchless heights,
In breathless admiration, would he mark
The last rich halo sinking;—and when day
Had left the world to darkness, would return
Home to his low-roofed dwelling at the foot
Of frowning Jura,—silently to muse
On all the wild vicissitudes of life!
This might not long endure; back to man's haunts
Once more the minstrel, with unwilling feet,

Wended;—for there were duties, unfulfilled,
The world professed to claim from him, and he
Was not disposed to disavow, although
They had no charms for him. Again he sought
The busy mart, and mingled with the throng,—
Was flattered, cheated, and caressed;—now basked
Awhile in Fortune's sunshine,—and now mourned
His little, lessened by the wiles of those
Who prey upon credulity; and this
Because he had not learned to hate the world,
Nor deem men villains, till he found them such?

VII.

But heavier woes awaited him: the seeds
Of sickness, which Misfortune's hand had sown,
Began to germinate. His spirit pined
In voiceless anguish, for he scorned complaint;
And whilst his lips were wreathed into a smile,
The worm of death was preying on his heart.
Kinless, and almost friendless, was he left
To sink into the grave. No anxious eye

To gaze upon his face, and soothe his pain
With looks of tenderness. And there was Hope
In wild contention with Despair, within
The cell of his dark bosom;—and they strove
Which might obtain the mastery, till a sweet
And calm-browed angel, with her lamp of light,
Religion, scared the ravening fiend away!
Then were the minstrel's dreams all gentleness,
And he could bear to think on years gone by,
And those yet hidden in the womb of time!

VIII.

Still there was one regret, one deep regret,
Which haunted his young spirit;—'twas that he,
The unowned breathings of whose lyre had wrought
Favour with those who knew him not, should speed
To his eternal home, nor leave behind
A wreath of sweet remembrance for his name;—
And so he garlanded the wilding flowers
His youthful muse had gathered from the mount
Of time-hallowed Aonia, and deemed,

Most fondly deemed, his chaplet would find grace
(Even for the sake of him who culled its blooms)
With one sweet breast at least; since pride might now
No longer interpose its chilling chain
Between him and the load-star of his love!
It was an idle thought:—those simple strains
(The only incense he could offer then)
Which he had breathed for her in earlier years,
Had perished from her memory; and even
His name was unremembered now, who never
Had parted with a tender thought of her!

IX.

Such was to be.—They said her vows were given
To one of Fortune's favorites, and one
Of whom the world and its reports spake fair;
Then what had she to do with thoughts of him,
Whose only wealth was of the mind;—whose rank
Was slight,—unless nobility of soul
May cope with blazoned 'scutcheons? It was meet
That he should be forgotten—if he e'er

Had been remembered, 'till the grave had closed
Between him and mankind,—and then his name
Might ask the tribute of a tear, nor wrong
Those who possessed a title to her smiles!

X.

Did he reproach her even in thought?—Ah, no!
She had not wronged him;—she had vowed no truth
To him; and he had never sought to gain
Her pity or her love;—nor even revealed
Aught that he felt for her; unless, indeed,
In years long past, when (though so brief the time
Relentless Fate allotted for such bliss)
She sometimes leaned upon his arm, and held
Sweet converse on the mighty ones of old,
(The immortal poets of their native land)
With him—that wild enthusiast,—then the fire
She kindled in his soul would burst to light,
And each deep-rooted sentiment shine out
In glances, from his passion-darting eyes!
Yet, it may be, she marked them not,—or deemed

The mention of their fadeless names who were
As stars of his idolatry, called up
The deep suffusion of his cheek, and lit
His eye with momentary brightness. Once,
Ay once, he fancied that the maiden gazed
As if she guessed the secret of his soul,
And pitied,—almost loved him;—and he clasped
The hand that she withheld not,—but was silent!—
Why was he mute at such an hour as this?
Ye to whom feeling is beyond a name,
Perchance, can answer for him! Had the wealth
Of ‘Ormus or of Ind’ been his, his love
Had surely found a tongue; but as it was,
Honour—it may be pride too—made him voiceless!

XI.

They parted,—never more to meet, as once
They had been wont to meet;—yet glorious Hope,
That morning-star of Love, put forth its beams—
Its beautiful beams of promise,—and the youth,
Spite of the clouds that circled it, believed

The sun of Fortune, the deep noon of bliss,
And the calm evening of subdued delight,
Would follow their bright harbinger. But, ah!
How many a day of turbulence and gloom
Is ushered by the sweet and peaceful rays
Of fair Aurora's planet! So it was
Even with the minstrel's Lucifer; for soon
It shrouded its bright beams, and left his soul
To a dark day of ceaseless cloud and storm.

XII.

They parted;—and, since then, his bark hath ridden
The rough and roaring waters of the world;
Now whelmed beneath the billows of Despair,
Striving with passion's whirlwind; and now dashed
With furious violence upon the rocks
Hate, and Oppression, and blind Chance have reared
Amid the waves of life's tumultuous sea.
The tempest hath subsided; and that bark
Sailless, not rudderless, with tremulous heave
(As mindful of the ills it hath sustained)

Now drifts before a mild and favouring gale
To its deep haven of repose—the grave!
Master of mortal bosoms, Love!—O, Love!
Thou art the essence of the universe!
Soul of the visible world! and canst create
Hope, joy, pain, passion, madness, or despair,
As suiteth thy high will! To some thou bringest
A balm, a lenitive for every wound
The unkind world inflicts on them; to others
Thy breath but breathes destruction, and thy smile
Scathes like the lightning!—Now a star of peace,
Heralding sweet evening to our stormy day;
And now a meteor, with far-scattering fire,
Shedding red ruin on our flowers of life!—
In all—
Whether arrayed in hues of deep repose,
Or armed with burning vengeance to consume
Our yielding hearts,—alike omnipotent!

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

What now, to her, is all the world esteems?
She is awake, and cares not for its dreams;
But moves, while yet on earth, as one above
Its hopes and fears—its loathing and its love.
CRABBE.

'Tis said she once was beautiful;—and still—
For 'tis not years that can have wrought her ill,—
Deep rays of loveliness around her form
Beam, as the rainbow that succeeds the storm,
Brightens a glorious ruin. In her face,
Though something touched by sorrow, you may trace
The all she was, when first in life's young spring,
Like the gay bee-bird on delighted wing,

She stooped to cull the honey from each flower
That bares its breast in joy's luxuriant bower!
O'er her pure forehead, pale as moonlit snow,
Her ebon locks are parted,—and her brow
Stands forth like morning from the shades of night,
Serene, though clouds hang over it. The bright
And searching glance of her Ithuriel eye,
Might even the sternest hypocrite defy
To meet it unappalled;—'twould almost seem
As though, epitomized in one deep beam,
Her full collected soul upon the heart,
Whate'er its mask, she strove at once to dart:
And few may brave the talisman that's hid
'Neath the dark fringes of her drooping lid.

Patient in suffering, she has learned the art
To bleed in silence and conceal the smart;
And thence, though quick of feeling, hath been deemed
Almost as cold and loveless as she seemed;

Because to fools she never would reveal
Wounds they would probe—without the power to heal.
No,—whatsoe'er the visions that disturb
The fountain of her thoughts, she knows to curb
Each outward sign of sorrow, and suppress—
Even to a sigh—all tokens of distress.
Yet some, perhaps, with keener vision than
The crowd, that pass her by unnoted, can,
Through well-dissembled smiles, at times, discern
A settled anguish that would seem to burn
The very brain it feeds upon; and when
This mood of pain is on her, then, oh! then
A more than wonted paleness of the cheek,—
And, it may be, a flitting hectic streak,—
A tremulous motion of the lip or eye,—
Are all that anxious friendship may descry.

Reserve and womanly pride are in her look,
Though tempered into meekness. She can brook

Unkindness and neglect from those she loves,
Because she feels it undeserved; which proves,
That firm and conscious rectitude hath power
To blunt Fate's darts in sorrow's darkest hour.
Ay unprovoked injustice she can bear
Without a sigh,—almost without a tear,
Save such as hearts internally will weep,
And they ne'er rise the burning lids to steep;
But to those petty wrongs which half defy
Human forbearance, she can make reply
With a proud lip and a contemptuous eye.

There is a speaking sadness in her air,
A hue of languor o'er her features fair,
Born of no common grief; as though Despair
Had wrestled with her spirit—been o'erthrown,—
And these the trophies of the strife alone.
A resignation of the will, a calm
Derived from pure religion (that sweet balm

For wounded breasts) is seated on her brow,
And ever to the tempest bends she now,
Even as a drooping lily, which the wind
Sways as it lists. The sweet affections bind
Her sympathies to earth; her peaceful soul
Has long aspired to that immortal goal,
Where pain and anguish cease to be our lot,
And the world's cares and frailties are forgot!

THE CLOSING SCENE.

A SKETCH.

Who can bring healing to her heart's despair,
Her whole rich sum of happiness lies there!
CROLY.

Pale is his cheek with deep and passionate thought,
Save when a feverish hectic crosses it,
Flooding its lines with crimson. From beneath
The long dark fringes of its drooping lid
Flash forth the fitful glances of his eye,
Like star-beams from the bosom of the night.
Above his high and ample forehead, float
The gloomy folds of his wild-waving hair,
Even as the clouds that crown a lofty hill
With sterner grandeur. On his quivering 'lid
The swelling brow weighs heavily, as though
Bursting with thoughts for utterance too intense!

His lip is curled with something too of pride,
Which ill beseems the meekness and repose
That should, at such an hour, within his heart,
Spite of this world's vexations, be enshrined.
'Tis not disdain, for only those he loves
Are 'round him now, with mild low-whispered words
Tendering heart-offered kindnesses,—and watching,
With fond inquietude, the couch whereon
His slender form reclines. What can it be?—
Perchance some rooted memory of the past;—
Some dream of injured pride that fain would wreak
Its force on dumb expression;—some fierce wrong
Which his young soul hath suffered unappeased.
But thoughts like these must be dispelled before
That soul can plume its wings to part in peace.

And now his gaze is lifted to the face
Of one who bends above him with an air
Of sweet solicitude, and props his head,
Even with her own white arm, until at length

The sliding pillow is replaced; but, ere
His cheek may press on its uneven down,
Her delicate hand hath smoothed it. What a theme
For those who love to weave the pictured spell,
And fix the shadows that would else depart
From all but memory, on the tablets fair
Of the divine Euterpe!

Her blue eyes,
With tenderness, grow darker as they dwell
Upon the wreck before her;—and a tear,
Collected 'neath their fringes, large and bright,
Falls on the snow of her high-heaving breast.

Too well divineth he the voiceless grief
Which breathes in each unbidden sigh, and beams
From forth her humid eyes? Too well he knows
That love and keen anxiety for him
Have paled the ruby of her lip, and chased
The rose's dye from her so beautiful cheek.
His quivering lips unclose, as if to pour
The fond acknowledgments of grateful love

On that sweet mourner's ear; but his parched tongue
Denies its office. Gathering then each ray,
Each vivid ray of feeling from his heart,
Into a single focus—in his eye
His inmost soul is glassed, and love—deep love,
And grateful admiration, beam confessed
In one wild passionate glance!

The gentle girl
Basks her awhile in that full blaze—then stoops,
And hiding her pale forehead in his bosom,
Murmurs sounds inarticulate, but sweet
As the low wail of summer's evening breath
Amid the wind-harp's strings. Then bursts the tide
Of woe that may no longer be repressed,
Stirred from its source by chill, hope-withering fears,
And from her charged lids big drops descend
In quick succession. With more tremulous hand
Clasps she the sufferer's neck.

Upon his brow
The damps of death are settling,—and his eyes
Grow fixed and meaningless. She marks the change

With desperate earnestness; and staying even
Her breath, that nothing may disturb the hush,
Lays her wan cheek still closer to his heart,
And listens, as its varying pulses move,—
Haply to catch a sound betokening life.
It beats—again—another—and another,—
And, now, hath ceased for ever! What a shriek—
A shrill and soul-appalling shriek peals forth,
Now the full truth hath rushed upon her brain!
Who may describe the rigidness of frame,
The stony look of anguish and despair,
With which she bends o'er that unmoving clay?
Not I,—my pencil hath no further power:
So here I'll drop the Grecian painter's veil!

TO OCTAVIA,

THE EIGHTH DAUGHTER OF J. LARKING, ESQ.

Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring!
LORD BYRON.

I

Full many a gloomy month hath past,
On flagging wing, regardless by,
Unmarked by aught, save grief, since last
I gazed upon thy bright blue eye,
And bade my Lyre pour forth for thee
Its strains of wildest minstrelsy?
For all my joys are withered now,
The hopes, I most relied on, thwarted,
And sorrow hath o'erspread my brow
With many a shade since last we parted:
Yet, 'mid that murkiness of lot,
Young Peri, thou art unforgot

II

There are who love to trace the smile
That dimples upon childhood's cheek,
And hear from lips devoid of guile,
The dictates of the bosom break;—
Ah! who of such could look on thee
Without a wish to rival me!
None;—his must be a stubborn heart,
And strange to every softer feeling,
Who from thy glance could bear to part
Cold and unmoved—without revealing
Some portion of the fond regret
Which dimmed my eye when last we met!

III

Sweet bud of Beauty!—'Mid the thrill—
The anguished thrill of hope delayed,—
Peril—and pain—and every ill
That can the breast of man invade,—
No tender thought of thine and thee
Hath faded from my memory;

But I have dwelt on each dear form,
'Till woe, awhile, gave place to gladness,
And that remembrance seemed to charm,
Almost to peace, my bosom's sadness;—
And now, again, I breathe a lay
To hail thee on thy natal day!

IV

O! might the fondest prayers prevail
For blessings on thy future years;
Or innocence, like thine, avail
To save thee from affliction's tears;
Each moment of thy life should bring
Some new delight upon its wing!
And the wild sparkle of thine eye—
Thy guilelessness of soul revealing—
Beam ever thus, as beauteously,
Undimmed—save by those tears of feeling—
Those soft, luxuriant drops which flow,
In pity, for another's woe!

V

But vain the wish!—It may not be!
Could prayers avert misfortune's blight,
Or hearts, from sinful passion free,
Here hope for unalloyed delight,
Then, those who guard thy opening bloom
Had never known one hour of gloom.
No:—if the chastening stroke of Fate
On guilty heads alone descended,
Sure they would ne'er have felt its weight,
In whose pure bosoms, sweetly blended,
Life's dearest social virtues move,
In one bright, endless chain of love!

VI

Then since upon this earth, joy's beams
Are fading—frail, and few in number,
And melt—like the light-woven dreams
That steal upon the mourner's slumber,—
Sweet one! I'll wish thee strength to bear
The ills that Heaven may bid thee share;

And when thine infancy hath fled,
And Time with Woman's zone hath bound thee,
If, in the path thou'rt doomed to tread,
The thorns of sorrow lurk, and wound thee,
Be thine that exquisite relief
Which blossoms 'mid the springs of grief!

VII

And like the many-tinted Bow,
Which smiles the showery clouds away,
May hope—Grief's Iris here below—
Attend, and soothe thee on thy way,
Till full of years—thy cares at rest—
Thou seek'st the mansions of the blest!—
Young Sister of a mortal Nine,
Farewell!—Perchance a long farewell!
Though woes unnumbered yet be mine,—
Woes, Hope may vainly strive to quell,—
I'll half unteach my soul to pine,
So there be bliss for thee and thine!

1817.

CHAMOUNI.

A SKETCH ON THE SPOT.

The lips that may forget God in the crowd,
Cannot forget him here, where he has built
For his own glory in the wilderness.
WORDSWORTH.

I

'Tis Night;—and Silence with unmoving wings
Broods o'er the sleeping waters;—not a sound
Breaks its most breathless hush. The sweet moon flings
Her pallid lustre on the hills around,
Turning the snows and ices that have crowned—
Since Chaos reigned—each vast untrodden height,
To beryl, pearl, and silver;—whilst, profound,
In the still, waveless lake, reflected bright,
And, girt with arrowy rays, rests her full orb of light.

II

Th' eternal mountains momently are peering
Through the blue clouds that mantle them;—on high,
Their glittering crests majestically rearing,
More like to children of the infinite sky,
Than of the dædal earth.—Triumphantly,
Prince of the whirlwind!—Monarch of the scene!—
Mightiest where all are mighty!—from the eye
Of mortal man half hidden by the screen
Of mists that moat his base from Arve's dark, deep ravine,

III

Stands the magnificent Montblanc! His brow
Scarred with ten thousand thunders;—most sublime,
Even as though risen from the world below
To mark the progress of Decay: by clime,
Storm, blight, fire, earthquake injured not! Like Time,
Stern chronicler of centuries gone by,
Doomed by a heavenly fiat still to climb,

Swell and increase with years incessantly,
Then yield at length to thee, most dread Eternity!

IV

Hark! There are sounds of tumult and commotion
Hurtling in murmurs on the distant air,
Like the wild music of a wind-lashed ocean;—
They rage, they gather now; yon valley fair
Still sleeps in moonlight loveliness, but there
Methinks a form of horror I behold
With giant-stride descending! 'Tis Despair,
Riding the rushing avalanche; now rolled
From its tall cliff,—by whom—what mortal may unfold?

V

Perchance a gale from fervid Italy
Startled the air-hung thunderer; or the tone
Breathed from some hunter's horn; or, it may be,
The echoes of the mountain cataract, thrown
Amid its voiceful snows, have thus called down
The overwhelming ruin on the vale.
Howbeit a mystery to man unknown,

'Twas but some Heaven-sent power that did prevail,
For an inscrutable end, its slumbers to assail.

VI

Madly it bursts along,—even as a river
That gathers strength in its most fierce career;
The black and lofty pines a moment quiver
Before its breath, but, as it draws more near,
Crash—and are seen no more! Fleet-footed Fear,
Pale as that white-robed minister of wrath,
In silent wilderment her face doth rear;
And, having gazed upon its blight and scathe,
Flies with the swift Chamois from its death-dooming path.

REMEMBER THE PAST!

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past which she cannot destroy!
MOORE.

I

“Remember the past!”—Oh! since Fate has bereft me
Of each star that once beamed on my pathway of life,—
Since the storm is abroad, and no beacon is left me
To guide my lone bark through the waters of strife,—
What can still the black billow, or hush the loud blast,
Like the spell that is wreathed with the thoughts of the past?

II

I have struggled, and wildly, with Hate and with Malice;
In the dews of affliction my heart hath been steeped;—
I have dregged the last drops of Misfortune's dark chalice,
And from seeds of delight only mournfulness reaped;—
Yet, 'mid all my wild wanderings, a halo was cast
On the gloom of the ‘present’—by thoughts of the past!

III

When Detraction's keen arrows were rushing around me,
And, though Truth was my buckler, had branded my name,
When the friends who long years firm and faithful had found me
Were the first to upbraid, and o'erwhelm me with blame;

What said I?—Conviction will strike them at last;—
They once loved me;—I'll turn to the thoughts of the past!

IV

I have sought in the wine-cup a Lethe for sorrow,
And quaffed its warm tide till my spirit grew light;
But that mockery of mirth always fled ere the morrow,
Leaving nothing behind it but blackness and blight!
And 'twere well:—who would wish that oblivion to last,
Which with bitter must banish sweet thoughts of the past!

V

Like the bubbles of brightness which mantle and sparkle,
When the juice of the grape in the goblet is gushing,
And but shine for a moment, then sullenly darkle,—
So the joy wine creates may as gaily be flushing
O'er the pale cheek of woe,—but it fleeteth as fast:—
Is it so—is it so with sweet thoughts of the past?

VI

No;—the garland of Memory new beauty discloses,
When chastened by sadness and mellowed by years;
And though thorns but too frequently mix with the roses
Whose stems have been watered and reared by our tears;
Let them circle the brow;—sure the pain is surpassed
By the gladness we gather from thoughts of the past!

VII

Then believe me, dear Zillah, there needs not a token
To bid my heart dwell on the dream it loves best;
For each pulse must be withered, each chord must be broken,
Ere the stamp of thy loveliness fade from my breast.
Yes! I'll think of thee, gentle and kind as thou wast,
And the ‘joy of my grief’ shall be thoughts of the past!

VIII

'Twas thine, when dark Fate, one by one, had been stealing
Each hope I most cherished and clung to on earth,
To unchain with thy glance the chilled fountain of feeling,
And restore its locked tide to light, sunshine, and mirth.
Gloom again is upon me;—my soul is o'ercast;—
But there's balsam and bliss in the thoughts of the past!

IX

When we met, thy young brow with deep sadness was clouded,—
Yet though pensive thy smiles, they were grateful to me;
And the bud woe's long winter had icily shrouded,
Burst to bloom in an instant when glanced on by thee:
Though the Simoom hath sped, and hath breathed its hot blast,
There are blooms still unwithered—the thoughts of the past!

X

Is the friendship sincerer—the love more enduring,
Which years of probation alone can create,
Than that which springs up, with a moment's maturing,
In bosoms with passion and feeling elate?
Surely not!—If it is—what care I, so thou hast
Pleasure, thrilling, as I have, in thoughts of the past!

XI

But it never may be! In souls ardent as ours,
When the seeds of affection have once been implanted,
A morning's bright sun-shine will call up the flowers,
And prove, plainly, 'twas warmth and not ages they wanted;—
And though clouds burst above them, their blossoms will last,
And gain freshness and strength from the thoughts of the past!

XII

Fare thee well!—Fare thee well!—If these wild-woven numbers
May claim a fond place in a bosom so pure,
Till death from mortality's coil disencumbers
Thy soul,—and earth's dreams may no longer endure,
Let the glass of thy mind give thee back, undefaced
By time, absence, or sorrow, the thoughts of the past!

XIII

Fare thee well!—Fare thee well!—Whilst a pilgrim I wander,
Unsoothed and unloved on this cold-hearted earth,
On the hour we first met, and last parted, I'll ponder,
Till visions of gladness from grief shall have birth;—
Whatsoe'er may betide me, life's sands to their last
Must have sped, ere I cease to remember the past!

YEARS OF ANGUISH AND GLOOM HAVE GONE BY.

I will not court Lethean streams
My sorrowing sense to steep,
Nor drink oblivion to the themes
O'er which I love to weep.
LOGAN.

I

Years of anguish and gloom have gone by
Since I last drank the breath of thy sigh;
And—compelled by hard Fortune to sever,—
We parted in sadness—for ever!

II

What a host of remembrances rush
On my brain,—and my tears how they gush,
When in solitude's hour I dwell
On thy wild but prophetic ‘Farewell!’

III

Yes, ‘for ever’ thou saidst, though I deemed
Fortune kinder, perchance, than she seemed;
And, chiding thy fears with a kiss,
Bade thee dim not those moments of bliss!

IV

Even then death's dark web was around thee;
The spells of the spoiler had bound thee;
And the Angel from Heaven that brings
Fate's last fiat—was waving his wings!

V

We parted.—What pen may portray
The despair that o'ershadowed that day!
And even deeper our grief had been then,
Had we known we should meet not again!

VI

We parted.—Long years have now past
Since the hour that I gazed on thee last;
But, fresh in my memory, yet
Bloom the flowers of most mournful regret!

VII

'Tis said, that for sorrow's worst sting
Time a swift-healing balsam can bring;—
That earth's ills all must own his dominion,
And recede when they're touched by his pinion!

VIII

Could the power of Oblivion control
All the gloom that oppresses my soul;
Could even Time with his wing interpose,
And freeze feeling's bright fount as it flows;—

IX

I would scorn the hard chain that must chill
In my bosom affection's fond thrill;
For the boon were ungrateful to me,
If it banished one sweet dream of thee!

X

But this thought shall afford me relief,
In my moments of passion and grief,
That—whate'er be the depth of my woes—
They can never disturb thy repose!

XI

No:—the venom-dipped arrows of doom
Cannot pierce to thy heart through the tomb;
And, though bitter, 'tis balm to my breast,
To know, thou'rt for ever at rest!

XII

No:—the clouds that burst over me now
Cannot ruffle thy beautiful brow;—
In its sorrows my soul may repine;—
They can wake no wild echoes in thine!

XIII

Let the storms of adversity lour!
So that thou hast escaped from their power;
They may pour forth their wrath on my head!—
They can break not the sleep of the dead.

XIV

And the poison of Envy and Malice,
May still further imbitter Life's chalice;
But the cup, with a smile, shall be quaffed,
Since thou liv'st not to share in the draught!

STANZAS.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

I

Yes! Pride of soul shall nerve me now,
To think of thee no more;
And coldness steel the heart and brow
That passion swayed before!
Think'st thou that I will share thy breast,
Whilst dwells a fondlier cherished guest
Deep in its inmost core?
No;—by my hopes of Heaven, I'll be
All—all—or nothing unto thee!

II

Thy hand hath oft been clasped in mine,—
Fondly, since first we met;
My lip hath even been pressed to thine—
In greeting wild;—but yet,
Lightly avails it, now, to tell
Of moments only loved too well—
Joys I would fain forget,
Since Memory's star can ill control
The moonless midnight of my soul!

III

But I'll reproach thee not;—Farewell!
Whilst yet I'm somewhat free,
'Twere better far to break the spell
That binds my soul to thee,
Than wait till Time each pulse shall lend
A strength that will not let it bend
To Reason's stern decree:
Since Fate hath willed that we must part,
'Twere better now to brave the smart.

IV

Not seldom is the soul depressed
Whilst tearless is the eye;
For there are woes that wring the breast
When Feeling's fount is dry;—
Sorrows that do not fade with years,
But—dwelling all too deep for tears—
Rankle eternally!—
Such now as in my bosom swell,
Read thou in this wild word,—Farewell!

TO A POETICAL FRIEND.

Be not over exquisite
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils;
For, grant they be so, while they rest unknown.
Why need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?
MILTON.

I

All hail, dear friend! The winds are singing
The year's wild requiem fitfully
And Autumn, now, is swiftly winging
Her golden flight, o'er the heaving sea,
To some lovelier clime than this;—in sadness
Of heart, I gaze on her farewell beam;—
But away! This strain shall be one of gladness!
I'll startle thee not with a selfish theme!

II

All hail, dear friend!—Though clouds may lour,
And wintry storms descend awhile,
Ere long shall Spring resume her power,
And Summer come on with her radiant smile.
Then a truce to gloom;—though a shade of sorrow
May darken our beams of bliss to-day,—
Heed it not!—Joy's sun will rise to-morrow,
And chase each deepening tint away!

III

Shall we, whose hearts of warmth and feeling
Vibrate to Pleasure's tenderest touch,
Supinely grieve, that Fate's hand is stealing
Some flowers of life—we have loved too much?
Shalt thou—who cleav'st, with eagle pinion,
The loftiest skies that Genius knows,
Stoop thy plume of pride to the base dominion
Of each ruffian blast that beneath thee blows?

IV

Forbid it, ye who prompt the numbers
That soothe the Bard in his wildest mood!—
Forbid it, ye who on his slumbers
In dreams of glory and light intrude!
No;—hearts that each thrill of joy may waken
Should, bear unmurmuring, Sorrow's sting;
Nor Genius from its height be shaken
By every buffet from Fortune's wing!

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM POWER WATTS, AGED THREE YEARS.

Sweet flower! with flowers I strew thy narrow bed!
Sweets to the sweet! Farewell!
SHAKSPEARE.

I

A cloud is on my heart and brow,—
The tears are in my eyes,—
And wishes fond, all idle now,
Are stifled into sighs;—
As musing on thine early doom,
Thou bud of beauty snatched to bloom,
So soon, 'neath milder skies!
I turn—thy painful struggle past—
From what thou art to what thou wast!

II

I think of all thy winning ways,
Thy frank but boisterous glee;—
Thy arch sweet smiles,—thy coy delays,—
Thy step, so light and free,—
Thy sparkling glance, and hasty run,
Thy gladness when thy task was done,
And gained thy mother's knee;—
Thy gay, good-humoured, childish ease,
And all thy thousand arts to please!

III

Where are they now?—And where, oh where,
The eager fond caress?
The blooming cheek, so fresh and fair,
The lips, all sought to press?—
The open brow, and laughing eye,—
The heart that leaped so joyously?
(Ah! had we loved them less!)
Yet there are thoughts can bring relief,
And sweeten even this cup of grief.

IV

What hast thou 'scaped?—A thorny scene!
A wilderness of woe!
Where many a blast of anguish keen
Had taught thy tears to flow!
Perchance some wild and withering grief,
Had sered thy summer's earliest leaf,
In these dark bowers below!
Or sickening chills of hope deferred,
To strife thy gentlest thoughts had stirred!

V

What hast thou 'scaped?—Life's weltering sea,
Before the storm arose;
Whilst yet its gliding waves were free
From aught that marred repose!
Safe from the thousand throes of pain,—
Ere sin or sorrow breathed a stain
Upon thine opening rose!
And who can calmly think of this,
Nor envy thee thy doom of bliss?

VI

I culled from home's beloved bowers,
To deck thy last long sleep,
The brightest-hued, most fragrant flowers
That summer's dews may steep:—
The rose-bud—emblem meet—was there,—
The violet blue, and jasmine fair,
That drooping, seemed to weep;—
And, now, I add this lowlier spell:—
Sweets to the passing sweet! Farewell!

MORNING.

A SKETCH.

Yet hath the morning sprinkled through the clouds
But half her tincture; and the soil of night
Hangs still upon the bosom of the air.
CHAPMAN.

From out the purple portals of the East,
Peers the first dawn of day upon the world,
With dim, uncertain light. Huge clouds still wrap
The base of fiery Stromboli;—and Night,
With her black waving pennons, lingers yet,
Far in the western hemisphere.—Long trains
Of tremulous mist curtain the deep blue breast
Of Adria's waveless ocean. Some repose,
In folds fantastically graceful, on
The glassy waters;—others, slowly wind
Their way in silvery circuitings to heaven;

And, as in mockery of the glance that strives
To trace their airy wanderings, dissolve,
Invisibly, whilst yet the gazer's eye
Strains its intensest nerve. Light breaks,
With giant stride, upon the earth, and breathes
The breath of life into the stagnant veins
Of slumber-locked creation. Yon white clouds,
That seem to rise like mountains from the sea,
Garbed with untrodden snows, suddenly grow
Radiant with streaks of gold;—a deeper blush
Of crimson now pervades them, and the sun,
Lifting his orb above the wave, looks out
In glory on the world!

Nature around
Hath wakened from her trance, and shaking off
The night dews from her beauty, stands revealed
In rainbow-tinted loveliness to man.

EVENING.

A SKETCH.

The holy time is quiet as a Nun,
Breathless with adoration!
WORDSWORTH.

'Tis Evening.—On Abruzzo's hill
The summer sun is lingering still,—
As though unwilling to bereave
The landscape of its softest beam,—
So fair,—one can but look and grieve
To think, that like a lovely dream,
A few brief fleeting moments more
Must see its reign of beauty o'er!

'Tis Evening;—and a general hush
Prevails, save when the mountain spring
Bursts from its rock, with fitful gush,
And makes melodious murmuring;—
Or when from Corno's height of fear,
The echoes of its convent bell
Come wafted on the far-off ear
With soft and diapason swell.
But sounds so wildly sweet as they,
Ah, who would ever wish away?—

Yet there are seasons when the soul,
Rapt in some dear delicious dream,
Heedless what skies may o'er it roll,
What rays of beauty round it beam,
Shuts up its inmost cell;—lest aught
However wondrous, wild, or fair,
Shine in—and interrupt the thought,
The one deep thought that centres there!

Though with the passionate sense, so shrined
And canonized, the hues of grief
Perchance be darkly, closely twined,
The lonely bosom spurns relief!
And could the breathing scene impart
A charm to make its sadness less,
'Twould hate the balm that healed its smart,
And curse the spell of loveliness
That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so
It stirred the stream of thought below.

WOMAN.

AN EPISODE.

I'm fond of little girls; I should not say
Of little only, for I have for all
Ladies a tender penchant, whether they
Be young or old, thin, fat, or short, or tall;—
But here the meaning I would fain convey
Is, that I love them when they're young and small,—
Just at that age when Life's delicious bud
Begins to burst the bonds of babyhood!

The April of existence! When the eye
Is bright and unacquainted with a tear,
Save such as hope can in an instant dry;
The brow and bosom ever calm and clear,—
Or if disturbed, but like the changing sky
Of that first delicate season of the year,
Dim for a moment—in the next to shine
With added grace, and lustre more divine.

There is a blue-eyed cherub whom my Muse
In earlier hours hath sung of, in whose cheeks,
Collected in one blaze, the rainbow hues
Of childish beauty beam, like the rich streaks
Of the deep East at sunrise: I did use
To fondle this arch prattler, watch her freaks
And infant playfulness, until I grew
Enamoured of the blossom ere it blew.

And oft in after-times, when years had rolled
On their eternal way, and cares came on,—

When Fortune frowned, and summer friends grew cold,—
Have my thoughts turned upon this youthful one,—
This early bud,—this babe of five years old,—
With sweet and tender yearnings! Fate hath strown
Full many a thorn upon my path below,
Since last I kissed her bright and sparkling brow!

I cannot say I'm partial to a boy,
At any age; I've noticed from his birth,
There's always an admixture of alloy
In Man;—his clay would seem of coarser earth
Than our all-wise Creator did employ
In moulding our first mother. There's a dearth
Of kindliness in him;—the sordid elf
Too often thinks—plans—acts—but for himself!

Whilst Woman—gentle Woman, has a heart
Fraught with the sweet humanities of life;
Swayed by no selfish aim she bears her part
In all our joys and woes;—in pain and strife

Fonder and still more faithful! When the smart
Of care assails the bosom,—or the knife
Of ‘keen endurance’ cuts us to the soul,
First to support us—foremost to console!

Oh! what were Man in dark misfortune's hour
Without her cherishing aid?—A nerveless thing,
Sinking ignobly 'neath the passing power
Of every blast of Fortune. She can bring
‘A balm for every wound.’ As when the shower
More heavily falls, the bird of eve will sing
In richer notes; sweeter is woman's voice
When through the storm it bids the soul rejoice!

Is there a sight more touching and sublime
Than to behold a creature, who, till grief
Had taught her lofty spirit how to climb
Above vexation,—and whose fragile leaf,
Whilst yet 'twas blooming in a genial clime,
Trembled at every breath, and sought relief

If Heaven but seemed to lour,—suddenly,
Grow vigorous in misfortune, and defy

The pelting storm, that in its might comes down
To beat it to the earth;—to see a rose
Which in its summer's gaiety a frown
Had withered from its stem, 'mid wintry snows
Lift up its head undrooping, as if grown
Familiar with each chilling blast that blows
Across the waste of life—and view it twine
Around man's rugged trunk its arms divine!

It is a glorious spectacle!—A sight
Of power to stir the chords of generous hearts
To feeling's finest issues; and requite
The bosom for all world-inflicted smarts.
Such is dear Woman! When the envious blight
Of Fate descends upon her, it imparts
New worth—new grace;—so precious odours grow,
Sweeter when crushed—more fragrant in their woe!

So much for Man's sweet consort,—Heaven's best gift,
Beloved and loving Woman! Even a thought
Of her, not seldom, hath the power to lift
My soul above the toils the world hath wrought
Round its aspiring wings.—But I'm adrift;
Again have left my hero! Well, 'tis nought;
Wiser than I have wandered from their way
When Woman was the star that led astray!

EUROPA.

FROM A PAINTING BY GUIDO IN THE DULWICH GALLERY.

Her golden ringlets float around her form
In bright but wild profusion; some repose
In radiant clusters on her stainless breast,
Like the rich beams of summer's noonday sun
On rocks of alabaster;—others stream
(Pennons of beauty to a bark of love)
Loose to the ocean breezes. Her blue eyes,
Lit with intenser and more passionate thought
Than would beseem the wonted air of peace
That characters her countenance, dart forth

101

Glances of wilderment—it may be fear
On the wild waves behind her; and she clings
Closer and closer to the stately neck
Of that imperial spurner of the spray,—
That lord of lowing herds, the milk-white bull!

With unremitting speed the godlike brute,
Rejoicing in his glorious freight, moves on:—
What are the waves to him? they may not stay
His ardent course;—the warring winds may howl
With fitful violence round the vessel's prow,
And turn it from its track;—the whirlpool's depths
May draw it down to never-ending night;
But all their powers conjoined may ne'er prevail
Over this living, beauty-crested bark,
Which proudly dashes on—and on—and on—
To where the towers of Crete lift up their heads
Above the dark blue sea. With what a front—
A stern unyielding front—he stems the wave,
And strains each lusty nerve to gain the strand,
Now swelling on his sight!

102

Well may we 'count
The Boy-God's power omnipotent, since he
(And sure those witching fables that would prove
His force on human hearts, we half deem true)
Could thus stir up in an immortal's breast
His deep-pervading passion, and incite
Even the Almighty Jove to change his form—
His own majestic seeming—and imbrute
His mighty spirit in a coil like this,
All for an earthly maiden.

103

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.

I

Nay, reproach me not, sweet one! I still am thine own,
Though the world in its toils hath detained me awhile!
The deep vision that spelled my lone bosom is flown,
And—a truant to love—I return to thy smile.
It hath ever been thus;—when condemned or deceived
By the many I scorned, or the few that I loved;
Whilst I breathed my contempt, or in silentness grieved,
It was bliss to remember whose truth I had proved;
And the falsehood of friends, the crowd's hollow decree,
Served to bind me more fondly and firmly to thee!

104

II

Yes, I still am thine own:—though I sometimes may mingle,
In lightness of spirit, with fools I despise;
In my heart—my dark heart—dwelling silent and single,
Is the thought of all others it soothes me to prize.
If I join the loud throng in its madness of mirth,
I but think how much purer our pleasures have been;—
If I gaze on the fair-bosomed daughters of earth,
'Tis to turn to thy beauties—of beauty the Queen!
And if from man's dwellings to Nature I flee,
Glen, mountain, and ocean, seem breathing of thee!

III

When a soft soothing glance from the eye of Affection
Breaks my midnight of gloom with its halo divine,
How surpassingly sweet is the fond recollection
Of the passionate love ever beaming from thine!—

105

'Twill beam on me no more.—Yet though Death has bereft me
Of a form such as seraphs from heaven might adore,—
In this image thy features of beauty are left me,
And the lines of thy soul in my heart's core of core!
Then reproach me not, sweet one! for time shall not see
The hour that estranges one deep thought of thee!

106

POSTHUMOUS FAME.

WRITTEN AFTER PERUSING A PARAGRAPH RESPECTING THE MONUMENT RECENTLY ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

It is a well-known fact, that bards have ever,
From Homer downwards, lived upon their wits;
And though, no doubt, they always have been clever
At brandishing their knives and forks, tid bits
Of calipash or venison have never,
Or seldom, been reserved for them; and spits
With good roast joints not often have been turning
For them, men deem the beacon-lights of learning.

107

Their's have been fame and flattery alone,
(But pudding is more nourishing than praise;)
They've asked for bread, and oft received—a stone!
Living, have passed unheeded through the maze
Of a cold-hearted world:—their deaths once known,
The titled fool hath forward pressed to raise
Tombs o'er their ashes, that he thus might claim
One leaf of laurel for his paltry name.

Shades of the mighty dead! arise and say
How much ye scorn such mockery!—Stand forth,
Ye heirs of immortality! that they,
The proud, who deem nobility of birth
Surpasses rank of mind, no longer may
Cherish the weak delusion, but to worth
Yield, as becomes them, precedence—and learn
To honour those whom they were wont to spurn.

108

Match me among the Magnates of the world—
Those things of splendid nothingness—bright names,
Who, when the roll of glory is unfurled,
Upon posterity can show such claims
As Milton, Shakspeare, Spenser. Those have hurled
Some fellow-despots from their thrones, their aims
Still purchased but with blood; and they have made,
Their worship of the shadow of a shade;

But these, the Muses' sons, have toiled to gain
Renown which could not profit them;—through years
Of unregarded poverty and pain,—
Slaves to their wild and passionate hopes and fears,—
Oh! how intensely did they strive to' attain
Fame that should be immortal; and the tears
Of blood their hearts have wept, have been repaid
With wreaths of laurel that can never fade!

109

A FAREWELL.

Have we not loved, as none have ever loved,
And must we part, as none have ever parted?
MATURIN.

I

Yes,—I will join the world again,
And mingle with the crowd;
And though my mirth may be but pain,
My laughter, wilderment of brain,—
At least it shall be loud!

II

'Tis true, to bend before the shrine
Of heartless revelry,
Is slavery to a soul like mine;
Yet better thus in chains to pine,
Than ever crouch to thee!

110

III

Ay, better far to steep the soul
In pleasure's sparkling tide;
Bid joy's unholy sounds control
The maddening thoughts that o'er it roll,
Than wither 'neath thy pride.

IV

Yet I have loved thee—ah, how well!
But words are wild and weak;
The depth of that pervading spell,
I dare not trust my tongue to tell,—
And hearts may never speak!

V

The stubborn pride, none else might rein,
Hath stooped to love and thee;
But, as the pine upon the plain,
Bent by the blast, springs up again,
So shall it fare with me.

111

VI

Still, whilst I darkly sojourn here,
Spite of each vain endeavour,
Thy name, through many a future year,
Will be the knell, to my lonely ear,
Of bliss—gone by for ever!

VII

Though thou hast wrapped me in a cloud,
Nought now may e'er dispel,
In silentness my wrongs I'll shroud,
And love, reproach, pain, passion, crowd
Into one word—Farewell!

VIII

'Tis done—the task of soul is taught;
At length I've burst the spell,
Which, round my heart so firmly wrought,
Fettered each loftier, nobler thought;
And now, Farewell—Farewell!

112

STANZAS

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE ENVELOPE TO A LOCK OF HAIR.

I

Pledge of a love as pure and deep
As ever thrilled in mortal breast!
I would not, could I break thy sleep,
Recall thee from the couch of rest,
Where thou art now in peace reclining,
A stranger to the world's repining!

II

No! Bright as was thy brief career,
In this wild waste of storm and gloom,—
And much as I have wished thee here,
My soul's dark sorrows to illume,—
In loneliness I'd rather languish,
Than have thee here to share my anguish!

113

III

Besides, would even Heaven allow
Thy advent to this earth again;
That boon to thee were cruel now,
Since human ills—a numerous train—
Would cross thee in thy path of life,
And stir thy young sweet thoughts to strife!

IV

Yet looking on this sun-bright tress
Unlocks the source of dried-up tears;
And thoughts, intense and maddening, press
On my hot brain;—though hopes or fears,
Since thou and thy sweet mother perished,
Have ne'er by me been felt or cherished.

V

Blossom of Love! Yes, on my mind
Strange and unusual feelings rush;
The flood-gates of my heart unbind,
And bid its waters wildly gush,—
As gazing on these threads I see
The all that now remains of thee!

114

VI

Blossom of Love! Farewell!—Farewell!
I go to join the noisy throng;
But, in my soul's deep—inmost cell,
Thoughts that to thine and thee belong,
Will ever bloom as fresh and fair
As when they first were planted there!

VII

And, oh, if tears of woe may nourish
The flowers of Memory in the breast;
Then those in mine will surely flourish,
And each succeeding hour invest
Their stems with charms unknown before,—
Till we three meet to part no more!

115

FORGET THEE? NO, NEVER!

Wrong thee, Bianca? No, not for the earth!
Not for earth's brightest!
MILMAN.

Forget thee?—No, never!—Why cherish a thought
To the friend of thy soul, with injustice so fraught?
Why embitter our fast-fading moments of bliss
By suspicion so wild and unfounded as this?
Forget thee?—No, never!—Among the light-hearted,
Love may sink to decay when the fond ones are parted;
But affection like ours is too deep and sublime,
To be chilled in its ardour by absence or time.
Then, gentle one, banish all doubt from thy breast:
By the kiss that so late on thy lips I impressed,—
By the griefs that have blighted the bloom of my years,—
By the hope that still calls forth a smile thro' my tears,—

116

By the hour of our parting—thus sweetly delayed,—
By truth firmly tried—and by trust unbetrayed,—
I will not forget thee!—till life's latest ray
In the dark night of death shall have melted away;
'Mid ambition—fame—fortune—and power,—and gladness,—
Pain,—and peril—and hate—and contention—and sadness;—
Though changes the darkest and brightest betide,—
Thy friendship shall soothe me, thy counsels shall guide,
And thy memory at once be my solace and pride!

117

CYTHNA.

The glassy splendour of her eye
Already sparkled of the sky;
The kindling of a world of bliss,
For it was not the light of this.
WIFFEN.

Yes, in her eye there lived until the last,
A strange, unreal light,—a fearful glance,
Wild, yet most beautiful;—and o'er her cheek
Hues of such passing loveliness would stray,
As seemed not of this earth; but rather caught
Like the electric beams that dart across
The roseate clouds of Summer's softest eve—
From the high heaven above! Upon her lip
Hung ‘bland persuasion’ eloquently mute;
And, in her very silentness there dwelt
Music's best half,—expression! She had borne,

118

With an untiring spirit, many a grief;
And sickness, that had wasted her fine form,
Had tainted not her soul, for that was pure
As the last tear which Pity draws from Love.

119

LINES, WRITTEN IN THE ANGEL OF THE WORLD.

I

It is a sunny vision—a deep dream—
Too full of beauty for the heart to dwell,
Unpained, upon the dazzling rays that stream
Around the Bard's creations! Music's swell
Voluptuous on the ear;—the camel-bell,
Borne softly on the distance;—banners bright,
Instinct with gems;—that angel ere he fell,
And starry Eblis,—in their mingled might,
Deluge each weary pulse with too intense delight.

120

II

We turn away with dim, delirious sense
From that so fervid blaze; and seek repose
From Eastern splendour and magnificence,
From gorgeous palaces and clouds of rose,
Sceptres and thrones, and diamond-crested brows,—
Pluming our spirits' pinions at the page,
Where sweet Floranthe warbles forth her woes,
In strains, of power each turbulent thought to 'suage,
And bid the passions cease their fierce, wild war, to wage!

III

Surpassing Lyrist! from thy powerful hand,
The thunders and keen lightnings of the Muse
Speed forth in glorious might!—Thou canst command
The noon-tide burst of poesy;—yet infuse
Its twilight calms and bloom-refreshing dews
Amid thy deep conceptions; and canst braid
Wreaths, rich and bright, with variegated hues,
As those on an Arabian Heaven displayed,
Ere day's last rainbow-beams have vanished into shade!

121

AUTUMN.

Now Winter from her throne is hurling
The deep-voiced matron of the year;
And fitful gusts are wildly whirling
Her yellow hues on high; though here,
In many a fold of beauty streaming,
It lingers still:—whilst from her eye
The watery light of love is beaming
As bright—but, oh, as transiently;
Filling the bosom with a sadness,
Though born of grief—allied to gladness.

122

II

Yes, Autumn's gloom to me is dearer
Than Spring, or Summer's sunniest smile;
And speaks a language far sincerer
Than their all cloudless skies. The wile
Of Hope—life's darkly chequered vision,—
Its passions, follies, pains, and fears;
Its dimness and its quick transition,—
Methinks, are emblemed in her tears,
Her bright though fading hues, and even
The tempests that deform her heaven.

November, 1819.

123

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

125

II. 'TIS EVE ON THE OCEAN.

[_]

WELSH MELODY.—AIR, ‘THE ASH GROVE.’

I

'Tis eve on the ocean,
The breeze is in motion,
And briskly our vessel bounds forth on its way;—
The blue sky is o'er us,
The world is before us,
Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!
Why sorrow thus blindly,
For those who unkindly
Could launch, and then leave us on life's troubled sea;
Who so heartlessly scanted
The little we wanted,
And denied us the all that we asked—to be free!

129

But we've 'scaped from their trammels,—the word is ‘Away!’
Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!

II

On, on we are speeding,
While, swiftly receding,
The white cliffs of Albion in distance grow blue;
Now that gem of earth's treasures,—
That scene of past pleasures,—
The home of our childhood, fades fast from our view.
Yet still thy heart's swelling,
My turtle-eyed Ellen!
What recks it to us that we leave it behind?
Dark ills may betide us,
But Fate cannot guide us
Where foes are more bitter, or friends are less kind
Than we've found them at home;—but the word is ‘Away!’
Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!

130

III

Now twilight comes 'round us,
And dimness hath bound us,
And the light-house looks forth from its surf-beaten height,
Like Hope's gentle beamings,
Through Sorrow's deep dreamings,
Or the load-star of Memory to hours of delight.
Though, self-exiled, we sever
From England for ever,
We'll make us a home and a country afar;
And we'll build us a bower
Where stern Pride hath no power,
And the rod of Oppression our bliss may not mar.
We have broken our chain,—and the word is ‘Away!’
Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!

131

III. WHILE I UPON THY BOSOM LEAN.

I

While I upon thy bosom lean,
And gaze into thine eyes,
I turn from sorrows that have been,
To those which yet may rise:—
I think on thy untiring truth,
And faster flow my tears;
I mark thy waning rose of youth,
And cannot hide my fears.

132

II

Oh! light have been the pangs we've proved,
To what may yet remain;
We've suffered much—but fondly loved;—
Parted—but met again!
Still, something speaks a wilder doom
From which we ne'er may flee;
Well—dearest—let the thunder come,
So that it spares me thee!

III

Even while I clasp thee to my soul,
And feel thou'rt wholly mine,
The bodings I may not control
My lip breathes out on thine:
Thy drooping lid—and pallid brow—
The frequent gathering tear,—
With voiceless eloquence, avow
That I have much to fear.

133

IV

And when to this I add the thought
Of parting soon again,
The future, as the past, seems fraught
With undivided pain;—
But no! I will not dwell upon
Such dreams while blest with thee;
This hour is bright and all our own,
Whate'er the next may be.

134

V. SACRED MELODY.

THERE IS A THOUGHT.

I

There is a thought can lift the soul
Above the dull cold sphere that bounds it,—
A star, that sheds its mild control
Brightest when Grief's dark cloud surrounds it,—
And pours a soft, pervading ray
Life's ills may never chase away!

138

II

When earthly joys have left the breast,
And even the last fond hope it cherished
Of mortal bliss—too like the rest—
Beneath Woe's withering touch hath perished,
With fadeless lustre streams that light;
A halo on the brow of night!

III

And bitter were our sojourn here
In this dark wilderness of sorrow,
Did not that rainbow-beam appear,
The herald of a brighter morrow;
A merciful beacon from on high
To guide us to Eternity!

1815.

139

VII. WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN?

I

When shall we meet again,—
Meet ne'er to sever?
When will Peace wreathe her chain
Round us for ever?
When will our hearts repose,
Safe from each blast that blows,
In this dark vale of woes?
Never,—no, never!

143

II

Pride's unrelenting hand
Soon will divide us,
Moments like these be banned,
Trysting denied us.
Force may our steps compel,
Hearts will not say farewell,
Can Power affection quell?
Never,—no, never!

III

By the thrice hallowed past,
Love's tenderest token;—
By bliss, too sweet to last,
Faith, yet unbroken;—
By all we're doomed to bear;—
By this sad kiss and tear;—
I will forget thee, dear,
Never,—no, never!

144

IV

If thou'rt as true to me,
Fond and firm hearted,
Hate's dull desires will be
Half of them thwarted.
When shall we meet again?—
When shall we meet again?—
In this wide world of pain
Never,—no, never!

V

But where no storms can chill,
False friends deceive us;
Where with protracted thrill
Hope cannot grieve us;
There with the pure of heart,
Safe from Fate's venomed dart,
There we may meet to part
Never,—no, never!

145

VIII. COME, LET US BANISH SORROW.

[_]

WELSH MELODY.—AIR, THE ‘MINSTRELSY OF CHIRK CASTLE.’

I

Come, let us banish sorrow,
Nor think about to-morrow!
This hour so bright,
May well requite
Our hearts for the past;
And as for future sadness,
Why should we mar our gladness,

146

With boding fears,
With sighs and tears,
Lest bliss should not last?
What though Fortune frown on us, or friends prove unkind,
We can never be poor, love, with wealth of the mind;
We can never be lonely—though all should depart,
Whilst we live in the pulse-peopled world of the heart.

II

What can there be to grieve thee?
Thou know'st I'll ne'er deceive thee;
Am I not thine?
Then why repine?
Say, what wouldst thou more?
Can fate have power to harm thee?
Can life's dark ills alarm thee?
Am I not near
To shield thee, dear?
Say, what wouldst thou more?

147

Then a truce to all gloom, we'll be cheerful and gay,
Nor welcome the griefs that are yet on their way;
Let them come, at their leisure, we'll smile while we may,
And, in spite of to-morrow, be happy to-day!

148

IX. AND DOST THOU LOVE THE LYRE.

I

And dost thou love the Lyre,
Those strains the Nine inspire?
Ah! beware the spell,
Some have proved too well,
Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary!

II

For genius is only a dream,
An ignis fatuus gleam,
That just lends its light;
But when sorrow's night
Is deepest—withdraws its beam, Mary!

149

III

'Tis a passionate sense refined,
That spells the enthusiast's mind;
That bids him cope
With life's storms, and hope
For a haven he never may find, Mary!

IV

As the hues of the mimic bow,
Arching the cataract's brow,
Though they gaily shine,—
And seem half divine,
Are but types of the chaos below, Mary!

V

So the glittering tints that rest,
On Genius' star-bright crest,
May lovelily glow,
While despair and woe
Hold their strife in his lonely breast, Mary!

150

VI

Some have envied the Minstrel's art,
Unknowing his oft-felt smart;
But this never might be,
Could they once but see
A minstrel's inmost heart, Mary!

VII

It hath fibres so finely wrought,
And depths with such feelings fraught,
That a word may break,
Or to melody wake
Each chord in that Lyre of thought, Mary!

VIII

Even when Pleasure her fingers flings
O'er its most attenuate strings,
In the passionate swells
Which her touch compels,
It oft wails while to gladness it rings, Mary!

151

IX

But when Sorrow's ruthless hand
Doth its tremulous chords command,
They break in her clasp,
For so rude a grasp
They never were formed to withstand, Mary!

X

Then do not love the Lyre,
Those strains the Nine inspire,
But beware the spell,
Some have proved too well,
Nor follow a wandering fire, Mary!

152

X. MY RACE IS ALMOST RUN.

I

My race is almost run, my days are nearly done,
Yet my heart still is buoyant, my spirits are light,—
It is but as the blaze of a dying taper's rays,
Life's last vivid flash ere it fades into night!

II

In my day-spring of youth, with a bosom full of truth,
And feelings unwarped or unwithered by wrong;
With every sail unfurled, o'er the waves of the world
My bark of existence sped gaily along.

III

My pilot was Hope, and I fancied I could cope,
If guided by him, with that storm-troubled sea;

153

Till dashed on Passion's rock, and shattered by the shock,
I soon found how unskilful a helmsman was he.

IV

But years have flitted past, and tried in many a blast,
We both have grown wiser and steadier than of yore;
The rack hath o'er us rolled, and now cheerily we hold
For a haven from whence we shall wander no more.

V

My days are well nigh done, my goal will soon be won,
And repose from the buffets of Fortune be mine;
Where Hate, however fierce, or Sorrow may not pierce,
To bid my cold bosom a moment repine.

VI

O Death! I can brook on thine awful front to look,
And can turn to thee now with a heart void of gloom;
To him whom Time can bring no balsam on its wing,
There sure must be healing and rest in the tomb.

154

XII. RETOUCH, SWEET FRIEND—RETOUCH THE LUTE.

I

Retouch, sweet Friend—retouch the Lute,
Its tones may turn thy thoughts on me;
Let not its chords be longer mute;
Remember, 'twas my gift to thee!
Wake then its wildest, sweetest strain,
And bid the past be ours again!

II

Oh might it yield an answering sound
To all my wishes, hopes, and fears;
Nor e'er be mute or tuneless found
Till I forget thy parting tears;
Then would thy life, beloved, be
One round of tenderest minstrelsy?

156

XIII. THE PAINS OF MEMORY.

I

When Joy its fairest flowers hath shed,
And even Hope's blossoms too are dead,
Though Memory through the cloud of woé
A momentary gleam may throw;

II

'Tis but an ignis fatuus light,—
A fleeting vision, frail as bright,—
That mocks awhile the mourner's sight,
To leave his soul in tenfold night!

157

XIV. THE SOUL THAT WAS SHROUDED.

I

The soul that was shrouded in sorrow's dark night
A peace-promising beam woke to gladness and light;
And the lute, that so long lorn and tuneless had hung,
Once more with the wild notes of melody rung!

II

Ah! why did that beam only shine to beguile?
Ah! why did it teach the fond mourner to smile?
Why faithlessly grant him a seeming reprieve,
Then leave him in sadness still deeper to grieve?

158

III

The light is gone by—and the music is o'er,
And the feelings so lovely—are lovely no more;
That soul, once again, its dark vigils is keeping,
And the Lute 'neath the cold chain of Silence is sleeping!

159

XV. WHAT NEED OF YEARS—LONG YEARS TO PROVE?

I

What need of years, long years to prove
The sense of Friendship or of Love?
What need of years to firmly bind
The social compact of the mind?

II

In youthful hearts of kindred mould,
Not slowly feeling's flowers unfold;
But oft—though 'neath a sky a gloom—
They burst to instantaneous bloom!

160

SONNETS.

167

III. TO ---.

Go, join the mincing measures of the crowd,
And be that abject thing which men call wise,
In the World's school of wisdom!—I despise
Thy proffered aid!—Go! Thou may'st court the proud,
With ready smile, and ever bended knee;
But I do scorn to owe a debt to thee
My soul could not repay.—There was a tie
(Would it existed now!) which might have kept
Peace, and good will between us:—I have wept,
With tears of wild and breathless agony,
That it should pass away;—and sought to quell
The angry thoughts that in my breast would swell,
When dwelling on my injuries:—but yet—
Though I forgive,—I never can forget!

170

IV. TO SENSIBILITY.

Though for thy sake I am crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And I knew thou'dst make my trouble
Ten times more than ten times double,
I should love and keep thee too,
Spite of all the world could do.
WITHER.

I always loved thee, Sensibility!
And though thou hast but served to work me woe,
Do love thee still!—Nurtured beneath thine eye,
‘For me the meanest, simplest flowers that blow,’
Can raise up thoughts that lie too deep for tears.
Not all the joys the multitude can know,
Should e'er seduce my bosom to forego
Thy sacred feelings!—Yet from earliest years,

171

Like that frail plant whose shrinking leaves betray
The careless pressure of an idle hand,
My heart, unschooled in guile, could ne'er command
Its hectics of the moment:—let thy ray,
Then, thou sweet source of sorrow and delight,
Beam on thy votary's soul with more attempered light.

172

V. FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.

Vain was the frown of pride to disunite
The hearts that love and sentiment had joined;
Vainly it urged its stern, unyielding right
To break the spell-wrought fetters of the mind:—
They would not be undone, for thy soft soul
Scorned to be subject to such base control.
Oh! hadst thou been a dowerless village maid,
And rich in nought beside thy native charms,
I might have dared to woo thee to my arms,
Thou not unwilling;—in some peaceful shade
We might have lived in blissful solitude,
Scorning, if scorned by Fortune:—Fate's decree
Hath fixed it otherwise; dark cares intrude;
But what are all my woes to that of losing thee!

173

VI. WRITTEN IN A CHURCH-YARD.

This is a spot to musing grief how dear!
Where, unobserved, she may pour forth her plaint,—
Ponder on pleasures past without restraint—
And breathe the sigh—‘fools should not overhear.’
Much do I love, alone, to linger here,
What time the glow of summer's evening beam
Brightens the landscape round, and Mersey's stream
Sleeps in the mellow light.—Sometimes a tear
Of wild regret will steal into mine eye,
As, musing 'mid these mansions of the dead,
The sweet remembrances of years gone by—
Of joys departed—hopes for ever fled—
Come crowding on my mind; nor would I stem,
For all the wealth of worlds, that woe's luxuriant gem!

174

VIII. ON A DOMESTIC CALAMITY

Now is all love shut from me;—I am left,
Like the scathed pine upon the mountain's brow,
Withered and branchless.—The last verdant bough
That, 'mid the blight, put forth its freshening hues,
Hath felt the lightning's wrath;—my all is reft,
And I must wend me through life's vale of woe
In solitude and tears:—well, be it so!—
Yet these sweet thoughts shall soothe me, and diffuse
A healing balm upon my suffering soul:—
That I have been most happy, though so brief
Were my young days of gladness—that my grief
Was not of mine own planting, but the sole
Endowment of misfortune;—and that bliss
May bloom, from sorrow's seeds, in brighter realms than this.

176

IX. TO SUSPENSE.

Ill-boding Fiend! How oft thy fiery breath
Hath stirred the storm of passion in my soul,
Until the waves of thought spurned all control,
And swelled to a fierce Phlegethon!—Beneath
The wide expanse of yonder boundless sky,
What hath the power to rack the feeling heart
Like thy keen-torturing vengeance? Where the smart,
Can match the brain-bewildering agony
Thy presence doth create?—My lot, through life,
Demon of dark uncertainty! hath been
To have sweet feelings maddened into strife
By thy bliss-blighting influence;—and each scene
Of beauty, shadowed by thy wing accursed!—
When shall I 'scape thy fangs? My heart—be still—or burst!

177

MIRZALA.

FROM THE ARABIC.

Love! oh, young Love!
Why hast thou not security? Thou art
Like a bright river, on whose course the weeds
Are thick and heavy; briars are on its banks,
And jagged stones and rocks are 'mid its waves.
Conscious of its own beauty, it will rush
Over its many obstacles, and pant
For some green valley as its quiet home.
Alas! either it rushes with a desperate leap
Over its barriers, foaming passionate,
But prisoned still; or winding languidly,
Becomes dark like Oblivion; or else wastes
Itself away.—This is Love's history!
L. E. L.

I.

She was beautiful as the lily-bosomed Houri

She was beautiful as the lily-bosomed Houri that gladden the visions of the Poet, when, soothed to

178

dreams of pleasantness and peace, the downy pinions of Sleep wave over his turbulent soul!

II.

She was more graceful than the Antelope; and her skin was fairer than the plumage of the billow-stemming bird of Franguestan.

III.

Her golden ringlets streamed over her snowy and transparent shoulders, like the rich rays of the noon-day sun upon a rock of the purest alabaster.

IV.

Her eyes were as two imaged stars peering from the blue depths of untroubled waters; and the vivid vermilion of her cheek was as the odour-breathing blossom of the peach.

V.

In sorrow,—ay, and even in joy,—the heaving of her bosom was like the tremulous motion of the Lake of Pearls, when the tempest that deformed it hath passed by. But for the heart that dwelt therein,—

179

oh, its chords were ever musical, whether swept by the ruffian hand of Grief, or touched by the delicate fingers of Delight!

VI.

As the mysterious pebbles of Kathay yield their harmonious murmurs, whether wrought upon by the storm-blast or zephyr,—so the soul of Mirzala always responded in melody.

VII.

The Anemone is a lovely flower; but fragile and perishing as the forms that people the day-dreams of Fancy: the wind wringeth it from the stem, and quickly whirleth it on high. Even such was the daughter of Ben Azra, and so fared it with the maiden.

VIII.

There has been mourning in the Valley of Camels;—Desolation dwelleth in the Palace of the Emir; the lute and the ziraleet are silent in his halls; the dance and the revel have ceased;—the echoes of Israfil are no more; but hark to the wul-wulleh of Despair!

180

IX.

There is blood on the threshold of Ben Azra,—even the blood of the guiltless Abdallah;—for the Prophet hath not forbidden us to love,—and this was the sum of his offending. The ataghan was sheathed in his heart;—his turban-stone is whitening on the hill!

X.

O thou pervading Power of Love! Thou art to some, sweet as the bubbling fountain of freshness to the burning brow of the desert-worn traveller; but to others, terrible as the fiery pestilence, or the breath of the unmerciful Simoom!