Poems published in Gift Books (continued)
CHRISTINE
Oh ! Love can take
What shape he pleases, and when once begun
His fiery inroad in the soul, how vain
The after knowledge which his presence gives :
We weep or rave, but still he lives,— he lives
Master and lord, 'midst pride and tears and pain.
Barry Cornwall.
I cannot, cannot change my tone,
My lute must breathe what is its own ;
It is my own heart that has taught
My constancy of mournful thought.
Tell me not of Spring's sunshine hour,
I have but known its blight and shower ;
And blame me not, that thus I dwell
On love's despair, and hope's farewell.
I know not what this life may be ;
I feel but what it is to me.
My gift of song, let others claim
The golden violets of fame,
I would but have it breathe to thee
My deep and lone fidelity ;
My unrequited tenderness
Living on its own sweet excess.
Oh ! I have blushed to hear my song
Borne on the tide of praise along :
But deem not, dear one, only praise
The colour on my cheek could raise ;
I blushed to think that thou might'st hear
My song of passion's timid fear ;
That with the words a thought might steal
Of all I felt, of all I feel.
On to my tale : it tells of one
Who loved not more than I have done :
That deep and lonely faith which bears
With chance, and change, and lapse of years ;
Turns like the floweret to the sun,
Content with being shone upon ;
Although its gift of light and air
The meanest with itself may share.
The moon hath shed her gentlest light
On the Garonne's blue wave to-night,
No wind disturbs, no ripple jars
The mirror, over which the stars
Linger like beauties. O'er the tide,
But noiseless, all the white sails glide.
Around are the green hills, where cling
The Autumn's purple gathering;
The various grapes, some like the stone
On which an Indian sky has shone,
And others like the amber streak
Pale on the fading twilight's cheek ;
And others glistening and green,
As yet by summer suns unseen.
And where the soft grass spreads, just meet
For the light tread of maiden's feet,
And where the chesnut's trunk seems made
For the musician's seat and shade, —
Are peasants dancing : one alone
Has stolen from the group, unknown,
To watch the hunter prince pass by :
Alas ! love's fond idolatry !
She sat down by the cypress tree,
And well it might her shadow be,
With its dark leaves, and lonely weeping,
As if some lovelorn secret keeping.
Just there the thicker boughs gave way,
And dale, wood, heath, before her lay ;
It came at last, the gallant train,
And hound, hawk, horseman, swept the plain.
There rode the leader of the band,
His hooded falcon on his hand ;
Which held the broidered rein beside,
Curbing his foam-white courser's pride ;
And carelessly on one side flung
The drooping heron feathers hung
Of the light cap, while the soft air
Ruffled the curls of raven hair,
And parted them enough to show
The forehead's height of mountain snow.
But he has left his train behind, —
A lover's step is on the wind; —
And he is by the maiden's side,
Whose eye is drooped, as if to hide
How joy has lighted it ; she lent
Like one of those sweet visions sent
To the young bard, when tones that weep
From leaf to flower have lulled his sleep.
In that Italian gallery, where
The painter and the sculptor share
Their gift of beauty, stands a form
Just like hers, only not so warm
With blushes, but the same soft eye
Seeking the ground ; — just such a sigh
Upon the parted lips ; — so prest
The small hands on the throbbing breast.
The same bowed attitude, so meek !
Oh, misery, that love should seek
A temple made so pure, so fair,
To leave his wreck and ruin there!
" Christine, my own Christine ; " — she felt
The words upon her flushed cheek melt:
She met his radiant eyes — to-night
Surely some cloud is on their light ;—
And then she heard of his recall
From green woods to his father's hall.
But, not while yet still heart to heart,
Know we what pain it is to part !
Not while we list, the voice so dear,
Although it be Farewell we hear.
Not while on one fond breast reclining,—
Not while dear eyes are on us shining, —
Although we deem that hour must be
The depth of Fate's worst misery, —
Know we how much the heart can bear
Of lonely and of long despair.
And strove the royal youth to cheer
The sorrowing of his maiden's fear,
With all those gentle vows that prove
At least the eloquence of love.
But still she wept : Oh ! not for me
To wish or hope fidelity !
Tell me not Raymond will recall
His peasant love in lighted hall :
When the rich Eastern gems look dim
By the bright eyes that smile for him.
Go share, as man will ever share,
In love's delight, but not love's care ;
And leave me to my woman's part—
A rifled and a barren heart.
He took a gold chain from his neck,—
Such chains the fair Venetians deck, —
And threw it round her — " See how slight
The fragile links that here unite.
Yet try, Christine, and all in vain, —
You cannot break the slender chain ;
This be our emblem, sweet, farewell !
He kissed the teardrops as they fell.
They parted — he for festival
And beauty's lighted coronal,
And all the meteor spells that try
The strength of absent constancy ;
And even as all changed around,
The change in his own heart was found ;
The dance's gayest cavalier,
Who soonest won a lady's ear
With soft words, wandering amid many,
And true to none, yet vowed to any.
'Tis ever thus ; — alas ! there clings
The curse of change to earthly things ; —
The flower fades, the green leaf dies,
A cloud steals over April skies, —
Tides turn their course, stars fall, winds range,
But more than all these, love will change.
Not so Christine, — day after day,
She watched and wept o'er hope's decay :
At last hope died, she felt it vain
To hope or dream of hope again.
It was one noon she chanced to look
On the clear mirror of the brook,
Which ran beside the cypress tree,
Where their glad meetings wont to be.
She marked her eye's dim darkened blue,
The cheek which had forgot its hue
Of summer rose — the faded brow !
" Alas! he would not love me now ! "
And hope departed from that hour —
But not with hope declined love's power ;
It was changed to a mournful feeling,
The deeper from its deep concealing
Fond thoughts, and gentle prayers that strove
To make a piety of love.
And then there came a wish to die
Unknown, but still beneath his eye ; —
At first 'twas but a fear, a thought —
A dream of thousand fancies wrought ;
It haunted still— at last she gave
Her tresses to the wind and wave :
Then as a page she sought his train,
And looked on Raymond's face again.
There was a revel held that night
In honour of the lady bright,
Who was next day, by Raymond's side,
To wear the white veil of a bride ;
And from the gallery, Christine
Gazed with the crowd on that gay scene.
There were high dames, with raven curls
Falling from the snow wreath of pearls ;
Fair arms on which the emerald shone,
And silver robe and ruby zone;
And feet that seemed but made to tread
Imprintless on the lily's head ;
Laughs like glad music, as their all
Of life had been a festival.
And Christine marvelled that such mirth
Could find a welcome upon earth.
She had been nursed 'mid forest trees,
And vineyards, birds, and flowers and bees ;
And little had she learnt the task
To turn the false lip to a mask
Of sunshine and of smiles, to hide
The heart of bitterness and pride,
Like those gay coloured plants that wreath
Their blossoms on the snake beneath.
And suddenly the gorgeous room
Was filled with music, light, and bloom ;
As the thrice fragrant air was filled
With waters from sweet leaves distilled ;
As lighted up the perfumed flame
Of woods that from Arabia came :
And a rich sweep of music blent
From every mingled instrument ;
And smile, and sigh, and bended brow,
Greeted the dame who entered now.
'Twas Raymond's love : her braided hair
Was bright, for gems and gold were there.
Christine had sometimes feared to guess
Her rival's wealth of loveliness.
But now— oh, thus had Raymond sold
His heart, his once fond heart, for gold !
Oh! all but this she could have borne —
But not to feel for Raymond scorn.
She left the gallery ; next day
A pilgrim at an altar lay. —
The chapel hung with silk and flower,
Meet for Lord Raymond's bridal hour: —
A boy so wan, so delicate,
No marvel at his early fate !
A chain of gold lay on the shrine,
And underneath a faultering line :
" An offering for the happiness
Of him whom my love could not bless."
All felt it was a woman's prayer —
It was Christine had perished there!
From The Literary Souvenir, 1825
CLEMATIS
Around the cross the flower is winding,
Around the old and ruined wall ;
And with its fragile flowers, binding
The arch with which it soon must fall.
And two before that cross are praying —
One with her earnest eyes above;
The other, as the heart delaying,
Blent heavenly with some earthly love.
St. Marie's shrine is now laid lowly,
Shivered its windows' rainbow panes ;
Silent its hymn;— that pale flower solely,
Of all its former pride remains.
Hushed is the ancient anthem, keeping
The vigil of the silent night ;
Gone is the censer's silver sweeping;
Dim is the sacred taper's light.
True the rapt soul's divine emotion
The desert wind to heaven may bear ;
'Tis not the shrine that makes devotion,
The place that sanctifies the prayer;
But yet I grieve that, thus departed,
The faith has left the fallen cell ;
How many, lorn and broken-hearted,
Were thankful in their shade to dwell!
Not on the young mind, filled with fancies,
And hopes, whose gloss is not yet gone;
Not on the early world's romances,
Should the cell close its funeral stone!
Still is the quiet cloister wanted,
For those who wear a weary eye ;
Whose life has long been disenchanted,
Who have one only wish — to die.
How oft the heart of woman, yearning
For love it dreams but never meets,
From the world, worn and weary, turning,
Could shelter in these dim retreats !
Then were that solemn quiet given,
That life's harsh, feverish, hours deny !
Then might the last prayer rise to heaven,
"My God, I pray thee let me die !”
From Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
Found in The Gentleman’s Magazine 1837, page 616, revised from Sypher
COOPER
He was the first who ever told
The history of those warriors bold.
The dark, stern race, whose fated age
Has little left besides his page.
And he has told how death and toil
Were round the settlers on the soil,
Who left their native vales to be
Free, as they even now are free.
Now, in the great and glorious hour,
That yet awaits Columbia's power,
When, save his line, the past is dim
Now she will read her youth in him.
The English Bijou Almanack, 1837
From The Bookworm 1893, page 281
CORINNE AT THE CAPE OF MISENA
How much of mind is in this little scroll,
Whereon the artist’s skill has bodied forth
The shapes which genius dreamed! — The quiet sea
Sleeps in the distance, with that happy sleep
Which, in the human world, but childhood knows —
Childhood, whose hope is present! Pale with light,
For colour has departed with the sun,
The moon has risen in the faint grey sky,
Bearing a clear young beauty on her brow,
Which has been turned to earth too short a while
To wear its shadow. With a darker hue
Than when the sun is on their shining leaves
The myrtles spread their branches to the night,
Whose dews are falling. By the moonlight touched
With silvery softness and with gentle shade,
The fair city seems as if repose
And sleep alone were in its quiet walls.
Silence was made for such a night, or song,
And song has just been floating o’er the waves;
The lute is yet within its mistress’ hand,
Though now the music from its chords has gone
To wander o’er the waters, and to perish:
Ay, perished long the music of those chords,
They had but life from sweetness, so they died.
Not so the words! — for, even as the wind,
That wafts the seeds which afterwards spring up
In a perpetual growth, and then subsides,
The song was only minister to the words
Which have the immortality of pain.
A lady leans upon that silent lute,
With large dark eyes, like the eternal night,
So spiritual and so melancholy —
The exquisite Corinne!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . There is a power
Given to some minds to fashion and create,
Until the being present on the page
Is actual as our life’s vitality!
Such was Corinne — and such the mind that gave
Its own existence to its work. Corinne
Is but another name for her who wrote,
Who felt, and poured her spirit on her lay.
What are the feelings but her own? The hope
Which in the bleak world finds no resting-place,
And, like the dove, returns unsatisfied,
But bringing no green leaf, it seeks its ark
With wearied wing, and plumes whose gloss is gone.
Here, too, is traced that love which hath too much
Of heaven in its fine nature for the earth —
Where love pines for a home and finds a grave;
The eagerness which turns to lassitude;
The thirst of praise which ends in bitterness;
Those high aspirings which but rise to find
What weight is on their wings; and that keen sense
Of the wide difference between ourselves
And those who are our fellows; and which marks
A withered ring around all confidence:
We cannot soothe the pain we do not know.
The heart is sacrificed upon the shrine
Of mental power — at least its happiness.
A whole life’s bitterness is in the song
Whose words, too truly, are the singer’s own.
Fragment of Corinna’s Song at Naples:
“Thus shrinking from the desert spread around,
Doth Genius wander through the world, and finds
No likeness to itself — no echo given
By Nature ; and the Common crowd but hold
As madness that desire of the rapt soul
Which finds not in this world enough of air,
Of high enthusiasm, or of hope!
For Destiny compels exalted minds;—
The poet, whose imagination draws
Its power from loving and from suffering —
They are the banish'd of another sphere.
For the Almighty goodness might not frame
All for the few—th’ elect or the proscribed.
Why spoke the ancients with such awe of Fate?
What had this terrible Fate to do with them.
The common and the quiet, who pursue
The seasons, and still follow timidly
The beaten track of ordinary life?
But she, the priestess of the oracle,
Shook with the presence of the cruel power,
I know not what the involuntary force
That plunges Genius into misery.
Genius doth catch the music of the spheres,
Which mortal ear was never meant to know;
Genius can penetrate the mysteries
Of feeling, all unknown to other hearts;—
A power hath entered in the inmost soul,
Whose presence he may not contain.” >>>>
Who felt, and poured her spirit on the lay.
Such were the words of one who felt those words
With all the truth of sorrow. In this world,
Grief and life go together; ‘neath the tent,
The palace, and the cottage, woe is heard,
Speaking with suffering’s universal voice.
But of the many who at night are glad
To lay their common burden down and rest,
Surely the mind endowed with gifts from heaven
Must be most glad, for it foresees its home,
And saith, in its rejoicing orison,
Thank God, thank God, there is a grave; and hope
That looks beyond to heaven!
From The Amulet, 1832
Copied out from McGann and Riess, Selected Writings
The part marked as quotation is translated literally from Corinne’s song. Its only merit is its exactness, for I have scarcely permitted myself to alter a word. This brief passage is chosen as having less reference to the story than other parts equally beautiful. There occurs, soon afterwards, one of those almost startling remarks which give such peculiarity of thoughtfulness to Madame de Staël’s writings. Corinne says, “Perhaps it is what we shall do to-morrow that will decide our fate; perhaps only yesterday have we said one word that nothing can recal.” I know not what may be the effect on others, but I could never read this short, but true, remark without a feeling of terror.
Letitia Landon's complete translation of Corinne's Chant in the Vicinity of Naples is given under Other Published Works.
THE CRIMINAL
His hand is red with blood, and life, aye, life
Must pay the forfeiture of his dark sin.
Ah ! woman's love is a night-scented flower,
Which yieldeth its most precious perfume forth
'Mid darkness and 'mid tears.
'Tis silence in that cell, and dim the light
Gleaming from the sunk lamp ; there is one stands
Fettered and motionless — so very pale,
That were he laid within his winding-sheet
And death were on him, yet his cheek could not
Wear ghastlier hues ; cold damps are on his brow ;
With intense passion the red veins are swelled ;
The white lip quivers with suppressed sobs,
And his dark eye is glazed with tears which still
He is too stern to shed. His countenance
Bears wild and fearful traces of the years
Which have passed on in guilt ; pride, headstrong ire
Have left their marks behind ; yet, mid this war
Of evil elements, some glimpses shine
Of better feelings, which, like clouded stars,
Soon set in night,— A sullen sound awakes
The silence of the cell. And up he starts,
Roused from his dizzy trance of wretchedness,
And gasps for breath, as that deep solemn toll
Sinks on his spirit, like a warning voice
Sent from eternity ; again it rolls —
Thy awful bell, St. Sepulchre, which tells
The criminal of death ; — his life-pulse stops,
As if in awe, and then beats rapidly :
Flushes a sudden crimson on his face,
Passes, and leaves it deadlier than before.
He is alone no longer ; one is there
Whose only language is her tears, and one
Whose words of anger on the sinful child,
His shame and sorrow, find no utterance now.
At first the look the murderer wore was stern,
And cold, and ghastly, for his pride had nerved
His spirit to its agony ; but when
He felt that pale girl's tears upon his hand,
And heard his father's words of penitence,
Of tenderness and pardon, then relaxed
His marble brow, and wild warm drops came down
He strove no more to quell. And there she lay,
His wretched Ellen, pillowed on a breast
Whose lightest beat to her was more than life,
All guilty as it was ; — her fair blue eyes
(How softly beautiful !) were filled with drops
They had no power to shed, but heavily
They hung upon the eyelash, which drooped o'er
A cheek whose summer colour had departed
With the sweet hopes that nourished its bloom.
His love had been destruction ; he had thrown
Shame and dishonour on the innocent one,
Whose fate was linked with his, who loved him yet
Most truly and most fondly. From the hour
When, a young bride, she dreamt of happiness,
She never had forsaken him, but still
Had been his better angel ; — his mad life
Had passed 'mid fearful passions, evil deeds,
And she had often wept in solitude :
Yet sometimes (for he loved her) he returned ;
Her patient smile then lighted up his home,
And never did that soft lip breathe reproach ;
Only her health-forsaken cheek, her brow
So wan, told of her wrongs, and she would sob
At times upon his bosom, till he swore
To leave his evil wanderings. At last
The thunderbolt came down, and crushed her heart—
He was a murderer. — — — —
Still she forsook him not, and his lone cell
Was brightened by her presence — her soft voice
Breathed consolation in its gentle tones ;
She wept, she watched, she prayed with him ; — how deep
Is woman's memory of her first love-dream,
Though truth has chilled its sweet illusiveness !
Yet like the Indian, though severer light
Hath broken in upon his radiant faith
And shown its falsehood, still his spirit clings
With lingering homage to his early worship.
So Ellen's breast yearned to the guilty one,
'Mid crimes, 'mid darkness ; she could not forget
He was the chosen of her youth, that he
Had been her first, her only love. — — — —
The morn had broken, and a dull red light
Streamed through the iron grating heavily :
The bell had ceased its summoning, — they leaned
In desperate hope to catch another toll
In vain — and loud and hurrying steps were heard — ,
The door was opened, and the chains were struck
From off his shackled hands. They led him forth.
He clasped his Ellen, and pressed one cold kiss
On lips as cold, and placed her as a child
Upon his father's bosom, and departed.
A shriek rang after him, and many there
To their last hour shall not forget that cry.
They led him on ; his step was firm, although
His face was very pale ; and when he reached
The scaffold, he knelt meekly down and prayed.
Silence was all around : his eyes were clothed :
This world one gasp concluded, and to him
Opened eternity.
The Literary Souvenir, 1825
CUPID AND PSYCHE
LOVE, oh do not name his name !
On this earth he only came
To deceive and to destroy,—
Lasting sorrow, fleeting joy !
Sunny light each pinion flings,
But, alas, they still are wings !
Rainbow feathers edge his shaft,
They are stained with crime and craft.
Fair but false Divinity,
Does the bosom treasure thee !
Better would its folly fare
Were the scorpion harboured there.
Does the cheek with colours burn,
Shed from passion's purple urn !
Woe for the deceiving light,
It will herald darkest night.
Go thou, ask the happiest lover,
Far or near thou canst discover ;
He will say his happiest hour
Was but as a fairy dower,—
Gold that for a moment shone,
Charmed the sight, and then was gone.
And albeit thy blind caprice
Gave the wearied one release,
'Twas to leave him like the pyre
Where the deadly flames expire ;
Not till they have fed on all
Of odour, gem, or coronal,
Leaving smouldering waste behind,
Withered hope, and ruined mind ;
Heart it were relief to break ;
Oh, Love, thine is a fearful stake !—
What sweet picture may this seem ?
Were it aught but painter's dream,
There were all in young Love's reign
Maidens hope for, minstrels feign ;—
Leans he by his dear one's side,
From his eyes the veil untied ;
Gentle as the gentlest rays
Of the dove's on which they gaze ;
He has left his bow unbent,
Hung aside his shafts, content
But to trust his soft caress,
And his passing loveliness.
Oh, Love ! couldst thou be like this,
Mirror thus of heaven's own bliss,
Then wouldst thou have hopes that might
Trust themselves to their delight ;
Confidence, whose sweet repose
Weaves a pillow of the rose ;—
Peace like that on ocean's breast,
When the halcyon builds her nest ;—
Faith like that the martyrs feel
In their high and holy zeal.
Then the pleasures thou wouldst know
To immortal ones would grow.
Go, Love, like this couldst thou be,
Paradise were home for thee !
The Literary Souvenir, 1827
THE CYPRESS
Thou graceful tree,
With thy green branches drooping,
As to yon blue heaven stooping,
In meek humility.
Like one who patient grieves,
When winds are o'er thee sweeping,
Thou answerest but by weeping ;
While tear-like fall thy leaves.
When summer flowers have birth,
And the sun is o'er thee shining ;
Yet with thy slight boughs declining,
Still thou seekest the earth.
Thy leaves are ever green :
When other trees are changing,
With the seasons o'er them ranging ;
Thou art still as thou hast been.
It is not just to thee,
For painter or bard to borrow
Thy emblem as that of Sorrow :
Thou art more like Piety.
Thou wert made to wave,
Patient when Winter winds rave o'er thee,
Lowly when Summer suns restore thee,
Upon thy martyr's grave.
Like that martyr thou hast given
A lesson of faith and meekness,
Of patient strength in thy weakness,
And trust in Heaven !
The Amulet, 1826
Taken from The Lyre, 1841
Amended per Literary Gazette 1825 page 722
THE DEATH SONG
ARE the roses all faded, that thus you should wear
A wreath from the dark cypress tree in your hair?
Are the violets wither’d, that funeral green
Should thus mid your long golden tresses be seen?
Come, maiden, the evening’s last crimson has dyed
With the hue of its blushes the pearls at your side;
And wreath’d flowers like summer’s are bright in each fold
Of the white robe whose border is heavy with gold.
Oh father, my father, now urge me no more;
No footstep of mine will be light on the floor ;
The shroud cold and white is the robe I shall wear:
Now look on my face, is not death written there?
It came on the night wind, it came in the hour,
When the planet shines forth and the spirit has power:
I heard the sad music that wailing past by,
It call’d me, my father, it call’d me to die.
I heard that wild singing the night that she died,
My own gentle sister, her last sigh replied:
Again I have listen’d that funeral tone;
I knew ’t was the death song, I knew ’t was my own.
I am weeping, but not for this summons, my tears
They fall for your lonely, your desolate years:
I see the old hearth, but its gladness is gone;
I see the green forest, you walk there alone.
By the side of my sister’s they’ll hang up my lute,
But, unless the wind wake them, henceforth to be mute.
Our vault will be open’d with torch-light and song ;
We must part there, my father, we part not for long.
They say to the words of the dying are given
A spirit that is not of earth, but of heaven.
Be strong in thy sorrow, and meek in thy pain:
My father, we meet, and for ever, again.
The Keepsake, 1831
THE DECISION OF THE FLOWER
— — — — Tis a history
Handed from ages down ; a nurse's tale.
Southey's Thelabe
There is a flower, a purple flower,
Sown by the wind, nursed by the shower,
O'er which Love has breathed a power and spell
The truth of whispering hope to tell.
Lightly the maiden's cheek has prest
The pillow of her dreaming rest,
Yet a crimson blush is over it spread
As her lover's lip had lighted its red.
Yes, sleep before her eyes has brought
The image of her waking thought, —
That one thought hidden from all the world,
Like the last sweet hue in the rose-bud curled.
The dew is yet on the grass and leaves,
The silver veil which the morning weaves
To throw o'er the roses, those brides which the sun
Must woo and win ere the day be done.
She braided back her beautiful hair
O'er a brow like Italian marble fair.
She is gone to the fields where the corn uprears
Like an eastern army its golden spears.
The lark flew up as she passed along,
And poured from a cloud his sunny song ;
And many bright insects were on wing,
Or lay on the blossoms glistening ;
And with scarlet poppies around like a bower,
Found the maiden her mystic flower.
Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell
If my lover loves me, and loves me well;
So may the fall of the morning dew
Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue.
Now I number the leaves for my lot,
He loves not, he loves me, he loves me not,
He loves me, — yes, thou last leaf, yes,
I'll pluck thee not, for that last sweet guess!
" He loves me," " YES,” a dear voice sighed:—
And her lover stands by Margaret's side.
The Literary Souvenir 1825
From a review in The LIterary Gazette, 13th november 1824
THE DEPARTED (or GONE)
And thus they flit away
Earth's lovely things.
Where's the snow — the summer snow —
On the lovely lily flower ?
Where the hues the sunset shed
O'er the rose's crimson hour ?
Where 's the gold — the pure bright gold —
O'er the young laburnum flung ;
And the fragrant sighs that breathed
Whence the hyacinth drooping hung ?
Gone, gone — they all are gone.
Maiden, lovelier than the spring,
Is thy bloom departed too ?
Has thy cheek forgot its rose,
Or thine eye its April blue ?
Where are thy sweet bursts of song ?
Where the wreaths that bound thy hair ?
Where the thousand prisoner curls ?
And thy sunny smiles are — Where ? —
Gone, gone — they all are gone.
Youth, where is thine open brow ?
What has quell'd thine eagle eye ?
Where's the freshness of thy cheek ?
And thy dark hair's raven dye ?
Where 's thy crimson banner now ?
Where's thine eager step and sword ?
Where 's thine hour of dreamless sleep ?
Where frank jest and careless word ? —
Gone, gone — they all are gone.
Where 's the lighted hall ; and where
All that made its midnight gay ?
Where 's the music of the harp ?
And the minstrel's knightly lay ?
Where 's the graceful saraband ?
Where the lamps of starry light ?
Where the vases of bright flowers ?
Where the blushes yet more bright ? —
Gone, gone — they all are gone.
Where are those fair dreams that made
Life so beautiful at first ?
Where the many fantasies
That young Hope so fondly nurst ;
Love with motto like a knight,
Faithful even to the tomb ;
Fortune following the wish ;
Pleasure with a folded plume ? —
Gone, gone — they all are gone.
Oh ! mine own heart, where are they —
Visions of thine earlier hour,
When thy young hope's colours were
Like those on the morning flower.
Where's the trusting confidence
Of affection deep and true ?
And the spirits sunshine-like,
Which o'er all their gladness threw ? —
Gone, gone — they all are gone.
The Amulet, 1828
Or GONE in The Album Wreath, 1835
THE DISCONSOLATE
Down from her hand it fell, the scroll
She could no longer trace;
The grief of love is in her soul,
Its shame upon her face.
Her head has dropp’d against her arm,
The faintness of despair;
Her lip has lost its red rose charm,
For all but death is there.
And there it lies, the faith of years,
The register’d above,
Deepen’d by woman’s anxious tears,
Her first and childish love.
Are there no ties to keep the heart,
A vow’d and sacred thing?
Theirs had known all life’s better part,
The freshness of its spring.
It had begun in days of joy,
In childhood, and had been
When he was but a gallant boy,
And she a fairy queen.
Memory was as the same in both;
The love their young hearts dream’d,
Strong with their strength, grown with their growth,
A second nature seem’d.
How oft on that old castle wall
Appears their mingled name!
Their pictures hang within the hall—
They’ll never seem the same.
The shadows of the heart will throw
Their sadness over all;
And darker for their early glow
Those heavy shadows fall.
Little she dream’d of time to come,
While lingering at his side;
De Lisle would seek another home,
And win another bride.
Like a fair flower beneath the storm
Is bow’d that radiant brow;
But pride is in that fragile form,
It droops not aye as now.
That sea-nymph foot will join the dance,
That face grow bright again ;
And rose-red cheek and sunshine glance
Deny their hour of pain.
But deem not that she can forget,
Howe’er she scorn the past;
Love’s fate upon one die is set,
And that for her is cast.
’Tis not the lover that is lost,
The love, for which we grieve;
But for the price which they have cost,
The memory which they leave.
The knowledge of the bitter truth—
Contrast of word and deed—
That Hope, religion of our youth,
Can falsify her creed—
Trusting affection, confidence,
The holy, and the deep;
Feelings which rain’d sweet influence—
It is for these we weep.
Maiden, I pity thee, thy trust
Too short a life hath known;
Too soon thy temple is in dust,
Thy first fond faith o’erthrown.
The heart betray’d believes no more,
Distrust eats in the mind;
Never may after-time restore
The years it leaves behind.
The Forget Me Not, 1831
DO YOU REMEMBER IT?
I.
Do you remember that purple twilight's falling,
As if it were the atmosphere of some fairy land ?
One pale star to its lingering kindred calling,
Was alone in the sky of all night's spirit band.
To and fro, mournfully the oak boughs were swinging,
For a soft warm wind put the branches aside;
Afar a little river wound through the meadow, singing
To the tall grass and wild flowers hanging o'er its tide.
Down at our feet the blue violets were growing,
We saw not their blossoms, but we felt that they were fair,
For the fresh and fragrant rain of young April's bestowing,
Fell from their leaves as they opened to the air.
Deep fell the shadows round, each could see only
The dark outline softening of the other's face ;
Thick closed the trees above, earth held no such lonely,
Nor, as we then deem'd, so lovely a place.
Sweet was the silence, but sweeter was it broken
By words such as Love whispers once in his youth,
When leaf, star, and night, are each taken for a token,
And a witness, though we doubted not, of such stainless truth ;
Hope with its fever, and memory with its sorrow,
Came not o'er a moment, whose joy stood alone:
There are some days which never know a morrow,
And the day when Love first finds utterance is one —
Do you remember it?
II.
Still the blue violets by the oak are shaded,
Time in that quiet grove has left no trace ;
But as the colours of this picture are faded,
So are the colours the heart threw o'er the place.
Passion and picture were each a fair delusion,
Tears have washed the brightness of each away ;
Why should we wake from such beautiful illusion,
To know that life's happiness was lavish'd on a day?
And yet we are not false mid absence and mid strangers ;
Mid trial and mid time, how dearly we've loved on ;
Faithful through all that the faith of love endangers,
Though we feel that the dream of our earlier love is gone.
We have heard the heart's religion, its holy truth derided,
And the sneer, if not admitted has yet profaned;
By the world's many busy cares our thoughts have been divided,
And selfishness has harden'd whatever ground it gain'd.
When I think how that affection is bless'd beyond all measure,
The last best trace of heaven our earth retains,
I marvel how ambition, or vanity, or pleasure,
E'er have power to relax, or to break its gentle chains.
My spirit ponders mournfully, my eyes are dim with weeping,
Aside for a moment all life's worldliness is cast;
The flowers and the green leaves their summer watch are keeping,
And I dream beneath their shadow of the shadow of the past.
Do you remember it ?
The Keepsake, 1832
THE DUCHESS OF KENT
A WIDOW with an only child,
The mother of our queen;
A stranger in a foreign land,
Thy lot has various been.
How many claims attend with thee
Upon a nations sympathy!
How many anxious watching hours
Thy Mother's heart has known,
Before the blossom was a flower
The orphan on a throne!
Ah! may a glorious future wait !
On thee—thy child—and England's fate!
Schloss's Bijou Almanac, 1839
(From The New Yorker obituary)
AN EARLY PASSAGE IN SIR JOHN PERROT'S LIFE
There is a very curious and rare biography extant of this accomplished knight and courtier, and it was placed in my hands by Mr. Crofton Croker, who thought that I should find a variety of subjects for poetical illustration in Sir John Perrot's adventurous and romantic career. The present incident he especially marked as very characteristic of the picturesque tone of the age. To Mr. Croker I beg to inscribe the ballad, and trust the rest of its readers will partake in his sympathy for the memories of our ancestors.
The evening tide is on the turn; so calm the waters flow,
There seems to be one heav'n above, another heav'n below ;
The blue skies broken by white clouds, the river by white foam,
The stars reflect themselves, and seem to have another home.
A shade upon the elements, 'tis of a gallant bark,
Her stately sides fling on the wave an outline dim and dark ;
The difference this by things of earth, and things of heav'n made,
The things of heav'n are traced in light, and those of earth in shade.
Wrapt in his cloak a noble knight stept to and fro that deck,
Revolving all those gentler thoughts the busier day-hours check.
A thousand sad sweet influences in truth and beauty lie,
Within the quiet atmosphere of a lone starry sky.
A shower of glittering sparkles fell from off the dashing oar,
As a little boat shot rapidly from an old oak on shore :
His eye and pulse grew quick, the knight's, his heart kept no true time
In its unsteady beating, with the light oars' measured chime.
" Thou hast loiter'd— so, in sooth, should I— thine errand be thy plea;
And now what of my lady bright, what guerdon sent she me ?
Or sat she lonely in her bower, or lovely in the hall?
How look'd she when she took my gift? sir page, now tell me all." —
" I found her with a pallid cheek, and with a drooping head,
I left her, and the summer rose wears not a gladder red ;
And she murmur'd something like the tones a lute has in its chords,
So very sweet the whisper was, I have forgot the words."
" A health to thee, my lady love, a health in Spanish wine,
To-night I 'll pledge no other health, I 'll name no name but thine."
The young page hid his laugh, then dropp'd in reverence on his knee: —
" In sooth, good master, that I think to-night may scarcely be. "
" While kneeling at your lady's feet another dame past by,
The lion in her haughty step, the eagle in her eye.
‘And doth the good knight barter gems ? God's truth, we 'll do the same.'
A pleasant meaning lit the smile, that to her proud eyes came.
" She took the fairest of the gems upon her glittering hand,
With her own fingers fasten'd it upon a silken band,
And held it to the lamp, then said, ‘Like this stone's spotless flame,
So tell your master that I hold his high and knightly fame.’ “
Low on his bended knee, the knight received that precious stone,
And bold and proud the spirit now that in his dark eyes shone:
" Up from your sleep, my mariners, for ere the break of day,
And even now the stars are pale, I must be miles away." —
The spray fell from the oars in showers, as in some fairy hall
They say in melting diamonds the charmed fountains fall ;
And though as set the weary stars, the darker grew the night,
Yet far behind the vessel left a track of silver light.
They saw again that self-same shore which they that morn had pass'd,
On which they'd look'd as those who know such look may be the last :—
Then out he spoke, the helmsman old : " I marvel we should go
Just like a lady's messenger on the same path to and fro." —
" And 'tis to see a lady's face this homeward task we ply,
I wot the proudest of us all were proud to catch her eye.
A royal gift our queen hath sent, and it were sore disgrace
If that I first put on her gem and not before her face." —
On the terrace by the river side there stood a gallant band,
The very flower of knight and dame were there of English land.
The morning wind toss'd ostrich plume, and stirr'd the silken train,
The morning light from gold and gem was mirror'd back again.
There walk'd the queen Elizabeth, you knew her from the rest
More by the royal step and eye than by the royal vest;
There flash'd, though now the step was staid, the falcon eye was still,
The fiery blood of Lancaster, the haughty Tudor's will.
A lady by the balustrade, a little way apart,
Lean'd languidly indulging in that solitude of heart
Which is Love's empire, tenanted by visions of his own —
Such solitude is soon disturb'd, such visions soon are flown :
Love's pleasant time is with her now, for she hath hope and faith,
Which think not what the lover doth, but what the lover saith ;
Upon her hand there is a ring, within her heart a vow: —
No voice is whispering at her side— what doth she blush for now?
A noble galley valiantly comes on before the wind,
Her sails are dyed by the red sky she's leaving fast behind;
None other mark'd the ship that swept so eagerly along ;
The lady knew the flag, and when hath lover's eye been wrong?
The lonely lady watch'd, meantime went on the converse gay,
It was as if the spirits caught the freshness of the day :
" Good omen such a morn as this," her grace of England said:
" What progress down our noble Thames hath Sir John Perrot made?"
Then spoke Sir Walter Raleigh, with a soft and silv'ry smile,
And an earnest gaze that seem'd to catch the queen's least look the while:
" Methinks that every wind in heav'n will crowd his sails to fill,
For goeth he not forth to do his gracious sovereign's will?" —
With that the bark came bounding up, then staid her in her flight,
And right beneath the terrace she moor'd her in their sight.
" Now, by my troth," exclaim'd the queen, " it is our captain's bark :
What brings the loiterer back again?"— her eye and brow grew dark.
" Fair queen," replied a voice below, " I pay a vow of mine,
And never yet was voyage delay 'd by worship at a shrine." —
He took the jewel in his hand, and bent him on his knee,
Then flung the scarf around his neck where all the gem might see.
His white plumes swept the very deck, yet once he glanced above,
The courtesy was for the queen, the glance was for his love.
"Now, fare thee well," then said the queen, " for thou art a true knight ;" —
But even as she spoke the ship was flitting from the sight.
Wo to the Spaniards and their gold amid the Indian seas,
When roll'd the thunder of that deck upon the southern breeze ;
For bravely Sir John Perrot bore our flag across the main,
And England's bells for victory rang when he came home again.
The Keepsake, 1832
ELLEN - A Fragment
Is she not beautiful, although so pale ?
The first May flowers are not more colourless
Than her white cheek ; yet I recal the time
When she was called the rosebud of our village.
There was a blush, half modesty, half health,
Upon her cheek, fresh as the summer morn
With which she rose. A cloud of chesnut curls,
Like twilight, darkened o’er her blue-veined brow ;
And through their hazel curtains, eyes, whose light
Was like the violet’s, when April skies
Have given their own pure colour to the leaves,
Shone sweet and silent, as the twilight star.
And she was happy—innocence and hope
Make the young heart a paradise for love.
And she loved, and was loved. The youth was one
That dwelled on the waters. He had been
Where sweeps the blue Atlantic, a wide world —
Had seen the sun light up the flowers, like gems,
In the bright Indian isles—had breathed the air
When sweet with cinnamon, and gum, and spice.
But he said that no air brought health, or balm,
Like that on his own hills, when it had swept
O'er orchards in their bloom, or hedges, where
Blossomed the hawthorn and the honeysuckle ;
That, but one voyage more, and he would come
To his dear Ellen and her cottage home—
Dwell there in love and peace. And then he kissed
Her tears away, talked of the pleasant years
Which they should pass together—of the pride
He would take in his constancy. Oh, hope
Is very eloquent! and as the hours
Pass’d by their fireside in calm cheerfulness,
Ellen forgot to weep.
At length the time
Of parting came ; ’twas the first month of Spring .
Like a green fan spread the horse-chesnut’s leaves,
A shower of yellow bloom was on the elm,
The daisies shone like silver, and the boughs
Were covered with their blossoms, and the sky
Was like an augury of hope, so clear,
So beautifully blue. Love! oh young love!
Why hast thou not security ? Thou art
Like a bright river, on whose course the weeds
Are thick and heavy ; briers 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.
They parted one spring evening; the green sea
Had scarce a curl upon its wave; the ship
Rode like a queen of ocean. Ellen wept,
But not disconsolate, for she had hope.
She knew not then the bitterness of tears.
But night closed in; and with the night there came
Tempest upon the wind, the beacon light
Glared like a funeral pile; all else was black
And terrible as death. We heard a sound
Come from the ocean—one lone signal gun,
Asking for help in vain—followed by shrieks,
Mocked by the ravening gale; then deepest silence.
Some gallant souls had perished. With the first
Dim light of morn, they sought the beach ; and there
Lay fragments of a ship, and human shapes,
Ghastly and gashed. But the worst sight of all—
The sight of living misery, met their gaze.
Seated upon a rock, drenched by the rain,
Her hair torn by the wind, there Ellen sat,
Pale, motionless. How could love guide her there ?
A corpse lay by her; in her arms its head
Found a fond pillow, and o‘er it she watched,
As the young mother watches her first child.
It was her lover—
The Forget-Me-Not, 1824
THE EMIGRANTS
Oh Love ! oh Happiness ! is not your home
Far from the crowded street, the lighted hall ?
Are ye not dwellers in the vallies green,
In the white cottage ? is not your abode
Amid the fields, the rivers, and the hills;
By the sea-shore—where, with its thousand waves,
The ocean casts its treasures of pink shells,
And makes its melancholy music ?
They dwelt amid the woods, where they had built
Themselves a home ;—it was almost a hut,
And rudely framed of logs and piled-up wood ;
But it was covered with sweet creeping shrubs,
And had a porch of evergreens : it stood
Beneath the shelter of a maple tree,
Whose boughs spread over it, like a green tent.
'Twas beautiful, in summer, with gay flowers,
Green leaves, and fragrant grass strewn on the floor;
And, in the winter, cheerful with its hearth,
Where blazed the wood fire, and its tapestry
Of soft rich furs—each a memorial
Of some escape, some toil, some hunter's chance,—
And mixed with scarlet berries, and red plumes,
And glossy wings. There was one only thing
That spoke them strangers in the land, and told
The luxuries of other days : there hung
A Spanish maiden's ivory guitar,
With its rich fretting of gold ornament;
And that was often waked,—as memory lived
Chiefly on its dear chords ; and she would sing,
That dark-eyed lady, sometimes when alone,—
And then her songs were sad : but when the eve
Came in the beauty of a June twilight,
With all its sleeping flowers, its dews, its clouds,
Touched with the sunset's crimson lingering,—
Or, when it came with its gay lighted hearth,
Sweet with the burning of the cedar wood,
Her voice was cheerful, as the sunny song
The lark pours to the morning and his mate;
For then her hunter sought his lonely bride,
And, like a victor, brought his trophies home.
It was a little nook,—as nature made,
In some gay mood, a solitude for love,
And, at her bidding, love had sought the place,
And made it paradise. On the west side,
Like a dark mountain, stood the forest old,
Guarding it from the wind,—which howled at night,
As if that wood were its chief treasure cave.
And, opposite, there was a clear small lake,
From whence the morning, like a beauty, came
Fresh from her bath ;— the eye could span its breadth ;
And green savannahs, on the further bank,
Were lost in the blue sky. Just where the trees
Met the bright waters, was a lighter space;
And, like the pillars of a mighty temple,
The pine, the beech, the maple stretched away,
In long and stately avenues—their dome
The glorious heaven ! This was all nature's work,
And now was but as it had been for years.
But there were fragile flowers, and tender shrubs,
Whose feminine frail beauty asked for more
Than the rude nursing of the summer breeze.
There was the red rose, like an evening cloud;
The white rose, pale as pining for the song
Of her now absent love, the nightingale;
The orange tree—that miser of the spring,
Amassing gold and silver; jessamine,
Showering down pearl and amber ; myrtle plants ;
And, where the sun shone warmest, olives green :—
For Inez had collected all that, once,
Her early youth had loved in Arragon ;
And, with all woman's sweet solicitude,
She had brought those, too, of his native land,
Her lover's England ;—there, the violet shed
The treasures of its purple Araby;
The primrose, pale as the last star that fades
Before the day-break ; and the honeysuckle.
Hung as around an English cottage walls.
—No marvel woman should love flowers, they bear
So much of fanciful similitude
To her own history ; like herself, repaying,
With such sweet interest, all the cherishing
That calls their beauty or their sweetness forth ;
And, like her, too—dying beneath neglect.
’Twas like a fairy tale to pass the woods,
And enter the sweet solitude, and gaze
On the fair Spirit of its loveliness.
Delicate as a creature that but breathes
The perfumed air of palaces ; a foot
Light as but used to tread on silken down,
And echo music ; and a hand that looked
But made to wander o'er the golden harp;
Eyes blue as a June sky, when stars light up
Its deep clear midnight,—languishing, as love
Were all their language,—eyes whose glance would make,
At masque or ball, full many a sleepless night;
That dark black hair, which pearls so well become ;
And, added to young beauty's natural grace,
That courtly air which tells of gentle blood
And gentle nurture.—What can she do here?
She loves, she is beloved ; and love is all
That makes a woman's world—her element—
Her life—her Eden. Native of that land
Where the sun lights the heart—romantic Spain,
Her early youth past in a convent's cell;
Thence to her father's palace : but, or ere
Her heart beat answered to the passionate songs
That round her lattice floated, at twilight,
They came to England ; there the seal was set
Love never sets in vain,—and sets but once !
It was an English youth, with his fair brow,
And island colour. One eve, when the sound
Of music waked the spirit of delight,
From Inez' braided hair there fell a rose;
That night, that rose was treasured next a heart
Of which, henceforth, she was the destiny.
It needs not say how young affection sprung.
Gathered and grew in its sweet course ; they hung,
Together, o'er the poet's breathing page,
Till their own eyes reflected every thought;
And both loved music, and love never yet
Had an interpreter like song.
But as the rose.
Even in the crimson zenith of its noon,
Flings on the ground its shadow,—even so
There is a shade attendant upon love.
And Inez was betrothed, in her own land,
To one she could not love—one whose dark brow
Suited his darker spirit.—One June eve,
Together they had read a traveller's tale
Of far America's majestic beauty,
Of its savannahs and its stately woods.
They read till the pale radiance of the west
Lighted the page no more ; and, sighed the youth,
“ How happy we might be in these wild scenes,—
A hunter I, and thou my gentle bride!
Far from the heartlessness of crowded court,
Where finest feelings are but as flowers sown
Upon a rock ; where hope sinks as it soars,
Like a lark wounded in its morning flight.—
Our home should be amid the wilderness;
The leaves, flowers, clouds, echoes and singing birds
To us should be companions and dear friends ;
And we would pair together like two doves,—
Our nest of happiness a solitude !"—
—The dream grew a reality ;—they fled
O'er the Atlantic's mighty boundary,—
That stormy barrier of a parted earth ;—
And in the woods they made themselves a home,
Each one the other's world ! and, with them, dwelt
A circle of sweet feelings—peace, content,
And gentle hopes reposing on themselves,
Quiet but deep affection, and the health
That dwells but in the pure air of the fields.—
What though no train waited to catch the eye,
Ere the lip spoke its bidding ! though no halls
Were filled with crowds that waited on their state!
Yet had they more than all that fortune gives ;
For, there was nature's utmost luxury.
And theirs the happiness of heart and home
Lighted by love!
Friendship's Offering, 1826
THE EVENING PRAYER
Alone, alone! — no other face
Wears kindred smile, or kindred line ;
And yet they say my mother's eyes —
They say my father's brow is mine :
And either had rejoiced to see
The other's likeness in my face,
But now it is a stranger's eye
That finds some long-forgotten trace.
I heard them name my father's death,
His home and tomb alike the wave ;
And I was early taught to weep
Beside my youthful mother's grave.
I wish I could recall one look —
But only one familiar tone:
If I had aught of memory
I should not feel so all alone.
My heart is gone beyond the grave,
In search of love I cannot find,
Till I could fancy soothing words
Are whispered by the evening wind.
I gaze upon the watching stars,
So clear, so beautiful above,
Till I could dream they look on me
With something of an answering love.
My mother, does thy gentle eye
Look from those distant stars on me !
Or does the wind at evening bear
A message to thy child from thee ?
Dost thou pine for me, as I pine
Again a parent's love to share ?
I often kneel beside thy grave
And pray to be a sleeper there.
The vesper bell ! — 'tis eventide ;
I will not weep, but I will pray :
God of the fatherless, 'tis Thou
Alone canst be the orphan's stay !
Earth's meanest flower, Heaven's mightiest star,
Are equal in their Maker's love,
And I can say, Thy will be done,
With eyes that fix their hope above.
The Juvenile Forget-Me-Not, 1832
(Taken from a review in The Literary Gazette, 8th October 1831)
THE EVENING STAR
How beautiful the twilight sky,
Whose starry worlds now spread,
Amid the purple depths of eve,
Their glory o'er my head !
And there is one — a radiant one —
Amid the rest shines he,
As if just risen from his sleep,
Within the mighty sea.
The clouds fall off in glittering flakes
Before his shining brow ;
So moves a ship that flings the waves
In bright foam from its prow.
I marvel not in former days,
Ere purer light was given,
That men fell down and worshipped thee,
A spirit-king in heaven.
But now that knowledge great and high
Is kindled in man's soul,
We know thee but the glorious part
Of a more glorious whole.
Oh, mysteries of night ! that fill
The mind with awe and love !
How visibly the power of God
Is manifest above !
Oh ! might and majesty that reign
Upon the midnight sky ! —
Creed of my hope ! I feel thy truth
Whene'er I gaze on high.
The Amulet, 1833
THE EVENING STAR
I come from the caves of the silent sea,
Where the red and white coral wreathe bowers for me
I leave my blush on the shells beside,
When I rise from the depths of the haunted tide.
I come when the sun has forsaken the sky,
And the last warm colours of daylight die;
And the west is pale and pure as the pearl
That gems the white brow of some eastern girl.
The birds are hushed on the drooping bough,
Save the nightingale lone which is murmuring now ;
The bee has gone home to his honey cell,
And the lark has gone down in the grass to dwell.
I come when the dew is bright on the rose,
When the leaves of the languid violet close,
When notes of the lute are heard on the wind,
And their music for one, only one, is designed.
The hours of the day are of trouble and toil,
Then fight they the battle, then part they the spoil;
The hours of the midnight, O pale sleep, are thine,
But one hour, the fairest, the dearest is mine.
Mine is the hour, the stolen, the sweet,
When the young lover listens his maiden's light feet.
There are planets in heaven as bright and as far,
But which has the spell of the sweet evening star ?
The Amulet, 1836
FAIRIES
Race of the rainbow wing, the deep blue eye
Whose palace was the bosom of a flower;
Who rode upon the breathing of the rose ;
Drank from the harebell ; made the moon the queen
Of their gay revels ; and whose trumpets were
The pink- veined honeysuckle; and who rode
Upon the summer butterfly : who slept
Lulled in the sweetness of the violet's leaves, —
Where are ye now ? And ye of eastern tale,
With your bright palaces, your emerald halls ;
Gardens whose fountains were of liquid gold ;
Trees with their ruby fruit and silver leaves, —
Where are ye now ?
Literary Gems, 1833
Opening lines to Stanzas in The Literary Gazette, 1824
FAIRY LAND
It came, as Aladdin uprose at thy call,
The lattice of gems in that peerless hall.
A land where the sky was as April's sky,
When the blue streak spreads, and the clouds pass by.
And yet it was changeable, shine and showers
Alternately lighted and wept o'er the flowers.
There sprung together each blossom that grows,
For the snow-drop was sleeping under the rose ;
The ivy was wreathing around the vine,
And the violet lay on the golden pine ;
It often was lonely: — the lover's light lute
Breathed sweetly when birds and leaves were mute ;
And if a sigh stole on the air,
It turn'd to music in wandering there.
Sometimes, as glimmer the shadows o'er glass,
We saw thrice glorious visions pass:
Palaces, lighted for midnight and mirth ;
Cities, whose towers were the wonders of earth ;
Pageants, that sparkled with gems and with gold ;
Banners, that swept with each purple fold,
Heavy from broiderie ; plumes of snow,
With the meteor-like eye that flash'd dark below ;
And shining cuirass, and silver shield,
Told of warriors bound for some gallant field.
Then chang'd the scene to some festal room,
Where the steps were light, and the cheeks were bloom ;
And dancers link'd each ivory hand
In the maze of the graceful saraband ;
And the ruby wine cup fresh lustre shed,
As the lips that were quaffing it lent it their red.
Then it changed again to some orange grove,
Where a gentle cavalier whispered love ;
And words were murmured so low, so clear,
That the nightingale paused in his song to hear.
" Now tell me where is this lovely strand,
I deemed not our earth such fairy land :
Is it our own fair queen of the main,
Or Italy's gardens, or sunny Spain;
Or is it some isle the Atlantic hides,
Like a treasured gem, 'mid its azure tides ?"
" Now, out on thy guessing, canst thou not see ?
I speak of the fair world of poesie."
The Casket, 1829
FAREWELL
My little fairy chronicle,
The prettiest of my tasks, farewell!
Ere other eyes shall meet this line,
For other records will be mine;
How many miles of trackless sea.
Will roll between my land and me!
I said thine elfin almanac
Should call all pleasant hours back;
Amid those pleasant hours, will none
Think kindly on what I have done?
Then, fairy page, I leave with thee
Some memory of my songs and me.
Schloss's Bijou Almanack, 1839
Taken from the obituary in The New Yorker.
FEMALE FAITH
SHE loved you when the sunny light
Of bliss was on your brow ;
That bliss has sunk in sorrow's night,
And yet she loves you now.
She loved you when your joyous tone
Taught every heart to thrill ;
The sweetness of that tongue is gone,
And yet — she loves you still.
She loved you when you proudly stept
The gayest of the gay;
That pride the blight of time hath swept,
Unlike her love, away.
She loved you when your home and heart
Of fortune's smile could boast;
She saw that smile decay — depart —
And then she loved you most.
Oh, such the generous faith that glows
In woman's gentle breast ;
'Tis like that star that stays and glows
Alone in night's dark vest ;
That stays because each other ray
Has left the lonely shore,
And that the wanderer on his way
Then wants her light the more.
The Ladies' Wreath, 1837
This poem appeared earlier, for example in the New England Farmer, 18th February 1835.
Female Faith is another poem that was set to music. This is reported by Duke University Rubinstein Library but the composer seems to be unknown.
They also list:
'I do not ask to offer thee' by James E. Magruder (Love's Timidity)
and
'When should lovers breathe their vows' by C. Rubin
FENELLA’S ESCAPE
Within the stately palace,
Within the stately room,
They kept the silent maiden
As it had been her tomb.
The birds that sing of summer
Went through the sunny air;
She watched them in the sunshine,
And wished she, too, were there.
At length she fled — the evening
Was darkening in the sky ;
There was revel in the palace,
None marked the captive fly.
She fled, and found her brother
All lonely by their hearth:
He was thinking of his sister,
And of their former mirth.
She could not tell her story—
She had no words to tell;
But the shadow of her sorrow
Like night around her fell.
Her cheek and brow were altered
From their open look of yore,
Her eye was dim and downcast,
And her lip wore smiles no more.
He rose, and he avenged her,
That brother and there came
An after hour of triumph,
Achieved in freedom’s name:
The sunny town of Naples,
The far and shining sea,
Re-echoed to the thousands
Who shouted, " We are free!"
The tale of those bold fishermen
Is writ in blood and tears;
True freedom asks the labor
And care of many years.
But slavery's strong foundations
In such hours are o'erthrown:
In doubt, turmoil, and danger,
The glorious seed is sown.
The Keepsake, 1836
This poem relates to the story of Auber’s opera ‘La Muette de Portici’.
THE FESTA OF MADONNA DEI FIORI
They gathered in that holy place,
A young and lovely band,
With banners wrought with sacred signs,
And flowers in each hand.
It was a summer festival
Worthy a summer sky,
That brought the fragrant and the fair
Upon that shrine to die.
Many a little foot had been
Amid the early dew,
While fresh the odour to each leaf,
Fresh colour to each hue.
And many a little brow had watched
For weeks some favourite flower,
Proud and impatient of its growth
For this auspicious hour.
And many a little heart had linked
Its deepest, dearest prayer,
And the fulfilment of its hope
With the sweet offerings there.
One bore a banner, where was wrought
The Virgin and her Son—
Her younger sister and herself
The broidery begun.
But she who held the banner now
Went on her way alone ;
No sister shared the sacred task:—
Her sister's task was done!
As yet the grass was scarcely grown
Upon that bright young head ;
As yet the tears were warm that fell
Above the early dead.
Poor child ! how pale and sorrowful
She takes her silent way !
A prayer for the departed one
Is on her lips to-day.
But foremost come two fairy ones
With dark eyes filled with light,
The very roses that they bear
Can scarcely be more bright.
The youngest bears a single plant,
One that herself has nursed ;
A far exotic from the South,
The fairest and the first.
And they have tender hopes and fears
To claim the votive vow;
And parents, for whose precious sake
Their prayers are ready now.
Blest be their lovely pilgrimage,
Although they seek a shrine
Hallowed by a believing faith
Not unto us divine !
No banners in our humbler church
Are waved, no flowers are strown;
The sacrifice we offer up
Must in the heart be shown.
And that is much if truly given :
Our vanity and pride,
Our empty hopes, our fair deceits,
Must there be all denied.
Those children, with an earnest faith
Are offering early flowers ;
Methinks their simple truth and love
Might teach and strengthen ours.
The Bouquet, 1830
Also included later in The Amulet, 1835
THE FESTIVAL
It is a festal meeting,
For flask and fruit are there ;
The wind, in its retreating,
Brings music through the air.
It is an hour for gladness,
So golden is the day,
If there are signs of sadness.
Their gloom is done away.
Tho' the past has many a token
That destruction has been here ;
Tho' the column lieth broken,
And the ruined shrine be near ;
The acanthus twines above them,
The wild flowers know their place ;
And we only feel we love them
For their beauty and their grace.
We think not of their splendour, -
They are lovelier in decline ;
And a dream, the fair and tender,
Floats o'er the fallen shrine.
If haunted by the beauty
Of Oreades long past by,
We turn with sweeter duty
To the soft eyes shining nigh.
Now God be praised that flowers
In the summer days have birth ;
And for the lovely hours
He sendeth to the earth.
That ilex, whose dark sweeping
Flings down so sweet a shade,
Seems as if for its sole keeping
A fairy world were made.
Amid the wild flowers lying
There is a graceful band ;
The green leaves round them sighing,
And the lute is in their hand.
They are singing sweetest singing,
It riseth on the air ;
Its way to heaven winging
As if its home were there.
Such hours are more than pleasure ;
When the song itself is o'er,
It lingers like a treasure
In the heart it cheered before ;
And still its memory cheereth,
And keepeth its sweet hold,
When the weary world appeareth
Too absolute and cold.
Two apart are standing lonely,
Watching each other's eyes,
As if the world held only
The space that in them lies.
You can see her graceful stooping,
As if she feared to speak ;
You can see the long lash drooping
Upon her rose-red cheek.
The heaven now shining over,
Has entered in each heart :
That maiden and her lover !
How little earth has part
In the young and earnest feeling
Which, like a star, hath shone,
'Mid the spirit's depths revealing
A world as yet unknown.
This hour will pass — all passes,
On this life's fleeting scene ;
But still the future glasses
All that the past has been.
This hour will pass, not perish,
From the heart which now it stirs ;
For memory will cherish
The sweetest which was hers.
When silence has been broken
By a joy hope could not reach,
And words of love have spoken
Their first and softest speech.
Forgotten ! — never — never —
They will soothe all after pain,
And life's loveliest things will ever
Bring back that hour again.
Friendship's Offering, 1836
THE FIRST BALL
Ay, wreath the tresses o'er thy brow,
The pearls amid thine hair,
And gaze until that young cheek grow
A thousand times more fair.
With sunny smiles and blushes bright,
The Parthian arrows which to-night
Must the young beauty wear ;
Clasp the last ruby of her zone,
And now go forth, thou lovely one !
And, glad as fair, it is thy first,
Ah ! that the charm hath made.
Thou hast not seen the bubble burst,
Nor watch'd the flower fade ;
And little dream'st an hour will be,
When festal scene shall seem to thee
A silence and a shade.
Thou know'st not pleasure has the wing,
As well as song, of bird in spring,
Oh, spring is beautiful as brief!
The check forgets its rose,
The colour withers from the leaf,
And, worse still, I know those
Who wear their outward breath and bloom,
Like blossoms placed upon the tomb,
To hide the darkest woes.
For, soon as these fair hues depart,
They fade yet faster from the heart.
But thou, as yet, canst only see
The festal hall, where Night
Reigns, throned like a divinity,
With incense and with light.
Like music and like echo meet
The harp-notes and the silvery feet,
And thousand flowers unite
In gathered beauty to declare
Their soul's sweet secrets to the air.
What dost thou dream of, lovely one ?
Of pleasure ? — Look around,
Behind the veil and mask, for none
UnveiI'd, unmask'd are found.
Mark yon fair girl : the tears have rush'd
To her blue eyes, the cheek has blush'd,
As with a crimson wound ;
And why ? your head is bound with pearls,
While hers hath but its own bright curls !
Or, pass you such poor triumph by ;
The pride is on your brow,
And laughing lip and flashing eye
Another hope avow.
What dost thou dream of, lovely one ?
Of hearts that but a look hath won ?—
Looks shaft-like from a bow,
That slay by chance ?— Now, out on thee !
To think of such cold vanity.
Or do you dream a dearer dream,
And can such dream be love ?
No star hath such a fatal beam
In yon wide heaven above.
Go, waste your first, your sweetest years ;
Go, wash away your rose with tears ;
Go, like a wounded dove ;
The poison'd arrow in your side
You cannot bear, you yet must hide !
Mark her who by yon column lone
Leans with dark absent eye;
A blush upon her cheek is thrown,
'Tis from the red wreath nigh ; —
She's musing over some sweet word,
Long whispered but still freshly heard,
Some honey flattery ;
Careless, perchance, and lightly spoken,
But which the heart too oft hath broken,
Why should I speak these words of doom
To one of fairy glee ?
Alas ! who ever look'd on bloom,
Nor thought how it would be ?
Soon, nothing but a thing to keep,
For weary memory to weep,
And thus it is with thee ;
For all thy beauty and thy breath
Are nurst by care, to end in death !”
The Literary Gazette, 10th November 1827
From a review of Friendship’s Offering, 1828
THE FORGOTTEN ONE
I HAVE no early flowers to fling
O’er thy yet earlier grave;
O’er it the morning lark may sing,
By it the bright rose wave;
The very night dew disappears
Too soon, as if it spared its tears.
Thou art forgotten !—thou, whose feet
Were listen"d for like song!
They used to call thy voice so sweet ;—
It did not haunt them long.
Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth—
How could they bear their lonely hearth !
There is no picture to recall
Thy glad and open brow;
No profiled outline on the wall
Seems like thy shadow now;
They have not even kept to wear
One ringlet of thy golden hair.
When here we shelter’d last appears
But just like yesterday;
It startles me to think that years
Since then are past away.
The old oak tree that was our tent,
No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent.
A shower in June—a summer shower,
Drove us beneath the shade;
A beautiful and greenwood bower—
The spreading branches made.
The raindrops shine upon the bough,
The passing rain—but where art thou?
But I forget how many showers
Have wash’d this old oak tree,
The winter and the summer hours,
Since I stood here with thee.
And I forget how chance a thought
Thy memory to my heart has brought.
I talk of friends who once have wept,
As if they still should weep ;
I speak of grief that long has slept,
As if it could not sleep ;
I mourn o’er cold forgetfulness,
Have I, myself, forgotten less?
I’ve mingled with the young and fair,
Nor thought how there was laid
One fair and young as any there,
In silence and in shade.
How could I see a sweet mouth shine
With smiles, and not remember thine?
Ah! it is well we can forget,
Or who could linger on
Beneath a sky whose stars are set,
On earth whose flowers are gone?
For who could welcome loved ones near,
Thinking of those once far more dear,
Our early friends, those of our youth?
We cannot feel again
The earnest love, the simple truth,
Which made us such friends then.
We grow suspicious, careless, cold ;
We love not as we loved of old.
No more a sweet necessity,
Love must and will expand,
Loved and beloving we must be,
With open heart and hand,
Which only ask to trust and share
The deep affections which they bear.
Our love was of that early time;
And now that it is past
It breathes as of a purer clime
Than where my lot is cast.
My eyes fill with their sweetest tears
In thinking of those early years.
It shock’d me first to see the sun
Shine gladly o’er thy tomb;
To see the wild flowers o’er it run
In such luxuriant bloom.
Now I feel glad that they should keep
A bright sweet watch above thy sleep.
The heaven whence thy nature came
Only recall’d its own;
It is Hope that now breathes thy name,
Though borrowing Memory’s tone.
I feel this earth could never be
The native home of one like thee.
Farewell! the early dews that fall
Upon thy grass-grown bed
Are like the thoughts that now recall
Thine image from the dead.
A blessing hallows thy dark cell—
I will not stay to weep. Farewell!
The Keepsake, 1831
THE FORSAKEN
I dreamed a dream, that I had flung a chain
Of roses around Love, — I woke, and found
I had chained Sorrow.
L. E. L.
I have caught the last wave of his snow-white plume, —
How fast to-night closes the evening gloom ;
I have heard the last sound of his horse's feet, —
Oh, wind ! once more the echoes repeat.
I should not weep thus if thou wert gone
Away to the battle as oft thou hast done ;
Or, if I wept, my tears would be
But voiceless orisons for thee.
Thou wert wont to part my scarf on thine arm,
My last kiss laid on thy lips like a charm ;
I could pray, and believe that thy maiden's prayer
Would be with thee in battle, and guard thee there.
But now thou art gone to the festival,
To the crowded city, the lighted hall,
In the courtly beauty's shining bower,
Little thou'lt think of thine own wild flower.
Thou wilt join in the midnight saraband,
With thy graceful smile, and thy whisper bland ;
And to many another thou wilt be
All thou once wert to only me.
I might have known what would be my share —
Silent suffering, and secret care ;
I might have known my woman's part —
A faded cheek, and a rifled heart.
Often I 'd read in the minstrel-tale,
How bright eyes grow dim, and red lips pale ;
Of the tears that wail the fond maiden's lot,
But I loved thee, and all but my love forgot.
And must this be, oh, heart of mine !
Why art thou not too proud to pine ?
Again I will wreathe my raven hair,
With the red-rose flowers it was wont to wear ;
Again I will enter my father's hall ;
Again be the gayest and gladdest of all ;
Like the falcon that soars at her highest bound,
Though her bosom bear in it its red death-wound!
But what boots it to teach my heart a task
So vain as weeping behind a mask,
Broken, with only ruins to hide,
Little it recks of the show of pride.
Will a smile bring back to my lip its red,
Or the azure light from my blue eye fled ?
Efface from the faded brow and cheek
The tale that tells my heart must break ?
No ! I will away to my solitude,
And hang my head in my darkened mood ;
Passing away, with a silent sigh,
Unknown, unwept, and thus will I die !
Farewell, farewell ! I have but one prayer —
That no thought may haunt thee of my despair ;
Be my memory to thee a pleasant thing,
An odour that came and past with thy spring.
Forget me, — I would not have thee know
Of the youth and bloom thy falseness laid low ;
That the green grass grows, the cypresses wave,
And the death-stone lies on thy once love’s grave !
The Literary Souvenir, 1826
THE FOUNTAIN: A BALLAD
WHY startest thou back from that fount of sweet water ?
The roses are drooping while waiting for thee ;
" Ladye, 'tis dark with the red hue of slaughter,
There is blood on that fountain — oh ! whose may it be ?"
Uprose the ladye at once from her dreaming,
Dreams born of sighs from the violets round,
The jasmine bough caught in her bright tresses, seeming
In pity to keep the fair prisoner it bound ;
Tear-like the white leaves fell round her, as, breaking
The branch in her haste, to the fountain she flew,
The wave and the flowers o'er its mirror were reeking,
Pale as the marble around it she grew.
She followed its track to the grove of the willow,
To the bower of the twilight it led her at last,
There lay the bosom so often her pillow,
But the dagger was in it, its beating was past.
Round the neck of the youth a light chain was entwining,
The dagger had cleft it, she join 'd it again,
One dark curl of his, one of hers like gold shining,
" They hoped this would part us, they hoped it in vain.
Race of dark hatred, the stern unforgiving,
Whose hearts are as cold as the steel which they wear.
By the blood of the dead, the despair of the living,
Oh, house of my kinsman, my curse be your share !"
She bowed her fair face on the sleeper before her,
Night came and shed its cold tears on her brow ;
Crimson the blush of the morning past o'er her,
But the cheek of the maiden returned not its glow.
Pale on the earth are the wild flowers weeping,
The cypress their column, the night-wind their hymn,
These mark the grave where those lovers are sleeping
Lovely — the lovely are mourning for them.
The Casket, 1829
Taken from 'The Museum of Foreign Literature and Science'.
THE GENTLE STUDENT (or THE STUDENT)
BEND, gentle student, o'er the page,
Although thine be a joyous age —
An age, when hope lifts up its eyes,
And sees but summer in the skies ;
And youth leads on its sunny hours,
Like painted ones, whose links are flowers.
Yet bend thy sweet and earnest look
Above that old and holy book.
For there will come another time,
When hope will need a faith sublime,
To lead it on the thorny path
That weary mortal ever hath.
When vain delights have left behind
A fevered and exhausted mind,
And life, with few and wasted years,
Treads mournfully its vale of tears.
Bend o'er the leaf thy graceful brow,
For every word thou readest now
Will sink within thine inmost heart,
Like good seed, never to depart :
A glorious and a great reward,
A sacred and eternal guard,
A sun amid our earthly gloom,
That sets to rise beyond the tomb !
The Amulet, 1833
GERALDINE
Lonely and deep as the fountain when springing
From its earliest birthplace beneath the dark pines,
When first mid the wild flowers around it goes singing,
When first on its waters the red morning shines:
So lonely, so deep, is the love which is cherish'd,
Silent and sacred, Earl Surrey, for thee ;
All lighter and meaner affections have perish'd—
Life now has only but one love for me.
I share with thee every thought that delights me—
I read, it is only to tell thee again :
I have not a feeling on earth but unites me
To thee, be it intellect, pleasure, or pain.
I lean o'er the rose when the night-dews are weeping,
And deem its leaves written with sweet words of thine;
I see thy bold falcon through mid-heaven sweeping,
And wish it could bear thee a message of mine.
And yet I am mournful—I think of our morrow,
And my heart fills with nameless and shadowy fears:
The heart has its omens, and mine are of sorrow—
I know that our future has anguish and tears.
I see the clouds pass o'er the stars, and my spirit
Grows dark as the terrors which round it are thrown :
Ah, Surrey ! whatever my lot may inherit,
I care not, so suffering but reach me alone.
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1833
THE GIPSY
I.
I live by the side of the greenwood tree,
The elm and the ash are companions to me ;
Through the shadowy lanes with the summer I roam,
And the hedge with the hawthorn in bloom is my home !
II.
I know where the primrose first welcomes the south,
Like a love-kiss — the last from a pale and sweet mouth,
Which dies in its sorrow, and dying reveals,
Too late and too vainly, the love which it feels !
III.
The earliest violets breathe, through the grass,
A message that woos me to stay as I pass ;
For I am the first, in the spring, to discover
Their blue eyes, that laugh as they welcomed a lover.
IV.
The morning is glad and the morning is fair,
Song, sunshine, and fragrance awake in the air ;
I feel like a flower that rejoices in light —
Yet dearer to me is the presence of night.
V.
For then I am conscious of knowledge and power, —
I see the clear planets, each bright in its hour, —
I look in the depth of their light for a sign, —
I ask of the future, and know it for mine.
VI.
I trace on the cards what the stars of night tell ;
The past is before me — the heart is my spell :
To me, the sweet hope — the fond secret — is known,
The feelings of others are read by my own.
VII.
Nay, fear not, fair lady ! your life's coming hours,
They are clear as the stars, and as fair as the flowers ;
There is one for whose sake to the greenwood you came ;—
Oh ! lady — you blush ! — shall I whisper his name ?
The Literary Souvenir, 1837
GIULIETTA GRISI
I heard her, and the air was filled
With one delicious song ;
Such as when leaves and flowers are hushed
The night hours bear along ;
When staging to the sweet south west,
The nightingale broods o'er her nest.
I saw her, and the large dark eyes.
Were lit with heart and thought ;
A thousand fairy fantasies,
By that sweet face were brought.
Lady art thou what thou dost seem,
Or art thou but a lovely dream ?
Schloss's Bijou Alamanac, 1838
GOOD ANGELS
THE ANGEL OF EARTH
Triumph, for my task is done —
Triumph, for my prize is won.
Angel ! who dost keep the gate
Where the rescued souls await
For the speaking of that word
Which doth sheath the fiery sword,
And reveals to human eyes
Hope's long promised paradise,
Bend thine head, and stretch thine hand:
Place ! in thy immortal band,
For the child I bear above,
In the strength of faith and love.
Vanquish'd at my feet, behold
He the serpent king of old.
Round us is the burning coil —
Who may 'scape from such a toil ?
Flashes yet his fiery eye —
Who may its fierce light defy ?
Who might aid? for vain were here
Human sword, or human spear.
Death is on each forked tongue,
Lightning round each neck is hung:
But I triumph'd, for I came
In the Saviour's blessed name.
Victory o'er the soil and snare,
O'er earth's crime, and o'er earth's care;
Over hopes which lead astray,
Wishes yet more wild than they ;
Over each delusive sin
Which the heart takes pleasure in.
Red ambition, which doth ask
Kingdoms for its glorious task ;
Avarice, which hath cast its lot
'Mid the gold it uses not;
Pleasures, which like opiates steep
Higher aims in idle sleep ;
Vain affections which control
All too much the heaven-bound soul :
These are vanquish'd 'neath my tread.
See the serpent's bruised head : —
Angel ! take the child I bring.
Oh, death ! where is now thy sting ?
THE GRANDMOTHER
What care they that the winter-wind
Is driving over the heath,
With a sky of murky clouds above,
And the drifted snow beneath ?
The day and its labour alike are done,
And the fire is burning bright ;
And that old dame hath tale and song
Wherewith to while the night.
They are happy beside that lowly hearth ;
For by her love to that child,
That aged woman, 'mid care and grief,
To existence is reconciled.
His father lived as a sailor lives,
To and fro on the stormy wave ;
But the wind arose one fearful night,
And the sea was the tall ship's grave.
Tidings came of the vessel's loss,
And his young wife pined away ; —
She had known but a flower's fragile life,
And she had a flower's decay.
But their mother thinks not now of the dead,
Nor of her long despair ;
For her heart is full of the joy of life,
And the boy who is seated there.
His brow is glad, and his eyes are clear,
And she sees in him revived
The buoyant mirth of those early years
Which she has herself survived.
He is as her youth returned again —
A hope bequeathed by the past ;
And affection but rivets a tenderer bond,
Because that bond is its last.
The Juvenile Forget-Me-Not, 1833
THE GRECIAN GARDEN
I.
'Tis lonely as my own sad heart,
’Tis silent as my own still lute,
Fair garden — lovely as thou art,
Thy walks are lorn, thy songs are mute.
The sun-set's melancholy beam
Falls o'er thy vases' sculptured snow,
These urns for roses made, now seem
As if the dead were laid below.
II.
The statues wear a sterner brow
Than they were wont to wear of old ;
The blossoms, drooping from the bough,
Leave half sweet summer's tale untold.
Droop, droop, pale flowers, for ye are mine ;
Your early doom my own will be ;
Give me some sympathising sign
That nature sorroweth with me.
III.
Ah! folly - yonder solemn sky
Is not for pity, but for prayer ;
And Nature's universal eye
Weeps not, though one wrung heart despair.
Oh wind ! that with a noiseless wing
Art wandering 'mid the olive grove,
In vain I ask of thee to bring
Some solace for my grief and love.
IV.
Let echo, by thy voice, reveal
All I would ask the wind to tell ;
Echo might surely pity feel,
For sorrow she hath known so well.
Ah ! bring me one beloved face,
Ah ! breathe me one beloved name :
I wish I could one moment trace
His path of fortune, and of fame.
V.
Yet wherefore should I seek to know
The path that I may never share ;
Oh ! flower, that for the sun dost blow,
Say thou how dear is such fond care.
Life cannot fling again the gleam
First flung on morning's glancing tide ;
I 'd rather keep its sweet sad dream
Than win a waking world beside.
VI.
How often in his purple wine
He's bathed the red rose from my hair,
And said, " The cup is pale, love mine !
Unless what breathes of thee be there."
When others in his halls rejoice,
And wake the lute, and lead the choir
Ah ! does he miss Ione's voice,
And does he miss Ione's lyre ?
VII.
I will not call him false, but changed ;
Some change the wanderer may restore ;
Alas ! the heart, when once estranged,
Returns to its first faith no more.
I only ask to weep apart, —
Reproach I scorn, — regret is vain ;
Yet, idol of my dreaming heart,
You 'll never be so loved again.
The Literary Souvenir, 1835
GULNARE
Oh, never more the flowers will stoop
Beneath her fairy feet;
The myrtle with its bloom may droop,
But not above her seat;
And no more will that fountain glass
The image of Gulnare—
How softly would that shadow pass
When noon was shining there !
How well the echoes used to know
The music of her lute !
The wind amid the leaves may blow,
But those sweet tones are mute.
The place is now an alter'd place,
And not what it has been ;—
It was the beauty of her face
Gave beauty to the scene.
Why did her eye in pity dwell
Upon that English knight,
The prisoner of the buried cell
Where day forgot its light ?
It is a weary thing to lie
With weak and fetter'd hand,
While youth's brave time is passing by,
And rust creeps o'er the brand.
'Twas in the still night's silent hours,
The captive dreaming lay
Of his own old ancestral towers,
His mother far away.
He heard a step—a low, hush'd breath—
A sweet brow o'er him shone,
As even by the bed of death
Might shine an angel one.
She bound his wounds, she gave him food,
With odours and red wine;
And from a dreary solitude
That cell became a shrine.
She came there once—she came there twice—
The third time he was free:
She listen'd not her heart's advice,
Though weak that heart might be:
But to the lover's gentle prayer
Her pale lip still replied,
" I may not, for a stranger's care,
Forsake my father's side."
Her hair hung down below her knee,
Though loop'd with orient pearl;
He pray'd her of her courtesy
To give him one dark curl.
" Mid friend and foe, mid weal and wo,
This soft braid I'll retain ;
And lady's favour, for thy sake,
I'll never wear again."
She would not let him see her tears—
A time would come to weep:
Alas for young and wasted years
That one remembrance keep !
Ah ! soon grief wears away the rose
From any youthful cheek,
And soon the weary eyes will close
Which hope not what they seek:
When dreams bring that loved face by night
We never see by day,
Then the heart sickens at the light,
And the look turns away.
There are some roses droop and die,
While others bloom so fair—
Gone with their first and sweetest sigh :
So was it with Gulnare.
Alas ! the Earth hides many flowers
Within her silent breast;
But could she not have spared us ours—
Our dearest and our best ?
Within the City of the Dead
The maiden hath her home ;
There are the dews of evening shed,
And there the night-winds come.
Oh, Cypress ! whose dark column waves,
Nursed by the mourner's tear,
Thy shadow falls on many graves,
But not on one so dear!
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1833
HEMANS
Where the purple violet groweth
Beneath the willow-tree,
Where the early snowdrop bloweth,
Seek we a wreath for thee.
For the violet's breath perfumeth
The open air around,
And the gentle snowdrop bloometh
When none beside are found.
We will gather these, these only.
To strew thy grave along;
They are lovely, they are lonely,
And they haunt us like thy song.
The English Bijou Almanack, 1836
HENRI IV. TO THE FAIR GABRIELLE
I.
Nay, fling back that veil, —'t is a shame to the sky
The sight of such beauty as thine to deny !
Nay, fling back that veil, —were it but to disclose
A cheek that is reddening to rival the rose.
II.
And yet thou art fair, my beloved one, how fair !
And thy young cheek is pale, save when blushes are there.
Sweet messengers springing, the rosy and fleet,
Thy heart's timid truths to surprise and repeat.
III.
Come, give me the cup ; but how pale is the wine !
It is mocked by the light in those blue eyes of thine !
Those eyes that the midnight and morning unite,
Like the moonshine so soft, like the sunshine so bright.
IV.
They say that the stars, which are shining above,
Can tell of man's glory, can tell of man's love ;
But I ask not the love that is writ in the skies,
So long as I read of thy heart in thine eyes.
V.
Ah ! give me one moment that little white hand ;
Its least wave commandeth where'er I command ;
Oh ! fair are the lilies of Bourbon's proud line —
But they are not so fair as this white hand of thine.
VI.
The trumpet soon summons the soldier from rest,
He has brief while to gaze on the face he loves best ;
My foot in the stirrup, my hand on my sword,
I must live on a look, I must woo with a word.
VII.
My idol, farewell ! — But ah ! give me to wear
One curl from thy ringlets of long golden hair ;
It will cheer me when lonely, will lead me in war,
And in death will be found next the heart of Navarre.
The Literary Souvenir, 1835
HINDOO GIRL, BY AN URN
FROM A GROUP, BY WESTMACOTT
She leant beneath an alma tree, which flung
A shower of leaves and blossoms o'er her head,—
But faded all of them : this made the place
A fitting temple for her ; like her joys.
The fresh sweet flowers grew far above her reach ;
But, like her griefs, the withered ones were strewed
Beneath her feet, and mingled with her hair.
Her long black hair, which swept round like a cloud,
And had no other wreath than those sad leaves.
Her brow was bowed upon a marble urn.
Pale as its cold, white pillow ; on her cheek
Lingered the grace which beauty ever leaves.
Although herself be gone ; her large dark eye
Was as a picture's, fixed and motionless,
With only one expression.—There are griefs
That hunt, like, hounds, our happiness away ;
And cares that, ivy-like, fix on our hopes.
But these are nothing—though they waste the heart—
To when one single sorrow, like the rod,
The serpent rod, has swallowed up the rest.
Her history was on every lip ; they told.
At first, a common tale ;—she loved, was loved,
And love was destiny and happiness.
But red war was abroad ; and there are charms
In the bright sabre, flashing to the sun,
The banner, crimson as the morning sky
It seems to meet, the thunder of the drum,
The clashing atabal, the haughty steed
Impatient for the battle, and the ranks,
Glittering and glorious in their armed array :
Aye, these have charms—but not for woman's dreams.
The youth went to the warfare, where he fell,
Unknown, unnamed, unmissed;—it is the fate
Of thousands, swept away like autumn leaves,
Young, brave, with heart and hand, and all that makes
The hero,—but in vain. And where is she.
His lovely, lonely one ? Not in her bower,
Not in her father's hall ; no more they see
Her white veil floating on the evening air,
The moon-light shining on the mystic bark
She watched so anxiously. Again she came;
But not the same, as when, with summer flowers
And scented lamp, she sought the river side ;
But pale and silent, like a shadowy thing
That has looked on the other world, and known
The secrets of the grave, but forced, awhile,
To linger on the earth it loathes. She held
Within her arms an urn ; beneath the shade
Of the tree which had been the favourite haunt
Of her young lover, at the twilight hour—
For then they met—she placed her treasure down.
It was a tale of wonder, and soon spread.
She had been to the distant battle field,
And wandered 'mid the dying and the dead,
Gazing on many a ghastly face ; at last,
She found her lover, and this was his urn.—
And leaning on that urn is her employ :
And still, at the lone hour, when the first star
Rises o'er the blue Ganges, will she sing
A low and plaining melancholy song.
At other times, she leans beside the urn,
As she were but a statue placed by grief
In memory of love !
Friendship's Offering, 1826
HOME
Aye, here, dear love, is just a home,
Like what our home should be ;
A home of peace — a home of love —
As made for thee and me.
A cottage with its roof of thatch,
Its porch of the red rose,
Its white walls hidden by the wreath
The bridal jasmine throws.
The rooms are dark, for the green vines
Have twin'd each lattice round ;
Where, veil'd by leaves, the wild wind harp
Breathes forth its lonely sound.
And round are many landscapes hung,
Each of some foreign shore,
Of rock, and storm, to make us prize
Our own calm home the more.
A green turf lies before the door,
A fairy carpet spread
With silver daisies — pearls of dew,
Meet for the Elf-queen's tread.
About are beds of many flowers,
Sweet shrubs, and blossom'd trees ;
Beside that elm the dove-cote's plac'd,
Beneath that ash, the bees.
And there the little green-house stands,
A refuge for the spring ;
Where, even in the winter time,
The rose is flourishing.
There is a murmur on the wind,
Of the far billow's sweep :
Come on this mount of scented plants,
And you can see the deep.
Look to the east, where the grey wave
Is blent with the grey sky,
To where the setting sun has left
It's purple pageantry.
How pleasant, in another hour,
Our wand'ring there will be !
When the dim ships, like shadows, ride
Over the star-lit sea.
When sailing in the deep blue heav'n,
The moon, like a young bride,
Comes timid, as she fear'd to claim
Her empire o'er the tide.
Then, to return from the white cliffs,
Where winds and waters beat,
How shall we love the leaves and flow'rs
Of our own calm retreat !
We should be happy ; — yet let all
Sweet dreams, like these, depart :
It matters not whate'er his lot, —
Love's home is in the heart.
Friendship's Offering, 1825
Taken From The Pocket Magazine, 1830
THE HYACINTH
WHERE is the bee its sweetest music bringing, —
The music living in its busy wings,
Like the small fountain's low perpetual singing,
Counting the quiet hours that noontide brings?
It is the Hyacinth, whose sweet bells stooping,
Bend with the odours heavy in their cells;
Amid the shadows of their fragrant drooping,
Memory, that is itself a shadow, dwells.
Ah! do not wreathe it mid the golden tresses
That mock the sunshine on that childish head;
Bind there the meadow flowers the wind caresses;
Around a thousand careless blossoms shed.
But not the Hyacinth, whose purple sadness
To an old world long since gone by appeals:
What hath the child's one hour of eager gladness
To do with all that haunted flower reveals?
Life gave its first deep colour to that blossom;
Life, in an evil hour untimely shed;
Down to the earth inclines its fragrant bosom,
As heavy with the memory of the dead.
Deep in the twilight depths of those dark flowers,
Are mystic characters amid them furled:
Are they the language of ancestral hours, —
The records of a younger, lovelier world?
What is the secret written in their numbers,
Strange as the figures on Egyptian shrines?
What marvel of the ancient earth now slumbers
In the obscurity of those dim lines?
Little we know the secrets that surround us,
And much has vanished from our later day ;
Mature with many a mystery has bound us,
And much of our old love has pass'd away.
No ancient voices, in the dim woods crying,
Reveal the hidden world ; no prophet's eye
Asks the foreseeing stars for their replying,
And reads the future in the midnight sky.
Many the lovely, things that now are banished
From our harsh path — the actual and the cold ;
The angel and the spirit, each are vanished !
Where are the beautiful that were of old ?
Vain, though so lovely, was this old believing ;
But not thus vain the faith that gave it birth ;
It was the beauty of the far off — leaving
The presence of the spiritual on earth.
Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
THE INCONSTANT
AND deem'st thou that my heart could be
A trifle and a toy for thee ;
A trophy, to be wooed and won ;
Taken but to be trampled on !
And deem'st thou that my heart would spring,
A young bird on its summer wing,
To be one moment caged in thine,
Then left, poor prisoner, to pine.
You knew me not if you could deem
I should weep o'er a vanished dream ;
The willow was not made for me,
My wreath is of the aspen tree.
There is in southern lands a breeze
Which sweeps with changeless course the seas
Fixed to one point, oh, faithful gale,
Thou art not for my wandering sail !
I will not own a brighter eye
Than mine has caught your truant sigh,—
I will not own a fairer brow
Than mine has made you captive now.
I deem my eye is still as bright
As when it fixed your charmed sight ;
I deem my brow is still as fair
As when you gazed and worshipped there.
But well I know that they have been
Once, twice, or thrice already seen,—
I know the charm of change too well
Not to bow down to such a spell.
Love's vows are writ upon the wave,
And are unto themselves a grave.
They call Love ever young ; but he
Is as old age in memory.
Farewell then, sometime love of mine,
Yet claim I gratitude of thine ;
Surely that love is something worth
Whose death is laughing as its birth.
The Literary Souvenir, 1827