Poems published in Gift Books (continued)
JULIET AFTER THE MASQUERADE
From a picture, by Henry Thomson, Esq., R.A.
Those fond, vague dreams, that make love's happiness ; Its first— and oh, its last !
I.
She has left the lighted hall,
She has flung down cap and plume,
Her eye wears softer light,
And her cheek a tenderer bloom :
II.
And her hair in sunny showers
Falls o'er her marble brow,
From its midnight bonds of pearl,
Free as her thoughts are now. —
III.
She has left the yet glad dance,
O'er those gentle thoughts to brood,
That haunt a girl's first hour
Of love-touched solitude.
IV.
Music's sweet and distant sound
Comes floating on the air,
From the banquet-room it tells
The dancers still are there :
V.
But she, their loveliest one,
Has left the festal scene,
To dream on what may be,
To muse o'er what has been ;
VI.
To think on low, soft words,
Her ear had drunk that night,
While her heart beat echo-like,
And her cheek burnt ruby bright.
VII.
How beautiful she looks
Beneath that moonlit sky,
With her lip of living rose,
Her blue and drooping eye !
VIII.
Spell-like, the festal scene
Rises on heart and brain ;
Not a word, and not a look,
But she lives them o'er again.
IX.
Well, dream thy dream, fair girl !
Tho' ne'er did morning close,
With its cold and waking light,
Dreams fair and false as those :
X.
They are like the mists that rise
At day-break to the sky,
There, touched by all bright hues,
On its breast awhile they lie ;
XI.
But the darker hour draws on,
The rose-tint disappears,
And the falling cloud returns
To its native earth in tears.—
XII. Yet dream thy dream, fair girl !
Tho' away it will be driven,
'Tis something to have past
A single hour in heaven.
XIII.
Tho' thine eye has April light,
Tho' thy cheek has April bloom,
There is that upon them both
Which marks an early tomb.
XIV.
So young, so fair, to die —
And can those words be true ?
Ah ! better far 'to die,'
Than live as some must do ;
XV.
With a heart that will not break,
Though every nerve be strained,
Whether won to be betrayed,
Or discovered and disdained : —
XVI.
For Love to watch Hope's grave,
And yet itself breathe on,
Like the blighted flower which lives,
Tho' scent and bloom be gone.
XVII.
But this watching each last leaf,
Green on the fading tree,
The while we see it wither,
Is maiden not for thee.
XVIII,
One hour of passionate joy,
And one of passionate grief —
A morning and a midnight —
Fill up thy life's' short leaf!
XIX.
Short, sad, but still how much
Of death's bitterness is past,
Thy last sigh breathed upon the heart,
Beating thine unto the last !
The Literary Souvenir, 1828
LADY BLESSINGTON
Yet on the haunted canvass dwells
The beauty of that face,
Which art’s departed master held
His sweetest task to trace;
None see it but are prisoners held
In its strong toil of grace.
Nature, thy fairy godmother,
Has lavished, for thy part,
A prodigality of gifts
To make thee what thou art;
The lovely face, the gifted mind,
The kind and generous heart.
Schloss's Bijou Almanack, 1839
Taken from the obituary in The New Yorker
LA ROSA PARLANTE
i.
I breathe on the roses I offer to thee, —
Every leaf that uncloses says something from me ;
They come from our garden — that summer world where
The soft blossoms harden to cherry and pear,
Where fruit and where flowers together unfold,
And the morning's bright hours call the bee to his gold !
ii.
On the wreath that I bind thee our summer has shone,
Ah ! where will it find thee — afar and alone !
The walls that have bound thee are dusky and high,
And dark roofs are round thee that shut out the sky, —
But the roses I gather will bring thee again
Our valley's soft weather, its sunshine and rain.
iii.
When art thou returning — how long wilt thou roam !
The wealth thou art earning is not worth thy home.
The lark's lightest singing awakes me from sleep
That thine image was bringing — I waken and weep !
By the prayers that attend thee — the fond hearts that yearn,
Let the roses I send, say — " return, love, return!”
iv.
To thy heart let them enter ! — 'mid care and 'mid toil
Hath its innermost centre one spot without soil —
Where the cold world is measured by truth not its own,
And my image is treasured — loved — loving and lone !
Though life have encrusted its rust on the shrine,
That heart may be trusted — I know it by mine !
The Literary Souvenir, 1837
See also Speaking Roses
THE LAST OF THE ST. AUBYNS
And here they met:—where should Love's meeting be —
Love passionate, and spiritual, and deep—
Where, but in such a haunted solitude—
A green and natural temple—fitting shrine
For vows the stars remember ? Much the heart
Is govern'd by such outward impulses.
The love whose birth has been in lighted halls,
That lives on festival and flattery,
Like them is vain and selfish ; but the love
Whose voice has caught from twilight winds their tone,
And gazed alternately on the deep blue
Of heaven, and that in one dear maiden's eyes,
Is e'en as those divinities of old,
Whose beauty was a dream of early flowers,
Of lonely fountains, and of summer nights—
Poetry and religion blent in one.
In a fair garden did these lovers meet;
The elm made leafy arches overhead,
And every sudden breeze that moved the boughs
Flung down a shower of gold, the alchemy
Of shining June, whose sunlight fill'd the air.
Luxuriant as a vine, the honeysuckle
Grew, till the foliage almost hid the flowers,
Whose breath betray'd them. There the sunflower stood,
The golden cornfield of the bee, whose wings
Sounded like waters near—a lulling sound,
Soft as the nurse's chant of some old rhyme
Seems to the weary child ; and by its side
The white althea grew, whose slender sprays
Are strung with seed-pearl. Up climb'd the sweet pea,
The butterfly of flowers:—I love it not,
Though every hue—and it has many tints—
Are dyed as if the sunset evening clouds
Had fallen to the earth in sudden rain,
And left their colours : purple, delicate pink,
And snowy white, are on thy wing-like leaves;
But thou art all too forward in thy bloom ;
Thy blossoms are the sun's, and cling to all
That can support them into open day:
And then they die, leaving no root behind,
The hope and promise of another spring;
And no perfume, whose lingering gratitude
Remains round what upheld its summer's life.
Beautiful parasite ! thou who dost win
A place with the fair flattery of thy flowers,
Whose death has nought of memory or of hope,
How many likenesses there are for thee
Mid the false loves and friendships of this world !
Beyond the wooded park spread, where the deer
Slept 'neath old trees ; and on a glittering lake—
The willows grew around it—was the home
Of stately swans. The lady of my tale
Was of an ancient ancestry, and wooed,
Half for her wealth and half for her sweet self,
By the land's chivalry ; but him she loved
Was not of her degree. Ah ! what cares Love
For all the poor distinctions wherewith pomp
Invests its nothingness ? And still he hath
Scutcheon and herald in the beating heart.
They loved—they parted ; he to win a name
Mid the red wars. Great Heaven ! what vain beliefs
Have stirred the pulse and led the hopes of man !
As if that honour could be bought by blood,
And that the fierce right hand was better worth
Than the fine mind, and high and generous heart !—
Blame not the lovers—'twas their age's fault;
And even that I were full loath to blame.
Perchance our own, which now, quick-sighted, sees
The many faults and follies of the past,
Has a successor in the wheel of time
To which our errors will be just as clear.
'Twas pity that they parted. But one week,
And the stern father died ; none save his child—
'Twas a child's duty, and she wept for him—
Sorrowed above the harsh and cold one's grave :
A monument was all his memory.
The gentle lady was now free to choose,
And faithfully she kept to her first love.
The suitor was denied ; and festivals
Were only graced in quiet courtesy
By her sweet presence : but the peasant's hut,
Where want or suffering came, there her low voice
And fairy footstep were familiar things.
Her lute was a companion, and the wind
Caught music from her melancholy song;
And often, in the garden where they met,
She read those old and lovelorn histories
Which, with the poet's aid, wake pleasant tears—
For unreal sorrow is the luxury
Of youth and hope. 'Twas in this happy time
The artist took his likeness of her face.
'Tis a sweet picture. Mid the parted locks
The brow is white and open—it confides
On the fair future which it dreams ; the hair
Has sunshine on it ; silken robe and gem
Are such as suit a lady in the land;
A chain hangs from her arm, which might have paid
The ransom of an eastern emir, won
By some bold ancestor : but in her eyes,
Her deep, her blue, her melancholy eyes,
Sorrow doth dimly prophesy itself.
Nature and Fortune have no unity—
Or one so young, so good, so kind, so true,
Should have been happy. All too soon the scroll
Came o'er the sea which told her lover's fate:
He fell in battle, as so many fall,
Unknown, unnamed—his energies, his hopes,
His bold aspirings, and his proud resolves,
Alike in vain. She faded from that hour.
Quiet and voiceless in her grief, 'twas like
A bird that perishes, the cause unknown;—
We see the plumage fade, the bright crest droop,
But reck not of the secret wound within.
No more they saw her, at the evening hour,
Along the terrace wandering mid the flowers,
The fair exotic favourites shelter'd there;
No more her step rejoiced the aged ear,
And made the music of the lonely hearth;
And soon closed windows, shutting out the day,
Told there was death within that ancient house.
She died with one last wish upon her lips :
It was accomplished. Never more the vault
Where her forefathers slept received its dead;
For she, the last of that old line, slept not
Within the sculptured chapel of her race.
They buried her beneath the glad green earth;
The sunshine, like a blessing, falling round,
And kissing off the tears which night had wept.
Those stately walls are levelled with the ground;
The yellow corn waves o'er them ; that fair park
Is covered now with cottages and fields.
But in a lonely nook of forest land
Her grave remains : there is a mound of grass
A broken cross, grey and with moss o'ergrown ;
A little open space is fill'd with flowers—
Wilding ones, growing amid furze and fern ;
A brook runs through, which, like a natural hymn,
Sings to the dead : then close the forest-trees
In many and impenetrable brakes.
Few find the path which winds around the tomb
Where sleeps the last and loveliest of her line.
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1833
THE LAUREL
Fling down the Laurel from her golden hair;
A woman's brow! what doth the Laurel there?
Not to the silent bitterness of tears
Do I commit, oh, false one! thy requiting;
My measured moments shall be paid by years
Of long avenging on thy faithless slighting.
I call upon the boon that Nature gave,
Ere my young spirit knew its own possessing;
And, from the fire that has consumed me, crave
The cold stern power that knows its own redressing.
Love was my element! e'en as a bird
Knows the soft air that swells around its pinion,
Sweet thoughts and eager ones my spirit stirred,
Whose only influence was the heart's dominion.
They were but shadows of a deeper power,
For life is ominous, itself revealing
By the faint likeness of the coming hour,
Felt ere it vivify to actual feeling.
But from that fated hour is no return:
Life has grown actual, we have done with dreaming;
It is a bitter truth at last to learn,
That all we once believed was only seeming.
Thou—who hast taught me this, upon thy head
Be all the evils thou hast round thee scattered;
Thro' thee the light that led me on is dead,
My wreath is in the dust—my lute is shattered.
I could forgive each miserable night
When I have waked, for that I dreaded sleeping,
I knew that I should dream—my fevered sight
Would bring the image I afar was keeping.
Alas! the weary hours! when I have asked
The faint cold stars, amid the darkness shining,
Why is mortality so over-tasked,
Why am I grown familiar with repining?—
Then comes the weary day, that would but bring
Impatient wishes that it were to-morrow;
While every new and every usual thing,
Seemed but to irritate the hidden sorrow.
And this I owe to thee, to whom I brought
A love that was half fondness, half devotion.
Alas! the glorious triumphs of high thought
Are now subdued by passionate emotion.
Upon my silent lute there is no song;
I sit and grieve above my power departed;
To others let the Laurel wreath belong,
I only know that I am broken-hearted.
Enough yet lingers of the broken spell,
To show that once it was a thing enchanted;
I leave my spirit to the low sweet shell,
By whose far music shall thy soul be haunted.
A thousand songs of mine are on the air,
And they shall breathe my memory, and mine only;
Startling thy soul with hopes no longer fair,
And love that will but rise to leave thee lonely.
Immortal is the gift that I inherit;
Eternal is the loveliness of verse;
My heart thou may'st destroy, but not my spirit,
And that shall linger round thee like a curse.
Farewell the lute, that I no more shall waken!
Its music will be murmured after me;
Farewell the Laurel that I have forsaken!
And last, farewell! oh, my false love, to thee!
Flowers of Loveliness, 1837
From Poetry Explorer
LE CHAPEAU NOIR
A courtly beauty—one whose life
Has been perhaps a pleasant dream,
The shadow of a flower cast
Upon a sunny stream.
Upon her brow there are no lines,
Upon her face there is no care ;
But such soft pensiveness as oft
The young and happy wear.
The plumes that play around her head
The fan within her fairy hand ;
The pearls that circle that white neck,
With a scarce whiter band,
Are soft, and light, and fair as she
Who weareth them as wears a queen
The crown that from her infancy
Upon her head has been.
Her beauty is a pride and power,
The right divine around a throne ;
It is the triumph of her eyes,
To make all hearts her own.
She steppeth with a silvery step
A sweet yet stately grace;
She doth not wait to see who marks
The sunshine of her face.
But there will come another time,
Its coming is beside her now ;
I read it on the parted lip,
And on the gentle brow.
When those sweet eyes will seek the ground,
Or, raised, will only seek to see,
What language, till that hour unknown,
In other eyes can be.
That cheek will wear a deeper rose,
Whose crimson colours never glow
But when they speak instead of words,
For the full heart below.
Pause lady, on thy present time,
It is life's brightest and its best;
Pause ere thou lettest love disturb
Thy spirit's sunny rest.
For never yet came Love alone,
Companions strange and sad has he,
Doubts, fears, regrets, and withering tears
And must these be for thee ?
The Amulet, 1836
THE LEGACY
There, 'mid the many vanities of youth,
The picture lay ; I knew her gentle face ;
The eyes recalled the likeness, though the bloom
Of the sweet season which the portrait wore,
Had long been past away.
THE same, yet not the same — her face
Has still that Grecian line ;
The sculptured perfectness whose grace
Has long been held divine.
But all beside is changed : that face
Has spring upon its rose ;
The eyes — the daylight's earliest break
Has sunshine such as those.
The very painter's hues have caught
The spirit from within,
The light with which young life is fraught,
Ere care and cloud begin.
That time so breathless and so brief,
The false, and yet the true,
When hope writes on a red rose leaf
The beautiful and new.
The morning lights each hour makes less
Dance o'er the morning tide ;
And we believe in happiness,
Because as yet untried.
Now shine and storm alike are past —
Thy future is with those
Whose earthly grief and trouble cast,
On heaven and hope repose.
Flung carelessly, 'mid robe and plume,
'Mid chaplet, and 'mid chain,
This trophy of thy early bloom ! —
It does not speak in vain :
For I am taught how much the heart
Has with itself to strive —
How it subdues its weaker part,
While faith is kept alive !
For thou hast struggled with despair,
And kept thy steadfast way,
Though all that seemed so bright, so fair,
Scattered around thee lay.
And your reward is peace ; for heaven,
Whose better part you chose,
Already to your life has given
The blessing of repose.
Sweet friend, the world is yet with me,
Its vanity, its care ;
Vain hopes for things that may not be,
Regrets for those that are !
This cannot last ! I will believe
That I shall learn to know
A hope that will not all deceive,
A trust not placed below.
I needs must weep — I fain would pray
For light athwart the gloom ;
One promise of that holier day
Whose morning is the tomb !
The Amulet, 1831
LEGENDARY FRAGMENTS
The lady turn’d her weary from a world;
She needed time for penitence, and tears,
And earnest prayer might win for her lone cell
The peace a palace wanted. Solitude
Grew fill’d with gentle thoughts of other years;
And one whom she had left in early youth
Was now as dear as ever. Once her cheek
Was a sweet summer altar for the rose—
’T was now its tomb; and in her dim blue eye
Was death; but one tie bound her yet to earth—
She could not die till she had look’d again
In that beloved face: she sent a ring.—
Strange she had kept that gift of plighted truth,
Though false to all it pledged. The midnight came,
And the red torchlight fell upon a knight
Who stood beside the dying.
“ AND meet we thus again?” he said;
“ And meet we thus again?
And why should meeting be for those
Who only meet in vain?
Call others round your dying bed,
The loved of many years!
The eyes whose smiles were all your own,
Those are the eyes for tears.
You thought not of me in the hall,
When gayer knights were nigh;
You thought not of me when the stars
Wrote memory on the sky.
My heart has been with other thoughts,
Of council and of fight;
I’ve bought forgetfulness with blood
Of one so false, so light.
It is a dream of shame and scorn,
That of your broken vow;
’T is with the vain frail hopes of youth,
Why speak you of it now ?”
He nerved him with remember’d wrongs,
He grasp’d his heavy brand;
She raised her sweet eyes to his face,
She raised her dying hand:
She strove to speak—on her faint lip
The accents died unheard:
Ah! nothing could his heart have moved
Like that unspoken word.
A sadness stole upon his brow,
A softness to his eyes;
His heart was harden’d against smiles,
It could not be to sighs.
It was not years that wrought the change—
In life she yet was young;
Her locks of youth, her golden hair,
In wild profusion hung.
But youth’s sweet lights had left her eye,
For from within they shine,
And pale her face, as those are carved
Around some sacred shrine ;—
On funeral marble carved, and worn
With sorrow, sin, and shame;
Placed there in sign of penitence—
And her face was the same.
* * * * *
“ ’T is written deep within—the vow
We pledged in other years,
And all that vanity effaced
Has long been fresh with tears.
The red torch held by yonder monk,
He holds to see me die;
’T will sink before the morning, sure,
And even so shall I.
And yet a voice is in my ear,
A hope is in my heart;
And I must have them both from thee
Before I can depart.
Alas! for festivals that leave
But lassitude behind;
For feelings deaden’d, gifts misused,
A worn and vacant mind,
That dreads its own thoughts, yet pursues
The vanities of yore;
Seeks pleasure’s shade, though pleasure’s self
Has long since been no more.
The weariness of future hours,
The sorrow for the past,
Desire of change, craving for joys,
Cling to us to the last.
I turn me to my days of youth,
My last thoughts fain would be
Of purer feelings, better hopes—
I dare not say of thee.
That beautiful, that blessed time,
’Mid all that has been mine;
I never knew such happiness,
Nor such a love as thine.”
* * * * *
Her pale lips closed, inaudible
The faint low accents came;
Yet the knight held his breath to hear—
Her last word was his name.
He flung him by the pallet’s side,
He raised her fainting head;
Her fair hair fell around his arm,
He gazed upon the dead.
* * * * *
’T is an old church, the Gothic aisles
See but the evening sun;
All light, except a fading light,
Would seem too glad a one.
For the dark pines close o’er the roof
Which sanctifies the dead,
And on the dim and sculptured walls
Only their names are read;
And in the midst a marble form
Is laid, as if to rest;
And meekly are the graceful arms
Folded upon the breast.
An old monk tells her history,
And ends as I do now,
“ Oh, never yet could happiness
Dwell with a broken vow!”
The Keepsake, 1831
LEONORA
She was the loveliest lady of our line,
But of a cold proud heauty ; . . . .
Yet gentle blushes had been on that cheek,
And tenderness within those dark blue eyes.
Sometimes, in twilight and in solitude,
There was a mournful song she used to sing—
But only then.
Farewell ! and when the charm of change
Has faded, as all else will fade;
When Joy, a wearied bird, begins
To droop the wing, to seek the shade ;—
When thine own heart at length has felt,
What thou hast made another feel—
The hope that sickens to despair,
The wound that time may sear, not heal ;—
When thou shalt pine for some fond heart
To beat in answering thine again ;—
Then, false one ! think once more on me,
And sigh to know it is in vain.
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1833
LINES ON THE BUST OF A LADY
[The Sculptor, H. B. Burlowe.]
A FACE of perfect beauty, such as haunts
The poet's dream, what time the shadowy limes
Have their light leaves stirred by some gentle wind ;
And their soft bloom, their small, pale yellow flowers,
Grow golden in the sunshine of the noon.
Then shapes are flitting round, which only wear
The likeness of our earth, but scarce its look ;
So spiritual the light which gives a soul
To each fair face, and to each starry eye.
This face is such a one : the open brow
(The parted hair obscures it not) is proud,
As if unconscious of life's meaner things ;
And on the lip is scorn — but generous scorn —
Which blends with sweetness ; and the loveliest smile,
So soft, so gracious, and so feminine,
Is on the dimpled cheek. Methinks the sculptor's skill
Has caught, most happily, the fine ideal
Both of the heart and mind.
The Amulet, 1833
THE LESSON
COME, dearest, to your lesson,
You have so much to say,
One, two, three, four, five letters,
Before you go to play.
There is " A" that stands for apple,
You know our own old tree,
It is covered now with blossoms
That shew where fruit will be.
There's " B" that stands for butterfly,
But yesterday we caught
One whose wings with brown and crimson,
And specks of gold were wrought.
There is " C " that stands for cowslip ;
When you have said them all
We will go into the meadow,
And make a cowslip ball.
There's " D " that stands for darling ;
The prettiest in the row :
Who is his mother's darling —
Who is he — do you know?
You say you'll be a sailor :
How sorry you would be
Not to read your mother's letters,
When far away at sea.
Ah ! I see you'll be a scholar ;
You've said them rightly o'er :
There's a good child — and to-morrow
You are to learn some more.
Come now into the garden,
To the fruit and flowers away ;
So well you've said your lesson,
That you deserve to play.
The Juvenile Forget Me Not, 1836
LINES ON THE MAUSOLEUM OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE AT CLAREMONT
Alas! how many storm-clouds hang
O'er every sunny day below !
How many flowers die as they bloom !
How many more before they blow !
But fall the blight, or lour the blast,
O'er every other pleasure here
If they would leave untouched that one
Of all earth's joys most pure and dear!
Young Love ! how well thy smile can cheer
All other ills that wring the heart !
All other sorrows may we bear,
But those in which thyself hast part.
And is not this thy worst, of griefs—
Thine uttermost despair — to see
The grave close over the fond heart
Just wakened into life by thee ?
To watch the blight steal o'er the rose—
Yews spring where myrtles wont to be—
And for the bridal wreath to wear
One gathered from the cypress-tree ?
Look on yon grove, where a white fane
Grows whiter as the moonbeams fall ;
There is a bust upon its shrine,
Wearing a white rose coronal.
It is the monument where Hope
And youthful Love sleep side by side,
Raised by the mourner to the name
Of her — his lost, but worshipp'd Bride.
The Forget Me Not, 1824
Taken from a review in The Literary Gazette, 1st November 1823
THE LITTLE MOUNTAINEER
Her naked feet are nothing loath
To touch their mother earth ;
The pebble and the flower have been
Their comrades from their birth.
The wind is in her long fair hair,
She bares her listening ear,
And questions if a storm be nigh —
The little mountaineer.
The birds are sweeping through the sky,
Their white wings bear away
The brightness of the morning time,
The sunshine's lingering ray.
Like armies summoned by a king,
The clouds come far and near ;
They gather round her native hills —
The little mountaineer.
She stands beside the ancient well
That from the broken wall
Sings day and night the same sweet song
In one low silvery fall.
She stands a lovely, lonely child
Without a thought of fear ;
The cave of nature is around
The little mountaineer.
A pensiveness beyond its years
Is in her childish grace ;
For many lonely hours have given
Their meaning to her face.
The mighty storms, the mighty hills,
Have lent their solemn cheer ;
A poet's world is in her heart —
The little mountaineer.
The Juvenile Forget Me Not, 1836
LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD
COME back, come back together,
All ye fancies of the past,
Ye days of April weather,
Ye shadows that are cast
By the haunted hours before !
Come back, come back, my childhood ;
Thou art summon'd by a spell
From the green leaves of the wild wood,
From beside the charmed well !
For Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
The fields were cover'd over
With colours as she went ;
Daisy, buttercup, and clover,
Below her footsteps bent.
Summer shed its shining store,
She was happy as she press'd them
Beneath her little feet ;
She pluck'd them and caress'd them ;
They were so very sweet,
They had never seem'd so sweet before,
To Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
How the heart of childhood dances
Upon a sunny day !
It has its own romances,
And a wide, wide world have they !
A world where phantasie is king,
Made all of eager dreaming,
When once grown up and tall ;
Now is the time for scheming,
Then we shall do them all !
Do such pleasant fancies spring
For Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore?
She seems like an ideal love,
The poetry of childhood shown,
And yet loved with a real love,
As if she were our own ;
A younger sister for the heart;
Like the woodland pheasant,
Her hair is brown and bright;
And her smile is pleasant,
With its rosy light.
Never can the memory part
With Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
Did the painter, dreaming
In a morning hour,
Catch the fairy seeming
Of this fairy flower ?
Winning it with eager eyes,
From the old enchanted stories,
Lingering with a long delight,
On the unforgotten glories
Of the infant sight ?
Giving us a sweet surprise
In Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore ?
Too long in the meadow staying,
Where the cowslip bends,
With the buttercups delaying
As with early friends,
Did the little maiden stay.
Sorrowful the tale for us,
We, too, loiter mid life's flowers,
A little while so glorious,
So soon lost in darker hours.
All love lingering on their way,
Like Red Riding Hood, the darling,
The flower of fairy lore.
The Book of Gems Vol. 3, 1838
Taken from Selections from the British Poets Volume 2, 1840
This poem appeared in The Court Journal on 8th August, 1835, inscribed: Lines suggested by the engraving of Landseer's Picture (the line insets in this version differ from those above)
LOVE TORMENTING THE SOUL
I.
Young tyrant, and young torturer!
Young Love ! how can it be,
That such extremes and opposites
Should meet and mix in thee!
II.
Thou of the rainbow wing ! whose reign
Is as the colours there,
If thou hadst such delight in pain,
Thou could'st not be so fair.
III.
I looked upon thy morning cheek,
Thy lip with ruby dyed,
And then I blamed thy painted task,
And said thou wert belied.
IV.
Methought I would go forth awhile,
And track thy steps of flame,
Henceforth my young lute should be vowed
To vindicate thy name.
V.
I paused beside a convent grate,
I heard a mournful tone,
The maiden's cheek was very pale,
Her eye's blue light was gone ;
VI.
For tears had washed the rose and light
Away from cheek and eye ;
She knelt before the crucifix,
And only prayed to die.
VII.
The maiden's tale was quickly told —
Of love that could forsake,
Of a fond heart that beat too true,
And then could only break.
VIII.
I saw a young knight spur his steed
Amid the thickest fight ;
It was not for the warrior's meed,
Nor for his country's right :
IX.
It was to seek forgetfulness,
Though from the sword or spear —
How could he think on one too false,
And, oh ! yet still too dear.
X.
I stood next by a lovely one,
She looked the queen of all ;
And every eye was turned to her,
Star of the festal hall !
XI.
But her dark eye had troubled light,
Such as the wild storms shed ;
The beacon-sign of inward strife
Was that cheek's flushing red.
XII.
That proud heart had been given to one,
Who sought it not to win,
And now she only strove to hide
The burning wound within.
XIII.
Leant by a marble column near,
There stood a youthful bard,
And were praise all the poet asks,
He had won his reward.
XIV.
But oh! there was a dearer hope
Nurst in that gentle strain,
He turned to meet one worshipped eye,
He sought, and sought in vain.
XV.
The heavy dew came o'er his brow,
His flashing eye grew dim,
He felt the vanity of song,
And oh ! I felt with him.
XVI.
For love and song have been the same
From early youth to me ;
And withered feelings, blighted hope,
May tell what they can be.
XVII.
I am still young in time, but I
Have lived through wasting years
Of sleepless nights, of anxious days,
Of heart-burnings and tears.
XVIII.
'Tis a charmed destiny — tho' well
I know the wearying chain,
I cannot even wish to be
Free as I was again.
XIX.
I sought no longer a defence,
Flung down the useless shell ;
Oh Love ! this likeness is thine own,
The painter knows thee well.
The Literary Souvenir, 1828
THE LUTE
Oh ! sing again that mournful song.
That song of other times !
The music bears my soul along,
To other, dearer climes.
I love its low and broken tone ;
The music seems to me
Like the wild wind when singing lone
O'er a twilight sea.
It may not sound so sweet to you ;
To you it cannot bring
The vallies where your childhood grew,
The memories of your Spring.
My father's house, my infancy,
Rise present to my mind,
As if I had not crossed the sea.
Or left my youth behind.
I heard it, at the evening's close,
Upon my native shore ;
It was a favourite song with those
Whom I shall see no more.
How many worldly thoughts and cares
Have melted at the strain !
'Tis fraught with early hopes and prayers—
Oh, sing that song again.
The Amulet, 1833
Taken from The Tourist 22nd October 1832
THE LUTE
WAKE not again, thou sweet-voiced lute !
Better for me that thy chords were mute,
Than thus to recall thoughts long since fled,
And bring to my mem'ry the false and the dead.
They remind me of one who shared with me
The short-lived sunlight of infancy ;
For when the young rose of her cheek grew pale,
And health was departed, she loved thy wail ;
And I have heard thy murmurs sweep
O'er the flowers that smile round her last cold sleep.
And thou recallest a dark-eyed maid,
With forehead of snow and raven braid,
The light of my love-dream, — one who oft
Would answer in song to thy breathing soft ;
One who could love, and her love forget —
O waken not, lute, that wild regret !
Better thou ever shouldst silent be,
Than renew such memories of sadness to me.
The Forget Me Not 1825
Taken from The Gem
MADEIRA
On the deep and quiet sea
The day was fast declining;
In the far empurpled sky
A few bright stars were shining.
And the moon looked through the clouds
Which round her path were sweeping,
Like some lone and gentle one
Who Love's vigil late is keeping.
Anchored off that beauteous coast,
A noble ship is lying,
While above her stately mast
Are English colours flying.
For the shore is now in sight,
And the perfume of its flowers,
And the odour of its vines,
Make sweet the twilight hours.
There is a silence in that ship
Each step is softly taken,
As around some dear one's bed,
Whose sleep they feared to waken.
But it is not sleep, now rocked
By the heaving of the billow,
But a darker slumber flits
Around a weary pillow.
They have brought her from the land
Where her parents' ashes slumber ;
They have brought her to the south,
But her days have told their number.
Though the vault that bears her name
Will not open for another,
And she is the only child
That sleeps not by her mother;
Yet the loveliest and the last
Of that ancient line is failing,
Like those evanescent hues
In the shadowy west now paling.
She is laid upon the deck,
For the cool land breeze is blowing;
But the last faint warmth of life
Fast from her cheek is going.
And her loosened long black hair
Is sweeping darkly round her,
As if it were the solemn pall
That already bound her.
But the sweet pale mouth was calm,
And the eyes were meekly closing!
And upon the marble cheek
Was the silken lash reposing ;
Softly as a little child
Sleeps on its mother's bosom,
Sweetly as a tender flower
Closes its languid blossom.
There were eyes unused to weep,
Around her dim with weeping;
Yet death seemed not for tears,
'Twas so like sweetest sleeping.
Not beneath the deep sea waves,
Vexed with perpetual motion,
Neither in the sparry caves
Of the tumultuous ocean.
Did that youthful maiden rest—
She had more fit entombing
In that balmy southern isle,
With its summer's sunny blooming.
There the moon will shed her light,
There the watching stars burn clearer;
For never yet did earth enshrine
One fairer or one dearer.
The Forget Me Not, 1835
Taken from The Bouquet
MADELINE
I PRAY thee leave me not ; my heart
So passionately clings to thee ;
Oh, give me time, I'll try to part
With life—for love is life to me.
A little while—I cannot bear
The presence of my great despair ;
Though changed your voice, and cold your eye,
You would not wish to see me die.
The wretch who on the scaffold stands
Has some brief time allow'd
For parting grasp of kindly hands,
For farewell to the crowd :
And even as gradual let me learn
My thoughts and hopes from thee to turn;
To grow accustom'd to thy brow,
Strange, chilling as it meets me now!
But, no ; I dare not, cannot look
Upon thy alter'd face :
Methinks that I could better brook
To have but memory's trace,
And I may cheat myself awhile
With many a treasured gaze and smile.
Yes, leave me—'tis less pain to brood
Over the past in solitude.
Oh, vanity of speech ! no word
Can make thee mine again ;
The eloquent would be unheard,
The tender would be vain.
Since gentle cares and spotless truth—
The deep devotion of my youth—
Since these are written on the air,
Wilt thou be moved by vow or prayer ?
Yet how entire has been my love !
The flower that to the sun
Raises its golden eyes above,
Droops when the day is done:
But I for hours have watched a spot—
Although it longer held thee not;
It gave a magic to the scene
To think that there thy steps had been.
But I must now forget the past—
Say, rather, 'tis my all;
Henceforth a veil o'er life is cast—
I live but to recall.
I have no future—could I bear
To dream a dream you do not share ?
It is hope makes futurity—
What, now, has hope to do with me ?
Amid the ruins of my heart
I'll sit and weep alone;
Mourn for the idols that depart,
The altars overthrown,
With faded cheek and weary eyes,
Till life be thy last sacrifice.
Alas for youth, and hope, and bloom !
Alas for my forgotten tomb !
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1833
THE MAIDEN ASTROLOGER
Her thoughts were not like girlhood's ; bird nor flower
Gave her affection room ; and when her face
Assumed its perfect beauty, never blush
Nor smile spoke vanity or love ; her hours were passed
In some old window-seat, whose coloured panes
Shed a mysterious light upon the scroll,
On whose strange characters she pored ; the night
Still found her on the terrace, her dark eyes
Filled with the wild light of the stars she watched,—
They say, she read their language.
Over the terrace the bright stars shine,
Who is there but must feel them divine ?
Softly the night wind stirs the air,
The breath of the orange and rose they bear ;
And the branches in music swing to and fro,
Each leaf like a lute-note, sweet and low.
This is a night for the maiden to dream
Of the love which will colour her life's pure stream ;—
This is a night for the maiden to pray,
Whose heart has been given, whose love is away !
Young is the maiden that watches the sky,
There is no love on her cheek, or her eye. —
Love doth colour the young cheek with rose,
Like the tide in the moonshine, it ebbs and flows. —
Now passionate pale — now fain to hide
The sudden rush of its crimson tide ;
But the lady's cheek is calm and pale,
It wears no blushes, it needs no veil. —
Love doth teach the young eye to seek
The shade of the lash, downcast on the cheek, —
Its darkness is brightened by gentle tears,
Its splendour is softened by tender fears ;
But the lady's eye is stedfast and bright,
And its depths are solemn as those of the night.
Her beauty is that of a statue's face,
A calm, serene, and spiritual grace ;
The mind on her lofty brow is bright
With a power that speaks not of earthly light ;
And her raven locks o'er her white neck flow ;
No throbbing pulse ever warmed its snow.
From an ancient line was the maiden sprung,
Haughty in deed, and daring in tongue,
She was as proud and as bold as the rest,
Though her spirit was turned to a higher quest,
Still the pride of her race was the only tie
That came between her soul and the sky.
She raised her voice, it was low and sweet,
Yet the wind sank down, as hushed at her feet ; —
She drew around her a mystic line,
She named a name, and she signed a sign ; —
At once to her charmed vision was given
The secrets the bright stars write upon heaven.
On her curved red lip was no sign of fear,
Though the phantom of future days drew near:
She watched, and saw a glorious band,
Spurs on the heel and swords in the hand;
And a 'broidered banner swept the space, —
She saw it was wrought with the crest of her race !
She saw a noble city arise —
Tower and temple darkened the skies :
Then gallant and stately warriors passed,
Till throne and coronet rose at last.
One chieftain stepped his comrades before, —
He was of her race, — she asked no more.
Calmly she folded her arms on her breast,
As if disdaining the pride she repressed ;
Perhaps 't was the mournful midnight that stole
In sadness unwonted over her soul.
Dark the clouds gathered upon the gale,
Whose sound was less of triumph than wail.
Next day, her kinsmen in counsel met —
Deep was the cast on that council set —
And they paused till the lady came to the board,
And her words like the red wine their spirit poured.
" On! on!" she said, " with a dauntless brow,
The star of the Medici's dominant now."
Her spirit passed in its earnest words,
As the harp that breaks from its over-wrought chords.
Her kinsmen went forth in pride and power,
Florence was theirs ere the evening hour;
But the day of triumph was that of doom,
And their war-trumpets rang o'er their Sybil's tomb.
The Literary Souvenir, 1831
MADAME MALIBRAN
Mournfully, ah ! mournfully
Shed the myrtle o'er her ;
Not alone with verse and flower
With the heart deplore her.
Sweet emotions, smiles and tears,
Lived amid her numbers ;
Let their tender memory
Sanctify her slumbers.
Angels claim the angel one ;
Fling the palm above her ,
Too late, with a fond regret,
We find how much we love her.
Schloss's Bijou Almanack, 1837
From The New York American, 26th February 1837
THE MARINER'S CHILD TO HIS MOTHER
Oh, weep no more, sweet mother,
Oh, weep no more to-night ;
And only watch the sea, mother,
Beneath the morning light.
Then the bright blue sky is joyful,
And the bright blue sky is clear,
And I can see, sweet mother,
To kiss away your tear.
But now the wind goes wailing
O'er the dark and trackless deep,
And I know your grief, sweet mother,
Though I only hear you weep.
My father's ship will come, mother,
In safety o'er the main ;
When the grapes are dyed with purple,
He will be back again.
The vines were but in blossom
When he bade me watch them grow,
And now the large leaves, mother,
Conceal their crimson glow.
He'll bring us shells and sea-weed,
And birds of shining wing ;
But what are these, dear mother ?
It is himself he'll bring.
Our beautiful Madonna
Will mark how you have wept,
The prayers of early morning,
The vigils you have kept.
She will guide his stately vessel,
Though the sea be dark and drear ;
Another week of sunshine—
My father will be here.
I'll watch with thee, sweet mother,
But the stars fade from my sight :
Come, come and sleep, dear mother—
Oh, weep no more to-night.
The Juvenile Keepsake, 1830
Taken from a review in The Literary Gazette
MARIUS AT THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE
He turn'd him from the setting sun,
Now sinking in the bay:—
He knew that so his course was run,
But with no coming day;
From gloomy seas and stormy skies
He had no other morn to rise.
He sat, the column at his feet,
The temple low beside;
A few wild flowers blossom'd sweet
Above the column's pride;
And many a wave of drifted sand
The arch, the once triumphal, spann'd.
The place of pleasant festival,
The calm and quiet home,
The senate, with its pillar'd hall,
The palace with its dome,—
All things in which men boast and trust
Lay prone in the unconscious dust.
Yet this the city which once stood
A queen beside the sea,
Who said she ruled the ocean flood
Wherever there might be
Path for bold oar or daring prow:—
Where are her thousand galleys now?
A bird rose up—it was the owl,
Abroad at close of day;
The wind it brought a sullen howl,
The wolf is on his way;
The ivy o'er yon turret clings,
And there the wild bee toils and sings.
And yet these once were battlements,
With watchers proud and bold,
Who slept in war-time under tents
Of purple and of gold!
This is the city with whose power
Rome battled for earth's sovereign hour!
That hour it now was Rome's, and he
Who sat desponding there,
Had he not aim'd the soul to be
Of all that she could dare;
The will that led that mighty state,
The greatest, too—where all were great?
An exile and a fugitive,
The Roman leant alone;
All round him might those lessons give
The past has ever shown,
With which is all experience fraught,
Still teaching those who are not taught.
He saw and felt wealth, glory, mind
Are given but for a day;
No star but hath in time declined,
No power but pass'd away!
He witness'd how all things were vain,
And then went forth to war again!
The Keepsake, 1833
From The Harp of the Wilderness
Gaius Marius (c.157-86 B.C.) was a Roman general who became a successful politician on the strength of the votes of army veterans. In the years before his death, following an attempt to seize control of the Asian command, Marius was exiled to Africa; he returned the next year, captured Rome, had himself elected consul for the seventh time, and then died.
MARTIN
Mighty painter, thou hast bowed
To thy will the thunder-cloud;
To thy lifted hand is given
How to wield the fiery levin ;
And thine are the solemn walls
Of Palmyra's desert halls;
And thy art doth build again
Palace, temple, tomb, and fane.
Other painters lend a grace
To the present's lovely face,
But a nobler gift thou hast—
Thou art master of the past.
The English Bijou Almanack, 1836
THE MARVEL OF PERU
A radiant beauty of the lovely south,
As languid as her valley's scented gale ;
The rose hath only place on that sweet mouth,
A rose it is; but the soft cheek is pale.
Her large dark eyes are like a summer night,
Before the moon's soft crescent shines above ;
Filled with a tender yet a shadowy light,
Whose silence is the eloquence of Love.
She dwelleth like a lone and fairy flower,
That hath its home in some enchanted soil;
What knoweth she of life's more troubled hour,
Our northern lot of hurry, care and toil?
Half slave, half idol, she is kept apart;
Her palace prison is a veiled shrine ;
Enough for her, the sweet world of the heart,
Ah! little hath the ladye to resign !
Listless she dreams the sultry noon away,
The painted fan just stirs her raven hair ;
The silken curtains yield a shadowy day,
That makes the pale fair beauty seem more fair.
Faint are the colours in that darkened room,
When the wind lifts the curtain's crimson fold;
Amid a rich obscurity of gloom
Are seen the rainbow gems, the carved gold.
And on a table near, a little flower
Droops in a vase as white as sculptured snow ;
It was her favourite in her childhood's bower,
The Marvel of Peru,—she loves it now.
The perfumed atmosphere around is filled
With many odours—summer's scented spoil:
The fragrant waters from sweet woods distilled,
Spices, and cinnamon, and precious oil.
Oh, life of pleasant languor and repose !
Like some frail plant that languishes at noon ;
The dark-eyed beauty need not envy those,
To whom such charmed lot were earth's best boon.
What is the world we live in, but a strife
Of vanity and envy, hate and fear ?
That what we so miscal our social life .
Is one great error,—sullen, vast and drear.
A happier lot is woman's thus confined
To one deep love, and one sweet solitude ;
Oh ! what availeth to awake the mind,
Whose higher struggles are so soon subdued?
The Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
Taken originally from The New York Mirror but altered from Sypher.
THE MASK
Unveil'd, unmask'd ! not so, not so !
Ah ! thine are closer worn
Than those which, in light mockery,
One evening thou hast borne.
The mask and veil which thou dost wear
Are of thyself a part;
No mask can ever hide thy face
As that conceals thy heart.
Thy smiles, they sparkle o'er thy brow,
Like sunbeams to and fro ;
But no one in their light can read
The depths that lurk below.
The tears, how beautiful they shine
Within thy large dark eyes !
But who can tell what is the cause
From which those tears arise ?
E'en as thy curls are train'd to fall
Around thy angel face,
So every look thy features wear
Is tutor'd in its grace.
No eager impulses ere fling
Their warmth upon thy cheek ;
No varying hues, from red to pale,
Thy inward feelings speak.
Thine atmosphere is festival;
Thy hand is on the lute;
And lightest in the midnight dance
We see thy fairy foot.
The many deem this happiness—
I see it is a task ;
Young without youth, gay without mirth,
Thine is the veil and mask.
I mark thy constant restlessness,
Thy eagerness for change ;
I know it is the wretched one
Who thus desires to range.
And thou dost flee from solitude
As if a fiend were there,
And communing with thine own thoughts
Were more than thou couldst bear.
Slight are the signs by which I put
Thy mask and veil aside,
And look upon thy wounded love,
And on thy wounded pride.
'Tis not for one, proud, fair, like thee
To perish or to pine ;
A higher lot is cast for thee—
A higher will is thine !
Oh ! misery to keep the heart
Lone, like some sacred fane,
And when it owns its deity,
Find it was own'd in vain !
Yet, far worse misery to know
Our faith no veiled thing :
Methinks that we can bear the pain,
If we can hide the sting.
But, out upon consoling friends !
The anguish one may brook;
But not officious sympathy—
The soothing word or look.
Pity from all the common herd,
Whom most we must despise—
Perish the sigh upon the lips,
The tear within the eyes !
Alas ! what depths of wretchedness
The human soul can know !
How bitterly the waters taste,
Which seem in light to flow!
For love and hope, those leaves which give
Their sweetness to the wave,
Flung with no blessing, lose their charm,
And find the stream their grave !
Ah ! even as at coming night
The careful flowers close—
So should our heart call in its hopes,
And on itself repose.
But let it not be lull'd by dreams,
That weep whene'er they wake—
For every heart that lives by love,
A thousand beat and break !
Heath's book of Beauty, 1833
MAY MORNING
Up with the morning, and up with the sun,
Night, with its dreams and its shadows, is done;
The lilac's small stars in their thousands arise,
While the garden is filled with their languishing sighs.
I must away with the earliest hours,
To gather the may-dew that lies in the flowers.
The yellow laburnum, the spendthrift of spring,
How lavish the wealth which its bright branches fling,
Is rich as the bough which the sybil of yore
To chase the dark spirits of Acheron bore.
Ah yet, at the sight of its gladness, depart
The shadows that gather in gloom o'er the heart.
The violets open their eyes in the grass,
Each one has a dew-drop to serve as a glass ;
Last night in their shelter the fairy queen slept;
And to thank the sweet watch o'er her sleep which they kept,
The look which she gave them at parting left there
The blue of her eyes, and the scent of her hair.
With his wings filled with music, the bee is abroad,
He seeks the wild thyme-beds of which he is lord.
The lark starts from slumber, and up-soaring flings
The night-tears the clover had shed on his wings.
The chirp of the grasshopper gladdens the field,
For all things their mirth or their melody yield.
The glory of spring, and the glory of morn,
O'er all the wide world in their beauty are borne ;
For the winter is gone to the snows of the north,
And the promise of summer in green leaves looks forth.
The red rose has summoned her sisters from rest,
And earth with the sight of the lovely is blest.
I too will go forth, I too will renew
My bloom and my spirits in sunshine and dew.
I hear the birds singing, and feel that their song
Bears my own heart that shareth their gladness along.
Ah, let me away with the earliest hours,
To gather the may-dew that lies in the flowers.
The Amulet, 1836
MEDITATION
A sweet and melancholy face, that seems
Haunted with earnest thought ; the dark midnight
Has given its raven softness to her hair;
And evening, starry eve, half clouds, half light,
Is in the shadowy beauty of her eyes.
How quietly has Night come down,
Quiet as the sweet sleep she yields !
A purple shadow marks yon town,
A silvery hue the moonlit fields;
And one or two white turrets rise
Glittering beneath the highest ray—
As conscious of the distant skies,
To which they teach and point the way.
The river in the lustre gleams,
Where hang the blossomed shrubs above—
The flushed and drooping rose, whose dreams
Must be of summer and of love.
The pale acacia's fragrant bough
Is heavy with its weight of dew;
And every flower and leaf have now
A sweeter sigh, a deeper hue.
There breathes no song, there stirs no wing—
Mute is the bird, and still the bee;
Only the wind is wandering—
Wild Wind, is there no rest for thee ?
Oh, wanderer over many flowers,
Have none of them for thee repose ?
Go sleep amid the lime-tree bowers,
Go rest by yon white gelder-rose.
What ! restless still ? methinks thou art
Fated for aye to bear along
The beating of the poet's heart,
The sorrow of the poet's song.
Or has thy voice before been heard,
The language of another sphere,
And every tone is but a word
Mournful, because forgotten here ?
Some memory, or some sympathy,
Is surely in thy murmur brought:
Ah, all in vain the search must be,
To pierce these mysteries of thought!
They say that, hung in ancient halls,
At midnight from the silent lute
A melancholy music falls
From chords which were by daylight mute.
And so the human heart by night
Is touched by some inspired tone,
Harmonious in the deep delight,
By day it knew not was its own.
Those stars upon the clear blue heaven—
Those stars we never see by day—
Have in their hour of beauty given
A deeper influence to their sway—
Felt on the mind and on the soul—
For is it not in such an hour
The spirit spurns the clay's control,
And genius knows its glorious power ?—
All that the head may e'er command,
All that the heart can ever feel,
The tuneful lip, the gifted hand,
Such hours inspire, such hours reveal.
The morrow comes with noise and toil,
The meaner cares, the hurried crowd,
The culture of the barren soil,
And gain the only wish avowed:
The loftier vision is gone by—
The hope which then in light had birth,
The flushing cheek, the kindling eye,
Are with the common things of earth.
Yet all their influence is not gone :
Perchance in that creative time
Some high attraction first was known,
Some aim and energy sublime.
In such an hour doth sculptor know
What shapes within the marble sleep;
His Sun-god lifts the radiant bow,
His Venus rises from the deep.
And imaged on the azure air
The painter marks his shadows rise —
A face than mortal face more fair,
And colours which are of the skies.
The hero sees the field his own,
The banners sweep o'er glittering spears,
And in the purple and the throne
Forgets their cost of blood and tears.
And he who gave to Europe's sight
Her sister world, till then unseen,
How long to his inspired night
Familiar must that world have been !
All Genius ever yet combined,
In its first hour could only seem,
And rose embodied in the mind
From some imaginative dream.
O beauty of the midnight skies!
O mystery of each distant star !
O dreaming hours, whose magic lies
In rest and calm, with Day afar!
Thanks for the higher moods that wake
Our thoughtful and immortal part !—
Out on our life, could we not make
A spiritual temple of the heart ?
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1833
MRS SOMERVILLE
She has brought down beside the hearth
The secrets of the skies,
And made the far and mighty stars
Familiar to our eyes.
This has a woman done; and she
Is graceful, winning, mild ;
And mingles with the sage’s lore,
The sweetness of a child.
In life‘s divine and common things
Alike she has her part ;
The gifted and the glorious mind .
Touched by the gentle heart.
The English Bijou Almanack, 1837
MRS. WOMBWELL
Ah, Beauty ! what a charm hast thou !
How much art thou allied
To all the visionary glow
With which is deified
The sweetest things of life's dark stream ;
Whose loveliness is half a dream —
A flower upon the tide ;
Within whose haunted leaves up-curled
Are hints of a diviner world !
I never saw that face till now,
I never heard the name ;
Yet, with that carved and graceful brow
A thousand fancies came.
Within those soft and earnest eyes
A world of hidden feeling lies ;
Those feelings which, like flame,
Upon the face they kindle, write
In lines, half shadow and half light.
It is not that thy face is fair,
Though fair it is, and young ;
But, that the mind and heart have there
Their own enchantment flung :
And beauty the most beautiful,
Without that inward life, were dull ;
Without the soft shades hung
By pensive thoughts — by moral grace,
That give the spirit to the face.
Young, fair, thou art ; oh, very fair !
Still, on that face appears
The sadness deeper memories wear,
The tenderness of tears.
These may be fancies suiting not ;
But, was there ever human lot
That knew no troubled years ?
Life never was content to bring
The sunshine only to the spring.
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1838
MONT BLANC
Heaven knows our travellers have sufficiently alloyed the beautiful, and profaned the sublime, by associating these with themselves, the common-place, and the ridiculous ; but out upon them, thus to tread on the grey hairs of centuries,—on the untrodden snows of Mont Blanc.
THOU monarch of the upper air,
Thou mighty temple given
For morning's earliest of light,
And evening's last of heaven.
The vapour from the marsh, the smoke
From crowded cities sent,
Are purified before they reach
Thy loftier element.
Thy hues are not of earth but heaven ;
Only the sunset rose
Hath leave to fling a crimson dye
Upon thy stainless snows.
Now out on those adventurers
Who scaled thy breathless height,
And made thy pinnacle, Mont Blanc,
A thing for common sight.
Before that human step had left
Its sully on thy brow,
The glory of thy forehead made
A shrine to those below :
Men gaz'd upon thee as a star,
And turned to earth again,
With dreams like thine own floating clouds,
The vague but not the vain.
No feelings are less vain than those
That bear the mind away,
Till blent with nature's mysteries
It half forgets its clay.
It catches loftier impulses ;
And owns a nobler power ;—
The poet and philosopher
Are born of such an hour.
But now where may we seek a place
For any spirit's dream ;
Our steps have been o'er every soil,
Our sails o'er every stream.
Those isles, the beautiful Azores,
The fortunate, the fair !
We looked for their perpetual spring
To find it was not there.
Bright El Dorado, land of gold,
We have so sought for thee,
There's not a spot in all the globe
Where such a land can be.
How pleasant were the wild beliefs
That dwelt in legends old,
Alas ! to our posterity
Will no such tales be told.
We know too much, scroll after scroll
Weighs down our weary shelves ;
Our only point of ignorance
Is centered in ourselves.
Alas ! for thy past mystery,
For thine untrodden snow,
Nurse of the tempest, hadst thou none
To guard thy outraged brow ?
Thy summit, once the unapproached,
Hath human presence owned,
With the first step upon thy crest
Mont Blanc, thou wert dethroned.
The Bijou, 1829
MONT BLANC
Thou monarch of the upper air,
Thou mighty temple given
For morning’s earliest of light,
And evening’s last of heaven.
The vapour from the marsh, the smoke
From crowded cities sent,
Are purified before they reach
Thy loftier element.
Thy hues are not of earth but heaven;
Only the sunset rose
Hath leave to fling a crimson dye
Upon thy stainless snows.
Now out on those adventurers
Who scaled thy breathless height,
And made thy pinnacle, Mont Blanc,
A thing for common sight.
Before that human step had felt
Its sully on thy brow,
The glory of thy forehead made
A shrine to those below:
Men gazed upon thee as a star,
And turn’d to earth again,
With dreams like thine own floating clouds
The vague but not the vain.
No feelings are less vain than those
That bear the mind away,
Till blent with nature’s mysteries
It half forgets its day
It catches loftier impulses;
And owns a nobler power;
The poet and philosopher
Are born of such an hour.
But now where may we seek a place
For any spirit’s dream;
Our steps have been o’er every soil,
Our sails o’er every stream.
Those isles, the beautiful Azores,
The fortunate, the fair!
We look’d for their perpetual spring
To find it was not there.
Bright El Dorado, land of gold,
We have so sought for thee,
There’s not a spot in all the globe
Where such a land can be.
How pleasant were the wild beliefs
That dwelt in legends old,
Alas! to our posterity
Will no such tales be told.
We know too much, scroll after scroll
Weighs down our weary shelves;
Our only point of ignorance
Is centred in ourselves.
Alas! for thy past mystery,
For thine untrodden snow,
Nurse of the tempest, hast thou none
To guard thy outraged brow?
A variant version from The Laurel, 1830
MOONLIGHT
There are no stars: thou lovely moon
Thou art alone amid the sky ;
Methinks thou must be sad to hold
Such solitary watch on high !
'Tis but a tale of the old time—
When all of feeling or of thought,
And all the mysteries of the heart,
Around them some fine fiction wrought—
Which said that thou didst turn to earth
Thy radiant eyes, to watch and weep
Over the rest thou could’st not break—
Endymion’s passion—haunted sleep.
Beneath this moonlight fable’s guise,
They pictured the immortal mind,
Which seeks upon this weary earth
The love that it may never find.
For, though, upon an eagle’s wing
The spirit for a while may roam,
The pinions need some gentler tie,
The heavenward wanderer asks a home ;
And deems the heart can be that home,
Deems that affection is that tie,
And gives its likeness to its hope—
The pure, the beautiful, the high
Fair Queen, this fable of thy love
Is but the doom Fame sets apart,
For earth’s imaginative child,
Who makes a temple of the heart !
The Amulet, 1832
Also in The Boston Post
THE MOTHER'S WARNING
Pray thee, dear one, heed him not,
Love has an unquiet lot;
Why for words of fear and fate,
Shouldst thou change thy sweet estate?
Linger yet upon the hour
Of the green leaf and the flower.
Art thou happy ? For thy sake
Do the birds their music make—
Birds with golden plumes that bring
Sunshine from a distant spring.
For thine eyes the roses grow
Red as sunset, white as snow.
And the bees are gathering gold
Ere the winter hours come cold.
Flowers are colouring the wild wood,
Art thou weary of thy childhood ?
Break not its enchanted reign,
Such life never knows again.
Wilt thou love ? Oh, listen all
I can tell thee of such thrall.
Though my heart be changed and chill,
Yet that heart remembers still,
All the sorrow that it proved,
All I suffered while I loved.
'Tis to waste the feverish day,
In impatient hopes away.
Watching with a weary eye
For a step that comes not nigh ;
'Tis to pass the night in weeping,
Vigils the heart's penance keeping;
Shedding tears, that while they fall,
Are ashamed to weep at all.
There are darker hours in store,
Loving—yet beloved no more.
When the lover's heart is changed,
And the lover's eye has ranged.
Sit thou down as by a grave,
Weep o'er all thy young faith gave ;
Weep and weep in vain, for never
Could endurance or endeavour,
Love in every action shown,
Keep the false heart for your own.
It is won at little cost,
But still easier is it lost.
I shall see that sunny hair
Braided with less anxious care ;
I shall see that cheek grow pale,
As the lily in the vale.
I shall hear those steps whose flight
Is so musical and light,
Dragging onwards languid slow,
Caring nothing where they go.
Woe ! for all I see will come !
Woe for our deserted home !
If to love thy choice shall be,
Farewell, my sweet child, to thee !
The Amulet, 1836
MOZART
It lingereth on the ear at night,
It haunteth it by day,
The spirit of a lonely song
That will not pass away ;
The music, which he left behind,
Is of the heart, and of the mind.
How can we honour them enough,
Men who bequeath to earth
The spiritual and beautiful
Which in themselves had birth !
Give them life's noblest gift, let fame
Shed its long sunshine round their name.
Schloss's Bijou Almanack, 1838
From The Star, 1837
MUSINGS
METHINKS we must have known some former state
More glorious than our present, and the heart
Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left
By past magnificence; and hence we pine
With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes
With bitter tears for their own vanity.
Remembrance makes the poet ; 't is the past
Lingering within him, with a keener sense
Than is upon the thoughts of common men,
Of what has been, that fills the actual world
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes,
That were and are not ; and the fairer they,
The more their contrast with existing things ;
The more his power, the greater is his grief. —
Are we then fallen from some noble star,
Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse,
And we feel capable of happiness
Only to know it is not of our sphere ?
I have sung passionate songs of beating hearts;
Perhaps it had been better they had drawn
Their inspiration from an inward source.
Had I known even an unhappy love,
It would have flung an interest round life
Mine never knew. This is an empty wish ;
Our feelings are not fires to light at will
Our nature's fine and subtle mysteries;
We may control them, but may not create,
And love less than its fellows. I have fed
Perhaps too much upon the lotos fruits
Imagination yields, — fruits which unfit
The palate for the more substantial food.
Of our own land — reality. I made
My heart too like a temple for a home ;
My thoughts were birds of paradise, that breathed
The airs of heaven, but died on touching earth. —
The knight whose deeds were stainless as his crest,
Who made my name his watchword in the field ;
The poet with immortal words, whose heart
I shared with beauty ; or the patriot,
Whose eloquence was power, who made my smile
His recompense amid the toil which shaped
A nation's destiny : these, such as these,
The glorified — the passionate — the brave —
In these I might have found the head and heart
I could have worship'd. Where are such as these? —
Not mid gay cavaliers, who make the dance
Pleasant with graceful flatteries ; whose words
A passing moment might light up my cheek,
But haunted not my solitude. The fault
Has been my own ; perhaps I ask'd too much : —
Yet let me say, what firmly I believe,
Love can be — ay, and is. I held that Love
Which chooseth from a thousand only one,
To be the object of that tenderness
Natural to every heart ; which can resign
Its own best happiness for one dear sake ;
Can bear with absence; hath no part in Hope, —
For Hope is somewhat selfish, — Love is not, —
And doth prefer another to itself.
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love,
Can melt away the dross of worldliness.
Can elevate, refine, and make the heart
Of that pure gold which is the fitting shrine
For fire, as sacred as e'er came from heaven ?
No more of this : — one word may read my heart,
And that one word is utter weariness !
Yet sometimes I look round with vain regret,
And think I will re-string my lute, and nerve
My woman's hand for nobler enterprise;
But the day never comes. Alas ! we make
A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step,
But sleep ourselves at the foot : our high resolves
Look down upon our slumbering acts.
The Ladies' Wreath, 1837
THE NIGHT-BLOWING CONVOLVULUS
Not to the sunny hours
That waken other flowers,
Dost thou fling forth the odour of thy sighing
But in the time of gloom,
Is yielded thy perfume,
Like Love, that lives when all beside is dying.
Mournful the chamber where
Thou dost embalm the air!
Familiar long with watching and with weeping,
An anxious circle gaze
Upon the moonlit rays,
Amid the tranquil waves of ocean sleeping.
Far on the waters wild
Far from his wife and child
For his sake, reckless on their quiet pillow;
More restless than his own,
He who is careless thrown,
Where sweeps the southern wind, where swells the billow.
Long have they watched and wept,
And bitter reck’ning kept
Of days, alas! that seem to have no ending;
The hourly prayer unwon,
They see the setting sun
Upon some unbroken sea descending.
To every passing cloud
A fancy is allowed;
It is the fair ship, thro’ the water springing!
Ah, no! not yet the gale
Expands her homeward sail!
Him whom they have so long expected bringing.
He would not know his child!
It was an infant smiled,
Unconscious of his sorrowful caressing;
From the red lip was heard
No familiar word;
Now, the fair boy can ask his father’s blessing.
The mother wears no more
The smile and blush she wore
In the glad days when they were lat together:
Her brow is wan with fears
Her eyes are dim with tears
Her cheek has changed with every change of weather.
Alas! her love has grown
Too anxious, and too prone
To trouble with its passionate emotion!
Upon her dreams, at night,
Come visions of affright—
All the tumultuous perils of the ocean.
When these dark thoughts prevail,
What hope can then avail,
But that which riseth amid prayer to heaven?
Upon the gloomy hour,
Like thy soft breath, sweet flower,
Whose odours are alone to midnight given.
Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
Completed from Sypher
THE OFFERING
There is a beauty vanishes away
From earth, and from earth's loveliest; we can see
The moonlight falling on the silvered lake,
The rose unfolding the deep crimson leaves
Where love-thoughts once were writ, the quiet stars
Like angels glorifying the still night.
They do not wear the light that once they wore,
Their poetry is gone— for that which made
The spirit of their beauty was in us
And from ourselves, and we are wholly changed,
And look on things with cold and altered eyes;
For the grave casts its darkness long before
We stand upon its brink !
I SEE them fading round me,
The beautiful, the bright,
As the rose-red lights that darken
At the falling of the night.
I had a lute, whose music
Made sweet the summer wind,
But the broken strings have vanished
And no song remains behind.
I had a lonely garden,
Fruit and flowers on every bough,
But the frost came too severely —
'Tis decayed and blighted now.
That lute is like my spirits —
They have lost their buoyant tone ;
Crushed and shattered, they've forgotten
The glad notes once their own.
And my mind is like that garden —
It has spent its early store ;
And wearied and exhausted,
It has no strength for more.
I will look on them as warnings,
Sent less in wrath than love,
To call the being homeward —
To its other home above.
As the Lesbian in false worship
Hung her harp upon the shrine,
When the world lost its attraction,
So will I offer mine : —
But in another spirit,
With a higher hope and aim,
And in a holier temple,
And to a holier name.
I offer up affections,
Void, violent, and vain ;
I offer years of sorrow
Of the mind, and body’s pain :
I offer up my memory —
'Tis a drear and darkened page,
Where experience has been bitter,
And whose youth has been like age.
I offer hopes, whose folly
Only after-thoughts can know,
For instead of seeking heaven
They were chained to earth below !
Saying, wrong and grief have brought me
To thy altar as a home ;
I am sad and broken-hearted,
And therefore am I come.
Let the incense of my sorrow,
Be on high, a sacrifice ;
The worn and contrite spirit
THOU alone wouldst not despise !
The Amulet, 1831
ON THE PORTRAIT OF MISS COCKAYNE
A dark-eyed beauty, one on whom the South
Has lavished loveliness; the red rose, stooping,
Has cast its shadow on that small, sweet mouth,
Whose lip is with its weight of sweetness drooping,
Like the dark hyacinth in the early spring.
Those long, soft curls in graceful rings descending,
Dark as the feather of the raven's wing,
With just one touch of golden sunshine blending.
Fair as thou art, a deeper charm is thine;
So sweet a face inspires a thousand fancies;
The history that we know not we divine,
And for thy sake invent such fair romances,
And give the fancied names, and say less bright
Were they the heroines of chivalric story,
When ready spears flung round their silver light,
And beauty gave the noblest crown to glory.
Such were the eyes that over Surrey cast
The deep enchantment of his graceful numbers,
What time the early vision by him past
Of Geraldine, just called in magic slumbers.
So soft, so dark the eyes that governed Spain
When Isabella was the worshiped sovereign,
The crown of gold and pearl could scarce restrain.
Heath’s Book of Beauty 1839
From The Literary Life and Correspondence of the Countess of Blessington. As in a note received from Miss Landon.
Miss Cockayne
by William Henry Mote, after Alfred Edward Chalon
stipple engraving, published 1839
NPG D33691
© National Portrait Gallery, London
Licensing and copyright
For all licensing and copyright matters
+44 (0)207 312 2473/4
For full version as published, see
THE PARTING CHARGE
I see the white sails of thy ship,
The blue depths of the sea;
I hear the wind sweep o'er the wave
That bears thee, love, from me.
Thy flag shines in the crimson sun,
Now setting in the brine :
That sun will set to-morrow there,
But light no sail of thine !
Yet, with to-morrow's evening star,
Again I'll seek this spot ;
Twas here I gave my parting charge,
My last — " FORGET ME NOT!"
Around my neck there is a band,
'Tis made of thy dark hair ;
Its links guard my heart's dearest prize,
A broken ring they bear.
A like pledge hangs upon thy breast,
The last sweet gift love gave,
We broke that ring, we twined that hair
Upon a maiden's grave,
A girl who died of broken vows—
(How can love be forgot?)
A fitting shrine for faithful hearts
To sigh — " FORGET ME NOT!"
How can I bear to think on all
The dangers thou must brave ?
My fears will deem each gale a storm,
While thou art on the wave.
How my young heart will cling to all
That breathes of thine or thee !
How I will plant thy favourite flowers,
And nurse thy favourite tree !
And thou ! oh thou ! be shade or shine,
Or storm or calm thy lot,
Bear on thy heart our parting words—
Our fond " FORGET ME NOT ! "
Nay, pray thee, Mother, let me gaze
Upon that distant sail ;
What matters that my eye is dim,
Or that my cheek is pale !
And tell me not 'tis vain to weep
For him who is away ;
That sighs nor tears will speed the flight
Of but a single day :
It is not that I hope to bring
My Sailor to our cot,
But who can say and yet not weep—
Farewell! — " FORGET ME NOT!”
The Forget Me Not, 1825
From a review in The Literary Gazette, 9th October, 1824
PARTING WORDS
MAY morning light fall o'er thee,
When I am far away ;
Let Hope's sweet words restore thee
All we have dreamed to-day.
I would not have thee keep me
In mind by tears alone ;
I would not have thee weep me,
Love mine, — when I am gone.
No ; — as the brook is flowing,
With sunshine at its side,
While fair wild flowers are growing,
Leant lovely o'er the tide;
So linked with many a treasure
Of nature and of spring,
With all that gives thee pleasure,
My heart to thine shall cling.
The rose shall be enchanted
To breathe of love to thee ;
All fair things shall be haunted
With vows of faith from me.
The west wind shall secure thee
My tidings from the main ;
But, most of all, assure thee
How soon we meet again.
Friendship's Offering, 1837
PASTA
I see thee, with thy night-black hair
Flung wild and loose in thy despair;
Upraised are thy imploring hands
To heaven, which yet thy prayer withstands;
And in thy deep and flashing eye
Is passion’s utter agony.
A Grecian statue dost thou seem,
Wrought up in some tumultuous dream;
While in the music of thy tone
Is every thrill to sorrow known.
Queen art thou—and still must be queen,
While one heart keeps thy haunting scene.
Schloss's English Bijou Almanac, 1839
Taken from The New Yorker, 23rd February 1839, Vol VI page 538
THE PILGRIM
And Palmer, grey Palmer, by Galilee's wave,
Oh ! saw you Count Albert, the gentle and brave,
When the crescent waxed faint, and the red cross
rushed on,
Oh ! saw you him foremost on Mount Lebanon.
* * * * * *
The ladye sat in her lonely tower,—
She woke not her lute, she touched not a flower;
Though the lute wooed her hand with its silver string,
And the roses were rich with the wealth of spring:
But she thought not of them, for her heart was afar,
It was with her knight in the Holy war.
She look’d in the west ;—it was not to see
The crimson and gold of the sky and sea,
Lighted alike by the setting sun.
As rather that day than night were begun ;
But it was that a star was rising there,
Like a diamond set in the purple air,
The natal star of her own true knight—
No marvel the maiden watched its light:
At their parting hour they bade it be
Their watch and sign of fidelity.
Amid the rich and purple crowd
That throng the west, is a single cloud,
Differing from all around, it sails,
The cradle of far other gales
Than the soft and southern airs, which bring
But the dew and the flower-sigh on their wing;
Like some dark spirit's shadowy car,
It floats on and hides that lovely star,
While the rest of the sky is bright and clear,
The sole dark thing in the hemisphere.
But the maiden had turned from sea and sky,
To gaze on the winding path, where her eye
A pilgrim's distant form had scann'd :
He is surely one of the sacred band
Who seek their heavenly heritage
By prayer and toil and pilgrimage !
She staid not to braid her raven hair,
Loose it flow'd on the summer air ;
She took no heed of her silvery veil,—
Her cheek might be kiss'd by the sun or the gale :
She saw but the scroll in the pilgrim's hand,
And the palm-branch that told of the Holy Land.
Death's Doings. 1827
THE PILGRIM
VAIN folly of another age,
This wandering over earth,
To find the peace by some dark sin,
Banished our household hearth.
On Lebanon the dark green pines
Wave over sacred ground,
And Carmel's consecrated rose
Springs from a hallow'd mound.
Glorious the truth they testify,
And blessed is their name ;
But even in such a sacred spot,
Are sin and woe the same.
O pilgrim ! vain each toilsome step,
Vain every weary day ;
There is no charm in soil or shrine,
To wash thy guilt away.
Return, with prayer and tear, return
To those who weep at home ;
To dry their tears will more avail,
Than o'er a world to roam.
There's hope for one who leaves with shame,
The guilt that lured before :
Remember, He, who said " Repent,"
Said also, "Sin no more."
Return, and in thy daily round
Of duty and of love,
Thou best wilt find that patient faith,
Which lifts the soul above.
In every innocent prayer, each child
Lisps at his father's knee,
If thine has been to teach that prayer,
There will be hope for thee.
There is a small white church, that stands
Beside thy father's grave;
There kneel and pour those earnest prayers,
That sanctify and save.
Around thee draw thine own home ties,
And with a chastened mind,
In meek well-doing seek that peace,
No wandering will find.
In charity and penitence,
Thy sin will be forgiven,
Pilgrim! the heart is the true shrine,
Whence prayers ascend to heaven.
Emmanuel, 1830
From Selections from The British Poets, 1851, modified per The Eclectic Review, 1830
THE POET'S POWER
OH, never had the poet's lute a hope,
An aim so glorious as it now may have,
In this our social state, where petty cares
And mercenary interests only look
Upon the present's littleness, and shrink
From the bold future, and the stately past, —
Where the smooth surface of society
Is polish'd by deceit, and the warm heart
With all its kind affections' early flow,
Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat,
At least for others: — 't is the poet's gift
To melt these frozen waters into tears,
By sympathy with sorrows not our own,
By wakening memory with those mournful notes,
Whose music is the thoughts of early years,
When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore
The sweetness and the freshness of their morn.
Young poet, if thy dreams have not such hope
To purify, refine, exalt, subdue,
To touch the selfish, and to shame the vain
Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness,
Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise,
Lofty and pure, and meant for general good ;
If thou hast not some power that may direct
The mind from the mean round of daily life,
Waking affections that might else have slept,
Or high resolves, the petrified before,
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense
Of inward and external loveliness,
Making imagination serve as guide
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth, —
Thine is a useless lute : break it, and die.
The Ladies' Wreath, 1837
THE POPPY
Pale are her enchanted slumbers ;
Pale is she with many dreams ;
That white brow the turban cumbers ;
Wan, yet feverish she seems.
Not the fountain's silvery flowing
Lulls that haunted sleep;
Round her are wild visions growing,
Such as wake and weep.
Drugg'd is that impassioned sleeping,
Sleep that is like life;
By the unquiet pillow keeping
Hope, and fear, and strife.
Fast the fatal flower has bound her
In its heavy spell;
Strange wild phantasms surround her,
But she knows them well.
First, there comes an hour Elysian,
Would it might remain!
Bringing back Love's early vision.
But without its pain.
Soft the myrtles of the wild wood,
Round her path-way part;
Happy like a guileless childhood,
With a woman‘s heart.
But a deeper shadow closes
On those lovely hours,
And the opening sky discloses
Old ancestral towers :
There they stand—white, stately, solemn ;
While she looks, they fall;
Round her lies the broken column,
And the ruined wall.
Then, amid a forest lonely
Does she seem to stray;
Our huge serpent, and one only,
Seems to mark her way.
Then begins her hour of terror;
Strange shapes know their time—
Struggling with some nameless error,
With some unknown crime.
Phantoms crowd around, repeating
Words that are of death;
Loud her startled heart is beating,
Louder than her breath.
But a rosy lip has kissed her,
With that kiss she wakes;
Pale she gazes on the sister,
Who her slumber breaks.
Mighty must have been the sorrow,
Passionate the grief,
Which can thus a solace borrow,
From that haunted leaf.
Scarcer does the broken-hearted
Draw a living breath;
Better it were quite departed,
Than this life in death.
Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
From the review in The Literary Gazette
PORTRAIT OF SAPPHO
———Her head was bending down
As if in weariness, and near,
But unworn, was a laurel crown.
She was not beautiful, if bloom
And smiles form beauty; for like death,
Her brow was ghastly, and her lip
Was parched, as fever were its breath.
There was a shade upon her dark,
Large, floating eyes, as if each spark
Of minstrel ecstacy was fled,
Yet leaving them no tears to shed, —
Fixed in their hopelessness of care,
And reckless in their great despair.
She sat beneath a cypress tree,
A little fountain ran beside,
And, in the distance, one dark rock
Threw its long shadow o'er the tide ;
And to the west, where the nightfall
Was darkening day's gemmed coronal,
Its white shafts crimsoning in the sky,
Arose the sun-god's sanctuary.
I deemed, that of lyre, life, and love
She was a long last farewell taking ;
That from her pale and parched lips
Her latest, wildest song was breaking.
From The Ladies’ Cabinet Album, 1834
(An extract from The Improvisatrice)
PORTRAIT PAINTING
Divinest art, the stars above
Were fated on thy birth to shine;
Oh, born of beauty and of love,
What early poetry was thine ?
THE softness of Ionian night
Upon Ionian summer lay,
One planet gave its vesper light,
Enough to guide a lover's way ;
And gave the fountain as it play'd
The semblance of a silvery shower,
And as its waters fell, they made
A music meet for such an hour :
That, and the tones the gentle wind
Won from the leaf, as from a lute
In natural melody combined,
Now that all ruder sound was mute ;
And odours floated on the air,
As many a nymph had just unbound
The wreath that braided her dark hair,
And flung the fragrant tresses round.
Pillow'd on violet leaves, which prest
Fill'd the sweet chamber with their sighs,
Lull'd by the lyre's low notes to rest,
A Grecian youth in slumber lies ;
And at his side a maiden stands,
The dark hair braided on her brow,
The lute within her slender hands,
But hush'd is all its music now ;
She would not wake him from his dreams,
Although she has so much to say,
Although the morning's earliest beams
Will see her warrior far away :
How fond and earnest is the gaze
Upon these sleeping features thrown,
She who yet never dared to raise
Her timid eyes to meet his own.
She bends her lover's rest above,
Thoughtful with gentle hopes and fears,
And that unutterable love
Which never yet spoke but in tears !
She would not that those tears should fall
Upon the cherish'd sleeper's face ;
She turns and sees upon the wall
Its imaged shade, its perfect grace.
With eager hand she mark'd each line —
The shadowy brow, the arching head —
Till some creative power divine
Love's likeness o'er Love's shadow spread.
Since then, what passion and what power
Has dwelt upon the painter's art !
How has it soothed the absent hour,
With looks that wear life's loveliest part !
The Ladies' Wreath, 1837
THE PROPOSAL
The summer sun looks laughing through the bough
Thick with the clustering leaves ; a thousand flowers
Open their bright eyes to the fanning wind ;
Songs are upon the air — a general song,
Many in one — the linnet and the thrush
Join with the blackbird in sweet unison.
All places are now fair, but far most fair
Is a lone garden by the river's side —
A garden of the ancient times, adorned
With quaint devices ; branches cut in shapes
Of courtly fashion ; and with terraces
Where foreign plants are ranged, and greenhouse flowers :
The white camelia in soft ivory carved —
The cactus, like a shining serpent, wreathed
With a red crown of rubies — orange trees
With small gold fruits, and buds that are like snow.
On such a terrace stands the maiden here :
So fair a face must love and be beloved
By summer flowers ; each has so much of each
In either's nature. She is standing now
With eyes downcast and blue ; the violet hides
So its deep colours and its dew from noon.
The rose is on her cheek ; an unquiet bloom
That comes and goes, then settles down at last
In one rich flash of pleasure. What a smile !
A heartfelt conscious smile, scarce parts the lips
That seem as if they sighed ; the deep-drawn sigh
Of anxious happiness, which builds on hope.
A scroll is in her hand ; it bears the words
Of one who loves her — dear as his own life.
What will her answer be ? A down-cast eye,
A blush, a smile — What can their answer be ?
Yes !— only " Yes !”
The Amulet, 1835
HER MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY, QUEEN VICTORIA
And has that young and graceful hand
Empire o'er land and sea ?
Yet though upon the lion's mane ;
Our little tome may be
A fitting offering, calling back
Thy childish days to thee.
A toy — a trifle, not the less
Our fairy volume brings
The heartfelt wishes for thy sake
That wait on graver things ;
May every hour its tablets note
For thee wear angels' wings.
Schoss's Bijou Almanack, 1838
RAFFAELLE
Oh, born beneath those summer hours.
That turn our common earth to flowers,
Where wind the myrtles round the hill,
And sunshine dances on the rill.
Till life is loveliness, and teems
With all the spirit's fairest dreams:
Young painter, this inspired thy hand,
Thy own rose-bound Italian land,
And made thy soft and flowing line
Of human beauty half divine.
Thy colours caught the heaven above.
Till painting turned to life and love.
The English Bijou Almanac, 1836
RAPHAEL'S DEATH-BED
How can the grave be terrible to those
Whose spirits walk the earth, even after death,
And have an influence on humanity,
In their undying glory.
'TWAS a twilight of Italy and spring,
With those pale colours that the sunsets fling,
Of shadowy rose,—or ever they are bright
With the rich purple of their summer light!
A vaulted chamber was it,—where the day
Lingered, as it were loth to pass away.
Fainter and fainter falling, till the glare
Of taper, torch, and lamp, alone, were there,
Shining o'er glorious pictures, which were fraught
With all the immortality of thought,—
And o'er a couch's canopy, where gold
Broidered and clasped the curtain's purple fold.
And is that silken pillow thus bespread
For those who cannot feel its down—the dead!
Around that couch gathers a princely train,
And swells the holy anthem's funeral strain ;
Sweeps the rich incense round it, like a cloud,
While the arch prelate's hand uplifts the shroud,—
Flings, from the silver cup, the sacred wave,
Which sains and smooths the passage to the grave. (sic)
Aye, one sleeps there,—if sleep it can be named,
By which one half of waking life is shamed.
Is that death, where the spirit stays behind,
With much as ever influence on its kind !
How can he die,—he who has left his soul
On the rich canvass, or the breathing scroll!
What is our life—our being—but the spirit,
All of our native heaven we inherit!
How can we die,—yet leave behind us all
The intellect that lit our earthly thrall!
That seems like death, which leaves behind it nought;
No void in nature,—no remembering thought;
Or, but the tenderness affection keeps,
Frail as itself—forgetting while it weeps!
That seems like death, the many thousands die,
Their sole memorials, a tear—a sigh !
But thus it is not to the mighty name,
Whose death was as the seal affixed to fame ;—
And he who sleeps there, dust returned to dust,
Paler and colder than the marble bust
Beside—now strangely like the face of death,
As rigid as itself, unwarmed by breath,—
It hath death's semblance ;—but, how can depart
The soul, yet leave its influence on the heart!
No ! when the timid prayer for heaven's grace
Shall warm its zeal no more, at the sweet face
Of thy Madonnas ; nor the patient tear
Shall fall before thy Magdalen, with less fear;
When never more a saint's pure brow shall speak
Hope to the trembling,—mercy to the weak ;
When the last hue is from thy canvass fled,
Their memory past,—then, Raphael, thou art dead !
Friendship's Offering, 1826
