Poems published in Gift Books (continued)
REMEMBRANCE
"What doth it here at such an hour?"
Love taketh many colours, and weareth many shapes,
As from the hidden heart within its lighted life escapes;
Stern circumstance is round it, till what in Heaven had birth
Seems but an added misery, to this our weary earth.
There were two that loved each other, they were but children then,
Companions in the wild wood, and comrades in the glen;
The beautiful was round them, and feeling took its tone
From the face of lovely Nature, by whose side it had grown.
Within an ancient castle, their childhood had been past,
Around whose Gothic turrets like a spirit moan'd the blast,
With a voice of many ages, for that castle stood on high
When the banner of the red cross flung its sunset o'er the Wye.
The birch copse and the wild flower, the battlements above,
The forest's summer darkness, gave its colouring to love;
And the poetry indwelling, nay, that is the heart of youth,
Was developed in such elements to a diviner truth.
But the boy springs up to manhood, the girl to woman grows,
So the sapling gives the oak tree, the bud becomes the rose;
Alas! for childhood, leaving its fairy land behind --
The green grass dies with summer, so fares it with the mind.
The world was now before them, they enter'd in its coil,
Like the serpent's rainbow circles, and with as deadly spoil;
He wedded with another, I know not of his bride,
I only speak of her who grew in girlhood at his side.
Her hair was glistening blackness, a sort of golden gloom,
Like sunshine on the raven's wing, a softness and a bloom;
Dark, like the nightfall, on her cheek the dusky eyelash lay,
But the sweet eyes beneath were blue as April or as day.
Her cheek was pale as moonlight, that melancholy light,
When the moon is at her palest, grown weary of the night;
Pale, sad, and onward looking, as if the future threw
The shadow of the coming hours it felt before it knew.
My God! the utter wretchedness that waiteth on the heart,
That nurses an unconscious hope, to see that hope depart;
That owns not to itself it loves, until that love is known,
By feeling in the wide, wide world so utterly alone.
No face seem'd pleasant to her sight, one image linger'd there,
The echo of one only voice was on the haunted air.
Speak not of other sorrow, life knoweth not such pain,
As that within the stricken heart, which loves, and loves in vain.
Yet she, too, at the altar gave up her wan cold hand,
That shudder'd as they circle it with an unwelcome band;
Ah! crime and misery both, the heart -- on such a die to set,
The veriest mockery of love is striving to forget.
She stands before her mirror, it is her wedding day,
But she hath flung aside in haste her desolate array;
Down on the ground her bridal wreath is dash'd in bitter scorn --
That hour's impassion'd agony, alas! it must be borne.
And long years are before her, long, weary, wasting years;
Though tears grow heavy on the lash, she must suppress those tears;
The past must be forgotten, and 'tis the past that gives
The truest and loveliest light in which the future lives.
Such is a common history, in this our social state,
Where destiny and nature contend in woman's fate;
To waste her best affections, to pine, to be forgot,
To droop beneath an outward smile -- such is woman's lot.
The Keepsake, 1837
RESOLVES
GLIDE thou gentle river on,
But not until I write on thee.
Much of changed, much of good,
That henceforward I will be.
By thy swift and silver stream,
Prayers and blessings will I send,
On to yonder glorious haven,
Where I see thy waters blend.
Careless river, thou has lost
All I trusted to thy wave ;
All my best intents and hopes,
In thy depths have found a grave.
Thus it is the waves of time,
Bear the heart's resolves away,
Useless all, and life's best part
Thus becomes the spoiler's prey.
Woe for man's weak foolishness,
Flaying thus the infant's part ;
Writing that upon the wave,
Which he should grave on his heart.
The Amulet, 1827
RETIREMENT
A PICTURE IN THE BRITISH GALLERY, BY LEAKY
It was a stream in Thessaly, the banks
Were solitary, for the cypress trees
Closed o'er the waters ; yet at times the wind
Threw back the branches, and then a sunbeam
Flung down a golden gift upon the wave,
And showed its treasures ; for the pebbles shone
Like pearls and purple gems, fit emblems they
For the delights that hope holds up to youth,
False in their glittering, and when they lose
The sparkle of the water and the sun,
They are found valueless. Is it not thus
With pleasures, when the freshness and the gloss
That young life threw o'er them has dried away ?
One only flower grew in that lonely place,
The lily, covered with its shadowy leaves,
Even as some Eastern beauty with her veil,
And like the favourite urns of spring ; its bells
Held odours that the zephyrs dared not steal.
And by the river was a maiden leant,
With large dark eyes, whose melancholy light
Seemed as born of deep thought which had gone through
Full many a stage of human wretchedness, —
Had known the anxious misery of love, —
The sickness of the hope which pines and dies
From many disappointments, — and the waste
Of feelings in the gay and lighted hall ; —
But more, as knowledge grew but from report
Than its own sad experience ; for she loved
The shelter of the quiet mountain valley,
The shadow of the scented myrtle grove,
And, more than all, the solitary bend,
Hidden by cypresses, of her own river. —
They called the nymph — Retirement.
The Literary Souvenir, 1826
THE RETURN
Nantz is a fair city, but it seemed the very fairest in the world to the traveller, for he had been absent years: he left it poor, but he came back rich; and the home of his youth was again to be the home of his age.
“ Drop down your oars, the waters trace
Their own path fast enough for me;
Life sometimes asks a breathing space—
Such I am fain this hour should be.
“ Fair city, I am come once more;
Travel and toil are on my brow;
With all I thought so great of yore—
With all I think so little now!
“ Sorrow for friends I left behind—
Misgiving fears were with me then;
And yet I bore a lighter mind
Than now I see those walls again.
“ Hope is youth’s prophet, and foretells
The future that its wish reveals ;
The energy that in us dwells
Then judges but by what it feels.
“ And it feels buoyant spirits, health,
And confidence, and earnestness;
And it ascribes such power to wealth
Which but to seek is to possess.
“ The future was my own: my life
Has past as many men’s have past;
Adventure, trouble, sorrow, strife,
Yet with success, and home at last.
“ But Hope has fled on morning’s wings,
And Memory sits with darken’d eye;
And I have learn’d life’s dearest things
Are those which never wealth could buy.
“ Affection’s circle soon grows less—
The dead, the changed, what blanks are there!
And what avails half life’s success,
No early friends can see and share?
“ My heart has still turn’d back through years,
Whose shadow now around me falls;
I dread to turn to truth the fears,
The hopes in yonder city’s walls.
“ How fair a scene, the morning light
And human life’s most cheerful sound;
The banks so glad, the stream so bright,
I hear my native tongue around.
“ Oh! for some voice I used to hear,
The grasp of one familiar hand;
So long desired, and now so near—
On, boatmen, on, I long to land.”
The Keepsake, 1831
RETZSCH
Close it not yet— that graceful page,
That page of many fancies,
Which realise to common eyes
The mind-create romances.
Here is the history of the Bell—
A history containing
Our actual world of hopes and fears,
Rejoicing and complaining.
Thanks, charmed art, that thus can catch
The poets’ wildest measure;
And to the music of their page
Can add another pleasure.
The English Bijou Almanack, 1836
ROBERT BURNS AND HIS HIGHLAND MARY
After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affection, we met by appointment, on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands.
Burns' Letters.
A Highland girl, a peasant he,
To whom the present made
Within itself eternity,
And the whole world that shade
Beneath the trees which gently stirred
With music on each bough,
The waving leaf, the singing-bird,
And whispers fairy low, —
A long, a bright long summer's day
Passed, like the stream beside,
Which ran in shine and song away,
Though scarcely seen to glide.
They parted — she to early rest,
And he to earn a name
A nation ranks amid her best,
And gives, what they gave, fame :
Let no one deem, that vain regret
Is in the peevish lays
Which say, too high a price is set
Upon such hard-won praise.
Look on the wrong and littleness,
The sorrow and the strife,
The hope, that every day makes less,
Of literary life ;
Look on the consciousness of power,
The presence of despair,
The vision of the loftier hour,
Broken by real care ;
Even as the Jewish monarch fared,
Who walked in joy or pain
Alternate, as sweet music shared
The evil spirit's reign.
But what have we to do with this ?
Ours is that earlier time,
Ere the heart fevered for vain bliss,
Or the lip spoke in rhyme.
The power within him only gave
New beauty to the scene ;
Linked love-thoughts with the gentle wave,
And with the forest green ;
And gave the sweet and simple face
On which he gazed, a charm ; —
A grace beyond all other grace,
Beyond all time to harm.
The influence of that hour appears,
When it could only seem
'Mid other loves, and hopes, and fears.
To memory, like a dream.
Still it rose beautiful and young ;
A thought alone — apart —
A first creed, to which faith still clung, —
An Eden of the heart !
Ah ! early love ! ah ! only love !
Yes, only ! — what can be
Our flower below, our star above,
In after life, like thee?
Affection lingers to the last,
And we may love once more ;
Morn's freshness is with morning past —
We love not as of yore.
We have grown selfish, and we know
The strength of chance and change ;
For many a voice is altered now,
And many an eye grown strange.
Where is the early confidence,
Whose kindly trust depends,
Drawn from itself its inference,
On future hours and friends ?
Gone, gone! so soon! — yet not in vain
Has been their sojourn here ;
A fountain in the desert plain
Of memory, pure and dear.
A well of sympathy for those,
The loving and the young,
Letting not that harsh circle close
By interest round us flung.
If thus with them — the stern, the cold,
What must its charm have been
To one cast in the poet's mould, —
He of this fairy scene?
A spirit from that hour was shed,
His spell of song to be ;
And if in other hearts he read,
His own heart was the key !
The Literary Souvenir, 1831
THE ROSE OF EDEN-DALE AND HER HOTHOUSE FLOWERS
They were so beautiful this morn —
The lily's graceful wand
Hung with small bells, as delicate
As from a fairy's hand.
The Indian rose, so softly red,
As if in coming here
It lost the radiance of the south,
And caught a shade of fear.
The white geranium vein'd with pink,
Like that within the shell
Where, on a bed of their own hues,
The pearls of ocean dwell.
But where is now the snowy white,
And where the tender red ?
How heavy over each dry stalk,
Droops every languid head !
They are not worth my keeping now —
She flung them on the ground —
Some strewed the earth, and some the wind
Went scattering idly round.
She then thought of those flowers no more,
But oft, in after- years,
When the young cheek was somewhat pale,
And the eyes dim with tears —
Then she recalled the faded wreath
Of other happier hours,
And felt love’s joy and hope had been
But only Hothouse Flowers.
The Juvenile Forget Me Not, 1833
THE RUINED COTTAGE
Oh there is
A deep, sweet feeling in the human heart,
Which makes life beautiful amid its thorns !
None will dwell in that cottage, for they say
Oppression reft it from the honest man,
And a curse clings to it : hence the vine
Trails its green weight of leaves upon the ground ;
Hence weeds are in that garden : hence the hedge,
Once sweet with honeysuckle, is half dead :
And hence the grey moss on the apple tree.
One once dwelt there, who had been in his youth
A soldier ; and when many years had past,
He sought his native village, and sat down
To end his days in peace. He had one child—
A little laughing thing, whose large dark eyes,
He said, were like the mother's she had left
Buried in stranger lands ; and time went on
In comfort and content — and that fair girl
Had grown far taller than the red rose tree
Her father planted her first English birth-day.
And he had trained it up against an ash
Till it became his pride ; — it was so rich
In blossom and in beauty, it was called
The tree of Isabel. 'Twas an appeal
To all the better feelings of the heart,
To mark their quiet happiness, their home —
In truth a home of love; and more than all,
To see them on the Sabbath, when they came
Among the first to church, and Isabel,
With her bright colour and her clear glad eyes
Bowed down so meekly in the house of prayer;
And in the hymn her sweet voice audible:
Her father looked so fond on her, and then
From her looked up so thankfully to Heaven!
And their cottage was so very neat;
Their garden tilled with fruits, and herbs, and flowers;
And in the winter there was no fireside
So cheerful as their own. But other days
And other fortunes came — an evil power.
They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped
For better times, but ruin came at last ;
And the soldier left his own dear home,
And left it for a prison ; 'twas in June,
One of June's brightest days — the bee, the bird,
The butterfly, were on their lightest wings;
The fruits had their first tinge of summer light ;
The sunny sky, the very leaves seemed glad,
And the old man looked back upon his cottage
And wept aloud : — they hurried him away,
And the dear child that would not leave his side.
They led him from the sight of the blue heaven
And the green trees, into a low, dark cell,
The windows shutting out the blessed sun
With iron grating ; and for the first time
He threw him on his bed, and could not hear
His Isabel's good night. But the next morn
She was the earliest at the prison gate,
The last on which it closed, and her sweet voice
And sweeter smile made him forget to pine.
She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers,
But every morning could he see her check
Grow paler and more pale, and her low tones
Get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew
Was on the hand he held. One day he saw
The sunshine through the grating of his cell,
Yet Isabel came not : at every sound
His heart-beat took away his breath, yet still
She came not near him. For but one sad day
He marked the dull street through the iron bars
That shut him from the world ; at length he saw
A coffin carried carelessly along,
And he was desperate — he forced the bars ;
And he stood in the street free and alone.
He had no aim, no wish for liberty —
He only felt one want, to see the corpse
That had no mourners ; when they set it down,
Or ere 'twas lowered into the new-dug grave,
A rush of passion came upon his soul,
And he tore off the lid, and saw the face
Of Isabel, and knew he had no child !
He lay down by the coffin quietly—-
His heart was broken ! . . . . .
Forget Me Not, 1825
From The Gospel Advocate and Impartial Investigator
Amended and completed from Frank Sypher
SANS SOUCI
COME ye forth to our revel by moonlight,
With your lutes and your spirits in tune;
The dew falls to-night like an odour,
Stars weep o'er our last day in June.
Come maids leave the loom and its purple,
Though the robe of a monarch were there;
Seek your mirror, I know 'tis your dearest,
And be it to-night your sole care.
Braid ye your curls in their thousands,
Whether dark as the raven's dark wing,
Or bright as that clear summer colour,
When sunshine lights every ring.
On each snow ankle lace silken sandal,
Don the robes like the neck they hide white;
Then come forth like planets from darkness,
Or like lilies at day-break's first light.
Is there one who half regal in beauty,
Would be regal in pearl and in gem;
Let her wreath her a crown of red roses,
No rubies are equal to them.
Is there one who sits languid and lonely,
With her fair face bowed down on her hand,
With a pale cheek and glittering eyelash,
And careless locks 'scaped from their band.
For a lover not worth that eye's tear-drop,
Not worth that sweet mouth's rosy kiss,
Nor that cheek though 'tis faded to paleness;
I know not the lover that is.
Let her bind up her beautiful tresses;
Call her wandering rose back again;
And for one prisoner 'scaping her bondage,
A hundred shall carry her chain.
Come, gallants, the gay and the graceful,
With hearts like the light plumes ye wear;
Eyes all but divine light our revel,
Like the stars in whose beauty they share.
Come ye, for the wine cups are mantling,
Some clear as the morning's first light;
Others touched with the evening's last crimson,
Or the blush that may meet ye to night.
There are plenty of sorrows to chill us,
And troubles last on to the grave;
But the coldest glacier has its rose-tint,
And froth rides the stormiest wave.
Oh! Hope will spring up from its ashes,
With plumage as bright as before;
And pleasures like lamps in a palace,
If extinct, you need only light more.
When one vein of silver's exhausted,
'Tis easy another to try;
There are fountains enough in the desert,
Though that by your palm-tree be dry:
When an India of gems is around you,
Why ask for the one you have not?
Though the roc in your hall may be wanting,
Be contented with what you have got.
Come to-night, for the white blossomed myrtle
Is flinging its love-sighs around;
And beneath like the veiled eastern beauties,
The violets peep from the ground.
Seek ye for gold and for silver,
There are both on these bright orange-trees;
And never in Persia the moonlight
Wept o'er roses more blushing than these.
There are fireflies sparkling by myriads,
The fountain wave dances in light;
Hark! the mandolin's first notes are waking,
And soft steps break the sleeping of night.
Then come all the young and the graceful,
Come gay as the lovely should be,
'Tis much in this world's toil and trouble,
To let one midnight pass Sans Souci.
The Bijou, 1828
SCHILLER
Oh, many are the lovely shapes
That glide along thy lovelier line,
And glorious is the breathing life
That warms that burning page of thine.
But never yet a form more fair
Amid the poet's visions moved,
Than Thekla, thy sweet fancy's child,
The German maid who ‘lived and loved.'
For her sad sake shall woman's tears
Bedew thy low sepulchral cell,
And say — thrice blessed be the sleep
Of him who knew our hearts so well.
English Bijou Almanack, 1836
“THE SCROLL."
The maiden's cheek blush'd ruby bright,
And her heart beat quick with its own delight;
Again she should dwell on those vows so dear.
Almost as if her lover were near.
Little deemed she that letter would tell
How that true lover fought and fell.
The maiden read till her cheek grew pale—
Yon drooping eye tells all the tale :
She sees her own knight's last fond prayer,
And she reads in that scroll her heart's despair.
Oh ! grave, how terrible art thou
To young hearts bound in one fond vow.
Oh ! human love, how vain is thy trust;
Hope ! how soon art thou laid in dust.
Thou fatal pilgrim, who art thou,
As thou fling'st the black veil from thy shadowy brow?
I know thee now, dark lord of the tomb,
By the pale maiden's withering bloom :
The light is gone from her glassy eye,
And her cheek is struck by mortality ;
From her parted lip there comes no breath,
For that scroll was fate—its bearer—Death.
Death's Doings, 1827
THE SECRET DISCOVERED
Or all the things that angels see,
Who look from heaven above,
There cannot be a sweeter thing
Than is a sister's love.
It groweth in our early years,
It shareth in their light ;
It blendeth fancies, fears and hopes,
With a sweet sense of right.
Count Herman had two daughters fair,
And very fair were they ;
The one was like a summer night,
One like a summer day.
Though three or four brief years were all
They measured to each other,
Yet Elinore had always been
To Minna, like a mother.
A pale and thoughtful girl was she,
And with a statue's grace
Upon the tall and perfect form,
And on the pensive face.
But Minna was a fairy thing,
With sunshine in her eyes ;
And such a blush as the red rose
To welcome June supplies.
The song with which she woke the morn,
At night was scarcely done ;
Her spirits, to her sister, were
Like walking in the sun.
Of late the blush had been less bright,
The eyes of deeper blue ;
As if the just awakening heart
Its own soft shadow threw.
Her sister watched her anxiously,
She saw that she was changed ;
And felt, although she would not own,
Somewhat they were estranged.
For sudden and unnatural
Was often Minna's glee ;
And her fond sister saw the tears
She was not meant to see.
One day she watched her steal away
Towards a little wood ;
Ah ! what could Minna's young glad heart
Desire of solitude ?
She saw her bend above a scroll,
She saw her bend and weep ;
" My own sweet sister, why should'st thou
Such weary secret keep ?"
Unseen she reached the reader's side :
Ah ! doth she see aright ?
There is a name upon the scroll, —
Her own betrothed knight.
She had, herself, when but a child,
Been named Count Rodolph's bride ;
Alas ! now for her woman's love,
And for her woman's pride.
She felt it was their fathers' act,
In which he had no part,
Though they may give the hand away,
They cannot give the heart.
A moment, and her cheek was pale
Beyond its natural hue ;
A moment, and a deeper breath
The struggling bosom drew.
Her sister turned, and saw her there ;
She only met a smile ;
And Elinore, to calm her tears,
Forgot her own the while.
She drew the maiden to her side,
And soothed her with fond words,
And sympathy, whose music comes
From the heart's own fine chords.
She said that she was glad to know
Her sister's heart was given,
For that her own had only room
For their own hearth, and heaven.
A few weeks, and the hills around
Caught lute and trumpet's call ;
For stately was the wedding feast
Within Count Herman's hall.
And Elinore arrayed the bride,
And bound her golden hair ;
And if her cheek was pale, it seemed
But a fond sister's care.
Years passed ; beside their lonely hearth.
She cheered her father's age,
And made, for him, life's last dark leaf
A sweet and sunny page.
Did never other lovers come ?
They did — but came in vain ;
A heart like hers, when given once,
Is given not again.
Friendship's Offering, 1837
THE SERENADE
'Tis midnight, and there is a world of stars
Hanging in the blue heaven, bright and clear,
And shining, as if they were only made
To sparkle in the mirror of the lake.
And light up flower-gardens and green groves.
By yonder lattice, where the thick vine-leaves
Are canopy and curtain, set with gems
Rich in the autumn's gift of ruby grapes,
A maiden leans :—it is a lovely night.
But, lovely as it is, the hour is late
For beauty's vigil, and to that pale cheek
Sleep might give back the roses watching steals.
Slumber, and happy slumber, such as waits
On youth, and hope, and innocence, was made
To close those soft blue eyes. What can they know
Of this world's sorrow, strife, and anxiousness?
What can Wealth be to the young mind that has
A mine of treasure in its own fresh feelings ?
And Fame, oh woman ! has no part in it ; and Hate,
Those sweet lips cannot know it ; and Remorse,
That waits on guilt,—and Guilt has set no sign
On that pure brow : 'tis none of these that keep
Her head from its down pillow, but there is
A visitant in that pale maiden's breast
Restless as Avarice, anxious as Fame,
Cruel as Hate, and pining as Remorse,—
Secret as Guilt ; a passion and a power
That has from every sorrow taken a sting,—
A flower from every pleasure, and distilled
An essence where is blent delight and pain;
And deep has she drained the bewildering cup,
For Isadore watches and wakes with Love.
Hence is it that of the fair scene below
She sees one only spot ; in vain the lake
Spreads like a liquid sky, o'er which the swans
Wander, fleece-clouds around the one small isle,
Where lilies glance like a white marble floor,
In the tent made by pink acacia boughs ;
In vain the garden spreads, with its gay banks
Of flowers, o'er which the summer has just pass'd,
The bride-like rose,—the rich anemone,
The treasurer of June's gold ; the hyacinth,
A turret of sweet colours ; and, o'er all,
The silver fountains playing :—but in vain !
Isadore's eye rests on that cypress grove:
A bright warm crimson is upon her cheek,
And her red lip is opened as to catch
The air that brought the sound upon the gale.
There is a sweet low tone of voice and lute,
And, oh! Love's eyes are lightening,—she has caught
A shadow, and the wave of a white plume
Amid those trees, and, with her hair flung back,
She listens to the song :—
Lady sweet, this is the hour
Time's loveliest to me;
For now my lute may breathe of love,
And it may breathe to thee.
All day I sought some trace of thine,
But never likeness found ;
But still to be where thou hast been
Is treading fairy ground.
I watched the blushing evening fling
Her crimson o'er the skies,—
I saw it gradual fade, and saw,
At length, the young moon rise.
And very long it seemed to me
Before her zenith hour,
When sleep and shade conspire to hide
My passage to thy bower.
I will not say—wake not, dear love,—
I know thou wilt not sleep ;
Wilt thou not from thy casement lean,
And one lone vigil keep ?
Ah ! only thus to see thee, love.
And watch thy bright hair play
Like gold around thine ivory arm,
Is worth a world of day.
Gradual he had drawn nearer and more near,
And now he stood so that his graceful shape
Was visible, and his flashing eyes were raised
With all the eloquence of love to her's :
She took an azure flower from her hair,
And flung it to him.—Flowers are funeral gifts,—
And, ere his hand could place upon his heart
The fragile leaves, another hand was there—
The hand of Death.
Alas for her proud kinsmen !
'Tis their work ! the gallant and the young
Lies with the dagger in his faithful breast,
The destiny of love.
Death's Doings, 1827
THE SHAMROCK
Hope, mirth, and love, these are the bonds
That link them to each other —
Those fairy sisters who support
Their little laughing brother.
Their eyes are filled with happiness,
Each face is very fair,
And their bright heads — a day in June
Has shed its sunshine there.
Raised as in triumph on their arms,
The youngest one looks down —
He is a monarch absolute
As ever wore a crown.
There's many a king in Europe now,
With sceptre and with sword,
Whose regal will is far more curbed
Than his — that infant lord.
Ah ! other days will come than these,
Such as time ever brings ;
When fade the flowers beneath his feet,
The sunshine from his wings !
When many a bitter thought is writ
Within the altered mind,
The faithless friend, the hope betrayed,
The look and word unkind.
But what hath pining discontent
To do with this glad three ?
Who are as glad as birds that sing
Within a summer tree :
Or as the flowers that lift their heads
Upon a sunny day —
So joyous in their own delight,
So beautiful are they !
The image of a happy child
Doth link itself with all
That natural loveliness, which least
Reminds us of our fall.
Somewhat of angel purity,
Somewhat of angel grace,
Ere longer years bring shade and soil,
Are on a childish face.
Now farewell to the beautiful !
May never future years
Throw paleness o'er each cheek of rose,
Or fill those eyes with tears !
May smiles still linger round each lip,
And sunshine on each brow,
And many summers find each face
As fair and glad as now !
The Juvenile Forget Me Not, 1833
SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE
Thy hand is cold !—thy colors weave
Their graceful lines no more!
Yet, painter of each lovely face
That lit our island shore,
These faces from the canvass shine,
And haunt us still with thee and thine.
Hero and beauty—all who flung
Their spell around their day—
Owe to thy pencil memories
That will not pass away;
The past-the present seems to be,
Thanks to thy art and thee!
Schloss's Bijou Almanack, 1839
From the obituary in The New Yorker
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Now honour to the glorious head
Numbered with the immortal dead,
Yet leaving life behind,
Creations to whose charmed powers
We owe so many happy hours —
The treasures of the mind.
White be the marble for his grave,
And o'er it let the laurel wave,
Till time itself depart.
But marble white, and laurel tree.
For memory, what needeth he
Whose shrine is in our heart !
The English Bijou Almanack, 1838
Taken from The Star, 1837
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY
Sleep with honey-dews hath bound her,
Sleep unwaked by day ;
Through the forest growing round her
None may take their way,
For it is a path forbidden
By the words of power ;
There the beauty must be hidden
Till the appointed hour ;
Till the young deliverer cometh,
And the maiden life resumeth.
Purple fruit and golden chalice
Lie upon the floor ;
For, in that enchanted palace,
All is as before.
There still is the censer burning,
With its perfumed flame ;
Years on many years returning,
See it still the same ;
It will burn till light re-living
In those closed eyes quench its giving.
There her ivory lute, too, slumbers
On the haunted ground,
Silent are its once sweet numbers,
Like all things around ;
On her cheek the rose is breathing
With its softest red ;
And the auburn hair is wreathing
Round the graceful head :
Changeth not that rosy shade,
Stirreth not that auburn braid.
Hath the wild west wind then only
Leave to come and weep ?
Is the lovely one left lonely
To her charmed sleep ?
No, when yon full moon has risen
O'er the azure lake,
Cometh one to that sweet prison
For the sleeper's sake ;
On that only moonlit hour
Hath the gentle fairy power.
Then she calls fair spirits nigh her,
Each one with a dream,
So with sweet thoughts to supply her,
And those shadows seem
Real as life, but that each vision
Hath a lovelier ray,
More etherial and elysian
Than earth's common day.
Human thoughts and feelings keep
Life in that enchanted sleep.
Soon o'er that dark pine and laurel
Will a youth prevail :
Is there not a gentle moral
In that fairy tale ?
Like that maiden's sleep unwaking,
Slumbereth woman's heart,
Till Love comes, that slumber breaking
For life's loveliest part.
Ah, the heart which it must waken
Soon will mourn its rest forsaken !
Forget Me Not, 1837
SONG
Dream, dream, let me dream,
Wherefore should I waken,
Sleep is as a fairy land
Not yet by spells forsaken.
Break not on the gentle charm
In which night has bound me,
Wherefore, wherefore should I wake
To the cold world around me ?
Dreaming only, faithless love
Will not win to leave us ;
Dreaming only, may we trust
Hope will not deceive us ;
Dreaming, memory can forget
Its corroding sorrow : —
Night forgets that as to-day
So will be to-morrow.
There are opiates for the heart,
In its anguish breaking,
Spells of light to witch the cares
Whose darkness haunts us waking.
Dream, dream, let me dream,
Wherefore should I waken —
To know my heart is as a grave,
By hope and love forsaken.
The Casket, 1829
SONG
FAREWELL ! — we shall not meet again
As we are parting now !
I must my beating heart restrain —
Must veil my burning brow !
Oh, I must coldly learn to hide
One thought, all else above —
Must call upon my woman's pride
To hide my woman's love !
Check dreams I never may avow ;
Be free, be careless, cold as thou !
Oh! those are tears of bitterness,
Wrung from the breaking heart,
When two blest in their tenderness,
Must learn to live — apart!
But what are they to that lone sigh,
That cold and fixed despair,
That weight of wasting agony
It must be mine to bear?
Methinks I should not thus repine,
If I had but one vow of thine.
Farewell ! we have not often met, —
We may not meet again ;
But on my heart the seal is set
Love never sets in vain!
Fruitless as constancy may be,
No chance, no change, may turn from thee
One who has loved thee wildly, well, —
But whose first love-vow breathed — farewell.
The Ladies' Wreath, 1837
SONG
I gave thee, love, a snow-white wreath
Of lilies for thy raven hair;
Alas ! that now another’s gift,
Rubies and gold, should glitter there.
I saw this morn that lily wreath
Neglected thrown upon the ground,
And then I saw upon thy brow
The chaplet of those rubies bound.
’Tis no new passion, no new face,
Hath won thy fickle heart from me ;
That had better borne than know
That gold hath wrought this change in thee.
Forget Me Not, 1828
From the New York Mirror and Ladies’ Literary Gazette, 24th November 1827
SONG
I wrote my name upon the sand;
I thought I wrote it on thine heart.
I had no touch of fear, that words,
Such words, so graven, could depart.
The sands, thy heart, alike have lost
The name I trusted to their care;
And passing waves, and worldly thoughts,
Effaced what once was written there.
Woe, for the false sands! and worse woe,
That thou art falsest of the twain!
I, yet, may write upon the sands,
But never on thine heart, again.
Friendship’s Offering, 1827
SONG
Our early years—our early years,
Recall them not again ;
The memory of former joy,
The pang of former pain.
Where is our childhood ? Where are they
The playmates of the heart,
Whose first sweet lesson was to love,
Whose second was to part ?
The Dead are with the past ; for them
How fruitless our despair !
Unkindness, anger, fondness, grief,
Alike are buried there.
Alas ! such thoughts can only weep
The heart's most bitter rain :
Our early years—our early years,
Recall them not again.
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1833
THE STAG
It is morning, and the sky,
Like a royal canopy,
Burns with crimson and with gold;
And from out his cloudy hold
Joyfully breaks forth the sun,
While each thing he looks upon
Seems bright as if only born
For that first glad hour of morn.
What sweet sound then pass'd along ?
'Twas the skylark's earliest song.
What soft breath is floating by ?
The wild rose's waking sigh,
Breathing odours, as the gale
Shakes away her dewy veil.
There are other sights than these,
Other sounds are on the breeze :
Hearken to the baying hound,
Hearken to the bugles sound ;
Horse-tramp, shout, upon the ear,
Tell the hunter-band are near.
Sweep they now across the plain—
Sooth it is a gallant train :
Many a high-born dame is there;
Dance their rich curls on the air,
Catching many a golden hue,
Catching many a pearl of dew ;
Flush the colours on their cheek,
Lovelier than the morning's break ;
Scour the young knights far and wide,
As they would to battle ride,
Finding, gallant chase, in thee
Somewhat of war's mimickry.
Hark ! the hunters' shouts declare
They have found the red deer's lair ;
Rising from his fragrant sleep,
Where a thousand wild flowers creep,
With one sudden desperate spring
Rushes forth the forest-king,
Like the lightning from the sky,
Like the wind, when winds are high.
Far, ere yet the train were near,
Dash'd away the noble deer,
As rejoicing in the speed
Which might mock the Arab steed.
As he pass’d the forest green,
Well his pathway might he seen ;
Many a heavy oaken bough
Bent before his antler'd brow ;
Shout and horn rung through the wood—
Paused he not beside the flood :
Foam and flake shone on its blue,
As the gallant stag, dash'd through.
Long or ever mid-day came,
Wearied stopt each lovely dame,
In some green tree's shade, content
But to hear the day's event.
Still the stag held on his way,
Careless through what toils it lay,
Down deep in the tangled dell,
Or o'er the steep rock’s pinnacle;
Stanch the steed, and bold the knight,
That would follow such a flight.
Of the morning's gallant train
Few are those who now remain.
Wearily the brave stag drew
His deep breath, as on he flew ;
Heavily his glazed eye
Seems to seek somewhere to die ;
All his failing strength is spent—
Now to gain one steep ascent !
Up he toils— the height is won—
'Tis the sea he looks upon.
Yet upon the breeze are borne
Coming sounds of shout and horn :
The hunters gain the rock's steep crest—
Starts he from his moment's rest,
Proudly shakes his antler'd head,
As though his defiance said,
'Come, but your triumph shall be vain !'—
The proud stag plunges in the main,
Seeks and finds beneath the wave
Safety, freedom, and a grave.
Forget Me Not 1827
From The Literary Gazette review, 28th October 1826
STANZAS
Oh life, what wouldst thou be, but that thine end
Has hope !
MY heart hath turned away
From its early dream ;
To me its course has been
Like a mountain stream.
Pure and clear it left
Its place of birth ;
But soon on every wave
Were taints of earth.
Weeds grew upon the banks,
And as the waters swept
A bad or useless part,
Of all they kept
Till it reached the plain below
An altered thing,
Bearing trace and sign
Of its wandering.
Withered and noxious leaves
Floated on its brim,
And the blue, clear face of heaven
Was in its mirror dim.
Just thus my heart has changed
By the world which it has past ;
Ah, hope, and truth, and feeling,
Are too pure to last.
But that stream will wash away
Its earthly soil and stain,
When its wandering has reached
Its grave, the main.
And such is my heart's hope
From sorrow and sully free,
It will find a glorious home —
Thy rest — eternity.
The Amulet, 1826
THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE
Look on this mound ; the newly-turn'd-up earth
Has two or three green patches of wild flowers,
Pale in their slighted beauty ; one white group
Of daisies, that, like the sweet gifts of hope,
Spring every where : methinks, it were a spot
Whereon the traveller would love to pause,
And the tir'd peasant rest him from his toil, —
So cool the ashen tree spreads its green cloud,
So beautiful the lanes that from it wind,
So rich the sweep of meadows it commands.
But no ! all shun the place ; some in vague fear,
And some in pity, some in pious awe :
It is the Suicide's unholy grave :
The one who sleeps here, had no humble prayer
Breath'd o'er the clay it hallow'd by its faith ; —
Even in death, shunn'd by his fellow men !
In the small village which that first green lane
Leads to, in serpentines of sun and shade,
By hedges, fill'd with may and violets,
And scarlet strawberries and honey-suckle,
An old man dwelt; he had an only son,
The child, of his old age. Himself had led
A life of toil upon the ocean wave,
And came at length to spend his latter days,
In peace and quiet, ‘neath the straw-thatch'd roof
Which saw his birth.
A few brief words may tell
How pass’d the early childhood of that boy,
In innocence, in health, and happiness:
But time brings many changes, and he went
To seek his fortune in the crowded city.
It was a sabbath evening when he left
His native village, and the ringing bells
Were pealing cheerfully, and the red light
Made mirrors of the cottage lattices.
When they had reach'd the green lane, which shut out
The hamlet from their view, the old man paus'd,
And bade the youth look back. " Just such a day
It was when I return'd again to my own home ;
May your heart be as light when you come back
As mine was then."
They parted, and the boy
Went on, with hurried steps, as if to leave
His thoughts and tears behind. But once he paused
Before a brake in the thick hedge's screen ;
There lay the meadows, with their fragrant hay ,
Breathing of June; the small white cottages,
The garden filled with fruit trees, the clear stream,
The willows crowding on its further bank ;
The church, whose window like a rainbow shone ;
And there he saw his father, saw him turn
Towards the burying ground, and tears, which fill'd
His heart, gush'd forth like rain. Why must we lose
The sweet warm feelings of our earlier time ?
The world is as the sea, in whose salt waves,
Like streams, we lose the freshness of our youth.
Long years have pass'd,
Yet look from that green lane, and mark how slight
The change that time has made ; the same clear stream
Darkens beneath the willow, the red sun
Lights the same colours in the window pane;
And there the cottage, where the old man dwelt
Looking the same, though he dwells there no more.
Alas! how much the change that marks the course
Of time, is only in man's heart and works !
There is such change in cities ; towers arise,
And halls and palaces, and the next day
Some other vanity fills up the scene.
But in the quiet valleys, where the hind
Lives in the cottage, follows at the plough,
Which were his father's, time will scarcely leave
A vestige of his flight. Yet, even here
One saddest change has been ; that aged man,
Propping his feeble steps by the white rail
Before the workhouse, he is old and blind,
And the rail is at once support and guide.
His eyes have lost their sight with many tears :
The child he loved, led step by step to guilt,
Had been an outcast from his native land,
For seven long years. One morning he had crept
By his accustomed path, rejoiced to feel
The warmth of summer light upon his brow,
And near his side passed a pale haggard man,
Who turn'd to gaze upon him : 'twas his child !
My Father ! groan'd the wanderer, and hid
His ghastly face within his hands; the voice
Pierced to the old man's heart — he knew his son —
He trembled, and the wretched one sprang forth
And caught him in his arms , — but he was dead !
Next day, a corpse was seen upon the river :
They took the body, but they did not dare
To lay the guilty where the innocent
Sleep their last holy slumber: it was laid
In common earth, where careless feet might tread;—
It is this mound.
Friendship's Offering, 1825
From The Literary Gazette review, 6th November 1824
“THE SWORD”
'Twas the battle-field, and the cold pale moon
Look'd down on the dead and dying,
And the wind pass'd o'er, with a dirge and a wail,
Where the young and the brave were lying.
With his father's sword in his red right hand,
And the hostile dead around him,
Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground.
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.
A reckless rover, 'mid death and doom,
Pass'd a soldier, his plunder seeking :
Careless he stept where friend and foe
Lay alike in their life-blood reeking.
Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
The soldier paused beside it ;
He wrench'd the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.
He loosed his hold, and his English heart
Took part with the dead before him,
And he honour'd the brave who died sword in hand,
As with soften'd brow he leant o'er him.
"A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,
A soldiers grave won by it ;
Before I would take that sword from thine hand.
My own life's-blood should dye it.
Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf to batten o'er thee ;
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,
Who in life had trembled before thee."
Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth
Where his warrior foe was sleeping ;
And he laid him there in honour and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping.
Forget Me Not, 1828
From the Literary Gazette review, 20th October 1827