Poems published in Gift Books (continued)
THE THUNDER-STORM
"Fear not, thy God is with thee."
It comes ! — the rushing wind has burst
The silence and the weight which nurst
Its gathering strength : deep as the tomb,
One heavy cloud sweeps on in gloom ;
A few faint gleams of broken light —
A streak of blue — all else is night ! —
Not the soft night of moon and star,
But made by elements at war.
A human step is on the heath —
A child that bears a wild-flower wreath :
Wild o'er the mountains howls the wind ;
The morn's fair vale is far behind ;
She is alone: her large blue eye
Turns timid to the awful sky ;
The innocent, the loved, the young,
To whom the widow's heart has clung ;
The dear reminder of the past,
On whom all future hope is cast.
Guarded by all thy mother's tears,
Sweet orphan, shake from thee thy fears ;
Tremble to mark God's might above,
Tremble, but cheer thy dread with love !
Though dark the tempest o'er thy head,
Not this the tempest thou shouldst dread —
Dread thou the storms which coming time
Must mingle with thine hour of prime —
The tempests of the heart, which none,
However they subdue, may shun.
The feverish hope, the vain desire,
Envy, repentance, grief, and ire,
The trust deceived, the faith betray'd,
The wrong that only Heaven can aid :
These wait for all, and these must be
A portion of thy life and thee.
Ah ! when in after-years, if care
Or toil seem more than thou canst bear;
And sleepless night, and anxious day,
Wear life in heaviness away ;
Think thou, amid thy weary lot,
How this storm pass'd and harm'd thee not :
The Hand that kept the wind-swept hill
And lonely moor is with thee still,
The same to save, the same to spare,
Let thy lip guard its early prayer.
Thy wrongs are register'd on high,
Thy tears a holy hope shall dry,
Thy toil meet harvest will return,
Thy grief is as the fires that burn
And purify, if that thy heart
Has kept its early faith apart ;
If thou canst raise a heavenward brow
As trustingly as thou dost now ;
If meekest faith and piety
Can say — Thy God is still with thee.
Forget Me Not, 1832
TIVOLI
Hushing, like uncurbed passion, thro' the rocks
Which it has riven with a giant's strength
Down came the gushing waters, heaped with foam,
Like melted pearl, and filling the dark woods
With thunder tuned to music.
WHEN last I gazed, fair Tivoli,
Upon those falls of thine,
Another step was by my side,
Another hand in mine :
And, mirrored in those gentle eyes,
To me thou wert a paradise.
I've smiled to see her sweet lips move,
Yet not one accent hear,
Lost in thy mighty waterfall,
Altho' we were so near,
My breath was fragrant with the air
The rose-wreath gave she wont to wear.
How often have we past the noon
Beneath thy pine-trees' shade,
When arching bough, and dark green leaf,
A natural temple made ;
Haunt of some young divinity,
And more than such she seemed to me.
So very fair, oh ! how I blest
The gentle southern clime,
That to the beauty of her cheek
Had brought back summer time.
Alas ! 'twas but a little while,—
The promise of an April smile.
Again her clear brow turned too clear ;
Her bright cheek turned too bright ;
And her eyes, but for tenderness,
Had been too full of light.
It was as if her beauty grew
More heavenly as it heavenward drew.
Long years have past, and toil and care
Have sometimes been to me,
What in my earliest despair
I dream't not they could be ;
But here the past comes back again,
Oh ! why so utterly in vain ?
I stood here in my happy days,
And every thing was fair ;
I stand now in my altered mood,
And marvel what they were.
Fair Tivoli, to me the scene
No longer is what it has been.
There is a change come o'er thy hills,
A shadow o'er thy sky ;
The shadow is from my own heart,
The change in my own eye :
It is our feelings give their tone
To whatsoe'er we gaze upon.
Back to the stirring world again,
Its tumult and its toil ;
Better to tread the roughest path,
Than such a haunted soil :
Oh ! wherefore should I break the sleep
Of thoughts whose waking is to weep.
Yes, thou art lovely, but alas !
Not lovely as of yore,
And of thy beauty I but ask ;
To look on it no more.
Earth does not hold a spot for me
So sad as thou, fair Tivoli.
The Bijou, 1829
TO AMELIA READ,
ON HER THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY
Oh, yet in the happiest season !
Oh, yet in thine hour of spring !
Like a flower in its opening beauty,
Like a bird on its sunniest wing,
Still thou art in the gladness of morning,
In the freshness of earliest May :
No mockery to thee are our wishes —
Many happy returns of the day !
Fair child of the East,* may thy future
Be bright as the land of thy birth,
Where the sky has the clearest of sunlight,
And the richest of roses have birth !
May the storms which sweep there in darkness
Never roll o'er thy gentler way,
Nor cause to lament that we wished thee
Many happy returns of the day !
* The young lady, to whom these lines were addressed, was born in the East Indies,
The Juvenile Forget Me Not, 1830
TO VICTORIA
Violet, grace of the vernal year,
Offer'd be thou to this spring-like reign!
Is not thy tint to that ladye dear,
Whose banner of blue is the lord of the main?
Ivy we twine of changeless green,
Constant for ever in leaf and bough;
So may the heart of our maiden queen
Be always verdant and fresh as now.
Carnation, laced with many a streak
Of blooming red on its leaflets bright,
May be a type of her mantling cheek,
Blent with a brow of pearly white.
Tansy, though humble an herb it be,
Look not upon it with scornful eye:
On virtue, that lurks in low degree,
A glance should fall kind from those on high.
Olive, thy branch, dove-borne o'er the foam,
Was a sign for the surges of death to cease;
So, from the lips of our dove should come
The soft but the sure command of peace.
Roses of England, ceasing from fight,
Twine round her brow in whose veins are met
The princely blood those roses unite
"In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet.''
Iris, to thee, the maid of the bow,
That promises hope, her name has given;
Join, then, the wreath at her feet we throw,
Who beams as a symbol of hope from heaven.
Anemone, flower of the wind! is the last
We cull, — and our garland is now complete:
Gentle the current, and soft be the blast,
Which VICTORIA, the queen of the ocean, shall meet!
Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
THE TOMB OF ROMEO AND JULIET
Ay, moralize on Love, and deem
Its life but as an April gleam, —
A thing of sunshine and of showers,
Of dying leaves and falling flowers.
Who would not bear the darkest sphere
That such a rainbow comes to cheer !
Ay, turn and wail above the tomb
Where sleep the wreck of youth and bloom ;
And deem it quite enough to say, —
Thus Beauty and thus Love decay.
But I must look upon this spot
With feelings thy cold heart has not ;
Those gentle thoughts that consecrate,
Even while they weep, the lover's fate.
I thought upon the star-lit hour,
When leant the maid 'mid leaf and flower,
And blushed and smiled the tale to hear,
Poured from her dark-eyed cavalier ;
And yet, I too must moralize,
Albeit with gentler sympathies,
Of all my own fond heart can tell
Of love's despair, and love's farewell —
Its many miseries, its tears
Like lava, not like dew, — its fears,
That make hope painful, — then its trust,
So often trampled in the dust ;
Neglected, blighted, and betrayed,
A sorrow and a mockery made.
Then change and adverse fortune, all
That binds and keeps sweet Love in thrall.
Oh, surely, surely, it were best
To be just for one moment blest ;
Just gaze upon one worshipped eye,
And know yourself beloved, and die !
The Literary Souvenir, 1826
THE UNKNOWN POET'S GRAVE
" In the divine land which he had so yearned to tread—in the purple
air in which poesy and inspiration mingled with the common breath and
atmosphere of life—his restless and unworldly spirit sighed itself away:
and the heart which silence and concealment had been long breaking
broke at last.” THE DISOWNED.
THERE is no memory of his fate,
No record of his name ;
A few wild songs are left behind—
But what are they to fame?
No one will gaze upon the scene,
Remembering but there he has been.
Not his the memory that makes
A shrine of every place,
Wherever step or song of his
Had left their deathless trace ;
None say " 'twas here his burning line
Was dreamed—and hence is all divine."
Yet here thy step has often been,
And here thy songs were sung ;
Here were thy beating heart and lute
Chord after chord unstrung ;
Thy dying breath was on this air—
It hath not left its music there.
No :—nameless is the lowly spot
Where that young poet sleeps ;
No glory lights its funeral lamp,
No pity on it weeps ;
There weeds may grow, or flowers may bloom,
For his is a forgotten tomb.
And yet how often those dark pines,
Once heard thy twilight song ;
'Twas written on those autumn leaves
The wild winds bear along.
Of all who gaze on Tivoli,
Who is there that remembers thee ?
That dark-eyed lady, she who taught
Thy most impassioned tone ;
The spirit of thy poetry—
Her fate has been thine own :
A weary brow, a faded cheek,
A heart that only beat to break.
Thy friends, thou wert too delicate
For many to be thine ;
And like words written on the sands
Are those on Friendship's shrine :
A few set words, a few vain tears,
And so is clos'd the faith of years.
The world it had no part in thee ;
Too sensitive to bear
Unkindness or repulse ; too true
The usual mask to wear :
Alas ! the gold too much refined,
Is not for common use designed.
Thy dreams of fame were vague and void,
The mystery of a star,
Whose glory lifted us from earth,
The beautiful, the far ;
And yet these dreams of fame to thee
Were dearer than reality.
Alas ! e'en these have been in vain,
The prize has not been won ;
Thy lute is a forgotten lute,—
Thy name, a nameless one :
The wild wind in the pine tree bough,
Is all the requiem for thee now.
And I, who, in vain sympathy,
These mournful words have said,
Not mine the hand that can bestow
The laurel on the dead :
I only know thy nameless fate
To me seems life's most desolate.
Methinks it is not much to die—
To die, and leave behind
A spirit in the hearts of men
A voice amid our kind ;
When fame and death, in unison,
Have giv'n thousand lives for one.
Our thoughts, we live again in them,
Our nature's noblest part ;
Our life in many a memory,
Our home in many a heart :
When not a lip that breathes our strain,
But calls us into life again.
No, give me some green laurel leaves
To float down memory's wave ;
One tone remain of my wild songs,
To sanctify my grave ;
And then but little should I care
How soon within that grave I were.
The Amulet, 1830
In part in The Album Wreath of Music and Literature, 1835 as 'The Unknown Poet'
[UNTITLED]
The Album Wreath of Music and Literature, 1835
This publication contains a number of untitled fragments taken from Landon's poetry:
And then he kiss'd - - presumed to be from 'Ellen'
- give me some green laurel leaves - - from 'The Unknown Poet's Grave'
When in the languid noon - - from 'Song' When do I think of thee?
Without the original, I cannot give the extent of these quotations.
VENICE
I.
Aye, the Ocean has bright daughters,
Each one a crowned queen ;
Whose empire o'er the waters
A fairy tale has been ;
A tale of pomp and glory,
Of fame on land and sea,
An old historic story,
Such Venice tells of thee.
The soldier and the sailor
Were each of them thine own ;
The Pilgrim's cheek grew paler,
Where'er thy name was known.
II.
Where the Ottoman's white crescent
Arose o'er Christian blood,
Was the winged Lion present,
To pour a darker flood.
That banner met the morning,
St. Mark its guard and guide ;
Still the battle front adorning,
His Lion led the tide.
Then resting from his labour,
He sought his place of pride,
For the ataghan and sabre
Were shivered at his side.
III.
Fair Venice, like a beauty,
Arose from out the sea ;
The waves, with a sweet duty,
Were proud her slaves to be :
The fleets she sent to rove them
Their empire seemed to know,
With a favouring sky above them,
A subject sea below :
Now sent on warlike sallies,
Now on some richer quest,
The bold Republic's gallies
Were known from east to west.
IV.
Dalmatia's forest highlands
Were searched for slaves and ore ;
The soft Ionian Islands
Gave up their summer store ;
The olive, fig, and myrtle,
All woods, the sweet and rare ;
Silks for the maiden's kirtle,
Pearls for her shining hair ;
And myrrh in silver measures,
And spices, oil, and grain,
These heaped the merchant treasures
She brought from off the main.
V.
When the summer day declining,
Sank purple o'er her towers,
How lovely was the shining
Of evening's early hours ;
Then beneath the moonlight gliding,
Swept the gondolas along,
While the gondoliers seemed guiding
Their dark barks with a song.
With barcarolles sweet laden,
The wind to music turned ;
While the cheek of many a maiden
With conscious crimson burned.
VI.
There was many a princely greeting
On good St. Mark's broad square ;
And many a festal meeting
Rejoiced the midnight air ;
For her nobles dwelt in palaces,
Whose marble mocked the brine,
And drank from golden chalices
The Cypriot's golden wine.
For she was called "The Pleasant,"
That city of the mask ;
Where the light hours of the present
Were sped with lute and flask.
VII.
But her glory is departed,
And her pleasure is no more,
Like a pale queen, broken-hearted,
Left lonely on the shore.
No more the waves are cumbered
With her galleys bold and free ;
For her days of pride are numbered,
And she rules no more the sea.
Her sword has left her keeping,
Her prows forget the tide,
And the Adriatic weeping
Wails round his mourning bride.
VIII .
Gloomy, the proud Venetian
Surveys his father's halls,
Where the fading hues of Titian
Yet light the mouldering walls.
For they look reproach and sorrow,
They dreamed not the disgrace
That would darken o'er the morrow
Of the once Patrician race.
In those straits is desolation,
And darkness and dismay —
Venice, no more a nation,
Has owned the stranger's sway.
The Literary Souvenir, 1835
VENICE
Morn on the Adriatic, every wave
Is turned to light, and mimics the blue sky,
As if the ocean were another heaven ;
Column, and tower, and fretted pinnacle
Are white with sunshine ; and the few soft shades
Do but relieve the eye.
The morning-time —
The summer time, how beautiful they are !
A buoyant spirit fills the natural world,
And sheds its influence on humanity ;
Man draws his breath more lightly, and forgets
The weight of cares that made the night seem long.
How beautiful the summer, and the morn,
When opening over forest and green field,
Waking the singing birds, till every leaf
Vibrates with music ; and the flowers unfold,
Heavy and fragrant with their dewy sleep.
But here they only call to life and light
The far wide waste of waters, and the walls
Of a proud city, — yet how beautiful !
Not the calm beauty of a woodland world,
Fraught with sweet idleness and minstrel-dreams :
But beauty which awakes the intellect
More than the feelings ; that of power and mind —
Man's power, man's mind — for never city raised
A prouder or a fairer brow than Venice,
The daughter and the mistress of the sea.
Far spread the ocean, — but it spread to bear
Her galleys o'er its depths, for war or wealth ;
And raised upon foundations, which have robbed
The waters of its birthright, stand her halls.
Now enter in her palaces : a world
Has paid its tribute to their luxury ;
The harvest of the rose, on Syria's plains.
Is reaped for Venice ; from the Indian vales
The sandal-wood is brought to burn in Venice ;
The ambergris that floats on eastern seas,
And spice, and cinnamon, and pearls that lie
Deep in the gulf of Ormus, are for Venice ;
The Persian loom doth spread her silken floors ;
And the clear gems from far Golconda's mines
Burn on the swanlike necks of her proud daughters —
For the fair wife of a Venetian noble
Doth often bear upon her ivory arm
The ransom of a kingdom. By the sword,
Drawn by the free and fearless ; by the sail,
That sweeps the sea for riches, which are power,
The state of Venice is upheld : she is
A Christian Tyre, — save that her sea-girt gates
Do fear no enemy, and dread no fall.
Morn on the Adriatic, bright and glad !
And yet we are not joyful ; there is here
A stronger influence than sweet Nature's joy :
The scene hath its own sorrow, and the heart
Ponders the lessons of mortality
Too gravely to be warmed by that delight
Born of the sun, and air, and morning prime.
For we forget the present as we stand
So much beneath the shadow of the past :
And here the past is mighty. Memory
Lies heavy on the atmosphere around ;
There is the sea, — but where now are the ships
That bore the will of Venice round the world ? —
Where are the sails that brought home victory
And wealth from other nations ? No glad prows
Break up the waters into sparkling foam :
I only see some sluggish fishing-boats.
There are the palaces, — their marble fronts
Are grey and worn ; and the rich furniture
Is stripped from the bare walls ; or else the moth
Feeds on the velvet hangings. There they hang,—
The many pictures* of the beautiful,
The brave, the noble, who were once Venetians :
But hourly doth the damp destroy their colours,
And Titian's hues are faded as the face
From which he painted. With a downcast brow,
Drawing his dark robe round him, which no more
Hides the rich silk or gems^, walks the Venetian ;
Proud, with a melancholy pride which dwells
Only upon the glories of the dead ;
And humble, with a bitter consciousness
Of present degradation.
These are the things that tame the pride of man ;
The spectral writings on the wall of Time, —
Warnings from the Invisible, to show
Man's destiny is not in his own hands.
Cities and nations, each are in their turn
The mighty sacrifice which Time demands.
And offers up at the eternal throne, —
Signs of man's weakness, and man's vanity.
The Amulet, 1832
Taken from The Book of Gems
VERSES
Lady, thy face is very beautiful,
A calm and stately beauty: thy dark hair
Hangs as the passing winds paid homage there;
And gems, such gems as only princes cull
From earth's rich veins, are round thy neck and arm;
Ivory, with just one touch of colour warm;
And thy white robe floats queen-like, suiting well
A shape such as in ancient pictures dwell!
If thou hadst lived in that old haunted time,
When sovereign Beauty was a thing sublime,
For which knights went to battle, and her glove
Had even more of glory than of love;--
Hadst thou lived in those days, how chivalrie,
With brand and banner, would have honour'd thee!
Then had this picture been a chronicle,
Of whose contents might only poets tell
What king had worn thy chains, what heroes sigh'd,
What thousands nameless, hopeless, for thee died.
But thou art of the Present--there is nought
About thee for the dreaming minstrel's thought,
Save vague imagination, which still lives
Upon the charmed light all beauty gives.
What hath romancing lute, or fancied line,
Or colour'd words to do with thee or thine?
No, the chords sleep in silence at thy feet,
They have no measures for thy music meet;
The poet hath no part in it, his dream
Would too much idleness of flattery seem;
And to that lovely picture only pays
The wordless homage of a lingering gaze.
The Keepsake, 1829
Taken from the Commentary in Romantic Circles
VON RAUMER
He has recalled the past as still
The present should the past recall:
With careful patience seeking truths.
And asking lessons from them all.
'Tis the historian's part to weigh
The glories of a former hour;
His are the trophies that outlast
The storied arch, the lofty tower.
We mark the progress of the mind—
How changed to what it was of yore!
And every point of knowledge gained
Seems an encouragement for more!
The English Bijou Almanack, 1837
Taken from The Literary Gazette review, 24th December 1836
* Lord Byron, in one of his letters, alludes to the numberless splendid pictures mouldering in the Venetian palaces, whose inhabitants refuse to sell the portraits of their ancestors, almost the sole memorials of their former splendour.
^ Though the use of the same dark robe was prescribed to all Venetian noblemen, they used to outvie each other in the magnificence of the under garments which it concealed.
THE WARRIOR
It came upon the morning wind
One loud and thrilling tone,
And distant hills sent forth their voice,—
The trumpet-call was blown.
And sterner grew each stately brow
As that war-blast pass'd by,
And redder grew each warrior cheek,
Brighter each warrior eye.
But other cheeks grew pale to hear,
And other eyes grew dim ;
Woman shares not man's battle joy
That joy is all for him.
The same blast lights the glance of flame,
Darkens the martial frown ;
At which a woman's rose-lip fades,—
At which her heart sinks down.
Proudly that trumpet sweeps thy hills,
Land of the sword and shrine,
It calls the soldier of the cross
To fight for Palestine.
It roused one tent, which stood apart
Within the barrier made
By many a green and creeping shrub
And one tall palm-tree's shade.
It roused a warrior and his bride-—
His bride ! What doth she there ?
Oh, rather ask, when led by love.
What will not woman dare ?
Said I, her timid nature was
Like her cheek's timid hue;
But fearful though that nature be,
She hath her courage too.
Go ask the fever couch, the cell
Of guilt ; she hath no part
In courage of the head and hand,
She hath that of the heart.
'Tis this has brought that gentle one
From her fair Provence bower,
Where in her husband's halls she dwelt,
Nurs'd like a lovely flower.
That trumpet-call, it roused them both
From a sweet dream of home,
Roused him to hopes that with such sound
To gallant spirits come.
And she,—at least she hid the fears
That clouded her fair brow,—
Her prayers had guarded him in fight,
Might they not guard him now ?
She armed him, though her trembling hand
Shook like a leaf the while ;
The battle had his onward glance,
But she his lingering smile.
She brought the blue and broidered scarf,
Her colours for his breast;
But what dark dreary shape has brought
His helm and plumed crest ?
Fell shade ! they see, they heed thee not,
Thou of the noiseless wing,
The viewless shaft, the sudden call—
O Death, here is thy sting.
The lips would close in pious hope,
The eyes in willing sleep,
But for the tears, the bitter tears,
That love is left to weep.
—————
'Tis evening—and the blood-red west
Has not so deep a red,
As hath that slaughter-field where lie
The dying and the dead.
'Tis midnight—and the clang of steel,
The human shout and cry,
Are silent as if sleep and peace
Were upon earth and sky.
The strife is past like other storms,
Soldier and chief are gone,
Yet lightly falls a woman's step—
What doth she there alone ?
'Tis she ! the Provence Rose ; oh, well
Such name beseems her now,
The pale and stony dead around
Wear not more ghastly brow.
Woe for her search—too soon she finds
Her valiant knight laid low;
Thou fatal helm, thou hast betrayed
His head to the life-blow.
One blasting gaze—one loud wild shriek,—
She sinks upon his breast :
O Death ! thou hast been merciful,—
For both, both are at rest.
Death's Doings, 1827
THE WATCHFUL FRIEND
In a hidden thicket's shade
Is the little maiden laid ;
O'er her bends the wilding rose,
At her side the violet grows :
And, instead of feudal splendour,
Summer's fragrant airs attend her.
More than castle watch or ward
O'er her sleep the dog keeps guard :
None unseen can venture here
With that faithful watcher near.
Lady, who to woodlands wild
Dost resign thy darling child ;
Lady, of an ancient line,
Sweet and natural faith is thine.
Thou dost know what influence lies
In the summer sun and skies ;
Thou dost know what healthy red
By the open air is shed :
And what pleasant sleep is given
By the blue uncurtained heaven ;
Nor to that fond mother known
Outward influence alone.
She hath deeper thoughts that tell
Of dear Nature's inward spell ;
She doth bid the wind impart
Its own freshness to the heart.
Every flower around is rife
With fine poetry for life :
Not a perfumed wreath but brings
Some true feelings on its wings.
On that rosy child await
Rank and sway, and wealth and state ;
Sad, too often, is their dower,
Much they need a softening power.
Let with worldlier airs be blent
Some diviner element ;
Let love, poetry, and thought,
Be to that fair infant brought ;
Let the face of nature be
Dearest to its infancy ;
And all after life will keep
Treasures from that woodland sleep.
The Juvenile Forget Me Not, 1837
Taken from Four-Footed Favourites, 1862
THE WATER-LILY
Not 'mid the soil and the shadow of earth,
Have we our home, or take we our birth;
Keep ye your valleys that breathe of the rose,
When bendeth the myrtle; we reck not of those.
Low in the waters our palace we make,
Where sweepeth the river, or spreadeth the lake;
And the willow, that bends with its green hair above,
Like a lady in grief, is the tree that we love.
At noon-tide we sleep to the music of shells,
That we bring from the depths of the sea to our cells;
Our cells that are roofed with the crystal, whose light
Is like the young moon’s, on her first summer night.
Strange plants are around us, whose delicate leaves
No hue from the sunshine or moonlight receives :
Yet, rich are the colours, as those that are given
When the first hours of April are azure in heaven.
There branches the coral, as red as the lip
Of the earliest rose that the honey-bees sip;
And above are encrusted a myriad of spars,
With the hues of the rainbow, the light of the stars.
Our streams are like mirrors, reflecting the ranks
Of the wild flowers that blossom and bend on our banks ;
We give back their beauty—the face is as fair
Of the rose in the wave, as it is on the air.
But the flower that we choose in our tresses to bind,—
How long are those tresses when flung on the wind !—
Is the lily, that floats on the shadowy tide,
With a white cup that treasures its gold-dust inside.
The pearls that lie under the ocean are white,
Like a bride’s sunny weeping, whose tears are half light,
And pure as the fall of the snow's early showers:
But they are not more fair nor more pure than these flowers.
We float down the wave when the waters are red
With the blushes that morning around her hath shed;
And we wring from our long hair the damps of the night,
The dew-drops that shine on the grass are less bright.
But alone, in the night, with the planets above,
Or the silvery moon, is the hour that we love;
Cold, pale is the light, and it suits with our doom,
For our heart has no warmth, and our cheek has no bloom.
The night wind then bears our sad singing along:
Ah ! wo unto him who shall listen the song!
There is love in the music that floats on the air ;
But the mortal who seeks us, seeks death and despair.
Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
Taken from The Literary Gazette, 1836
WELLINGTON
The conqueror of a thousand fields !
Not as in olden time,
When carnage urged its crimson path,
And conquest was a crime
But in a universal war
For every right sublime.
The laurel that he wears should have
In English hearts its birth;
His victories kept inviolate
Our island’s sacred earth;
They were the glorious ransom given
For every English hearth.
Schloss's Bijou Almanack, 1839
WISHES
1
It was a summer night,
And I looked upon the sky.
When suddenly a light
Flashed in its splendour by.
I watched the red flash pass
On its shining path of flame,
And a wish rose in my heart,
That mine might be the same.
It left its native sky,
And when it touched the earth,
There rose a pillar of fire,
As 'twere a spirit's birth ;
And stronger grew my wish,
Till as I passed next day,
Where fell that radiant light,
But blackened ashes lay ;
The forest oak was sear,
The grass had lost its green :
Reproof !— how could I wish
Such course for me had been ?
2
It was one summer night,
I sailed on the wide sea far,
And our pilot and oar hope
Was the gleam of one pale star.
It had risen unmarked, what time
The red son touched the brine ;
But a thousand rich clouds shone,
And it won no gaze of mine.
Now eve after eve I watched
That sweet star's guiding light ;
And my heart learnt a meeker lesson
From the quiet presence of night ;
And such, I said, be my fate —
A calm and a lowly one,
But passed in blessing and peace.
As that fair star has done.
Oh ! what is the brightest hour
That ever to earth was given,
To the beauty of that mild light,
Which is direct from heaven !
The Amulet, 1827
WOMAN'S DESTINY
I am a woman : — tell me not of fame !
The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path,
And fling back arrows, where the dove would die.
Look on those flowers near yon acacia tree —
The lily of the valley — mark how pure
The snowy blossoms, — and how soft a breath
Is almost hidden by the large dark leaves.
Not only have those delicate flowers a gift
Of sweetness and of beauty, but the root —
A healing power dwells there; fragrant and fair,
But dwelling still in some beloved shade.
Is not this woman's emblem ? — she whose smile
Should only make the loveliness of home —
Who seeks support and shelter from man's heart,
And pays it with affection quiet, deep, —
And in his sickness — sorrow — with an aid
He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt.
Alas ! this has not been my destiny.
Again I'll borrow Summer's eloquence.
Yon Eastern tulip — that is emblem mine;
Ay ! it has radiant colours — every leaf
Is as a gem from its own country's mines.
'T is redolent with sunshine; but with noon
It has begun to wither : — look within,
It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart;
It has dwelt too much in the open day,
And so have I ; and both must droop and die !
I did not choose my gift: — too soon my heart,
Watch-like, had pointed to a later hour
Than time had reach'd ; and as my years pass'd on,
Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts,
And thoughts found words,the passionate words of song,
And all to me was poetry.
The Ladies' Wreath, 1837
THE YOUTHFUL MARINERS
How now, my youthful mariners !
Where will ye sail to-day?
Seek ye the southern latitudes,
And Spice Isles far away ?
Manilla and the Philippines,
To have your canvass fanned
By a thousand fragrant odours
Before you see the land ?
With Sindbad for your guide-book,
Will ye go sailing on,
To gather cinnamon, and pearls,
And nutmegs in Ceylon ?
Or are ye for a bolder quest,
Upon the Northern Seas ;
And, on your passage to the pole,
See even ocean freeze ?
And watch the restless waters
Turned into solid stone,
Like granite, and like porphyry,
In wild confusion thrown ?
Or do ye bear a battle-flag,
And thunder at your side,
So that the foreign foe may quail,
Where'er your navies ride ?
I cannot tell what enterprise
Might haunt that childish crew —
What, with their little fairy ships,
It was their dream to do :
But be what will the enterprise,
That carries men afar,
Through danger, death, through calm and storm,
For commerce, science, war ;
They could not go more heart in hand,
Their purpose to fulfil,
Than launched those boyish mariners
Their fleet upon the rill.
The sunbeam glittered on the waves,
And danced within their eyes :
Whose bark shall reach yon willow first,
His is the victor's prize.
And each one lends his voice and breath,
To urge the tiny sail ;
No sailor in a calm e'er watched
More anxious for a gale.
And though they are but paper boats,
Launched on a village brook ;
How earnest is each beating heart !
How eager is each look !
Oh, happy age ! that thus can find,
In trifles and in toys,
The pleasure of a new delight —
The freshness that enjoys !
Oh ! why should life bring weariness,
And languor, and disdain ?
Ah ! would to God that I could be
An eager child again !
The Amulet, 1833
Addenda:
STANZAS
Written beneath the portrait of Lord Byron,
painted by Mr. West.
'Tis with strange feelings that I gaze
Upon this brow of thine,
Magnificent as if the mind
Herself had carved her shrine :
An altar unto which was given
The flowers of earth, the light of heaven.
At the first glance, that eye is proud,
But, if I read aright,
A fountain of sweet tears lies hid
Beneath its flashing light :
Tenderness, like a gushing rill
Subdued, represt, but flowing still.
That lip is curled with sneering smile,—
Alas ! what doth it prove ?—
Not in the warfare of the world
Are lessons taught of love.
So much is there hard to be borne,
The heart must either break or scorn.
And differently the poison works
On every differing mind,
Some grow false as the false they blamed,
And thus 'tis with mankind :
But there are some whose loftier mood
Grows maddened on such things to brood.
The young warm heart whose faith and love
Were all too prompt at first,
What must it feel when these are turned
To darkness and distrust?
Wormwood to know that heart has been
Dupe of the false, prey of the mean.
Such will not ask for sympathy,
Knowing they ask in vain,—
Nor yield to softer feelings way
To be deceived again ;
And bitter laugh, and scornful sneer,
Become at once their shield and spear.
Such, methinks, was the destiny
That threw its chill o'er thee ;
Thou hadst mixed with the false, till all
Seemed but alike to be.
Could not the workings of thine heart
Another, holier creed impart ?
I read it in thy gifted page,
In every noble thought,
Each lofty feeling, and sweet song
With tenderness deep fraught ;
For there thine inmost soul was shown,—
Their truth, their beauty, were thine own.
For out on the vain worldling's speech
Which saith the poet's skill
But sets forth feelings he has not ;
Worked up, wrought out at will.
What knows he of that sacred feeling ?
He hath no part in its revealing.
And if sometimes he is not all
That his own song has sung,
It is but part of that great curse
Which still to earth has clung.
Whoe'er has seen, who yet shall see
Himself as he deemed he could be?
The mind can win eternity
With its immortal name,
But all too often happiness
Is the price paid for fame :
For not a barbed shaft can fly
But aims to strike the mark on high.
Oh, if there be one sullied page
Unworthy of thy name,
The weakness of a mighty one,
To dwell on it were shame ;
Were cruelty, when thy fine mind
Has left such nobler store behind.
But thou art with the dead,— thy life
In such a cause was given,
Most glorious in the sight of man,
Precious in that of heaven.
Marathon, and Thermopylae :
Such soil was fitting grave for thee !
Oh, England ! to thy young and brave
Is not this stirring call,
To free the fallen from the chain,
To break the tyrant's thrall,
His life has not been spent in vain
If Greece shall burst the Moslem chain.
The Literary Souvenir, 1827
THE WELCOME
i.
Fling the banners from the battlements—
Hang garlands on the walls ! —
Today Lord Ulric comes again
To his ancestral halls.
ii.
Long time he has been absent —
Long time with sword in hand ;—
Now they have tamed the crescent
In every christian land.
iii.
The boy he left an infant
He will not find the same, —
The feet can run the greensward,
The lips can name his name.
iv.
There are three that now await him,
And bless the ended strife, —
The boy that will not know him,
His sister, and his wife.
v.
His sister waiteth tenderly, —
But, in her hidden heart,
She thinketh of another,
With whom she wept to part.
vi.
The child is all impatience —
With many a childish word,
He questions of his father,
And of his horse and sword.
vii.
But one is thinking only
Of him — the victor knight ;—
She trembles at the honours
He has achieved in fight.
viii.
Still doth her pale lip quiver
At dangers that are done ; —
Ah, sadly to a woman
Her warrior's praise is won !
ix.
She gazes on the distance,
Until her eyes are dim,
And not a cloud that passes
But she believes it him.
x.
Night after night, her vigils
Have worn away her bloom ;
How often has she started
Beside a fancied tomb !
xi.
There is no love like woman's, —
By distance made more dear ;
That grows more true and tender
With every falling tear.
xii.
She is pale with joy — she sees him !
The warrior-chief is come !
She looks — she cannot speak it —
" Lord Ulric, welcome home ! "
The Literary Souvenir, 1837
Appendix:
THE ADIEU
We'll miss her at the morning hour,
When leaves and eyes unclose ;
When sunshine calls the dewy flower
To waken from repose ;
For, like the singing of a bird,
When first the sunbeams fall,
The gladness of her voice was heard
The earliest of us all.
We'll miss her at the evening time,
For then her voice and lute
Best loved to sing some sweet old rhyme
When other sounds were mute. —
Twined round the ancient window-seat,
While she was singing there,
The jasmine from outside would meet,
And wreathe her fragrant hair.
We'll miss her when we gather round
Our blazing hearth at night,
When ancient memories abound,
Or hopes where all unite ;
And pleasant talk of years to come—
Those years our fancies frame.
Ah ! she has now another home,
And bears another name.
Her heart is not with our old hall,
Not with the things of yore ;
And yet, methinks, she must recall
What was so dear before.
She wept to leave the fond roof where
She had been loved so long,
Though glad the peal upon the air,
And gay the bridal throng.
Yes, memory has honey cells,
And some of them are ours,
For in the sweetest of them dwells
The dream of early hours.
The hearth, the hall, the window-seat,
Will bring us to her mind ;
In yon wide world she cannot meet
All that she left behind.
Loved, and beloved, her own sweet will
It was that made her fate;
She has a fairy home— but still
Our own seems desolate.
We may not wish her back again,
Not for her own dear sake :
Oh ! love, to form one happy chain,
How many thou must break !
The Keepsake, 1833
LINES
on the
PORTRAIT OF MRS. MABERLY
What may be the music
Wandering from the chords?
Does some air Italian,
Scarcely need of words?
Is the strain of sadness,
When the spirit’s wings
Deepen with the shadows
Of remembered things?
Are the notes more mirthful,
Waking in the heart
All those pleasant fancies,
Which so soon depart?
Tell me, lovely ladye,
Who art leaning there,
In the golden shadow
Of thy golden hair—
Of what art thou singing?
Yet in vain I ask;
Many moods doth music
Bring its graceful task.
Strange must be the sorrow,
Dark must be the hour,
Which would not, bright ladye,
Own thy harp and power.
Heath’s Book of Beauty, 1839
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 thee 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 lovely vision by him past,
Of Geraldine, just lulled in magic slumbers.
So soft, so dark the eyes that governed Spain,
When Isabella was the worshipped sovereign,
The crown of gold and pearl could scarce restrain
The raven curls around her forehead hovering.
These are but fancies - thou art of our time,
Of some sweet present home the hope and pleasure:
Not to the past, nor to some foreign clime,
Need we to wander for the English treasure.
Our early flowers are springing at her feet;
Our stars, their watch above, her path are keeping;
Our native words from that young mouth came sweet;
Ours is her laughter—ours her gentle weeping.
Be those dark eyes long ignorant of tears—
Clear be the summer sky that bendeth o’er thee;
Be Hope the planet which thy fate enspheres,
And long and bright the path life spreads before thee.
Heath’s Book of Beauty, 1839
GIPSEY BELLE
LADY, lovely lady mine,
Take my hand and tell me
All that may my lot befall,
All that e'er befell me.
Wilt thou read the past for me ?
No — no, leave it lonely ;
I will task thine art and thee
For the future only.
Who could think upon the past
With such smiles before them ?
Life is lighted at the eyes
That are shining o'er them.
Spread the cards, and let me see
What fine skill thou sharest —
Is a lady fair as hearts,
Shining there the fairest ?
Is a letter on its way ?
Have I cause to tremble
At the rage the knave of clubs
Labours to dissemble ?
Does my wish come out ?
Ah, no ! Vain is all my scheming —
Fling the faithless cards aside,
This is idle dreaming.
Thou art all too young and fair
For the sign and omen ;
With the sybil, haggard — worn,
What hast thou in common ?
Those who read the midnight stars
Through hours long and dreary,
Watch until the cheek is wan,
And the eye is weary.
Such dwell lonely in the walls
Of some ancient college ;
And they droop beneath the weight
Of their bitter knowledge.
But thine eyes are warm with light,
And thy cheek with roses ;
On thy lip is such a smile
As the dawn discloses.
Lady, lovely lady mine,
No— thou canst not tell me
What the future may befall,
Nor yet what befell me.
The Gift of Friendship, 1851
THE GREEK GIRL
OH ! not as I could once have sung, not as I once could sing—
Alas! my heart has lost a pulse, my lute has lost a string!
There was a time this pictured scroll had bodied forth to me
A thousand fair and fairy thoughts that never more can be.
I once had read beneath the lash of that blue down-cast eye,
Whose depths are love's own azure world—its world of phantasy—
A thousand dreams, the fanciful of youth's enchanted hour,
When the heart, begirt with dreams, is like an early rose in flower,
With its colours and its odours, the beautiful and frail,
These fading, and those borne away by every passing gale:
How like the hopes and vanities that fill the human heart,
Thus opening, in the sweet spring-time—but only to depart !
I turn on life's imaginings an eye too calm and cold,
Such dreams for aye have lost on me their fascinating hold ;
My few glad years in fairy-land are gone beyond control,
And graver thoughts, I cannot check, are rising in my soul.
For even as the crimson tints that perish as the day
In grey and solemn colouring to midnight fades away,
E'en so the mind, as years fleet by, doth take a deeper tone,
And, by my own sad heart, fair Greek, I learn to read thine own.
Thou art pausing, gentle maiden, in the task which thou hast made,
To wreathe the curls of thy bright hair into a sunny braid :
There is sadness on thy thoughtful lip, and shadow on thy brow,
Thou “delicate Ionian,” what art thou dreaming now?
Fair gifts are flung around thee—the chain, the flower, the gem—
Dost thou think of him who gave the gifts, or only but of them ?
But no; thou hast too pale a cheek, and far too tranquil eye
For a dream of love or vanity, to be that passing by.
Thou art thinking of thy childish days, and of thy childish home,
When thy step was as the mountain-roe, as fleet, as free to roam ;
When the air around was musical with thine own happy song;
When summer leaves were overhead, and summer days were long.
Bride of a stately warrior, whose heart is as thy shrine,
Who pours the wealth of east and west to win a smile of thine;
Bride, too, of him thou lovest!—yet tears are in thine eyes,
For memory of thy native earth, and of thy native skies.
Ah! guard them well, those memories !—too soon the heart, around
The crust of luxury's selfishness, the harsh and hard is found;
Then keep the thoughts of earlier days—the guileless and the kind,
When the heart, with its sweet impulses, held empire o'er the mind.
These words, I know, are fanciful; yet who would not but trace
A history of gentle thoughts upon that lovely face!
For, if not all reality, at least, such well may seem,
And, even with our own actual life, what is it but a dream?
The Amulet, 1832
SPEAKING ROSES
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 morning's bright hours call the bee to his gold !
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.
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!"
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 hath encrusted its rust on the shrine,
That heart may be trusted ! —I know it by mine!
The Diosma, 1851
A variation on La Rosa Parlante
PRINCE AHMED AND THE FAIRY
A Sketch from the Arabian nights.
ON he past
Through the strange cavern : still a distant sound
Of music led him on ; and still a light,
A faint and lovely light, played o'er his way,
And shewed the walls, where ev'ry gem of earth
Shone with the hues of heaven : deeply blue,
The sapphire softened the red ruby's blaze ;
The ethereal diamond and green emerald
Made it seem like the palace of a king.
Still follow'd the young prince the graceful light,
That like a spirit danced before his path ;
At last, a fresher air passed o'er his brow —
Fresh, but as sweet as if its course had been
Over a thousand roses ; and the flame,
His sparkling guide, vanish'd when the clear sky,
Fountains, and trees, and flow'rs grew visible.
And Ahmed saw a lovely garden spread,
As if it were the Summer's favourite home ;
The turf was like a Persian carpet, dight
With myriads of gay colours ; and rich beds
Of tulips, earth's bright rainbows, seemed to hold
Divided wealth with the gold amaranth.
Kings of the solitude, gigantic palms,
Held shadowy empire, and like lovers hung
Over the delicate acacia's boughs,
Which guarded in their turn blue violets,
Lying like clouds earth-dropt beneath their shade.
Around were marble fountains, and their spray,
A silver shower, fell o'er the scented shrubs,
Making exchange of freshness for their odours.
There the birds nestled thickest, with their wings
Shining like Indian stones, and each soft throat
Tuned like a separate lute. At the far end,
Mirrored in the clear crystal of the lake,
Arose the garden's wonder, the bright palace,
All glorious, with its purple towers, like those
The evening clouds build for the setting sun. —
He entered one rich hall ; his dazzled sight
Sank in the splendour. Pearl and ruby shafts
Supported the high dome, where amber gave
Its fragrance forth ; incense and precious woods
Shed their sweet influence, and music's sound —
Lutes and soft voices mingled — met his ear ;
And beautiful young forms were floating round
The gorgeous throne whereon the fairy sat,
Like waving clouds about the lovely moon.
She rose, their radiant mistress, and flung back
The ebon tresses from her marble brow ;
And Ahmed gaz'd upon the large dark eyes
That welcom'd him : — a smile, a timid blush,
Were on her cheek — they told the tale of love.
From The Forget Me Not 1826
THE BRIDAL MORNING.
Thy bridal morning ? They are now
The last braid of thy tresses wreathing;
The last white pearl is on thy brow,
The orange flower's beside thee breathing.
Why, thou art queen-like; that rich zone,
The satin’s snowy folds confining,
Is bright with every Indian stone
Whose hues have caught the day-break shining.
And thou art fair—oh, very fair!
And suitest well thy gay adorning;
Thy clear brow and thy sunny hair,
Are they not beautiful as morning?
But thou art yet less fair than pale—
Pale !—it is but a bride’s sweet sorrow ;
Fling over her the silver veil—
That cheek will be more bright to-morrow.
No more, no more !—the rose hath said
Farewell to that pale cheek for ever;
Those gems may cast a meteor red
Upon that face, but the heart never.
Those eyes have tears they may not weep,
Those lips words never to be spoken :
As weak as frail, thou canst not keep,
Nor yet forget, vows thou hast broken.
Her eye is on the mirror fix'd,
Yet sees she not on what she gazes ;
The past has with the present mix'd,
Till both seem one in memory’s mazes.
That long past hour—what doth it here,
The slumbering pulses to awaken ?
His image—how can that be dear?—
His image whom thou hast forsaken?
What does it here ?—that cypress grove,
That hour of moonlight and of dreaming ;
That one fond dream of early love,
Half of life’s worldliness redeeming?
The curl he took, the ring he gave—
The vow that bound your hearts together !
O froth, such is on ocean’s wave!
O change, such is in April weather!
And has that fickle heart been won
By baubles such as those around thee?
This chain of gold—is this the one
In which thy newer love has bound thee?
Go, queen it in the lightest hall ;
Be there the gayest and the brightest:
Soon words were little to recall
What now in vanity thou slightest.
Go, glittering slave! go, school thy brow :
Henceforth thy heart must still its beating ;
Go forth—thy lord awaits thy vow—
Thy lover! shrinkest thou from such meeting?
In vain ! thine early dream is past,
Thy heart is sold—there are its fetters :—
Love’s flowery contract did not last;
This may—’tis writ in golden letters.
O shame, that ever this should be!
Gold thus o’er love and faith prevailing!
Great curse! where shall we fly from thee,
When even woman’s faith is failing?
Forget Me Not, 1828
Taken from Frank Sypher
In New York Mirror and Ladies’ Literary Gazette, 24th November 1827
VENUS
TAKING A BOW FROM A SLEEPING CUPID
QUEEN of smiles! fling down the bow:
Hearts are, like thine own hand, snow.
Love is sleeping, and in vain
You would waken him again;
And that bow’s no more divine,
Even in such a hand as thine.
Smile thy smile,—and sigh thy sigh,
Both will pass unheeded by.
—Out upon our heartless age!
Stain upon the poet’s page!
Now, the sweetest kiss and smile
Barter for their gift the while;
And the lover’s heart is sold
For, what is not worth it, gold.
Once, there was more stirring time
Chronicled in minstrel rhyme,
When the young knight onwards prest,
For the colours of his crest;
When it was enough to say,
Bright eyes watch your course to day;
When the maiden kept her faith
Like a thing of life and death;
When the true heart wont to prove,
Not to only say,—I love.
Where hath history such a page
As of that chivalric age?
Can it be, I have gainsaid,
What my lute’s religion made?
Have I said, that Love was cold?
Said, that faith was bought and sold?
Now, shame on the poet’s song
Which could do his creed such wrong!
Yes, Love! by the burning cheek,
Blushes which thy language speak,
By the after paler sign,
Which doth tell of hope’s decline;
By the drooped or flashing eye,
By the rose-lip’s lonely sigh,
(These are tokens still we see!)
Tell they not, oh Love! of thee?
I should say, that still thou art,
Judging but from mine own heart.
Oh yes! spite of chance or change,
Worthless vanities that range,
Golden bribe, and worldly stain,
Smile and sigh still hold their reign.
Love of old ruled but as now—
Queen of Beauty! take the bow.
From Friendship's Offering, 1828