Poems Published in Gift Books recovered from Frank Sypher's Book
BALLAD
Over the land, and over the sea,
Youth of my heart! will I follow thee.
See, I have doff 'd my silken train,
My lace 'kerchief, and golden chain ;
For cap and plume I've chang'd my veil,
And my pearl-wreath'd braid of the lily pale ;
And for satin slippers, a buskin tied,
Made of the red deer's stiffen'd hide ;
And my heavy length of yellow hair,—
Look on the river— 'tis floating there.
Last night, I stood in my father's hall,
With broider'd robe, and Indian shawl :
Lovers caught each breath of my sigh,
And vassals watch'd the turn of mine eye ;
A sandal-wood lute was in my hand,
And my step was the first in the saraband.
Tonight I stand in the hunter's dress,
Belying my weak loneliness.
Instead of music, and dance, and song,
And serviteurs, and a courtly throng,
Is the quiet shade of the greenwood tree ;
And for many false hearts, a true one in thee.
And I am happy. Oh ! love should live
But for the sweet life itself can give.
Where are gems like the lily, wet
With tears it has kiss'd from the violet ?
Where is the lamp in a lady's bower,
Like the first pale star of the twilight hour ?
What hand ever waked from the lute a tone
Like the nightingale's voice, when she sings alone?
Not to the dark city, not to the false court,
Will health, and truth, and love, resort :
Their dwelling is made with the leaf and the flower,
Amid summer sunshine and April shower;
They live by the brook and the forest tree,
In a wild sweet home, such as ours will be.
Friendship's Offering, 1825
THE CONFESSION
I pray thee, father, do not turn
That dark and angry brow on me—
How can I, father, bear a frown?
I never met but smiles from thee!
I pray thee pardon if my heart
Has owned another love than thine:
I pray thee for my mother’s sake—
You often say her eyes are mine.
I have no memory of those eyes,
I never saw my mother’s brow—
And yet I look to heaven and feel
That she is pleading for me now.
She loved you, father, as I love
The Earl whose name you will not hear—
A love that trembles while it owns
That nought on earth can be so dear.
I’ll tell you how it was we met:
’Twas when you waited on the king.
Of eighteen years that I have known
I never saw so sweet a spring.
I staid but little in our halls
The woods around us were so fair;
The young leaves seemed like flowers, so bright,
So fragrant, and so soft, they were.
The maiden-hair flung o’er the banks
Its long, green tresses, and beneath,
Hid in its little world of leaves,
The violet hung its purple wreath.
The hawthorn spread its perfumed boughs,
A very Araby of snow;
And sunshine through the aspen flung
A trembling shower of gold below.
You know, my father, you first taught
My steps to love these wanderings wild;
The leaf, the brook, the singing bird,
Were your first lessons to your child.
I’ve said how glad the murmuring rill—
How fair had every wild flower grown:
I longed to say how dear they were—
’Twas sad to wander there alone.
Like me he loved the green-wood side,
The opening leaf, the early flower:
Beside the old oak we grew friends—
My father, ’twas a happy hour.
And dearer every ancient oak,
And dearer every green path grew,
Now that their solitude was gone,
And that another loved them too.
He loved to hear me talk of thee,
Your tender kindness, and your care;
And how it was beside your knee
I learned to breathe my infant prayer.
Forget the past, the dreary past,
And let the present pity move—
Ah! shall an ancient feud divide
Our deep, our young, our happy love!
My father, is forgiveness near?
I read it in your softening eye:
Think of your own youth’s dearest dream—
My mother loved, and so do I.
My father, dost thou smile on me?
My pleading has not been in vain.
Bless me, my father, bless your child,
And take her to your heart again!
The Forget-Me-Not, 1836
DRY FEET
You do not like the streamlet,
That runs so clear and bright;
I scarcely think it water,
It looks so much like light.
Some white, and others purple,
The pebbles glitter through;
I can’t pick up those pebbles,
If I must carry you.
There are such lovely wild-flowers
Amid the tangled grass;
The little deep-blue bird's eye
Looks at me as I pass.
But they must stay ungathered,
Though the very air is sweet,
Because my sad spoilt Fanchette
Dislikes to wet her feet,
Half laughing, half complaining
On went the dark-eyed girl,
While the soft warm airs of summer
Played amid each bright brown curl.
The dog was carried over,
Her own feet wet and bare,
But of that the little rustic
Took neither cold nor care.
’Twas a sweet and natural lesson
For woman, ay, or man,
Of every slight disaster
To make the best you can.
The Juvenile Forget-Me-Not, 1837
THE HEATH
Ah, gentle flower! on which the wind
Delays, as if it loved delay;
I ask of thee no wreath to bind,
I take no blossom from thy spray:
I only breathe upon thy bloom,
And ask it, for my sake, to bear
A message on its faint perfume,
Afar amid its native air.
Slight are the links that waken thought,
And slight are those I trust to now;
Yet by that soft flower may be brought
The memory of a broken vow!
E’en as thy soft hues fade away,
So fadeth love! so doth the heart
See in a single hour, decay
All that was once its loveliest part.
Ah! fairy blossoms! tell my love,—
Or he who once was love of mine,—
How can the conscious heaven above
Upon such utter falsehood shine.
Tell him, that since he left my fears,
To bear with all that absence bears,
I have but thought of him with tears;
I have but breathed of him in prayers.
I loved him, like an eager child,
That knows not how it loves, or why!
My spirit brightened when he smiled;
I never gave him cause to sigh,—
Yet loved with woman’s fondness too,
That knows it is her life she gives;
Deep, earnest, passionate, and true,
The love that in the spirit lives.
Thou fragile flower! if thou hast brought
His image, too beloved! to me;
It is because I link his thought
With every object that I see!
I watch the morning’s rosy light
Redden amid the dewy air;
I watch the silent stars at night;
But only meet his image there.
Yet he is false! he loves me not!
He leaves me lone and wretched here;
Ye Heavens! how can they be forgot,—
Vows that he called on ye to hear?
And yet, I never asked a vow;
Doubts, fears, were utterly unknown;
The faith that is so worthless now,
I then believed in by my own.
I read his heart by mine! and deemed
Its truth was clear, its choice was made;
The happiness I only dreamed,
How bitterly has it been paid!
Breathe, ye soft flowers, my long despair!
But tell him, now, return is vain;
My heart has had too much to bear,
Ever to be his own again.
Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
THE IRIS
It boots not keeping back the scroll,
I know thy tender words,
(“My life, my idol, and my soul!”)
Its scented page affords.
There—give it me, that I may fling
Its fragments on the wind,
A faithless and a worthless thing
For such a fate designed.
What tho’ the Iris in my room
Bids Hope’s sweet promise live,
I take no lesson from its bloom,
I have no hope to give.
Soon, with the summer sun’s control,
Those azure leaves decay;
And yet the words on yonder scroll
Are more short-lived than they.
I care not for a love that springs
Where other fancies dwell,
The rainbow’s hue upon its wings,
The rainbow’s date as well;
By Vanity and Folly nurst:
Of happiness it dies:
It springeth from a fancy first,
And with a fancy flies.
Ay, let them prettily complain,
With graceful sorrow strive;
They should be glad of my disdain,
It keeps their love alive.
I gave the ribbon from my hair,
The blossom from my hand,
But I have not a thought to spare
For any of their band.
The love that haunts my midnight hour,
A dream—and yet, how true!
Belongs to a diviner power,
Than vanity e’er knew:
It giveth, like the pale pure star,
A loveliness to night,
And winneth from the world afar,
Its own eternal light.
It bringeth to our earth again
The heavens it dwells among:—
Not to the worldly and the vain
Can such a love belong:
High, holy as the heaven above,
Yet sharing life’s worst part,
Until I meet with such a love
I cannot give my heart.
Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
LADY CAROLINE MAXSÉ
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 smile 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.
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1836
Compare 'The Gipsey Belle'
THE LADY EGERTON
I know not thy history—
I never heard thy name,
Until as source of song to me
Thy pictured semblance came.
I see thy face is very fair,
A beauty high and proud,
That wold disdain to seek or share
The homage of the crowd.
Upon thy neck is many a gem;
They suit thy bearing well:
Upon thy head a diadem
Might be content to dwell.
Ay, beautiful Patrician thou!
Dost look thy state and style;
For there is pride upon thy brow,
And pride within thy smile.
Thou art amid earth’s fav’rite ones—
Flowers of our fallen soil,
Whose sheltered bloom the rude wind shuns,
Who know not want or toil.
Art thou as lovely as thy face?
Ah, yes! I feel thou art—
It is the inward, dearer grace,
That warms the outer part.
The better lot in life is thine!
Ah! how much dost thou owe
To those who perish and do pine
In life’s sad paths below!
What misery is around thy way—
A misery thou canst aid:
Seek in the winter hut of clay
Where wretchedness is laid.
Where the poor mother turns to weep
O’er food she loathes to share;
Or watches o’er her children’s sleep,
And thinks how pale they are.
Lady! thou may’st to childhood’s cheek
Bring back the early rose;
The heads that bend, the hearts that break,
May owe to you repose.
The dearest blessing fortune hath
Amid such scenes, is found
When smiles, like thine, shed o’er their path
A moral sunshine round.
Heath's Book of Beauty, 1836
LOVE’S MOTTO
Is it that natural impulse of the heart,
Its consciousness of immortality,
Which makes it happiness to be remembered?
Memory—the Hero buys it with his blood;
The Patriot, with proud sacrifice of self;
The Poet, with sweet music from his lute,
Of which his feelings are the subtle chords:
Nay, even the vain Rich build palaces
To make their name immortal: but of these
Is there one whose delight in memory
Can be like the young Lover’s?—’tis as life,
As hope, to know his image is secure,
Recall’d by all sweet thoughts in one fond heart.
The pictur’d scroll, that lies before me now,
Has wakened thoughts of this: upon the grass,
Fresh as his new-sprung feelings, kneels a youth,
While through the green boughs of the shadowy beech
The sunshine falls like rain-drops, and behind,
On a bright cloud, whose purple hue has caught
Its lustre from his wings, the boy-god floats—
He whose sway is of smiles, and sighs, and tears,
And yet whose rule is iron; he has lent
A golden arrow from his quiver’s store,
And the youth’s eager hand has on the bark
Carved these so gentle words, “FORGET ME NOT,”—
Murmuring the while one of those tender songs,
Which have their echo in each lover’s heart:
Wave—that wanderest singing by,
Bearing leaves and flowers with thee,
To the lady of my heart
Waft a benison from me.
Wind—that rov’st around the grove,
Kissing every flower nigh,
I’ll send thee on a sweeter search—
Bear my own sweet love my sigh.
Bark—that show’st my graven words,
Thine be yet a happier lot—
May’st thou meet my maiden’s eye,
Bidding her “Forget me not!”
Forget Me Not, 1827
LOVE'S SIGNAL FLOWER
How much there is of the heart’s eloquence
In but a simple flower!—Oh, Flowers were made
For Love’s interpreters!—
She flung her on his breast,
And she wept those bitter tears
When the present is all grief,
And the future is all fears.
And the knight’s dark eye was fill’d
With the tears he strove to quell,
Albeit too proud to show
How much he felt farewell.
There were flowers in her hair
Like an April diadem;
There were azure violets,
But she took not one of them.
There too was the red rose,
Queen of the scented hour;
But from out the sunny wreath
She took a small blue flower.
“Be this,” she sighed, “through all
The chance that waits my lot
Our love’s remembering sign—
Keep this FORGET ME NOT.”
He kiss’d the flower he took
From the Maiden’s snow-white hand:
One last low-breathed farewell,
And the boat has left the strand.
She watched the vessel glide,
Till she no more could see;
Till the Knight’s white plume seem’d mix’d
With the white foam of the sea.
And then the Maiden sought
Her bower, to weep alone,
Alas, that ever Love
Should mourn o’er what is gone!
Oh, who is it can say
That memory is all joy!—
When was not pleasure mixed
With much of grief’s alloy!
For pleasures are like flowers—
Destroyed by a moment’s rain;
But grief is like the boughs,
That blighted and bare remain.
— — —
With green turf round it spread,
In the shade of a lime-wood,
Covering the shrine of a virgin saint,
A little chapel stood.
And never one single day
The Maiden her task forgot,
To deck the shrine with a wreath
Of the blue FORGET ME NOT.
And her lover—where was he?—
The first of the martial throng,
Where the scimitar flashes in light
To the trumpet’s glorious song.
His lance was first in the charge,
His steed was first in the line:—
But alas that Fortune’s sun
Loves rather to set than shine!
In a dungeon dark and deep
A captive the Knight is laid.
Shame on the faithless slave
Who the gallant band betrayed!
Oh worse than death to feel
Time steal on day by day!—
To feel our youth and strength
Passing like shadows away!
The light of the glorious sun
Through the iron bars came dim;
It was as if it shone
For all the earth save him.
There were but the dark walls,
There was but the small damp court,
Which seemed as if only made
For the newt’s and bat’s resort.
But one day—was it a dream?—
He saw, mid the sullen mould,
As planted by magic, a flower
Its small blue leaves unfold.
He knew the FORGET ME NOT:
It was as a hope from Above;
It seemed like a messenger
Who came to tell of his love.
That night he heard light feet,
Like silver music’s fall,
And he saw a lamp’s red light
Upon his dungeon-wall;
And he heard a gentle voice,
Like the south wind steal on his ear;
He looked, and the phœnix Hope
Sprang up from the ashes of Fear.
His own Maiden stood by his side—
What will not Love essay?—
And, touching the lock of his chains,
Whispered “Away!—away!”
— — —
The Knight and the Maiden stand
Again by their own fair stream;
And the Knight gazes round as all
Were but a beautiful dream.
Then told the Maid how she wept
O’er many a phantom fear,
That in an absent hour
Like twilight shades appear;
How, garbed as a Minstrel-boy,
His prison she had sought,
And by her patient love
Had his deliverance wrought.
She told how she had flung
The seeds of their signal flower,
In trust that its glad sight
Would cheer his prison hour.
— — —
Next morn came a sound of lutes
And song from a fair array,
And flowers were scattered round,
To hail their bridal day.
There was not a summer bloom
In their many wreaths forgot:
In the bride’s hair was only one,
Her own FORGET ME NOT.
Forget Me Not, 1844 posthumous
THE LYRIST
The laurel-wreath is round thine hair,
Maid of the brow divine;
Immortal as the stars, how proud
A destiny is thine!
Thy thoughts are burning on thy cheek,
And to thine eye is given
The glory of that inward light
Which is direct from heaven.
Sweep, maiden, sweep thy glorious lyre,
And let its chords express
All that they dream,—of lofty deed,
And meekest tenderness.
’Tis noon: the Summer loveliness
Should speak unto my heart,—
The maiden bowed her laurelled head,
“In such I have no part;”
A while ago you might have said,
Joy in the sunlight hour;
As flowers, my feelings would have sprung,
Beneath such genial power.
But when those flowers have been checked,
By cold North wind and rain,
Oh, never more will they expand,
In light and bloom, again!
The poet’s is a doomed lot,
And heavy to be borne;—
When one half of his fame is won,
From mockery and scorn.
If right I read the poet’s mind,
’Tis delicate as wild,
Lovely, unreal, sensitive,
And simple as a child;
’Tis as a lute, which a light touch
Into sweet music wakes,
But whose fine chords are slight as fine;—
’Neath the rough hand, it breaks.
Or, if its native strength resists,
It catches the rude tone,
And, harsh and tuneless, loses all
The sweetness—once its own.
Aye, fame is glorious, while, starlike,
It shines in its far birth;
But, like that star, its glory fades,
When once it touches earth.
Oh! woe that e’er I sought to win
A poet’s gifted name!
What ever had my woman’s heart
To do with aught like fame?
My laurel—’tis not at my will,
Or I would fling it down,
And weep, that ever brow of mine
Had won such fatal crown!
It does not fade; ’tis but the lot
Of every birth that springs
From our sad earth, her fair, her sweet;—
These are her fleeting things.
But deadly is the laurel; hence,
Freshly, its green wreath weaves;
It is immortal, for the sake
Of poison in its leaves.
When other trees put forth their bloom,
The laurel stands alone;
Little avail the changeless leaves;
And flowers,—it has none.
Friendship's Offering, 1827
MIGNONETTE
Thou fairy flower! how lovely
Thy blossoms seem to be!
Thou art the summer’s darling,
And such thou art to me:
Thou bringest back old fancies,
And I am like a child;
Alas, alas! my childhood!
Where art thou now exiled?
Art thou amid these blossoms,
Lull’d with their breathings sweet;
Too much of unmarked beauty
Lies hidden at our feet:
We hurry on, too careless
Of many lovely things;
’Tis accident that often
The dearest pleasure brings.
Sweet flowers! are ye from childhood,
Or fairy land, or both?
So fresh are still the fancies
That linger round your growth.
With what an eager fondness
I leant your leaves above!
Oh! in our life’s beginning,
The heart is full of love!
We have a world within us,
Unwasted and unchilled;
And we long to share the gladness,
With which ourselves are filled:
’Tis life’s most bitter lesson,
That we must leave behind
Each warm and generous impulse,
That lighted once the mind.
We grow too cold and careless,
As after years come on;
The fanciful is vanished,
The beautiful is gone.
Where are the old affections,
That once appeared so true?
And if we could, we cannot,
Their once sweet life renew.
It is a mournful memory,
Tis memory of the past;
Each year a deeper darkness
Is on our pathway cast.
Ah! ye darling flowers of summer!
Would ye could bid depart
The shadow on my spirit,
The coldness at my heart.
Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
OTHMAN
Morning, bright morning, thou art on the wave,
Where sweep the proud gallies, whose freight is the brave
The red flag is streaming—a meteor of war;
Woe to the eyes that watch for it afar!
Young warrior, the sabre is bright in thy hand,—
Why does thy dark eye yet linger on land?
The heart of the warrior should be, like his shield,
As firm in its temper, unknowing to yield.
Thou art brave; where’s the Infidel foe dare advance,
For the blow of thy sword, or the flight of thy lance?
Thy white sails are spread, in their pride to the wind,
Why lingerest thou, with thy fond looks behind?
Oh! the heart has its softness, tho’ covered with steel;
And the rock has deep waters it cannot conceal;
And he who has ridden in blood to the knee,
Will start at a shadow, when touched, Love by thee!
He turned to the shore; for a maiden is there,
The least rose of whose cheek, the least wave of whose hair,
Are dearer to him than the wealth of the world,
Or the red hour of triumph, when banners are furled.
That eye’s slightest look, that lip’s softest word,
He is meek as a slave in the chains of his lord:
Not the less, when the battle ships meet on the brine,
Will his bark and his brand be the first in the line.
But the wind fills the sails, and they sweep from the shore;
They part with that parting which never meets more:
They may gaze from the land on the desolate main,
But the bark of young Othman returns not again.
’Tis evening; alone, in her tower on the steep,
His lady sits watching the war of the deep.
Like a trumpet, the wild wind has rung to the charge,
And the unprisoned thunders are rushing at large.
Even fearful the strife of the sky and the sea—
The time of their battle; but what must it be,
When we know that our heart has its all on the wave,
And yet look on the main as we look on the grave.
But the clouds are dispersing, the wild hour is past,
And the setting sun masters the tempest at last;
There is peace on the sky, there is rest on the sea,
But the peace and the rest are not, Leila, for thee.
Scene of wild beauty, the black clouds are driven,
Like rebels subdued, from their empire o’er heaven;
Clear as a crystal, now spreads the bright west,
Where the glad orb is sinking in glory to rest.
A purple gloom hangs o’er the north, but the light
Is breaking around it, the waters are bright,
Like mirrors for sunshine, and silver with foam,
Like the sea-bird’s white wings that now over them roam.
But sad is such hour, though the tempest be o’er,
And the sky and the sea be as calm as before:
The glory is mockery, the beauty is doom,—
The light froth, the glad sunlight, are they for the tomb?
The heart hath its omens; she rushed from her tower,
The wave wind-borne dashed o’er her, she felt not the shower:
We watched her dark hair stream as onwards she prest;
One faithful slave followed, and told us the rest.
She found him; some instinct had led her the way,
Where, borne by the billows, and washed by the spray,
Lay Othman. Oh, thus must he meet his young bride!
’Twas but one moment’s parting—she sank by his side!
The Pledge of Friendship, 1828
THE PANSY
“——— A little purple flower,
And maidens call it Love in idleness.”
SHAKSPERE.
His name is on the haunted flower,
Linked with those dreams that came
In inspiration’s lovely hour,
Whose memory is fame.
He saw that flower when he was young,
Alike in life and heart,
And round it those sweet fancies flung
That never more depart.
A thousand blossoms bloom and die
Upon their mother earth,
Unnoticed in their transient sigh,
Forgotten in their birth:
But when the poet’s heart has cast
Its own deep beauty there,
The shadow of the charmed past
Makes every leaf more fair.
The poet and the flower repay
What each the other yields;
He loiters on his twilight way,
Amid the summer fields;
Delighting in the lovely things
That round his pathway gleam
While over them his spirit flings
A music and a dream.
He of the Avon’s gentle wave
Was conscious of his power:
Was he not happy, when he gave
His fancy to that flower,
And left a vision of delight
Amid its folded leaves?
A vision delicate and bright
Which every heart receives.
His lot was what the poet’s lot
Has ever been on earth,
Yet toil and trouble were forgot
In one enchanted birth:
That little purple flower imparts
A pleasure deep and true;
Then he bequeaths to other hearts
The joy that first he knew.
Flowers of Loveliness, 1838
THE ROSE AND LAUREL LEAF
Oú va
Et la feuille de la rose, et la feuille du laurier?
On thy path of music whither
May, sweet wind, thy wandering be?
And say, what dost thou bring hither
On thy azure wings with thee?
My wild course has been where, flowing,
The silver fountains sing;
From the roses by them growing
Floats a rose-leaf on my wing.
“Through a grove of laurel breathing
Came a young poet’s song;
From the green boughs round him wreathing
I bore a leaf along.”
For that leaf of crimson shining,
That one of shadeless hue—
What art thou, sweet wind, designing?
With those leaves what wilt thou do?
“The red leaf of the lover,
That green leaf of the brave—
The fair earth I bear them over,
To leave them on the grave.”
The Forget-Me-Not, 1830
THE SAILOR
He was their last and their only child,
But one remaining of many;
And is not the blossom the last on the bough
The most beloved of any?
They brought him up ’mid the mountain and flood,
Till the spirit of sickness was banish’d,
And the roses of health laugh’d on the cheek,
Whose hectic bloom had vanish’d.
And chiefly is was the boy’s delight
To make ships of slips of willow;
And then he would call the lake a sea,
And the rippling wave a billow.
And he loved, on the long and winter’s night,
To read each gallant story,
How the brave had raised the blood-red flag,
And died for their country’s glory;
And how some had sailed to stranger climes,
With but sea and sky before them,
Till the God, whose marvels they’d seen, saw fit
To their native land to restore them.
His mother wept, but his heart was fix’d
On a sailor’s life of danger;—
He envied the wind, for it could be
O’er the wild sea-waves a ranger!
She blest him beside his father’s grave,
And the setting sun shone o’er him.
His lighted brow seemed an augury
Of the life that lay before him.
Oh, hope is catching—she found it so,
And her mother’s grief, concealing;
While he was still by her side, she felt
The glow of her sailor’s feeling.
But when he went, and she saw him turn,
And gaze on the home he was leaving,
What bitter tears wash’d away the web
The fairy hope had been weaving.
That night she sat down to her lonely meal
And wept; there were none to chide her,
That night it was a servant’s hand
Laid the book of prayer beside her.
The boy was glad—but one fond thought
Of the mother, who smooth’d his pillow,
Fill’d his eyes with tears, when, for the first time,
His slumber was waked by the pillow.
But he slept ’mid dreams of the blood-red flag,
The ball and the grape-shot’s rattle,
The cutlass sweeping the boarded deck,
And the storm of an ocean battle.
But his ship was bound for a sultry clime,
Where an Indian sun was beaming,
And from every wind that swept the sail,
Was the breath of fever streaming;
And men who had stood, unscath’d, when the balls
Like dust on the gale were flying,
And those whom the tempest of night had spared,
Were now like spring leaves dying.
He, too, was fading; that sailor youth,
The rose of his cheek had departed,
And his thought had turn’d to his own dear home—
And the mother he left broken-hearted.
It was one evening—the signal gun
O’er the echoing wind was ringing,
And the warning waves broke round the ship
As if they a dirge were singing.
He heard the sound, his steps grew faint,
And his pale brow waxed yet paler;
Next day the sea o’er the hammock broke,
Where slept the youthful sailor.
’Tis the church yard here where his father rests,
Here his mother’s grave is making;
And his is where the wild wind sweeps,
And the ocean waves are breaking.
Friendship's Offering, 1825
SECOND SIGHT
A Dramatic Scene
Ronald—Ellen
Ellen.—Oh! I will chide thee, truant! Look how fair,
Like to love’s promises, the heavens appear!
The blue Night has put on her wreath of stars—
A bright queen in her proud regality!
The young Moon is arisen, and the waves
Have welcomed her in music, while the winds
Bear her their song, mixed with the breath of flowers
Our island yields, like to sweet incense given
In homage to her beauty!—All is still
Save the melodious language of the leaves;
And yonder star, our own pale signal star,
Has reached the dark hill’s point unmarked by thee,
Nay, turn not thus away—speak, mine own love!
Ronald.—My own, my gentle treasure! I could gaze
On those blue eyes, and quite forget that shades
Are gathering on their brightness. Alas! dear love,
An evil circle is fast closing round.
I have not hidden from thee my fatal gift
To look upon the future, and to feel
Like present things those which are yet to come—
And on me now is consciousness of ill.
Ellen.—Nay, I must smile this gloomy mood away:
Come, I will sing the words which thou didst frame
Like flowers in a fair wreath.—I heard to-day
A wild sad air, just fit for them, ’tis one
Of those sweet spells whose power is more upon
The heart than even the ear.
Ronald.— No, no; not now!
I cannot bear to see thee smile, yet know
Thy step is on a precipice; that I
Shall lead thee to the brink—and lead to perish.
Ellen.—This of thyself, false prophet! Ronald, no;
Oh, I will not believe thee. Come, be gay:
You’re a dull lover for a lady’s bower.
You do not love me.
Ronald.—Not love thee! By that cheek
Now beautiful with blushes—by those eyes,
Like a blue harebell, when a sunshine plays
Upon its dewy leaves—by that white brow
Crown’d with gold curls, and by that eloquent smile—
I love thee tenderly as exiles love
Remembrance of their own country; dear
As home, as infancy, as happiness;
Precious as hope.
Ellen.—Ah, these are honeyed words, but . . . I believe them.
Ronald.—Alas! my trusting love, I’ve other words—
Dark, fearful words—for thee. We must forget
That we have ever loved; our vows must be
Shadows long past.
Ellen.—Oh Ronald, cruel, cruel—
Love may not learn forgetfulness. I can
Be silent as the grave; can school my tears
To fall in secret; let my cheek grow pale;
And my heart waste away in solitude;—
But I cannot forget thee.
Ronald.—Time has been
When pardon to the mourner were less sweet
Than are those words to me; but now thy love
To me is as despair: I’ll tell thee all,
All my dark auguries. E’en from a child
There was a strange power on me; I have sought
The mountain brow, when veiled in thunder clouds;
I roamed the forest when night wrapped me round,
The meteor flames my guide; I lay beside
The foaming waterfall, and I have held
Unblest communion with the dead, and seen
And talked with spirits, and have looked on sights
Which sent the frozen life-blood from my cheek!
I did not seek companionship with man;
I lived in a proud solitude; but you
Softened my gloomy mood, and then my pride
Bowed to a woman’s power: life was no more
A stern and gloomy pathway: but it grew
A paradise of hope, and I forgot
My dreary visions.
Ellen.— Oh forget them still!
My heart beats quick with fear——What is that sound?
How sad, how wildly, has the night-wind swept
Over my harp!
Ronald.—Ah, those prophetic notes!
Death is upon their tones; ’tis the same dirge
That rang last night within my ear:—I stood
Beneath an oak whose blasted stem was rent
By the fierce lightning; it yet smoked; the fire
Was red upon it, while the falling rain
Hissed on the scorched leaves. I heard the voice
Of spirits on the wind, and saw strange forms:
The clouds were black as death; my only light
Was the pale herald of the thunder-peal!
Then rose the vision on my soul: first came
Those melancholy sounds; then I beheld
Myself and thee—I saw the dagger gleam
Red in my hand—’twas dripping with thy gore—
I saw thy death-wound, saw thee cold and pale
And knew myself thy murderer!
Ellen.— Oh, Ronald, leave
This most unholy interchange with things
Forbidden and concealed. Ask thine own heart;
It will proclaim their falsehood. Ask that heart
Which I most truly do believe is mine,
If it could injure me.
Ronald.— Dear Ellen, no;
It cannot be that I who love thee, thus
Could harm thee, love: the turf, on which thy step
Has left its fairy trace, is unto me
A sainted spot; the very air thou breathest
Is precious; more I prize the slightest leaf
Wreath’d with thy sunny hair, than the rich gems
That burn in Indian mines. It cannot be
That I could harm thee!
Ellen.— Oh, I do not fear.
Come, pray thee, smile at thine own prophecy.
Ronald.—For once, Ellen,
I’ll bid thee not believe me!
-
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It is a lovely shade, but shun the place—
Mark what a red taint is upon the heath!
The very harebells have caught that one hue:
Look how they gleam beneath the pale moonlight!
Oh, blood is on their bloom—a crimson dye—
Which has been and which will be there for years.
Those larches, with their graceful sweep, once made
A gentle maiden’s bower, and ’tis her blood
That gives the flowers their unnatural stain.
’Tis a sad history:—The maid was slain
By one who was her lover; for his heart
Was dark with jealousy: and then he fled
To the fierce battle, as if outward strife
Could kill the strife within; yet home he came
At last—death spares the wretched—then he heard
How innocent, how true, his Ellen was.
He sought the spot where she was murdered, made
Atonement with his blood; and it is told,
When the moon lights the midnight, comes a sound
Of melancholy music, and a shape
Like that poor maiden, with the golden hair
Stain’d from the bosom’s wound; and by its side,
Another phantom of a dark-brow’d chief,
Who seems, with bended head and outstretch’d arms,
To ask forgiveness; these flit o’er the turf,
And make the place so fearful.
Forget Me Not, 1825
SEPARATION
Aye, think of me in after years,
Although the dream be past,
Love’s charmed dream of hopes and fears,
It is not made to last.
It cannot last—hearts will grow cold,
And weary, although blest;—
Life’s book has but one leaf of gold—
’Tis but a single scene.
That scene,—oh life may never more
Seen lovely as it seemed,
When wanderers on a fairy shore,
Our way we only dreamed.
But this is past—why should I say
What is in mine own heart?
I know each has a separate way—
I know that we must part.
I know your heart,—I know my own—
Wide difference is there—
And these, so opposite in tone,
A various fate must share.
Deem not I would thy faith recall—
Look not for tears from me—
Equals, pride will for me do all,
Indifference does for thee.
Oh strange that two once so beloved,
Each all the world to each,
Should meet in other days unmoved;—
What lesson does it teach?
One that, at least, I long have known—
To trust to nothing here;
That the heart should be cast in stone,
To suit so cold a sphere.
It is not for a thought of love,
I bid thee think of me;
The stars may leave their homes above,
Ere that again may be!
But keep that thought, like one rich vein
Of pure and golden ore,
’Mid all the false and heartless train
Teach in their worldly lore,
To mind thee that there are such things,
As truth and love on earth,
When heartless sneers the scoffer flings,
Upon their priceless worth.
Thou canst not be all worldly, while
Such memories with thee dwell,
Haunting thee with a midnight smile
Of former love—Farewell!
The Pledge of Friendship, 1828
SONG
Thou shalt think of me when the stars are weeping
Their tears of light;
Thou shalt think of me when the stars are keeping
Their watch at night;
Thou shalt think of me when summer flowers
In autumn fade;
When sinks the glory of noon-tide hours
In twilight shade;
When the waves round some fragile bark are breaking
Alone at sea;
Or when from your saddest dream awaking,
Then think of me.
But I will think of thee at the dawning
Of the daylight’s star,
When slowly comes forth the beauty of morning,
Like joy from afar.
I will think of thee when over the ocean
Some tall ship rides,
Stately and swift a spirit of motion,
Breasting the tides;
And when they are telling some ancient story
Of chivalry,
Of some proud one who died in his fulness of glory,
I’ll think of thee;
But of me thou shalt think with sorrow,
Though light it be,
But a night that knows no morrow
Has closed o’er me.
The Pledge of Friendship, 1828