Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L E L)
Poems published in periodicals, primarily in The Literary Gazette - 4
THE ISLAND
" Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world,
Thou ne’er wert made for me ! "
A summer isle, one over which the wind
Hath ever pass'd in melody,— such airs
As are born in the rose's breast, and die
Like singing on the waters. There were lakes,
Some deep and blue, and clear as the bright sky
Mirror'd upon them; others, o'er whose waves
Floated the broad green pennons of the lily ;
Some barks for Love, coloured with his own blush,
And others, white as fairy ships, for Hope,—
Ah, Love and Hope should ever go together!—
And in the valleys and beside the hills
(Hills where the landmark was one stately palm)
There grew ten thousand flowers, on whose leaves
Shone every hue that ever yet hath shone
In a king's diadem of Indian gems,
Or in the tints an autumn sunset throws
O'er the rich glaciers in the rainbow arch
Of the departing shower ; and butterflies,
Each like a ruby, glistened round the stems ;
And birds as brightly feathered, for each wing
Was like wrought tapestry of silk and gold.
And when night came the isle was lighted up
With myriads of glowing natural lamps,
A beautiful green brilliance, which the moon
Veined with pure crystal; and the many stars
Like glories scattered o'er the midnight sky.
Just in the middle of the sunny Isle,
Lonely and fragrant, stood one graceful tree,
A rose accacia, whose pink boughs were linked
By silver fetters of the jessamine:
Together they had formed a perfumed bower,
A green turf, dropped with violets, the floor.
And there a radiant creature dwelt, a Girl
Lovely as love's first likeness, innocent
As the white antelope, whose large dark eyes,
Or the dove's softer blue ones, gave alone
Her own deep looks of tenderness again.
She dwelt a fairy in a fairy Isle :
Her only knowledge, that she knew the Spring
Brought blossoms, and the Summer fruit ; that night
Was beautiful with stars and with the moon;
That the sun rose over the hill of palms,
And sank in the red billows of the sea ;
No other language than some soft sweet sounds
She had caught from the voices of the birds
When singing to the morning, and the notes
Sent from the waterfall, when, like a harp,
It held discourse in music with the wind.
- - - But a tall ship came over the far sea,
And bore the Maiden of the sunny Isle
Away from her sweet home, to other lands.
And there she dwelt, 'mid pleasure and surprise,
The loveliest amid the many lovely.
To what may youth's first joyance be compared ?
To daylight, and the glad song of the lark
Bursting together, — to a sudden gush
Of perfume, till the giddy senses link
With overmuch delight,— a dream,— a tale
Of Paradise, told in fair poesy.
Thus pass'd a season ; but IANTHE'S heart,
Tender and true, confiding, passionate.
Was filled with those warm feelings, which like gold,
Albeit itself so precious, often brings
Misery on the possessor. But to look
On the weak gracefulness of her slight form,
The gentle forehead, the imploring smile
Of the so delicate lip, the tremulous blush,
The full voluptuous darkness of the eyes,
So timid yet so tender,— light and dew, —
To look upon her was to know that love
Would be her destiny. IANTHE loved—
Loved with that womanish idolatry
Which makes a god of the beloved one,
A god for whom no sacrifice is thought
Too great, though life and soul were offered up, —
No worship worthy of the excellence
To which the heart bows down. But happiness,
Though often wooed, is rarely won by love.
IANTHE had to weep the worst of all,—
Ill placed affection. — — — —
She knew that death was in her heart, and pined
Once more to look upon the sunny Isle.
Not even its sweet healthfulness of air
Might save, but it would soothe ; she said her breath
Would pass more freely; when its latest sigh
Had a companion in one from the rose.
Again the tall ship bore her o'er the main.
It was a strange, yet lovely, sight to see
How in the moonlight she would sit and watch
The glorious waters, her black hair unbound
And floating like a sail, heavy and dark,
As if an omen that the voyage was death ;
And her large eyes, so very wildly bright,
Her low and melancholy song,— she looked
A spirit, paused one moment on this earth,
To chant a requiem over it. — — —
Sail on thy way, thou stately ship,
Over the deep blue sea,
Beyond thy waves there is a home,
A silent home for me!
It was a place of birds and flowers,
Of green leaves and sunshine :
I do hope I shall find no change,
Sweet Isle ! in aught of thine.
I'll seek again where the pink boughs
Of the accacia wave, —
My cradle was beneath their shade,
And so shall be my grave.
My spirit could not pass away
In yon great city's air,
Even my last sigh would be false,
For all things are false there.
I have let fall my red rose wreath,
Scattered upon the deep, —
The flowers I had such joy to cull,
I wished so much to keep.
There, they are floating far away,
Over the starlit sea ;
Is it not thus pleasures and hopes
Have pass'd away from me ?
Well, let them pass; I have a home
Where pink accacias wave,
And sweetly will it guard my sleep
Within the quiet grave !
‘Twas even so: they made the Maiden's grave
Beneath the lone accacia, which became
A shrine by lovers sought to breathe their vows ;
And a pale lily or a violet
Gathered from off that tomb, was a love-gift
Beyond all prise, and one that every youth
Offered his mistress, when a blush first owned
She loved him.
The Literary Gazette, 13th December 1823
Poetic Sketches - Fourth Series
VERSIONS FROM THE GERMAN.
(Third Series.)
KÖRNER'S GRAVE — Anon.
Where is my soldier's grave — where have you laid him ?
Sculptured aisles and vaulted tombs to sleep among ?
A nobler urn hath the memory made him
Of a life that was devoted unto war and unto song.
He is laid on the battle-field — there the youth slumbers,
Where war's mighty sacrifice is offered unto death ;
There did his spirit pour its latest numbers—
" Bless me, oh my father !" sighed the hero's dying breath.
Ye, who so dearly held him, now follow me with weeping —
Yonder the green hillock his lowly grave above—
There the oak, tall and old, its shadowy watch is keeping—
There was the hero laid by brave men in their love.
Well may the young and true weep above his ashes,
Honouring the unforgotten one who slumbereth here ;
Yet, amid the fields of death, where the red war-spear flashes,
German hearts will hold his remembrance dear.
Still let the urn of the brave one inherit
The crown that was glorious around his youthful head :
Maidens still ask his sweet songs, and his spirit
Is with us, although its mortal veil be fled.
Never, on the noble race in which he led ye, falter—
Oh, my German people ! forget ye not the brave;
Vow ye to your country's cause, as if upon an altar —
Make ye an altar of my youthful hero's grave !
Although but in its youth-tide, already adorning
The early oak, with summer, hung around each graceful bough,
Stately and pleasant, amid the skies of morning,
Amid the rich and painted clouds it reared its lofty brow.
So bloomed our hero ! and for the sunny hours
That lifted up his young green head so beautiful above,
There came forth all the music from the forest's deepest bowers,
And sung in his boughs like the singing of love!
There was song amid the leaves, as if Apollo had suspended
His old heroic lyre amid the thick green shade —
He the god of bard and hero : — too soon the music ended —
A storm in early summer, low the youthful oak-tree laid.
Too soon death seized my bravest, — in the first spring-tide of honour
He fell in glorious battle, a hero and a bard ;
Dear was the debt which his country took upon her, —
Her praise and her remembrance is the patriot's reward.
First in the holy warfare for liberty he perished —
The path in which he led to the youthful brave belongs ;
Follow ye his footsteps — so be his memory cherished,
While nightingales amid the boughs mourn for his lovely songs.
The Literary Gazette, 17th January 1835
LANDSCAPES
- - - - And must
Such Ioveliness as this be unto me
But as a dream ?
THE LAKE
The last pale light was on the sky,
That comes when summer sunbeams die ;
An amber wave, with just a surge
Of crimson on its utmost verge ;
And, spread beneath, like a green ocean,
With not one single wave in motion,
Stood a thick wood ; then far away,
Dark outlined in the sky's clear gray,
Rose mountain-heights, till, to the eye,
They gloomed like storm-clouds piled on high,
Upon the other eastern shore
Grew, in light groups, the sycamore —
Gay with the bright tints that recall
How autumn and ambition fall;
Alike departing in their hour,
Of riches, pride, and pomp, and power.
And in their shadow the red deer
Grazed as they had no hour of fear ;
As never here a bow was drawn,
Nor hunter's cry rose with the dawn.
Near, like a wilderness of bloom,
Waved the gold banners of the broom—
Light as the graceful maiden's shape,
And sunny as the curls that 'scape
From the blue snood with which her care
Has had such pride to braid her hair.
The Lake was that deep blue, which night
Wears in the zenith moon's full light;
With pebbles shining thro', like gems
Lighting sultana's diadems :
A little isle laid on its breast,
A fairy gift in its sweet rest.
There stood a convent once — bright eyes
Wasted their light, soft lips their sighs.
Oh ! who can say how much each cell
Has known of youth and hope's farewell—
Of midnight's vigil, when each prayer
Laid all the burning bosom bare,
Of those who bowed not down to sleep,
Of those whom they alone saw weep ?
Or it might tell of those who sought
The peacefulness of holy thought —
The broken heart, the bleeding breast,
That turned them to a place of rest.
All is forgotten : There is not
More than trace to mark the spot
So holy once ; just a stained stone,
Broken, and with gray moss o'ergrown ,
A fragment of a shattered wall ;
One fallen arch ; and these are all.
Wild roses, with their summer glow,
Are tenants of the island now ;
Perhaps thus springing fresh and fair
Upon the graves of those who were
Once lovely as themselves.
The Literary Gazette, 2nd October 1824
See also The Glen
LAMENT FOR THE PAST YEAR
Farewell, thou shadowy Year, farewell!
My heart feels light that thou art gone ;
That last star was thy burial light,
That passing wind thy funeral moan.
Another year? It cannot be,
Surely, what thou hast been to me !
Twelve months ago I sat, as now ;
Glorious was the blue midnight,
A glad sound came from many bells,
And never shone the stars more bright ;
I thought the sky, so calm, so clear,
Might be an omen of the year.
False sky! false stars! showed they their light
But as in mockery to the eye,
That sought in their bright page to read
A something of its destiny ?
Why looked they beauty, looked they hope,
On such a darkened horoscope !
For, not one warning shadow told
How many clouds were on the wind,
Of hopes that fell like autumn fruit,
Leaving the sapless boughs behind !
All that has been may be again,
And yet lives in my spirit's pain.
Now there is storm upon the sky,
The clouds hang heavy, as with care ;
The stars have darkened one by one,
A moaning sound is on the air ;
And be the year the worst to me,
’Tis but what I expect should be.
Come, thou new Year ! I doubt thy life
Will be such as thy birth has been,
Ended as it begun, in tears,
A desolate and darkened scene.
There is now but one only thing
Which I can wish, or thou canst bring.
A deep, a lone, a silent grave,
Is all I ask, dark Year, of thee;
To others hope and pleasure bring,
But only bring the grave to me !
The wearied heart, in its despair,
Will seek and find a haven there.
The Literary Gazette, 3rd January 1824
Fragments, First Series
THE LAMP
Brightly the stars shed their light,
Like love on the bosom of night,
Each rolls on his course, like a king
Come in pride and in triumphing.
But brighter the lamp that shines
Through yonder lattice of vines.
Thrice glorious that sunstar above.
Bright Jove ; and the fair Queen of Love
And Beauty yet holdeth her reign
O'er a glad and a lovely domain ;
And their rays, like the shivering of spears,
Glance in silvery light thro' the spheres.
But give me the lamp that shines
Through yonder lattice of vines.
By that lamp bends a Maiden fair,
Shading off the fresh night air,
Lest the gentle flame should decay,
Nor brighten her wanderer's way.
Around stream her locks in their light,
And the rose-cheek and blue eye are bright,
Of the Maid by the lamp that shines
Through yonder casement of vines.
I am near to the casement now,
I can look on her graceful brow,
I can feel the light of her eye
As she smiles when her love is nigh.
Oh brighter to me by far
Than the blaze of each glorious star,
Is the light of the lamp that shines .
Through yonder lattice of vines.
The Literary Gazette, 7th February 1824
From Fragments, Sixth Series
THE LAST LOOK
' Tis the very lightness of childish impressions that makes them so dear and lasting."
The shade of the willow fell dark on the tide,
When the maid left her pillow to stand by its side ;
The wind, like a sweet voice, was heard in the tree,
And a soft lulling music swept in from the sea.
The land was in darkness, for mountain and tower
Flung before them the shadows of night's deepest hour ;
The moonlight unbroken lay white on the wave,
Till the wide sea was clear as the shield of the brave.
She flung from her forehead its curls of bright hair, —
Ere those ringlets fell round her another was there ;
Red flushed her cheek's crimson, and dark drooped her eye,
A stranger had known 'twas her lover stood by.
One note on his sea-call, the signal he gave,
And a boat like a plaything, danced light on the wave ;
Her head on his shoulder, her hand in his hand,
Yet the maiden looked back as they rowed from the strand.
She wept not for parents, she wept not for friends,
Yet fast the bright rain from her dark eye descends ;
The portionless orphan left nothing behind
But the green leaves — the wild flowers sown by the wind.
But how the heart clings to that earliest love,
Which haunts the lone garden, and hallows the grove ;
Which makes the old oak-tree and primrose-bank fair,
With the memories of childhood whose playtime was there.
Tis our spirits which fling round the joy which they take ;
The best of our pleasures are those which we make :
We look to the past, and remember the while,
Our own buoyant step and our own sunny smile.
A pathway of silver was tracked on the wave,
The oars left behind them the light which they gave,
And the slight boat flew over the moonlighted brine,
Till the coast afar-off was one shadowy line.
They reached the proud ship, and the silken sails spread,
And the gallant flag shone like a meteor blood red ;
And forth from the scabbard flashed out each bright sword,
In fealty to her the young bride of their lord.
From a cup of pale gold then she sipped the clear wine,
And clasped on her arm the green emeralds shine ;
The silver lamps swinging with perfume were fed,
And the rich fur beneath her light footstep was spread.
From the small cabin window she looked to the shore,
Lost in night she could see its dim outline no more :
She sighed as she thought of her earlier hours,
"Ah, who will now watch o'er my favourite flowers !”
The New Monthly Magazine, 1831
THE LEGACY OF THE ROSES
Oh ! plant them above me, the soft, the bright,
The touched with the sunset's crimson light,
The warm with the earliest breath of spring,
The sweet with the sweep of the west wind's wing;
Let the green bough and the red leaf wave —
Plant the glad rose-tree upon my grave.
Why should the mournful willow weep
O'er the quiet rest of a dreamless sleep?—
Weep for life, with its toil and care,
Its crime to shun, and its sorrow to bear ;
Let tears and the sign of tears be shed
Over the living, not over the dead !
Plant not the cypress nor yet the yew ;
Too heavy their shadow, too gloomy their hue,
For one who is sleeping in faith and in love,
With a hope that is treasured in heaven above ;
In a holy trust are my ashes laid —
Cast ye no darkness, throw ye no shade.
Plant the green sod with the crimson rose,
Let my friends rejoice o'er my calm repose ;
Let my memory be like the odours they shed,
My hope like their promise of early red ;
Let strangers, too, share in their breath and their bloom —
Plant ye the bright roses over my tomb !
The Literary Gazette, 21st August 1830
LIFE
It is in vain —
The heart must struggle with its destiny.
Alas ! the idols which its faith sets up —
They are Chaldean ones, half gold, half clay.
We trust, we are deceived — we hope, we fear,
Alike without foundation : day by day,
Some new illusion vanishes, and Life
Gets cold and colder on towards its close —
Just like the years which make it : some are check'd
By sudden blights in spring ; some are dried up
By fiery summers ; others waste away
In calm monotony of quiet skies,
And peradventure these may be the best —
They know no hurricanes, no floods that burst
As the destroying angel rode each wave ;
But then they have no ruby fruits, no flowers
Shining in purple, and no lighted mines
Of gold and diamond. Which is the best,
Beauty and glory in a passionate clime,
Mingled with thunder, tempest; — or the calm
Of skies that scarcely change — which, at the least,
If much of shine they have not, have no storms?
I know not which is best : but I do know
Which I would choose ; give me the earth, the sky,
Of even, self-consuming loveliness —
Though the too radiant sun and fertile soil,
In their luxuriance, run themselves to waste,
And the green valley and the silver stream
Become a sandy desert. Oh ! the heart
Too passionate in lighted energies
May read its fate in sunny Araby —
How every Eastern tale recalls its beauty,
Its growth of spices, and its groves of balm.
It is exhausted — and what is it now?
A wild and burning wilderness — Alas !
For the similitude !
The Literary Gazette, 20th May 1826
LEZIONE PER L'AMORE
Where, O! where's the chain to fling,
One that will chain Cupid's wing,
One that will have longer power
Than the April sun or shower ?
Form it not of eastern gold,—
Golden fetters never hold ;
They may chain but not confine,
Not allure--but only shine.
Neither form it all of bloom,
Never does Love find his tomb
Sudden, soon, as when he meets
Death amid unvarying sweets :
But if you would fling a chain,
And not fling it quite in vain,
Like a fairy, form a spell
Of all that is changeable;
Like the purple tints that deck,
The gay peacock's sunny neck ;
Or the many hues that play
In the colouring morning's ray ;
Never let a hope appear
Without its companion, fear ;
Only smile to sigh, and then
Change into a smile again.
Be to-day as sad and pale,
As minstrel with his lovelorn tale ;
But to-morrow gay as all
Your life had been a festival.
If a woman would secure
All that makes her reign endure—
And, alas ! her reign must be
Ever most in fantasy—
Never let an curious eye
Gaze upon the heart too nigh—
Never let the veil be thrown
Quite aside, as all were known
Of delight and tenderness,
In the spirit's last recess ;
And one spell— all spells above—
Never let her own her love.
The Literary Gazette, 14th January 1826
Compare Lolotte's Song in The Golden Violet
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS
It spread beneath the summer sky,
A green turf, as just meet
For lilies and blue violets,
And moonlight fairies' feet.
And in the midst a rose-tree grew,
Covered with buds and flowers,
A crimson cloud of breath and bloom,
Like that of evening hours.
I watched the beauty of that rose,
Its June-touched bloom, its love-sweet breath,
When suddenly I marked how dark
Its shadow fell beneath.
Clings darkness to — I sadly thought —
The fair in form, the fresh in hue ?
Alas ! there's not that thing on earth
So bright but has its shadow too !
The Literary Gazette, 31st January 1824
From Fragments, Fifth Series
LINES
Dear Child, we now are left alone on earth.
The grave has those who loved us — desolate
Our home of happiness : the dear fire-side
Round which we clung has many a vacant place —
Death has pass'd over it.
There is no smile to answer thine,
No gentle lip thy lip to press ;
There is no look of love, save mine,
To meet thy look in tenderness.
But thou art dearer, thus bereft,
Since all who loved thee so are gone ;
Dearer to me thus lonely left,
Oh far more dear, thou orphan'd one !
I loved thee well in happier hour.
Not then thus desolate on earth, —
When thou wert as a favourite flower.
The cherished blossom of our hearth.
Now thou and I alone remain,
And thou art doubly dear to me !
A sweet link of the broken chain
Whose last fond relic rests with thee.
The Literary Gazette, 16th August 1823
LINES
Addressed to Alaric A. Watts, Esq. on receiving a Copy of his Poetical Fragments and Sketches.
There is a dear and a lovely power
Dwells in the silence of the flower,
When the buds meet the caress
Of the bee in their loneliness:—
In the song the green leaves sing
When they waken and wave in Spring ;
In the voice of the April bird,
The first air-music the year has heard ;
In the deep and glorious light
Of the thousand stars at night ;
In the dreaming of the moon,
Bright in her solitary noon ;
In the tones of the plaining brook ;
In the light of a first love look ;
And in each bright and beautiful thing,
That has aught of fine imagining,
That power is dwelling. Now need I
Name the bright power of Poesy?
And, graceful Bard ! it has breathed on thee
A breath of the life which is melody,
And given thy lute the touching strain
Which the heart but hears to echo again.
Mine is not the hand that flings
Living or lasting offerings ;
With thy laurel, not mine the lay
That either gives or takes away.
Others may praise thy harp, — for me
To praise were only a mockery ;
The tribute I offer is such a one ;
As the young bird would pour, if the sun
Or the air were pleasant : thanks, not praise, —
Oh, not to laud, but to feel thy lays !
The Literary Gazette, 8th November 1823
LINES ON NEWTON'S PICTURE OF THE DISCONSOLATE
The present is the painter's - never words
Could be so eloquent of wretchedness
As are that bowed-down form, that hidden face,
Which but to look on fills the eyes with tears:
But in the past the poet has his part,
For memory is the music of the lute.
What is thy history. lady ? -may I give
Thy sorrow language?
THE room was hung with pictures, and the tints
Of a rich sunset touched them as with life;
The crimson varied o'er each cheek-the light
Was tremulous within the azure eyes—
The braided auburn hair was waved with gold
And she who gazed looked not more actual life
Than did her pictured likeness; only tears
Bespoke the sadness of reality.
There were six paintings; all were very fair,
And of resembling beauty—chestnut curls,
A sunny autumn on the brow of youth,
Eyes of that blue which lights the violet
When rain-drops hang upon it, and each cheek
Was as a rose-leaf crushed on ivory.
The maiden paced the gallery, and wept;
She thought how each familiar voice was mute,
How she had watched, day after day, the rose
Wasting its colours in a hectic flush,
Till it grew pale for ever—how those eyes,
The blue, the bright, were closed in their long sleep,
Of those sweet sisters she was now the last.
She thought o'er instances of daily love,
That rise so bitterly to memory
When the dark grave has shut out all return
Of hopes which they had mingled,— tears they shed,
But pleasant ones, together— laughing schemes
Of festival, snatches of favourite songs
Now never sung.—“ There surely is a curse
Upon our house, that thus the young should die—
Alas, my sisters !”—Heavily the tears
Fell from the desolate girl : she turned to where
The open casement brought the summer wind,
As if to soothe her :—green the park beneath
Girdled its own bright river, and the deer
Had gathered on its banks—the ancient oaks
Waved their Ionian foliage—in each copse
The hawthorn was in blossom—and the limes,
Hung with pale yellow flowers, filled the air
As if with incense. Suddenly a horn
Rung from the old dark avenue of beec—
A white steed came in sight—it cleared the lawn
As if its speed were in its rider's will.
That graceful rider—o’er his glossy hair
The white plumes waved, like his own spirit’s light;
The falcon on his wrist had not an eye
More flashing in its brightness : —as he past,
He plucked a handful of the hawthorn flowers,
And flung them to his sister. “ Emily,
Come, for my hunter's toil is done, and now
I’ll play the poet with thy lute and thee;
Come, for already has the young pale moon
Risen, though colourless, by yon bright west;
Come, for I must not have one fall of dew
Unloose thy curls." A pang shot through her heart :
His eyes how very bright ! and on his cheek
There burnt too clear a red for exercise.
—That night beheld her at the Virgin’s feet,
That night was witness to her vow; no more
The lady Emily joined in the dance,
Or wreathed white pearls around her whiter brow;
No more she waked the lute ;—and on the day,
The last worst day, her youngest sister died,
She knelt before her father, and implored
A blessing on his consecrated child,
And said the cloister was her destiny.
In vain were prayers, reproaches,—forth she went ;
Her heart had dwelt upon this sacrifice
Until it seemed accepted; and her tears,
Her vigils, at the lonely midnight hour,
Her youth resigning even its sweet self,
Would surely plead with Heaven, and win its boon,
And that dear brother would be spared to make
His aged father happy. And this hope
Haunted her prayers until it grew to faith.
A year had passed since last her auburn hair
Was loosed to catch the sunbeams and the breeze ;—
A year had passed since in that lonely cell
Her knees had worn away the cold, dark stone :
Austerity and anxious orisons
Had made the paleness of her cheek more clear;
Her face was even as an angel's face
Eyes that have looked to heaven till they are filled
With light, the element of those pure skies; —
Still she was well and happy. Oh! the heart
Makes its own happiness, perchance the best,
When consecrate to one engrossing love !
Two years had past away ;—but once again
She is to stand within her father’s hall;
Her vows dispensed with just for one brief day,
Her brother had besought so earnestly
Her presence when he wed the Lady Blanche.
He said no other hand but hers should give
The bride her orange flowers ; for Emily
Would bring a blessing with her.
’Twas early morning when that youthful nun
Gazed once again on her forgotten face.
How strange the mirror seemed! Again her hair
Was gathered up with pearls on each dark wave,—
Once more the silken robe, the silver veil,
Beseemed the Baron's daughter: -- but she turned
From the fair glass, and knelt with lifted hands
Before the Virgin‘s image; while her eyes
Swam with sweet tears of earnest gratitude.
She thought upon her brother and his bride
Of her old father’s joy ;—and if one thought
Had crossed her when she saw her own sweet face—
How fair the world she had for aye resigned.—
That thought had past like some unholy thing,
Which found her heart too pure a resting-place ;
And tenderest hopes, and gentle thankfulness,
And self-forgetfulness, filled up the soul,
Whose earthly love but bore it on to heaven.
The shade fell darker from the clustering vine,
Whose green boughs twined the lattice like a wreath ;
The lark had ceased the musical glad laugh
With which he hails the morning; note by note
The matin song had died upon the wind;
The dew which hung upon the cypresses
Had turned to sunshine on the waving leaves;—
Yet came her father not for Emily. —
How vain it is to say we reckon time
By hours or minutes! Time is in the mind,
And counted but by the events it brings :
Its length is in our feelings. Heavily
It past to her whose hopes were on the wing.
At length a step sounds in the corridor
It is a letter—but her eye has caught
The dark seal on it, and the hand is strange.
She dropped the scroll—it told her brother's death! —
“ My God! my sacrifice has been in vain—
My father desolate in his old age!"
The Literary Gazette, 14th February 1829
LINES
Suggested by a Drawing of W. Daniel’s, Esq. A. B. A., representing the Hindoo Girls floating their Tributary offerings down the Ganges.
THEY bend above the moonlit stream,
With gathered fruit and flowers :
The last on which the sun has left
The earlier rosy hours.
One sends a vow to him afar—
Ah ! never can the heart
Know half the love it cherishes
Until it comes to part.
A thousand things are then recalled,
Though scarcely marked at first ;
But lingering thoughts in after hours
Betray how they were nurst.
Another sends a little boat
Upon its happier way ;
She knows to-morrow will restore
The eyes she loved to-day.
They bend with all the eager hope,
The confidence of youth,
Which makes the future it believes,
And trusts itself with truth.
And never Grecian chisel formed
Shapes of more perfect grace,
Than by the moonlit Ganges bend,
Each o'er her mirrored face.
Ah ! love takes many shapes ; at first
It comes as flashes fly,
That bear the lightning on their wings,
And then in darkness die.
But after comes a steadier light,
A long and lasting dream ;
Like the full heaven which the sun
Flings down on life's dark stream.
One lingers— for she dares not trust
Her lamp upon the wave ;
She knows the omen ere it come—
Her heart is its own grave.
There is a love that in the soul
Burns silent and alone ;
Tho' all of early happiness
Has long, too long been flown.
But, like the lotus, whose soft depths
Receive the morning sun ;
The true fond flower still looks to heaven,
Though light and day are done.
But she, amid her gladder friends,
Leans pensive on the strand ;
She keeps her fairy bark unlaunched,
Beside her trembling hand.
Why should she send her fairy freight
To question future pain ;
She knows her utter misery —
She loves, and loves in vain.
I pray his pardon, he who traced
The graceful forms I see ;
Oh, magic painter ! to thy skill
The spirit yields its key.
The treasures of these distant lands
Are given to thy will ;
But thou hast yet a dearer charm —
The heart obeys thy skill.
The Literary Gazette, 12th November 1836
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM
It was a harp just fit to pour
Its music to the wind and wave, —
He had a right to tell their fame
Who stood himself amid the brave.
The first time that I read his strain
There was a tempest on the sky,
And sulphurous clouds, and thunder crash,
Were like dark ships and battle-cry.
I had forgot my woman's fears,
In thinking on my country's fame,
Till almost I could dream I saw
Her colours float o'er blood and flame.
Died the high song as dies the voice
Of the proud trumpet on the wind;
And died the tempest too, and left
A gentle twilight hour behind.
Then paused I o'er some sad wild notes,
Sweet as the spring bird's lay withal.
Telling of hopes and feelings past.
Like stars that darkened in their fall.
Hopes perishing from too much light,
" Exhausted by their own excess,"
Affections trusted, till they turned,
Like Marah's wave, to bitterness.
And is this, then, the curse that clings
To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling ?
Is this the cloud that destiny
Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing ?
It is — it is ! tread on thy way,
Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold,
Look not up from the sullen path
That leads to this world's idol — gold.
And close thy hand, and close thy heart,
And be thy very soul of clay,
And thou wilt be the thing the crowd
Will worship, cringe to, and obey.
But look thou upon Nature's face,
As the young Poet loves to look ;
And lean thou where the willow leans,
O'er the low murmur of the brook.
Or worship thou the midnight sky,
In silence at its moonlit hour ;
Or let a single tear confess
The silent spell of music's power.
Or love, or feel, or let thy soul
Be for one moment pure or free,
Then shrink away at once from life, —
Its path will be no path for thee.
Pour forth thy fervid soul in song —
There are some that may praise thy lays ;
But of all earth's dim vanities,
The very earthliest is praise.
Praise ! light and dew of the sweet leaves
Around the Poet's temples hung,
How turned to gall, and how profaned
By envious or by idle tongue !
Given by vapid fools, who laud
Only if others do the same ;
Forgotten even while the breath
Is on the air that bears your name.
And He ! what was his fate, the bard,
He of the Desert Harp, whose song
Flowed freely, wildly, as the wind
That bore him and his harp along ?
That fate which waits the gifted one,
To pine, each finer impulse check'd ;
At length to sink, and die beneath
The shade and silence of neglect.
And this the polished age, that springs
The Phoenix from dark years gone by,
That blames and mourns the past, yet leaves
Her warrior and her bard to die.
To die in poverty and pride,
The light of hope and genius past,
Each feeling wrung, until the heart
Could bear no more, so broke at last.
Thus withering amid the wreck
Of sweet hopes, high imaginings,
What can the Minstrel do, but die,
Cursing his too beloved strings !
The Literary Gazette, 28th June 1823
LINES
Supposed to be the Prayer of the Supplicating Nymph in Mr. Lawrence Macdonald’s Exhibition of Sculptures.
She kneels as if in prayer, one graceful arm
Extended to implore: her face is fair,
But calm and somewhat sad : methinks the past
Has taught her life's all general lesson— grief ;
But grief which has subsided on that brow
To a sweet gravity, that yet seems strange
In one so young : her lip is cold, and wears
No smile to suit its beauty or its youth.
What is its prayer ?
The myrtle wreath that I have laid
Upon thy shrine is withered all ;
The bloom which once its beauty made,
I would not, if I could, recall ;
No ! emblem of my heart and me,
I lay it, Goddess, on thy shrine ;
And the sole prayer I offer thee,
Is let it still be emblem mine.
There was a time when I have knelt
With beating heart and burning brow ;
All I once felt is now unfelt
The depths once stirred are silent now :
I only kneel that I may pray
A future like my present time
A calm, if not a varied way —
A still, if not a summer clime.
There comes no colour to my cheek,
Whatever step be passing by ;
No glance makes mine the green earth seek,
That answer of a conscious eye ;
My pulse is still as waves that sleep
When the unbroken heaven is seen ;
Ah ! never comes a calm so deep
As where the tempest late hath been.
Thou, Wind, that, like a gentle song,
Scarce stirs the sleeping summer air,
How often hast thou borne along
The vain reproach of my despair !
Fair fount, by whose moss-circled side
My eyes have shed their bitter rail,
Flow on with an unsullied tide,
Thou'lt never see my tears again.
Time was, I loved so many things,
The earth I trod, the sky above,—
The leaf that falls, the bird that sings ;
Now there is nothing that I love—
And how much sorrow I am spared,
By loveless heart and listless eye !
Why should the life of love be shared
With things that change, or things that die?
Let the rose fall, another rose
Will bloom upon the self-same tree ;
Let the bird die, ere evening close
Some other bird will sing for me.
It is for the beloved to love,
'Tis for the happy to be kind ;
Sorrow will more than death remove
The associate links affections bind.
My heart hath like a lamp consumed,
In one brief blaze, what should have fed
For years the sweet life it illumed,
And now it lies cold, dark, and dead.
'Tis well such false light is o'ercast,
A light that burnt where'er it shone;
My eagerness of youth is past,
And I am glad that it is gone—
My hopes and feelings, like those flowers,
Are withered, on thy altar laid—
A dark night falls from my past hours:
Still let me dwell beneath its shade,
Cold as the winter midnight's air,
Calm as the groves around thy shrine—
Such, Goddess, is my future's prayer,
And my heart answers, " It is mine !"
The Literary Gazette, 2nd April 1831
* We could wish our readers to visit the beautiful statue which has inspired these exquisitely descriptive, touching, and poetical lines.— Ed. L. G.
LINES TO THE AUTHOR AFTER READING THE SORROWS OF ROSALIE
One of those gifted ones that walk the earth,
Like angels in their beauty, and the while
The air is filled with music from their wings.
* * * * *
Love's thoughts are writ on rose-leaves, but with tears;
And those are what she taught her charmed lute,
Looking herself the loveliness the sang.
THEY tell me, lady, that thy face
Is as an angel's fair,
That tenderness is all the trace
Of earth thy features wear ;
That we might hold thee seraph still,
But sighs with smiles unite,
And that thy large dark eyes will fill
With tears as well as light.
They tell me that thy wit when gay
Will turn to sad again —
The likeness of the lightning ray,
That melts in summer rain ;
And that the magic of thy words
Is even as thy song —
The sweetness of the sea-shell chords
The night-winds bear along.
I well believe all they can say
Of fairy charm is thine —
My lips are murmuring now thy lay,
My tears on thy last line :
I've drank the music, sweet and low,
Waked by thy graceful hand ;
I must speak of thee — I am now
" Beneath the enchanter's wand."
I dream thee beautiful and bright,
Amid the festal crowd,
With lip and eye of flashing light,
Thy own self disavowed.
They see the loveliness that burns,
The splendour round the shrine—
But not the poet-soul which turns
Thy nature to divine.
I dream thee in thy lonely hour,
Thy long dark hair unbound.
The braiding pearl, the wreathing flower,
Flung careless on the ground ;
The crimson eager on thy cheek,
The light dark in thine eye—
While from thy parted lips there break
Sweet sounds, half song, half sigh.
A tale of feminine fond love,
The tender and the tried,
The heart's sweet faith, which looks above,
Long after hope has died.
Even as the Spring comes to the rose,
And flings its leaves apart,
So what should woman's hand unclose ? —
The page of woman's heart.
The song is sad which thou hast sung :
Is sad!— how canst thou know —
The loved, the lovely, and the young—
A single touch of wo.
Ah, yes ! the fire is in thy breast,
The seal upon thy brow,
Life has no calm, no listless rest,
For such a one as thou ;—
Thou, blending in thy harp and heart
The passionate, the wild,
The softness of the woman’s part,
The sweetness of the child ;
With feelings like the fine lute-strings,
A single touch will break ;
With hopes that wear an angel's wings,
And make the heaven they seek.
The stern, the selfish, and the cold,
With feelings all represt—
The many cast in one base mould,
For them life yields her best :
They plod upon one even way,
Till time, not life, is o'er ;
Death cannot make them colder clay
Than what they were before.
But thou — go ask thy lute what fate
May for thy future be,
And it will tell thee tears await
The path of one like thee :
Too sensitive, like early flowers,
One unkind breath to bear,
What in this weary world of ours,
But tears can be thy share ?
Yet little would I that such words
Of prophecy were sooth ;
I am so used to mournful chords,
To me they sound like truth.
And if Fate have one stainless leaf,
That page to thee belong :
Sweet lady, only dream of grief,
And let the dream be song.
I pity those who sigh for thee,
I envy those who love ;
For loved thy nature's formed to be,
As seraphs' are above.
I fling thee laurel offerings,
I own thy spirit's spell,
I greet the music of thy strings—
Sweet lady, fare thee well.
The Literary Gazette, 31st January 1829
THE LITTLE GLEANER
Very fair the child was, with hair of darkest auburn, —
Fair, and yet sunburnt with the golden summer :
Sunshine seem'd the element from which she drew her being.
Careless from her little hand the gather'd ears are scatter'd,
In a graceful wreath the purple corn-flowers binding ;
While her sweet face brightens with a sudden pleasure.
Blame not her binding : already stirs within her
All the deep emotions in the love of nature, —
Love, that is the source of the beautiful and holy.
In long-after years will memory, recalling
Sweetness undying from that early garland,
Keep the heart glad with natural devotion.
'Tis a true, sweet lesson ; for, in life's actual harvest,
Much we need the flowers that mingle with our labours.
Pleasures, pure and simple, recall us to their Giver;
For ever, in its joy, does the full heart think of Heaven.
The New Monthly Magazine, 1837
Subjects for Pictures, Series 3, number III
THE LITTLE SHROUD
SHE put him on a snow-white shroud,
A chaplet on his head ;
And gathered early primroses
To scatter o’er the dead.
She laid him in his little grave—
'Twas hard to lay him there,
When spring was putting forth its flowers,
And every thing was fair.
She had lost many children—now
The last of them was gone ;
And day and night she sat and wept
Beside the funeral stone.
One midnight, while her constant tears
Were falling with the dew,
She heard a voice, and lo ! her child
Stood by her weeping too !
His shroud was damp, his face was white :
He said — " I cannot sleep,
Your tears have made my shroud so wet ;
Oh, mother, do not weep!”
Oh, love Is strong ! — the mother's heart
Was filled with tender fears ;
Oh, love is strong ! — and for her child
Her grief restrained its tears.
One eve alight shone round her bed,
And there she saw him stand—
Her infant, in his little shroud,
A taper in his hand.
“ Lo ! mother, see my shroud is dry,
And I can sleep once more !”
And beautiful the parting smile
The little infant wore.
And down within the silent grave
He laid his weary head ;
And soon the early violets
Grew o'er his grassy bed.
The mother went her household ways —
Again she knelt in prayer,
And only asked of Heaven its aid
Her heavy lot to bear.
The Literary Gazette, 28th April 1832
Last of three poems to which L E L appended the following note:
The hints for these poems have been taken from the German. Two were mentioned to me in conversation ; but that of " the Little Shroud" was translated, in prose, a week or so ago, in that most entertaining little paper the Original, which also did me the honour of recommending it to me.
A LONG WHILE AGO
Still hangeth down the old accustomed willow,
Hiding the silver underneath each leaf;
So droops the long hair from some maiden pillow,
When midnight heareth her else silent grief.
There floats the water-lily, like a sovereign,
Whose lovely empire is a fairy world;
The purple dragon-fly above it hovering,
As when its fragile ivory uncurled,
A long while ago.
I hear the bees, in sleepy music winging
From the wild thyme where they have passed the noon;
There is the blackbird in the hawthorn singing,
Stirring the white spray with the same sweet tune ;
Fragrant the tansy breathing in the meadow,
As the west wind bends down the long green grass,
Now dark, now golden, as the fleeting shadow
Of the light clouds, as they were wont to pass
A long while ago.
There are the roses which they used to gather
To bind a fair young brow, no longer fair ; —
Ah ! art thou mocking us, thou summer weather,
To be so sunny, with the loved one ? — where ?
'Tis not her voice, — 'tis not her step, — that lingers
In lone familiar sweetness on the wind !
The bee, the bird, are now the only singers ; —
Where is the music soft with theirs combined
A long while ago ?
As the lorn flowers that in her pale hand perished,
Is she who only hath a memory here !
She was so much a part of us, so cherished, —
So young, — that even love forgot to fear.
Now is her image paramount,—it reigneth
With a sad strength that time may not subdue ;
And memory a mournful triumph gaineth,
As the cold looks we cast around, renew
A long while ago.
Thou lovely garden ! where the summer covers
The tree with green leaves, and the ground with flowers
Darkly they pass ; — around thy beauty hovers
The past, — the grave of our once happy hours.
It is too sad, to gaze upon the seeming
Of nature's changeless loveliness, and feel
That, with the sunshine round, the heart is dreaming
Darkly o'er wounds inflicted, not to heal,
A long while ago.
Ah, visit not the scenes where youth and childhood
Passed years that deepened as those years went by!
Shadows will darken in the careless wild wood,—
There will be tears upon the tranquil sky.
Memoirs, like phantoms, haunt me while I wander
Beneath the drooping boughs of each old tree :
I grow too sad, as mournfully I ponder
Things that are not, and yet that used to be,
A long while ago.
Worn out, the heart seems, like a ruined altar !
Where are the friends, —- and where the faith of yore ?
My eyes grow dim with tears,— my footsteps falter,—
Thinking of those whom I can love no more.
We change, and others change, while recollection
Fain would renew what it can but recall :
Dark are life's dreams, and weary its affection,
And cold its hopes, — and yet I felt them all,
A long while ago.
The New Monthly Magazine, 1838
A copy of this poem was sent under the following cover:
January 5th, 1838.
My dearest Mrs.
I enclose the lines which I have again copied in, I hope, a legible hand. I wrote them very earnestly and hastily ; my heart was full of my subject : I go back upon them with a melancholy pleasure ; I cannot check the belief that she is conscious of our sad remembrance.
My dear, kind friend, from what a weary and bitter world has she escaped. I trust that her share of human happiness may be given to her sisters. God bless them and you is (saving one — perhaps a very vain one), the dearest wish of, my kindest and best friend,
Your grateful and affectionate
Letitia E. Landon
THE LOST SHIP
Deep in the silent waters,
A thousand fathoms low,
A gallant ship lies perishing —
She foundered long ago.
There are pale sea-flowers wreathing
Around her port-holes now,
And spars and shining coral
Encrust her gallant prow.
Upon the old deck bleaching,
White bones unburied shine,
While in the deep hold hidden
Are casks of ruby wine.
There are pistol, sword, and carbine,
Hung on the cabin-wall,
And many a curious dagger ;
But rust has spoiled them all.
And can this be the vessel
That went so boldly forth,
With the red flag of Old England,
To brave the stormy North ?
There were blessings poured upon her
When from her port sailed she,
And prayers and anxious weeping
Went with her o'er the sea.
And once she sent home letters,
And joyous ones were they,
Dashed but with fond remembrance
Of friends so far away.
Ah ! many a heart was happy
That evening when they came,
And many a lip pressed kisses
On a beloved name !
How little those who read them
Deemed far below the wave,
That child, and sire, and lover,
Had found a seaman's grave !
But how that brave ship perished
None knew, save Him on high ;
No island heard her cannon,
No other bark was nigh.
We only know from England
She sailed far o'er the main —
We only know to England
She never came again.
And eyes grew dim with watching,
That yet refused to weep ;
And years were spent in hoping
For tidings from the deep.
It grew an old man's story
Upon their native shore, —
God rest those souls in Heaven
Who met on earth no more !
The Literary Gazette, 12th January 1833
[LOVE]
Oh! yet one smile, tho' dark may lower
Around thee clouds of woe and ill,
Let me yet feel that I have power,
Mid Fate's bleak storms, to soothe thee still.
Tho' madness be upon thy brow,
Yet let it turn, dear love, to me,
I cannot bear that thou should'st know
Sorrow I do not share with thee.
True love's wreath is of mountain flowers,
They stand the storm and brave the blast,
And blossom on, so love like ours
Is sweetest when all else is past.
Too well I know what storms have frowned,
And now frown on life's troubled tide ;
Still darker let them gather round,
They have no power on hearts so tried.
Then say not that you may not bear,
To shadow spirit light as mine ;
I shall not shrink, or fear to share
The darkest fate if it be thine !
The Literary Gazette, 10th November 1821
Title given in The Lyre, 1841
LOVE IN ABSENCE
Oh, tell me not that this is life,
The life that now I lead ;
The life that wants the light of life
Is worse than death indeed !
Love is life's light ; and, lost that light,
What star can rise on such a night?
I dread the pictures of my dreams,
For, then I gaze on thee;
And thou art near, and thou art all
That I would have thee be.
And then I startle from my sleep,
And know all false, and watch and weep.
I would I were upon a bark !
That bark before the wind ; —
I would sail o'er the sea, and leave
All thoughts of thee behind : —
How very vain ! I could not flee
The spell of passion set by Thee.
The Literay Gazette, 10th April 1824
LOVE SLEEPING BENEATH A PALM-TREE
Ah, this is ours ! that gentle Love
Sleeping beneath the palm-tree's shade,
Weaving the white wings of the dove,
His bow, unbent, beside him laid.
Give me the Love that will not change,
Tho' aught and all were changed beside ;
The Love that nothing can estrange,
Whate'er of weal or woe betide;
Fixed in one faith, vowed to one vow,
Thro' every chance and change of ill,
Bearing with all Love meets below
Of sorrow, yet devoted still !
It may have wings, but they must be
Of colours in all lights the same,
Like the moth's, hovering constantly,
Even to death, around one flame.
A star that shines forth night and day,
A wreath of spring and winter flowers,
Emblem true love. And I may say,
May I not, dear ! — " Such love is ours “
The Literary Gazette, 8th February 1823
Part of series - Medallion Wafers
Sketches from Designs by Mr. Dagley
Sketch the Second
LOVE TOUCHING THE HORNS OF A SNAIL, which is shrinking from his hand
Love's feeling is more soft, and sensible,
Than are the tender horns of cockled snails.
Oh, you have wronged me ! — but, or e'er I tell
How deep I feel the injury, I will
One moment linger o'er the things which were
Precious as happiness ; I will just say,
For the last time, how I have loved you ! All
My hopes in life dwelt with you, for you were
The centre of existence ; all I said.
Or did, or thought, had reference to you.
I would have shared the bleakest poverty
With you, and only sorrowed for your sake ;
I would have given up all the world could give
Of pleasure for you — and your kiss, your smile
To me had been light, mirth, and revelry.
You had my soul's first incense, for my heart
Had never darkened with love's conscious shadow,
Till you did set your image like a seal
Upon its every fibre. Oh, I could
Have borne with open shame, with pain, with toil ;
Have drained the veriest dregs of bitterness —
But cannot bear unkindness and neglect.
Thrice venomed is the wound when 'tis Love's hand
Inflicts the blow. Look on this picture — here
Are all my feelings imaged ! Mark how soon,
How sensitive that creature shrinks away
From Love's rude touch, within its own calm home.
‘Tis thus my soul's revealings have been checked,
And forced to shrink within themselves again,
And I might envy even that "cockled" Snail:
It will find in its shell a quiet rest—
But when my feelings turn unto the heart
That sent them forth, what will they find there but
A desert, where the too impassioned past
Has left deep fiery traces !
The Literary Gazette, 3rd August 1822
<< Quote from Shakespeare
'Love's Labour's Lost'
Versions from the German
First Series
THE LOVELY LITTLE FLOWER — Goethe
I know a lovely little flower, a flower for which I pine —
I would go gather it, but bars my heavy hours confine;
Oh, grief, when free, how easily that little flower was mine !
How dark and stern the wooded rocks around my tower ascend !
In vain to seek my little flower a weary look I send,
Or knight or serf who brought it me should be my dearest friend.
The Rose.
'Tis I, the Rose ! thy prison-grate has kept us long apart;
But noble is thy spirit, Knight, ill-fated as thou art,
Since she that is the queen of flowers is queen too of thy heart.
The Knight.
Now honour to thy purple, beneath its green moss dress,
Fair maidens grow more fair who wreath with thee each auburn tress ;
But thou art not the flower I ask to soothe my loneliness.
The Lily.
A haughty beauty is the Rose, she claims the highest place ;
But not so dear as that I hold in the true lover's grace,
If his heart beat with love as pure as is my angel face.
The Knight.
Oh, Ladye Lily, my true heart is clear and pure like thee,
Yet cast in prison, long and lone, my weary lot must be —
Still, image of the maid I love, there's one more dear to me.
The Carnation.
That must be me — the gardener's joy and constant care am I ;
For beautiful are my striped leaves with many a varied dye —
And odours through my summer-life within those colours lie.
The Knight.
Oh, stately flower, thy radiant leaves arose when morning shone—
Thou settest with the setting sun — yet thou art not mine own :
I ask a little drooping flower that blossometh alone.
The Violet.
I stand amid my large dark leaves, a little hidden flower—
I seldom speak ; — if now I break the silence of my bower,
It is to grieve I cannot send my perfume to thy tower.
The Knight.
I love the gentle Violet, so modest and so sweet,
Still it is not the darling one my eyes desire to greet —
The little love on this steep rock, alas, you may not meet.
Beside a brook the truest maid now roams with many a tear—
She seeks a little azure flower amid the waters clear —
She gathers it, and I can feel its influence even here !
Strong is the faith of loving hearts it whispereth to me !
Though long within a prison's walls my heavy lot must be,
Yet am I borne in mem'ry by the true and by the free.
Oh, were I sinking to the grave I often ask in vain,
And welcome Death stood by to loose the wasted captive's chain —
Ah, name me the Forget-me-not, I'd wake to life again!
The Literary Gazette, 3rd January 1835
LOVE’S LAMENT
Nay, pray thee, let me weep, for tears
Are all thy love has left to me ;
I love thee still! but dream no more
Of happiness in loving thee.
My heart has been too rudely crushed,
For its deep wounds to ever heal ;
My hopes have been too coldly checked,
For me again such hopes to feel.
My very soul is wrung ! it has
Borne for thee all that it could bear, —
Two silent pulses vibrate yet
In pain — its love and its despair !
Love ! for, to love so fond; as mine
Only the grave an end can be :
Despair! what is there that my heart
Can hope from love, or life, or thee ?
Upon my lute there is one string
Broken, the chords were drawn too fast,—
My heart is like that string — it tried
Too much, and snapt in twain at last !
Then, pray thee, let me weep, for tears
Are all thy love has left to me;
And they will fall less bitterly.
If that I think they fall for Thee.
The Literary Gazette, 8th May 1824
Second of three Songs:
LOVE'S LAST WORDS
Light be around thee, hope be thy guide;
Gay be thy bark, and smooth be the tide ;
Soft be the wind that beareth thee on,
Sweet be thy welcome, thy wanderings done.
Bright be the hearth, may the eyes you love best
Greet the long-absent again to his rest ;
Be thy life like glad music which floateth away
As the gale lingering over the rose-tree in May.
But yet while thy moments in melody roll,
Be one dark remembrance left on thy soul,
Be the song of the evening thrice sad on thine ear —
Then think how your twilights were past away here.
And yet let the shadow of sorrowing be
Light as the dream of the morning to thee !
One fond, faint recollection, one last sigh of thine
May be granted to love so devoted as mine !
The Literary Gazette, 29th June 1822
LOVE'S REPROACHES
I deeply feel what Love
In its holiness should be,
And once there was a time
When such was my love for thee.
But that time is past and gone,
Past like a summer shower -
It was too violent
Not to exhaust its power.
Oh ! the bosom will rebel
Against a tyrant's sway,
Tho’ its best blood must be shed,
E're he be driven away.
And thus it was with me ;
I may not say how well
I trusted and I loved, —
That your own heart may tell.
If deep fidelity,
That never knew a stain ;
If humbleness, like that
Of the slave beneath the chain;
If homage, like that paid
To the monarch on his throne ;
If these may not, what may
Show how much I was thine own.
And you took my young heart.
And what did you grave there,
But a deep and deadly lesson,
Its first and last despair.
I am but young in life,
But I have lived thro' years
Of heart burning and sorrow,
Of silence and of tears :
But I am too proud to pine,
And my tears shall be as streams
Cave-locked beneath the earth,
Of whose flowing no one dreams.
I have taught myself to feign
Smiles, till those smiles are now
A second nature to my lip,
A second to my brow.
And when I hear of love,
I will spurn and scorn the name,
Nor ever own I weep ; my heart
Is ashes, but not flame.
Aye ! it is pride to think
How much the spirit feels
Of agony, and yet
How little it reveals.
Oh, mockery ! I would give worlds,
If I could dream again
The dreams, which even in my sleep
I now know are so vain.
But never can I feel
Again as I have done ;
And, alas ! the waste of life,
When love is wholly gone.
The Literay Gazette, 26th March 1825
LOVE'S WREATH
It is an April wreath : blue violets,
Sapphires from a moss mine ; pale primroses,
Wearing a yellow and forsaken dress,
And yet too beautiful to be forsaken ;
And daisies, simple daisies,— surely love
May trace its likeness in the gentle flower
That blossoms every where and any how,
Bearing alike with storm and shine, with still
The same fair summer face, — seen on the grave,
The heath, the field, the garden ; cowslips, too,
Tall and green turrets for the fragrant bells
Which the bees love so, — bound with the young leaves
Of the sweet briar, sparkling with the rain,
Which has called forth an odour like the scent
Floating around the coast of Araby,
Till the rich sails are heavy with perfume.
I have read somewhere, in far Indian lands,
That maidens write a whole fond history
In braids of leaves and buds, love's best love-letters.
And read you thus my history in my wreath :
Just as these flowers have in the sunlight sprang
To a most sweet existence, so your love
Has called my feelings into sunny life;
And as the wreath will fall away and fade,
When gathered from the green and natural stem,
So my heart, severed from its home, your love
Would pine and wither.
The Literary Gazette, 3rd January 1824
From Fragments, First Series
Part of: POETICAL CATALOGUE OF PICTURES:
A MANIAC VISITED BY HIS FAMILY IN CONFINEMENT : by Davis
His arms are bound with iron, though they look
Weak as a child's, for they are thin and withered,
And the large veins seem drained. Upon his cheek
Is scarcely left one single hue of life,
So gaunt, so ghastly, and the fierce dark eyes,
Set in their vacancy, scowl from beneath
The shaggy eye-brows like the lightning fires
Sent out from the grey cloud. For many years
His bed has been upon that cold stone floor —
It is worn with the pressure of his limbs.
For many years he has not breathed the air,
The wholesome open air ; the sun, the moon,
The stars, the clouds, the fair blue heaven, the spring,
The flowers, the trees, and the sweet face of man,
Song, or words yet more musical than song,
Affections, feelings, social intercourse
(Unless remembered in his fairy dreams)
Have all been strangers to his solitude ! —
A curse is set on him, like poverty,
Or leprosy, or the red plague, but worse, —
The heart has sent its fire up to the brain,
And he is mad. What can have made this wreck ?
He was once young and beautiful, and brave,
Trusting, as noble spirits ever are,
And he was wronged, betrayed, tortured, deceived,
Heard calumny come from the lips of friends
Whom he had served, lost riches by false tongues ;
But that he might have borne, — till she he lov'd,
The mother of his children, left his roof
With one who owed him life and home, yet paid
His blessing with a curse ! Then he grew mad,
And was chained down upon a dungeon-floor, —
A heart-sick, solitary wretch ! —
There are sweet faces bending near his own :
A pale girl, beautiful as innocence !
With white hands clasped in pity and in prayer,
The daughter of the Maniac, who has come
In the vain vain hope that red insanity
Will feel the influence of her soothing voice.
And two fair boys are with her : one who clings
Around his brother, panting with the fear
Of simple childhood, while the other's eyes
Have less of dread than sorrow. Still no looks
Of love or memory from their father comes ;
He sits with clenching teeth and grasping hands,
Regardless of the gentle pity
Which even the dark jailor, whose harsh brow
Has no lines of compassion, even he
Feels, almost moved to sadness !
The Literary Gazette, 5th April 1823
From Six Songs of Love, Constancy, Romance, Inconstancy, Truth, and Marriage:
MATRIMONIAL CREED
He must be rich whom I could love,
His fortune clear must be,
Whether in land or in the funds,
'Tis all the same to me.
He must be old whom I could love,
Then he'll not plague me long ;
In sooth 'twill be a pleasant sight,
To see him borne along
To where the croaking ravens lurk,
And where the earth worms dwell :
A widow's hood will suit my face,
And black becomes me well.
And he must make a settlement,
I'll have no man without ;
And when he writes his testament,
He must not leave me out.
Oh ! such a man as this would suit
Each wish I here express ;
If he should say,— Will you have me?
I'll very soon say— Yes !
The Literary Gazette, 10th Novemeber 1821
Appears in The Lyre, 1841 as 'MARRIAGE'
MEMORY
It is fading around me, that shadowy splendour
That haunts the red twilight, the vague and the vain ;
Those warm clouds their fugitive blush must surrender,
And colourless melt in the dim air again.
They will leave no remembrance to tell of the glory
Dissolving at sunset away in the west ;
They have gone, and the page of the air has no story,
Recalling the beauty with which it was blest.
And thus with our memory — too light are its traces
Of joy or of sorrow experienced of yore ;
The shadow of life each soft colour effaces,
And the past has one sorrowing echo—no more !
Ah ! childhood was lovely ; but what of its hours,
The bright and the buoyant, what relics have they ?
I cannot repaint the green leaves, the glad flowers,
That once made the beauty of earth and of day.
I well can recall the old lime-trees hung o'er me,
The bees and the pale blossoms thick o'er each bough ;
But the dreams of my future, that brightened before me
What were they ? I cannot remember them now.
And youth has no chronicle left of its dreaming,
When hope the sweet alchemist, ruled; and we took
The future on trust, and the present on seeming,
And each old deceit wore a bright and glad look,
Methinks it would make the dark actual less dreary
Could we call back the feelings we formerly knew;
The path where we loiter for flowers is less weary
Than that which speeds on, the goal only in view
The heart spends its treasure at once ; we would cherish
The thought of our feelings, so live them again ;
Too early the bright tints of phantasy perish,
And too soon, the gilding is worn from life’s chain.
Vain, vain, this desire for the past ! To remember
Is not to recall ;— would to heaven that it were
The second green leaf that may shoot in November
Is but a pale mockery of what was so fair.
The hope that betrayed and the love that deceived us,
Could we live did they keep their first early regrets ?
Amid all of which Time in its course has bereaved us,
Well the heart may rejoice in how much it forgets !
The Literary Gazette, 25th January 1834
Later printed in The Cento, 1840
MEMORY
A VOICE of gentle singing
Went by upon the wind,
And an echo sweet is ringing —
The thought it left behind.
'Twas a song of other feelings
That belonged to other days,
Ere I marked the stern revealings
Of the curtain time must raise.
When my heart and step were lighter
Than they'll ever be again,
And the dream of hope was brighter—
For I believed it then.
That sweet song was of gladness,
Yet it has left with me
A shadow one-half sadness,
One-half dear memory.
Though the darkness of November
Around my heart be thrown,
Yet how pleasant to remember
The spring hours once its own !
The Literary Gazette, 8th May 1830
(Third of five Songs)
THE MESSAGE — ANON.
A moment, ladye nightingale !
A maiden sits alone,
With the moonlight falling round her —
My loved one, and my own.
Say sweetest things, in singing,
To this dear love of mine ;
I cannot trust my messages
To any voice but thine.
The Literary Gazette, 24th January 1835
Versions from the German, Fourth Series
THE MICHAELMAS DAISY
Last simile of the departing year,
Thy sister sweets are flown ;
Thy pensive wreath is far more dear,
From blooming thus alone.
Thy tender blush, thy simple frame,
Unnoticed might have past ;
But now thou contest with softer claim,
The loveliest and the last.
Sweet are the charms in thee we find,
Emblem of hope's gay wing ;
‘Tis thine to call past bloom to mind,
To promise future spring.
The Literary Gazette, 18th March 1820
THE MINE
Alas, the strange varieties of life !
We live 'mid perils and pleasures, like
Characters 'graven on the sand, or hues
Colouring the rainbow. Wild as a sick fancy
And changeful as a maiden, is this dream,
This brief dream on earth - - - -
Their doom was misery.
They were two lovers. — Oh how much is said
In that brief phrase ; how much of happiness,
Of all that makes life precious, is summed up
In telling they were lovers ! In this world,
In all its many pleasures, all its dreams
Of riches, fame, ambition, there is nought
That sheds the light of young and passionate love.
Ah, its first sigh is worth all else on earth :
That sigh may be most fugitive, may leave
A burning, broken, or a withered heart ;
It may know many sorrows, may be crost
With many cares, and all its joys may be
But rainbow glimpses seen in clouds; yet still
That sigh breathes paradise — Iove ! thou hast been
Our ruin and our heaven ! Well, they loved —
OLAVE and his ELORE; from infancy
They had been playmates, and they ever were
Each other's shadow ; but when woman's blush
Came o'er the cheek, and woman's tenderness
Shaded ELORE's blue eyes, then OLAVE's heart
Caught deeper feeling. It was just the time
When soft vows have been breathed, and answered
By blushes, gentle sighs, the eloquent signs
Of maiden bashfulness and maiden love,
And OLAVE knew he was beloved, that when
The fresh spring leaves were on the firs,
ELORE Would be his own indeed. 'Tis a sweet time,
This season of young passion's happiness !
The spirit revels in delicious dreams ;
The future is so beautiful, for hope
Is then all powerful. They would often sit
For hours by their bright hearth, and tell old tales
Of love, true as their own — or talk of days
Of quiet joy to come. And when the Spring
Smiled in green beauty, they would sweetly roam
By the pale Moon, and in her tender light
Read the love written in each other's eyes,
And call her for a witness. Oh 'tis bliss
To wander thus, arm linked in arm !— a look,
A sigh, a blush, the only answers given
To the so witching tales fond lips are telling. —
One eve they parted even more tenderly
Than they were wont to do ; but one day more
And their fate would be linked in a true bond
Of deep affection ; henceforth but one life ! —
But the next morn he came not, and ELORE
Watched down the vale in vain ! The evening closed,
And by her fireside there was solitude ;
Morn blushed again, and found her still alone,
That promised morning, whose light should have shed
Gladness o'er the sweet bride, but shone on tears,
On loneliness and terror ! Days pass'd by,
But OLAVE came not ; none knew of his fate ;
It was all mystery and fear. They searched
The valleys and the mountains, but no trace
Was left to tell of either life or death :
He had departed like a shadow. Strange
And drear were now the many tales they told
In his own village : some said the snow-pit
Had been his grave, and some that still he lived ;
And wild old histories were now recalled
Of mortals loved by powerful beings, who
Bore them from earth — and OLAVE was so young,
So beautiful, he might well be beloved
By mountain-spirits. But alas for her,
His widowed Bride ! how soon she changed from all
The beauty of her youth — her long gold hair
Lost its bright colour, and her fair blue eyes
Forgot the sunshine of their smile, for never
Her countenance was brightened up again
By the heart's gladsome feelings. So she lived
A solitary thing, to whom the world
Was nothing ; and she shunned all intercourse,
Shrunk even from the voice of soothing ; all
Her earthly ties were broken, and she could
But brood o'er her great misery. - - -
'Twas in Fahlun's deep mines a corse was found,
As the dark miners urged their toilsome way,
Preserv'd from all decay ; the golden locks
Curl'd down in rich luxuriance o'er a face
Pale as a statue's— cold and colourless,
But perfect every feature. — No one knew
What youth it was. The dress was not the same
As worn by miners, but of antique shape,
Such as their fathers', and they deemed it was
Some stranger who had curiously explored
The depths of Fahlun, and the falling rock
Had closed him from the face of day for ever.
Thrice fearful grave ! They took the body up
And bore it to the open air, and crowds
Soon gathered round to look on the fair face
And graceful form, yet still not one could tell
Aught of its history. But at length there came
An aged woman ; - - - down beside the youth
Trembling she knelt, and with her withered hands
Parted from off his face the thick bright hair—
She sank upon his bosom, one wild shriek
Rang with his name, — My love, my lost OLAVE!
The Literary Gazette, 7th September 1822
Poetical Sketches, Third Series - Sketch the First
Another poem on this subject entitled 'The Swedish Miner', unsigned, was published in The New Monthly, 1824, Vo. 11, with the following note attached:
• The body of a young Swedish miner was lately discovered in one of the mines of Dalecarlia, fresh and in a state of perfect preservation, from the action of the mineral waters in which it had been immersed. No one could recognize the body save an old woman, who knew it to be that of her lover : — he had perished fifty years before !
MR. MARTIN'S PICTURE OF CLYTIE
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Greece,
These are thy graceful memories, the dreamt
That hallowed thy groves, and over things
Inanimate shed visionary life,
When every flower had some romantic tale
Linked with its sweetness, when the winds, the streams
Breathed poetry and love. - - -
It was a beautiful embodied thought,
A dream of the fine painter, one of those
That pass by moonlight o'er the soul, and flit
'Mid the dim shades of twilight, when the eye
Grows tearful with its ecstasy. There stood
A dark haired Grecian girl, whose eyes were raised,
With that soft look love teaches, to the sky-
One hand pressed to her brow, as she would gaze
Upon the sun undazzled — 'twas that nymph,
The slighted CLYTIE. May minstrel look
Upon the sweet creation, and not feel
Its influence on the heart ? Now listen, love,
I’ll tell thee of her history: she was
Amid those lovely ones that walk the earth
Like visions all of heaven, or but made
The more divine by earthly tenderness ;
One of the maiden choir, that every morn,
From lips of dew and odours, to the sun
Hymned early welcome. 'Twas one summer eve,
And the white columns and the marble floor
In the proud temple of Day's deity
Were flooded o'er with crimson, and the air
Was rich with scents ; it was CLYTIE’S turn
To watch the perfumed flame ; she sat and waked
Her silver lute with one of those sweet songs
Breathed by young poets when their mistress' kiss
Has been their inspiration. Suddenly
Some other music echoed her own,
Faint, but most exquisite, like those low tones
That winds of summer sigh in the sea shells ;
It died in melting cadences, but still
Clytie bent to hear it — Could it be
A dream, a strange wild dream ? There stood a Youth
More beautiful than summer by her side !
His bright hair floated down like Indian gold,
A light played in his curls, and his dark eyes
Flashed splendour too intense for human gaze ;
A wreath of laurel was upon the lyre
His graceful hand sustained, and by his side
The sparkling arrows hung. It was the god
That guides the sun's blue race, the god of light,
Of song, who left his native heaven for one
More precious far — the heaven of woman's love. - -
- - They met no more, but still that glorious shape
Haunted her visions ; life to her was changed ;
Gaiety, hope, and happiness, were all
Centered in one deep thought. The time had been,
When never smile was sunnier than her's,
No step more buoyant, and no song more glad :
All, all was changed ; she fled to solitude,
And poured her wild complainings to the groves,
And Echo answered — Echo, that, like her,
Had pined with ill-starred love ! Oh never, never
Had lore a temple like a woman's heart !
She will serve so devotedly, will give
Youth, beauty, health, in sacrifice ; will be
So very faithful ! — without hope to cheer,
Or tenderness to soothe, her love yet will
Continue unto death. CLYTIE dwelt
On that once cherished memory ; she would gaze
For hours upon the sky, and watch the sun ;
And when the pale light faded from the west,
Would weep till morning. Is it not just thus
In that fine semblance, where the painter's touch
Has bodied forth her beauty and her sorrow
That she is pictured with a sad soft smile,
Turned to the azure home of her heart's god ?
A fresh green landscape round, just like those groves,
The Grecian groves, where she was wont to roam.
- - - Look, dear, upon that flower— 'tis hallowed
By the remembrance of unhappy love,
Tis sacred to the slighted CLYTIE ;
Look, how it turns its bosom to the sun.
And when dark clouds have shadowed it, or night
Is on the sky, mark how it folds its leaves,
And droops its head, and weeps sweet tears of dew,
The constant Sun-flower.
The Literary Gazette, 1st June 1822
Poetical Sketches, Second Series, Sketch the Fifth
MOON
The Moon is sailing o'er the sky,
But lonely all, as if she pined
For somewhat of companionship,
And felt it was in vain she shined :
Earth is her mirror, and the stars
Are as the court around her throne ;
She is a beauty and a queen ;
But what of this ? she is alone.
Where are those who may share with thee
Thy glorious royalty on high ?
I cannot choose but pity thee,
Thou lovely orphan of the sky.
I'd rather be the meanest flower
That grows, my mother Earth, on thee,
So there were others of my kin,
To blossom, bloom, droop, die with me.
Earth, thou hast sorrow, grief, and death ;
But with these better could I bear,
Than reach and rule yon radiant sphere,
And be a Solitary there.
The Literary Gazette, 25th March 1826
MOONLIGHT
T. C. Hofland
A luxury of deep repose ! the heart
Must surely beat in quiet here. The light
Is such as should be on the poet's harp
When he awakens his first song of love,
Echoed but by the wind and nightingale.
There is a silver beauty on the leaves —
The night has given it; and the green turf
Seems as just spread for fairy revelling.
I will not look on it— it is too fair !
Its green, moonlighted loveliness but mocks
The hot and hurried scenes in which we live.
GOD ! that this Earth should be so beautiful,
And yet so wretched !
The Literary Gazette, 24th April 1824
THE MOORISH MAIDEN'S VIGIL
Does she watch him, fondly watch him,
Does the maiden watch in vain ?
Do her dark eyes strain to catch him
Riding o'er the moonlit plain,
Stately, beautiful, and tall ?
Those long eyelashes are gleaming
With the tears she will not shed ;
Still her patient hope is dreaming
That it is his courser's tread,
If an olive leaf but fall.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side ;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Scarlet is the turban folded
Round the long black plaits of hair ;
And the pliant gold is moulded
Round her arms that are as fair
As the moonlight which they meet.
Little of their former splendour
Lingereth in her large dark eyes ;
Ever sorrow maketh tender,
And the heart's deep passion lies
In their look so sad and sweet.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side ;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Once the buds of the pomegranate
Paled beside her cheek's warm dye,
Now 'tis like the last sad planet
Waning in the morning sky —
She has wept away its red.
Can this be the Zegri maiden,
Whom Granada named its flower,
Drooping like a rose rain-laden ? —
Heavy must have been the shower,
Bowing down its fragrant head.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side ;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
To the north her fancies wander,
There he dwells, her Spanish knight ;
'Tis a dreadful thing to ponder,
Whether true love heard aright.
Did he say those gentle things
Over which fond memories linger,
And with which she cannot part ?
Still his ring is on her finger,
Still his name is in her heart —
All around his image brings.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side ;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Can the fond heart be forsaken
By the one who sought that heart ?
Can there be who will awaken
All of life's diviner part,
For some vanity's cold reign.
Heavy is the lot of woman —
Heavy is her loving lot —
If it thus must share in common
Love with those who know it not —
With the careless and the vain.
Woe for thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's side ;
Better, than this weary watching,
Better thou hadst died.
Faithless Christian ! — ere the blossom,
Hanging on the myrtle bough,
Float on the clear fountain's bosom,
She who listened to thy vow —
She will watch for thee no more !
'Tis a tale of frequent sorrow
Love seems fated to renew ;
It will be again to-morrow
Just as bitter and as true,
As it aye has been of yore.
Woe to thee, my poor Zorayda,
By the fountain's wave ;
But the shade of rest is round thee —
And it is the grave !
The New Monthly Magazine, 1836
Subjects for Pictures, Second Series - No.III
MORALISING
l cannot count the change of my heart,
So often has it turned away from things
Once idols of its being: —they depart —
Hopes, fancies, joys, illusions—as if wings
Were given from their former selves to start:
Or if they linger, longer life but brings
Weariness, canker, hollowness. and stain,
Till the heart says of pleasure, it is pain.
And thus it is with all that made life fair :—
Gone with the freshness which they used to wear,
‘Tis sad to mark the ravage which the heart
Makes of itself,—how one by one depart
The colours that formed hope. We seek—we find—
And find the charm has with the search declined.
Affections—pleasures—all in which we trust, —
What do they end in ?—Nothing, or disgust.
* * * * *
Think no more of that sweet time,
When the heart and cheek were young,—
Think no more of that sweet time
Ere the veil from life was flung.
Still the cheek shows the young rose,
Which its beauty had of yore;
But the bloom upon the heart
Is no more.
We have mingled with the false,
Till belief has lost the charm
Which it had when life was new,
And the pulse of feeling warm.
We have had the bosom wrung
When dropt the mask which Friendship wore—,
Affection's trusting happiness
Is no more.
We have seen the young and gay
Dying as the aged die;
Miss we not the cheerful voice ? —
Miss we not the sunny eye ?
Wishes take the place of Hope ;—
Hope hath dreamed till dreams are o‘er ;—
Its freshness made life fresh, and that
Is no more.
Take away yon purple bowl ;—
What is left to greet it now ? —
Loathing lip that turns away,
Sullen eye, and weary brow ;—
Social joys that wont to laugh,—
Mirth that lit its purple store,—
Friends with whom we poured its wealth.—
Are no more.
The Literary Gazette, 1st July 1826
MY HARP!
Come, gentle harp, and let me hold
Communion with thy melody,
And be my tale of sorrow told
To thee, my harp, and only thee.
There are who marvel I should twine
My wreath of flowers, whose bloom is gone ;
And wonder hand so light as mine
Should linger but on sorrow's tone.
They say that life, to one so young,
Must be a sweet and sunny view ;
They know not how my soul has clung
To hope, and found that hope untrue ;
They know not that a smile for me
Is but the feigning masquer's art, —
That each low note I draw from thee
Is the sad echo of my heart.
The Literary Gazette, 27th September 1823
From Extracts From My Copybook
A NAME
They named him — ah ! yet
Do I start at that name ;
Have I still to forget ?
Is my heart still the same
Long hours have passed on
Since that name was too dear ;
Now its music is gone,
It is death to my ear !
It tells of a false one.
Ah ! falsest to me ;
My heart's life begun,
It has ended, with thee !
I loved, as those love
Who but one image know
In the blue sky above,
On the fair earth below.
I had not a thought
In which thou had'st no part ;
In the wide world I sought
But a place in thy heart.
To win it I gave
All that had been my pride ;
Like a child or a slave
Subdued at thy side.
All homage was sweet
I for thee could resign ;
Others knelt at my feet,
But I knelt at thine.
I was happy, I dreamed
I could trust to thy word ;
My soul's faith it seemed
In my idol — and lord !
And yet thou could'st change —
And, did we meet now,
Thy voice would be strange,
And altered thy brow.
I thought I had schooled
My heart from regret —
It will not be ruled,
'Tis so hard to forget.
I live in a crowd,
And I seem like the rest,
But my spirit is bowed
By a grief unconfess'd.
From my pillow at night —
’Tis so wretched — sleep flies,
And morning brings light
And the tears to my eyes ;
They speak, and I ask what
It is they would say,
For the thoughts that I name not
Are with thee, far away.
Twas a light word and careless
That named thee again :
There were none by to guess
Why I shuddered like pain.
But the damp on my brow,
The pang at my heart,
Revealed to me how
Wildly loved still thou art.
Yet, false one, farewell !
I have still enough pride ;
Though hopeless to quell,
Yet at least it can hide.
But, ah ! may an hour
Be waiting for thee —
When Love, in his power,
Shall avenge him for me !
The New Monthly Magazine, 1837
THE NEW YEAR (incomplete)
Let the black clouds sweep o’er the sky,
Earth-born, they suit our earthly sphere;
Fit pall to the departed one,
Fit cradle for the coming year.
Heavy like many a heart below,
Yet lit with gleams of broken light
Uncertain, shadowy and their gloom
So soon to merge in deeper night.
On such a scroll might fate inscribe
The Records of the Year to be—
The dark, the transient—such a page
O Earth! is chronicle for thee
’Twas false science that which sought
Thy future where the planets shine:
The bright, the calm—ah what have they
Common with thee or thine?
The clouds, and not. . . .
The Literary Gazette, 4th January 1834
See supplement for complete poem
THE OLD TIMES
Do you recall what now is living only
Amid the memories garnered at the heart ? —
The quiet garden, quiet and so lonely,
Where fruit and flowers had each an equal part ?
When we had gathered cowslips in the meadow
We used to bear them to the ancient seat,
Moss-grown, beneath the apple-tree's soft shadow,
Which flung its rosy blossoms at our feet,
In the old, old times,
The dear old times.
Near was the well o'er whose damp walls were weeping
Stonecrop, and grounsel, and pale yellow flowers,
While o'er the banks the strawberry plants were creeping
In the white beauty of June's earliest hours.
The currant-bush and lilac grew together ;
The bean's sweet breath was blended with the rose ;
Alike rejoicing in the pleasant weather
That brought the bloom to these, the fruit to those,
In the old, old times,
The dear old times.
There was no fountain over marble falling ;
But the bees murmur'd one perpetual song,
Like soothing waters, and the birds were calling
Amid the fruit-tree blossoms all day long ;
Upon the sunny grass-plot stood the dial,
Whose measured time strange contrast with ours made :
Ah ! was it omen of life's after trial,
That even then the hours were told in shade,
In the old, old times,
The dear old times ?
But little recked we then of those sick fancies
To which in after life the spirit yields :
Our world was of the fairies and romances
With which we wandered o'er the summer fields ;
Then did we question of the down-balls blowing
To know if some slight wish would come to pass ;
If showers we feared, we sought where there was growing
Some weather-flower which was our weather-glass :
In the old, old times,
The dear old times.
Yet my heart warms at these fond recollections,
Breaking the heavy shadow on my day.
Ah ! who hath cared for all the deep affections —
The love, the kindness I have thrown away ?
The dear old garden ! There is now remaining
As little of its bloom as rests with me.
Thy only memory is this sad complaining,
Mourning that never more for us can be
The old, old times,
The dear old times.
The New Monthly Magazine, 1837
ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM
His was a harp just fit to pour
Its music to the wind and wave ;—
He had a right to tell their fame
Who stood himself amid the brave.
The first time that I read his strain
There was a tempest in the sky,
And sulphurous clouds, and thunder crash,
Were like dark ships and battle-cry.
I had forgot my woman's fears,
In thinking on my country's fame,
Till almost I could dream I saw
Her colours float o'er blood and flame.
Died the high song as dies the voice
Of the proud trumpet on the wind ;
And died the tempest too, and left
A gentle twilight hour behind.
Then paused I o'er some sad wild notes,
Sweet as the spring bird's lay withal,
Telling of hopes and feelings past,
Like stars that darken'd in their fall.
Hopes perishing from too much light,
" Exhausted by their own excess ;"
Affections trusted, till they turn'd,
Like Marah's wave, to bitterness.
And is this, then, the curse that clings
To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling ?
Is this the cloud that destiny
Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing ?
It is — it is ! tread on thy way,
Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold ;
Look not up from the sullen path
That leads to this world's idol— gold.
And close thy hand, and close thy heart,
And be thy very soul of clay,
And thou wilt be the thing the crowd
Will worship, cringe to, and obey.
But look thou upon Nature's face,
As the young poet loves to look ;
And lean thou where the willow leans,
O'er the low murmur of the brook ;
Or worship thou the midnight sky,
In silence at its moonlit hour ;
Or let a single tear confess
The silent spell of music's power ;
Or love, or feel, or let thy soul
Be for one moment pure or free,
Then shrink away at once from life, —
Its path will be no more for thee.
Pour forth thy fervid soul in song —
There are some that may praise thy lays ;
But of all earth's dim vanities,
The very earthliest is praise.
Praise ! light and dew of the sweet leaves
Around the Poet's temples hung,
How turn'd to gall, and how profan’d
By envious or by idle tongue !
Given by vapid fools, who laud
Only if others do the same ;
Forgotten even while the breath
Is on the air that bears your name.
And he ! what was his fate, the Bard !
He of the Desert Harp, whose song
Flow'd freely, wildly, as the wind
That bore him and his harp along ?
That fate which waits the gifted one,
To pine, each finer impulse check'd ;
At length to sink, and die beneath
The shade and silence of neglect.
And this the polish'd age, that springs
The phoenix from dark years gone by,
That blames and mourns the past, yet leaves
Her Warrior and her Bard to die.
To die in poverty and pride,
The light of hope and genius past,
Each feeling wrung, until the heart
Could bear no more, so broke at last.
Thus withering amid the wreck
Of sweet Hope’s high imaginings.
What can the Minstrel do, but die,
Cursing his too beloved strings !
The Gentleman’s Magazine, 1823
ON MAY-DAY, BY LESLIE
Beautiful and radiant May,
Is not this thy festal day ?
Is not this spring revelry
Held in honour, Queen, of thee ?
'Tis a fair : the booths are gay,
With green boughs and quaint display ;
Glasses, where the Maiden's eye
May her own sweet face espy;
Ribands for her braided hair,
Beads to grace her bosom fair ;
From yon stand the Juggler plays
With the rustic crowd's amaze ;
There the Morris-dancers stand.
Glad bells ringing on each hand ;
Here the maypole rears its crest,
With the rose and hawthorn drest ;
And beside are painted bands
Of strange beasts from other lands.
In the midst, like the young Queen,
Flower crowned, of the rural green,
Is a bright-cheeked girl, her eye
Blue, like April's morning sky,
With a blush, like what the rose
To her moonlight minstrel shows ;
Laughing at her love the while, —
Yet such softness in the smile,
As the sweet coquette would hide
Woman's love by woman's pride.
Farewell, cities! who could bear
All their smoke and all their care,
All their pomp, when wooed away
By the azure hours of May ?
Give me woodbine, scented bowers,
Blue wreathes of the violet flowers,
Clear sky, fresh air, sweet birds and trees,
Sights and sounds, and scenes like these !
The Literary Gazette, 3rd May 1823
From POETICAL CATALOGUE OF PAINTINGS
ON THE PICTURE OF A YOUNG GIRL
A beautiful and laughing thing,
Just in her first apparelling
Of girlish loveliness : blue eyes,
Such blue as in the violet dwells,
And rose-bud lips of sweets, such sweets
The bee hoards in his fragrant cells.
'Tis not a blush upon her cheek—
On blushes but of love can speak ;
That brow is all too free from care
For Love to be a dweller there.
Alas, that Love should ever fling
One shadow from his radiant wing !
But that fair cheek knows not a cloud,
And health and hope are in its dyes.
She has been over hill and dale,
Chasing the summer butterflies.
Yet there is malice in her smile.
As if she felt her woman's power,
And had a gift of prophecy,
To look upon that coming hour
When, feared by some, yet loved by all,
Young Beauty holds her festival.
The Literary Gazette, 23rd May 1823
OUR PRESENT MAY
" May is full of flowers."— Southwell.
" Born in yon blaze of orient sky.
Sweet May, thy radiant form unfold.
Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,
And wave thy shadowy lock of gold."
Darwin.
“THE month of flowers," May,
Were they not wont to say
That, of the Year's twelve lovely daughters, thou
Didst wear most perfect sweetness on thy brow ?
They said the crimson rose
Was eager to unclose
For thee the fragrant mysteries which lie
Hidden in leafless boughs beneath the winter sky.
The poets told thy birth
Was welcomed upon earth
By the sweet multitude of shining flowers,
By bursting buds, green leaves, and sunny hours.
And thou art come, sweet May ;
A week beneath thy sway
The world has been ; yet is it dull and cold :
Doth it not own thy reign, as in the days of old ?
To-day all life is strange
With great and utter change ;
The power is past away from many a shrine
And many a throne — must it, too, pass from thine ?
Still o’er the darkened sky
The heavy clouds sail by,
Till the bleak shower comes down unpityingly,
Beating the few faint blossoms from the tree.
Where is the yellow ore
Which the laburnum bore,
As if transformed, the Theban princess there,
Amid the golden shower, loosed her more golden hair?
The lilac with its stars,
Small, shining like the spars
With which some sea-nymph decks her ocean-bowers —
Lilac, that seems the jewellry of flowers ? (sic)
Where is the gelder-rose, (sic)
Wreathed as from Alpine snows ?
Where is the lime-tree's bud of faint perfume ?
Where is the hawthorn wealth, thine own peculiar bloom ?
They do not meet thee now !
I see the barren bough ;
The earth is melancholy as a grave —
I see the driving rain, I hear the bleak winds rave.
Is this the pilgrimage
Of Earth in her old age ?
And is the shadow all things present wear
Cast on the circling beauty of the year ?
Or is it but delay ?
Are south winds on their way,
And songs and blossoms bringing May once more
The sunshine which rejoiced all hearts of yore?
Hope whispers of their birth—
Hope which upon our earth
Doth wander like an angel, at whose feet
Fresh flowers spring up to gladden and to greet.
How many now may see
Their likeness, May, in thee !
Mournful and spiritless, their spring is known
But by its measured time, and time alone ;
They know there must be May within the year,
Else would they never dream that May was here.
The Literary Gazette, 12th May 1832
OUTLINES FOR A PORTRAIT
‘Tis a dark and flashing eye,
Shadows, too, that tenderly,
With almost female softness, come
O'er its glance of flame and gloom.
His cheek is pale : or toil or care,
Or midnight study, has been there,
Making its young colours dull,
Yet leaving it most beautiful.
Such a lie ! Oh, poured from thence,
Lava floods of eloquence
Come with fiery energy,
Like those words that cannot die ;
Words the Grecian Warrior spoke ,
When the Persian's chain he broke ;
And that low and honey tone,
Making woman's heart his own,
Such as should be heard at night
In the dim and sweet starlight :
Sounds that haunt a beauty's sleep,
Treasures for her heart to keep,
Suited for the citron shade,
Or the soft voiced serenade.
Raven curls their shadows throw
O'er a high and haughty brow,
Lighted by a smile, whose spell
Words are powerless to tell. —
Such the image in my heart, —
Painter, try thy glorious art !
The Literary Gazette, 16th November 1822
THE PARTING WORD
I leant within the window
That overlooks the tide ;
I saw our eyes were meeting,
And I saw nought beside.
I knew that we were parting ;
That knowledge made me say
More than my lips had ventured
On any other day.
I asked " Will you forget me ?"
Too long my dreaming heart
Recall'd the words we whisper 'd,
As there we stood apart.
I see the open window,
The careless talkers near,
And how I talked as careless,
To shun their smile or sneer.
I see the silent river
That wander'd darkly on,
While the mournful light of midnight
Above the waters shone.
I said — so darkly flowing
My course of life has been ;
With mocking lights, whose lustre
But partly show'd the scene.
I felt as if the morning
At length began to shine —
As if my spirit's day-break
Came from those eyes of thine.
I felt I deeply loved thee —
With fond and earnest love —
Firm as the earth beneath me,
True as the stars above.
Such love as I had painted
Thro' long and lonely years ;
Too passionately happy,
My eyes were fill'd with tears.
I wish that I had shed them,
They had not then been kept,
For the hours that came the morrow
To weep as I have wept.
For I have felt the folly
Of all I fancied then;
Not with my own heart's loving
Am I beloved again.
I fear my evil planet,
Whose fortune has denied
The only heart I covet
In all a world so wide.
The memory of that moment
Is lingering with me yet :
I said to you remember !
Ah, must I say forget !
The New Monthly Magazine, 1835