Iole
From 20th August 1825 to 27th January 1827, a series of poems appeared in the London Literary Gazette under the pseudonym 'Iole'. I give below my reasons for believing that Iole is no other than Letitia Elizabeth Landon, writing under another name.
I first noticed the style, which is so like L. E. L.'s, as to be almost identical.
1. The letters LE in Iole are suggestive of Letitia Elizabeth. Also, Landon often writes of the violet as being her favourite flower.
2. In the signature poem (Iole) Iole is referred to as a boy, garbed as a Greek girl. I don't think this means a male in drag but rather a female taking on a male persona.
3. The annual index for 1826, which index normally catalogues only the pages on which L. E. L.'s poetry appears, also lists the pages for Iole's poetry.
4. Letitia Landon was fluent in French from an early age and was responsible for other translations.
5. She had already used the names Iole (the poem Hercules and Iole) and Ianthe (in a Dramatic Scene).
6. Characteristics such as the Metrical Fragment series, the description 'Irregular lines' and the additon of editorial notes.
7. The poems 'The Wreck' and 'The Frozen Ship' are included verbatim in Miss Landon's 1835 collection, The Vow of the Peacock. In my opinion, they can therefore only be her own. She may well have included these poems specifically to lay claim to Iole's poetry.
Unique notice in the Gazette on 25th August 1825: - It has been the good fortune of the Literary Gazette to introduce several young poets to the public, whose talents have speedily procured them fame of a high and permanent order. We this week (we are persuaded) begin a new career of the same kind ; and in this belief beg to recommend the signature of "Iole" to the attention of our readers.— Ed. L. G.
The poems are arranged chronologically, as follows:
THE SLAVE SHIP
“While at the anchorage at Zanzibar,” says a private letter from an officer of the Andromache, "a vessel or two arrived, with at least from 150 to 200 slaves each on board ; which vessels were, in fact, (had any idea of humanity or kindness prevailed among the dealers,) incapabie of containing more than 20 or 25 persons. The wretched cargoes were literally stowed in bulk*; all sexes and ages wedged together at the bottom of the vessel, and their feet only kept from the water occasioned by the usual leakage, by a cargo of rhinoceros’ hides and horns, gums of several kinds, (particularly copal,) and elephants' teeth.”
No surge was on the sea,
No cloud was on the day,
When the ship spread her white wings,
Like a sea-bird on her way.
Ocean lay bright before,
The shore lay green behind,
And a breath of spice and balm
Came on the landward wind.
There rose a curse and wail.
As that vessel left the shore ;
And last looks sought their native land,
Which should dwell there no more !
Who seeing the fair ship
That swept through the bright waves.
Would dream that tyrants trod her deck,
And that her freight was slaves !
By day was heard the lash,
By night the heavy groan ;
For the slave's blood was on the chain
That festered to the bone !
Was one in that dark ship,
A prince in his own land ;
He scorned the chain, he scorned the threat —
He scorned his fetter'd hand.
He called upon his tribe,
And said they might be free !
And his brow was cold and stern,
As he pointed to the sea.
Next night a sullen sound
Was heard amid the wave !
The tyrants sought their captives,—
They only found their grave.
IOLE.
* Stowed in bulk is a nautical phrase for any thing closely packed, without separation ;— a barrel of herrings , will convey the best idea of an Arab slave-vessel ; and, indeed, of some of the smaller French traders formerly engaged in this traffic about Mauritius and Bourbon.
London Literary Gazette, 20th August 1825
STANZAS
Grace and beauty had crown'd thee,
When first thy magic bound me ;
In its zenith of power
Was thy summer hour,
And a light like sunshine was round thee.
The world seem'd made to adore thee,
Proud hearts grew humble before thee;
I thought of thee
As a deity
From the blue sky shining o'er thee.
Thy youth and thy days of gladness
Were wasted by early sadness ;
Falsehood and care,
And thoughts that wear
The brain to death or madness.
But these were days departed ;
And if thou wert broken-hearted,
Thou wert too proud
To let the crowd
Know when the rebel tear started.
But once I saw thee weeping,
Thy black hair round thee sweeping
Like the shadow of night,
To hide from sight
The secret grief thou wer't keeping.
Thy heart in its spring had been blighted
By the hope in which it delighted ;
Yet thou had'st pardon'd, and kept
Thy love, and had wept
For him who had thus love requited.
I thought I would then have given,
Hopes of earth, aye, and hopes of heaven,
For the precious tears
Thou hadst shed thro' years,
For him thou hadst loved and forgiven.
I never breathed passion to thee,
A boy, I dared not woo thee ;
Enough that my breast
For its secret guest,
And its treasured idol knew thee.
Once I felt the caressing
Of thy soft lips my forehead pressing ;
And a fire and pain
Past thro' my brain,
Though 'twas but as a mother's blessing.
Long year's time has been telling, —
Now the dark grave is thy dwelling ;
And my heart is as still,
And almost as chill
As the cold sod over thee swelling.
IOLE
London Literary Gazette, 27th August 1825
THE AVENGER
It is customary among many of the Arab tribes, when a chief is slain, to preserve his sandals, which are given to his son or nearest kinsman when of age, to avenge his death.
Upon these sandals there is blood —
It was not poured in battle flood ;
It was not shed in open fight,
With God and man to judge the right ;
It came not from the courser's flank,
Spurred foremost in the foremost rank : —
It was pour'd by a hidden foe,
It was shed by a dagger's blow ;
It was night hid the assassin's art,
And it came from thy father's heart.
Here is his sabre's shining length,
Have thou with it his arm of strength!
Young Arab, yonder is thy steed,
And Alla help thee at thy need.
The boy rose up, and deadly thought
Across his cold pale forehead wrought:
There was red shame upon his cheek,
For much he feared his arm was weak ;
And thrice that arm in vain essay'd
To lift and poise his father's blade.
’Twas but a moment's pause — he swung
The blade across — to horse he sprung :
Away, away, not long the wind
Brought echoes of his speed behind.
Now curses be upon the hand
That smote not with the warrior's brand ;
And curses on the dastard foe
Who let the night conceal his blow :
Desolate be his place of birth,
Desolate be his silent hearth ;
To him let earth refuse her food ;
Shrink from his burning lip the flood ;
To him let morning bring no dew
His wasted vigour to renew ;
And let the placid night deny
To him the quiet of her sky ;
Let him be childless ; like the reed
Be his friends in the hour of need ;
Let the wife of his bosom sigh
For one, his deadliest enemy ;
And let him die a death of shame,
The last of all his race and name.
Scarce the green banner of the palm
Moves — like the moonlight on it calm.
Above, the firmament of blue,
Below, wood-fire and dusky hue ;
And, round it crouch'd, the wand'ring tribe
Pass song and tale, and laugh and gibe.
Uprose the midnight's latest star,
Hark ! rings a horse-tramp from afar ;
They know him by his lightning speed,
They know him by his raven steed ;
They know him by his cold pale brow,
The trophy at his saddle bow :
The blood drips from the sever'd head,
Well has the young Avenger sped —
His task is done, his strength is spent,
He staggers to his mother's tent :
Down drops the trophy from his hand,
And drops beside his crimson'd brand.
They crowd to hear his tale of death,
His lip has breath'd its lust of breath ;
And there is nothing left to tell
A tale of how they fought and fell,
Race fated to their early doom,
The son sleeps in his father's tomb.
IOLE
London Literary Gazette, 3rd September 1825
THE WRECK
THE moonlight fell on the stately ship ;
It shone over sea and sky ;
And there was nothing but water and air
To meet the gazing eye.
Bright and blue spread the heaven above,
Bright and blue spread the sea ;
The stars from their home shone down on the wave,
Till they seemed in the wave to be.
With silver foam like a cloud behind,
That vessel cut her way ;
But the shadow she cast, was the sole dark thing
That upon the waters lay.
With steps of power, and with steps of pride,
The Lord of the vessel paced
The deck, as he thought on the waves below,
And the glorious heaven he faced.
One moment's pause, and his spirit fell
From its bearing high and proud —
But yet it was not a thought of fear,
That the seaman's spirit bow'd :
For he had stood on the deck when washed
With blood, and that blood his own ;
When the dying were pillowed upon the dead,
And yet you heard not a groan —
For the shout of battle came on the wind,
And the cannon roar'd aloud ;
And the heavy smoke hung round each ship,
Even like its death shroud.
And he had guided the helm, when fate
Seemed stepping every wave,
And the wind swept away the wreath of foam,
To show a yawning grave.
But this most sweet and lighted calm,
Its blue and midnight hour,
Wakened the hidden springs of his heart,
With a deep and secret power.
Is there some nameless boding sent,
Like a noiseless voice from the tomb ? —
A spirit note from the other world,
To warn of death and doom !
He thought of his home, of his own fair land.
And the warm tear rushed to his eye ;
Almost with fear he looked around,
But no cloud was on the sky.
He sought his cabin, and joined his band —
The wine cup was passing round ;
He joined in their laugh, he joined in the song,
But no mirth was in the sound.
Peaceful they sought their quiet sleep,
In the soft and lovely night ;
But, like life, the sea was false, and hid
The cold dark rock from sight.
At midnight there came a sudden shock,
And the sleepers sprang from bed ;
There was one fierce cry of last despair —
The waves closed over head.
There was no dark cloud on the morning sky,
No fierce wind on the morning air ;
The sun shone over the proud ship's track,
But no proud ship was there !
IOLE.
London Literary Gazette, 10th September 1825
This poem was republished by L. E. L. in her 1835 collection, The Vow of the Peacock
THE VISION.
I will, I must believe, that they, the dead,
The shadowy beings of a shadowy world,
Hold intercourse, a pitying intercourse,
With us who pant yet with our load of clay.
There was one whom I loved in early youth,
A boyish love perhaps, — it matters not,
’Twas true, and has out-lasted many a change
In others. — and that love has made me gaze
On many lovely faces with the look
We give to lovely pictures. 'Twas a time
When war and bloodshed were abroad, and men
Thought shame to sit in quiet by the hearth
Which soon might smoke with other fires than those
Round which the tale is told, the laugh is pass’d,
But for the guard and struggle of brave swords.
And firm steps falter'd, tears stood in bold eyes,
Which could have seen the musket flush, yet watched
The ball upon its fiery path, and stood
With sabres sweeping like a lightning storm
Over their heads, with war-steeds rushing on
Like thunder, and not moved ; — but now, last looks
Were on the land which henceforth would but be
Their own in memory and hope ; — they left
Old habits, grown affections by long use,
All the kind feelings and the ties of home ;
But yet they went. And soon we were in Spain.
It was an autumn midnight, and the Moon
Was solitary in the sky, as all
The stars, her fair companions, shrank abashed
Before her zenith radiance ; save the blaze
Of the red watch-fires, all was silvered o'er ;
The chesnut's dark and shining leaves were moved
But languidly by the departing wind ;
The far hills lay in shadow ; but the tents,
The fair white tents, (how little they looked War)
Were like snow; and the current of the stream
By which they stood was like the face of heaven,
A deep, clear lighted, purple element.
—The night was sultry, and I left the camp,
And leant beside the river, while my heart
Caught the sweet stillness of the hour, and dreamed
Of gentle things, of all that it had loved.
And, like the moonlight, softened what it touched,
Turning the harsh and bitter into sad
But tranquil thought. My memory was with one
Who loved me as a mother and a friend,
But whom I loved with wild idolatry,
Fiercer from its suppression. I recalled
The burning cheek, and the pale lip she wore
When I last looked on her, and the low tone.
Almost prophetic in its touchingness,
Of her farewell, till I dared think no more.
I started from my seat, and hurriedly
Gathering green leaves from branches o'er my head,
Flung them upon the waters, while I watched
How far they sailed, There came upon mine ear
A long deep sigh : I turned, and saw the face,
Which was the buried treasure of my heart ;
A shadow or a Spirit fronted me.
Cold, pale and motionless, but still the brow
Had its own melancholy loveliness,
And the dark beauty of the eyes were bent
On me with all the pensive tenderness
They used to wear. I spoke — the shape was gone!
Weeks afterwards, I heard that she was dead,
And that my name had been upon her lips,
With kind anxiety and gentle wishes —
Even upon her death bed. - - -
IOLE.
London Literary Gazette, 24th September 1825
THE SOLITUDE
The young, the bright, the gay— the world is theirs;
But solitude was made for withered hearts,
For memory, not hope. - - -
Before me now a dream is visible —
The very solitude that I would chuse
For mine own dwelling-place — in olden days
It was a convent, and the vestal pale,
Pale as the saint she worshipped, made the night
Musical with her lonely orisons :
’Tis now in ruins ; and the trembling walls
Owe half their substance to the dark grey moss
And ivy, which, as if in late remorse,
Support the wreck they aided time to make.
From the dim cloisters is no distant view ;
The girdling pines shut out the world around ;
There is no other noise than their old boughs
Sweeping with a strange melancholy sound, like speech,
But inarticulate as oracles
In the mysterious and holy woods
Of ancient days ; and in their murmurings
I'll fancy omens telling my own fate,
Gloomy as their own voices are. There is
A cell yet standing, which should be mine own,
Where I would weep the midnight hours away :
The ivy thro' the broken lattice bars
Has stolen, as sorrow steals, and twined its leaves
Over the walls, and let the dead ones fall
On the stone floor — a drear, but fitting couch :
It opens on the chapel. Yet is left
In the old windows one or two rich panes —
I would they were not there, the purple light
Is too like Hope's, and I have done with hope.
But there is one pane, amid broken ones,
As if too beautiful to be destroyed.
Bearing the impress of a maiden Saint —
I will kneel down and worship it, when night
Comes in the deep religion of repose,
Silence and darkness, and the heart, opprest
In its own feelings, seeks some other world
To which it may confide the cares of this,
And sends up prayers from instinct more than duty.
Then, thou sweet saint ! when the pale moonlight fills
Thine eyes with light as they were animate
With life and pity, I will kneel to thee there.
There was one once on earth, tho' now in heaven,
So very like thee, I can well believe
In praying thee I pray a guardian spirit —
Mine own IANTHE ! mine, now that the grave,
Saving thy memory, has all of thee.
Will not thine influence be on the heart
That would have chastened feelings, holy thoughts,
Only that it may share thy heaven with thee ? - - - -
- - The garden is a wilderness, and filled
With trees degenerate from their cultured growth,
And covered with white snowdrops, like a shrowd:
The only flower remaining, cold and pale
And without scent, as a heart without hope.
In the midst is a fountain choked with weeds,
The fallen crucifix there lies concealed —
I'd rear it up again and clear the fount,
And set the waters flowing, and would dig
My grave beside, for it would be like sleep
To die soothed by the lulling of their fall :
It would not be such utter solitude
In my last hour, if I could pass away
In hearing of their sweet familiar sound.
IOLE.
London Literary Gazette, 1st October 1825
SONG
Taken from two old Provençal chansons.
Fair Morning, why art thou so fair ?
I have no joy in thy sunshine :
I would there were a single cloud,
Dark as it had a grief like mine.
What boots to me the cheerful day,
With mine own love so far away ?
I should rejoice, thou blushing Morn,
If thou wert with mine ladye faire ;
We would go forth with hawke and horn,
And rouse the wild deer from his lair:
Now why should I wish a bright day,
With mine own love so far away ?
I would rejoice, if thy fresh breath
Dried her light foot-prints off the dew ;
If I could see her step and cheek
Shame thy soft air, thy roseate hue :
But what delight is there in day,
With mine own love so far away ?
I like thee not, thou laughing Morn ;
Thy sister is more dear to me —
Dim Evening, with her purple pall
Hung darkly over sky and sea ;
Then nearer, by another day,
To mine own love, so far away.
But I will worship thee, sweet Morn,
When thou art rising on the shore
Whereon the peerless beauty dwells,
The ladye my liege thoughts adore:
No more then shall I pine, and say,
Mine own love is so far away.
IOLE.
London Literary Gazette, 15th October 1825
THE CONQUEROR
My only Love, my early Love,
My spirit turns to thee ;
Ah, wherefore is thy memory
All that is left for me !
I would I had thy pictured traits ;—
Shadows of what they were,
They could not be like thine, no art
Could make them half so fair.
Yet, no, I could not bear to meet
A smile like that of yore,
And think its dear original
Could smile on me no more.
How often have I watched those eyes.
Filled with their own deep light.
Their glorious beauty sad, but yet,
As the heaven they gazed on, bright !
But I shall look on them no more ;
How could they close on me !
Oh, Death, thou art thrice powerful,
For Love must yield to thee.
IOLE
London Literary Gazette, 5th November 1825
METRICAL FRAGMENTS NO. I
How many graceful snatches of romance,
Touches of beauty and of tenderness,
Are scattered, wild-flower like, upon life's path,
And, wild-flower like, past unregarded by.
How many a history, and traveller's tale,
Lie on the page neglected ; which, if wrought
By the fine poet's hand, had waked deep chords,
And kept a long rich memory in the heart.
I have no laurel, and my name is not
Known 'mid earth's gifted ones, yet in my mind
Is a deep well of poetry, if love
And grief have aught in them of poetry.
Albeit the Spirit of sweet song may not
Have touched my lips with fire, and given those tones
That make the true bard's music eloquent;
Yet will I try to treasure up, like pearls,
Old histories, and incidents, and thoughts,
Altho’ my setting may but mar their worth.
ANECDOTE OF CANOVA
There is his bust — a noble morning brow,
Clear, open, beautiful, with the thick hair
Hung in dark masses. Look upon it now
In the full daylight ; — seems it not to wear
All of least earthly Heaven may well allow
Our mortal state of humbleness to share ?
Earth's tenderness is on the lip, but heaven
Has it's own lightning to the forehead given.
He was young Beauty's sculptor — one who caught
The breathing essence of her loveliness,
Giving a visible form to each sweet thought
That dwelt within his bosom's last recess.
Oh, Love ! how much by thee is Genius taught!
How after-life will bear thy first impress !
’Tis so in common hearts ; but more thy dye
Lasts stamped by Mind unto eternity.
Love taught Canova beauty ; 'twas one morn,
Stooped o'er his chisel, while his eye grew dim,
Gazing on shapes that made him feel forlorn
And lonely, that such had no part in him :
There Ariadne, from a silver horn,
Poured purple sparkles o'er the goblet's brim;
And like a form embodied on the air,
Flung back the radiant Venus her bright hair.
He starts ! a low soft sigh stole on his ear ;
He turned to whence its living music came,
And saw her by the open casement near,
So that the fresh air fanned the crimson flame
That fed upon her cheek — a single tear
Lay like a gem upon it — sudden shame
Made the young artist farther shrink away,
As dazzled by a sudden burst of day.
It was a face, with nothing but the blush
To mark it from the sculptured features round :
As perfect in its beauty ; but the flush
Of earthly warmth and earthly feeling crowned
The master-piece of nature ;— that rich gush
Was from the heart, which thus a language found,
The eloquence of truth and silence ever : —
Words, sighs, and smiles deceive, but blushes never.
Yet grief would till the eye that watched that face :
The blue mine of the forehead, showed its wealth
Of azure veins too clearly, and the trace
Of early hidden grief was there : — by stealth
The tears stole from their starry dwelling-place ;
The cheek was morning's colour, not its health.
And yet there was a beautiful repose,
Like the last softened shade of sorrow's close.
Upon her arm, as dreamingly she leant,
While the clear sky was mirror'd in her eyes,
Her spirit mingling with its element,
Flinging off all the baser of life's ties ;
Bound but by those whose earthliness is blent
With finer essence, gentle sympathies,
And pure affections ;— all that makes the earth
Recall the Eden of its early birth.
Canova gazed on her, as tho’ he caught
New being from her look ; as, till that hour,
Life had been like a dream, a hope, a thought,
Of which till then he never knew the power ;
A new sense of existence to him brought
The sudden opening of a summer flower ;
He gazed till rose the maiden to depart —
She pass'd, but left her image on his heart.
This roused him from his trance, but roused to feel
Another soul within him ; a dim sense
Of happiness, like perfume o'er him steal :
They closed the gallery ,and he wandered thence
As if he had some treasure to conceal.
(Young Love thy dreams are thy best recompense!)
And left the city, hastily, to share
His new-born pleasure with the sun and air.
He paused within a little nook, which seemed
Made for a lover's passionate idlesse ;
And flung, at full length, on the turf, he dreamed
His earliest dream of woman's loveliness ;
He had no hopes, no aims — his thoughts but gleamed
Like stars, which have no end in the excess
Of light they pour on the night element, —
As their own beauty made their own content.
Oh ! passion's after day is little worth
The first delicious breaking of its morn ;
Too like a falling orb, which, heaven sent-forth,
Touching our earth, is of its glory shorn ;
Brightness and pleasure wait upon its birth ;
But, afterwards, come sorrow, shame, and scorn.
Love, that redeem'st our base mortality,
What has the serpent's soil to do with thee?
’Twas a voluptuous hour ; bird-like the breeze
Had folded up his scented wings, to sleep
'Mid the rich blossoms of the orange-trees ; —
Bowed down the rose, as too oppress'd to keep
The treasure of her sweetness from the bees ;
One moment more the odorous dew must weep,
So heavy was the air with its delight ;
Like the last languid kiss of love's good night.
For days the lady came, and watched the face
Of the Madonna, as her soul were there ;
Beside the casement, as if that charmed place,
Filled with the gifts of mind, and open air
Had influence on her soul, and touched its prayer
With something of their own unearthly grace.
They spoke not ; 'twas enough for him to know
That Beauty's breathing likeness was below.
One day she came not ; it was all in vain
That the young sculptor would have fix'd his thought
On the fair brow he traced — still like a chain
His anxiousuess prest round, — be fruitless sought
To still the sudden throbbing of each vein,
When the least sound upon his ear was brought :
This feverish restlessness, it is love's first
Of miseries, would to heaven it were its worst !
His heart was heavy — as an omen ; all
His hopes seemed dead, restless he wandered long—
At last he paused by the cathedral wall
Whence came the burial anthem's mournful song :
He entered, and he saw the funeral pall ;
His heart foreboded, how could it be wrong !
He raised the shroud — he knew that she was there ;
And thence he turned away in black despair.
And still, in all the works of later years,
Is traced the influence of that early flame ;
Sorrow and love might have passed with their tears,
But they had hallowed his heart, and Fame
But followed in their footsteps.
London Literary Gazette, 24th December 1825
IOLE
'Tis a vain folly, and I know it such ;
Yet who has not some weakness which the heart
Has made an idol ? 'Tis thus with the name
That to my lute is as the vizard is,
Which hides the masquer's face. I have no hope.
Nay, scarce the wish, for fame ; but yet it soothes,
And gives me somewhat of a social feeling,
To think that some, albeit they know me not,
May share the grief that taught me poetry.
Beloved mine ! Iole has a sound
Breathing of other days, and linked with thee :
'Tis not the first time I have borne that name.
When but a boy, (for I was fair and pale,
And had some likeness to an antique gem,)
In some young frolic, garb'd as a Greek girl,
Named from that cameo with Iole's name,
I taught my lute its earliest song of love,
Pouring my feelings under that disguise.
lanthe, thou wast spirit of that song. —
It was my first disguise, it is my last, —
And both alike are thine,
TO IANTHE
And sounds of joy are ringing
Again in that ancient hall,
And tones of music fall,
To answer a soft voice singing.
Around it green leaves are wreathing;
And, saved from the power
Of the winter hour,
Some few choicest flowers are breathing.
The piled-up hearth is blazing ;
And around it stand
A youthful band,
Their gayest carol raising.
I stood aloof, in my sadness —
The silent lip, the heavy sigh :—
Oh ! what had they, or what had I
To do with scenes of gladness ?
And my heart went back, in its sorrow,
To the beauty and the bloom,
Sleeping the sleep of the tomb.
In a night that knows no morrow—
At least, none of earthly greeting :
And my spirits had not power
To think upon that hour,
Which hopes an immortal meeting:
For at once to memory started,
As I enter'd the festive scene.
Thoughts of all that once had been,
And all that was now departed.
Again I saw thee reclining,
With thy soft eyes and bow'd down head,
And thy dark hair round it spread,
Like the wing of the raven shining.
But that dream of the moment past o'er me,
And I waken'd again
But to added pain,
And to know that nought could restore thee
Alas ! for Memory's folly !
I but start from the sweet dreams,
Where the past like the present seems,
To an added melancholy.
One sweet hope is not denied me, —
Though my vain wishes must not save,
I get my share— the grave, —
And rest, mine Ianthe, beside thee.
London Literary Gazette, 7th January 1826
IO TRIUMPHE
Heavy had been the march that day,
For long and sultry was the way ;
More weary far than if it lay
To be cut through armed foes:
The pennon drooped upon the air,
As if it had no business there,
With nothing rival near to dare,
And nothing to oppose.
'Twas pleasant when the darkening west
Called the worn soldier to his rest,
Upon the green earth's mother breast,
To dream of hearth and home :
On many a rough cheek the soft smile,
With an unconscious tear the while,
Told how the visions could beguile
That on such slumbers come.
But morning came — and with it came
Tidings that lit the brow to flame ;
Forgot the night-dream's gentler claim —
The weary march forgot :
Hark to the clarion ringing clear !
Hark to the trumpet's voice of cheer !
And, like an omen on the ear,
The distant cannon-shot !
There rode the eagles on the wind, —
The hills are with the while ranks lined,
And thousands gather dark behind,
Like a storm on the sea :
And face them — England's gallant bands,
Their fearful welcome in their hands,
In whizzing balls and flashing brands—
Death, is this all for thee ?
One moment, 'tis a gallant sight —
Float the rich banners from the height,
And helm and cuirass blaze in light
From the young day-break's beam:
Beneath the curb proud coursers prance,
Like summer clouds the white plumes dance,
And the red flags from the bright lance
Like sudden meteors gleam.
One moment — and all sight is vain, —
Reddens the sky with fiery rain, —
Closes the smoke-cloud round the plain—
Fit cloak for Death to throw :
As mid the Alpines thunders sweep,
Waking the mountains from their sleep—
So comes the tumult, stern and deep,
From the dread strife below.
— 'Tis moonlight on the quiet field
Where sabre flashed and musket pealed ;
Where was the fate of thousands sealed,
'Tis calm as a child's rest :
But ill suits earth with such a sky —
One with its soft, sweet stars on high,
While dead and dying thousands lie
Upon the other's breast.
And there they lie — the true, the brave,
The morning's pride, like a spent wave ;
And has not Glory even a grave,
For those who for her died ?
No ; there they lie — the young, the old,
The steel cap by the helm of gold,
The steed upon its rider rolled,
Friend and foe, side by side.
Enough of this — across the sea,
To know what triumph there may be
Where Glory joins Festivity,
Rejoicing in its fame :
There's feasting spread in gorgeous halls,
The lamps flash round the city walls,
And many a flood of lustre falls
O'er many an honoured name.
Turn thou from this, and enter where
Some mother weeps o'er her despair,
Some desolate bride rends her rich hair,
Some orphan joins the cry !
Then back again to the death plain,
Where lie those whom they weep in vain,
And ask, in gazing on the slain,
What art thou, Victory ?
London Literary Gazette, 21st January 1826
THE PAST
"Hope may charm Love, but Memory proves it."
My spirit may not turn away
From Love, that was its first and last ;
With thoughts the future cannot bring,
I turn and dwell upon the past.
You do not know how I have loved —
You do not know what I have lost ; —
My bark of venturing hope is wreck'd —
My own heart only knows the cost.
I may look on a face as fair
As that for ever from me gone :
However fair it be, can I
Look as I look'd upon that one ?
No — ere you bid me love again,
Love as I once loved, you must bring
The passionate feelings of my youth,
The warmth and dew that made it spring.
Love is divine in our belief
Of its eternity — how vain,
When we have known that Love can die,
To think that he can live again !
Even if I could dream once more,
What have I left to offer now ?
A heart which knows that it can change—
A sullied faith— a broken vow,
But this is vain : — go search the seas,
And bring Oblivion's wave with thee,
Its deepest one :— then thou may'st speak,
And only then, of love to me.
My heart is full of other days, —
And its dark bodings are as those
Felt by the Elders of the land,
When Judah's second Temple rose :
Those who had look'd upon the first,
How could they think the second fair ?
They only turn'd aside, and wept
Another temple should be there.
Then never name Love's name to me,
Unless the gentle word is said
As Pity names a buried friend,—
As Sorrow murmurs of the dead.
For love and death are grown to me
Associate terms ; I only crave
From one the gift of memory,
And from the other of a grave.
London Literary Gazette, 4th February 1826
FROM THE FRENCH OF MILLEROYE
The breath is failing on my lips,
The light is fading from my eye !
My summons hath gone forth in spring—
I know that I must die.
Fall, fall to earth, ye fragile leaves.
And hide from my lone mother's sorrow
The last and lowly dwelling-place
Where I shall be to-morrow !
But should the fading twilight bring
Mine own dear maiden here to weep,
I cannot lose such precious tears —
Wake my soul from its sleep.—
His low voice fail'd — the morrow came—
But not to him — and strangers made,
Amid the fallen leaves, his grave,
Beneath the oak tree's shade.
The twilight darken'd, and the winds
Pined like a dirge upon the air ;
Like tears the leaves fell from the boughs,—
But never came his false love there.
London Literary Gazette 4th February 1826
METRICAL FRAGMENTS
No. II — KING HENRY THE SECOND'S DEATH BED
Red meteors shot athwart the murk and troubled sky,
And pall-like on the air the gloomy clouds swept by ;
And as an evil omen, with its own ill-tidings spent,
The dirge of the autumn wind pined, in the battlement.
The flash of the lightning lit the night of the lone room,
Whose single taper could not light, but only shew the gloom.
It was a stately room, though little state was there,
For the tapestry hung in shreds, and the cold stone floor was bare :
Yet there lay England's king — lay low on his death bed :
He had three fair sons — is there not one to prop his dying head ?
No! — one is sleeping in the grave, whence nothing may him bring,
And one has drawn the sword against his father and his king.
Raised the old king his drooping head, heavily did he say,
The glory of fair England's crown from me hath past away ;
For my foes have girt me round, and my weary race is run,—
Mine ancient friends have turn'd from me to seek the rising sun :
I soon shall be, like my best hopes, trodden down into dust, —
Then gather round the faithful few whom yet my soul can trust ;
O bring, — and fondly as he spoke the aged monarch smiled, —
That I may bless him ere I die, — my true — my favourite child.
How could they speak the truth ? how vex his dying ear ?
Again King Henry spoke, "Why comes not my child here ?”
He read upon their face, what their lips could not disclose,
That his favourite child had join'd beneath the banner of his foes !
He started from his couch, his wither'd hands he raised, —
The lightning like the fire of hell over his pale face blazed, —
"Curses on my false children I pray that there may be !
And may they die the evil death that they have brought on me !"
The thunder shook the roof, as the troubled element
Gave from the heaven above fiercely its stern assent:
And soon the monarch's breath had pass'd, had pass'd like the night wind,
And though his lips were cold in death, his curse remain'd behind.
* The untimely end of all King Henry’s children is remarkable; three died suddenly in the flower of their age, and the last, John, only survived to lead a life of shame, and see the fairest ornaments of his crown ravished from him.
London Literary Gazette, 25th February 1826
IANTHE. A PORTRAIT
Her likeness ! why it is a vain endeavour
To image it. Painting or words may never
Say what she was ; yet dwell I on the task,
As if that Poesy had a right to ask
From Memory its treasure. She was fair : —
Vague words ! that is but what a thousand are.
I will be more distinct : her face was fine
And perfect, in its soften'd Grecian line.
The temples were transparent, and so white,
That the blue veins ran through like rays of light.
The brow was noble, queen-like, somewhat proud,
But this seem'd as it were of right allow'd—
For mind was in its beauty, and you gazed
On its high meaning till no more amazed
At what seem'd History's fiction, — when that queen —
Martyr—and heroine—woman— by turns had been.
I heard she was unhappy, and I checkt
My eager gaze at first ; she might suspect—
For sorrow brings distrust — that it was less
Pity for her than idle curiousness.
This wore away ; and then I loved to dwell
On beauty, that to me was all a spell.
How did I watch upon her soft eyes' keep,
Half-hidden by the eyelids' fringed sweep,
Which seem'd as if they hid from daylight's glare
The mournful meanings settled darkly there : —
The heart's deep-spreading sadness, till it made
The very light around perpetual shade !
But 'tis her voice that haunts me, — that low tone,
Melting as Woman's, Love's, or Pity's own—
Like silver tuned to music, or a bird
Gifted with human language — but each word
As sweet as any note that might belong
To the first murmur of a Minstrel' song.
I loved her with youth's first and fiery love,
That holds its own divinity above
All things which are of earth, yet not the less
For this, I loved with manhood's steadiness ;
And yet it lives, though now its only food
Is memory.
London Literary Gazette, 25th March 1826
THE DEATH-FEAST
Irregular Lines.
THERE was martial clamour heard
In the Convent's sacred halls,
And the noise of armed men
Sounded strange from cloister'd walls.
It was the vesper hour,
But no vesper then was sung ;
Instead of organ or of hymn,
Iron boot and steel spur rung.
The Moon around the Chapel shone :
What wont she to see there,
But aged men bent meekly down
In their still hour of prayer ?
Now her beams are lost in light
That torch and taper fling;
And falls that light on a banquet board,
And on a festal ring.
Cuirasses gleam'd, and waved
White plumes in their war pride ;
While with their beads and dark gray cowls
The Friars stood beside.
They are foemen — they are Gauls —
Curses to Spain's fair land :
How can the Convent's holy men
Join with such lawless band ?
Yet the Prior sat at the board-end,
And courteously carved he ;
While his Monks mark'd not their hour of prayer,
But join'd the revelry.
There were words of boasting joy,
Of triumph o'er their foes ;
And many a song and jest
Around the wine-cup rose.
But somewhat of shadow fell,
As came on the hours of night :
The haughty lip grew wan —
The flashing eye less bright —
The laughing voice broke off
In the middle of its tale —
And each one shudder'd as he saw
His neighbour ghastly pale.
Heavily on the air
There toll'd a midnight bell —
And every heart sank down
It was so like a knell.
With a weak and trembling step,
Rose the Prior from his place ;
His voice was faint, his eyes were wild —
It was a corpse's face.
"Now think upon your God —
For I warn ye, we shall meet,
Ere another hour is past,
Before his judgment-seat !
"Spoilers of God's fair earth !
Profaners of his shrine !
Ye have feasted, and unto death—
Mortal poison was in your wine !"
The morning Sun arose —
Still the festal board was spread —
Still hosts and guests were round ;
But hosts and guests were dead !
London Literary Gazette, 22nd April 1826
-
In the Literary Gazette, five or six years ago, the event was related on which this poem is founded. A wild and triumphant party of French officers were so entertained at a convent where they had established their head quarters.—I.
THE PAST
And years have past since last I gazed
Upon thy faultless brow—
Have past without a sign of change—
Thou art just as lovely now.
Yet somewhat there of change has come,
Though what I scarce may say ;—
Thou lookest as though our parting hour
Had been but yesterday.
Thy lip smiles — but not with the smile
It wore in days gone by ;
'Tis studied, as a sunny mask,
To hide the rising sigh.
A coronet of gems and gold
Is shining through thy hair ;
It is not worth the sweet wild flowers
That thou wert wont to wear.
Yet let that pass ; and let us talk
Over the days of old : —
O no ! I could not speak of them
To listener so cold !
That smile, it freezes up the flow
Of many a kindly thought—
That courtly carelessness !— And thus
With thee the world has wrought !
Is this the sweet and simple girl,
Whose inmost soul would gush
At her least word — whose laugh and tear
Were genuine as her blush ?
I knew thee wed to wealth and state—
'Twas with a foolish joy:
I might have felt that all in life
Had its own deep alloy.
But this — my once as sister— this
I dream'd not to behold ;
Thy candour into falsehood turn'd,
And thy once warm heart cold.
It jars the thoughts of former days,
To see thee as thou art :
Farewell ! and can it be relief
From one so loved to part !
London Literary Gazette, 10th June 1826
METRICAL FRAGMENTS No. I
A young French Renegade told Chateaubriand he never gallopped alone in the Desert without a sensation amounting to rapture.
I would not dwell where palaces
Rise with their marble halls.
Though mirror bright and picture fair
Be on their tapestried walls.
Though for their gardens North and South
Alike have produce sent,
And songs of many a tuneful lute
Are with their fountains blent.
The purple couch has feverish sleep —
The carved roof dreary hour ;
And gilded though they be, no chains
Are like the chains of power.
I would not dwell in the wild bark,
Cutting the wilder sea ;
Why should I wish to gain a port ?
None will have rest for me.
Weary, O ! weary it is to gaze
For days on the blue main,
Round bounded but by the bright heaven
For which we pine in vain.
I would not dwell in Beauty's bower,
To bend me at her will ;
All rosy as her fetters be,
Yet they are fetters still.
And maiden smile is vanishing—
'Tis well it should be so;
When her eye learns Love's deeper light,
What doth it learn but woe ?
And Love's last smile for me has smiled,
And its last sigh has sighed ;
Nor would I change its memory
For any Love beside.
I will not seek the battle-field —
The men I there should meet,
What have they done to me to make
Shedding their life-blood sweet ?
It is the veriest madness man
In maddest mood can frame,
To feed the earth with human gore,
And then to call it fame.
I have been wrong'd ; but were my wrong
The deadliest wrong ere done,
I would not slay my enemy,
But bid him still live on :—
And I should deem my vengeance more
Than the death-wound in strife—
What ills can death inflict like those
Heap'd on each hour of life ?
Neither shall crowded city be
A home or haunt of mine,
Where heart and head and hand but work
As the red gold may shine :—
Where the lip learns vague courtesy,
And falsehood sets the cheek,
And blush and sigh, and laugh and tear,
But their taught lessons speak :—
Where all is false and base and mean,
And man toils through his part
Less by the sweat wrung from his brow
Than the blood wrung from his heart —
But in yon desert, wild and wide,
I'll make myself a home,
There with my white steed, comrade mine,
And with the wind I'll roam.
On like that wind, my snowy barb !
Enough that we are friends ;
No other dwelling will we seek
Than where thy fleet course ends.
Alone, alone — we'll dwell alone,
In a world so cold and rude.
Where may the wearied rest in peace ?
Only in solitude.
Lonodon Literary Gazette, 19th August 1826
METRICAL FRAGMENTS NO. II
Tasso’s last interview with the Princess Leonora.
A courtly scene it was, the tapers threw
New gloss of beauty o'er the gather'd rose,
Touch'd as if with the moonlight's soften'd hue;
And on the ear there came the dying close
Of a lute's love-song ; 'twas a master drew
From the charm'd chords such honey tones as those :
Bright tears were in the bright eyes round ; but none
Wept, lest one falling tear might reave a tone.
Nobles and courtly dames stood round the Bard,
Pouring those gentle flatteries in his ear
Which ever are the Minstrel's best reward.
Alas ! and is the serpent's trail even here ?
Harsh all earth's destinies, — but his most hard
Who may not trust the praise he loves to hear —
Who may not hold his fame sure till, too late,
The seal of death and truth is set by fate.
There stood he, half in pleasure, half in scorn,
Holding such homage at its genuine worth :
But from some young lips was a murmur borne,
And tears in pure and starry eyes had birth,
Speaking in eloquent silence ; and were worn
Far in his heart, mid things most dear of earth,
He felt his song was felt— to poet's lays
Sympathy is more precious far than praise.
He moved away ; he had been standing where
His eye upon a pictured shape could dwell ;
A brow proud, beautiful, as temples are ;
A neck curved with the white swan's haughtiest swell
Above the waters ; the soft cheek was fair,
But colourless, — as the heart had nought to tell
That might disturb so pure a sanctuary
With lights and blushes of a troubled sky.
With one long look he turn'd away his gaze
From thy high beauty, peerless Leonore !
Too much the breast its secret thought betrays
When it hath seemed glossed most securely o'er ;
Suspicion more that hurried start would raise
Than all his ardent look had done before :
'Twas poet gazing with a painter's eye —
But love was in that start and in that sigh.
He entered in a small alcove, where hung
A wreathed rose-tree, a snow-starr'd jasmine :
The life-blood to the Poet's forehead sprung ;
For bending there, like Spirit at her shrine,
The Princess Leonore had backwards flung
Her silver veil and tresses' grape-like twine,
As if she had listen'd in so wrapt a mood
That still she kept her listening attitude.
Small likeness was there to the portrait now —
Her cheek was crimson, and the soften'd eye
Shed softness over the unsteady brow,
And the lips parted with a half-breathed sigh :
She bent to pluck a flower that grew below,
Hiding her face thus, all too consciously :
But Tasso's heart drank in a hope, a thought,
Which till that hour not even a dream had brought.
She spoke, they were but a few hurried words —
Of the sweet flowers around, the heat, the night —
Yet were they such as the blest heart records
For many an after-moment's long delight ;
They touch'd upon his spirit's inmost chords ;
Though broken was the sense, the accents light,
Yet sweeter was to him that tremulous tone
Than all that eloquence were proud to own.
They parted — and they never met again ;
For envious eyes were watching that dear hour,
Each had to expiate in tears and pain —
He in the maniac's chain and gloomy tower,
Till the fire fed alike on heart and brain :
And she with lonely grief in regal bower,
Mocking the misery by silence nurst ;
Subdued, unpitied, and perchance the worst.
This was their history — alas ! too like
All records that of Love or Genius are —
Shafts sharpen'd into brightness but to strike
Their deadliest.
London Literary Gazette, 26th August 1826
METRICAL FRAGMENTS NO. III
IOLE TO HIS LOVE
It is in vain I seek
As I have sung to sing,
My heart has lost a pulse,
My lute has lost a string.
For the sleeping veil is rent,
And life may never seem
Such as when Love the colour gave,
And Hope lit up the dream.
For Love is dead to me,
And Hope has left my breast,
And Memory, like a bird,
Wails round her ruined nest.
I live on in my youth,
Although that youth to me
Is blighted, sear, and reft,
As autumn leaf could be.
I look upon the world
With too cold and clear an eye,
And for its joys and griefs
I have nor smile nor sigh.
Smiles have turn'd too oft to tears,
For me to smile again ;
And wherefore should I sigh,
When I know that sighs are vain ?
A dark and sullen calm
Is that upon my heart ;
There is no change in earthly lot
Can bid its gloom depart.
Another spring may call
The garden from its tomb—
The green leaves in their freshness —
The bright flowers in their bloom.
But can the bud reblossom, —
Hope, — Love, their beauty shed, —
When the very soil is ruined,
And the heart itself is dead ?
London Literary Gazette, 9th September 1826
METRICAL FRAGMENTS No. IV
THE REDEEMED CAPTIVE
Glanced the white moonlight o'er the silver wave,
Clear, colourless, with not one stain or shade,
Save when the little vessel past, and gave
Its image to the waters, and so made
A moment darkness, as her beakers lave
Themselves in that bright bath : how glad she springs,
Like sea-bird forth upon its glittering wings !
Within that little bark are joy, and love,
And hope almost too anxious for content ;
And grateful eyes seek the blue heaven above,
And eager gaze o'er the far sea is bent :
With cross and prayer two priests amid them move ;
Upon a blessed mission they were sent ;
The pious ransom was not urged in vain —
The Christian captive quits his Moorish chain.
Near to their harbour, the fair winding shore
Shews olive groves crusted with the pearl dew,
And chestnuts tall, which seem as if they bore
A century's growth ; close and more close they drew ;
Cadiz, thy white walls shone the moonbeams o'er;
Like prison'd birds, each heart throbb'd at the view ;
One moment more, the galley feels the strand,
The rescued prisoners touch their native land.
And there were meetings such as make the past
Forgotten, though that past had been life's worst ;
Mother and child, maiden and youth, are cast
Each on the other's heart ; breathless at first,
The lips but look their meaning, till at last
Tears make a way for words — a passionate burst
Comes of thanksgiving : O Life, this is bliss !
But years of pain must purchase hours like this.
But follow we our captive — one whose vest,
And more his stately step and bearing proud,
Spoke nobler birth and being than the rest ;
A fair train waited him amid the crowd,
And eagerly an aged servant prest—
As by long service privilege allow'd
And caught his young lord's hand, then turn'd away
To weep the welcome that he could not say.
"My father, tell me, Garcia, is he well ?"
"Oh ! God hath kept him in his trial hour."
"And she, mine own, my gentle Isabelle ?"
Slowly the answer came ; "Within her bower
Such constant tears for thy long absence fell,
That somewhat they have dimm'd thy lovely flower :
But thou art come, and come again to see
Roses which seem'd as if they fled with thee.
He leapt upon his steed, and like the wind
They speed them on ; at first his giddy brain
Swam like a chaos— mystery of the mind
Which would guide its own workings, but in vain :
Happy he was, but somewhat undefined
Prest on his spirit with a sense of pain.
Hath the heart, then, foreknowledge of its fate,
Warning at once too early and too late ?
Eager he flung him from his horse ; he sees
His father's towers mid the dark pines arise,
Beautiful in the moonlight's last, those trees
Hide a small pathway green, direct it lies
To where the castle gardens load the breeze
With lemon odours and the rose's sighs :
He turn'd him to that path, he knew it well
It was his favourite walk with Isabelle.
He took that path ; and many a sign was there
In sweet shrub planted, and in lithe flower train’d,
Of gentle nursing and of gentle care ;
And dear thoughts entrance in his bosom gain'd : —
Was it for his sake it had won such share
Of her fond culture ? had she then retain'd
Such deep, true memory of Love's early scene,
As to make all a shrine where it had been ?
He enter'd now the garden, and a fall
Of singing, voice and lute, sank on his ear :
At first it seem'd thrice sweet and musical,
But it grew sadder as he came more near.
He heard soft tones, he could distinguish all,
But not the one voice that he sought to hear.
Dark was the castle, save one red-drear glare
From the chief hall : — what might such light mean there ?
He rush'd in, and his step seem'd harshly loud,
And jarr'd his ear — so still was all around :
Maidens were there with faces downwards bow'd,
And tears had stopp'd their dirge ; as if spellbound
He stood, he saw the coffin and the shroud,
The pale flowers scatter'd o'er the sacred ground ;
He rush'd, and raised the pall — his young, his fair
He knew the dead, and knew his own despair.
His heart was wreck'd for ever ; for a while
He staid to watch his father's dying bed ;
But never more knew he a tear or smile
Their sources, fears and hopes, were with the dead.
Then — not that fame had aught that could beguile,
But for its fate — sought he the warfare red,
And died in battle.
London Literary Gazette, 9th September 1826
METRICAL FRAGMENTS No. V
THE FROZEN SHIP
The fair ship cut the billows,
And her path lay white behind,
And dreamily amid her sails
Scarce moved the sleeping wind.
The sailors sang their gentlest songs,
Whose words were home and love ;
Waveless the wide sea spread beneath—
Placid the heaven above.
But as they sung, each voice turn'd low,
Albeit they knew not why ;
For quiet was the waveless sea,
And cloudless was the sky.
But the clear air was cold as clear ;
'Twas pain to draw the breath ;
And the silence and the chill around
Were e'en like those of death.
Colder and colder grew the air,
Spell-bound seem'd the waves to be ;
And ere night fell, they knew they were lock'd
In the arms of that icy sea—
Stiff lay the sail, chain-like the ropes,
And snow past o'er the main ;
Each thought but none spoke of distant home
They should never see again.
Each look'd upon his comrade's face,
Pale as funereal stone ;
Yet none could touch the other's hand,
For none could feel his own.
Like statues fixed, that gallant band
Stood on the dread deck to die ;
The sleet was their shroud, the wind their dirge,
And their churchyard the sea and sky.
—Fond eyes watch'd by their native shore,
And prayers to the wild winds gave ;
But never again came that stately ship
To breast the English wave.
Hope grew fear, and fear grew hope,
Till both alike were done ;
And the bride lay down in her grave alone.
And the mother without her son.
Years past, and of that goodly ship
Nothing of tidings came ;
Till, in after-time, when her fate had grown
But a tale of fear and a name —
It was beneath a tropic sky
The tale was told to me ;
The sailor who told, in his youth had been
Over that icy sea.
He said it was fearful to see them stand,
Nor the living nor yet the dead,
And the light glared strange in the glassy eyes
Whose human look was fled.
For frost had done one half life's part,
And kept them from decay ;
Those they loved had mouldered, but these
Look'd the dead of yesterday.
Peace to the souls of the graveless dead !
'Twas an awful doom to dree ;
But fearful and wondrous are thy works,
O God ! in the boundless sea !
London Literary Gazette, 16th September 1826
This poem was republished by L. E. L. in her 1835 collection, The Vow of the Peacock
THE FEAR
I will not wreathe thy sunny hair
With summer flowers ;
Their breath and bloom will not outlast
A few short hours.
I am too anxious in my love
To bear to see
Those sweet but fragile flower leaves
Wasting by thee.
They are so fresh, in loveliness
So much like thine,
That evil omen does it seem
To watch them pine.
Thus I should think, like these will fade
Thy lip of rose —
Like those blue violets, thine eyes
Grow dim and close.
I know the time will come, our star
Of joy must set ;
But that such grief must be I would
At least forget.
Then let not, mid thy golden curls,
Those blossoms sigh ;
I cannot bear that even a flower
Near thee should die.
For all too precious and too dear
Thou art to me,
For me to brook aught that recalls
I might lose Thee.
London Literary Gazette, 27th January 1827