Poems from Published Collections - 3
ERINNA
INTRODUCTORY NOTICE.
Among the obligations I owe to " The Brides of Florence," and to the information contained in its interesting notes, I must refer particularly for the origin of the present poem. In one of those notes is the first, indeed the only account I ever met with of Erinna. The following short quotation is sufficient for my present purpose:—" Erinna was a poetess from her cradle, and she only lived to the completion of her eighteenth year.—Of Erinna very little is known; there is in the Grecian Anthology a sepulchral epigram by Antipater on this young poetess." A poem of the present kind had long floated on my imagination; and this gave it a local habitation and a name. There seemed to me just enough known of Erinna to interest; and I have not attempted to write a classical fiction; feelings are what I wish to narrate, not incidents: my aim has been to draw the portrait and trace the changes of a highly poetical mind, too sensitive perhaps of the chill and bitterness belonging even to success. The feelings which constitute poetry are the same in all ages, they are acted upon by similar causes. Erinna is an ideal not a historical picture, and as such I submit it less to the judgment than to the kindness of my friends.
ERINNA
Was she of spirit race, or was she one
Of earth's least earthly daughters, one to whom
A gift of loveliness and soul is given,
Only to make them wretched ?
------------------
There is an antique gem, on which her brow
Retains its graven beauty even now.
Her hair is braided, but one curl behind
Floats as enamour'd of the summer wind;
The rest is simple. Is she not too fair
Even to think of maiden's sweetest care?
The mouth and brow are contrasts. One so fraught
With pride, the melancholy pride of thought
Conscious of power, and yet forced to know
How little way such power as that can go;
Regretting, while too proud of the fine mind,
Which raises but to part it from its kind:
But the sweet mouth had nothing of all this;
It was a mouth the rose had lean'd to kiss
For her young sister, telling, now though mute,
How soft an echo it was to the lute.
The one spoke genius, in its high revealing;
The other smiled a woman's gentle feeling.
It was a lovely face: the Greek outline
Flowing, yet delicate and feminine;
The glorious lightning of the kindled eye,
Raised, as it communed with its native sky.
A lovely face the spirit's fitting shrine;
The one almost, the other quite divine.
-------------------
My hand is on the lyre which never more
With its sweet commerce, like a bosom friend,
Will share the deeper thoughts which I could trust
Only to music and to solitude.
It is the very grove, the olive grove,
Where first I laid my laurel crown aside,
And bathed my fever'd brow in the cold stream;
As if that I could wash away the fire
Which from that moment kindled in my heart
I well remember how I flung myself,
Like a young goddess, on a purple cloud
Of light and odour—the rich violets
Were so etherial in bloom and breath:
And I—I felt immortal, for my brain
Was drunk and mad with its first draught of fame.
'Tis strange there was one only cypress tree,
And then, as now, I lay beneath its shade.
The night had seen me pace my lonely room,
Clasping the lyre I had no heart to wake,
Impatient for the day: yet its first dawn
Came cold as death; for every pulse sank down,
Until the very presence of my hope
Became to me a fear. The sun rose up;
I stood alone mid thousands: but I felt
Mine inspiration; and, as the last sweep
Of my song died away amid the hills,
My heart reverberate the shout which bore
To the blue mountains and the distant heaven
Erinna's name, and on my bended knee,
Olympus, I received thy laurel crown.
And twice new birth of violets have sprung,
Since they were first my pillow, since I sought
In the deep silence of the olive grove
The dreamy happiness which solitude
Brings to the soul o'erfilled with its delight:
For I was like some young and sudden heir
Of a rich palace heap'd with gems and gold,
Whose pleasure doubles as he sums his wealth
And forms a thousand plans of festival;
Such were my myriad visions of delight.
The lute, which hitherto in Delphian shades
Had been my twilight's solitary joy,
Would henceforth be a sweet and breathing bond
Between me and my kind. Orphan unloved,
I had been lonely from my childhood's hour,
Childhood whose very happiness is love:
But that was over now; my lyre would be
My own heart's true interpreter, and those
To whom my song was dear, would they not bless
The hand that waken'd it? I should be loved
For the so gentle sake of those soft chords
Which mingled others' feelings with mine own.
Vow'd I that song to meek and gentle thoughts.
To tales that told of sorrow and of love,
To all our nature's finest touches, all
That wakens sympathy: and I should be
Alone no longer; every wind that bore,
And every lip that breathed one strain of mine,
Henceforth partake in all my joy and grief.
Oh! glorious is the gifted poet's lot,
And touching more than glorious: 'tis to be
Companion of the heart's least earthly hour;
The voice of love and sadness, calling forth
Tears from their silent fountain: 'tis to have
Share in all nature's loveliness; giving flowers
A life as sweet, more lasting than their own;
And catching from green wood and lofty pine
Language mysterious as musical;
Making the thoughts, which else had only been
Like colours on the morning's earliest hour,
Immortal, and worth immortality;
Yielding the hero that eternal name
For which he fought; making the patriot's deed
A stirring record for long after time;
Cherishing tender thoughts, which else had pass'd
Away like tears; and saving the loved dead
From death's worst part—its deep forgetfulness.
From the first moment when a falling leaf,
Or opening bud, or streak of rose-touch'd sky,
Waken'd in me the flush and flow of song,
I gave my soul entire unto the gift
I deem'd mine own, direct from heaven; it was
The hope, the bliss, the energy of life;
I had no hope that dwelt not with my lyre,
No bliss whose being grew not from my lyre,
No energy undevoted to my lyre.
It was my other self that had a power;
Mine, but o'er which I had not a control.
At times it was not with me, and I felt
A wonder how it ever had been mine:
And then a word, a look of loveliness,
A tone of music, call'd it into life;
And song came gushing, like the natural tears,
To check whose current does not rest with us.
Had I lived ever in the savage woods,
Or in some distant island, which the sea
With wind and wave guards in deep loneliness:
Had my eye never on the beauty dwelt
Of human face, and my ear never drank
The music of a human voice; I feel
My spirit would have pour'd itself in song,
Have learn'd a language from the rustling leaves,
The singing of the birds, and of the tide.
Perchance, then, happy had I never known
Another thought could be attach'd to song
Than of its own delight. Oh! let me pause
Over this earlier period, when my heart
Mingled its being with its pleasures, fill'd
With rich enthusiasm, which once flung
Its purple colouring o'er all things of earth,
And without which our utmost power of thought
But sharpens arrows that will drink our blood.
Like woman's soothing influence o'er man,
Enthusiasm is upon the mind;
Softening and beautifying that which is
Too harsh and sullen in itself. How much
I loved the painter's glorious art, which forms
A world like, but more beautiful than this;
Just catching nature in her happiest mood!
How drank I in fine poetry, which makes
The hearing passionate, fill'd with memories
Which steal from out the past like rays from clouds!
And then the sweet songs of my native vale,
Whose sweetness and whose softness call'd to mind
The perfume of the flowers, the purity
Of the blue sky; oh, how they stirr'd my soul!—
Amid the many golden gifts which heaven
Has left, like portions of its light, on earth,
None hath such influence as music hath.
The painter's hues stand visible before us
In power and beauty; we can trace the thoughts
Which are the workings of the poet's mind:
But music is a mystery, and viewless
Even when present, and is less man's act,
And less within his order; for the hand
That can call forth the tones, yet cannot tell
Whither they go, or if they live or die,
When floated once beyond his feeble ear;
And then, as if it were an unreal thing,
The wind will sweep from the neglected strings
As rich a swell as ever minstrel drew.
A poet's word, a painter's touch, will reach
The innermost recesses of the heart,
Making the pulses throb in unison
With joy or grief, which we can analyse;
There is the cause for pleasure and for pain:
But music moves us, and we know not why;
We feel the tears, but cannot trace their source.
Is it the language of some other state,
Born of its memory ? For what can wake
The soul's strong instinct of another world,
Like music? Well with sadness doth it suit
To hear the melancholy sounds decay,
And think (for thoughts are life's great human links,
And mingle with our feelings) even so
Will the heart's wildest pulses sink to rest.
How have I loved, when the red evening fill'd
Our temple with its glory, first, to gaze
On the strange contrast of the crimson air,
Lighted as if with passion, and flung back,
From silver vase and tripod rich with gems,
To the pale statues round, where human life
Was not, but beauty was, which seemed to have
Apart existence from humanity:
Then, to go forth where the tall waving pines
Seem'd as behind them roll'd a golden sea
Immortal and eternal; and the boughs,
That darkly swept between me and its light,
Were fitting emblems of the worldly cares
That are the boundary between us and heaven;
Meanwhile, the wind, a wilful messenger
Lingering amid the flowers on his way,
At intervals swept past in melody,
The lutes and voices of the choral hymn
Contending with the rose-breath on his wing!
Perhaps it is these pleasures chiefest charm,
They are so indefinable, so vague.
From earliest childhood all too well aware
Of the uncertain nature of our joys,
It is delicious to enjoy, yet know
No after consequence will be to weep.
Pride misers with enjoyment, when we have
Delight in things that are but of the mind:
But half humility when we partake
Pleasures that are half wants, the spirit pines
And struggles in its fetters, and disdains
The low base clay to which it is allied.
But here our rapture raises us: we feel
What glorious power is given to man, and find
Our nature's nobleness and attributes,
Whose heaven is intellect; and we are proud
To think how we can love those things of earth
Which are least earthly ; and the soul grows pure
In this high communing, and more divine.
This time of dreaming happiness pass'd by,
Another spirit was within my heart;
I drank the maddening cup of praise, which grew
Henceforth the fountain of my life; I lived
Only in others' breath; a word, a look,
Were of all influence on my destiny:
If praise they spoke, 'twas sunlight to my soul;
Or censure, it was like the scorpion's sting.
And yet a darker lesson was to learn—
The hollowness of each: that praise, which is
But base exchange of flattery; that blame,
Given by cautious coldness, which still deems
'Tis safest to depress; that mockery,
Flinging shafts but to show its own keen aim;
That carelessness, whose very censure's chance;
And, worst of all, the earthly judgment pass'd
By minds whose native clay is unredeem'd
By aught of heaven, whose every thought falls foul
Plague spot on beauty which they cannot feel,
Tainting all that it touches with itself.
O dream of fame, what hast thou been to me
But the destroyer of life's calm content!
I feel so more than ever, that thy sway
Is weaken'd over me. Once I could find
A deep and dangerous delight in thee;
But that is gone. I am too much awake.
Light has burst o'er me, but not morning's light;
'Tis such light as will burst upon the tomb,
When all but judgment's over. Can it be,
That these fine impulses, these lofty thoughts,
Burning with their own beauty, are but given
To make me the low slave of vanity,
Heartless and humbled? O my own sweet power,
Surely thy songs are made for more than this!
What a worst waste of feeling and of life
Have been the imprints of my roll of time,
Too much, too long! To what use have I turn'd
The golden gifts in which I pride myself?
They are profaned; with their pure ore I made
A temple resting only on the breath
Of heedless worshippers. Alas! that ever
Praise should have been what it has been to me —
The opiate of my heart. Yet I have dream'd
Of things which cannot be; the bright, the pure,
That all of which the heart may only dream;
And I have mused upon my gift of song,
And deeply felt its beauty, and disdain'd
The pettiness of praise to which at times
My soul has bow’d; and I have scorn'd myself
For that my cheek could burn, my pulses beat
At idle words. And yet it is in vain
For the full heart to press back every throb
Wholly upon itself. Ay, fair as are
The visions of a poet's solitude,
There must be something more for happiness;
They seek communion. It had seem'd to me
A miser's selfishness, had I not sought
To share with others those impassion'd thoughts,
Like light, or hope, or love, in their effects.
When I have watch'd the stars write on the sky
In characters of light, have seen the moon
Come like veiled priestess from the east,
While, like a hymn, the wind swell'd on mine ear
Telling soft tidings of eve's thousand flowers,
Has it not been the transport of my lute
To find its best delight in sympathy ?
Alas! the idols which our hopes set 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 is destroyed, 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 sweep
As a God's vengeance were upon 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 southern 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: but I know fair earth or sky
Are self-consuming in their loveliness,
And 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. O! the mind,
Too vivid in its lighted energies,
May read its fate in sunny Araby.
How lives its beauty in each Eastern tale,
Its growth of spices, and its groves of balm!
They are exhausted; and what is it now?
A wild and burning wilderness. Alas!
For such similitude. Too much this is
The fate of this world's loveliest and best.
Is there not a far people, who possess
Mysterious oracles of olden time,
Who say that this earth labours with a curse,
That it is fallen from its first estate,
And is now but the shade of what it was ?
I do believe the tale. I feel its truth
In my vain aspirations, in the dreams
That are revealings of another world,
More pure, more perfect than our weary one,
Where day is darkness to the starry soul.
O heart of mine! my once sweet paradise
Of love and hope! how changed thou art to me!
I cannot count thy changes: thou hast lost
Interest in the once idols of thy being;
They have departed, even as if wings
Had borne away their morning; they have left
Weariness, turning pleasure into pain,
And too sure knowledge of their hollowness.
And that too is gone from me; that which was
My solitude's delight! I can no more
Make real existence of a shadowy world.
Time was, the poet's song, the ancient tale,
Were to me fountains of deep happiness,
For they grew visible in my lonely hours,
As things in which I had a deed and part;
Their actual presence had not been more true:
But these are bubbling sparkles, that are found
But at the spring's first source. Ah! years may bring
The mind to its perfection, but no more
Will those young visions live in their own light;
Life's troubles stir life's waters all too much,
Passions chase fancies, and though still we dream,
The colouring is from reality.
Farewell, my lyre! thou hast not been to me
All I once hoped. What is the gift of mind,
But as a barrier to so much that makes
Our life endurable,—companionship,
Mingling affection, calm and gentle peace,
Till the vex'd spirit seals with discontent
A league of sorrow and of vanity,
Built on a future which will never be!
And yet I would resign the praise that now
Makes my cheek crimson, and my pulses beat,
Could I but deem that when my hand is cold,
And my lip passionless, my songs would be
Number'd mid the young poet's first delights;
Read by the dark-eyed maiden in an hour
Of moonlight, till her cheek shone with its tears;
And murmur'd by the lover when his suit
Calls upon poetry to breathe of love.
I do not hope a sunshine burst of fame,
My lyre asks but a wreath of fragile flowers.
I have told passionate tales of breaking hearts,
Of young cheeks fading even before the rose;
My songs have been the mournful history
Of woman's tenderness and woman's tears;
I have touch'd but the spirit's gentlest chords,—
Surely the fittest for my maiden hand;—
And in their truth my immortality.
Thou lovely and lone star, whose silver light,
Like music o'er the waters, steals along
The soften'd atmosphere; pale star, to thee
I dedicate the lyre, whose influence
I would have sink upon the heart like thine.
In such an hour as this, the bosom turns
Back to its early feelings; man forgets
His stern ambition and his worldly cares,
And woman loathes the petty vanities
That mar her nature's beauty; like the dew,
Shedding its sweetness o'er the sleeping flowers
Till all their morning freshness is revived,
Kindly affections, sad, but yet sweet thoughts
Melt the cold eyes, long, long unused to weep.
O lute of mine, that I shall wake no more!
Such tearful music linger on thy strings,
Consecrate unto sorrow and to love;
Thy truth, thy tenderness, be all thy fame!
From The Golden Violet
THE EVE OF ST. JOHN
There is a flower, a magical flower,
On which love hath laid a fairy power ;
Gather it on the eve of St. John,
When the clock of the village is tolling one ;
Let no look be turned, no word be said,
And lay the rose-leaves under your head ;
Your sleep will be light, and pleasant your rest,
For your visions will be of the youth you love best.
Four days I had not my own love seen,—
Where, sighed I, can my wanderer have been ?
I thought I would gather the magical flower,
And see him at least in my sleeping hour !—
St. John's Eve came : to the garden I flew,
Where the white roses shone with the silver dew;
The nightingale sang as I passed along—
I started to hear even her sweet song ;
The sky was bright with moon and star shine,
And the wind was sweet as a whisper of thine,
Dear love ! for whose sake I stripped the tree-rose,
And softly and silently stole to repose.
No look I turned, and no word I said,
But laid the white roses under my head.
Oh, sweet was the dream that came to me then !
I dreamt of a lonely and lovely glen ;
There was a clear and beautiful sky,
Such as is seen in the blue July ;
To the north was a forest of darkling pine ;
To the south were hills all green with the vine,
Where the ruby clusters sparkled like gems
Seen upon princely diadems ;
On the rocks were goats as white as snow,
And the sheep-bell was heard in the valley below ;
And like a nest in the chesnut's shade,
As just for love and contentment made,
A little cottage stood, and the tree
Shadowed it over most gracefully ;
A white rose grew up beside the door,
The porch with the blossoms was covered o'er ;
Methought it was yours—you were standing by:
You welcomed me, and I felt your sigh
Warm on my cheek, and our lips met,—
On mine the touch is thrilling yet!
But, alas ! I awakened, and all I can do
Is to tell the sweet dream, my own Love, to you!
From the Improvisatrice
FABLE
[Imitated from the French of La Motte.]
Four souls, that on earth had just yielded their breath,
Were by Mercury led to the regions of death:
A father, who left wife and children behind,
A hero, a poet, their honours resign'd;
A maiden, to whom the cold death-warrant came
At the critical moment of changing her name.
Oh, love ! cried the fair, I less mourn for my doom,
Than for the dear youth who now weeps o'er my tomb ;
For soon will his ashes, commingled with mine,
Seal vows, so oft plighted, at constancy's shrine.
Alas ! quoth the sire, at this moment I see
My wife and my children lamenting for me ;
The thought of their sorrow's despair to my soul;
May heaven, in pity, their anguish console !
And what is their grief, pray ?—the hero replied ;
What are you ?—a poor pitiful ghost by my side.
From the north frozen desert, to Africa's sands,
Unrivall'd my name crown'd with victory stands.
Who is there on earth, whose presumption dares claim
A glory like mine, in the annals of fame ?
I dare ! said the poet; oh ! ever will bloom,
The justly gain'd laurels that twine round my tomb :
The trophies I've won are more durable far,
Than the splendour which glitters round victory's car;
Long ages to come, will remember my strain;
Oh ! when will a harp, like to mine, wake again !
Indeed, cried the god, I half grieve to dispel
Illusions, which now seem to please you so well;
But know, my fair maiden, your well belov'd youth
Has wedded another,—great proof of his truth :
And, father, instead of regretting your fate,
Your children, at law squabble for your estate ;
Your wife seems to think you no very great loss,
For, as you grew old, you grew stingy and cross.
And, general, already your laurels decay—
Fresh wreaths are adorning the chief of the day :
And you, my fine poet, who thought that the earth
To another such minstrel could never give birth,
Already your works are all thrown on the shelf,
And their author condemn'd as an ignorant elf.—
Yes ; look thro' the world, and this truth you will find
That, once out of sight, you are soon out of mind.
From The Fate of Adelaide
THE FACTORY
'Tis an accursed thing!--
THERE rests a shade above yon town,
A dark funereal shroud:
'Tis not the tempest hurrying down,
'Tis not a summer cloud.
The smoke that rises on the air
Is as a type and sign;
A shadow flung by the despair
Within those streets of thine.
That smoke shuts out the cheerful day,
The sunset's purple hues,
The moonlight's pure and tranquil ray,
The morning's pearly dews.
Such is the moral atmosphere
Around thy daily life;
Heavy with care, and pale with fear,
With future tumult rife.
There rises on the morning wind
A low appealing cry,
A thousand children are resigned
To sicken and to die!
We read of Moloch's sacrifice,
We sicken at the name,
And seem to hear the infant cries—
And yet we do the same;--
And worse--'twas but a moment's pain
The heathen altar gave,
But we give years,--our idol, Gain,
Demands a living grave!
How precious is the little one,
Before his mother's sight,
With bright hair dancing in the sun,
And eyes of azure light!
He sleeps as rosy as the south,
For summer days are long;
A prayer upon the little mouth,
Lull'd by his nurse's song.
Love is around him, and his hours
Are innocent and free;
His mind essays its early powers
Beside his mother's knee.
When after-years of trouble come,
Such as await man's prime,
How will he think of that dear home,
And childhood's lovely time!
And such should childhood ever be,
The fairy well; to bring
To life's worn, weary memory
The freshness of its spring.
But here the order is reversed,
And infancy, like age,
Knows of existence but its worst,
One dull and darkened page;--
Written with tears, and stamp'd with toil,
Crushed from the earliest hour,
Weeds darkening on the bitter soil
That never knew a flower.
Look on yon child, it droops the head,
Its knees are bow'd with pain;
It mutters from its wretched bed,
"Oh, let me sleep again!"
Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes
Turn mournfully away;
Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise,
And yet it is not day.
The lantern's lit--she hurries forth,
The spare cloak's scanty fold
Scarce screens her from the snowy north,
The child is pale and cold.
And wearily the little hands
Their task accustom'd ply;
While daily, some mid those pale bands,
Droop, sicken, pine, and die.
Good God! to think upon a child
That has no childish days,
No careless play, no frolics wild,
No words of prayer and praise!
Man from the cradle-- 'tis too soon
To earn their daily bread,
And heap the heat and toil of noon
Upon an infant's head.
To labour ere their strength be come,
Or starve,--is such the doom
That makes of many an English home
One long and living tomb?
Is there no pity from above,--
No mercy in those skies;
Hath then the heart of man no love,
To spare such sacrifice?
Oh, England! though thy tribute waves
Proclaim thee great and free,
While those small children pine like slaves,
There is a curse on thee!
From The Vow of The Peacock
Poetical Sketches of Modern Paintings
FAIRIES ON THE SEA SHORE
BY HOWARD.
FIRST FAIRY.
MY home and haunt are in every leaf,
Whose life is a summer day, bright and brief,--
I live in the depths of the tulip's bower,
I wear a wreath of the cistus flower,
I drink the dew of the blue harebell,
I know the breath of the violet well,--
The white and the azure violet;
But I know not which is the sweetest yet,--
I have kiss'd the cheek of the rose;
I have watch'd the lily unclose,
My silver mine is the almond tree,
Who will come dwell with flower and me?
CHORUS OF FAIRIES.
Dance we our round, 'tis a summer night,
And our steps are led by the glow-worms' light.
SECOND FAIRY.
My dwelling is in the serpentine
Of the rainbow's colour'd line,--
See how its rose and amber clings
To the many hues of my radiant wings;
Mine is the step that bids the earth
Give to the iris flower its birth,
And mine the golden cup to hide,
Where the last faint hue of the rainbow died.
Search the depths of an Indian mine,
Where are the colours to match with mine?
. . CHORUS.
. . Dance we round, for the gale is bringing
Songs the summer rose is singing.
THIRD FAIRY.
I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute,
Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute,
Linger I over the tones that swell
From the pink-vein'd chords of an ocean-shell;
I love the sky-lark's morning hymn,
Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim,
The echo, the fountain's melody,--
These, oh! these are the spells for me!
CHORUS.
Hail to the summer night of June;
See! yonder has risen our ladye moon.
FOURTH SPIRIT.
My palace is in the coral cave
Set with spars by the ocean wave;
Would ye have gems, then seek them there,--
There found I the pearls that bind my hair.
I and the wind together can roam
Over the green waves and their white foam,--
See, I have got this silver shell,
Mark how my breath will its smallness swell,
For the Nautilus is my boat
In which I over the waters float,--
The moon is shining over the sea,
Who is there will come sail with me?
CHORUS OF FAIRIES.
Our noontide sleep is on leaf and flower,
Our revels are held in a moonlit hour,--
What is there sweet, what is there fair,
And we are not the dwellers there?
Dance we round, for the morning light,
Will put us and our glow-worm lamps to flight!
From The Troubadour
This engraving was attached to a reprinting of this poem in The Cabinet of Modern Art and Literary Souvenir, 1836
THE FAIRY QUEEN SLEEPING.
BY STOTHARD.
She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt
Of the spring wind in its first sunshine hour,
For the luxuriant strawberry blossoms spread
Like a snow-shower there, and violets
Bow'd down their purple vases of perfume
About her pillow,--link'd in a gay band
Floated fantastic shapes, these were her guards,
Her lithe and rainbow elves.
WE have been o'er land and sea,
Seeking lovely dreams for thee,--
Where is there we have not been
Gathering gifts for our sweet queen?
We are come with sound and sight
Fit for fairy's sleep to-night,--
First around thy couch shall sweep
Odours, such as roses weep
When the earliest spring rain
Calls them into life again;
Next upon thine ear shall float
Many a low and silver note,
Stolen from a dark-eyed maid
When her lover's serenade,
Rising as the stars grew dim,
Waken'd her from thoughts of him.
There shall steal o'er lip and cheek
Gales, but all too light to break
Thy soft rest,--such gales as hide
All day orange-flowers inside,
Or that, while hot noontide, dwell
In the purple hyacinth bell;
And before thy sleeping eyes
Shall come glorious pageantries,--
Palaces of gems and gold,
Such as dazzle to behold,--
Gardens, in which every tree
Seems a world of bloom to be,--
Fountains, whose clear waters show
The white pearls that lie below.—
During slumber's magic reign
Other times shall live again;
First thou shalt be young and free
In thy days of liberty,--
Then again be woo'd and won
By thy stately OBERON .
Or thou shalt descend to earth,
And see all of mortal birth.
No, that world's too full of care
For e'en dreams to linger there.
But, behold, the sun is set,
And the diamond coronet
Of the young moon is on high
Waiting for our revelry;
And the dew is on the flower,
And the stars proclaim our hour;
Long enough thy rest has been,
Wake, TITANIA , wake our queen!
From The Troubadour
I have not found any reproduction of this painting.
FANTASIES, INSCRIBED TO T. CROFTON CROKER, ESQ.
1.
I'M weary, I'm weary,—this cold world of ours;
I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers.
Farewell to the festal, the hall of the dance,
Where each step is a study, a falsehold each glance;
Where the vain are displaying, the vapid are yawning;
Where the beauty of night, the glory of dawning,
Are wasted, as Fashion, that tyrant, at will
Makes war on sweet Nature, and exiles her still.
2.
I'm weary, I'm weary,—I'm off with the wind:
Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind?
—Fair beings of moonlight, gay dwellers in air,
O show me your kingdom! O let me dwell there!
I see them, I see them!—how sweet it must be
To sleep in yon lily!—is there room in 't for me?
I have flung my clay fetters; and now I but wear
A shadowy seeming, a likeness of air.
3.
Go harness my chariot, the leaf of an oak;
A butterfly stud, and a tendril my yoke.
Go swing me a hammock, the poles mignonette;
I'll rock with its scent in the gossamer net.
Go fetch me a courser: yon reed is but slight,
Yet far is the distance 'twill bear me to-night.
I must have a throne,—ay, yon mushroom may stay,
It has sprung in a night, 'twill be gather'd next day:
And fit is such throne for my brief fairy reign;
For, alas! I'm but dreaming, and dreams are but vain.
From The Venetian Bracelet
THE FAREWELL
FAREWELL ! companion of my solitude ! .
Light of my loneliness, my heart's desire ;
Spirit, that wander'd o'er the soft harp's strings,
Farewell! awhile I wake me from thy dream;
Fondly farewell, adored one ! to thee.——
Rose of my soul! beside the social hearth
Was thy first springing up; thy ev'ry shoot
Was brighten'd in the smile of those most dear:
Affection was thy sunlight and thy dew.
And when thy bloom was lonely, when no more
The eyes I lov'd watch'd o'er thy growth, thou wert
The blest memorial of those far away—
Thy blossoms breath'd of happiness and home.
What joy to think, perchance some future day,
Those looks would dwell on thee again, and greet
The buds expanding, and thy new sprung leaves !
Thou, Poetry, in absence wert a chain,
Binding our hearts together: where so well
As in thy numbers, could I pour my soul,
In soothing tenderness? 'twas bliss, to make
Thought visible to those of whom I thought.
Now that enchantment over, thy slight bark
Adventures in a wide and perilous sea;
Dark are the waves around thy fragile skiff;
Unskilful is the hand which pilots thee;
And few have ever reach'd thy destin'd shore.
I part from thee, as I should part from one
Whom I may wish, not hope, to see again.
Fondly, and fearfully, farewell to thee,
Sweet sojourner, so long my bosom guest!
Perhaps a long, perhaps a last farewell!
From The Fate of Adelaide
THE FEAST OF LIFE
BID thee to my mystic Feast,
Each one thou lovest is gather'd there;
Yet put thou on a mourning robe,
And bind the cypress in thy hair.
The hall is vast, and cold, and drear;
The board with faded flowers is spread;
Shadows of beauty flit around,
But beauty from which bloom has fled;
And music echoes from the walls,
But music with a dirge-like sound;
And pale and silent are the guests,
And every eye is on the ground.
Here, take this cup, though dark it seem,
And drink to human hopes and fears;
'Tis from their native element
The cup is fill'd--it is of tears.
What, turnest thou with averted brow?
Thou scornest this poor feast of mine;
And askest for a purple robe,
Light words, glad smiles, and sunny wine.
In vain--the veil has left thine eyes,
Or such these would have seem'd to thee;
Before thee is the Feast of Life,
But life in its reality!
From The Vow of the Peacock
Original in The Bijou, 1829
THE FEMALE CONVICT *
SHE shrank from all, and her silent mood
Made her wish only for solitude:
Her eye sought the ground, as it could not brook,
For innermost shame, on another's to look;
And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear
Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear!--
She still was young, and she had been fair;
But weather-stains, hunger, toil and care,
That frost and fever that wear the heart,
Had made the colours of youth depart
From the sallow cheek, save over it came
The burning flush of the spirit's shame.
They were sailing over the salt sea-foam,
Far from her country, far from her home;
And all she had left for her friends to keep
Was a name to hide, and a memory to weep!
And her future held forth but the felon's lot,
To live forsaken--to die forgot!
She could not weep, and she could not pray,
But she wasted and withered from day to day,
Till you might have counted each sunken vein
When her wrist was prest by the iron chain;
And sometimes I thought her large dark eye
Had the glisten of red insanity.
She called me once to her sleeping-place;
A strange wild look was upon her face,
Her eye flashed over her cheek so white,
Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight,
And she spoke in a low unearthly tone--
The sound from mine ear hath never gone!
"I had last night the loveliest dream:
"My own land shone in the summer beam,
"I saw the fields of the golden grain,
"I heard the reaper's harvest strain;
"There stood on the hills the green pine-tree,
"And the thrush and the lark sang merrily.
"A long and a weary way I had come;
"But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home.
"I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there,
"With pale thin face, and snow-white hair!
"The Bible lay open upon his knee,
"But he closed the book to welcome me.
"He led me next where my mother lay,
"And together we knelt by her grave to pray,
"And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear,
"For it echoed one to my young days dear.
"This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled,
"And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead!
"--We have not spoken, but still I have hung
"On the northern accents that dwell on thy tongue;
"To me they are music, to me they recall
"The things long hidden by Memory's pall!
"Take this long curl of yellow hair,
"And give it my father, and tell him my prayer,
"My dying prayer, was for him." . . .
Next day
Upon the deck a coffin lay;
They raised it up, and like a dirge
The heavy gale swept o'er the surge;
The corpse was cast to the wind and wave--
The Convict has found in the green sea a grave.
* Suggested by the interesting description in the Memoirs of John Nicol, mariner, quoted in the Review of the Literary Gazette.
From The Improvisatrice
THE FESTIVAL
THE young and the lovely are gathered:
Who shall talk of our wearisome life,
And dwell upon weeds and on weeping—
The struggle, the sorrow, the strife?
The hours of our being are coloured,
And many are coloured with rose;
Though on some be a sign and a shadow,
I list not to speak now of those.
Thro' the crimson blind flushes the splendour
Of lamps, like large pearls which some fay
Has swelled with her breath till their lustre,
If softer, is as bright as of day.
Beneath the verandah are flowers—
Camellias like ivory wrought
With the grace of a young Grecian sculptor,
Who traced what some Oread brought;
The harp to the flute is replying—
'Tis the song of a far-distant land;
But never, in vineyard or valley,
Assembled a lovelier band.
Come thou, with thy glad golden ringlets,
Like rain which is lit by the sun—
With eyes, the bright spirit's bright mirrors—
Whose cheek and the rose-bud are one.
While he of the lute and the laurel
For thee has forgotten the throng,
And builds on thy fairy-like beauty
A future of sigh and of song.
Ay, listen, but as unto music
The wild wind is bearing away,
As sweet as the sea-shells at evening,
But far too unearthly to stay.
For the love-dream that haunts the young poet
Is coloured too much by his mind—
A fabric of fancy and falsehood,
But never for lasting designed.
For he lives but in beauty--his visions
Inspire with their passion his strain;
And the spirit so quick at impression
Was never meant long to retain.
But another is passing before me—
Oh, pause! let me gaze on thy brow:
I've seen thee, fair lady, thrice lovely,
But never so lovely as now.
Thou art changed since those earlier numbers
When thou wert a vision to me;
And, copies from some fairest picture,
My heroines were painted from thee.
Farewell! I shall make thee no longer
My sweet summer queen of romance;
No more will my princes pay homage,
My knights for thy smile break the lance,
Confess they were exquisite lovers,
The fictions that knelt at thy throne;
But the graceful, the gallant, the noble,
What fancy could equal thine own?
Farewell! and henceforth I enshrine thee
Mid the earlier dreams that have past
O'er my lute, like the fairies by moonlight,
To leave it more lonely at last.
Alas! it is sad to remember
The once gentle music now mute;
Ah! many a chord hath time stolen
Alike from my heart and my lute.
'Tis midnight--but think not of slumber,
There are dreams enow floating around;
But, ah! our soft dreams while thus waking
Are aye the most dangerous found.
Like the note of a lute was that whisper—
Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes:
Love only could breathe such a murmur;
And what will Love bring thee but sighs?
And thou, thou pale dreamer! whose forehead
Is flushed with the circle's light praise,
Oh! let it not dwell on thy spirit—
How vain are the hopes it will raise!
The praise of the crowd and the careless,
Just caught by a chance and a name,
Oh! take it as pleasant and passing,
But never mistake it for fame!
Look for fame from the toil of thy midnight,
When thy rapt spirit eagle-like springs;
But, for the gay circle now passing,
Take only the butterfly's wings.
The flowers around us are fading—
Meet comrades for revels are they;
And the lamps overhead are decaying—
How cold seems the coming of day!
There fling off the wreath and the sandal,
And bid the dark curtains round close;
For your cheek from the morning's tired slumber
Must win its sweet exile the rose.
What, weary and saddened! this evening
Is an earnest what all pleasures seem—
A few eager hours' enjoyment—
A toil, a regret, and a dream
From the Vow of the Peacock
THE FESTIVAL
The young and the lovely are gathered :
Who shall talk of our wearisome life,
And dwell upon weeds and on weeping—
The struggle, the sorrow, the strife ?
The hours of our being are coloured,
And many are coloured with rose ;
Though on some be a sign and a shadow,
I list not to speak now of those.
Through the crimson blind steals forth the splendour
Of lamps, like large pearls which some fay
Has swelled with her breath till their lustre,
If more soft, is as bright as of day.
Beneath the verandah are flowers—
Camellias like ivory wrought
With the grace of a young Grecian sculptor,
Who traced what some Oread brought ;
And roses — the prodigal summer
Has lavished upon them its bloom,—
O never the East with its spices
Made altar so rich of perfume !
The bright crowd is mingling together—
How gay is the music they bring !
The delicate laugh and the whisper—
The steps that re-echo the string.
The harp to the flute is replying—
'Tis the song of a far-distant land ;
But never, in vineyard or valley,
Assembled a lovelier band.
Come thou, with thy glad golden ringlets,
Like rain which is lit by the sun—
With eyes, the bright spirit's bright mirrors—
Whose cheek and the rose-bud are one.
While he of the lute and the laurel
For thee has forgotten the throng,
And builds on thy fairy-like beauty
A future of sigh and of song.
Ay, listen, but as unto music
The wild wind is bearing away,
As sweet as the sea-shells at evening,
But far too unearthly to stay.
For the love-dream that haunts the young poet
Is coloured too much by his mind—
A fabric of fancy and falsehood,
But never for lasting designed.
For he lives but in beauty — his visions
Inspire with their passion his strain ;
And the spirit so quick at impression
Was never meant long to retain.
But another is passing before me—
Oh, pause, let me gaze on thy brow ;
I've seen thee, fair lady, thrice lovely,
But never so lovely as now.
Thou art changed since those earlier numbers,
When thou wert a vision to me ;
And copies from some fairest picture,
My heroines were painted from thee.
Thy cheek with its sunset of crimson,
Like a rose crushed on ivory, bears
Its sunny smile still, but a softness
Is now in the radiance it wears.
A halo of love is around thee.
It is as if nature had willed
That thy happiness should be affection,
And thy destiny now is fulfilled.
Be thou happy — a thousand times happy !
If the gentle, the good, and the kind,
Could make of themselves an existence,
How blessed a fate thou wouldst find !
For never their elements blended
In a nature more lovely than thine ;
And thy beauty is but a reflection
Of what thine own heart is the shrine.
Farewell ! I shall make thee no longer
My sweet summer queen of romance ;
No more will my princes pay homage,
My knights for thy smile break the lance.
Confess they were exquisite lovers,
The fictions that knelt at thy throne ;
But the graceful, the gallant, the noble,
What fancy could equal thine own ?
Farewell ! and henceforth I enshrine thee
Mid the earlier dreams that have past
O'er my lute, like the fairies by moonlight,
To leave it more lonely at last.
Alas ! it is sad to remember
The once gentle music now mute ;
For many a chord hath time stolen
Alike from my heart and my lute.
Ah, most of their memories are shadows.
Flung down from the brightness of yore ;
There are feelings for ever departed,
And hopes that are treasures no more.
But thou livest only in music
A broken but beautiful spell ;
'Tis as well, for my song has grown colder
Sweet lady, for ever farewell !
'Tis midnight — but think not of slumber,
There are dreams enow floating around ;
But ah, our soft dreams while thus waking
Are aye the most dangerous found.
Like the note of a lute was that whisper—
Fair girl, do not raise those dark eyes ;
Love only could breathe such a murmur,
And what will Love bring thee but sighs ?
And thou, thou pale dreamer, whose forehead
Is flushed with the circle's light praise,
O let it not dwell on thy spirit —
How vain are the hopes it will raise !
The praise of the crowd and the careless,
Just caught by a chance and a name,
O take it as pleasant and passing,
But never mistake it for fame !
Look for fame from the toil of thy midnight,
When thy rapt spirit eagle-like springs;
But for the glad, the gay, and the social,
Take only the butterfly's wings.
The flowers around us are fading —
Meet comrades for revels are thev ;
And the lamps overhead are decaying—
How cold seems the coming of day !
There, fling off the wreath and the sandal,
And bid the dark curtains round close ;
For your cheek from the morning's tired slumber
Must win its sweet exile the rose.
What, weary and saddened ! this evening
Is an earnest what all pleasures seem—
A few eager hours' enjoyment—
A toil, a regret, and a dream !
The Literary Gazette, 29th May 1830
Original version
THE FIRST GRAVE
[This poem originated in the circumstance of the first grave being formed in the churchyard of the new church at Brompton. The place had been recently a garden, and some of the flowers yet shewed themselves among the grass, where this one tenant, the forerunner of its population, had taken up his last abode.]
A SINGLE grave!--the only one
In this unbroken ground,
Where yet the garden leaf and flower
Are lingering around.
A single grave!--my heart has felt
How utterly alone
In crowded halls, were breathed for me
Not one familiar tone;
The shade where forest-trees shut out
All but the distant sky;--
I've felt the loneliness of night
When the dark winds pass'd by;
My pulse has quickened with its awe,
My lip has gasped for breath;
But what were they to such as this—
The solitude of death!
A single grave!--we half forget
How sunder human ties,
When round the silent place of rest
A gathered kindred lies.
We stand beneath the haunted yew,
And watch each quiet tomb;
And in the ancient churchyard feel
Solemnity, not gloom:
The place is purified with hope,
The hope that is of prayer;
And human love, and heavenward thought,
And pious faith, are there.
The wild flowers spring amid the grass;
And many a stone appears,
Carved by affection's memory,
Wet with affection's tears.
The golden chord which binds us all
Is loosed, not rent in twain;
And love, and hope, and fear, unite
To bring the past again.
But this grave is so desolate,
With no remembering stone,
No fellow-graves for sympathy—
'Tis utterly alone.
I do not know who sleeps beneath,
His history or name—
Whether if, lonely in his life,
He is in death the same:
Whether he died unloved, unmourned,
The last leaf on the bough;
Or, if some desolated hearth
Is weeping for him now.
Perhaps this is too fanciful:--
Though single be his sod,
Yet not the less it has around
The presence of his God.
It may be weakness of the heart,
But yet its kindliest, best:
Better if in our selfish world
It could be less represt.
Those gentler charities which draw
Man closer with his kind—
Those sweet humanities which make
The music which they find.
How many a bitter word 'twould hush—
How many a pang 'twould save,
If life more precious held those ties
Which sanctify the grave!
From The Vow of the Peacock
Original in The London Literary Gazette, 29th August 1829 as 'The Single Grave'
THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT
"And when they were departed, behold, the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word: for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him.
" When he arose, he took the young child and his mother by night, and departed into Egypt.
" And was there until the death of Herod : that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet saying, out of Egypt have I called my son."
St. Matthew ii. 13—15.
A glorious landscape—clear as faith the sky,
Hath only sunshine, and the few bright clouds
Are turn'd to golden shadows. Stately trees
Do mock the last year's memory,—so green,
So full of life and summer are their leaves,
That fading seems impossible. The stream
Winds peacefully between its pastoral banks,
Where surely care comes not, and scarcely toil ;
An earth so fertile, that the sun and air
Are the sole labourers. Yet how wearily
Those travellers are resting in the shade.
Man's doom is paramount—and even ye,
Thrice bless'd and thrice glorious, ye now share
The common lot of all humanity.
But see, with sunshine radiant on his wings,
An angel sent from heaven is ministering ;
And with their fears allay'd—their wants supplied,
Lo, they arise refresh'd.
Is not this scene the type of sacred faith ?
How often on life's rough and weary path
Do we sink fainting, with one only prayer,
" Now help us, or we perish," on our lips.
And never was this utter'd earnestly,
But that it has been answcr'd : though no more
His shining messengers walk visible
On this unworthy earth ; yet to our call
Doth the Almighty still vouchsafe reply,
And holy hopes arise within the heart ;
We feel that we are heard in heaven, and love
Kindles within us like a steadfast thought,
Which knows its own belief; and, comforted,
We go upon our way rejoicing.
From The Easter Gift
FOLLOW ME!
A summer morning, with its calm, glad light,
Was on the fallen castle: other days
Were here remembered vividly; the past
Was even as the present, nay, perhaps more—
For that we do not pause to think upon.
First, o'er the arching gateway was a shield,
The sculptured arms defaced, but visible
Was the bold motto, "Follow me:" again
I saw it scrolled around the lofty crest
Which, mouldering, decked the ruined banquet-room:
A third time did I trace these characters—
On the worn pavement of an ancient grave
Was written "Follow me!"
FOLLOW me! 'tis to the battle-field—
No eye must turn, and no step must yield;
In the thick of the battle look ye to be:
On!--'tis my banner ye follow, and me.
Follow me!--'tis to the festal ring,
Where the maidens smile and the minstrels sing;
Hark! to our name is the bright wine poured:
Follow me on to the banquet-board!
Follow me!--'tis where the yew-tree bends,
When the strength and the pride of the victor ends
Pale in the thick grass the wild flowers bloom:
Follow me on to the silent tomb.
" Follow me !" is the motto of the noble race of Breadalbane, and was seen in the way described at their feudal castle In the Highlands.
From The Vow of the Peacock
Original in The London Literary Gazette, 21st August 1830
THE FORGOTTEN ONE
No shadow rests upon the place
Where once thy footsteps roved;
Nor leaf, nor blossom, bear a trace
Of how thou wert beloved.
The very night dew disappears
Too soon, as if it spared its tears.
Thou art forgotten!--thou, whose feet
Were listen'd for like song!
They used to call thy voice so sweet;--
It did not haunt them long.
Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth—
How could they bear their lonely hearth!
There is no picture to recall
Thy glad and open brow;
No profiled outline on the wall
Seems like thy shadow now;
They have not even kept to wear
One ringlet of thy golden hair.
When here we shelter'd last, appears
But just like yesterday;
It startles me to think that years
Since then are pass'd away.
The old oak tree that was our tent,
No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent.
A shower in June--a summer shower,
Drove us beneath the shade;
A beautiful and greenwood bower
The spreading branches made.
The raindrops shine upon the bough,
The passing rain--but where art thou?
But I forget how many showers
Have wash'd this old oak tree,
The winter and the summer hours,
Since I stood here with thee:
And I forget how chance a thought
Thy memory to my heart has brought.
I talk of friends who once have wept,
As if they still should weep;
I speak of grief that long has slept,
As if it could not sleep;
I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness,
Have I, myself, forgotten less?
I've mingled with the young and fair,
Nor thought how there was laid
One fair and young as any there,
In silence and in shade.
How could I see a sweet mouth shine
With smiles, and not remember thine?
Ah! it is well we can forget,
Or who could linger on
Beneath a sky whose stars are set,
On earth whose flowers are gone?
For who could welcome loved ones near,
Thinking of those once far more dear,
Our early friends, those of our youth?
We cannot feel again
The earnest love, the simple truth,
Which made us such friends then.
We grow suspicious, careless, cold;
We love not as we loved of old.
No more a sweet necessity,
Love must and will expand,
Loved and beloving we must be,
With open heart and hand,
Which only ask to trust and share
The deep affections which they bear.
Our love was of that early time;
And now that it is past,
It breathes as of a purer clime
Than where my lot is cast.
My eyes fill with their sweetest tears
In thinking of those early years.
It shock'd me first to see the sun
Shine gladly o'er thy tomb;
To see the wild flowers o'er it run
In such luxuriant bloom.
Now I feel glad that they should keep
A bright sweet watch above thy sleep.
The heaven whence thy nature came
Only recall'd its own;
It is Hope that now breathes thy name,
Though borrowing Memory's tone.
I feel this earth could never be
The native home of one like thee.
Farewell! the early dews that fall
Upon thy grass-grown bed
Are like the thoughts that now recall
Thine image from the dead.
A blessing hallows thy dark cell—
I will not stay to weep. Farewell!
From The Vow of the Peacock
Original in The Keepsake, 1831
FRAGMENT
I SAW her amid pleasure's gayest haunts—
Her black hair bound with roses, which grew pale
By the vermilion of the cheek's rich dye ;
And when she mov'd, those ebon tresses wav'd
Upon the air, as love's wing had just past
And fann'd them : such a lip of sweets and smiles
Young Hebe wore, when treading 'mid the stars,
Herself a fairer one, she held the cup
Of sparkling nectar. She was, 'mid the gay,
The gayest of the throng ; in her dark eye,
Where soul and softness mingled, there was mirth,
Gleaming like light from the long shadowy lash,
Which on it hung like night—but such a night
As when the moon look'd forth in loveliness.
She mov'd amid the dance, light as the wind,
At which the tremulous aspen scarcely bends.
Beautiful girl ! ah, who that saw thee there—
Joy in thy steps, and smiles upon thy brow,
Thy cheek so warm with life and gaiety—
Could deem those smiles, those blushes were thy last!
Pass but a little moment, and those eyes
Would close in endless sleep ! that even now
The hand of death is on thee !------.
There is the wreath she wore; the roses yet
Retain a breath of sweetness ; but the brow
Round which they twin'd, is low in the cold grave!
From The Fate of Adelaide
FRAGMENT
Is not this grove
A scene of pensive loveliness ? The gleam
Of Dian's gentle ray falls o'er the trees,
And piercing thro' the gloom, seems like the smile
That pity gives to cheer the brow of grief.
The turf has caught a silvery hue of light,
Broken by shadows, where the branching oak
Rears its dark shade, or where the aspen waves
Its trembling leaves; the breeze is murmuring by,
Fraught with sweet sighs of flowers, and the song
Of sorrow, that the nightingale pours forth,
Like the soft dirge of love.
There is oft told
A melancholy record of this grove --
It was time once the haunt of young affection --
And now seems hallow'd by the tender vows
That erst were breathed here. Sad is the tale
That tells of blighted feelings—hopes destroyed ;
But love is like the rose, so many ills
Assail it in the bud—the canker worm,
The frost of winter, and the summer storm,
All blow it down; rarely the blossom comes
To full maturity. But there is nought
Sinks with so chill a breath as faithlessness—
As she could tell, whose loveliness yet lives
In village legends. Often at this hour
Of lonely beauty, would she list the tale
Of tenderness, and hearken to the vows
Of one, more dear than life unto her soul.
He twin'd him round a heart, which beat with all
The deep devotedness of early love ;
Then left her, careless of the passion which
He had awakened into wretchedness.
The blight, which wither'd all the blossoms love
Had fondly cherish'd, wither'd too the heart
Which gave them birth; her sorrow had no voice,
Save in her faded beauty, for she look'd
A melancholy broken-hearted girl:
She was so chang'd, the soft carnation cloud,
Once mantling o'er her cheek, like those which eve
Hangs o'er the twilight of a summer sky,
Was faded into paleness, broken by
Bright burning blushes—torches of the tomb.
There was such sadness even in her smiles,
And such a look of utter hopelessness
Dwelt in her soft blue eyes, a form so frail,
So delicate, scarce like a thing of earth :—
'Twas sad to gaze upon a brow so fair,
And see it trac'd with such a tale of woe:
To think that one so young and beautiful,
Was wasting to the grave !
Within yon bower
Of honey-suckle, and the snowy wealth
The mountain ash puts forth to welcome spring,
Her form was found, reclin'd upon a bank;
Where nature's sweet unnurtur'd children bloom'd:
One white arm lay beneath her drooping head,
While her bright tresses twin'd their sunny wreath
Around the polish'd ivory ; there was not
A tinge of colour mantling o'er her face ;
'Twas like to marble, where the sculptor's skill
Has trac'd each charm of beauty, save the blush.
Serenity so sweet sat on her brow ;
So soft a smile yet hover'd on her lips ;
At first they thought 'twas sleep—and sleep it was,
The cold long rest of death.
There is one grave, o'er which the cypress bends,
Like a devoted mourner; there are laid
The lost remains of one, once beautiful
Belov'd, and young. Upon her marble urn
Some hand affectionate has simply carv'd
A touching emblem of her early fate—
A lilly, sever'd from its stem, and wither'd,
Yet lovely in decay.
From The Fate of Adelaide
FRAGMENT
It is not spring, but still the new-come year
Bears on its softened brow sweet promises
Of soon returning smiles ;—twilight again
Claims her soft reign of one delicious hour;
When the red sunset, fading from above,
Leaves on the west an arch of silvery light—
A fairy garden for the evening star
Ere yet the other glorious lamps of heaven
Look on her vesper solitude; or ere
The moon has risen o'er yon shadowy hills.
The hazel flings its yellow blossomings,
And some green traces of expected May
Are venturing to show forth; tho' not as yet
The violet or primrose have awak'd,
Or the wild rose blush'd faintly into bud;
Only the languid snow-drop now is seen—
A melancholy harbinger of joy,
Whose delicate beauty is but for a day,
To welcome in the spring, and then to die.
And by it is the deadly aconite—
To look upon, a pale and innocent flower—
Alas ! that even in this first fair gift,
This early wreath, there should the poison lurk !
But it is thus with every loveliness :
Either so frail, its life is but a breath,
Or else some bitterness grows by its side.
From The Fate of Adelaide
FRAGMENT
Love thee ! yes, yes ! the storms that rend aside
All other ties will but entwine my heart
More closely, more devotedly to thine.
Love thee !—but that I know how heavily
Sorrow hath press'd thy generous spirit down,
I should almost reproach thee for the doubt!
I have no thought, that does not dwell on thee ;
No hope, in which thou minglest not; no wish,
In which thou bearest no part; my orisons
To heaven, begin and end with thy dear name :
My fate is link'd with thine—I did not plight
My vows to thee for a mere summer day,
But still to be unchang'd; it was most sweet
To share thy sunlight of prosperity,
Thine hours of brightness ; now I only ask
To share thy sorrow, and to be to thee
All tenderness, and love, and constancy—
A feeling, lighting up thy desolate heart;
A fountain springing in the wilderness;
Or as the breeze upon the fever'd brow,
Soothing the pain it may not chase away.
From The Fate of Adelaide
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—
And calm 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 pass'd 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 the 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 pass'd, 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!
From The Vow of the Peacock
Original in The London Literary Gazette, 16th September 1826 METRICAL FRAGMENTS No. V. - signed Iole
A GIRL AT HER DEVOTIONS
BY NEWTON
SHE was just risen from her bended knee,
But yet peace seem'd not with her piety;
For there was paleness upon her young cheek,
And thoughts upon the lips which never speak,
But wring the heart that at the last they break.
Alas! how much of misery may be read
In that wan forehead, and that bow'd down head:--
Her eye is on a picture, woe that ever
Love should thus struggle with a vain endeavour
Against itself: it is a common tale,
And ever will be while earth soils prevail
Over earth's happiness; it tells she strove
With silent, secret, unrequited love.
It matters not its history; love has wings
Like lightning , swift and fatal, and it springs
Like a wild flower where it is least expected,
Existing whether cherish'd or rejected;
Living with only but to be content,
Hopeless, for love is its own element,--
Requiring nothing so that it may be
The martyr of its fond fidelity.
A mystery art thou, thou mighty one!
We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shun
To own thee, Love, a guest; the poet's songs
Are sweetest when their voice to thee belongs,
And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight,
Are terms which are thy own peculiar right;
Yet all deny their master,--who will own
His breast thy footstool, and his heart thy throne?
'Tis strange to think if we could fling aside
The masque and mantle that love wears from pride,
How much would be, we now so little guess,
Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought recess.
The careless smile, like a gay banner borne,
The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,--
And for a cloak what is there that can be
So difficult to pierce as gaiety?
Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty brow
Seems to hide something it would not avow;
But rainbow words, light laugh, and thoughtless jest,
These are the bars, the curtain to the breast,
That shuns a scrutiny: and she, whose form
Now bends in grief beneath the bosom's storm,
Has hidden well her wound,--now none are nigh
To mock with curious or with careless eye,
(For love seeks sympathy, a chilling yes,
Strikes at the root of its best happiness,
And mockery is worm-wood), she may dwell
On feelings which that picture may not tell.
From The Troubadour
GLADESMUIR
"There is no home like the home of our infancy, no remembrances like those of our youth; the old trees whose topmost boughs we have climbed, the hedge containing that prize a bird's nest, the fairy tale we heard by the fireside, are things of deep and serious interest in maturity. The heart, crushed or hardened by its intercourse with the world, turns with affectionate delight to its early dreams. How I pity those whose childhood has been unhappy! to them one of the sweetest springs of feeling has been utterly denied, the most green and beautiful part of life laid waste. But to those whose spring has been what spring should ever be, fresh, buoyant, and gladsome, whose cup has not been poisoned at the first draught, how delicious is recollection! they truly know the pleasures of memory."
There is not
A valley of more quiet happiness,
Bosomed in greener trees, or with a river
Clearer than thine, Gladesmuir! There are huge hills
Like barriers by thy side, where the tall pine
Stands stately as a warrior in his prime,
Mixed with low gnarled oaks, whose yellow leaves
Are bound with ruby tendrils, emerald shoots,
And the wild blossoms of the honeysuckle;
And even more impervious grows the brier,
Covered with thorns and roses, mingled like
Pleasures and pains, but shedding richly forth
Its fragrance on the air; and by its side
The wilding broom as sweet, which gracefully
Flings its long tresses like a maiden's hair
Waving in yellow beauty. The red deer
Crouches in safety in its secret lair;
The sapphire, bird's-eye, and blue violets
Mix with white daisies in the grass beneath;
And in the boughs above the woodlark builds,
And makes sweet music to the morning; while
All day the stock-dove's melancholy notes
Wail plaintively--the only sounds beside
The hum of the wild bees around some trunk
Of an old moss-clad oak, in which is reared
Their honey palace. Where the forest ends,
Stretched a wide brown heath, till the blue sky
Becomes its boundary; there the only growth
Are straggling thickets of the white-flowered thorn
And yellow furze: beyond are the grass-fields,
And of yet fresher verdure the young wheat;--
These border round the village. The bright river
Bounds like an arrow by, buoyant as youth
Rejoicing in its strength. On the left side,
Half hidden by the aged trees that time
Has spared as honouring their sanctity,
The old grey church is seen: its mossy walls
And ivy-covered windows tell how long
It has been sacred. There is a lone path
Winding beside yon hill: no neighb'ring height
Commands so wide a view; the ancient spire,
The cottages, their gardens, and the heath,
Spread far beyond, are in the prospect seen
By glimpses as the greenwood screen gives way.
One is now tracing it, who gazes round
As each look were his last. The anxious gasp
That drinks the air as every breath brought health;
The hurried step, yet lingering at times,
As fearful all it felt were but a dream--
How much they tell of deep and inward feeling!
That stranger is worn down with toil and pain,
His sinewy frame is wasted, and his brow
Is darkened with long suffering; yet he is
Oh more than happy!--he has reached his home,
And Ronald is a wanderer no more.
How often in that fair romantic land
Where he had been a soldier, he had turned
From the rich groves of Spain, to think upon
The oak and pine; turned from the spicy air,
To sicken for his own fresh mountain-breeze;
And loved the night, for then familiar things,
The moon and stars, were visible, and looked
As they had always done, and shed sweet tears
To think that he might see them shine again
Over his own Gladesmuir! That silver moon,
In all her perfect beauty, is now rising;
The purple billows of the west have yet
A shadowy glory; all beside is calm,
And tender and serene--a quiet light,
Which suited well the melancholy joy
Of Ronald's heart. As every step the light
Played o'er some old remembrance; now the ray
Dimpled the crystal river; now the church
Had all its windows glittering from beneath
The curtaining ivy. Near and more near he drew--
His heart beat quick, for the next step will be
Upon his father's threshold! But he paused--
He heard a sweet and sacred sound--they joined
In the accustomed psalm, and then they said
The words of God, and, last of all, a prayer
More solemn and more touching. He could hear
Low sobs as it was uttered. They did pray
His safety, his return, his happiness;
And ere they ended he was in their arms!
The wind rose up, and o'er the calm blue sky
The tempest gathered, and the heavy rain
Beat on the casement; but they press'd them round
The blazing hearth, and sat while Ronald spoke
Of the fierce battle; and all answered him
With wonder, and with telling how they wept
During his absence, how they numbered o'er
The days for his return. Thrice hallowed shrine
Of the heart's intercourse, our own fireside!
I do remember in my early youth
I parted from its circle; how I pined
With happy recollections--they to me
Were sickness and deep sorrow; how I thought
Of the strange tale, the laugh, the gentle smile
Breathing of love, that wiled the night away.
The hour of absence past, I was again
With those who loved me. What a beauty dwelt
In each accustomed face! what music hung
On each familiar voice! We circled in
Our meeting ring of happiness. If e'er
This life has bliss, I knew and felt it then!
But there was one Ronald remembered not,
Yet 'twas a creature beautiful as Hope,
With eyes blue as the harebell when the dew
Sparkles upon its azure leaves; a cheek
Fresh as a mountain-rose, but delicate
As rainbow colours, and as changeful too.
"The orphan Ellen, have you then forgot
"Your laughing playmate?" Ronald would have clasp'd
The maiden to his heart, but she shrank back:
A crimson blush and tearful lids belied
Her light tone, as she bade him not forget
So soon his former friends. But the next morn
Were other tears than those sweet ones that come
Of the full heart's o'erflowings. He was given,
The loved, the wanderer, to their prayers at last;
But he was now so changed, there was no trace
Left of his former self; the glow of health,
Of youth, was gone, and in his sallow cheek
And faded eye decay sat visible;--
All felt that he was sinking to the grave.
He wandered like a ghost around; would lean,
For hours, and watch the river; or would lie
Beneath some aged tree, and hear the birds
Singing so cheerfully; and with faint step
Would sometimes try the mountain side. He loved
To look upon the setting sun, and mark
The twilight's dim approach. He said he was
Most happy that all through his life one wish
Had still been present on his soul--the wish
That he might breathe his native air again;--
That prayer was granted, for he died at home.
One wept for him when other eyes were dry,
Treasured his name in silence and in tears,
Till her young heart's impassioned solitude
Was filled but with his image. She had soothed
And watched his last few hours--but he was gone!
The grave to her was now the goal of hope:
She pass'd, but gently as the rose-leaves fall
Scattered by the spring gales. Two months had fled
Since Ronald died; they threw the summer flowers
Upon his sod, and ere those leaves were tinged
With autumn's yellow colours, they were twined
For the poor Ellen's death-wreaths! . . .
They made her grave by Ronald's.
From The Improvisatrice
Originally in The Literary Gazette, 1822
GLENCOE
LAY by the harp, sing not that song,
Although so very sweet;
It is a song of other years,
For thee and me unmeet.
Thy head is pillowed on my arm,
Thy heart beats close to mine;
Methinks it were unjust to heaven,
If we should now repine.
I must not weep, you must not sing
That thrilling song again,--
I dare not think upon the time
When last I heard that strain.
It was a silent summer eve:
We stood by the hill side,
And we could see my ship afar
Breasting the ocean tide.
Around us grew the graceful larch,
A calm blue sky above,
Beneath were little cottages,
The homes of peace and love.
Thy harp was by thee then, as now,
One hand in mine was laid;
The other, wandering 'mid the chords,
A soothing music made:
Just two or three sweet chords, that seemed
An echo of thy tone,--
The cushat's song was on the wind
And mingled with thine own.
I looked upon the vale beneath,
I looked on thy sweet face;
I thought how dear, this voyage o'er,
Would be my resting place.
We parted; but I kept thy kiss,--
Thy last one,--and its sigh—
As safely as the stars are kept
In yonder azure sky.
Again I stood by that hill side,
And scarce I knew the place,
For fire, and blood, and death, had left
On every thing their trace.
The lake was covered o'er with weeds,
Choked was our little rill,
There was no sign of corn or grass,
The cushat's song was still:
Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap
Was every cottage round;--
I listened, but I could not hear
One single human sound:
I spoke, and only my own words
Were echoed from the hill;
I sat me down to weep, and curse
The hand that wrought this ill.
We met again by miracle:
Thou wert another one
Saved from this work of sin and death,--
I was not quite alone.
And then I heard the evil tale
Of guilt and suffering,
Till I prayed the curse of God might fall
On the false-hearted king.
I will not think on this,--for thou
Art saved, and saved for me!
And gallantly my little bark
Cuts through the moonlight sea.
There's not a shadow in the sky,
The waves are bright below;
I must not, on so sweet a night,
Think upon dark Glencoe.
If thought were vengeance, then its thought
A ceaseless fire should be,
Burning by day, burning by night,
Kept like a thought of thee.
But I am powerless and must flee;--
That e'er a time should come,
When we should shun our own sweet land,
And seek another home!
This must not be,--yon soft moonlight
Falls on my heart like balm;
The waves are still, the air is hushed,
And I too will be calm.
Away! we seek another land
Of hope, stars, flowers, sunshine;
I shall forget the dark green hills
Of that which once was mine!
From The Vow of the Peacock
Originally in The London Literary Gazette, 12th July 1823
THE GREY CROSS
A GREY CROSS stands beneath yon old beech tree;
It marks a soldier's and a maiden's grave:
Around it is a grove of orange-trees,
With silver blossoms and with golden fruit.
It was a Spaniard, whom he saved from death,
Raised that Cross o'er the gallant Englishman.
He left home a young soldier, full of hope
And enterprise;--he fell in his first field!
There came a lovely pilgrim to his tomb,
The blue-eyed girl, his own betrothed bride,--
Pale, delicate,--one looking as the gale
That bowed the rose could sweep her from the earth.
Yet she had left her home, where every look
Had been watched, oh, so tenderly!--and miles,
Long weary miles, had wandered. When she came
To the dim shadow of the aged beech,
She was worn to a shadow; colourless
The cheek once dyed by her own mountain-rose.
She reached the grave, and died upon the sod!
They laid her by her lover:--and her tale
Is often on the songs that the guitar
Echoes in the lime valleys of Castile!
From The Improvisatrice
THE GUERILLA CHIEF
But the war-storm came on the mountain gale,
And man's heart beat high, though his cheek was pale,
For blood and dust lay on the white hair,
And the maiden wept o'er her last despair;
The hearth was cold, and the child was prest
A corpse to the murdered mother's breast;
And fear and guilt, and sorrow and shame,
Darkened wherever the war-fiend came.
IT stood beneath a large old chesnut-tree,
And had stood there for years;--the moonlight fell
Over the white walls, which the vine had hung
With its thick leaves and purple fruit; a pair
Of pigeons, like the snow, were on the roof
Nestled together; and a plaining sound
Came from a fountain murmuring through the wood,
Less like the voice of sorrow than of love:
Tall trees were gathered round--the dark-green beech;
The sycamore, with scarlet colours on,
The herald of the autumn; dwarf rose-trees,
Covered with their last wealth; the poplar tall,
A silver spire; olives with their pale leaves;
And some most graceful shrubs, amid whose boughs
Were golden oranges; and hollow oaks,
Where the bees built their honey palaces.
It was a silent and a lovely place,
Where Peace might rest her white wings. But one came
From out the cottage,--not as one who comes
To gaze upon the beauty of the sky
And fill his spirit with a calm delight;
But with a quick though noiseless step, as one
Who fears the very echo of that step
May raise a spectre. When he reached the fount
He sat down by its side, and turned to gaze
Upon the cottage: from his brow the sweat
Poured down like summer rain; there came no sound
From his white lips, but you might hear his heart
Beating in the deep silence. But at length
A voice came to his sorrow:--"Never--never
"Shall I look on their face again! Farewell!
"I cannot bear that word's reproach, nor look
"On pale lips breathing blessings which the tears
"Belie in speaking! I have blighted all--
"All--all their hopes, and my own happiness!"
"LEANDRO!" said a sweet and gentle voice;
And a soft hand prest on his throbbing brow,
And tears like twilight dew feel on his cheek.
He looked upon the maiden;--'twas the one
With whom his first pure love had dwelt,--the one
Who was the sun and starlight of his youth!
She stood beside him, lovely as a saint
Looking down pity upon penitence--
Perhaps less bright in colour and in eye
Than the companion of his infancy:--
But was that cheek less fair because he knew
That it had lost the beauty of its spring
With passionate sorrowing for him? She stood
One moment gazing on his face, as there
Her destiny was written; and then took
A little crucifix of ebony
And placed it in his bosom from her own:--
"And this, LEANDRO!--this shall be thy guide!
"Thy youth has been a dream of passion; guilt
"And even have been round thee:--go thy way!
"The showers of thy youth will clear to summer.
"My prayers be with thee!"--"Prayers!--oh!
nothing more?
"Have I then lost thy love--thy precious love?
"The only green leaf of my heart is withered!"
She blushed a deep-red blush; her eloquent eyes
Met his almost reproachfully, and her face
Was the next moment hidden on his bosom.
But there was happiness even in that farewell,
Affection and deep confidence,
Tenderness, hope--for Love lights Hope,--and tears,
Delicious tears! the heart's own dew.
They parted.
LEANDRO kept that little cross like life:
And when beneath the sky of Mexico,--
When earth and even Heaven were strange to
him,--
The trees, the flowers, were of another growth;
The birds wore other plumes; the very stars
Were not those he had looked upon in boyhood.
'Tis something, if in absence we can see
The footsteps of the past:--it soothes the heart
To breathe the air scented in other years
By lips beloved; to wander through the groves
Where once we were not lonely,--where the rose
Reminds us of the hair we used to wreathe
With its fresh buds--where every hill and vale,
And wood and fountain, speak of time gone by;--
And Hope springs up in joy from Memory's ashes.
LEANDRO felt not these:--that crucifix
Was all that wore the look of other days--
'Twas as a dear companion. Parents, home,
And, more than all, BIANCA, whose pure reign,
Troubled by the wild passions of his youth,
Had now regained its former influence,--
All seemed to hear the vows he made for her,
To share his hopes, feel for his deep remorse,
And bless him, and look forward.
And at last
Once more the white sail bore him o'er the sea,
And he saw SPAIN again. But war was there--
And his road lay through ruined villages.
Though cold, the ashes still were red, for blood
Had quenched the flames; and aged men sat down
And would not leave the embers, for they said
They were too old to seek another home.
LEANDRO met with one whom he had known
In other days, and asked of his own valley:--
It yet was safe, unscathed by the war-storm.
He knelt down in deep thankfulness; and then,
Through death and danger, sought the grove once more.
His way had been through a thick beechen wood;
The moon, athwart the boughs, had poured her light,
Like Hope, to guide him onwards.
One more turn and he should gaze upon his home!
He paused in his heart's overflowing bliss,
And thought how he should wake them from their dreams--
Perchance of him!--of his BIANCA's blush!
He heard the music of the fountain come--
A sweet and welcome voice upon the wind--
He bounded on with the light steps of hope,
Of youth and happiness. He left the wood,
And looked upon--a heap of mingled blood
And blackened ashes wet upon the ground!
He was awakened from his agony
By the low accents of a woman's voice;--
He looked, and knew BIANCA. She was laid
Beside the fountain, while her long black hair
Hung like a veil down to her feet: her eyes,
So large, so dark, so wild, shone through the gloom,
Glaring like red insanity. She saw
Her lover, shrieked, and strove to fly--
But fell:--her naked feet were gashed with wounds.
"And have I met thee but to see thee die?"
LEANDRO cried as he laid the pale face
Upon his breast, and sobbed like a young child.
In vain he dashed the cold stream on her face,--
Still she lay like a corpse within his arms.
At length he thought him of a giant tree,
Whose hollow trunk, when children, they had oft
Called home in playfulness. He bore her there;
And of fresh flowers and the dry leaves he made
A bed for his pale love. She waked at last,
But not to consciousness: her wandering eyes
Fixed upon him, and yet she knew him not!--
Fever was on her lip and in her brain,
And as LEANDRO watched, his heart grew sick
To hear her rave of outrage, wrongs, and death;--
How they were wakened from their midnight sleep
By gleaming steel--curses--and flaming roof!
And then she groaned, and prayed herself to die!
It was an evening when through the green leaves
Of the old chesnut shot the golden light
Of the rich sunset; into the fresh air
LEANDRO bore the maiden he had nurst
As the young mother nurses her sick child.
She laid her head upon his heart, and slept
Her first sweet quiet sleep: the evening-star
Gleamed through the purple twilight when she waked.
Her memory aroused not to the full--
Oh, that was mercy!--but she knew her love;
And over her pale face a calm smile shone,--
Fondly though faintly breathed and blest his name!
That night the moonlight shone upon LEANDRO,
And in his arms--a corpse! * * * *
He lived in one deep feeling--in revenge:
With men he mingled not but in the battle;--
His mingling there was deadly! When the GAUL
Was driven from the land which he had spoiled,
That dark chief sought BIANCA's grave!--a cross
Marks THE GUERILLA AND THE MAIDEN'S TOMB
From The Improvisatrice
HAGAR AND ISHMAEL
" And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and took bread, and a bottle of water, and gave it unto Hagar, (putting it on her shoulder,) and the child, and sent her away : and she departed, and wandered in the wilderness of Beersheba.
" And the water was spent in the bottle, and she cast the child under one of the shrubs.
" And she went, and sat her down over against him, a good way off, as it were a bow-shot : for she said, Let me not see the death of the child. And she sat over against him, and lift up her voice, and wept.
" And God heard the voice of the lad : and the angel of God called to Hagar out of heaven, and said unto her, What aileth thee, Hagar ? fear not ; for God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is.
" Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand : for I will make him a great nation.
" And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water : and she went, and filled the bottle with water, and gave the lad drink." Genesis xxi. 14—19.
They sank amid the wilderness,
The weary and forsaken ;
She gave the boy one faint caress,
And pray'd he might not waken.
But death, not sleep, was on those eyes,
Beneath the heat declining :
O'er glittering sands and cloudless skies
The noontide sun was shining.
Far, far away the desert spread ;
Ah ! love is fain to cherish
The vainest hopes, but now she said,
" Let me not see him perish."
Then spoke the Lord, and at his word
Sprang forth a little fountain,
Pure, cold as those whose crystal hoard
Is in some pine-clad mountain ;
And herb and shrub upon the brink
Put forth their leaf and blossom ;
The pelican came down to drink
From out its silvery bosom.
O blessed God, thus doth thy power,
When, worn and broken-hearted,
We sink beneath some evil hour,
And deem all hope departed—
Then doth the fountain of thy grace
Rise up within the spirit,
And we are strengthcn'd for that race
Whose prize we shall inherit
When least we hope, our prayer is heard,
The judgment is averted,
And comes the comfort of thy word,
When most we seem deserted.
From The Easter Gift
HANNIBAL'S OATH
AND the night was dark and calm,
There was not a breath of air,
The leaves of the grove were still,
As the presence of death were there;
Only a moaning sound
Came from the distant sea,
It was as if, like life,
It had no tranquillity.
A warrior and a child
Pass'd through the sacred wood,
Which, like a mystery,
Around the temple stood.
The warrior's brow was worn
With the weight of casque and plume,
And sun-burnt was his cheek,
And his eye and brow were gloom.
The child was young and fair,
But the forehead large and high,
And the dark eyes' flashing light
Seem'd to feel their destiny.
They enter'd in the temple,
And stood before the shrine,
It stream'd with the victim's blood,
With incense and with wine.
The ground rock'd beneath their feet,
The thunder shook the dome,
But the boy stood firm, and swore
Eternal hate to Rome.
There's a page in history
O'er which tears of blood were wept,
And that page is the record
How that oath of hate was kept.
From The Troubadour
HEAD OF ARIADNE
Oh, why should Woman ever love,
Throwing her chance away,
Her little chance of summer shine,
Upon a rainbow ray?
Look back on each old history,
Each fresh remembered tale;
They'll tell how often love has made
The cheek of woman pale;--
Her unrequited love, a flower
Dying for air and light;
Her love betrayed, another flower
Withering before a blight.
Look down within the silent grave;
How much of breath and bloom
Have wasted,--passion's sacrifice
Offered to the lone tomb.
Look on her hour of solitude,
How many bitter cares
Belie the smile with which the lip
Would sun the wound it bears.
Mark this sweet face! oh, never blush
Has past o'er one more fair,
And never o'er a brighter brow
Has wandered raven hair.
And mark how carelessly those wreaths
Of curl are flung behind,
And mark how pensively the brow
Leans on the hand reclined.
'Tis she of Crete!--another proof
Of woman's weary lot;
Their April doom of sun and shower,--
To love, then be forgot.
Heart-sickness, feelings tortured, torn,
A sky of storm above,
A path of thorns,--these are love's gifts,--
Ah, why must woman love!
From The Vow of the Peacock
Original in The London Literary Gazette, 1st March 1823 as part of Medallion Wafers
A HISTORY OF THE LYRE
Sketches indeed, from that most passionate page,
A woman's heart, of feelings, thoughts, that make
The atmosphere in which her spirit moves;
But, like all other earthly elements,
O'ercast with clouds, now dark, now touch'd with light,
With rainbows, sunshine, showers, moonlight, stars,
Chasing each other's change. I fain would trace
Its brightness and its blackness; and these lines
Are consecrate to annals such as those,
That count the pulses of the beating heart.
A HISTORY OF THE LYRE
'TIS strange how much is mark'd on memory,
In which we may have interest, but no part;
How circumstance will bring together links
In destinies the most dissimilar.
This face, whose rudely-pencill'd sketch you hold.
Recalls to me a host of pleasant thoughts,
And some more serious.—This is EULALIE,
Once the delight of Rome for that fine skill
With which she woke the lute when answering
With its sweet echoes her melodious words.
She had the rich perfection of that gift,
Her Italy's own ready song, which seems
The poetry caught from a thousand flowers;
The diamond sunshine, and the lulling air,
So pure, yet full of perfume; fountains tuned
Like natural lutes, from whispering green leaves;
The low peculiar murmur of the pines:
From pictured saints, that look their native heaven—
Statues whose grace is a familiar thing;
The ruin'd shrine of mournful loveliness;
The stately church, awfully beautiful;
Their climate, and their language, whose least word
Is melody—these overfill the heart
Till, fountain-like, the lips o'erflow with song,
And music is to them an element.
—I saw EULALIA: all was in the scene
Graceful association, slight surprise,
That are so much in youth. It was in June,
Night, but such night as only is not day,—
For moonlight, even when most clear, is sad:
We cannot but contrast its still repose
With the unceasing turmoil in ourselves.
—We stood beside a cypress, whose green spire
Rose like a funeral column o'er the dead.
Near was a fallen palace—stain'd and gray
The marble show'd amid the tender leaves
Of ivy but just shooting; yet there stood
Pillars unbroken, two or three vast halls,
Entire enough to cast a deep black shade;
And a few statues, beautiful but cold,—
White shadows, pale and motionless, that seem
To mock the change in which they had no part,—
Fit images of the dead. Pensive enough,
Whatever aspect desolation wears;
But this, the wrecking work of yesterday,
Hath somewhat still more touching; here we trace
The waste of man too much. When years have past
Over the fallen arch, the ruin'd hall,
It seems but course of time, the one great doom,
Whose influence is alike upon us all;
The gray tints soften, and the ivy wreath
And wild flowers breathe life's freshness round: but here
We stand before decay; scarce have the walls
Lost music left by human step and voice;
The lonely hearth, the household desolate,
Some noble race gone to the dust in blood;
Man shames of his own deeds, and there we gaze,
Watching the progress not of time, but death.
—Low music floated on the midnight wind,
A mournful murmur, such as opes the heart
With memory's key, recalling other times,
And gone by hopes and feelings, till they have
An echo sorrowful, but very sweet.
"Hush!" said my comrade,—"it is EULALIE;
"Now you may gaze upon the loneliness
"Which is her inspiration." Soft we pass'd
Behind a fragment of the shadowy wall.
—I never saw more perfect loveliness.
It ask'd, it had no aid from dress: her robe
Was white, and simply gather'd in such folds
As suit a statue: neck and arms were bare;
The black hair was unbound, and like a veil
Hung even to her feet; she held a lute,
And, as she paced the ancient gallery, waked
A few wild chords, and murmur'd low sweet words,
But scarcely audible, as if she thought
Rather than spoke:—the night, the solitude,
Fill'd the young Pythoness with poetry.
—Her eyes were like the moonlight, clear and soft,
That shadowy brightness which is born of tears,
And raised towards the sky, as if they sought
Companionship with their own heaven; her cheek,—
Emotion made it colourless, that pure
And delicate white which speaks so much of thought,
Yet flushes in a moment into rose;
And tears like pearls lay on it, those which come
When the heart wants a language; but she pass'd,
And left the place to me a haunted shrine,
Hallow'd by genius in its holiest mood.
—At Count ZARIN'S pallazzo the next night
We were to meet, and expectation wore
Itself with fancies,—all of them were vain.
I could not image aught so wholly changed.
Her robe was Indian red, and work'd with gold,
And gold the queen-like girdle round her waist.
Her hair was gather'd up in grape-like curls;
An emerald wreath, shaped into vine leaves, made
Its graceful coronal. Leant on a couch
The centre of a group, whose converse light
Made a fit element, in which her wit
Flash'd like the lightning:—on her cheek the rose
Burnt like a festal lamp; the sunniest smiles
Wander'd upon her face.—I only knew
EULALIA by her touching voice again.
—They had been praying her to wake the lute:
She would not, wayward in her mood that night;
When some one bade her mark a little sketch
I brought from England of my father's hall;
Himself was outlined leaning by an oak,
A greyhound at his feet. "And is this dog
Your father's sole companion?"—with these words
She touch'd the strings:—that melancholy song,
I never may forget its sweet reproach.
—She ask'd me how I had the heart to leave
The old man in his age; she told how lorn
Is solitude; she spoke of the young heart
Left in its loneliness, where it had known
No kindness but from strangers, forced to be
Wayfarer in this bleak and bitter world,
And looking to the grave as to a home.
—The numbers died in tears, but no one sought
To stay her as she pass'd with veiled face
From the hush'd hall.—One gently whisper'd me,
EULALIA is an orphan! * * *
Yet still our meetings were mid festival,
Night after night. It was both sad and strange,
To see that fine mind waste itself away,
Too like some noble stream, which, unconfined,
Makes fertile its rich banks, and glads the face
Of nature round; but not so when its wave
Is lost in artificial waterfalls,
And sparkling eddies; or coop'd up to make
The useless fountain of a palace hall.
—One day I spoke of this; her eager soul
Was in its most unearthly element.
We had been speaking of the immortal dead.
The light flash'd in her eyes. "'Tis this which makes
The best assurance of our promised heaven:
This triumph intellect has over death—
Our words yet live on others' lips; our thoughts
Actuate others. Can that man be dead
Whose spiritual influence is upon his kind?
He lives in glory; and such speaking dust
Has more of life than half its breathing moulds.
Welcome a grave with memories such as these,
Making the sunshine of our moral world!"
"This proud reward you see, and yet can leave:
Your songs sink on the ear, and there they die,
A flower's sweetness, but a flower's life.
An evening's homage is your only fame;
'Tis vanity, EULALIA."—Mournfully
She shook the raven tresses from her brow,
As if she felt their darkness omen-like.
"Speak not of this to me, nor bid me think;
It is such pain to dwell upon myself;
And know how different I am from all
I once dream'd I could be. Fame! stirring fame!
I work no longer miracles for thee.
I am as one who sought at early dawn
To climb with fiery speed some lofty hill:
His feet are strong in eagerness and youth;
His limbs are braced by the fresh morning air,
And all seems possible:—this cannot last.
The way grows steeper, obstacles arise,
And unkind thwartings from companions near.
The height is truer measured, having traced
Part of its heavy length; his sweet hopes droop.
Like prison'd birds that know their cage has bars,
The body wearies, and the mind is worn—
That worst of lassitude:—hot noon comes on;
There is no freshness in the sultry air,
There is no rest upon the toilsome road;
There is the summit, which he may not reach,
And round him are a thousand obstacles.
"I am a woman:—tell me not of fame.
The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path,
And fling back arrows, where the dove would die.
Look on those flowers near yon acacia tree—
The lily of the valley—mark how pure
The snowy blossoms,—and how soft a breath
Is almost hidden by the large dark leaves.
Not only have those delicate flowers a gift
Of sweetness and of beauty, but the root—
A healing power dwells there; fragrant and fair,
But dwelling still in some beloved shade.
Is not this woman's emblem?—she whose smile
Should only make the loveliness of home—
Who seeks support and shelter from man's heart,
And pays it with affection quiet, deep,—
And in his sickness—sorrow—with an aid
He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt.
Alas! this has not been my destiny.
Again I'll borrow Summer's eloquence.
Yon Eastern tulip—that is emblem mine;
Ay! it has radiant colours—every leaf
Is as a gem from its own country's mines.
'Tis redolent with sunshine; but with noon
It has begun to wither:—look within,
It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart;
It has dwelt too much in the open day,
And so have I; and both must droop and die!
I did not choose my gift:—too soon my heart,
Watch-like, had pointed to a later hour
Than time had reach'd: and as my years pass'd on,
Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts,
And thoughts found words, the passionate words of song,
And all to me was poetry. The face,
Whose radiance glided past me in the dance,
Awoke a thousand fantasies to make
Some history of her passing smile or sigh.
The flowers were full of song:—upon the rose
I read the crimson annals of true love;
The violet flung me back on old romance;
All was association with some link
Whose fine electric throb was in the mind.
I paid my price for this—'twas happiness.
My wings have melted in their eager flight,
And gleams of heaven have only made me feel
Its distance from our earth more forcibly.
My feelings grow less fresh, my thoughts less kind:
My youth has been too lonely, too much left
To struggle for itself; and this world is
A northern clime, where ev'ry thing is chill'd.
I speak of my own feelings—I can judge
Of others but by outward show, and that
Is falser than the actor's studied part.
We dress our words and looks in borrow'd robes:
The mind is as the face—for who goes forth
In public walks without a veil at least?
'Tis this constraint makes half life's misery.
'Tis a false rule: we do too much regard
Others' opinions, but neglect their feelings;
Thrice happy if such order were reversed.
Oh why do we make sorrow for ourselves,
And, not content with the great wretchedness
Which is our native heritage—those ills
We have no mastery over—sickness, toil,
Death, and the natural grief which comrades death—
Are not all these enough, that we must add
Mutual and moral torment, and inflict
Ingenious tortures we must first contrive?
I am distrustful—I have been deceived
And disappointed—I have hoped in vain.
I am vain—praise is opium, and the lip
Cannot resist the fascinating draught,
Though knowing its excitement is a fraud—
Delirious—a mockery of fame.
I may not image the deep solitude
In which my spirit dwells. My days are past
Among the cold, the careless, and the false.
What part have I in them. or they in me?
Yet I would be beloved; I would be kind;
I would share others' sorrows, others' joys;
I would fence in a happiness with friends.
I cannot do this:—is the fault mine own?
Can I love those who but repay my love
With half caprice, half flattery; or trust,
When I have full internal consciousness
They are deceiving me? I may be kind,
And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still;
For gratitude is not companionship.—
We have proud words that speak of intellect;
We talk of mind that magnifies the world,
And makes it glorious: much of this is true,—
All time attests the miracles of man:
The very elements, whose nature seems
To mock dominion, yet have worn his yoke.
His way has been upon the pathless sea;
The earth's dark bosom search'd; bodiless air
Works as his servant; and from his own mind
What rich stores he has won, the sage, the bard,
The painter, these have made their nature proud:
And yet how life goes on, its great outline
How noble and ennobling!—but within
How mean, how poor, how pitiful, how mix'd
With base alloy; how Disappointment tracks
The steps of Hope; how Envy dogs success;
How every victor's crown is lined with thorns,
And worn mid scoffs! Trace the young poet's fate:
Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams,
His heart upon his lips, he seeks the world,
To find him fame and fortune, as if life
Were like a fairy tale. His song has led
The way before him; flatteries fill his ear,
His presence courted, and his words are caught;
And he seems happy in so many friends.
What marvel if he somewhat overrate
His talents and his state? These scenes soon change.
The vain, who sought to mix their name with his;
The curious, who but live for some new sight;
The idle,—all these have been gratified,
And now neglect stings even more than scorn.
Envy has spoken, felt more bitterly,
For that it was not dream'd of; worldliness
Has crept upon his spirit unaware;
Vanity craves for its accustom'd food;
He has turn'd sceptic to the truth which made
His feelings poetry; and discontent
Hangs heavily on the lute, which wakes no more
Its early music:—social life is fill'd
With doubts and vain aspirings; solitude,
When the imagination is dethroned,
Is turn'd to weariness. What can he do
But hang his lute on some lone tree, and die?
"Methinks we must have known some former state
More glorious than our present, and the heart
Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left
By past magnificence; and hence we pine
With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes
With bitter tears for their own vanity.
Remembrance makes the poet; 'tis the past
Lingering within him, with a keener sense
Than is upon the thoughts of common men
Of what has been, that fills the actual world
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes,
That were and are not; and the fairer they,
The more their contrast with existing things,
The more his power, the greater is his grief.
—Are we then fallen from some noble star,
Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse,
And we feel capable of happiness
Only to know it is not of our sphere?
"I have sung passionate songs of beating hearts;
Perhaps it had been better they had drawn
Their inspiration from an inward source.
Had I known even an unhappy love,
It would have flung an interest round life
Mine never knew. This is an empty wish;
Our feelings are not fires to light at will
Our nature's fine and subtle mysteries;
We may control them, but may not create,
And love less than its fellows. I have fed
Perhaps too much upon the lotos fruits
Imagination yields,—fruits which unfit
The palate for the more substantial food
Of our own land—reality. I made
My heart too like a temple for a home;
My thoughts were birds of paradise, that breathed
The airs of heaven, but died on touching earth.
—The knight whose deeds were stainless as his crest,
Who made my name his watchword in the field;
The poet with immortal words, whose heart
I shared with beauty; or the patriot,
Whose eloquence was power, who made my smile
His recompense amid the toil which shaped
A nation's destiny: these, such as these,
The glorified—the passionate—the brave—
In these I might have found the head and heart
I could have worshipp'd. Where are such as these?
—Not mid gay cavaliers, who make the dance
Pleasant with graceful flatteries; whose words
A passing moment might light up my cheek,
But haunted not my solitude. The fault
Has been my own; perhaps I ask'd too much:—
Yet let me say, what firmly I believe,
Love can be—ay, and is. I held that Love
Which chooseth from a thousand only one,
To be the object of that tenderness
Natural to every heart; which can resign
Its own best happiness for one dear sake;
Can bear with absence; hath no part in Hope,—
For Hope is somewhat selfish, Love is not,—
And doth prefer another to itself.
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love,
Can melt away the dross of worldliness;
Can elevate, refine, and make the heart
Of that pure gold which is the fitting shrine
For fire, as sacred as e'er came from Heaven?
No more of this:—one word may read my heart,
And that one word is utter weariness!
Yet sometimes I look round with vain regret,
And think I will restring my lute, and nerve
My woman's hand for nobler enterprise;
But the day never comes. Alas! we make
A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step,
But sleep ourselves at the foot: our high resolves
Look down upon our slumbering acts."
I soon left Italy: it is well worth
A year of wandering, were it but to feel
How much our England does outweigh the world.
A clear cold April morning was it, when I first
Rode up the avenue of ancient oaks,
A hundred years upon each stately head.
The park was bright with sunshine, and the deer
Went bounding by; freshness was on the wind,
Till every nerve was braced; and once the air
Came with Arabian sweetness on its wing,—
It was the earliest growth of violets.
A fairy foot had left its trace beside,—
Ah, EMILY had nursed my favourite flowers.
Nearer I came, I heard familiar sounds—
They are the heart's best music; saw the blaze
Through the wide windows of the dear old hall.
One moment more, my eager footsteps stood
Within my father's home, beside his hearth.
—Three times those early violets had fill'd
Their urns with April dew, when the changed cheek
Of EMILY wore signs of young decay.
The rose was too inconstant, and the light
Too clear in those blue eyes; but southern skies
Might nurse a flower too delicate to bear
The winds of March, unless in Italy.
I need not tell thee how the soothing air
Brought tranquil bloom that fed not on itself
To EMILY'S sweet face; but soon again
We talk'd of winter by our own wood fire,
With cheerful words, that had no tears to hide.
—We pass'd through Rome on our return, and there
Sought out EULALIA. Graceful as her wont
Her welcome to my bride; but oh, so changed!
Her cheek was colourless as snow; she wore
The beauty of a statue, or a spirit
With large and radiant eyes:—her thrilling voice
Had lost its power, but still its sweetness kept.
One night, while seated in her favourite hall,
The silken curtains all flung back for air,
She mark'd my EMILY, whose idle gaze
Was fix'd on that fair garden. "Will you come
And wander in the moonlight?—our soft dew
Will wash no colour from thine island cheek."
She led the way by many a bed, whose hues
Vied with the rainbow,—through sweet-scented groves
Golden with oranges: at length the path
Grew shadowy with darker, older trees,
And led us to a little lonely spot.
There were no blossoming shrubs, but sweeping pines
Guarded the solitude; and laurel boughs
Made fitting mirrors for the lovely moon,
With their bright shining leaves; the ivy lay
And trail'd upon the ground; and in the midst
A large old cypress stood, beneath whose shade
There was a sculptured form; the feet were placed
Upon a finely-carved rose wreath; the arms
Were raised to Heaven, as if to clasp the stars
EULALIA leant beside; 'twas hard to say
Which was the actual marble: when she spoke,
You started, scarce it seem'd a human sound;
But the eyes' lustre told life linger'd still;
And now the moonlight seem'd to fill their depths.
"You see," she said, "my cemetery here:—
Here, only here, shall be my quiet grave.
Yon statue is my emblem: see, its grasp
Is raised to Heaven, forgetful that the while
Its step has crush'd the fairest of earth's flowers
With its neglect."——
Her prophecy was sooth:
No change of leaf had that green valley known,
When EULALIE lay there in her last sleep.
Peace to the weary and the beating heart,
That fed upon itself!
From The Venetian Bracelet