TO [LADY FITZGERALD], IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR.
SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite
Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, 5 When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, And head that droops because the soul is meek, Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare; That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb From desolation toward the genial prime;
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, And filling more and more with crystal light As pensive Evening deepens into night.
SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart: the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; With it Camoëns soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faeryland To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains
TO ROTHA QUILLINAN.
ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey When at the sacred font for thee I stood; Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, And shalt become thy own sufficient stay: Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day For stedfast hope the contract to fulfil ; Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Embodied in the music of this Lay,
Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear After her throes, this Stream of name more dear Since thou dost bear it, a memorial theme
For others; for thy future self, a spell To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.
IN my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud Slowly surmounting some invidious hill,
Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still: And might of its own beauty have been proud, But it was fashioned and to God was vowed
By Virtues that diffused, in every part,
Spirit divine through forms of human art:
Faith had her arch — her arch, when winds blow loud, Into the consciousness of safety thrilled;
And Love her towers of dread foundation laid Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher; Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice- it said, "Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build." Before 1827.
ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES.
A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows Follow this wondrous Potentate.
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
THERE's not a nook within this solemn Pass But were an apt confessional for One
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
THE pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute; The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy
Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy; The target mouldering like ungathered fruit; The smoking steam-boat eager in pursuit, As eagerly pursued; the umbrella spread To weather-fend the Celtic herdsman's head All speak of manners withering to the root, And of old honours, too, and passions high: Then may we ask, though pleased that thought should
Among the conquests of civility,
Survives imagination to the change
Superior? Help to virtue does she give?
If not, O Mortals, better cease to live!
COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY OF OBAN.
DISHONOURED Rock and Ruin! that, by law Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred Like a lone criminal whose life is spared. Vexed is he, and screams loud. The last I saw Was on the wing; stooping, he struck with awe Man, bird, and beast; then, with a consort paired, From a bold headland, their loved aery's guard. Flew high above Atlantic waves, to draw
Light from the fountain of the setting sun.
Such was this Prisoner once; and, when his plumes IO The sea-blast ruffles as the storm comes on,
Then, for a moment, he, in spirit, resumes His rank 'mong freeborn creatures that live free, His power, his beauty, and his majesty.
SEE what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray
Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. The limpid mountain-rill avoids it not;
And why shouldst thou? If rightly trained and bred, Humanity is humble, finds no spot
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, Undressed the pathway leading to the door; But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor;
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer, Belike less happy. - Stand no more aloof!
TO THE PLANET VENUS, AN EVENING STAR.
THOUGH joy attend Thee orient at the birth
Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most
To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from earth,
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