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Shiter in sunshine, but his feeble heart
Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.
Throbbing within them, Heart at once and Eye!
With its soft neighborhood of filmy clouds, Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright,
The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast,
Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour That swells its little breast, so full of song,
Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds, Suzug above me, on the mountain-ash.
And hark, the noise of a near waterfall! And thou too, desert Stream! no pool of thine, I pass forth into light-I find myself Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve,
Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe,
Of forest-trees, the Lady of the woods), The face, the form divine, the downcast look
Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock Contemplative! Behold! her open palm
That overbrows the cataract. How bursts Prisses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests
The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree,
Fold in behind each other, and so make That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile
A circular vale, and land-lock'd, as might seem, Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd by With brook and bridge, and gray stone cottages, stealth
Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now
The whortle-berries are bedew'd with spray, With siedlast gaze and unoffending eye,
Dash'd upwards by the furious waterfall. Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes
How solemnly the pendent ivy mass Del vous to the soul, but fleeting, vain,
Swings in its winnow : all the air is calm. Een as that phantom-world on which he gazed,
The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with But not unheeded gazed : for see, ah! see,
light, The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks
Rises in columns ; from this house alone, The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,
Close by the waterfall, the column slants, Lichnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells :
And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this? And suddenly, as one that toys with time,
That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, Batters them on the pool! Then all the charm
And close beside its porch a sleeping child, la troken-all that phantom-world so fair
His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dogVanwhes, and a thousand circlets spread,
One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand And each misshapes the other. Stay awhile,
Holds loosely its small handful of wild-fowers, Par youth, who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes! Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths. The stream will soon renew ils smoothness, soon
A curious picture, with a master's haste 7e visions will return! And lo! he stays ;
Sketch'd on a strip of pinky-silver skin,
Peel'd from the birchen bark! Divinest maid! And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries The pool becomes a mirror ; and behold
Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried Esb wild-llower on the marge inverted there,
On the fine skin! She has been newly here ; Arch there the half-uprooted tree-but where,
And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch-. O where the virgin's snowy arm, that lean'd
The pressure still remains! O blessed couch! On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone!
For this mayst thou flower early, and the Sun, lioneward she steals through many a woodland Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long
Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel ! Which he shall seek in vain. Il-fated youth!
Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids ! 1 day by day, and waste thy manly prime
More beautiful than whom Alcæus wooed, In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,
The Lesbian woman of immortal song! Til sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou
O child of genius! stately, beautiful, B bold'st her shadow still abiding there,
And full of love to all, save only me,
And not ungenile e'en to me! My heart,
Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway
On to her father's house. She is alone!
The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit
And fit it is I should restore this sketch,
Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn
To keep the relic? 'I will but idly feed Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest
The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ! Os thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!
The picture in my hand which she has left,
She cannot blame me that I follow'd her ; This be my chosen haunt-emancipate
And I may be her guide the long wood through I man passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, I rise and trace its devious course. O lead, ired me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. L' stealing through the canopy of firs,
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.
Relapses into blessedness, I vow'd it:
A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
Did you not say you woo'd her?
SANDOVAL (with a sarcastic smile).
Once I loved No other than as eastern sages paint,
The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf,
Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,
And woo'd, perchance, Relapses into bliss. One whom you loved not !
Ah! was that bliss
Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man?
Oh! I were most base, For suddenly, impatient of its silence, Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her,
Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.' Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she
I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them Met my advances with impassion'd pride, That kindled love with love. And when her sire, Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?
Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice, Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd
I swore, and with an inward thought that seern'd The golden circlet in his hand, rejected
The purpose and the substance of my being, My suit with insult, and in memory of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head,
I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,
I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers Her blessings overtook and baffled them!
Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance
I now will go all objects there will teach me Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.
Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
Say nothing of me-I myself will seek herAnxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously.
Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment But Oropeza
And keen inquiry of that scanning eye-
[EARL HENRY retires into the wood Blessings gather round her! Within this wood there winds a secret passage,
SANDOVAL (alone). Beneath the walls, which opens out at length
O Henry! always strivest thou to be great Into the gloomiest covert of the garden
By thine own act-yet art thou never great The night ere my departure to the army,
But by the inspiration of great passion. She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up And to that covert by a silent stream,
And shape themselves : from Earth to Heaven they Which, with one star reflected near its marge,
stand, Was the sole object visible around me.
As though they were the pillars of a temple, No leaflet stirr'd; the air was almost sultry;
Built by Omnipotence in its own honor! So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us!
But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit No leaflet stirr'd ;-yet pleasure hung upon
Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand,
And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins!
TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,
A rude and scaring note, my friend !
MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,
Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Far from thy protecting spray!
When the Partridge o'er the sheaf
Whirr'd along the yellow vale,
Love the dalliance of the gale.
Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!
Heave and flutter to his sighs,
Gaily from thy mother-stalk
O give me, from this heartless scene released, Wert thou danced and wafted high
To hear our old musician, blind and gray Soon on this unshelter'd walk
(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd), Flung to fade, to rot and die.
His Scoutish tunes and warlike marches play By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,
The while I dance amid the tedded hay
With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light 74 AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE Or lies the purple evening on the bay THEATRE.
Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide
Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees MAIDEN, that with sullen brow
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied, Sittest behind those virgins gay,
On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!
Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
But 0, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers, Fearful saw his pleading look,
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed Anxious heard his fervid phrase.
Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,
To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Soft the glances of the youth,
Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead, Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ;
Whom his own true-love buried in the sands' But no sound like simple truth,
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures But no true love in his eye.
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The things of Nature uiter; birds or trees, Lothing thy polluted lot,
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence !
Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze, With a wiser innocence. Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that vice is woe : With a musing melancholy
THE KEEPSAKE. Inly arm’d, go, Maiden! go.
The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil, Mother sage of Self-dominion,
The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field, Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust, Is the memory of past folly.
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,
Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,
(In vain the darling of successful love) While she moults the firstling plumes, Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, That had skimm'd the tender corn,
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. Or the bean-field's odorous blooms : Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, Soon with renovated wing
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Shall she dare a loftier flight,
Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!* l'puard to the day-star spring,
So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM.
In the cool morning twilight, early waked
By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, Na cold, nor stem, my soul ! yet I detest
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Haves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, Ia mtricacies of laborious song.
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,
Making a quiet image of disquiet
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint ; There, in that bower where first she own'd her love
From off her glowing cheek, she sale and stretch'd Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate ! šomful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer
• One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,
Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve
inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,
the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergist Pranles accordant scandal in her *r.
mein nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Sweden
The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Believe me, while in bed you lay,
You made us grow devouter!
How can we do without her? Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you
In the place where you were going; This World has angels all too few,
And Heaven is overflowing!
TO A LADY.
SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY
WITH FALCONER'S “SHIPWRECK."
WRITTEN IN GERMANY.
IF I had but two little wings,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
And I stay here.
The world is all one's own.
All, all alone.
For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 't is dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.
Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,
In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ;
On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;
Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;
And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings,
Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark! Cling to the shrouds !” In vain! The breakers
roarDeath shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,
No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man ! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains,
And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ? The elevating thought of suffer'd pains, Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the
name Of Gratitude ! Remembrances of Friend,
Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past, Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send,
O dear as long as life and memory last ! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship form’d! this work to
thee : And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed
A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.
WRITTEN IN GERMANY.
'T is sweet to him, who all the week
Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day
Sincere, affectionate, and gay,
To celebrate one's marriage-day.
Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,
Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang ;
This feel I hourly more and more : There's Healing only in thy wings,
Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore !
TO A YOUNG LADY.
ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER.
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, tl
Dove, The Linnet and Thrush, say, “ I love and I love!" In the winter they 're silent--the wind is so strong What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud sou But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny wan
weather, And singing, and loving-all come back together
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
Its own sweet self-a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!
RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.
How warm this woodland wild Recess!
Love surely hath been breathing here,
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress,
As if to have you yet more near.
Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
On seaward Quantock's heathy hills,
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,
And high o'erhead the sky.lark shrills
THE VISIONARY HOPE. Sad lot, to have no Hope!: Though lowly kneeling He sain would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, That his sick body might have ease and rest; He sirove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Against his will the stifling load revealing, Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, An alien's restless mood but half concealing, The sternness on his gentle brow confessid, Sckness within and miserable feeling: Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repell’d in vain, Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams, Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain.
That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he wouldFor Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost ! For this one Hope he makes his hourly moan, He wishes and can wish for this alone! Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.
THE HAPPY HUSBAND.
ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, AFTER
OFT, oft methinks, the while with Thee
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
And dedicated name, I hear A promise and a mystery,
A pledge of more than passing life, Yea, in that very name of Wife!
UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT TO
A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!
A feeling that upbraids the heart
With happiness beyond desert, That gladness half requesis to weep!
Nor bless I not ihe keener sense
Of transient joys, that ask no sting,
From jealous fears, or coy denying;
But born beneath Love's brooding wing, And into tenderness soon dying,
Wheel out their giddy moment, then
Renign the soul to love again. A more precipitated vein
Of notes, that eddy in the flow
Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave the sweeter under-strain
Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,
A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures Revisit on thy echoing strand :