THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES i>r ?Cc^x/ /C-^.-t-t^ A. a^U-i.^ — , r^- L-A.. ■u/^-^ /pH T M E £P j^w ^ ^p C^ \^\ ^ -it i w^ T o m o M E 1. ¥ m ¥ THE ENGLISH HELICON: A SELECTION OF MODERN POETRY. EDITED BY T. K. HERVEY. LONDON: A. H. BAILY AND CO. 83, CORNHILL. « • * « < « » • « «. « t tui nf 3lhigtrntintti SUBJECTS. PAINTERS. 1. Vignette Title .... Watteau . . 2. The Chief is arming in HIS Hall G. Cattermole . 3. Saturday Afternoon . . R. Farrier . . 4. The Land of Dreams . J. M.W. Turner 5. Queen Mab's Bower . . D. O. Hill . . 6. Winter W. Harvey . 7. The Shade of Time . . J. Hoist . . . 8. The Culprit Fay . . . E. T. Parris . 9. The Wild Cherry Tree A. B. Johns 10. Elaira H. Wanen . 11. Belle of the Ball Room W. Meadows . 12. Xarifa G. Cattermole . 13. GiNiE J. Boaden . . ENGRAVERS. PAGE Lightfoot . . 1 L. Stocks . . 6 H. Rolls. . . 55 C. Goodall . . 92 W. Miller . . 133 J. Goodyear . 170 W. H. Simmons 186 F. Bacon . . 216 W. Miller . . 261 W. R. Smith . 283 S. Sangster . , 316 C. Rolls . . . 330 J. Wagstaff . . 350 ENGLISH CONTENTS. King's Bridge Rev. F. W. Faber 1 To-morrow Percy Bysshe Shelley .... 6 The Trumpet Mrs. Hemans 6 The Legend of Hamilton Tighe .... Thomas Ingoldsby 7 To an Eagle . . . . , Dr. Percival (American) .... 11 To the Rainbow Thomas Campbell 14 Zara's Ear-rings • . . J. G. Lockhart 16 Temple of Jupiter Olympius T. K Hervey 18 The Waning Moon Percy Bysshe Shelley .... 19 Lines to an Indian Air Percy Bysshe Shelley .... 20 The Two Voices Mrs. Hemans 21 The Destraction of Sennacherib .... Lord Byron 23 The Deserted Garden Miss E. B. Barrett 24 To G. S. S Rev. F. W. Faber ' 28 The Crusader's Vow Miss E. L. Montagu ..... 29 Here 's to Thee, my Scottish Lassie ! . . Kev. John Moultrie 31 Gincvra Percy Bysshe Shelley .... 33 The Star of " The Legion of Honour" . . Lord Byron 38 Inscription on a Grotto . .... Anonymous 39 The Stranger in Louisiana Mrs. Hemans . 40 Evening Miss M. J. Jewsbury (Mrs. Fletcher) 41 Valedictory Stanzas to J. P. Kemble . . Thomas Campbell 43 The Land of Poetry Miss E. L. Montagu 46 Saturday Afternoon • N. P. Willis (American) .... 55 The Old Watcr-whecl John Ruskin 56 From the Arabic Anonymous 67 A Winter Landscape T. Stoddart 58 Epitaph Anonymous 50 The Red Fisliennan W. M. Praed . 60 The Lily of the Valley W. H. Harrison 68 To my Birdie ... Mrs. Soutiiey (Caroline Bowles) 60 VI CONTENTS. FAOS The Falls of Niagara John G. C. Beainard (American) . 71 The Jackdaw of Rheims ...... Thomas Ingoldsby 7'2 \Miy Love is Blind S. T. Coleridge 77 Song Percy Bysshe Shelley .... 78 The Dance of the Peasants Laman Blanchard 80 To a Skylark William Wordsworth .... 85 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea . . . Allan Cunningham 86 To the Bramble Flower Ebenezer Elliott 87 A Retrospective Review ". Thomas Hood 88 The Land of Dreams T. K. Heevey 92 I Never Cast a Flower Away .... Mrs. Southey (Caroline Bowles) . 96 Prince Emilias of Hessen-DaiTastadt . . R. M. Milnes 97 Better Moments N. P. Willis (American) .... 99 The Blood Horse Barry Cornwall 101 To a Child during Sickness ..... Leigh Hunt 103 Romaimt of Margret Miss E. B. Barrett 103 Nonsense Thomas Moore 113 On the Death of Ismacl Fitzadam . . . Miss Landon (Mrs. Maclean) . . 114 Stanzas Rev. George Crabbe . . . . 117 The Night-smelling Stock Mes. Southey (Caroline Bowles) . 119 The New Year's Eve Alfred Tennyson 122 To the Evening Wind W. C. Bryant (American) . . . 124 Thomas Ebenezer Elliott 126 On a Volunteer Singer S. T. Coleeidge 128 Ode to a Nightingale John Keats 129 " Weep for Yourselves" Mrs. Sigourney (American) . . . 132 The Song of Mab T. Stoddart 133 The Cloud Percy Bysshe Shelley ... 135 My Birth-day Thomas Moore 138 The Emigrant's Garden Miss E. L. Montagu 139 The Torn Hat N. P. Willis (American) .... 142 Hope T. K. Heevey 144 To the Butterfly Samuel Rogers 146 Dejection S. T. Coleeidge 147 My Lady's Page W. H. Haerison 152 The Barren Hill R. M. Milnes 154 Kirkstall Abbey Revisited Alaric A. Watts 156 Battle Hymn of the League T. B. Macauley 159 The After-state Rev. F. W. Faber 161 The Bird's Release Mrs. He mans 162 To a Highland Girl William Wordswoetu .... 103 CONTKNTS. VU P A O K Mont Blanc Miss Landon (Mrs. Maclean) . . Iti6 Address to a Wild Deer Pkofessor Wilson . .... 168 Winter Mary Howitt 170 On an Insignificant S. T. Coleridge 172 The Poet and his Brethren Thomas Powell 173 Address to an Egj^tian Mummy . . . Horace Smith 175 How Shall I Woo Her? W. M. Pkaed 178 From a Greek Epigram Samuel Rogers . 179 I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood 180 To my Mother Thomas Moore 181 Floranthe T. K. Hervey, 182 The Shadow John Malcolm 186 To a Waterfowl W. C. Bryant (American) . . . 188 The Unknown Grave Miss Landon (Mrs. Maclean) . . 189 Misery Percy Bysshe Shelley .... 191 The Wheels Rev. F. W. Faber 193 My Doves Miss E. B. Barrett 194 Oh! Envie 's an Uncannic Guest . . . Mrs. Southey (Caroline Bowles) . 197 The Last Man Thomas Campbeli 200 How Can I Sing? Sydney Walker 203 Night James Montgomery 205 Abou Ben Adhera and the Angel . . . Leigh Hunt 207 The Lamentation for Celin . . . . J. G. Lockhart 208 Epitaph on an Infant Anonymous 209 The Christian Virgin to her Lover . . . Rev. Thomas Dale 210 I Wandered Lonely William Wordsworth . . . 212 Charade W. M. Praed 213 The Last Separation Sir Edward Lytton Bulwek . . 214 The Culprit Fay JR. Drake (American) .... 216 The Tree of Rivelin Ebenezer Elliott 237 The Flight of Youth R. M. Milnes 238 Mariana Alfred Tennyson 242 Sonnet Thomas Hood 245 The Neglected Child Thomas Haynes Bayly .... 246 The Birth of a Poet John Neal (American) .... 248 The Cormnon Lot James Montgomery 249 Birds in Summer Mary Howitt 251 The Hunter Professor Wilson 253 Love and Reason Thomas Moore 254 Alnwick Castle Fitz-greene Halleck (American) 256 The Pen Rev. Dr. Croly 260 \111 CONTENTS. rAUk The Wild Cluiiy-ticc Baiiky Coenwali 261 The Boon of Memory Mks. Hemans 263 Sonnet Miss E. L. Montagu ... .264 The Lost Star Miss Landon (Mrs. Maclean) . . 265 'T is Time this Heart Lord Byeon 266 To a Statue of Hercules Samuel Rogers 268 The Poet's Bridal-day Song Allan Cunninguam 269 The Old Beggar Thomas Powell 271 On the Death of a Child Barry Cornwall 273 The Last Wish T. F. Teiebner 274 Sonnet Rev. W. H. Brookfield ... 275 A Scythian Banquet Song John Ruskin 276 The Blind Flower-girl's Song . . . . Sik Edward Lytton Bulwer . . 288 To the Picture of a Dead Girl .... T. K. Hervey 289 The Victim Bride W. H. Harrison 292 Sonnet Tuomas Hood 293 The Life of Uic Living Rev. F. W. Faber ...... 294 Lconidas Rev. Dr. Cboly 297 Love S. T. Coleridge 298 The Sculptor of Cyprus Rev. John Graham 302 The Happy Valley Thomas Miller 306 The Grave V 309 A Winter Thought W. H. Harrison 311 Passing Away Rev. J. Piehpont (American) . . 312 The Adopted Child Mrs. Hemans 314 The Belle of the Ball Room ..... W. M. Praed 316 The Boy and the Holy Image .... Mary Howitt 319 To a Lady T. F. Teiednkr 322 Stanzas T. Stoddart 323 Lines on a Bust of Shaksperc .... Henry Neele 325 Incognita ... James Montgomery 326 The Bridal of Andalla J. G. Lockhakt 330 Death of an Infant Mrs. Sigourney (American) ... 331 The Two April Mornings William Wordsworth .... 332 The Fountain William Wordsworth .... 334 Invocation to Love Miss E. L. Montagu 337 Youth and Age S. T. Coleridge ... . 310 The Night is closing round, Mother . . Bauuy Cornwall .342 Youth took, OIK' Siunmcr Day, his Lyre . V 343 The Student Miss E. B. Barrett , . . 346 My Mother's Grave Anonymous 349 CONTENTS. IX A Birth-day Ballad Miss M.J. Jkwsbi'ky (Mrs. I'lclchcr) The Grotto of Egeria T. K. Hervey The Ship of Heaveu Charles Swain . Winileiinerc T. F. Thiebner . Stanzas W. M. Pkaed . . The Warning Voice W. H. Harrison Childhood Eev. F. W. Fabeb Ten Years Ago Alaric A. Watts The Turf shall be my Fragrant Shrine . . Thomas Moore Invocation Mrs. Hemans The Seqjcnt-eharmer Rev. Dr. Croly . To Adelaide Barry Cornvstali. The Pastoral Song R. M. Milnes Fairies' Song Rev. John Graham The Pains of Sleep . • . S. T. Coleridge Charade W. M. Praed . . The Land of Spirits Charles Swain . The Past Barry Cornwall The Funeral Genius Mrs. Hemans PAOE 350 353 355 858 359 361 863 365 367 869 870 872 873 874 375 877 378 381 383 INTRODUCTION. There is a general complaint amongst the children of song, that the taste for poetry is on the decline amongst us ; and something like a disposition to fear that, amid the progress of utiHtarian objects, there is danger of its total extinction in the land. If the question thus raised were to be decided by the degree of attention which the bard of our day is enabled to com- mand for his inspirations, as compared with the enthusiasm which hailed the songs of his brethren twenty years ago, there would, certainly, be some reason for these gloomy anticipations. But the poet should be the last to despair of the indefeasible ascend- ancy and final triumph of his art. A more philosophical view of the matter will assuredly convince him that there is nothing in the immediate neglect under which it lies, whence any infer- ence is to be drawn as to its ultimate decline. Its outward fortunes, like those of everything whose manifestations make their appeal to the public taste, must be subject to the fluctuations of the national mind ; but its essential influence, as an interpreter of all the natural and moral aspects of the world, and as speaking to the universal passions of the hvnnan heart, has a sway as old, and must have one as enduring, as nature and passion them- XII INTRODUCTION. selves. The liistory of the art, in all times, and wherever it can be distinctly traced, exhibits, like that of all other moral and natural powers, a series of sleeps and awakenings, replacing each other, in the necessary sequence of action and reaction ; and presents examples of its revivification from trances so long and deathlike, as to make all future despondency on the subject of its fate, idle and unphilosophie. It is abundantly evident that the taste for poetry is but in one of those natural and temporary lulls, which fonn the alternate state of its prolonged existence ; and that its present repose is, at once, the necessary consequence of its past activity, and the certain pledge of its vigorous restoration. Besides this natural succession of action and repose, and not altogether unconnected therewith, there are causes more material and tangible, which help on the progress to the one or to the other state of the public mind, when once it has taken either direction. Connected with the advancing tide of poetic feeling, — sometimes occasioning its returning flow, at others availing them- selves thereof, but, in every case, assisting its progress, — are always to be found the names of certain masters of the lyre, which float upon its waters, and are speedily identified with its spreading flood in the public mind. These bards become the idols of the newly-awakened passion for their art, — come, in fact, to represent the art itself to the age whose more immediate introduction to it was in connexion with their song : and, as the national mind has only room for a certain number of idols at a time, it happens that others whose names have risen on the later waves, though with harps and tones as rich, perhaps, as INTRODUCTION. xiii those whicli have already engaged the public car, are left to pour their music unheeded and unrewarded by the world. The con- sequence of this is evident. The silencing of those voices which have monopolised the national enthusiasm, is followed by the decay of that same enthusiasm, — the passing away of the names which have been the representatives of the art, is taken for the departure of the art itself. The natural tendency of the over- strained taste to reaction, receives its accelerating impulse from tliis cause ; and the ebb of poetical feeling, under its influence, is in direct ratio with the energy and height of its previous flow. Something like this is the present condition of the national mind on the subject of poetry, and something like these are the causes by which it has been brought about. The great masters of song, who poured the tide of poetic feeling over the land, some twenty years ago, have, for the most part, disappeared, and left it to its reaction : whilst of those who remain to touch their harps, amid its ebb, there are some who still sing occasionally, as if to shew how much of their fame they owe to the circumstances of their first appearance, and how surely other bards would have won a portion of their laurels, had they contended for them in an equal field. It would be invidious, because not necessary to our purpose, here to point to the particular instances which illus- trate this position. They will, no doubt, suggest themselves to the reader. But, in the mean time, it may be observed, in behalf of the public, on the one side, that the fact of there being bards who can win attention to tlieir song, under circumstances the most unfavourable, proves how indestructible is the principle of XIV INTRODUCTION. poetic taste in the educated breast, — and, in behalf of the bards, on the other, that they who, in the day of apathy, can gain an audience at all, must be possessed of the true spell to which that principle is ever destined to answer. There is much in the circumstances of the present time to render it unpoetical, — or, more correctly speaking, to account for its apparent indifference to the voices by which poetry speaks. Even in the most palmy and propitious days of the art, the en- thusiasm (as distinguished from the mere taste) for its inspirations, is chiefly confined to the young or the disengaged ; — to the young, who have not yet learnt that the world has harsh realities which must be met, — or the disengaged, whom fortune^ has placed apart from its struggles. He who is busily occupied in the contests of life, has little time for the indulgences of the imagination. If his love for the muses leads him occasionally to their springs, it is that he may gather strength for the performance of the sterner duties which await him. But he has no leisure for exploring those dim and luxurious recesses, or wandering amid those haunted gardens and castles of indolence which woo the spirits of the imaginative and unemployed. It is with nations as with individuals ; and with the former, times of social disturbance, or of moral transition, have never been favourable to the manifesta- tions of the muse. True it is, no doubt, that the troubled periods of history are those in which the energies have been awakened, and the powers fostered, to which poetry, subsequently, and in calmer moments, makes her most successful appeals. It was at the close of the long struggle against Persian invasion, and under ^ INTRODUCTION. XV the influence of the energies which had grown almost divine in the progress of that great contest, that poetry, in Greece, spoke out, at once, with all her voices of painting, sculpture, philoso- phy, eloquence and song. The protracted silence of the muse, in England, during the struggles of the Roses, was broken by the minstrels who filled the land with song in the days of Eli- zabeth : — and it was not till the termination of the civil war, in the following century, that Milton employed those powers in the purchase of his true greatness, which had found sterner and stormier occupation, during its continuance. The remark is of universal application, and bears directly on the circumstances of our own day. If the present age has not been one of strife, it has, at least, been a period of engrossing interest for the national mind. Great questions, affecting the destinies of large sections of the human race, have kept men's thoughts in a state of breath- less attention, which has left them no leisure for any occupation less important than the examination of the vast issues on which tliey were fixed. Many of these questions have already received a wise solution ; and men begin to repose confidently on the prin- ciples which have governed their decision, for the rest. There is much to do still ; but a period of rest is visibly and certainly approaching, — and that, too, under the shelter of a state of things which includes little less than a social and political regeneration. New hopes and new feelings are preparing magnificent materials for the bard : and this unpoetical and pre-occupied age is bringing us to the threshold of a time, when poetry is likely to speak a language as glowing and triumphant as heretofore — when enlarged XVI INTRODUCTION. prospects and expanded humanities will supply the theme, and the minstrel will find an audience as attentive and eager as re- newed spirits and freshened sympathies can create. Tributary, too, to the same sure result — the renewed ascend- ancy of the muse — is another feature of the times, — which, also, is, nevertheless, adverse to its immediate manifestations, and has conspired with the others to bring, for a period, " all the daughters of music low." We live in an age that is eminently, and above all things, practical and vitilitarian, — yet has worked miracles such as poetry was in discredit with the practical of former ages for only dreaming. Science has, in our day, been applied to re- sults so far transcending the visions of our ancestors, even under the bardic calenture, that the attention of the age has been irre- sistibly attracted, and engrossingly fixed upon her marvels — as she carried her disciples like giants over the earth, at a speed which has disenchanted the seven-league boots of nursery-fable, — bore them, like genii, through the air, and into the depths of the waters — everywhere, in fact, where poetry wandered before, and, for so doing, was deemed by the prosers, a vagabond — narrowed the limits of space, and extended the capacities of time. In a word, fact has encroached upon the domain of fiction ; and held the minds of men enthralled, for a time, by the novelty and rapidity of its achievements. Devotion to the practical, has been a necessary homage to its conquests. In a rivalry between the real and the ideal, however, the latter will always have the advantage, in the end. Science has her limits, while imagination has none. The wing of fancy will always bear the poetic spirit above the solid medium INTRODUCTION. XVll on which the realist walks, into whatever region of elevation Science may have built up that : — and the new ground thus won by the latter, is but a fresh starting-place for the poet, as her new facts are fresh and magnificent materials for his song. The world will speedily become habituated to the novel dispensation under which it lives ; the marvels of to-day will be the commonplaces of to-morrow : — and, while Science is resting, in her new domains, from her rapid march, the poets, her pioneers, will again go forth in search of other regions, leading once more, as of old, the ardent spirits of the time in their train, and leaving Science to follow as, and when, she can. In vain, then, would the utilitarians assure us that poetry is dead ; — we venture to assure the utilitarians that "he is not dead, but sleepeth." So far as the conventions and accidents of this world can keep him down, he is, undeniably, just now, in one of his trances ; but we entreat the philosophers to believe that he is, nevertheless, immortal. The fountains of poetry are inex- haustible in the human heart ; and though the cares of life, or its fashions, may choke them vip in one breast, it is but that they may well forth in another. Every young, fresh spirit that God sends into this world of ours, is a new spring of poetry ; and all the super-strata which circumstances, or the utilitarians, may succeed in heaping over these, will not prevent the divining- rod of the true poet from, at times, finding them out, or hinder the waters from leaping up to the charm. Ancient and universal as this material frame of things, of which it is the inner spirit, the stream of poetry has run since the world began, and will XVIU INTRODUCTION. run till "time shall be no more" — like the famed river of Greek fable, sinking into the earth in one age or place, to re-appear in another — but flowing and fructifying, even when its course is hidden, and its music unheard — spreading and branching in all directions, through the heart of things and events, like the level of natural waters that lies beneath all soils, but makes its way into the light of day with more or less readiness, according to the accidents of the surface, and more or less sweetness and purity, according to the character of the media through which it has to well. And why should the philosophers be angry that this is so ? Poetry is a great teacher, — having this advantage over the utili- tarians, that it clothes its morals in language which has ready access to the universal heart. There is much significance in the fact, that the shrine of Delphi declined from its ancient veneration, from the day when its oracle ceased to prophesy in verse. Why should zeal for the useful seek to banish all beauty from the earth ? The land which was the most earnest and pas- sionate worshipper of the beautiful that the world has yet seen, was, likewise, an earnest and successful searcher after the true. We have a great reverence for the philosophers — but, then, we require that the philosophers shall not insist on having all the reverence to themselves, and shall allow occasional value to spe- culations which fall short of facts mathematically demonstrable. We believe the Society for the Promotion of Useful Knowledge to be a most respectable body, — but question their warrant to silence all the singing in the land. Do they "think, because INTRODUCTION. XIX they are virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" We are willing, and glad, to descend into coal-pits, with committees of the British Association, provided we may have leave, without reproach, to look stealthily about us, at times, for the Genius of the mine : — to accompany the geologist into the wilds and soli- tudes which are the scene of his researches, if we have his permission to peep into leafy nooks, in search of those spirits whom Milton heard singing about him, wherever he trode. The philosophers have our leave to square the circle, if they can — only we entreat them to spare our fairy rings : — and, when we accompany one of them on a balloon expedition into cloudland, it will be, principally, with the view of keeping a good look-out for Iris, or for Ariel, — and in the remote hope, weather permitting, of getting a run along the Milky Way. Why should the only weaver entitled to no consideration in our day, be the weaver of verse 1 — and why should all miners have wages, save they who delve in the rich mines of poetical thought? There is a national unthriftiness in a country thus undervaluing the gems of intel- lect, which has itself produced, and wears now, the richest gem the world has seen — the great Shakspere diamond. The realist may be assured that there are more things between heaven and earth than ever were revealed by the telescope, or dreamt of by the practical philosophers ; and the idealist be comforted, in an age of prose, by the conviction that the echoes of song can never be silent in the land where Shakspere sang. But while to the causes to which we have adverted above, it is owing that the present is not an age wliicli can be called XX INTRODUCTION. poetical, in the emphatic sense of the word, it follows, from what we have said of the universality of the poetic spirit, that no age can be wholly without its poetry. And it is a remarkable feature of the present one, that, in despite of the neglect with which the bard, and the frequent contempt with which his art, are treated in our day, a richer body of what is called minor, or fugitive, poetry has been produced in it, than can be shewn as the frviit of any other period of equal extent in the entire history of our literature. It is a fact altogether irreconcileable with the dogmas of the political economists, — a fact which might suggest to them that poetry is not exactly to be brought into the categories, or subjected to the arguments, applicable to more ma- terial things, — that, precisely at the moment when the market for poetry is at its lowest ebb, the swarm of poets should be greatest, — that the supply should be in the inverse ratio of the demand. It is our proposition, in defence of which the present volume is compiled, that there have been more sweet singers since the echoes of song have been deadened by the commercial lumber with which all the chambers of our world are filled, — more who have piped since the land refused to dance, and sung since it neglected to listen, than in any of the ages when the reign of the muse has been most triumphant in England. In the last fifteen years, there have stolen forth, in a thousand nooks and corners, poetical flowers of the finest scent and hues ; whose petals have never been warmed by the sunshine of public notice, and which have withered where they sprang, — seen only by the few whose habit it is to step aside, at times, from the highways INTRODUCTION. XXI of literature, and look into its quiet recesses and behind its leafy screens. Many a poetical heart has perished of that sickness which arises from the sense of unappreciated power ; and many a lyre has been broken, in despair, whose tones, had they found an audience, would have held the spirits of men in thrall, and won for its master a fame like that which he sees lavished upon bards who, singing with not more sweetness or more skill, sang first in more auspicious days. With these unborn sons of fame — like the dream-children of Charles Lamb, beings that might have been and were not, — we have nothing here to do. They died, " and their works followed them ;" and they cannot help our case against the Fadladeens of the world. But a very strong case, nevertheless, from familiar and authenticated evidence, we think that the following pages present, in favour of the body of lyric poets from which they are culled, but whose beauties they do not pretend to have exhausted, or nearly exhausted. It is as regards the supremacy of the present century in this particular walk only, that any pretension is here asserted ; although we have no doubt the reader will think that evidence is collaterally fur- nished of an occasional power, which, moulded by other influences, might have aimed at loftier tasks, and reached poetical heights short only of those on which sit the master-spirits of the world. To this higher order of development, unquestionably, the character of the times has been unpropitious. It is to the causes above enumerated, rather than to any special inclination in the genius of the writers themselves, that we must attribute the par- ticular form under which the great body of our recent poetry XXU INTRODUCTION. has appeared. In the absence of that encouragement which gave birth to poetical ventures of greater length, amongst their prede- cessors, the modern aspirants to the honours of the muse have been content to support their titles by efforts of less pretension ; and the public, which would have set its face against more imposing displays of the art, has been won to listen to snatches of song which, while they charmed by their sweetness, made no great demand upon its time and attention. A large proportion of the verse of the day has, in obedience to the necessities of the case, assumed the lyric shape, and insinuated itself into notice in the pages of one or other of the periodical publications. And here, a word or two may be justly said in favour of that exhausted, and now therefore abused, class of publications — the Annuals ; to whose existence, as a popular medium of communication between the poet and his audience, amid the difficulties of the time, we owe many a snatch of beautiful song, that, without them, would have perished. No doubt, as we have elsewhere had occasion to observe, " these publications had influence upon their age both for good and evil; and the manner of their action, Beneficial and otherwise, was pretty much the same upon the art as upon the literature which combined in their composition. That they gave greatly-increased employment to painters and engravers, and awakened a much-extended taste for the arts among the public, is balanced by the fact that they directed the efforts of the artist into narrow channels, and communicated a petty character to the public taste : and, in like manner, if they, unquestionably, pro- vided an audience for many a bard, who has since established INTRODUCTION. xxiii good claims to be heard, they flung certain fetters about the wing of his genius, which prevented him from soaring as he might otherwise have done, — in some measure prescribing the character, and limiting the conditions, of his song." They did good service in their day, notwithstanding, — which should not be forgotten, now, either by the author or the public. On the painted wings of these humming-birds, the fame of the former was wafted faster and farther than it could have been through the ordinary channels of publication ; and the latter vnll find, in their pages, a body of more beautiful poetry, of the same fugitive class from which this volume is selected, than in any other original English publication. Nearly all the writers from whom the following spe- cimens are selected, have been contributors to their pages, — and not a few have been greatly their debtors. With regard to the rank in the poetic scale which is entitled to be taken by the class itself, to which the following specimens belong, we are inclined to propose some modification of the existing dogmas on the subject. Difference of kind need not infer difference of degree ; and the power which, under one set of influences, is determined into the lyric form, might, in some cases, be directed with equal success, by another (allowing for the difference in the extent of the two undertakings), to the epic. A perfect drama would be no more a finished work of art than a perfect ode : — neither is it quite clear that the conditions of the one achievement are more diflacult than those of the other, though they may require different mental temperaments for their respective execution. The successful dramatist might fail as signally in the XXIV INTRODUCTION. construction of an ode, as the odist in that of a drama. Poems of this kind should, therefore, be measured in their own class — not against those of another. The voices are many by which poetry speaks. The note of the " household bird" is as surely of the domain of music, as the classic song of the nightingale ; and he whose lyre interprets any one of the more gentle emotions of the spirit, or renders truly one of the minor morals of nature, is not less certainly, if he be less loftily, a poet, than he who climbs the heaven of invention, and translates the fiery language of the passions, or whose harp gives back the echoes of the tem- pest, and reveals the oracles of nature in her more majestic moods. From this argument, as from every other, we exclude, of course, those supreme examples on which the hand of mastery in the " divine art" is so conspicuously stamped, as to place them, at once and visibly, above all other works, in all classes and kinds ; but such poems and bards are the rare and consummate gift of centuries. "It is only once in many ages that a genius appears, whose words, like those on the Written Mountain, last for ever:" — but minstrels whose instruments are tuned to utter " the low, sweet music of humanity," or catch and repeat some of the many pleasant tones by which the natural spirit speaks in his thousand haunts and hiding-places, are genii too. Balaam was as truly a prophet, and had a mission as certainly divine, when he took the road on his lowly ass, as he who travelled heavenward in the chariot of fire. The objection which is sometimes made to the personal cha- racter and querulous egotism of this species of poem, has been INTRODUCTION. XXV well and boldly met by Coleridge. To censure these " in a mo- nody or sonnet," he says, " is almost as absurd as to dislike a circle for being round.' — Why, then," he continues, "write sonnets or monodies ? Because they give me pleasure, when, perhaps, no- thing else could. * * * ' True !' it may be answered, ' but how is the public interested in your sorrows, or your description' " of them? "We are for ever attributing personal unities to ima- ginary aggregates. What is the public but a term for a number of scattered individuals ? of whom, as many will be interested in these sorrows, as have experienced the same, or similar. ' Holy be the lay Which, mourniug, soothes the mourner on his way.' If 1 could judge of others by myself, I should not hesitate to affirm, that the most interesting passages in all writings are those in which the author develops his own feelings. The sweet voice of Cona never sovmds so sweetly as when it speaks of itself; and I should almost suspect that man of an unkindly heart, who could read the opening of the third book of the ' Paradise Lost' without peculiar emotion." Without looking into the phi- losophy of the matter, there is little doubt of the fact, that the pensive tone of the personal records (of incident or sensation) chosen as the themes of the modern lyre, has an exceeding charm for the young and imaginative,' — who are, numerically, the principal readers of poetry, in the present day : nor, where the sentiment is not morbid, or visibly constrained, is the philosophy of the matter far to seek. Many such a strain there is, in the following pages, xxvi INTRODUCTION. which will never want an audience or an echo, be the pre-occu- pations of the age what they will. In collecting together these specimens of the lyric poetry of the nineteenth century, it has appeared to the Editor desirable, that the volume should likewise represent, by a sufficient ^number of examples, the condition of this popular and graceful branch of letters amongst our transatlantic brethren — should give the English reader some means of judging how far the western inheritors of his literature and language, have succeeded in naturalising on the American soil, the poetic laurel which they transplanted from their father-land. That a nation which has reclaimed its mag- nificent site from the wilderness, with a rapidity announcing energies that are nowhere paralleled in the page of history — which has exchanged the feeble and uncertain step of infancy for the free and majestic march of consummate civilisation, in a time so short, with reference to the stupendous result, as to suggest the notion of a world built by genii — which, in every other de- partment of mind and form of production, has kept pace with the most vigorous of the old national soils, that have had the fertilising of antique experience, and the tillage of ages — that a shrewd, talking, stirring, speculating, and inquisitive people like this, should, in the general field of literature alone, have done but little, and in its poetical walks next to nothing, is a fact, at first sight, sufficiently remarkable to suggest an enquiry into its causes. Not, be it understood, that America is without a ^^ corpus poetarum" of her own, — or one large enough to surprise such of our readers (and they will, in all probabihty, be the greater INTRODUCTION. XXVU number) as, having no more extended acquaintance with American poetry than is derived from the graceful specimens that have, within a very limited number of years back, found their way into this country, shall turn to an examination of even so much of her doings, in that way, as has been recorded and preserved. How much more of the same kind may have been lost, in a country that, according to the writer of an admirable series of papers in the Athenaeum (the late Mr. Timothy Flint), has swarmed with verse-makers, if it has not been abundant in poets, the reader may measure approximatively, by the dreary mortality that prevails amongst the poetical offspring of the four hundred bards whom the same writer calculates as the number presently ministering in the various Periodical-temples of the muse, throughout America. But, no poetry — or scarcely any — has America, as yet, which can, in any sense, be called national — on which the stamp of the great continent is visibly impressed. Free of the same literary fountains as ourselves, she has been content to go back to the ancient wells, for the appeasing of her poetic thirst — or break into the modern inclosures of her old ally, and, selecting from the many pleasant channels into which he has conducted their wave, for his own profit and recreation, draw off its spiritual waters in American buckets. From the pure well of English undefiled, which is as much the property of the American as it is ours, the former might, on the first view of the case, be expected, ere now, to have sent the rivers of song through his own boundless plains and luxuriant valleys, flinging upon their pathways the flowers of the American climate, and reflecting the XXVm INTRODUCTION. stupendous features and picturesque struggles of the new world from their musical streams. As yet, the Americans have done nothing of this. While the accidents of the country — its pecu- liarities of form and feature — have, with marvellous sagacity, been, for every other purpose, and in every other direction, turned to prodigious account, scarcely an attempt has been made to open up the poetic mines, which, nevertheless, lie far spreading, and deeply imbedded in the American soil. The defence of newness put forward by some of the apologists for this literary barrenness in the great American field (and by Mr. Flint, amongst the rest), — the argument that America has a litera- ture of forty years only, to shew against England's nine hundred, — is built upon a singiUar fallacy. The two literatures reckon their antiquity from a common date. Up to a certain point, British literature is American literature ; and it is only from the period at which they separate, that the page of the American edition becomes barren. "It is," says Mr. Flint, "one of our painful alternatives, to be obliged to strive either to forget the pages of the bard of Avon, the blind bard, and the wild and pro- fligate bai-d (by which latter Byron is meant), and lock up all the amaranthine treasures of the parent country, or find our best efforts still tending downward towards feeble imitation, the shadows of a shade." Whatever truth this argument may have for the one shore of the Atlantic, it has for the other. The English poetry of the nineteenth century is in precisely the same predicament, as regards the two first, and the indi- vidual English poet, as regards them all. In fact, it has been INTRODUCTION. XXIX one of the peculiarities of her national history, that while America had everything else to conquer for herself, she had a literature neither to conquer or to form. She started on her western career, with a perfected language and a consummate lore, as her undisputed inheritance — and it might fairly have been ex- pected, had there not been other agencies at work (for which we are to look) that, setting out at the same period of her intellectual growth, to inhabit a new region — with equal in- struments to explore a virgin soil — she should have shewn the world a richer page than the spiritual sister from whom she had parted, and exhibited a mind equally educated, but coloured with the hues of a new heaven, and braced with the vigorous aliment of a fresh field. Even from the earliest days of trans- atlantic colonisation, it should seem that the vast natural features of the great continent into which the pilgrims came, from their narrow island, the novel forms of life which they there encount- ered, and the picturesque contest so long maintained, in their presence, between two differing shapes of civilisation, would surely have both inspired, and coloured, the poetical mood, — notwith- standing that the connexion with home, forbidding the settlers to look upon themselves as in any respect a distinct race, and to send much of the poetry of their fancy and their affections over the waters, modified those influences, in a great degree. But, from the period of the completed revo- lution, — when all the links with the old country, save those of the past, were broken, and all the moral energies of the emancipated land were awake — and when, to the strange wild XXX INTRODUCTION. incidents of her early settlement, and the stupendous natural features amid which it was effected, she had to add the great events of her revolution, and the trumpet notes of her tri- umph, as materials for her muse, — we may well enquire how it is that literature did not come vigorously forth, like all the other forms of American mind, and poetry take a tone and a theme wholly American ? Why is it, that the few and graceful specimens of the modern American muse which we have here given, largely represent, (in proportion to the rest of our volimie,) the store of such from which they are taken ; — and that even those few, if they were given anonymously, might, for the most part, be perused, without a suspicion, on the part of the reader, that they are not logically at home, in a book professing to give draughts from the English Helicon, of the nineteenth century, alone? To this question, the remarks which we have already made on the reasons for the temporary lull of the poetic n^ood amongst ourselves, if their argument be sound, supply the ob- vious and sufficient answer. The days of earl}' settlement in America were days of struggle for every foot of ground, which the settlers had first to reclaim from the forest, and then defend against its tenants, human and otherwise. A life of unceasing toil and danger left no leisure to the pilgrim fathers, or their more immediate descendants, for the luxuries of the imagination. So with Republican America. Committed, for a time, to a tremendous struggle for her national existence, — engaged, next, in the great and engrossing occupation of securing the fruits of her hard triumph, — and involved, since, in the continued whirl INTRODUCTION. XXxi of the practical interests and busy realities which crowd to the scene of a new social experiment, and push and jostle each other for the appropriate places into which they are gradually, but noisily, settling — her mind has not attained that state of repose, in which they who think take their natural places, as the leaders of those who act, and amid the depth of whose calm and passionless hush the sound of the dulcimer is heard in the land. The tilting is over, — and the field is clearing, — and comba- tants and spectators are all crowding and struggling for the best places at that coming time of festival and calm, which is the hour of the minstrels. Swarming with the life of a young and vigorous civilisation, America is busy, yet, in marshalling her legions over the boundless territory which expands before her daily march. The rush over the prairie affords little breathing-space for taking to the general heart the sense of its picturesque wonders ; — the sound of the axe in the wilderness drowns the still small voices that spoke to the meditative mood, amid its primeval silence and majestic repose ; — and the strife in the new forum, and tumult in the young mart, make that present moral condition in which "wisdom crieth aloud in the street, and no man regardeth her." The noise of the builders of the great Babel, in fine, diverts the national mind from looking up to that heaven of thought, to which, nevertheless, the majestic edifice itself manifestly points and, amid all the stir and turmoil around, is surely and serenely tending. The very fact of the nation having started on a career like this, with a perfected literature, has been, itself, a cause of the literary XXXU INTRODUCTION silence which, for a period, it has rftaintained. The beginnings of most of the existing forms of social organisation, exhibit, where they can be traced, the roots of a national literature, mingling with the other products of the early soil ; and their times of storm are those amid whose excited agencies the anti- quarian examiner finds some rude fibre put forth, accommodating itself to the accidents of the ground, and, so, determining the direction (as these form its foundation) in which the stately columns and leafy luxuriance of the consummate literature of a people afterwards extend. But modern America came to her task of constructing, with a literature ripened into that perfection in which it is already a luxury, — too refined to help on, or harmonise with, the rough work in hand, — one of those in which the busy forfeit the opportunity to indulge, but which they can lay de- liberately aside till wanted ; — a literature, too, which had, at some future period of more leisure, to be fitted into the soil — not grow out of it. When, at length, that thirst of the natural heart, which can never be long suppressed, broke forth in the breasts of some of the young and less engrossed, recourse was had to this literature, even as it had been put away by their fathers; and, with the habit of ancient times, the heart went back to the old country for what more it wanted. Indeed, it was practically a necessity of political economy that, for a time, it should do so— or go without. When an intellectual demand had arisen, suflScient to make it economically fitting that it should be met, but not extensive enough to justify its being met at any great expense, the bookseller looked abroad for the wares which INTRODUCTION. XXXlii cost him nothing — or little ; and England became to America the market of mind. The voice of her own spirituality, becoming daily more and more heard, — backed by the national vanity, to which, among other national qualities, it appealed, — was long unable to contend, in the great republic, against the strong prac- tical rule which regulates supply and demand, with reference to a common measure of value. So long as the American pub- lisher would pay nothing for the copyrights which he might forage for elsewhere, the American poet had no place or office in a land where all men were scrambling for the political and economical wealth that had fallen amongst them. In this contest it is, between the aroused spirituality of the nation and its intense materialism, that the hundreds and hundreds of bards, of whom Mr. Flint has spoken, have appeared at the shrine of the American muse, to strike their lyres (such as they were) once in her honour, — and then gone forth to the counting-house, that they might eat — coming back no more to the temple. To these causes, too, it has been owing that the finer poetical spirits, — who are, one by one (and yearly more and more) separating themselves from the sordid crowd, types of that coming brightness of which they are the Avatars, — like the golden lights that steal, singly, into the twilight sky, proclaiming the approaching pomp of evening and the certain reign of the stars, — finding scarcely an audience at home, — where the busy world has not yet retired from its toiling after wealth to the peaceful enjoyment of that starry time, — have, in looking to us for their models, looked, also, too much, it may be feared, in the same direction, for those appro- XXXIV INTRODUCTION. priate rewards which the sons of song must have — or they die ! And hence it is, that the specimens which we have given of the music made by these finer American spirits, while they want, for the most part, the full rich tones of the English lyre, are, with one remarkable exception (which, because it is such an exception, we have given here, in spite of a length that must otherwise have excluded it), as regards both air -and rhythm and tone, and all other expressive properties, but echoes of that same English lyre. Sufficiently beautiful, however, they are, to prove that a better state of things has arisen across the Atlantic. The American spirit has taken that stride in the fine arts, at which the spirit of a nation never stops. Such music as her lyre already breathes, fails not to awaken echoes, even where they have slumbered long; — and the echoes once awakened, the song will grow sweeter for their sake. As the whirl of new life (scarcely yet done wondering at its own sense of power and vitality) subsides into the majesty of repose, the mind of the nation will come imposingly forth, and demand a poetry of its own. The evidence is before us, that the demand will not be likely to remain unanswered. The establishment of a law of international copyright — for which America, herself, and all the great European countries, are ripe, — will enable the native bard to compete with the foreigner, in his own literary markets ; — and then the national pride will do the rest. When all these favourable circumstances, the sequence of which is already in action, shall have combined, there can be little doubt that America (notwithstanding the theory of INTRODUCTION. XXXV moral deterioration which some physiologists have maintained against her, and vi^hich every fact of her history disproves) w^ill assert that vigour, in this new form of her genius, which she has impressed on every other work to which she has laid her hand, — and that we shall have the features of her history and climate reflected in her own poetry. America is, herself, a grand poetical, as well as pohtical, truth ; and if her poetical face looks rather forward than backward, the morals that are written on the future are as true and sublime subjects of poetry, as those which are drawn from its favourite theme of the past. But neither is she — as no people in this place of Time can be — without poetical materials supplied by the past, too ; and she has some even which are empha- tically hers alone. Her vast inland seas, and interminable rivers, and stupendous cataracts — her boundless prairies and untrodden forests — her cities, with all their tumult of to-day, on the very verge of the solitudes over which broods, yet unbroken, the hush of ages — and the mighty tide of life and impulse which she pours through the vallies and over the uplands, crowded with the melancholy mounds that are the silent dwellings of the dead generations of the red man, — in a word, the contrast everywhere presented, or sug- gested, between a growing civilisation and a civilisation extinct, — and by a soil one-half of which is almost fearfully pervaded by the rush onwards to a giant future, while the other sits dark and lonely beneath the veil of a mysterious and impenetrable past, — are all elements of a poetry with which England need not doubt that America is one day, to illustrate the language which is common to them two. Many fond ties and sympathies there must ever be XXXVl INTRODUCTION. between the nations, founded in ancient memories and a brotherhood of ages, which hours of passion are not to dissolve ; and the per- sonal pride of each, in whatever the other shall achieve of great and glorious, is a motive of attachment which neither of two nations so covetous and ambitious should lose sight of. We desire, therefore, to keep the literary career of America steadily in view — a knowledge of which desire, on the other side of the Atlantic, is not likely to make that career less distinguished ; and we hold out the hand of brotherhood to her now, when, in the contests of literature, we are all the winners, that she may be willing to extend it to us in her day of intellectual power — when, she, perhaps, in her turn, may take the lead. With regard to the principle of selection which has been adopted with these specimens, generally, they can scarcely be said, in the strict sense of the word, to be the result of selec- tion at all, — certainly not upon any principle which could be readily recognised. Nothing like a systematic view of even the class of literature to which they belong, for the period of time over which they extend, has been intended. The specimens are taken nearly at random, beauty in one kind or another beino- alone sought as their recommendation. As we have said, they indicate — not exhaust — the wealth of the field from which they are gathered ; and to offer them as substantively representing the body of poets which belong to their period, would be to do great injustice to many who have a good claim to be heard in any such assemblage. Some of the bards whose names are loudest in the public ear, have been omitted from this volume, because of INTRODUCTION. XXXvii that very circumstance, and of the great general familiarity with their works which is its consequence. From others of the same class, the Editor has borrowed, whose poems are, nevertheless, much more familiarly talked of than frequently read, or fully known: — and now and then, a piece of versification is introduced from some more obscure hand, — first, for its own intrinsic beauty, and then for that other and touching reason — of its obscurity. It is impossible to read the Annual of to-day, in comparison with the periodical of fifty years ago, without feeling how many a bard we have amongst us, scarcely recognised as a prophet, who, under certain other auspices, might have purchased the reward of a great name ; — or to turn over a collection like the present, beside the collections of former periods, without feeling that, if the muse of England be dead to-day, she has a beauty in her shroud, which was wanting to some of the epochs when she was supposed to be most alive and stirring. It is the de- sign of this volume, in a word, to prove that, if she be not, now, in one of her periods of power, it is less the fault of her bards than of their audience ; — and that the golden age of poetry that is past will, at least, be united to the golden age which is to come, by a chain of " linked sweetness, long drawn out." For the appearance of poems from the Editor's own pen, in a volume professing to have such objects, he need offer nothing in the way of apology or explanation, to those who know the arrangements made by a publisher with his editor, on occa" sions of this kind. To others, there might be more of affectation in dwelling on the subject, than in leaving it untouched. The XXXviii INTRODUCTION. Editor will only add, then, that, in this matter, the power of SELECTION was all that was left to him, with liberty to state the fact : and that even from the responsibility of such selection it was offered that he should be relieved, — but he preferred re- taining that in his own hands. THE ENGLISH HP] L ICON KING'S BRIDGE. BY THE IIF.V. F. W. FABER. The dew falls fast and the night is dark, And the trees stand silent in the park ; And winter passeth from bough to bough, With stealthy foot that none may know ; But little the old man thinks he weaves His frosty kiss on the ivy leaves. From bridge to bridge, with tremulous fall. The river droppeth down, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. Old trees by night are like men in thought, By poetry to silence wrought ; They stand so still and they look so wise, With folded arms and half-shut eyes, B THE ENGLISH HELICON. More shadowy than the shade they cast When the wan moonlight on the river past. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith ; It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death ! Oh ! the night is dark ; but not so dark As my poor soul in this lonely park. There are festal lights by the stream, that fall, Like stars, from the casements of yonder hall ; But harshly the sounds of joyaunce grate On one that is crushed and desolate. From bridge to bridge, with tremulous fall, The river droppeth down, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. Oh, Mary ! Mary ! covdd I but hear What this river saith in night's still ear. And catch the faint whispering voice it brings From its lowlands green and its reedy springs,- — It might tell of the spot where the greybeard's spade Turned the cold wet earth, in the lime-tree shade. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death ! For death was born in thy blood with life — Too holy a fount for such sad strife : Like a secret curse, from hour to hour, The canker grew with the growing flower, THE ENGLISH HELICON. And little we deemed that rosy streak Was the tyrant's seal on thy virgin cheek. From bridge to bridge, with tremulous fall, The river droppeth down, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. But fainter and fainter thy bright eyes grew, And ruder and redder that rosy hue ; And the half-shed tears that never fell, And the pain within thou wouldst not tell, And the wild, wan smile, — all spoke of death. That had withered my chosen with his breath. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death ! 'T was o'er thy harp, one day in June, — I marvelled the strings were out of tune, — But lighter and quicker the music grew, And deadly white was thy rosy hue ; One moment — and back the colour came, Thou calledst me by my Christian name. From bridge to bridge, with tremulous fall, The river droppeth down. As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. Thou badest me be silent and bold. But my brain was hot, and my heart was cold. I never wept, and I never spake, But stood like a rock where the salt seas break And to this day I have shed no tear O'er my blighted love and my chosen's bior. THE ENGLISH HELICON. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death ! I stood in the church, with burning brow, The lips of the priest moved solemn and slow. I noted each pause and counted each swell, As a sentry numbers a minute-bell ; For unto the mourner's heart they call From the deeps of that wondrous ritual. From bridge to bridge, with tremulous fall. The river droppeth down. As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. My spirit was lost in a mystic scene. Where the sun and the moon, in silvery sheen, Were belted with stars on emerald wings. And fishes and beasts and all fleshly things, And the spheres did whirl with laughter and mirth Round the grave forefather of the earth. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death ! The dew falls fast and the night is dark. The trees stand silent in the park ; The festal lights have all died out, And nought is heard but a lone owl's shout. The mists keep gathering more and more ; But the stream is silent as before. THE ENGLISH HELICON. From bridge to bridge, with tremulous fall, The river droppeth down, As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall On the skirts of Cambridge town. Why should I think of my boyhood's bride, As 1 walk by this low-voiced river's side ? And why should its heartless waters seem Like a horrid thought in a feverish dream ? But it will not speak ; and it keeps in its bed The words that are sent us from the dead. The river is green, and runneth slow — We cannot tell what it saith : It keepeth its secrets down below, And so doth Death ! TO-MORROW. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Where art thou, beloved To-morrow ? When young and old, and strong and weak, Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow. Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, — In thy place — ah ! well-a-day ! We find the thing we fled — To-day. THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE TRUMPET, BY MRS. IIEMANS. The trumpet's voice hath roused the laud- Light up the beacon-pyre ! A hundred hills have seen the brand, And waved the sign of fire ! A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast, And, hark ! was that the sound of seas ? A king to war went past ! The chief is arming in his hall,' The peasant by his hearth ; The mourner hears the thrilling call, And rises from the earth ! The mother on her first-born son Looks with a boding eye ; — They come not back, though all be won. Whose young hearts leap so high. The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side ; E'en for the marriage altar crowned The lover quits his bride ! And all this haste and change and fear. By earthly clarion spread ! How will it be when kingdoms hear The blast that wakes the dead '( ~£. tJ'^^c/oi. THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE. IIY THOMAS INGOLDSBY. The Captain is walking his quarter-deck, With a troubled brow and a bended neck ; One eye is down through the hatchway cast, The other turns up to the truck on the mast ; Yet none of the crew may venture to hint " Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint ! " The Captain again the letter hath read Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spitliead ; Still, since the good ship sailed away, He reads that letter three times a-day ; Yet the writing is broad and fair to see As a skipper may read in his degree, And the seal is as black and as broad and as flat, As his own cockade in his own cocked hat : He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro, " Curse the old woman — she bothers me so !" He pauses now, for the topmen hail — " On the larboard quarter a sail ! a sail ! " That grim old (Captain he turns him quick. And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick. " The breeze is blowing— huzza ! huzza ! The breeze is blowing — away ! away ! The breeze is blowing — a race ! a race ! The breeze is blowing — we near the chase ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. Blood will flow, and bullets will fly, — Oh ! where will be then young Hamilton Tighe ? " — — " On the foeman's deck, where a man should be, With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee. Cockswain or boatswain or reefer may try, But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe ! " Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue. Between a gingerbread-nut and a Jew, And his pigtail is long and bushy and thick. Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick. Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade ; He stands by the breech of a long carronade, The linstock glows in his bony hand, Waiting that grim old skipper's command. " The bullets are flying — huzza ! huzza ! The bullets are flying — away ! away ! " — The brawny boarders mount by the chains, And are over their buckles in blood and in brains : On the foeman's deck, where a man should be, Young Hamilton Tighe Waves his cutlass high, And C'apitaine Crcq^and bends low at his knee ! Hairy-faced Dick, linstock in hand, Is waiting that grim-looking skipper's command : — A wink comes sly From that sinister eye — Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly. And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. There 's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall, Her pages and handmaidens come at her call : " Now haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and see How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee !" The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy, They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy ; And the mealy-faced boy says, " Mother dear, Now Hamilton's dead, I 've a thousand a-year!" The lady has donned her mantle and hood, She is bound for shrift at St. Mary's Rood : — " Oh ! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll, And the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul, And the tablet fair shall be hung up on high, Orate pro animci Hamilton Tic/he !" Her coach and four Draws up to the door, With her groom and her footman and half a score more ; The lady steps into her coach alone, And they hear her sigh and they hear her groan ; They close the door, and they turn the pin. But there 's one rides with her that never stept in ! All the way there, and all the way back, The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack. The horses snort and plunge and kick. Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick ; And the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say, " What makes the old coach so heavy to-day ?" But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and sees A man sitting there with his head on his knees ! 'T is ever the same, — in hall or in bower, Wherever the place, whatever the hour. 10 THE ENGLISH HELICON. That lady mutters and talks to the air, And her eye is fixed on an empty chair ; But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread, " She talks to a man with never a head !" There 's an old yellow Admiral living at Bath, As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath ; And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers, They seem to be trying to peep at his ears. That old yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms, And he plays long whist, but he frets and fumes, — For all his knaves stand upside down, And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown ; And the kings and the aces and all tlie best trumps Get into the hands of the other old frumps ; While, close to his partner, a man lie sees Counting the tricks, with his head on his knees ! In RatclifFe Highway there 's an old marine store, And a great black doll hangs out at the door ; There are rusty locks, and dusty bags. And musty phials, and fusty rags. And a lusty old woman, called Thirsty Nan, — And her crusty old husband 's a hairy-faced man ! That hairy-faced man is sallow and wan, And his great thick pigtail is withered and gone ; And he cries, " Take away that lubberly chap That sits there and grins, with his head in his lap !" And the neighbours say, as they see him look sick, " What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick !" THE ENGLISH HELICON. 11 That Admiral, Lady, and Hairy-faced man May say what they please, and may do what they can ; But one thing seems remarkably clear, — They may die to-morrow, or live till next year, — But wherever they live, or whenever they die, They '11 never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe ! TO AN EAGLE. BY DK. PEUCIVAL (AMERICAN). Bird of the broad and sweeping wing ! Thy home is high in heaven. Where wide the storms their banners fling, And the tempest-clouds are driven ! Thy throne is on the mountain top, Thy fields the boundless air ; And hoary peaks, that proudly prop The skies, thy dwellings are ! Thou sittest, like a thing of light. Amid the noontide blaze : The midway sun is clear and bright — It cannot dim thy gaze. Thy pinions to the rushing blast O'er the bursting billow spread. Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, Like an angel of the dead ! 12 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag, And the waves are white below, And on, with a haste that cannot lag. They rush in an endless flow. Again, thou hast plumed thy wing for flight To lands beyond the sea, And away, like a spirit wreathed in light. Art hurrying wild and free ! Thou hurriest over the myriad waves, And thou leavest them all behind ; Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves, Fleet as the tempest wind. When the night-storm gathers dim and dark, With a shrill and a boding scream, Thou rushest by the foundering bark. Quick as a passing dream ! Lord of the boundless realm of air ! In thy imperial name. The hearts of the bold and ardent dare The dangerous path of fame. Beneath the shade of thy golden wings The Roman legions bore. From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs. Their pride to the polar shore. For thee they fought, for thee they fell, And their oath was on thee laid ; To thee the clarions raised their swell, And the dying warrior prayed : THE ENGLISH HELICON. Thou wert, through an age of death and fears, The image of pride and power, Till the gathered rage of a thousand years Burst forth in one awful hour. And then, a deluge of wrath, it came, And the nations shook with dread ; And it swept the earth, till its fields were flame, And piled with the mingled dead : Kings were rolled in the wasteful flood, With the low and crouching slave ; And together lay, in a shroud of blood, The coward and the brave ! And where was then thy fearless flight? — " O'er the dark mysterious sea. To the lands that caught the setting light. The cradle of Liberty : There, on the silent and lonely shore. For ages, 1 watched alone ; And the world, in its darkness, asked no more Where the glorious bird had flown. " But then came a bold and hardy few, And they breasted the unknown wave ; I caught afar the wandering crew, And I knew they were high and brave : I wheeled around the welcome bark, As it sought the desolate shore ; And up to heaven, like a joyous lark, My quivering pinions bore. 14 . THE ENGLISH HELICON. " And now, that bold and liardy few Are a nation wide and strong, And danger and doubt I have led them through, And they worship me in song ; And over their bright and glancing arms, On field and lake and sea, With an eye that fires and a spell that charms, 1 guide them to victory!" TO THE RAINBOW. IIY THOMAS CAMTBELL. Triumphal arch ! that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what thou art. Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given. For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so. As v/hen I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow ? THE ENGLISH IIEUCOX. 15 When science from crention's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws ! And yet, fair bov/ ! no fabling dreams. But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. Wlien o'er the green, undeluged earth, Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign ! And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod. Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep. The first-made anthem rang On earth, delivered from the deep. And the first poet sang ! Nor ever shall the muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam : Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the prophet's theme ! The Earth to thee her incense yields. The lark thy welcome sings. When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs. 16 THE ENGLISH HELICON. How glorious is thy girdle, cast O'er mountain, tower and town ; Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh, in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam ! For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span ; Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man. ZARA'S EAR-RINGS. (From the Spanish) BY J. G. LOCKHART. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped into the well. And what to say to INIu^a, I cannot, cannot tell." — 'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter, " The well is deep,— far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water ; To me did Mu^a give them, when he spake his sad farewell. And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell. " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings! — they were pearls, in silver set. That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget ; THE ENGLISH HELICON. 17 That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, Oh ! what will Mu^a think of me,^I cannot, cannot tell ! " My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — he '11 say they should have been, Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear. Changing to the changing hght, with radiance insincere ; That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well ; Thus will he think, — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. *' He '11 think, when I to market went, I loitered by the way ; He '11 think, a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say ; He '11 think, some other lover's hand, among my tresses noosed, From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl unloosed ; He '11 think, when I was sporting so beside this marble well. My pearls fell in, — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. " He '11 say, I am a woman, and we are all the same ; He '11 say, I loved, when he was here to whisper of his flame, — But, when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Mu^a, and cared not for his token. — My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — oh ! luckless, luckless well. For what to say to Mu^a, alas ! I cannot tell. " I '11 tell the truth to Mu^a, — and I hope he will beUeve, — That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve : That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone ; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, — And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well !" IS THE ENGLISH HELICON TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS. BY T. K. HERVEV. Thou art not silent! — oracles are thine Which the wind utters, and the spirit hears, Lingering, 'mid ruined fane and broken shrine. O'er many a tale and trace of other years ! Bright as an ark, o'er all the flood of tears That wraps thy cradle-land— thine earthly love — Where hours of hope, 'mid centuries of fears. Have gleamed, like lightnings through the gloom above, Stands, roofless to the sky, thy home, Olympian Jove ! Thy columned aisles with whispers of the past Are vocal ! — and, along thine ivied walls, While Elian echoes murmur in the blast, And wild flowers hang, like victor-coronals, In vain the turbaned tyrant rears his halls, And plants the symbol of his faith and slaughters ! — Now, even now, the beam of promise falls Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters. And a Greek Ararat is rising o'er the waters ! Thou art not silent ! — when the southern fair, Ionia's moon, looks down upon thy breast. Smiling, as pity smiles above despair. Soft as yovmg beauty soothing age to rest, Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest ; And she, the minstrel of the moonlight hours, THE ENGLISH HELICON. 19 Breathes, like some lone one sighing to be blest, Her lay — half hope, half sorrow — from the flowers. And hoots the prophet-owl, amid his tangled bowers ! And round thine altar's mouldering stones are born Mysterious harpings, wild as ever crept From him who waked Aurora every morn, And sad as those he sung her till she slept. A thousand, and a thousand years have swept O'er thee, who wert a moral from thy spring — A wreck in youth ! * — nor vainly hast thou kept Thy lyre ! Olympia's soul is on the wing. And a new Iphitus has waked beneath its string ! THE WANING MOON. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. And like a dying lady, lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy veil. Out of her chamber, led by the insane And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, The moon arose up in the murky earth, A white and shapeless mass. « The temple of Jupiter Olympius, at Athens, was commenced by Pisi.stratus, on a scale of great magnificence, — but never completed. 20 THE ENGLISH HELICON. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. I ARISE from dreams of thee, In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee. And a spirit in my feet Has led me — who knows how ? — To thy chamber- window, sweet ! The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream ; The champak odours fail. Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine. Oh, beloved as thou art ! Oh, lift me from the grass ! 1 die, I faint, I fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast, Oh, press it close to thine again. Where it will break at last ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 21 THE TWO VOICES. BY MRS. IIEMANS. Two solemn voices, in a funeral strain, Met, as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain Meet in the sky : — " Thou art gone hence ! " — one sang ; — " our light is flown, Our beautiful, that seemed too much our own Ever to die ! " Thou art gone hence ! our joyous hills among Never again to pour thy soul in song, When spring-flowers rise ! Never the friend's familiar step to meet With loving laughter and the welcome sweet Of thy glad eyes ! " " Thou art gone home, gone home ! " — then high and clear Warbled that other voice ; — " thou hast no tear Again to shed. Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain ; Never, weighed down by memory's clouds, again To bow thy head ! " Thou art gone home ! oh, early crowned and blest ! Where could the love of that deep heart find rest With aught below ? Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away : Thrice blessed to go ! " 22 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Yet sighed again that breeze-like voice of grief, — " Thou art gone hence : alas ! that aught so brief, So loved should be ! Thou tak'st our summer hence ; the flowers, the tone, The music of our being, — all in one Depart with thee ! " Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled ! Canst thou be of the dead — the awful dead — The dark unknown ? Yes, to the dwelling where no footsteps fall. Never again to light up hearth or hall, Thy smile is gone ! " " Home, home ! " — once more the exulting voice arose ;- " Thou art gone home ! from that divine repose Never to roam ! Never to say ' Farewell,' to weep in vain, To read of change in eyes beloved, again : Thou art gone home ! " By the bright waters now thy lot is cast ; Joy for thee, happy friend ! thy bark hath past The rough sea's foam ! Now the long yearnings of thy soul are stilled ; Home, home ! thy peace is won, thy heart is filled : Thou art gone home ! " THE ENGLISH HELICON. 23 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. BY LORD BYRON. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green. That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill. And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale. With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 24 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE DESERTED GARDEN. BY MISS E. R. DARRETT. Since tliat I saw this gardine wasted. — Spenser. I MIND me in the days departed, How often, underneath the sun, With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted. The beds and walks were vanished quite ; And, wheresoe'er had fallen the spade. The greenest grasses Nature led. To sanctify her right. I called it my wilderness, For no one entered there but I ; The sheep looked in, the grass t' espy, And passed ne'ertheless. The trees were interwoven wild. And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child. Adventurous joy it was for me ! T crept beneath the boughs, and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree. THE ENGLISH HELICON. • Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white, Well satisfied with dew and light, And careless to be seen. Long years ago it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all ; And lady stately overmuch. Who moved with a silken noise. Blushed near them, dreaming of the voice That likened her to such ! And these, to make a diadem. She may have often plucked and twined,— Half smiling as it came to mind. That few would look at them. Oh ! httle thought that lady proud, A child would watch her fair white rose. When buried lay her whiter brows. And silk was changed for shroud ! — 25 D Nor thought that gardener, full of scorns For men unlearned and simple phrase, A child would bring it all its praise, By creeping through the thorns ! To me, upon my low moss seat. Though never a dream the roses sent Of science or love's compliment, I ween they smelt as sweet. 26 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Nor ever a grief was mine, to see Tlie trace of human step departed : — Because the garden was deserted, The blyther place for me ! Friends, blame me not ! a narrow ken Hatli childhood 'twixt the sun and sward ! We draw the moral afterward — We feel the gladness then ! And gladdest hours for me did glide In silence at the rose-tree wall : A thrush made gladness musical Upon the other side. Nor he nor I did e'er incline To mar or pluck the blossoms white— How should I know but that they might Lead hves as glad as mine ? To make my hermit-home complete, I brought clear water from the spring Praised in its own low murmuring, — And cresses glossy wet. And so, I thought my hkeness grew (Without the melancholy tale) To gentle hermit of the dale. And Angelina too ! For oft I read, within my nook, Such minstrel stories, till the breeze Made sounds poetic in the trees, — And then I shut the book. THE ENGLISH HELICON. ^/ If I shut this wherein 1 write, I hear no more the wind athwart Those trees ! — nor feel that childish heart Delighting in delight ! My childhood from my life is parted ; My footstep from the moss which drew Its fairy circle round : anew The garden is deserted ! Another thrush may there rehearse The madrigals which sweetest are ; — No more for me ! — myself, afar, Do sing a sadder verse ! Ah me ! ah me ! — when erst I lay In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, I laughed to myself and thought " The time will pass away! " I laughed still, and did not fear But that, whene'er was past away The childish time, some happier play My womanhood would cheer. I knew the time would pass av/ay, — And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, Dear God ! — how seldom, if at all, I looked up to pray ! The time is past ! — and now that grows The cypress high among the trees, And 1 behold white sepulchres As well as the white rose — 28 THE ENGLISH HELICON. When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, And I have learnt to Hft my face. Remembering earth's greenest place The colour draw^s from heaven — It something saith for earthly pain, But more for heavenly promise free, That I who was, would shrink to be That happy child again ! TO G. S. S. BY THE REV. F. W. FABER. Oh ! by the love which unto thee I bear, By the tall trees and streams, and everything In the white-clouded sky or woodland air. Whether of sight or sound, that here may bring The joyous freshness of the grassy spring, — Fain would I warn thee ! For too well I know, Be what thou wilt, thou must be dear to me ! And lo ! thou art in utter bondage now ; Whence I would have thy manly spirit free. Among the hills, we two did never mar The moss about the springs ; but learnt to spare Pale flowers, which rude hands would not leave to grow And, dearest ! if thou wert so gentle there — Tliy soul hath better flowers — oh, be as guiltless now ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 29 THE CRUSADER'S VOW. BY MISS E. L. MONTAGU. How hath my vow been kept? — F. IIf.mans. They called him by a traitor's name ; They said his arm had flung The cross upon the beacon-flame, Where the Moslem banner hung ; They told me he was gone afar Across the desert sand, With a red and reeking scimitar Within his redder hand. I heard them name the traitor's name, I heard them, and I swore The footmarks of his perjured shame Should pass those sands no more : I vowed it by my mother's love, My sister's parting word. And — as its own keen blade should prove- Upon my father's sword. I breathed it o'er my father's sword. Beneath the stars of heaven, As I thought of every holy word With my belted knighthood given : I vowed it by the love of years. Affection's yearning token — A mother's and a sister's tears, — How could such vow be broken ? 30 THE ENGLISH HELICON. How could I break the vow I made ? I sought him 'neath the skies Where, in the light that knows no shade, The mighty desert lies : I traced him to a barren spot By the desert's lonely tree ; And the wind's low murmur stirred it not As he fell upon his knee. lie fell vipon his bended knee, 'Mid the hushed and silent air. And I heard his spirit singing free In the music of a prayer ; I heard him bless some lowly cot Where stood the linden-tree ; — And I knew his home was unforgot As he fell upon his knee. He blessed the humble cottage bower, And humbler roof and floor ; The lowliest weed — the lightest flower — He blessed them o'er and o'er : But most he prayed for those within, By the hearth's most sacred shade, And the little ones beside the lynn In happiness that played. Mine arm grew weak, — I heard, and wept For the ruthless vow I 'd made, When I thought of the gentle hearts that slept Beneath the linden's shade : — I felt a spell on the desert air. That my warrior strength defied ; And my sword before that mighty prayer Fell powerless by my side ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 31 Mine arm was weak, but not with years, For youth was on my brow ; I had often looked on manhood's tears, Yet never wept till now. My words were nought — my hand was stayed — I had heard the blessing spoken ; And the vow that was by affection made, For affection's sake was broken ! HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE! BY THE REV. JOHN MOULTRIE. Here 's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! here 's a hearty health to thee. For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free ; For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace, For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy face ; For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be, — Here 's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here 's a hearty health to thee ! Here 's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — though my glow of youth is o'er ; And I, as once I felt and dreamed, must feel and dream no more ; Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chilled my soul at last, And genius, with the foodful looks of youthful friendship past ; Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this world's dreary sea, — Here 's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here 's a hearty health to thee ! Here 's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — though I know that not for me Is thine eye so bright, thy form so hght, and thy step so firm and free ; 32 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often pass me by, Unconscious of my swelling heart and of my wistful eye ; Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste one thought on me, — Here 's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here 's a hearty health to thee ! Here 's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — when I meet thee in the throng Of merry youths and maidens, dancing lightsomely along, I '11 dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy form, As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning through a storm ; And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy looks of glee. And for once, my Scottish lassie ! dance a giddy dance with thee. Here 's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — I shall think of thee at even, When I see its first and fairest star come smiHng up through heaven ; I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice in every wind that grieves. As it whirls from the abandoned oak its withered autumn leaves ; — In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the sea, I shall think, my Scottish lassie ! I shall often think of thee. Here 's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — in my sad and lonely hours. The thought of thee comes o'er me, like the breath of distant flowers ; — Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that bless mine eye, Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the sky, Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossoms on the tree, Is the thought, my Scottish lassie ! is the lonely thought of thee. Here 's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — though my m ise must soon be dumb (For graver thoughts and duties, with my graver ears, are come). Though my soiU must burst the bonds of earth, s id learn to soar on high. And to look on this world's follies with a calm and sober eye, — Though the merry wine must seldom flow, the revel cease for lue, — Still, to thee, my Scottish lassie ! still, I '11 dr' ik a health to thee ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 33 Here 's a health, my Scottish lassie ! here 's a parting health to thee ! May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from me ! May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy brow, Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as light as now ! And, whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast shall be, — Still, a health, my Scottish lassie ! still, a hearty health to thee ! GINEVRA. BY PERCY EYSSIIE SHELLEY. Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one Who staggers forth into the air and sun, From the dark chamber of a mortal fever. Bewildered, and incapable, and ever Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain Of usual shapes, till the familiar train Of objects and of persons passed hke things Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings, — Ginevra from the nuptial altar went : The vows to which her lips had sworn assent Rung in her brain still with a jarring din, Deafening the lost intelligence within. And so she moved, under the bridal veil, Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale. Arid deepened the faint crimson of her mouth. And darkened her dark locks, as moonUght doth ;- And of the gold and jewels glittering there She scarce felt conscious ; — but the weary glare D 81 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Lay like a chaos of unwelcome liglit, Vexing the soul with gorgeous undelight. A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud Was less serenely fair ; — her face was bowed, And, as she passed, the diamonds in her hair Were mirrored in the polished marble stair Which led from the cathedral to the street ; And, ever as she went, her light fair feet Erased these images. The bride-maidens, who roimd her thronging came,- Home with a sense of self-rebuke and shame, Envying the unenviable, — and others Making the joy which should have been another's Their own by gentle sympathy, — and some Sighing to think of an unhappy home, — Some few admiring what can ever lure Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure Of parents' smiles, for life's great cheat — a thing Bitter to taste — sweet in imagining ! But they are all dispersed : and lo ! she stands, Looking in idle grief on her white hands. Alone within the garden now her own ; And through the sunny air, with jangling tone. The music of the merry marriage bells. Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells : — Absorbed, like one within a dream, who dreams That he is dreaming, until slumber seems A mockery of itself, — when suddenly Antonio stood before her, pale as she. With agony, with sorrow and with pride, He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride, THE ENGLISH HELICON. 35 And said—" Is this thy faith ?" And then, as one Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun With liglit, like a harsh voice, which bids him rise, And look upon his day of life with eyes Which weep in vain that they can dream no more, Ginevra saw her lover ; and forbore To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling blood Rushing upon her heart, and, unsubdued, Said — " Friend, if earthly violence or ill, Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will Of parents, chance or custom, time or change, Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge. Or wildered looks, or words, or evil speech. With all their stings envenomed, can impeach Our love, — we love not : — if the grave, which hides The victim from the tyrant, and divides The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart Imperiovis inquisition to the heart That is another's, could dissever ours. We love not." — " What ! do not the silent hours Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal bed ? Is not that ring" — a pledge, he would have said. Of broken vows : but she, with patient look. The golden circle from her finger took. And said — " Accept this token of my faith. The pledge of vows to be absolved by death ! And I am dead, or shall be soon — my knell Will mix its music with that merry bell : Does not it sound as if they sweetly said, ' We toll a corpse out of the marriage bed ?' The flowers upon my bridal chamber strewn Will serve unfaded for my bier— so soon ;?G THE ENGLISH HELICON. That even the dying violet will not die Before Ginevra." The strong fantasy Had made her accents weaker and more weak, And quenched the crimson life upon her cheek, And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere Round her which chilled the burning noon with fear,- Making her but an image of the thought Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought News of the terrors of the coming time. Like an accuser branded with the crime He would have cast on a beloved friend, Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end The pale betrayer — he then, with vain repentance, Would share — he cannot now avert^the sentence — Antonio stood ; and would have spoken, when The compound voice of women and of men Was heard approaching : he retired, while she Was led, amid the admiring company. Back to the palace, — and her maidens soon Changed her attire for the afternoon, And left her, at her own request, to keep An hour of quiet and rest. — Like one asleep, With open eyes and folded hands she lay, Pale, in the light of the declining day ! Meanwhile, the day sinks fast, the sun is set ; And in the lighted hall the guests are met. The beautiful looked lovelier, in the light Of love and admiration, and delight Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes. Kindling a momentary paradise. This crowd is safer than the silent wood. Where love's own doubts disturb the solitude. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 37 Oji frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine Falls ; and the dew of music more divine Tempers the deep emotions of the time, To spirits cradled in a sminy clime. — How many meet, who never yet have met, To part too soon — but never to forget ! How many saw the beauty, power and wit Of looks and words which ne'er enchanted yet ! But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn ; — As the world leaps, before an earthquake's dawn, And, unprophetic of the coming hours. The matin winds from the expanded flowers Scatter their hoarded incense, and awaken The earth, until the dewy sleep is shaken From every living heart which it possesses. Through seas and winds, cities and wildernesses, — As if the future and the past were all Treasured i' the instant ; — so Gherardi's hall Laughed, in the mirth of its lord's festival, — Till some one asked — "Where is the bride ?" And then, A bridesmaid went, — and, ere she came again, A silence fell upon the guests — a pause Of expectation, — as when beauty awes All hearts with its approach, though unbeheld ; Then wonder, and then fear that wonder quelled ; — For whispers passed from mouth to ear, which drew The colour from the hearer's cheeks, and flew Louder and swifter round the company : And then Gherardi entered, with an eye Of ostentatious trouble ; and a crowd Surrounded him — and some were weeping loud ! They found Ginevra dead ! as 'i'HK ENGLISH HELICON. THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOUR." (Frum the Freiitii.) BY LORD liYRON. Star of the brave ! whose beam hath shed Such glory o'er the quick and dead ; Thou radiant and adorned deceit, Which milhons rushed in arms to greet ! Wikl meteor of immortal birth ! Why rise in heaven, to set on earth ? Souls of slain heroes formed thy rays ; Eternity flashed through thy blaze ; The music of thy martial sphere Was fame on high, and honour here ; And thy light broke on human eyes, like a volcano of the skies ! Like lava rolled thy stream of blood, And swept down empires with its flood ; Earth rocked beneath thee to her base, As thou didst lighten through all space ; And the shorn sun grew dim in air, And set while thou wert dwelling there ! Before thee rose, and with thee grew, A rainbow of the loveliest hue, — Of three bright colours, each divine, And fit for that celestial sign ; THE ENGLISH HEUCON. o9 For Freedom's hand had blended them, Like tints in an immortal gem. One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes, — One, the blue depth of seraph's eyes, — • One, the pure spirit's veil of white Had robed in radiance of its light : The three so mingled did beseem The texture of a heavenly dream ! Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, And darkness must again prevail. But, oh, thou rainbow of the free ! Our tears and blood must flow for thee : When thy bright promise fades away. Our life is but a load of clay. And Freedom hallows, with her tread. The silent cities of the dead : For beautiful in death are they Who proudly fall in her array ; And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be For evermore with them — or thee ! INSCRIPTION ON A GROTTO. Health, rose-lipped cherub, haunts this spot :- She slumbers oft in yonder nook : If in the shade you trace her not, Plunge — and you '11 find her in the brook ! 40 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. BY MRS. HEMANS. We saw tliee, O stranger, and wept ! We looked for the youth of the sunny glance, Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance : The light of his eye was a joy to see — The path of his arrows a storm to flee : But there came a voice from a distant shore ; He was called — he is found 'midst his tribe no more ! He is not in his place when the night-fires burn ; But we look for him still — he will yet retvirn ! His brother sat, with a drooping brow. In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough : We roused him — we bade him no longer pine ; For we heard a step — but the step was thine ! We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! We looked for the maid of the mournful song — Mournfid, though sweet : she hath left us long ! We told her the youth of her love was gone. And she went forth to seek him : she passed alone ! We hear not her voice, when the woods are still. From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. The joy of her sire with her smile is fled ; The winter is white on his lonely head ; He hath none by his side when the wilds we track ; He hath none when we rest — yet she comes not back ! We looked for her eye on the feast to shine. For her breezy step — but the step was thine ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 41 We saw thee, O stranger, and wept ! We looked for the chief who liath left the spear And the bow of his battles forgotten here : We looked for the hunter, whose bride's lament On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : We looked for the first-born, whose mother's cry Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky : Where are they ? Thou 'rt seeking some distant coast — O, ask of them, stranger ! — send back the lost ! Tell them, we mourn by the dark-blue streams ; Tell them, our lives but of them are dreams : Tell how we sat in the gloom to pine. And to watch for a step — but the step was thine ! EVENING. BY MISS M. J. JEWSBUHY (mRS. FLETCIIEU). Ask ye the hour I love the best ? — The hour of silence and of rest ! Oh ! meet me in some sylvan bower, Wlien day throws off his robes of power, And, sinking in the regal west, A king — but still a king at rest — Reclines behind the " dark hill's side,"— Or hides, beneath the waters wide, From vain pursuit and mortal ken. The flashing of his diadem ! Then, lift thine eyes — and, if there be The spell abroad so sweet to me, 42 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The heavens will be of silver hue, The air be soft and silent too, And flowers seem listening, on the stem, To streams that whisper mito them! And every leaf will tremble there, If only breathed on by the air ! And stars will steal upon the view. Like happy spirits, shining through Their heaven, and this world's veil of blue, Rejoicing to behold again The dwellings of the sons of men ! If there be sounds — they will but be Like crystal droppings from a tree, Or far-off greenwood melody. Then will the maiden moon be seen, In chastened lustre, o'er the green. Casting a tender, trembling gaze, On every object 'neath her rays ! A holy paleness on the tower, — A tint more lovely on the flower, — A dimpled light on "waters flowing, — On vale and hill, a radiance glowing, — Till all around her seem to be " Sleeping in bright tranquillity." If in thine eye the placid tear, Unbidden, yet unchecked, appear, — If thought, thy leading star, bring on Thy friends far distant, one by one, While memory sings, in syren strain, Of dreams thou ne'er must dream again, — Behold the hour I love the best, — The hour of silence and of rest ! THE ENGLISH HEL1CI>N. 43 VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO J. P. KEMBLE. BY THOMAS CAMPBKLL. Pride of the British stage, A long and last adieu ! Whose image brought th' heroic age Revived to fancy's view. Like fields refreshed with dewy light, When the sun smiles his last. Thy parting presence makes more bright Our memory of the past ; And memory conjures feelings up That wine or music need not swell, As high we lift the festal cup To Kemble — fare thee well ! His was the spell o'er hearts Which only Acting lends, — The youngest of the sister arts. Where all their beauty blends ! For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime ; And Painting, mute and motionless, Steals but a glance of time : — But, by the mighty actor brought. Illusion's perfect triumphs come ; Verse ceases to be airy thought, And sculpture to be dumb ! 44 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Time may again revive, But ne'er eclipse, the charm, "VVlien Cato spoke in him alive, Or Hotspur kindled w^arm. What soul was not resigned entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor ? What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt ? And yet a majesty possessed His transports' most impetuous tone ; And to each passion of the breast The Graces gave their zone. High were the task — too high, Ye conscious bosoms here ! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear. But who forgets that white, discrowned head — Those bursts of reason's half-extinguished glare- Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed, In doubt— more touching than despair — If 'twas reality he felt ? Had Shakspere's self amidst you been. Friends, he had seen you melt. And triumphed to have seen ! And there was many an hour Of blended kindred fame, When Siddons's auxiliar power And sister-magic came. Together, at the Muse's side, The tragic paragons had grown ; They were the children of her pride, The columns of her throne ; THE ENGLISH HELICON. 45 And undivided favour ran From heart to heart, in their applause, Save for the gallantry of man In lovelier woman's cause. Fair as some classic dome, Robust and richly graced, Your Kemble's spirit was the home Of genius and of taste ; — Taste, like the silent dial's power. That, when supernal light is given. Can measure inspiration's hour. And tell its height in heaven. At once ennobled and correct, His mind surveyed the tragic page, And what the actor could effect. The scholar could presage. These were his traits of worth : And must we lose them now ? And shall the scene no more shew forlli His sternly-pleasing brow ? Alas, the moral brings a tear ! — 'T is all a transient hour below ; And we, that would detain thee here. Ourselves as fleetly go ! Yet shall our latest age This parting scene review : — Pride of the British stage, A long and last adieu ! 4(5 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE LAND OF POETRY. BY MISS E. L. MONTAGU. There is a land of glory and of song Whereon the Sun-God sheddeth gorgeous light ; Therein all radiant forms — a wondrous throng — Together walk in beauty and in might. There wind afar sweet valleys of delight, And in mid-heaven the waneless moon doth glow Mid starry beams that beautify the night ; And plumy boughs wave ever to and fro, And waves, o'er pearly sands, make music as they flow ! Sprung from that groxxnd, unnumbered fountains play, Whose heavenward waters give eternal power, — As blessed dews, though born of earthly clay, Nourish the roots of some immortal flower. Far in the shades of every twined bower Bright-plumaged birds amid the branches cling, Or, in mid-flight, throughout each changeful hour. Pale morn, bright noon, and night, unresting sing. Nor close the dazzled eye, nor fold the wearied wing. All lovely plants of joyous bloom are there. And some, dew-filled, that droop the weary head In listless beauty, sorrowful and fair. On every gale, the rose-lip, blushing red, THE ENGLISH HELICON. 17 Sighs to the morn ; and pale-browed Hlies shed Their faint sweet breath through all the inspired night ; And ever-blooming amaranth doth o'erspread Fair bowers, whose blossoms feel no cankerous blight, And heath-flowers, clustering wild, glow with empurpled light. Each glorious day, the crimson sun doth set Along the azure deeps, in power and pride, — As, with a glance half joy and half regret, He sinks behind some pine-wood's sombre side, And through the dark leaves pours a gushing tide. Rich, eloquent, and warm — like that which glows Through the dark cheek of an Egyptian bride, Then o'er some clime less fair his radiance throws, Or lights some far-off land of mountains and of snows. In every hall, high harps stand ever strung — Strung to rich music, and with golden strings ; And silver lutes on storied walls are hung : — All changeful hours the tuneful time-bell rings ; From tower to distant tower, wild-murmuring, clings Each varied chord of soft ^olian lyre. O'er which the South waves oft his dusky wing, And high immortal hands, that never tire. With soft- awakening touch o'ersweep the sounding wire ! No mortal ever from that bourne departs ; Yet many oft unto that land repair — Some with crushed hopes, and some with riven hearts. And most in anguish deep and filled with care ; And some who on their lofty brows do bear Great scorn of that false world they did forsake. Who hither come to battle with despair. And with high Gods the nectarous draughts partake, And breathe the breath of fame — and die, for glory's sake. 48 THE ENGLISH HELICON. There came a sweet-voiced exile to that shore, With whom the world did wage ungentle war, Yet in whose eye all forms a beauty wore. Which suffering, falsehood, time nor death could mar. His shrinking soul was like an unknown star, That, growing dim before some greater light, With fitful ray shines beautiful and far, And mid the fixed planets — scarce less bright — High in its heavenly sphere trembles the live-long night ! And night was round him : yet there came a dawn, Before whose light the stars of earth grew pale — A light of promise ! night and gloom were gone, And the broad sun his glory did unveil. No more he felt his inward spirit fail ; He knew his hope was great, his trust on high, His love no longer sad, no longer frail, And looked on all things with a calmed eye, And breathed his farewell words without or tear or sigh : — " Mourn not for mc, dear friend! when I shall sleep ! My heart no more to earthly hope is clinging ; Even now I feel soft dews my slumber steep, And meadow flowers above my grave are springing.* I hear the sound of angel voices singing, In a far land, where grief hath never trod ; And other hands than mine wild harps are ringing : ' T is but this clay that moulders 'neath the sod, My memory rests with thee — my spirit with my God! " It died away — the music and the voice — (For in that voice was music, sweet as low) ! — And through that land his brethren did rejoice O'er one who now could feel nor joy nor woe, Keats, a short time before he died, being asked bj- a friend how lie felt himself, replied, " Better, my friend! I feel the daisies growing over me." THE ENGLISH HELICON. 49 Nor hear their sighs, nor mark their tears o'erflow ; And only longed, hke him, to sleep — to die, And over-head to feel the pale flowers grow, — Like him, beneath the earthy sod to lie. With a death-tranquil brow and spirit-closed eye. For ah i full many a weary breast was there. That found no grave within that mournful ground. But filled the dreamy shades and slumberous air With a faint waiHng of melodious sound ! Where'er it rose, the moaning woods around. Their green leaves scattered and their branches bowed. As with one gentle sadness did resound ; And rain-drops, tear-like, fell from every cloud, And waves, with lifted voice, for sorrow wept aloud ! Such are the hearts that fondly beat for ever With a true pulse — unheeded and unheard ; Such is the voice that fills wood, rock and river, With the wild anguish of its farewell word. Oh ! they are lonelier than the desert-bird, Though in a land of gorgeous beauty placed ! Ere yet joy's phantom-stream their breath has stirred, Time's drifting sands have filled the gulf, and chased Afar the unreal wave they vainly longed to taste ! Even now, in thought, I hear the fond appeal Of some true heart left desolate and lone ; Doomed, in those valleys of delight, to feel Its last-born hope from earth for ever flown : — With none to hear, or heed, its feeble moan. Or in the unclosed wound sweet balm to pour, Thus — ever thus to utter deathless moan, And lift the music-voice, till life be o'er, Invoking oft the hours which time can ne'er restore ! E 50 THE ENGLISH HELICON. "Oil, joyous days of happiness and youth ! Why are ye thus, alas ! untimely sped ? And thou, whose love was heaven, whose word was truth, Where is thy soothing voice for ever fled ? I am as one that walks amid the dead, Full — full of sorrow for my days o'erpast ; The arrows of my quiver all are shed, And thou alone art left — my loved and last ! Upon my silent grave the immortal wreaths to cast. " Could I but lay my head upon thy breast ! Thou art mine own — and wouldst not now forsake. My heart is full of trouble and unrest ; And in my soul immortal griefs awake. Oh 1 hear me once, for sweet affection's sake ! Say, wilt thou weep when I am cold and low — I that with thee, of old, did oft partake The high pure thoughts none else could ever know, And mingle soul with soul, in joy and bitter woe ? " Thou wert my inspiration and my song, My gifted spirit— my ennobling thought ! All sweet emotions unto thee belong Which in thy memory, not unfound, I sought : — Thou the deep meaning of my lyre hast taught. My heart doth seek thee, in the quiet night, And in deep sleep with blissful visions fraught ; The dawn, in fancy, gives thee to my sight, And calleth up my soul to bless thee, with the light. " From out thy sigh a voicefvd thought did rise, And a most melting sorrow from thy tears ; Yet ever fled beneath thy sheltering eyes All wandering shadows of unquiet fears. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 51 From out the rays of thine encrowned years Came the bright glories of these song-lit days ; This trustful love, which time nor anguish sears, Sprung from thy tried affection ; and the praise Born of thy youthful hps gave beaixty to my lays. " My folded heart scarce thought or memory needs On every leaf thy gentle looks to trace : Oh ! I did love thee for thy noble deeds Long ere these eyes had gazed upon thy face ! Nor years, nor woe, thine image can efface. Or veil from me the light thy features wore : Thy presence fills all time — thy form all space ; If, noon or night, the bitter tear I pour, Thy voice doth float around, and bid me weep no more. " Oh ! can it be thou dost behold me now, — Now, when my breast with hourly grief is worn ? Dost thou behold the wreck of one whose brow. Unmoved, its wasting agony hath borne. Since from thy sheltering side untimely torn? If thou art near me, why do I repine ? Breathe but one word, and I no longer mourn. Mine own beloved ! — Ah ! lift thine eyes to mine. And waft, with thy sweet voice, my spirit unto thine ! " These are the griefs whose all resistless sway Wins the full tear from the o'erburdened eye ! These are the gentle tones that half allay, Even while they stir, the weary spirit's sigh ! Such was the least of all the strains that lie, Soul-touched, love-breathed, on every golden string That in that tuneful land makes music high ! — Some to less gentle chords more wildly sing, And some from prouder harps more lofty numbers ring. 52 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And one there wandered to that gorgeous land, Whom an unresting spirit thither brought, — One who did strive, and with no feeble hand. The sacred lyre to sound with touch untaught, — And oft, in sooth, most mournful music wrought, Whene'er a slumbering memory upsprung, Roused by the fervour of his poet-thought ; Oft, in such hour, the shuddering chords he wrung, And his pale lip, alas ! did quiver, as he sung ! At times, a sound, borne from the outer world. Upon the calmed breeze, would meet his ear, When in deep sleep his heavenly wings were furled, Nor dreamed he aught of trouble or of fear : — Ever such sound his inmost heart would sear. Till, like parched leaves that thirst for freshening dew. His scorched lids would hail the welcome tear ; And o'er his harp a hurried hand he threw. Till, moulded into thought, his grief to music grew. At times, his voice, endued with sudden power, A full, prophetic knowledge did inform ; And gathering gloom upon his brow would lour, Which shook each pulse as with an inward storm. Yet did no evil dream his mien deform. But all-ennobling thoughts and visions high Deep in his spirit burned — pure, bright and warm, And, kindled there by inspiration's sigh. With flashing fires lit up his wide-dilated eye ! And ever, with such knowledge deep, there came A rushing tide of agonised despair ; And, mid his woe, the one enthroned name. Ushered with song, did to his lip repair. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 53 Lo ! filled with that sweet tone, the listening air Would steal away unto some rocky ground, Some wooded steep, or brow of mountain bare, And, with faint voice, from all the heights around. Breathe back the entrancing word, in oft- repeated sound ! And once that spirit, which all hearts could move. On a far weary pilgrimage did wend, And vowed no more to sing immortal love, But memory's iron links apart to rend. Long years rolled o'er, and saw him ne'er imbend : At length, the anguish of a soul uptorn Back to his lip the living words did send ; And thus the voice, till now forbid to mourn, Out-poured the hoarded grief, too long in silence borne. — " 'T is done ! — once more from my deep heart I cast Pride's idle mask and silence' galling chain. The vow is broken and the strife o'erpast — Behold, I burst my bitter bonds in twain ! I barred my grief from utterance in vain ; No vows have power the struggling thought to quell : Like ocean-lyres that 'neath the deep complain, My spirit feels the tide of anguish swell. And, whelmed beneath the waters, moans within its shell ! *' And if, at length, I wake the sounding lyre. And chase the night-watch with my weary song, 'T is that I feel within my soul a fire Which hath not gathered there to flicker long. All deep emotions round my being throng, — And I would give them voice, before I rest, In one last strain, my memory to prolong ; And scatter forth, in sighs too long repressed, The ashes of the hopes consumed within my breast!" 54 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Oh ! fair it is — and mournful even as fair, To mark the whole soul gushing in a tone, And, bursting forth in anguish and despair. Leave the pale clay outwearied and o'erthrown ! As some fallen column of unstained stone, Around whose brow the heavenly sunbeams played, Low on the damp earth lieth cold and lone, And, with no touch of stealing time decayed, Cast down by sudden storm, lies crumbling in the shade ; — So passed he forth to darkness and to death, And on his marble brow there dwelt no stain ! And thus, or ere he fell, with one last breath. His parting sigh uprose in bitter strain ! Deep silence now his spirit doth enchain : Oh ! ne'er again that voice its grief shall pour, Or breathe its passionate appeal in vain ; Its lofty song, its eloquence, is o'er. But deep in noble hearts it liveth evermore ! Oh ! wherefore o'er a voice so passing sweet Its cold dull chain should silence ever fling ? Why on a forehead where all glories meet Death cast the dreary shadow of his wing ? Ah, me ! that I with heaven-born hand might bring Immortal flowers to wreathe his crowned head ! — Alas ! no lip inspired have I, to sing ; Like him, " the bard is in my bosom dead," And o'er his glorious tomb my voiceless tears are shed ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. S>0 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. BY N. P. WILLIS (AMERICAN). I LOVE to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet grey ; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And it makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice. And tl>e light of a pleasant eye. I have walked the world for fourscore years ; And they say that I am old, And my heart is ripe for the reaper. Death, And my years are well nigh told. It is very true — it is very true — I 'm old, and " I bide my time ;" But my heart will leap at a scene like this. And I half renew my prime. Play on, play on ! I am with you there. In the midst of your merry ring ; 1 can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay. And I whoop the smothered call. And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And 1 care not for the fall ! 56 THE ENGLISH HELICON". I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go ; For the world, at best, is a weary place. And my pulse is getting low : But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way ; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness To see the young so gay ! THE OLD WATER-WHEEL. BY J. R. (CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD). i It lies beside the river, where its marge Is black -with, many an old and oarless barge, And yesty filth and leafage wild and rank Stagnate and batten by the crumbling bank. Once, slow revolving by the industrious mill. It murmured — only on the sabbath still ; And evening winds its pulse-like beating bore Down the soft vale and by the winding shore. Sparkling around its orbed motion, flew, With quick fresh fall, the drops of dashing dew ; Through noon-tide heat that gentle rain was flung, And verdant, round, the summer herbage sprung. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 57 Now, dancing light and sounding motion cease, In these dark hours of cold continual peace ; Through its black bars the unbroken moonlight flows, And dry winds howl about its long repose ! And mouldering lichens creep, and mosses grey Cling round its arms, in gradual decay. Amidst the hum of men — which doth not suit That shadowy circle, motionless and mute ! So, by the sleep of many a human heart The crowd of men may bear their busy part, Where withered, or forgotten, or subdued, Its noisy passions have left solitude : — Ah ! little can they trace the hidden truth. What waves have moved it in the vale of youth ! And little can its broken chords avow How once they sounded. — All is silent, now ! FROM THE ARABIC. The morn that ushered thee to life, my child. Saw thee in tears, whilst all around thee smiled : — When summoned hence to thy eternal sleep. Oh, mayst thou smile, whilst all around thee weep 58 THE ENGLISH HELICON. A WINTER LANDSCAPE. BY T. STODDART. The dew-lark sitteth on the ice, beside the reedless rill ; The leaf of the hawthorn flutters on the solitary hill ; The wild lake weareth on its heart a cold and changed look, And meets, at the lip of its moonlit marge, the spiritual brook. Idly basks the silver swan, near to the isle of trees, And to its proud breast come and kiss the billow and the breeze ; They wash the eider, as they play about the bird of grace, And boom, in the same slow mood, away to the moveless mountain-base. The chieftain deer amid the pines his antlered forehead shews. And scarcely are the mosses bent where that stately one arose ; His step is as the pressure of a light beloved hand. And he looketh like a poet's dream, in some enchanted land ! A voice of winter, on the last wild gust of autumn borne. Is hurried from the hills afar, like the windings of a horn ; And solemnly and heavily the silver birches groan, And the old ash waves his wizard hand, to the dim mysterious tone. And noiselessly, across the heaven, a grey and vapoury shred Is wandering, fed by phantom-clouds, that, one by one, are led Out of the wide north, where they grew within the aged sea. And in their coils the yellow moon is labouring lazily ! She throws them from her mystic urn, as they were beckoned back By some enchantress, working out her spells upon their track ; THE ENGLISH HELICON. 59 Or gathers up their fleecy folds, and shapes them, as they go. To hang around her beautiful form — a tracery of snow ! Lo ! winter cometh ! and his hoar is heavy on the hill, And curiously the frostwork forms below the rimy rill ; The birth of morn is a gift of pearl to the heath and willow tree, And the green rush hangs o'er its water-bed, shining and silvery. From the calm of the lake a vapour steals its restless wreath away, And leaves not a crisp on the quiet tarn, but the wake of the swan at play ; The deer holds up the glistening heath, where his hoof is lightly heard, And the dew lark circleth to his song — sun-lost and lonely bird ! EPITAPH. She lived ; — what further can be said Of all the generations dead ? She died ; — what more can be foretold Of all the living, young or old ? She lived with death before her eye, As one who did not fear to die ; She died as one exchanging breath, For immortality in death. Her dust is here — her spirit there- Eternity ! Oh, tell me where ? 60 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE RED FISHERMAN. BY W. M. FRAED. The Abbot arose, and closed his book, And donned his sandal shoon, And wandered forth alone, to look Upon the summer moon ! A starlight sky was o'er his head, A quiet breeze around ; And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed, And the waves a soothing sound. It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught But love and calm dehght ; Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought On his wrinkled brow, that night. He gazed on the river that gurgled by, But he thought not of the reeds ; He clasped his gilded rosary, But he did not tell the beads : If he looked to the heaven, 't was not to invoke The Spirit that dwelleth there ; If he opened his lips, the words they spoke Had never the tone of prayer. A pious priest might the abbot seem. He had swayed the crosier well ; But what was the theme of the abbot's dream The abbot were loth to tell ! Companionless, for a mile or more. He traced the windings of the shore. — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 61 Oh ! beauteous is that river still, As it winds by many a sloping hill, And many a dim o'er-arching grove, And many a flat and sunny cove, And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades The honey-suckle sweetly shades, And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers, So gay they are with grass and flowers ! But the abbot was thinking of scenery About as much, in sooth. As a lover thinks of constancy. Or an advocate of truth. He did not mark how the skies in wrath Grew dark above his head ; He did not mark how the mossy path Grew damp beneath his tread. And nearer he came, and still more near, To a pool, in whose recess The water had slept, for many a year, Unchanged and motionless : From the river-stream it spread away, The space of half a rood ; The surface had the hue of clay, And the scent of human blood : The trees and the herbs that round it grew Were venomous and foul ; And the birds that through the bushes flew Were the vulture and the owl : The water was as dark and rank As ever a company pumped ; And the perch that was netted and laid on the bank, Grew rotten while it jumped : — 62 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And bold was he who thither came, At midnight, man or boy ; For the place was cursed with an evil name, And that name was " The Devil's Decoy !" The abbot was weary as abbot could be. And he sate down to rest on the stump of a tree : Wlien suddenly rose a dismal tone, — Was it a song, or was it a moan ? — " Oh, ho ! Oh, ho ! Above, — below ! Lightly and brightly they glide and go : The hungry and keen to the top are leaping. The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping ; Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy, Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy !" In a monstrous fright, by the murky light, He looked to the left and he looked to the right ; And what was the vision close before him, That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him ? 'T was a sight to make the hair uprise, And the life-blood colder run : The startled priest struck both his thighs, And the abbey-clock struck one ! All alone, by the side of the pool, A tall man sate on a three-legged stool. Kicking his heels on the dewy sod, And putting in order his reel and rod. Red were the rags his shoidders wore. And a high red cap on his head he bore ; His arms and his legs were long and bare ; And two or three locks of long red hair THE ENGLISH HELICON. G3 Were tossing about his scraggy neck, Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck. It might be time, or it might be trouble. Had bent that stout back nearly double, Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets That blazing couple of Congreve-rockets, And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny skin. Till it hardly covered the bones within. The line the abbot saw him throw Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago ; And the hands that worked his foreign vest Long ages ago had gone to their rest : — You would have sworn, as you looked on them. He had fished in the flood, with Ham and Shem There were turning of keys and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Minnow or gentle, worm or fly, — It seemed not such to the abbot's eye : Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem. And its shape was the shape of a diadem : It was fastened a gleaming hook about. By a chain within, and a chain without : — The fisherman gave it a kick and a spin. And the water fizzed as it tumbled in ! From the bowels of the earth. Strange and varied sounds had birth ; — Now the battle's bvirsting peal. Neigh of steed and clang of steel ; Now an old man's hollow groan, Echoed from the dungeon stone ; 64 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Now the weak and wailing cry Of a stripling's agony ! Cold, by this, was the midnight air ; But the abbot's blood ran colder, Wlien he saw a gasping knight lie there, With a gash beneath his clotted hair, And a hump upon his shoulder ! And the loyal churchman strove in vain, To mutter a Pater Noster ; For he who writhed in mortal pain. Was camped, that night, on Bosworth plain, — The cruel Duke of Glo'ster ! There were turning of keys and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. It was a haunch of princely size. Filling with fragrance earth and skies ! The corpulent abbot knew full well The swelling form and the steaming smell :— Never a monk that wore a hood Could better have guessed the very wood Where the noble hart had stood at bay. Weary and wounded, at close of day. Sounded then the noisy glee Of a revelling company : — Sprightly story, wicked jest, Rated servant, greeted guest, Flow of wine and flight of cork, Stroke of knife and thrust of fork. But, where'er the board was spread, Grace, I ween, was never said ! Pulling and tugging the fisherman sate ; THE ENGLISH HELICON. G5 And the priest was ready to vomit, When he hauled out a gentleman fine and fat, With a belly as big as a brimming vat, And a nose as red as a comet. " A capital stew," the fisherman said, " With cinnamon and sherry!" And the abbot turned away his head. For his brother was lying before him dead. The mayor of St. Edmund's Bury ! There were turning of keys and creaking of locks, As he took forth a bait from his iron box. It was a bundle of beautiful things, — A peacock's tail and a butterfly's wings, A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl, A mantle of silk and a bracelet of pearl. And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold Such a stream of delicate odours rolled That the abbot fell on his face, and fainted. And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted. Sounds seemed dropping from the skies, — Stifled whispers, smothered sighs. And the breath of vernal gales, And the voice of nightingales : But the nightingales were mute. Envious, when an unseen lute Shaped the music of its chords Into passion's thrilling words. — " Smile, lady, smile ! — I will not set Upon my brow the coronet, Till thou wilt gather roses white. To wear around its gems of light. F 60 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Smile, lady, smile ! — I will not see Rivers and Hastings bend the knee, Till those bewitching lips of thine Will bid me rise in bhss from mine. Smile, lady, smile ! — for who would win A loveless throne, through guilt and sin ? Or who would reign o'er vale and hill, If woman's heart were rebel still?" One jerk ! — and there a lady lay, A lady wondrous fair ! But the rose of her lip had faded away, And her cheek was as white and cold as clay, And torn was her raven hair. " Ah, ha !" said the fisher, in merry guise, "Her gallant was hooked before ;" — And the abbot heaved some piteous sighs. For oft he had blessed those deep blue eyes. The eyes of Mistress Shore ! There were turning of keys and creaking of locks. As he took forth a bait from his iron box. Many the cunning sportsman tried, Many he flung with a frown aside, — A minstrel's harp and a ntiiser's chest, A hermit's cowl and a baron's crest. Jewels of lustre, robes of price. Tomes of heresy, loaded dice. And golden cups of the brightest wine That ever was pressed from the Burgundy vine. — There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre, As he came at last to a bishop's mitre ! THE ENGLISH HELICON, 67 From top to toe, the abbot shook, As the fisherman armed his golden hook ; And awfully were his features wrought By some dark dream, or wakened thought. Look, how the fearful felon gazes On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises, When the lips are cracked and the jaws are dry, With the thirst which only in death shall die ;— Mark the mariner's frenzied frown, As the swaling wherry settles down, When peril has numbed the sense and will, Though the hand and the foot may struggle still ;— Wilder far was the abbot's glance, Deeper far was the abbot's trance : Fixed as a monument, still as air. He bent no knee and he breathed no prayer ; But he signed — he knew not why or how — The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow. There were turning of keys and creaking of locks, As he stalked away with his iron box. " Oh ho ! Oh ho .1 The cock doth crow; It is time for the fisher to rise and go ! Fair luck to the abbot, fair luck to the shrine ! He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line ; Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, — The abbot will carry my hook in his mouth ! " The abbot had preached for many years. With as clear articulation As ever was heard in the House of Peers, Against Emancipation ; G8 THE ENGLISH HELICON. His words had made battalions quake, Had roused the zeal of martyrs, Had kept the Court an hour awake, And the king himself three-quarters ; — But ever, from that hour, 't is said, He stammered and he stuttered, As if an axe went through his head, With every word he uttered : He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban, He stuttered, drunk or dry, And none but he and the fisherman Could tell the reason whv ! THE LILY OF THE VALLEY BY \V. II. HARRISON. In the world's proud eye I care not to flaunt ; A snug nook in the vale Is my lowly haunt. While the tempest's flash Scathes the mountain flowers, All I feel of the storm Is the wealth of its showers ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. G!) TO MY BIRDIE. BY MRS. SOUTIIEY (CAROLINE EOWLEs). Here 's only you an' me, birdie ! here 's only you an' me ! An' there you sit, you humdrum fowl ! Sae mute an' mopish as an owl — Sovir companie ! Sing me a little sang, birdie ! lilt up a little lay ! When folks are here, fu' fain are ye To stun them with yere minstrelsie The lee-lang day ; An' now we 're only twa, birdie ! and now we 're only twa, 'T were sure but kind an' cozie, birdie ! To charm, wi' yere wee hurdy-gurdie. Dull care awa'. Ye ken, when folks are paired, birdie ! ye ken, when folks are paired, Life 's fair an' foul an' freakish weather. An' light an' lumbrin' loads, thegither • Maun a' be shared, — An' shared wi' lovin' hearts, birdie ! wi' loviu' hearts an' free ; Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne, An' roughest roads to velvet turn, Trod cheerfully. We 've a' our cares an' crosses, birdie ! we 've a' our cares an' crosses, But then to sulk an' sit sae glum — Hout ! tout ! — what guid o' that can come To mend ane's losses ? 70 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Ye 're dipt in wiry fence, birdie ! ye 're dipt in wiry fence ; An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang Upo' a wish, wad be, or lang, Wi' frien's far hence ! But what 's a wish, ye ken, birdie ! but what 's a wish, ye ken ? Nae cantrip naig, hke hers of Fife, Wha darnit, wi' the auld weird wife, Flood, fell an' fen. 'T is true, ye 're furnished fair, birdie ! 't is true, ye 're furnished fair, Wi' a braw pair o' bonnie wings. Wad lift ye whar yon lavrock sings. High up i' the air ! But then that wire 's sae Strang, birdie ! but then that wire 's sae Strang ! An' I mysel' — sae seemin' free — Nae wings have I to waften nie Whar fain I 'd gang. An', say we 'd baith our wills, birdie ! — we 'd each our wilfu' way, — Whar lav'rocks hover falcons fly ; An' snares an' pitfa's aften lie Whar wishes stray ! An' ae thing weel I wot, birdie ! an' ae thing wed I wot — There 's Ane, abune the highest sphere, Wha cares for a' His creatures here, Marks every lot ; Wha guards the crowned king, birdie ! wha guards the crowned king. An' taketh heed for sic as me — Sae little worth — an' e'en for thee, Puir witless thing ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 71 Sae now, let 's baith cheer up, birdie ! an', sin' we 're only twa — AfF han', let's ilk ane do our best, To ding that crabbit, cankered pest, Dull care awa' I THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD (AMERICAN). The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee ! It would seem As if God poured thee from his " hollow hand," And hung his bow vipon thine awful front, — And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him Wlio dwelt in Patmos, for his Saviour's sake, " The sovmd of many waters," — and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back. And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks ! Deep calleth unto deep ! And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime ? Oh ! what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ? Yea, what is all the riot man can make, In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ? And yet, bold babbler ! what art thou to Him Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains ? — a light wave. That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might 1 72 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY. The Jackdaw sat in the Cardinal's chair ! Bishop and abbot and prior were there ; Many a monk and many a friar, Many a knight and many a sqviire, Witli a great many more of lesser degree, — In sooth, a goodly company ; And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. Never, I ween. Was a prouder seen, Read of in books or dreamt of in dreams, Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims ! In and out, Through the motley rout, That little Jackdaw kept hopping about ; — Here and there, Like a dog in a fair, Over comfits and cates, And dishes and plates, Cowl and cope and rochet and pall. Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all ! With a saucy air, He perched on the chair Where in state the great Lord Cardinal sat, In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ; THE ENGLISH HELICON. And he peered in the face Of his Lordship's Grace, With a satisfied look, — as if he would say, " We two are the greatest folks here to-day !'' And the priests, with awe, As such freaks they saw, Said, " The devil must be in that little Jackdaw!" The feast was over, the board was cleared, The flawns and the custards had all disappeared ; And six little singing-boys, — dear little souls ! In nice clean faces and nice white stoles. Came, in order due, Two by two. Marching that grand refectory through ! A nice little boy held a golden ewer. Embossed, and filled with water as pure As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, — Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch, In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. Two nice little boys, rather more grown. Carried lavender-water and eau de Cologne ; And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. One little boy more A napkin bore. Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink. And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in permanent ink. The great Lord Cardinal turns, at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white : From his finger he draws His costly turquoise ; 74 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, Deposits it straight By the side of his plate, While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait :- Till, when nobody 's dreaming of any such thing, That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring ! There 's a cry and a shout, And a deuce of a rout. And nobody seems to know what they 're about ; But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out. The friars are kneeling, And hunting, and feeling The carpet, the floor and the walls and the ceiling. The Cardinal drew Off each plum-coloured shoe. And left his red stockings exposed to the view ; He peeps, and he feels In the toes and the heels. They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates ; They take vip the poker and poke out the grates ; They turn up the rugs, They examine the mugs ; — But, no ! — no such thing — They can't find the ring ; And the abbot declared that, " when nobody twigged it, Some rascal or other had popped in, and prigged it !" The Cardinal rose, with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell and his book ! In holy anger and pious grief, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. He cursed liim at board, he cursed him in bed, — From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head ; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright ; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking ; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying. He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying ; He cvirsed him living, he cursed him dying ! — Never was heard such a terrible curse ; But, what gave rise To no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse ! The day was gone, The night came on. The monks and the friars they searched till dawn ; When the sacristan saw, On crumpled claw, Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw ! No longer gay, As on yesterday ; His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way ; His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand, His head was as bald as the palm of your hand ; His eye so dim, So wasted each limb. That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, " That 's him !- That 's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing ! That 's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring !" The poor little Jackdaw, When the monks he saw, Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; 76 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And turned liis bald head, as mucli as to say, " Pray, be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower, He limped on before, Till they came to the back of the belfry-door ; '^ Where the first thing they saw, 'Midst the sticks and the straw. Was the ring, in the nest of that little Jackdaw ! Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, And off that terrible curse he took ; The mute expression Served in lieu of confession. And, being thus coupled with full restitution. The Jackdaw got plenary absolution. When those words were heard, That poor little bird Was so changed in a moment, 't was really absurd : He grew sleek and fat ; In addition to that, A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat ! His tail waggled more Even than before ; But no longer it wagged with an impudent air. No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair : He hopped now about With a gait devout ; At matins and vespers, he never was out : And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, He always seemed telling the confessor's beads. If any one lied, or if any one swore, Or slumbered in prayer-time, and happened to snore. THE ENGLISH HELICON. / ( That good Jackdaw Would give a great " caw," As much as to say, " Do n't do so any more !'' While many remarked, as his manners they saw, That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw ! He long lived the pride Of that country side, And at last, in the odour of sanctity died : — "WHien, as words were too faint His merits to paint. The conclave determined to make him a Saint ; And on newly- made Saints and Popes, as you know, It 's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow, — So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow ! WHY LOVE IS BLIND. BY S. T. COLERIDGE. I HAVE heard of reasons manifold Why Love must needs be blind ; But this the best of all I hold — His eyes are in his mind ! What outward form and feature are He guesseth but in part ; But what within is good and fair He seeth with the heart ! 78 THE ENGLISH HELICON. SONG. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Rarely, rarely comest tliou, Spirit of Delight ! Wherefore hast thou left me, now, Many a day and night ? Many a weary night and day 'T is since thou art fled away ! How shall ever one like me Win thee back again ? With the joyous and the free Thou wilt scoff at pain : — Spirit false ! thou hast forgot All but those who need thee not. As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Thou with sorrow art dismayed ! Even the sighs of grief Reproach thee, that thou art not near,- And reproach thou wilt not hear. Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure ; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure : — THE ENGLISH HELICON. Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of DeHght ! The fresh earth in new leaves drest, And the starry night ; Autumn evening, and the morn. When the golden mists are born. I love snow, and all the forms Of the radiant frost : I love waves and winds and storms, Everything, almost, Which is Nature's, — and may be Untainted by man's misery. I love tranquil solitude. And such society As is quiet, wise and good. — Between thee and me What difference — but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less I love Love — though he has wings, And, like light, can flee ; — But, above all other things. Spirit, I love thee ! Thou art love and life ! — Oh, come. Make once more my heart thy home ! 80 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE DANCE OF THE PEASANTS. BY LAMAN BLANCIIARD. S LEE PEST thou, sufferer ? — Sleep denies The balm of her visions to weeping eyes. Yet, worn with pain and faint with fears. Oh, sweet, sweet sorrower ! — even in tears The heart may behold Glad visions unfold, And Edens of love to illumine our years. Glance for a moment around the gloom. Silent and deep, of this curtained room ! The sphere of our grief, is it wider than this ? Now gaze on the landscape, — the light that we miss ! Nought seemeth to grieve, This rich summer eve : — Oh ! bliss should be ours, when looking on bliss ! The circle of life how large ! — Alas, For him who perceives but a single class ; Who views this beautiful world with eyes Untaught to admire and sympathise. By lessons of love, Beneath and above — Flowers on the earth and stars in the skies ! A single flower, a single star. Breathing beside us, beaming afar, THE ENGLISH HELICON. 81 Has a thousand gazers ; while thousands moan, As human happiness dies unknown. I cannot repine, If joy may be mine By making the joy of others mine own. Delights are ever about and around, Cunningly hidden, yet easily found, — Pleasures refined, yet sweet to the crowd, — Common, yet precious as pure to the proud : Sympathies fine, Ennobling divine — Courting us mutely, or carolling loud. A fond illusion, a shadow may bless The soul with the balm of forge tfulness. Gaze, mourner, again from this dim nook of night ! The landscape — behold, it is beamingly bright With the forms and features Of phantasy's creatures, — Yet living and real and breathing delight ! Call them not phantasies, false as fair ; Humanities only are revelling there. The spell of the poet hath given them birth; Yet poetry is but the voice of our earth, Relating to Time, In a music sublime. Our vanity, glory, afl[liction, and mirth. Can poetry brighten the mid-day blue. Or give to the grass a greener hue ? G 82 THE ENGLISH HELICON. 'T were as futile to gild the lustre love flings Upon life, as the halo which charity brings, Or the bright footprint Of peace, or the tint Of hope's untamed, untiring wings. Oh ! then not false this forest scene, Where these, life's Genii, gladden the green ; Where labour leaps up and laughs in play, And age and youth hold holiday ; Where fond eyes glisten. And hushed hearts listen ; — Wliile gazing, are we less happy than they ? The world is to them, with its sun and shade, For hours together — that grassy glade ; To them is death but a deep love-trance, And the progress of life but the maze of a dance ; And heaven rejoices, While human voices Breathe truth in the tones of sweet romance. They feel that of eves like this are born The golden pleasures of many a morn ; For, trials and toils for a time forgot, Bright memories spring from the fairy spot. Oh ! well know they * How a single day Of leisure may lighten a dreary lot ! For they are the poor ! — the peasant-roots Of the social tree, and of all its fruits ; THE ENGLISH HELICON. , 83 And they prize the flowers that are dropped by the throng, And smile on their weeds, and pass lightly along ; The joys which they court Of game and of sport, Are stimulants generous, subtle and strong. And she who sitteth, but not alone — That maiden-queen on her simple throne — There, with a natural beauty crowned. Shedding a brightness over the ground, — Amidst the praise Of many lays, Distinguishing one love-murmuring sound, — Wlien stranger lips shall say how she May match in blood with sovereignty, Will she, who, among this peasant race. Sees fondness and truth in every face, Be more a queen. In soul or mien. Than here in her sylvan dwelling-place ? But she, with a heart untrained to cool Its warm emotions by courtly rule, Will smile on the peasant's dance and lay, And cheer him to prolong his play ; Yon shepherd boy, Who pipes for joy. May pipe, perchance, an hour a day. Her's will it be to fling the door Of gladness open to all the poor ; 84 THE ENGLISH HELICON. To seek the peasant's pathway bare, And plant a rose or two here and there ; Her loving hand Shall strew the land With the simple pleasures that all may share. Her's, too, to teach how treasure is lost By gaining treasure at others' cost ; How luxury pines, when pine the poor ; Like him who destroyed his garden store Of blossoms and trees. That his neighbour's bees Might gather their honey there no more. Oh, beautiful vision ! thanks to thee. For shewing how happy the humble may be ; How little is wanting to gild the gloom Of industry toiling its way to the tomb ! For a spirit is there In that greenwood fair, The limb to sustain and the mind to illume. Comfort thee, mourner ! commonest things Often contain most delicate springs ; The loveliest forms are not the rarest. Costliest joys are seldom fairest ; The garden shines More than the mines ; To hope is to have — yet thou despairest ! Who cannot count, the dreariest here, A hundred smiles for every tear ? THE ENGLISH HELICON. The pleasures of others lessen our pain, And memory multiplies all again. Nature is kind ! — Shall we be blind, When even her dreams are not woven in vahi ? TO A SKYLARK. BY WILLIAM WORCSWOriTH. Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will. Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet mightest thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; A privacy of glorious light is thine, — Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine : Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; True to the kindred points of heaven and home ! 86 THE ENGLISH HELICON. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, — And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast : And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee ! Oh, for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high : And white waves heaving high, my boys. The good ship tight and free, — The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we ! There 's tempest in yon horned moon , And lightning in yon cloud ; And hark ! the music, mariners. The wind is piping loud : The wind is piping loud, my boys. The lightning flashing free, — While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 87 TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. BY EBENEZER ELLIOTT. Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, "Wild bramble of the brake ! So, put thou forth thy small white rose, I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thou needst not be ashamed to shew Thy satin-threaded flowers ; For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful. Thy tender blossoms are ! How delicate thy gauzy frill ! How rich thy branchy stem ! How soft thy voice, when woods are still. And thou sing'st hymns to them ; Where silent showers are falling slow And, 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough. Lone whispering through the bush ! The primrose to the grave is gone ; The hawthorn-flower is dead ; The violet by the mossed gray stone Hath laid her weary head ; 88 THE ENGLISH HELICON. But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, In all their beauteous power, Thy fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorned bramble of the brake ! once more Thou bidd'st me be a boy. To gad with thee the woodlands o'er, In freedom and in joy ! A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 1;Y THOMAS HOOD. Oh, when I was a tiny boy. My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind ! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from mine eye, To cast a look behind ! A hoop was an eternal round Of pleasure. In those days I found A top a joyous thing ; — But now those past delights I drop, My head, alas ! is all my top, And careful thoughts the string ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 89 My marbles — once my bag was stored — Now I must play with Elgin's lord, With Theseus for a taw ! My playful horse has slipt his string, Forgotten all his eaperiog, And harnessed to the law ! My kite — how fast and far it flew ! Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew My pleasure from the sky : 'T was papered o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote, — my present dreams Will never soar so high ! My joys are wingless all, and dead ; IMy dumps are made of more than lead ; My flights soon find a fall ; My fears prevail, my fancies droop, Joy never cometh with a whoop, And seldom with a call ! My football 's laid upon the shelf; I am a shuttlecock myself The world knocks to and fro ; — My archery is all unlearned, And grief against myself has turned My arrows and my bow ! No more in noontide sun I bask ; My authorship 's an endless task. My head 's ne'er out of school : My heart is pained with scorn and slight, I have too many foes to fight. And friends grown strarigely cool ! 90 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand to shake, It makes me shrink and sigh : — On this I will not dwell and hang, The changeling wotdd not feel a pang Though these should meet his eye ! No skies so blue or so serene As then ; — no leaves look half so green As clothed the play-ground tree ! All things I loved are altered so, Nor does it ease my htart to know That change resides in me ! Oh, for the garb that marked the boy, The trousers made of corduroy Well inked with black or red ; The crownless hat ne'er deemed an ill, — It only let the sunshine still Repose upon my head ! Oh, for the riband round the neck ! The careless dogs' -ears apt to deck My book and collar both ! How can this formal man be styled Merely an Alexandrine child, A boy of larger growth ? Oh, for that small, small beer anew ! And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue That washed my sweet meals down ! The master even ! — and that small Turk Who fagged me ! — worse is now my work — A fag for all the town ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 91 Oh, for the lessons learned by heart ! Ay, though the very birch's smart Should mark those hours again ; I 'd " kiss the rod," and be resigned Beneath the stroke, and even find Some sugar in the cane ! The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed. The Fairy Tales in school-time read By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun ! The angel form that always walked In all my dreams, and looked and talked Exactly like Miss Brown ! The omne bene — Christmas come ! The prize of merit, won for home — Merit had prizes then ! But now I write for days and days, For fame — a deal of empty praise. Without the silver pen ! Then home, sweet home ! the crowded coach ! — The joyous shout, the loud approach, — The winding horns, like rams' ! — The meeting sweet that made me thrill, The sweetmeats almost sweeter still. No "satis" to the "jams!" Oh, when I was a tiny boy. My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind ! No wonder that I sometimes sigh. And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind ! 92 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE LAND OF DREAMS. BY T. K. HEUVLY. The world — the dreary world of dreams ! Wliy tnust the spirit tread All night, beside its moaning streams, And alleys of the dead ? — Must he, who rises up to grieve, Lie down again to weep ? — Oh ! for the long and quiet eve Which brings the heavy sleep, That lays the faint and aching head, At length, upon a dreamless bed ! And yet, in youth, how beautiful Was that enchanted land ! What matchless flowers I used to cull Within its haunted strand ! What gorgeous visions spread the wing Amid its twilight shades ; And oh ! what shapes went, beckoning, Along its moon-lit glades ! The dewy showers and silver gleams That sweetened all the land of dreams ! Alas, the world of rest ! it takes Too much the day-world's part, — Alike — to him who sleeps or wakes — The shows it brings the heart ; THE ENGLISH HELICON. 93 Still, as the waking eye grows dim, The dreaming gathers gloom, — But sleep has not a ghost for him Whose world has not a tomb :— The shadows of life's outer sky Make darkness for the dreamer's eye ! The land of dreams! — how sad it is, Upon that silent shore, To meet the eye whose glance, in this, Shall meet me never more ! Ah ! why must midnight's grief or fear Replace the day's despair ; Or they who went, to grieve me, here, Come back, to grieve me, there ; Or voices fill mine eyes with tears. Whose silence has been wept for years ? The land of dreams — the phantom-land ! Where all things are in vain, — What is it but the wildest strand Of memory's wild domain? Beyond the drowsy sea of sleep That unmapped region lies. Where thousand shadows cross and creep Beneath the sunless skies ; And sounds — all echoes — make its air More dreary far than silence were ! And oh ! its dark and spectral shades, That chill us with their glooms ! Its paths that open moonlight glades. To bring us up to tombs ! 94 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Sad — very sad it is to stray Within tlie land of dreams, V^liere long, dim vistas stretch aw^ay To far and viewless streams, Wliich send a murmur to the ears, That makes the pillow wet with tears ! And then the mournful things we meet ! ('T was scarce more sad to fart /) Low sighs that — once, how sweet, how sweet Fall cold upon the heart ; Dim, wasted forms — on earth, how bright ! Faint tones of other years ; And smiles that, in their wan pale light, Are sadder far than tears ; And friends that vainly stretch the hand. To clasp us in the dreaming land ! And yet, upon that shadowy coast, One blessed spot is flung, — Oh ! early gained and early lost, — The dream-land of the young ! There Childhood comes, who sails to seek, At first, the phantom-shore ; But eyes that weeping hath made weak May find it never more ; — The mist that dims life's waking view Shuts out those happy valleys, too ! Oh, blessed youth ! — when Fancy's art Paints, all in colours brave, Her landscapes on the waking heart. And each without a grave ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 95 For such, the dream-land — earth and air — Is full of gladness, yet ; No desert hath it of despair, Nor valley of regret ; But singing birds and singing streams Make musical the land of dreams. Lost Eden of the world of dreams ! — Mine — mine in better years ! — I see no more to trace thy streams, Because of mine own tears. My soul hath lost its early gales, — My bark is laden deep, And painfully and slow it sails Unto the shores of sleep, — A weary course — from boyhood's far — And steering by a darkened star. And so, I touch the dreaming land Upon its wildest shore, A dreary sea and dreary strand, — The spirit's Labrador ! Oh ! never more its flowery heights Stand out, to meet mine eyes ; And most of all youth's guiding lights Have fallen from life's skies ; And hope that was my pilot, then, Will never sail with me again ! The world of dreams! — there is a sleep, (Oh! for i//.a^ sleeping sea!) A dark and still and stormless deep, That leads no more to thee. — 96 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Beyond Us waters spreads the strand That holds the loved and lost, The all of which the dreaming-land Can only shew the ghost. — How beautiful should be its light To eyes long used to weep ! — Why tarrieth the long, dim night To bring the slumber deep Which lays the worn and weary head, At length, upon a dreamless bed ? I NEVER CAST A FLOWER AWAY. BY MRS. .SOUTIIEY (CAROLINE DOWLEs). I NEVER cast a flower away. The gift of one who cared for me— A little flower — a faded flower — But it Avas done reluctantly. I never looked a last adieu To things familiar, but my heart Shrank, with a feeling almost pain. Even from their lifelessness to part. 1 never spoke the word " farewell," But with an utterance faint and broken, — An earth-sick longing for the time When it shall never more be spoken ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 97 PRINCE EMILIUS OF HESSEN-DARMSTADT. BY R. M. MILNES. From Hessen-Darmstadt every step to Moskwa's blazing banks, Was Prince Emilius found in fight before the foremost ranks ; And when upon the icy waste that host was backward cast, On Beresina's bloody bridge his banner waved the last. His valour shed victorious grace on all that dread retreat. That path across the wildering snow, athwart the blinding sleet ; And every follower of his sword could all endure and dare, Becoming warriors strong in hope, or stronger in despair. Now, day and dark, along the storm the demon Cossacks sweep. The hungriest must not look for food, the weariest must not sleep ; No rest, but death, for horse or man, whichever first shall tire ; — They see the flames destroy, but ne'er may feel the saving fire. Thus never closed the bitter night, nor rose the savage morn, But from that gallant company some noble part was shorn, And, sick at heart, the prince resolved to keep his purposed way, With stedfast, forward, looks, nor count the losses of the day. At length beside a black-burnt hut, an island of the snow, — Each had in frigid stupor bent toward the saddle-bow, — They paused ; and of that sturdy troop, that thousand banded men. At one unmeditated glance he numbered only ten ! Of all that high triumphant life that left his German home. Of all those hearts that beat beloved, or looked for love to come, H 98 THE ENGLISH HELICON. This piteous remnant hardly saved his spirit overcame, While memory raised each friendly face, and called each ancient name. Then were his words serene and firm — " Dear brothers, it is best That here, with perfect triist in heaven, we give ovir bodies rest ; If we have borne, like faithful men, our part of toil and pain, Where'er we wake, for Christ's good sake, we shall not sleep in vain." Some uttered, others looked, assent, — they had no heart to speak ; Dumb hands were pressed, the pallid lip approached the callous cheek ; They laid them side by side ; and death, to him at least, did seem To come attired in mazy robe of variegated dream. Once more he floated on the breast of old familiar Rhine, His mother's, and one other, smile above him seemed to shine ; A blessed dew of healing fell on every aching limb. Till the stream broadened and the air thickened — and all was dim ! Nature has bent to other laws, if that tremendous night Passed o'er his frame exposed and worn, and left no deadly blight ; Then wonder not that, when refreshed and warm he woke, at last, There lay a boundless gulf of thought between him and the past. Soon, raising his astonished head, he found himself alone, Sheltered beneath a genial heap of vestments not his own ; The light increased, the solemn truth revealing more and more, — I-Jis soldiers' corses, self-despoiled, closed up the narrow door ! That very hour, fulfilling good, miraculous succour came, And Prince Emilius lived to give this worthy deed to fame. Oh, brave fidelity in death ! Oh, strength of loving will ! These are the holy balsam-drops that woful wars distil ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 9*J BETTER MOMENTS. BY N. P. wiLi.rs (American). My mother's voice ! how often creeps Its cadence on my lonely hours ! Like healing sent on wings of sleep, Or dew to the vmconscious flowers. I can forget her melting prayer While leaping pulses madly fly, But in the still unbroken air Her gentle tone comes stealing by, — And years and sin and manhood flee. And leave me at my mother's knee ! The book of nature, and the print Of beauty on the whispering sea. Give aye to me some lineament Of what I have been taught to be. My heart is harder, — and perhaps My manliness hath drunk vip tears. And there 's a mildew in the lapse Of a few miserable years, — But nature's book is even yet With all my mother's lessons writ. I have been out, at eventide, Beneath a moonlight sky of spring, When earth was garnished like a bride. And night had on her silver wiiig — 100 THE ENGLISH HELICON. "When bursting leaves and diamond grass, And waters leaping to the light, And all that makes the pulses pass With wilder fleetness, thronged the night- When all was beauty — then have I, With friends on whom my love is flung, Like myrrh on winds of Araby, Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung ; And when the beautiful spirit there Flung over me its golden chain, My mother's voice came on the air Like the light dropping of the rain — And, resting on some silver star The spirit of a bended knee, I 've poured her low and fervent prayer That our eternity might be To rise in heaven, like stars at night, And tread a living path of light ! I have been on the dewy hills, When night was stealing from the dawn. And mist was on the waking rills, And tints were delicately drawn In the grey east — when birds were waking. With a low murmur, in the trees, And melody, by fits, was breaking Upon the whisper of the breeze, — And this, when I was forth, perchance As a worn reveller from the dance — And, when the sun sprang gloriously And freely up, and hill and river Were catching, upon wave and tree. The arrows from his subtle quiver — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 101 I say a voice has thrilled me then, Heard on the still and rvishing light, Or, creeping from the silent glen. Like words from the departing night, Hath stricken me, — and I have pressed On the wet grass my fevered brow. And, pouring forth the earliest. First prayer with which I learnt to bow, Have felt my mother's spirit rush Upon me, as in by-past years, — And, yielding to the blessed gush Of my ungovernable tears. Have risen up— the gay, the wild — As humble as a very child ! THE BLOOD HORSE. BY BARRY CORNWALL. Gamarra is a dainty steed. Strong, black, and of a noble breed, — Full of fire, and full of bone. With all his line of fathers known ! Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within ! His mane is like a river flowinsr. And his eyes like embers glowing 102 THE ENGLISH HELICON. In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light ! Look ! — how, round his straining throat, Grace and shifting beauty float ! Sinewy strength is on his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins ; Richer, redder never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself! He — who hath no peer — was born Here, upon a red March morn : But liis famous fathers, dead, Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred ; And the last of that great line Seemed as of a race divine ! And yet — he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun. By some lone fountain fringed with green With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived — (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day) — And died, untamed, upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 10.3 TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS. BY LEIGH HUNT. Sleep breathes at last from out thee, My little, patient boy ! And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways ; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise. Tliy sidelong pillowed meekness, — Thy thanks to all that aid, — Thy heart, in pain and weakness, Of fancied faults afraid, — The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears, — These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years ! Sorrows I 've had, severe ones, I will not think of now ; And calmly, 'midst my dear ones. Have wasted with dry brow : But when thy fingers press, And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness, — The tears are in their bed ! 101 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Ah ! firstborn of thy mother, When life and hope were new,— Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father, too, — My light where'er I go, — My bird when prison-bound, — My hand-in-hand companion, — no. My prayers shall hold thee round ! To say, " He has departed," " His voice — his face — is gone," — To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on, — Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep ensure That it will not be so 1 Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping! This silence too, the while — Its very hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile. — Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim. Who say, " We 've finished here !" THE ENGLISH HELICON. 105 ROMAUNT OF MARGRET. BY MISS E. B. BARRETT. I PLANT a tree whose leaf The cypress leaf will suit ; And, when its shade is o'er you laid, Turn ye, and pluck the fruit ! Now, reach mine harp from off the wall. Where shines the sun aslant : The svm may shine and we be cold — Oh ! hearken, loving hearts and bold, Unto my wild romaunt, Margret, Margret ! Sitteth, the fair ladye. Close to the river side, Which runneth on with a merry tone, Her merry thoughts to guide. It runneth through the trees, It runneth by the hill ; — Nathless, the ladye's thoughts have found A way more pleasant still. — Margret, Margret ! The night is in her hair, And giveth shade to shade ; And the pale moonlight on her forehead white. Like a spirit's hand, is laid : — 106 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Her lips part with a smile, Instead of speaking done — I ween she thinketh of a voice, Albeit uttering none! Margret, Margret ! All little birds do sit With heads beneath their wings — Nature doth seem in a mystic dream, Apart from her living things. That dream by that ladye I ween is unpartook ; For she looketh to the high cold stars, With a tender human look ! Margret, Margret ! The ladye's shadow lies Upon the running river, — It lieth no less, in its quietness, For that which resteth never ; Most like a trusting heart Upon a passing faith, — Or as, upon the course of life. The stedfast doom of death ! Margret, Margret ! The ladye doth not move — The ladye doth not dream — Yet she seeth her shade no longer laid In rest upon the stream ! It shaketh without wind- It parteth from the tide— It standeth upright, in the cleft moonlight — It sitteth at her side ! Margret, Margret ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 107 Look in its face, ladye, And keep thee from thy swound ! With a spirit bold, thy pulses hold. And hear its voice's sound ! For so will sound thy voice. When thy face is to the wall, — And such will be thy face, ladye, Wlien the maidens work thy pall — Margret, Margret ! " Am I not like to thee ? "— The voice was calm and low — And between each word there seemed heard The universe's flow ! — " The like may sway the like! By which mysterious law, Mine eyes from thine, my lips from thine, The light and breath may draw, Margret, Margret ! " My lips do need thy breath, My lips do need thy smile, — And my pale deep eyne, that light in thine Which met the stars erewhile'. — Yet, go, with light and life. If that thou lovest one, ]n all the earth, who loveth thee More truly than the sim, Margret, Margret!" Her cheek had waxed white. As cloud at fall of snow ; Then, like to one at set of sun. It waxed red also ! — 108 THE ENGLISH HELICON. For love's name maketh bold, As if the loved were near : And sighed she the deep long sigh Which cometh after fear. Margret, Margret ! " Now, sooth, I fear thee not — Shall never fear thee now ! " (And a noble sight was the sudden light Which lit her lifted brow !) " Can earth be dry of streams, Or hearts of love ? " — she said ; " Who doubteth love, can know not love, — He is already dead ! " Margret, Margret ! " I have" — and here her lips Some word in pause did keep ; And gave, the while, a quiet smile. As if they paused in sleep ! " I have — a brother dear, A knight of knightly fame ; I broidered him a knightly scarf With letters of my name." Margret, Margret ! " I fed his grey goss-hawk, I kissed his fierce bloodhound, I sate at home when he might come, And caught his horn's far sound : I sang him songs of eld, I poured him the red wine, He looked from the cup, and said, / love thee, sister mine J " Margret, Margret ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 109 IT trembled on the grass, With a low, shadowy laiighter ! The sounding river, which rolled ever, Stood dumb and stagnant, after. — ** Brave knight thy brother is ! But better loveth he Thy poured wine than chanted song, — And better both, than thee, Margret, Margret!" The ladye did not heed The river's silence ; while Her own thovights still ran at their will, And calm was still her smile. — '* My little sister wears The look our mother wore ; I smooth her locks with a golden comb — I bless her evermore !" Margret, Margret ! "I gave her my first bird. When first my voice it knew — I made her share my posies rare, And told her where they grew. I taught her God's dear name — God's worthy praise to tell: — She looked from heaven into my face, And said, / love thee well ! " Margret, Margret ! IT trembled on the grass. With a low, shadowy laughter — You could see each bird, as it woke, and stared Through the shrivelled tree-leaves, after! — 110 THE ENGLISH HELICON. "Fair child thy sister is! But better loveth she Thy golden comb than thy posied flowers — And better both, than thee, — Margret, Margret !" The ladye did not heed The withering on the bough : Still calm her smile, albeit, the while, A little pale her brow. — " I have a father old, The lord of ancient halls — A hundred friends are in his court, Yet only me he calls." Margret, INIargret ! "A hundred knights are in his court ; Yet read I by his knee : And when forth they go to the tourney show, I rise not up to see. 'Tis a weary book to read — My trysts at set of sun : — But dear and loving 'neath the stars, His blessing when I 've done !" jNIargret, Margret ! IT trembled on the grass. With a low shadowy laughter — And moon and star, most bright and far. Did shrink and darken, after. — " High lord thy father is ! But better loveth he His ancient halls than hundred friends, — His ancient halls than thee, Margret, Margret!" THE ENGLISH HELICON. 1 1 1 The ladye did not heed That the far stars did fail — Still calm her smile, albeit, the while — Nay ! — but she is not pah /-— " I have a more than friend, Across the mountains dim : — No other's voice is soft to me. Unless it nameth him!" Margret, Margret ! "Though louder beats mine heart, I know his tread again ; And his far plume aye, — unless turned away. For tears do bHnd me, then ! We brake no gold, a sign Of stronger faith to be ; But I wear his last look in my soul, Which said, I love hut thee!'' Margret, Margret ! IT trembled on the grass, With a low shadowy laughter — Tlie wind did toll, as a passing soul Were sped by church-bell, after ! And shadows, 'stead of light, Fell from the stars above. In flakes of darkness on her face Still bright with trusting love ! Margret, Alargret ! " He loved none but thee ! That love is transient too. The wild hawk's bill doth dabble still 1' the mouth that vowed the true. 112 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Will he open his dull e3^es, When tears fall on his brow ? Behold ! the death-worm to his heart Is a nearer thing than thou /" Margret, Margret ! Her face was on the ground- None saw the agony! But the men at sea did that night agree They heard a drowning cry. And, when the morning brake, Fast rolled the river's tide, With the green trees waving overhead. And a white corse lain beside. Margret, Margret ! A knight's bloodhound and he The funeral watch did keep — With a thought o' the chase he stroked its face, As it howled to see him weep. A fair child kissed the dead, But shrank before the cold ; And alone, yet proudly, in his hall Did stand a baron old. Margret, Margret ! Hang up my harp again — I have no voice for song ! Not song, but wail — and mourners pale. Not bards — to love belong! Oh, failing human love ! Oh, light by darkness known ! Oh, false, the while thou treadest earth ! Oh, deaf, beneath the stone ! Margret, Margret ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 113 Nay, friends ! no name bxit His, Whose name as Love appears ! Look up to heaven, as God's forgiven, And see it not for tears ! Yet see, with spirit-sight, Th' eternal Friend undim, Who died for love, and joins above All friends who love in Him — And with His pierced hands may He The guardian of your clasped ones be ! — Which prayer doth end my lay of thee, Margret, Margret ! NONSENSE. BY THOMAS MOORE. Good reader !^if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids, with tlieir tresses green, Dancing upon the western billow, — If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore,- If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green, — If you have seen all this, and more, — God bless me ! what a deal you 've seen ! I 114 THE ENGLISH HELICON. ON THE DEATH OF ISMAEL FITZADAM. BY MISS LANDON. It was a harp just fit to pour Its music to the wind and wave ; — He had a right to tell their fame, Who stood himself amid the brave. The first time that I read his strain There was a tempest on the sky, And sulphurous clouds and thunder-crash Were like dark ships and battle-cry ! I had forgot my woman's fears, In thinking on my country's fame, — Till almost I could dream I saw Her colours float o'er blood and flame. Died the high song, as dies the voice Of the proud trumpet on the wind ; And died the tempest too, and left A gentle twilight hour behind. Then paused I o'er some sad, wild notes,— Sweet as the spring-bird's lay withal,- Telling of hopes and feelings past, Like stars that darkened in their fall. Hopes perishing from too much light, Exhausted by their own excess, — Affections, trusted till they turned. Like Marah's wave, to bitterness. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 1 15 And is this, then, the curse that clings To minstrel hope, to minstrel feeling ? Is this the cloud that destiny Flings o'er the spirit's high revealing ? It is — it is ! — Tread on thy way, Be base, be grovelling, soulless, cold. Look not up from the sullen path That leads to this world's idol — gold ! And close thy hand, and close thy heart. And be thy very soul of clay, And thou wilt be the thing the crowd Will worship, cringe to, and obey. But look thou upon Nature's face, As the young poet loves to look, — And lean thou where the willow leans, O'er the low murmur of the brook, — Or worship thou the midnight sky, In silence, at its moonlit hour, — Or let a single tear confess The silent spell of music's power, — Or love — or feel — or let thy soul Be, for one moment, pure or free, — Then shrink away, at once, from life, — Its path will be no path for thee ! Pour forth thy fervid soul in song — There are some that may praise thy lays ; But of all earth's dim vanities, The very earthliest is praise ! 116 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Praise ! light and dew of the sweet leaves, Around the poet's temples hung, How turned to gall, and how profaned By envious or by idle tongue ! Given by vapid fools, who laud Only if others do the same ; Forgotten even while the breath Is on the air that bears your name ! And He ! what was his fate — the bard ! He of the Desert Harp, whose song Flowed freely, wildly as the wind That bore him and his harp along ? That fate which waits the gifted one, To pine, each finer impulse checked ; At length to sink and die, beneath The shade and silence of neglect ! And this, the polished age, that springs The phoenix from dark years gone by, That blames and mourns the past, yet leaves Her warrior and her bard to die : — To die in poverty and pride, — The light of hope and genius past, — Each feeling wrung, until the heart Could bear no more — so broke at last ! Thus withering, amid the wreck Of sweet hopes, high imaginings. What can the minstrel do but die. Cursing his too-beloved strings ? THE ENGLISH HELICON. 117 I STANZAS. BY THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE. Let me not have this gloomy view About my room, around my bed,- But morning roses, wet with dew, To cool my burning brows instead As flowers that once in Eden grew, Let them their fragrant spirits shed ; And every day tlie sweets renew. Till I, a fading flower, am dead ! Oh ! let the herbs I loved to rear Give to my sense their perfumed breath ; Let them be placed about my bier, And grace the gloomy house of death. I '11 have my grave beneath a hill, Where only Lucy's self shall know, — Where runs the pure pellucid rill Upon its gravelly bed below. There, violets on the borders blow. And insects their soft light display, — Till, as the morning sunbeams glow, The cold phosphoric fires decay. That is the grave to Lucy shewn, — The soil a pure and silver sand, The green cold moss above it grown, Unplucked of all but maiden hand : 118 THE ENGLISH HELICON. In virgin earth, till then unturned, There let my maiden form be laid ; — Nor let my changed clay be spurned, Nor for new guest that bed be made ! There will the lark — the lamb — in sport, In air — on earth — securely play, And Lucy to my grave resort. As innocent — but not so gay. I will not have the churchyard ground, With bones all black and ugly grown. To press my shivering body round. Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. With ribs and skulls I will not sleep. In clammy beds of cold blue clay. Through which the ringed earth-worms creep, And on the shrouded bosom prey. I will not have the bell proclaim When those sad marriage-rites begin, — And boys, without regard or shame, Press the vile moulderinjr masses in ! 'O Say not, it is beneath my care ! I cannot such cold truths allow ; — These thoughts may not afflict me there, But, oh ! they vex and tease me now ! Raise not a turf, nor set a stone. That man a maiden's grave may trace ; But thou, my Lucy, come alone, And let affection find the place ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 119 Oh ! take me from a world I hate, — Men cruel, selfish, sensual, cold ; And, in some pure and blessed state. Let me my sister minds behold : From gross and sordid views refined, Our heaven of spotless love to share, — For only generous souls designed, And not a man to meet us there ! THE NIGHT-SMELLING STOCK. BY Mils. SOUTHEY (CAROLINE BOWLEs). Come, look at this plant, with its narrow pale leaves. And its tall, slim, delicate stem. Thinly studded with flowers ! — yes, with flowers ! — there they are ! Do n't you see, at each joint there 's a little brown star ? But, in truth, there 's no beauty in them ! So you ask why I keep it — the little mean thing ! Why I stick it up here, just in sight ? — 'T is a fancy of mine. — " A strange fancy ! " you say ; " No accounting for tastes !" — In this instance you may. For the flower .... But I '11 tell you to-night. 120 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Some six hours hence, when the lady moon Looks down on the bastioned wall, When the twinkling stars dance silently On the rippling surface of the sea, And the heavy night-dews fall,— Then meet me again, in this casement niche, On the spot where we 're standing now. — Nay, question not wherefore ? Perhaps, with me, To look out on the night and the broad bright sea, And to hear its majestic flow ! Well, we 're met here again ! and the moonlight sleeps On the sea and the bastioned wall ; And the flowers there below — how the night-wind brings Their delicious breath on its dewy wings I — " But there 's one," say you, " sweeter than all ! " Which is it ? The myrtle, or jessamine. Or their sovereign lady the rose ? Or the heliotrope ? or the virgin's bower ? What ! neither ? — " Oh, no ! 't is some other flower, Far sweeter than either of those !" Far sweeter ! And where, think you, groweth the plant That exhaleth such perfume rare ? Look about, up and down — But take care ! or you '11 break, With your elbow, that poor little thing that 's so weak, — " Why 'tis that smells so sweet, I declare ! " THE ENGLISH HELICON. 121 Ah ha ! is it that ? Have you found out now Why I cherish that odd little fright I All is not gold that glitters, you know ; And it is not all worth makes the greatest show, In the glare of the strongest light. There are human flowers full many, I trow, As unlovely as that by your side. That a common observer passeth by, With a scornful lip and a careless eye. In the heyday of pleasure and pride : — But move one of those to some quiet spot, From the mid-day sun's broad glare. Where domestic peace broods with dove-like wing ; And try if the homely, despised thing. May not yield sweet fragrance there ! Or wait till the days of trial come — The dark days of trouble and woe, — When they shrink, and shut up, late so bright in the sun ; Then turn to the little despised one, And see if 't will serve you so ! And judge not, again, at a single glance, Nor pass sentence hastily : There are many good things in this world of ours — Many sweet things and rare — weeds that prove precious flowers Little dreamt of by you or me ! 122 THE ENGLISH HELICOK. THE NEW YEAR'S EVE. BY ALFRED TENNYSON. If you 're waking, call me early — call me early, mother dear ! For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new year. It is the last new year that I shall ever see, Then ye may lay me low i' the mould, and think no more of me. To night I saw the sun set ; he set and left behind The good old year — the dear old time — and all my peace of mind : And the new year 's coming up, mother ! but I shall never see The May upon the blackthorn — the leaf upon the tree ! Last May, we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day. Beneath the hawthorn on the green, they made me Queen of May ; And we danced about the may-pole, and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops ! There 's not a flower on all the hills, the frost is on the pane ; I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again : I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high, I long to see a flower so, before the day I die ! The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. And the swallow '11 come back again, witli summer, o'er the wave, — But I shall lie alone, mother ! witliin the mouldering grave. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 123 Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave o' mine, In the early, early morning, the summer sun '11 shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm asleep, mother ! and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother ! beneath the waning hght, You '11 never see me more in the long, grey fields, at night ; When, from the dry, dark wold, the summer airs blow cool. On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You '11 bury me, my mother ! just beneath the hawthorn shade. And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid ; I shall not forget ye, mother, I shall hear ye when ye pass, With your feet above my head, in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, — but ye '11 forgive me now. Ye '11 kiss me, my own mother ! upon my cheek and brow. Nay, nay ! ye must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. Ye should not fret for me, mother ! ye have another child. If I can, I '11 come again, mother ! from out my resting place ; Though ye '11 not see me, mother ! I shall look upon your face ; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what ye say, And be often, often with ye, when ye think I 'm far away ! Good night! good night! — when I have said ' good night for evermore,' And ye see me carried out from the threshold of the door. Don't let EfRe come to see me till my grave be growing green, — She '11 be a better child to you than ever I have been. ft She '11 find my garden-tools upon the granary-floor, Let her take "em — they are her's— I shall never garden more ! 124 THE ENGLISH HELICON. But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train the rose-bush that 1 set About the parlour-window, and the box of mignionette. Good night, sweet mother ! — Call me when it begins to dawn ! All night I lie awake — but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new year, — So if you 're waking, call me, — call me early, mother dear ! TO THE EVENING WIND. BY W. C. BRYANT (AMERICAN). Spirit that breathest through my lattice— thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day ! Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play. Riding all day the wild blvie waves till now. Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail ! I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night : And, languishing to hear thy welcome sound. Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. Go forth, into the gathering shade ; go forth, — God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 125 Go ! rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, — and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast ! Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone ; That they who near the churchyard willows stray, And listen, in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls that passed away. Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown. Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men, And gone into the boundless heaven again. The faint old man shall lean his silver head, To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep. And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. And softly part his curtains, to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go ! — but the circle of eternal change. Which is the life of nature, shall restore. With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range. Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more ! Sweet odours in the sea-air — sweet and strange — Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream ! 126 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THOMAS. BY EBENEZER ELLIOTT. Tnou art not dead, my son ! my son ! But God hath hence removed thee : Thou canst not die, my buried boy ! Wliile Uves the sire who loved thee. How canst thou die, while weeps for thee The broken heart that bore thee, — And e'en the thought that thou art not Can to her soul restore thee ? Will grief forget thy willingness To run before thy duty, — The love of all the good and true, That filled thine eyes with beauty, — Thy pitying grace — thy dear request, When others had offended, That made thee look as angels look, When great good deeds are ended, — The strength with which thy soul sustained Thy woes and daily wasting, — • Thy prayer, to stay with us, when sure That thou from us wast hasting, — And that last smile, which seemed to say, " Why cannot ye restore me?" — Thy looked farewell is in my heart, And brings thee still before me ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 127 What though the change, the fearful change, From thought — which left thee never — To unremembering ice and clay, Proclaim thee gone for ever? Thy half-closed lids — thy upturned eyes — Thy still and lifeless tresses — Thy marble lip, wliich moves no more, Yet more than grief expresses — The silence of thy coffined snow, By awed remembrance cherished — These dwell with me, like gathered flowers, That in their April perished. Thou art not gone ! — thou canst not go. My bud — my blasted blossom ! The pale rose of thy faded face Still withers in my bosom ! Oh, mystery of mysteries, That took'st my poor boy from me ! What art thou, death ! all-dreaded death ! If weakness can o'ercome thee ? We hear thee not — we see thee not — E'en when thine arrows wound us ; But, viewless, printless, echoless. Thy steps are ever round us ! Though more than life a mystery Art thou, the undeceiver, Amid thy trembling worshippers Thou seest no true believer. No ! — but for life, and more than life, No fearful search could find thee: Tremendous shadow ! who is He That ever stands behind thee ? 128 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The Power who bids the worm deny The beam that o'er her blazes, And veils from us the holier light On which the seraph gazes, — Where burns the throne of Him, whose name The sunbeams here write faintly, — And where my child a stranger stands Amid the blest and saintly, And sobs aloud — while in his eyes The tears, o'erflowing, gather — *' They come not yet! — until they come, Heaven is not heaven, my Father ! Why come they not? — why comes not she From whom thy will removes me ? Oh ! does she love me — love me, still ? I know my mother loves me ! Then send her soon ! and, with her, send The brethren of my bosom ! My sisters too ! — Lord, let them all Bloom round the parted blossom! The only pang I could not bear Was leaving them behind me : I cannot bear it. Even in heaven The tears of parting blind me!" ON A VOLUNTEER SINGER. BY S. T. COLERIDGE. Swans sing before they die : — 'twere no bad thing. Should certain persons die before they sing ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 129 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. BV JOHN KEATS. My heart aches, — and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains, One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk ! 'T is not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, — • That thou, light-winged dryad of the trees ! In some melodious plot Of beechen green and shadows numberless, Singest of summer, in full-throated ease. Oh ! for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance and Proven9al song and sun-burnt mirth ! Oh ! for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ! That I might drink, and leave the world unseen. And with thee fade away into the forest dim ;- Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget — What thou among the leaves hast never known — The weariness, the fever and the fret, Here, v/here men sit and hear each other groan ; K 130 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Wliere palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs. Where yo\ith grows pale and spectre-thin, and dies ; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes. Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow ! Away ! away ! — for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards ! Already with thee ! — tender is the night, And haply the queen-moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays : But here there is no light, Save what, from heaven, is, with the breezes, blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways, 1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs ; But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket and the fruit-tree wild ; — White hawthorn, — and the pastoral eglantine, — Fast-fading violets, covered up in leaves, — And, mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies, on summer-eves. Darkling I listen ! and — for, many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names, in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 131 Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight, with no pain. While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, In such an ecstacy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod! Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear, this passing night, was heard In ancient days, by emperor and clown. Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of R,uth, when, sick for home. She stood, in tears, amid the alien corn ; The same that ofttimes hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn ! — the very word is like a bell, To toll me back, from thee, to my sole self! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf! Adieu ! — adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades, Past the near meadows, over the still stream. Up the hill side : — and now 't is buried deep In the next valley glades ! Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music ! — Do I wake or sleep ? 132 THE ENGLISH HELICON. "WEEP FOR YOURSELVES." BY MRS. SIGOURNEY (aMEUICAN). We mourn for those who toil, — The slave who ploughs the main, Or him who, hopeless, tills the soil, Beneath the stripe and chain ; For those who, in the world's hard race, O'erwearied and unblessed, A host of restless phantoms chase, — Why mourn for those who rest ? We mourn for those who sin, Bound in the tempter's snare, Whom syren pleasure beckons in To prisons of despair ; Whose hearts, by whirlwind passions torn. Are wrecked on folly's shore, — But why, in sorrow, should we mourn For those who sin no more ? We mourn for those who weep. Whom stern afflictions bend With anguish, o'er the lowly sleep Of lover or of friend ; — But they to whom the sway Of pain and grief is o'er. Whose tears our God hath wiped away. Oh, mourn for them no more ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 133 THE SONG OF MAB. BY T. STODDART. Build me a barge of the bracken-tree, As light as the wing of the lone cuckoo, To sail by the moon all merrily, Over the foaming svmimer-dew ! 'O With an alder-leaf on a moorcock's plume, A marsh-flower at the stern. And a till of the snow-white musheroom, And a flag of the yellow fern. Its cables shall be of the water- weed That grew in a silver lake ; And light oars of the hollow reed Leave music in its wake. — Lo, the moon ! and a single star, that strays To the rim of its olden urn. Like a nymph to fill her Grecian vase, And silently return ! The moon ! and a shoal of islands, fair As the green ones of the deep, But wrought of the pearl that strews the air ! Away, for the moonland, sweep ! 134 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The mariners all, in my bracken bark, Have eyes of the northern blue, — And locks that flame, when the night is dark, With an orient amber hue. Their jackets are made of the oak-leaf green, And their helms of the acorn-shell. And their plumes of the thistle-down, between The thyme and the heather-bell. Three and twenty, twenty and three. All chosen by the span. And a good blade of the juniper-tree At the girdle of every man ! Our barge is built of the bracken-tree, — Lightly and gently row, By the serpent clouds that lazily Upturn their coils of snow. From star to star, by the dewy way That to the moonland leads : — Heave to ! heave to ! — the rosy day Is yoking his chariot-steeds ! Our bracken barge rides in the air, With her cables swaying free, And the arm of the elfin mariner Is folded wearily ! THE KNGLISH HELICON. 135 THE CLOUD. liY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shades for the leaves, when laid In their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds, every one, "When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail. And whiten the green plains under; And then again, I dissolve it in rain. And laugh as I pass in thunder ! I sift the snow, on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night, 'tis my pillow white, Wliile I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers. Lightning my pilot sits ; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, — It struggles and howls at fits. Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. This pilot is guiding me, — Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea, — 136 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains : And I, all the w^hile, bask in heaven's blue smile. Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, vpith his meteor eyes. And his burning plumes outspread. Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead : — As on the jag of a mountain-crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit. In the light of its golden w^ings ! And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love. And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove ! That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon. Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn. And wherever the beat of her unseen feet — Which only the angels hear, — May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer : And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, THE ENGLISH HELICON. 137 When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, — Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. Are each paved with the moon — and these ! I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl : The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl !» From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang, like a roof, — The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire and snow. When the powers of the air are chained to my chair. Is the million- coloured bow: — The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. While the moist earth was laughing below ! I am the daughter of earth and water. And the nursling of the sky : I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; I change — but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain. The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, — • I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And, out of the caverns of rain, lake a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise — and unbuild it, again ! 138 THE ENGLISH HELICON. MY BIRTH-DAY. UY THOMAS MOORE. " My birth-day !" — What a different sound That word had, in my youthful ears ! Aad how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears ! When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old ; And, as youth counts the shining links That time around him binds so fast. Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said, " were he ordained to run His long career of life again, He would do all that he had done." Ah ! 't is not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me ! Far otherwise — of time it tells Lavished unwisely, carelessly ; Of counsel mocked — of talents, made Haply for high and pure designs, But oft, hke Israel's incense, laid Upon unholy, earthly shrines ; Of nursing many a wrong desire — Of wandering after love too far, And taking every meteor-fire That crossed my path-way for his star ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 139 All this it tells, and could I trace The imperfect picture o'er again, With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, — How little of the past would stay ! How quickly all should melt away — All — but that freedom of the mind ^\^lich hath been more than wealth to me, — Those friendships in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly, — - And that dear home, that saving ark Where love's true light at last I 've found. Cheering within, when all grows dark And comfortless and stormy, round ! THE EMIGRANT'S GARDEN. BY MIS.S E. L. MONTAGU. Far in a deep Canadian wild, A loved, yet lonely, garden smiled : Both foreign to that forest were The flowers, and they who placed them there ! The seeds were sown by stranger hands, The blossoms born of stranger lands, — And spoke of years no more to come, .^nd breathed as with a voice of home. 140 THE ENGLISH HELICON. There oft, at sunset's closing hour, Would he who raised that Eden-bower Turn fondly back to scenes of old, Where Severn's mighty river rolled. The hearth within his own green isle — His mother's voice — his sister's smile — All crowding came, that heart to fill, Whose pulse of joy lay cold and still ! Perchance, while musing there, he deemed Those plants the living things they seemed, — When, turning to the alien shade. The orphan flowers would fall and fade. Or homeward turn the deep-blue eye. Or to the breeze give back the sigh : 'T was but a dream ; — yet sweet to him Such dreams, amid that forest dim ! Dwelt he alone within the wild ? — No ! — One he loved beside him smiled. Kissed from his lids the starting tear. Or sang the songs he loved to hear ; Or, when his sovil more darkened grew, Could feel and bear that sorrow too, And, though it pained, would not forswear A thought, though sad, 't were sweet to share. But other happier years drew on : — And now, the wanderer's grief is gone, Or mellowed to that soft repose Which steals o'er sorrow's twilight close. And little prattlers, round his knee. Recall the hours of childhood's glee ; Till memory comes — a gentler shade — To heal the wounds which once she made. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 141 The distant torrent's voice is sounding, — The wild-deer through the woods are bounding, — The pine-log on the hearth is blazing, — The herds are in the pastures grazing ; And silvery voices rise and fall Within that wide, yet homely hall — That cottage-home, within whose boimd Nor grief, nor hate, nor strife is found. Behold ! — beside that hearth of love. How fair a group hath fancy wove ! There, manhood's form and woman's face Have made their meet abiding-place ; And by the household board are found The ' ohve boughs ' that gird it round ;— And worldless hearts and souls unstained By holiest ties alone are chained. And one is there, from whose calm brow The light of youth is faded now ; Yet, by that glance around her cast, Not all her early dream is past ! Such visions crossed her girlhood's sleep, — For this she passed the desert deep ; And, closing now life's folded page, Is blessed alike in youth and age ! But, noblest of that group is he Whose love had led her o'er the sea ! Within his own hearth's sacred light He sits, — his grey hair waving white, — • His sons upon their sire attending, — His daughters 'neath his blessing bending, — And on his knee his first-born's child, — The honoured patriarch of the wild ! 142 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE TORN HAT. BY N. P. WILLIS (AMERICAN). There's something in a noble boy, — A brave, free-hearted, careless one, — With his unchecked, unbidden joy, His dread of books and love of fun, — And in his clear and ready smile, Unshaded by a thought of guile, And unrepressed by sadness — Which brings me to my childhood back. As if I trod its very track. And felt its very gladness ! And yet it is not in his play,— When every trace of thought is lost, — And not when you vs^ould call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most. His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall. His merry laugh like music trill. And I in sadness hear it all — For, like the wrinkles on my brow, I scarcely notice such things now But when, amid the earnest game. He stops, as if he music heard, And heedless of his shouted name, As of the carol of a bird — I. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 143 Stands gazing on the empty air, As if some dream were passing there, — 'T is then that on his face I look, His beautiful but thoughtful face, And, like a long-forgotten book, Its sweet, familiar meanings trace ; Remembering a thousand things Which passed me, on those golden wings That time has fettered now, — Things that came o'er me with a thrill. And left me silent, sad and still, And threw upon my brow A holier and a gentler cast, That was too innocent to last ! 'T is strange how thought upon a child Will, like a presence, sometimes press ; And, when his pulse is beating wild. And life itself is in excess, — When foot and hand and ear and eye Are all with ardour straining high, — How in his heart will spring A feeling, whose mysterious thrall Is stronger, sweeter far than all ; And, on its silent wing. How with the clouds he '11 float away, As wandering and as lost as they! 144 THE ENGLISH HELICON. HOPE. BY T. K. IIERVEY. Again — again she comes ! — methinks, I hear Her wild, sweet singing, and her rushing wings ! My heart goes forth to meet her — with a tear. And welcome sends — from all its broken strings. It was not thus — not thus — we met of yore, When my plumed soul went half-way to the sky To greet her ; and the joyous song she bore Was scarce more tuneful than its glad reply : The wings are fettered by the weight of years, And grief has spoilt the music with its tears ! She comes ! — I know her by her starry eyes, — I know her by the rainbow in her hair, — Her vesture of the light of summer skies ; But gone the girdle which she used to wear Of summer roses, and the sandal-flowers That hung, enamoured, round her fairy feet, When, in her youth, she haunted earthly bowers, And culled from all their beautiful and sweet : No more she mocks me with the voice oi mirth, Nor offers, now, the garlands of the earth ! Come back ! come back ! — thou hast been absent long ; Oh ! welcome back the sibyl of the soul ; Who comes, and comes again, with pleading strong. To offer to the heart her mystic scroll : THE ENGLISH HELICON. 145 Though, every year, she wears a sadder look, And sings a sadder song ; and, every year, Some farther leaves are torn from out her book, And fewer what she brings — and far more dear ; As, once, she came, oh ! might she come again. With all the perished volumes offered, then ! But come ! — thy coming is a gladness, yet, — Light from the present o'er the future cast. That makes the present bright ; but oh ! regret Is present sorrow while it mourns the past. And memory speaks, as speaks the curfew-bell, To tell the daylight of the heart is done :^ Come, like the seer of old ; and, with thy spell. Put back the shadow of that setting sun On my soul's dial — and, with new-born light. Hush the wild tolling of that voice of night ! Bright spirit, come ! — the mystic rod is thine That shews the hidden fountains of the breast. And turns, with point unerring, to divine The places where its buried treasures rest, — Its hoards of thought and feeling ! — at that spell, Methinks, I feel its long-lost wealth revealed. And ancient springs within my spirit well, That grief had choked, and ruins had concealed; And sweetly spreading, where their waters play, The tints and freshness of its early day ! She comes ! she comes ! — her voice is in mine ear. Her wild, sweet voice, that sings, and sings for ever, — Whose stream of song sweet thoughts awake to hear. Like flowers that haunt the margin of a river, L 146 V THE ENGLISH HELICON. (Flowers that, like lovers, only speak in sighs. Whose thoughts are hues, whose voices are their hearts). She comes ! — I know her by her radiant eyes, Before whose smile the long dim cloud departs ! And if a darker shade he on her brov/, — And if her tones be sadder than of yore, — And if she sings more solemn music now, And bears another harp than erst she bore,' — And if around her form no longer glow The earthly flowers that, in her youth, she wore,^ — That look is holier and that song more sweet, And heaven's flowers — the stars — are at her feet ! TO THE BUTTERFLY. BY SAMUEL ROGERS. Child of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light; And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff" fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstacy ! Yet wert thou once a worm — a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man ;^soon, from his cell of clay, To burst a seraph in the blaze of day ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. • 147 DEJECTION. 1!Y S. T. COLERIDGE. Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon, With tlie old moon in her arms; And I fear, I fear, my master dear ! We shall have a deadly storm. Ballad op Sir Patrtc-k Spence. Well ! — if the bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, — Or the dull sobbing draft that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Eolian lute, Which better far were mute ! For lo ! the new moon, winter-bright ! And, overspread with phantom-light, (With swimming phantom-light o'erspread. But rimmed and circled by a silver thread,) I see the old moon in her lap — foretelling The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! Those sounds — which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, — Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give. Might startle this dull pain^ — and make it move and live ! 148 THE ENGLISH HELICOK. A grief without a pang — void, dark and drear — A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief. In word, or sigh, or tear ; — Oh, lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, — To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, — Have I been gazing on the western sky. And its peculiar tint of yellow-green ; And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. That give away their motion to the stars — Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen — Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue— I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel, how beavitiful they are ! My genial spirits fail ! And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? It were a vain endeavour. Though I shovild gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west : — I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within ! Oh, lady ! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live : — Ours is her wedding- garment, ours her shroud ! And would we aught behold of higher worth THE ENGLISH HELICON. 149 Than that inanimate cold world, allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the earth — And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the hfe and element ! Oh, pure of heart ! thou needest not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be :— What, and wherein it doth exist, This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist. This beautiful and beauty-making power. Joy, virtuous lady! — joy, that ne'er was given Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, — Life, and life's effluence — cloud at once and shower, Joy, lady ! is the spirit and the power. Which wedding nature to us gives in dower, — A new earth and new heaven. Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — Joy is the sweet voice, joy the luminous cloud — We in ourselves rejoice ! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, — All melodies the echoes of that voice. All colours a suffusion from that light ! There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress ; And all misfortimes were but as the stuff Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness. For hope grew round me, like the twining vine ; And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. 150 THE ENGLISH HELICON. But now, afflictions bow me down to earth : Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ; But oh ! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, — My shaping spirit of imagination ! For, not to think of what I needs must feel, But to be still and patient, all I can, — And, haply, by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural man, — This was my sole resource — my only plan : Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. Hence ! viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, — Reality's dark dream ! I turn from you ; and listen to the wind. Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony, by torture lengthened out. That lute sent forth ! Thou wind, that rav'st without, — Bare craig, or mountain-tarn, or blasted tree. Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house long held the witches' home, Methinks, were fitter instruments for thee ! Mad lutanist ! who, in this month of showers, Of dark-brown gardens and of peeping flowers, Makest devils' yule, with worse than wintry song. The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among ! Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! What tellest thou now about ?■ — 'T is of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds — At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 1.51 But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is over ! It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud ;— A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight. As Otway's self had framed the tender lay : — 'T is of a little child. Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home — but she hath lost her way ; And now, moans low, in bitter grief and fear, And now, screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear! 'T is midnight ! — but small thoughts have I of sleep. Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! Visit her, gentle sleep ! with wings of healing ! And may this storm be but a mountain-birth ! May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as thovigh they watched the sleeping earth ! With light heart may she rise, — Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, — Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ! To her may all things live, from pole to pole, — Their life the eddying of her living soul ! Oh, simple spirit ! guided from above.' — Dear lady ! — friend devoutest of my choice, — Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice ! 152 THE ENGLISH HELICON. MY LADY'S PAGE. BY W. H. HARRISON. I SIGH not for riches nor high degree ; The life of a page is the life for me ! I sit in the hall, when the tempests lower ; And in sunshine, my place is my lady's bower. Not a long-prisoned bird, just escaped from his cage, Is so buoyant and blithe as my lady's page ! While lovers, in legions, essay to beguile My lady's lip of a rosy smile, I laugh in my sleeve, as I hear them sigh, For I bask, all the day, in the light of her eye ; And, when no sunny glances their anguish assuage. They all envy the lot of my lady's page. At their idol's shrine let them bend the knee ; Little fairy-foot Mabel is dearer to me. No high dame of them all treads a measvire so well ; And her lips — oh, such lips ! — but 't is treason to tell- They would win from his desert the anchorite sage. Who 's of much sterner stuff than my lady's page. When the banquet is spread, and they feast it high, And wit kindles quick beneath beauty's eye, I pour out the red wine, and am not such an elf, That I can't, when I please, fill a glass for myself. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 153 Of the sunniest vintage and ripest age : — Oh, a riglit merry life has my lady's page ! Do I envy the baron so wealthy, whose smile Hides the care that gnaws deep at his heart the while ? Or the damsel beside him, whose hand he hath sold, To one her heart spurneth, for sordid gold, Thus unholily linking fair yovitli with age ? — She 'd gladly change lots with my lady's page ! The abbot, though mitred he sit at the board, Must brook the light jest from the belted lord ; And my lord, though his blade in the scabbard may burn. Must endure the keen gibe of the chvirchman in turn : — I think, as I smile on their impotent rage, I had rather, by far, be my lady's page. Our seneschal grim, with a spiteful look, Once called me "a page out of Satan's book ;" Quoth I, " May your saying be true to the letter. For the sooner one's out of his books the better:" — They may jeer me who please, but they '11 get, I '11 engage. Quite as good as they bring, from my lady's page. They say — but too truly — youth's summer is short ; That its butterfly season of frolic and sport Must give place to the cares and the struggles of men : But why grieve for it now ? — 'T will be time enough then ; When, whate'er be my part on the world's wide stage, T shall miss the light heart of my lady's page ! 154 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE BARREN HILL. BY K. M. MILNES. Before my home, a long straight hill Extends its barren bound ; And all who that way travel will Must travel miles around :■ — Yet not the loveliest face of earth To living man can be A treasury of more precious worth Than that bare hill to me ! That hill-side rose, a wall between This world of ears and eyes, And every shining shifty scene That fancy forms and dyes. — First babyhood engaged its use, To plant a good-child's land. Where all the streams were orange-juice. And sugar all the sand. A play-ground of unending sward There blest the growing boy, — A dream of labourless reward, Whole holidays of joy ; A book of nature, whose bright leaves No other care should need. But life that happily receives AVhat he that runs may read. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 155 Nor lacked there skies for onward youth With wayward will to tinge, — Sweet sunshine overcast by ruth, And storms of golden fringe : Nor vales that darkling might evoke Mysterious fellowship Of names that still to fancy woke, But slumbered on the lip ! The hour when first that hill I crossed Can yet my memory sting ; — The dear self-trust that moment lost No lore again can bring ! It seemed a foully broken bond Of nature and my kind, That I should find the world beyond The world I left behind ! But not in vain that hill-side stood, On many an after-day, When with retvirning steps I wooed Revival of its sway : — It could not give me truth, where doubt And sin had ample range, , But it was powerful to shut out The ill it could not change. And still performs a sacred part. To my experienced eye, This Pisgah which my virgin heart Ascended but to die ! What was reality before. In symbol now may live,^ — Endowed with right to promise more Than ever it could give. 156 THE ENGLISH HELICON. KIRKSTALL ABBEY R/EVISITED. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. Long years have passed since last I strayed, In boyhood, throvigh thy roofless aisle. And watched the mists of eve o'ershade Day's latest, loveliest smile ; And saw the bright, broad, moving moon Sail up the sapphire skies of June ! The air around was breathing balm,^ — The aspen scarcely seemed to sway,- — And, as a sleeping infant calm. The river streamed away. Devious as error, deep as love, And blue and bright as heaven above ! Steeped in a flood of golden hght, — Type of that hour of deep repose, — In wan, wild beauty, on my sight. Thy time-worn tower arose, — Brightening above the wreck of years. Like Faith, amid a world of fears ! I climbed its dark and dizzy stair. And gained its ivy-mantled brow ; But broken — ruined — who may dare Ascend that pathway now ? Life was an upward journey then ; — When shall my spirit mount, again ? THE ENGLISH HELICON, 157 The steps in youth I loved to tread Have sunk beneath the foot of Time ; Like them, the daring hopes that led Me, once, to heights sublime — Ambition's dazzling dreams — are o'er, — And I may scale those heights no more ! And years have fled; — and now I stand. Once more, by thy deserted fane. Nerveless alike in heart and hand ! How changed by grief and pain, Since last I loitered here — and deemed Life was the fairy thing it seemed ! And gazing on thy crumbling walls, What visions meet my mental eye ! For every stone of thine recalls Some trace of years gone by, — Some cherished bliss, too frail to last, Some hope decayed, or passion past ! , Ay ! thoughts come thronging on my soul Of sunny youth's delightful morn, — When, free from sorrow's dark control, By pining cares unworn, Dreaming of fame and fortune's smile, — I lingered in thy ruined aisle ! How many a wild and withering woe Hath seared my trusting heart since then ! What clouds of bliglit, consuming slow The springs that life sustain. Have o'er my world-vexed spirit past. Sweet Kirkstall, since I saw thee last ! 158 THE ENGLISH HELICON. How bright is every scene, beheld In youth and hope's unclouded hours ! How darkly — youth and hope dispelled — The loveliest prospect lours ! Thou wert a splendid vision then ; — When wilt thou seem so bright again ? Yet still thy turrets drink the light Of summer evening's softest ray, — And ivy garlands, green and bright, Still mantle thy decay; And calm and beauteous, as of old, Thy wandering river glides in gold ! But life's gay morn of ecstacy, That made thee seem so more than fair,- The aspirations wild and high, — The soul to nobly dare, — Oh, where are they, stern ruin say? — Thou dost but echo — Where are they ? Farewell ! — Be still to other hearts What thou wert long ago to mine : And when the blissful dream departs, Do thou a beacon shine. To guide the mourner through his tears, To the blest scenes of happier years !*' Farewell ! — I ask no richer boon Than that my parting hour may be Bright as the evening skies of June : — Thus — thus to fade like thee, With heavenly Faith's soul-cheering ray To gild with glory my decay ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 159 BATTLE HYMN OF THE LEAGUE. BY T. B. MACAULEY. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France ! And thou Rochelle — our own Rochelle^ — proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! — a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre ! Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day. We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears ! There rode the brood of false Lorraine — the curses of our land ; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand : And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, — And good Coligny's hoary hair, all dabbled with his blood ; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre ! The king is come to marshal us, in all his armour dressed ; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. 160 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our lord the king!" And if my standard-bearer fall — as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, — Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war. And be your Oriflamme to-day, the helmet of Navarre ! Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark, to the mingled din Of fife and steed and trump and drum and roaring ciilverin ! The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain. With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now, by the lips of those we love ! fair gentlemen of France, Charge, by the golden lilies! — upon them with the lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep — a thousand spears in rest — A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest ! And in they burst, and on they rushed ; while, like a guiding star. Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre ! &^ Now, God be praised ! the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain. Their ranks are breaking, like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds and flags and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance ; — and all along our van, " Remember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, — " No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down, with every foreigner ! but let your brethren go." — Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship'or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry — the soldier of Navarre ! Ho, maidens of Vienna ! — ho, matrons of Lucerne ! Weep ! weep ! — and rend your hair for those who never shall return ! Ho, Philip ! send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's sovils. THE ENGLISH HELICON. IG] Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ! Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night ! For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ! And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre! THE AFTER-STATE. BY THE REV. F. W. FABER. A Spirit came upon me in the night ; And led me gently down a rocky stair, Unto a peopled garden, green and fair. Where all the day there was an evening light. Trees out of every nation blended there : The citron shrub its golden fruit did train Against an English elm. — 'T was like a dream. Because there was no wind ; and things did seem All near and big — like mountains before rain. Far in those twilight bowers, beside a stream. The soul of one who had but lately died Hung listening, with a brother at his side : And no one spoke in all that haunted place, — But looked quietly into each other's face ! M 162 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE BIRD'S RELEASE. BY MRS. HEMANS. Go forth— for she is gone ! With the golden light of her wavy hair, She is gone to the fields of the viewless air ; She hath left her dwelling lone ! Her voice hath passed away ! It hath passed away, like a summer breeze. When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas. Where we may not trace its way. Go forth — and, like her, be free ! With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye ; Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky. And what is our grief to thee ? Is it aught even to her we mourn ? Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed ? Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle head. Or float, on the light wind borne ? We know not — but she is gone ! Her step from the dance, her voice fropi the song. And the smile of her eye from the festal throng ; She hath left her dwelling lone ! When the waves, at sunset, shine. We may hear thy voice, amidst thousands more, In the scented woods of our glowing shore, — But we shall not know 't is thine ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 163 Even so with the loved one flown ! Her smile in the starlight may wander by, Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh, — Around us, but all unknown. Go forth — we have loosed thy chain ! We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers Which the bright day rears in our eastern bowers, — But thou wilt not be lured again. Even thvis may the summer pour All fragrant things on the land's green breast, And the glorious earth like a bride be dressed, — But it wins her back no more ! TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Sweet Highland girl! a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head : And those gray rocks — that household lawn- Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn— This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake — This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode — In truth, unfolding thus, ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream ; 1G4 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Sucli forms as from their covert peep, When earthly cares are laid asleep ! Yet, dream or vision as thou art, I bless thee vdth a human heart. God shield thee, to thy latest years I I neither know thee, nor thy peers, — And yet my eyes are filled with tears ! With earnest feeling, I shall pray For thee when I am far away : For never saw I mien, or face. In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense. Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness. Thou wear'st, upon thy forehead clear, The freedom of a mountaineer. A face with gladness overspread ! Soft smiles, by hviman kindness bred ! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech, — A bondage sweetly brooked, — a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life ! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds, of tempest-loving kind. Thus beating up against the wind ! THE ENGUSH HELICON. 165 What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful ? Oh, happy pleasure, here to dwell . Beside thee in some heathy dell, — Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd — thou a shepherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality : Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea, — and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could. Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see ! Thy elder brother I would be. Thy father — anything to thee ! Now thanks to heaven — that, of its grace, Hath led me to this lonely place ! Joy have I had ; and, going hence, I bear away my recompence. In spots like these it is, we prize Our memory — feel that she hath eyes : Then, why should I be loth to stir ? I feel this place was made for her, — To give new pleasure like the past. Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. Sweet Highland girl ! from thee to part : For I, methinks, till I grow old. As fair before me shall behold. As I do now, the cabin small, The lake — the bay — the waterfall — And thee, the spirit of them all ! iGf) THE ENGLISH HELICON. MONT BLANC. BY MISS LANDON. Thou monarch of the upper air ! Thou mighty temple, given For morning's earhest of hght, And evening's last of heaven ! The vapour from the marsh, the smoke From crowded cities sent, Are purified before they reach Thy loftier element. Thy hues are not of earth, but heaven ; Only the sunset rose Hath leave to fling a crimson dye Upon thy stainless snows ! Now, out on those adventurers Who scaled thy breathless height, And made thy pinnacle, Mont Blanc, A thing for common sight ! Before that hmnan step had left Its sully on thy brow. The glory of thy forehead made A shrine to those below. Men gazed upon thee as a star, — And turned to earth again. With dreams like thine own floating clouds. The vague — but not the vain : THE ENGLISH HELICON. 167 No feelings are less vain than those That bear the mind away, Till, blent with nature's mysteries, It half forgets its clay. It catches loftier impulses. And owns a nobler power ; — The poet and philosopher Are born of such an hour ! But now, where may we seek a place For any spirit's dream ?• — Our steps have been o'er every soil. Our sails o'er every stream. Those isles, the beaixtiful Azores — • The fortunate, the fair — We looked for their perpetual spring. To find it was not there. Bright El Dorado, land of gold. We have so sought for thee, There 's not a spot in all the globe Where such a land can be ! How pleasant were the wild beliefs That dwelt in legends old ! Alas ! to our posterity Will no such tales be told. We know too miich : — scroll after scroll Weighs down our weary shelves ; Our only point of ignorance Is centred in ourselves. Alas ! for thy past mystery. For thine untrodden snow ! — Nurse of the tempest ! hadst thou none To guard thine outraged brow ? 168 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Thy summit, once the miapproached, Hath human presence owned : — With the first step upon thy crest, Mont Blanc ! thou wert dethroned ! ADDRESS TO A WILD DEER. BY PROFESSOR WILSON. Magnificent creature ! so stately and bright, In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight ! For what has the child of the desert to dread, Wafting up his own mountains that far-beaming head, Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale ? — Hail !— king of the wild and the beautiful, — hail ! Hail, idol divine ! — whom nature hath borne O'er a hundred lull-tops, since the mists of the morn ; Whom the pilgrim, long wandering on mountain and moor, As the vision glides by him, may blameless adore, — For the joy of the happy, the strength of the free. Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee ! Up — up to yon cliff ! like a king to his throne, O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone, — A throne which the eagle is glad to resign Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. There, the bright heather springs up, in love of thy breast :• Lo ! the clouds in the depths of the sky are at rest, THE ENGLISH HELICON. 169 And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill ! In the hush of the mountains, yet antlers lie still — Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight, Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height : One moment — thou bright apparition, — delay ! Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day ! Aloft on the weather gleam, scorning the earth. That wild spirit hung in majestical mirth : In dalliance with danger, he bounded in bliss. O'er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss ; O'er the grim rocks careering with prosperous motion, Like a ship by herself in full sail o'er the ocean. Then proudly he turned, ere he sank to the dell, And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell, While his horns in a crescent of radiance shone. Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone ! The ship of the desert hath passed on the wind. And left the dark ocean of mountains behind : But my spirit will travel wherever she flee ; And behold her in pomp, o'er the rim of the sea, Her voyage pursue — till her anchor be cast In some cliff-girdled haven of beauty at last! His voyage is o'er ! — As if struck by a spell. He motionless stands, in the hush of the dell : There, safely and slowly sinks down on his breast. In the midst of his pastime enamoured of rest. A stream, in a clear pool that endeth its race — A dancing ray, chained to one sunshiny place — A cloud, by the winds to calm solitude driven— A hurricane, dead in the silence of heaven ! 170 THE ENGLISH HELICON. WINTER. BY MARY HOWITT. There 's not a flower upon the hill, There 's not a leaf upon the tree ; The summer-bird hath left its bough — Bright child of sunshine, singing now In spicy lands beyond the sea ! There 's silence in the harvest-field, — And blackness in the mountain-glen, — And cloud that will not pass away From the hill-tops for many^ day, — And stillness round the homes of men. The old tree hath an older look ; The lonesome place is yet more dreary : They go not now, the young and old, Slow wandering on by wood and wold ; The air is damp — the winds are cold — And summer-paths are wet and weary ! The drooping year is in the wane ; No longer floats the thistle-down ; The crimson heath is wan and sere, — The sedge hangs withering by the mere, — And the broad fern is rent and brown. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 171 The owl sits huddling by himself, — The cold has pierced his body thorough ; The patient cattle hang their head ; The deer are 'neath their winter-shed ; The ruddy squirrel 's in his bed, And each small thing within its burrow. In rich men's halls the fire is piled, And ermine robes keep out the weather ; In poor men's huts the fire is low, — Through broken panes the keen winds blow. And old and young are cold together. Oh ! poverty is disconsolate ; Its pains are rnany, its foes are strong ! The rich man, in his jovial cheer, Wishes 'twas winter through the year ; The poor man, 'mid his wants profound, With all his little children round. Prays God that winter be not long ! One silent night hath passed — and, lo ! How beautiful the earth is now ! All aspect of decay is gone. The hills have put their vesture on, And clothed is the forest bough ! Say not, 't is an unlovely time ! Turn to the wide, white waste thy view ; Turn to the silent hills that rise. In their cold beauty, to the skies, — And to those skies, intensely blue ! 172 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Silent — not sad — the scene appeareth ; And fancy, like a vagrant breeze, Ready a-wing for flight, doth go To the cold northern land of snow, Beyond the icy Orcades. The land of ice — the land of snow — The land that hath no summer-flowers — Where never living creature stood — The wild, dim, polar solitude — How different from this land of ours ! Walk, now, among the forest-trees ! — Saidst thou that they were stripped and bare ? Each heavy bough is bending down With snowy leaves and flowers — the crown Which winter regally doth wear ! 'Tis well! — thy summer-garden ne'er Was lovelier, with its birds and flowers. Than is this silent place of snow. With feathery branches drooping low, — Wreathing around thee shadowy bowers ! ON AN INSIGNIFICANT. BY S. T. COLERIDGE. 'T is Cypher lies beneath this crust- Whom Death created into dust ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 173 THE POET AND HIS BRETHREN. (From Schiller.) BY THOMAS POWELL. " Take hence the world !" — said sovran Jove, To mortals, from his lofty height, — " She shall be your's !" — A fairer gift Ne'er blessed the human sight ! Launched from the great Creator's hand, The ponderous globe was swung on high, And, clothed with vernal glory, took Its orbit in the sky. " The world is your's, ye living men ! Without reserve do I impart ; Therefore the same among yourselves Share with a brother's heart ! " Forth rushed they all — both old and young : The farmer seized the fruitful field, — The haughty squire the forests claimed. And all their coverts yield. The plodding tradesman took the stores, And cried, " These warehouses are mine ;" The jolly abbot laid his hands On venison and wine. Then came the king : — with lofty gates He barred the roads and bridges too. And said, " I must be paid for these ; A tax to me is due !" 174 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Long after, when the whole was shared, From distant cHme the poet came : All had its lord — there was no spot The hapless bard could claim. " Oh, woe is me !" the poet cried, " Shall I forgotten be, alone, — I, thy most faithful son ?" and straight. Fell at Jove's awful throne. " If, in the realms of shadowy dreams, Thou musing stay'dst," the god replied, " How canst thou blame mankind or me ? — Thou hast thyself to chide ! Where strayed thy steps, when human kind Shared 'mong themselves this earth so fair .'- Perchance thou roamedst 'mid the stars, Seeking thy birthright there ?" " O sovran Jove !" — the bard rejoined, " To thy bright presence was I near ; And heaven's eternal harmonies Were swelling on mine ear : — And on the radiance of thy brow My raptured eyes, in strongest trance. Were fixed,-»-nor could I pluck my sight From thy bright countenance ! " Pardon ! — Oh, pardon ! to that soul That, with thy glorious light o'erfraught, Lingered amongst the heavenly groves, Nor earthly treasures sought!" Jove beamed a gracious smile ; and said,— " Since to thy brothers earth is given. Come, dwell with me ! and from this day Thy home shall be in heaven !" THE ENGLISH HELICON. ITr^ ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. BY HORACE SMITH. And thou hast walked about — how strange a story! — In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago ! When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And Time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, pal^ices, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! Speak ! — for thou long enough hast acted dummy ! Thou hast a tongue, — come — let us hear its tune ! Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, mummy ! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, — Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs and features ! Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect, — To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? — Was Cheops, or Cephrenes architect Of either pyramid that bears his name ? — Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer ? — - Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? Perhaps thovi wert a mason, — and forbidden, By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade : Then say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? Perhaps thou wert a priest ; — if so, my struggles Are vain, — for priestcraft never owns its juggles ! 176 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass, — Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat, — Or doffed thine own, to let Oueen Dido pass, — Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch, at the great Temple's dedication ! I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled ? For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed. Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : — Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Thou couldst develop, if that withered tongue Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen. How the world looked when it was fresh and young. And the great deluge still had left it green ! — Or was it then so old that history's pages Contained no record of its early ages ? Still silent! — Incommunicative elf! Art sworn to secrecy ? Then keep thy vows ! But, pr'y thee, tell us something of thyself, — Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house : — Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered, Wliat hast thou seen — what strange adventures numbered ? Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations ; The Roman Empire has begun and ended, — New worlds have risen, — we have lost old nations, — And countless kings have into dust been humbled. While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. THE ENGLISH HELICON. ] 77 Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb, with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, — And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder. When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed. The nature of thy private life unfold ! A heart hath throbbed beneath that leathern breast. And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled : — Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? What was thy name and station, age and race ? Statue of flesh ! — Immortal of the dead ! Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, — who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence ! Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning. When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning Why should this worthless tegument endure. If its undying guest be lost for ever ? Oh ! let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue, — that when both must sever. Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom ! >• I 178 THE ENGLISH HELICON. HOW SHALL I WOO HER? BY W. M. PUAED. How shall I WOO her ? — ^I will stand Beside her when she sings, And watch that fine and fairy hand Flit o'er the qviivering strings : And I will tell her, I have heard — Though sweet her song may be — - A voice, whose every whispered word Was more than sontr to me ! How shall I woo her ? — I will gaze, In sad and silent trance. On those blue eyes, whose liquid rays Look love in every glance : And I will tell her, eyes more bright — Though bright her own may beam — Will fling a deeper spell to-night Upon me, in my dream ! How shall I woo her ? — I will try The charms of olden time ; And swear by earth and sea and sky. And rave in prose and rhyme : And I will tell her, when I bent My knee in other years, I was not half so eloqvient, — I could not speak for tears ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 179 How shall I woo her ? — I will bow Before the holy shrine ; And pray the prayer, and vow the vow, And press her lips to inine : And I will tell her, when she parts From passion's thrilling kiss, That memory, to many hearts, Is dearer far than bliss ! Away ! — away ! — the chords are mute, The bond is rent in twain ; You cannot wake that silent lute. Nor clasp those links again ! Love's toil, I know, is little cost, — Love's perjury is light sin, — But souls that lose what I have lost, Wliat have they left to win ? FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM. BY SAMUEL ROGERS. While on the cliff, with calm delight, she kneels, And the blue vales a thousand joys recall. See to the last, last verge her infant steals ! Oh, fly ! — yet stir not— speak not, lest it fall ! Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, — And the fond boy springs back, to nestle there ! 180 THE ENGLISH HELICON. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. BY THOMAS HOOD. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, — The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn : He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, — But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! I remember, 1 remember The roses, red and white, — The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light !^ — The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birth-day, — The tree is living yet ! I remember, I remember Wliere I was used to swing. And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing :- — My spirit flew in feathers then. That is so heavy now ; And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 181 I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky ! It was a childish ignorance ; — But now, 't is little joy To know I 'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy ! TO MY MOTHER. BY THOMAS MOOKE. They tell us of an Indian tree, Which — howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom, wide and high — Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again, to that dear earth From which the life, that fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth. 'Tis thus, — though wooed by flattering friends, And fed with fame — if fame it be, — This heart, my own dear mother ! bends. With love's true instinct, back to tliee ! 182 THE ENGLISH HELICON. FLORANTHE. liY T. K. IIEKVKY. Oh ! that «'«.«, how sad a word it is ! — SiiAKsPEiii': Dost thou recall it ? — 7 was a glorious eve ! By heaven ! I hear the w^aving of its woods, Kissed into sighing ; and its few faint stars Look yet upon me, through the mist of years, As then they looked, to listen to our vows ! The air was precious with the breath of flowers. That had been weeping, — and the harps of eve Played vespers to the stars ! — and, in the blue. The deep-blue sky, (how beautiful she looked !) Stood the young moon ! Her cheek was very pale, — As thine is now, Floranthe ! — or as her's. The night she sought her shepherd, on the hill, And could not lift his eyelid with her kiss ! Beautiful mourner ! — Oh ! they wrong her truth Who call her changeful ! — many a live -long night, She sits alone, upon the hill-top, still. To look for him who comes not : — unlike thee. Oh, fair Floranthe ! — save that both are sad. And widowed, now — the false one and the true ! And thou, bright dreamer ! — thou to whom the stars Of night were ministers, — and whom their queen Lulled, with immortal kisses, to thy rest ! THE ENGLISH HELICON 183 Thou, whose young visions gathered into o)te, — One dream of love and loveliness and light ! Thou, to whose soul a brighter thought was given Than his, for whom Egeria sat alone, By the cool gushing fount, — Endymion ! Oh ! not for thee — no not for thee, alone, Have been such visitings ! — Floranthe, hear ! (But weep not !) — thou dost know how many years, How long and well my soul has worshipped thee, — Till my mind made itself a solitude. For only thee to dwell in, — and thou wert The spirit of all fountains in my breast ! We will not speak of that : — but oh ! that eve. Amid the pines — our fondest and our last ! (Ere it had crossed my heart — or thine — to think, That we could part, and one could change so soon,) How it has haunted me, — with all the sounds That made it silent, — and the starry eyes And flitting shapes that made it solitude ! Did I not love thee ! Oh ! for but one throb, — One pulse of all the pulses beating then, — One feeling, though the feeling were a pang, — One passion, though the passion spoke in tears ! Perhaps, we loved too well : the burning thoughts That should have fed the heart for many years, Methinks, were wasted in a single night ! (Young spirits are so prodigal of joy !) I deemed thy love was boundless : oh ! the queen. The eastern queen, who melted down her pearl. And drank the treasure in a single draught, Was wiser far than hearts that love too well, If love be finite ! — In that last adieu, 184 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Ovir young and passionate spirits burnt away, And flung their ashes on the winds of heaven ! Our love has perished, Hke the sound that dies, And leaves no echo, — like the eastern day That has no twilight, — like the lonely flower Flung forth to wither on the wind, that wastes Even its perfume : — dead, Floranthe ! dead, With all the preciovis thoughts on which it fed, And all the hopes which made it beavitiful, — Sound, light and perfume gone— and gone for ever ! And art thou come again ? — it may not be ! Oh, beautiful thou art ! but on thy brow Sits the dim, shadowy thing which only haunts Wliere hearts are wasted ; and thine eye is sad As moonlight, when it sleeps upon a grave ; And thy soft bosom — where my head has lain, And dreamt youth's dream — heaves with unquiet motion ; And thou art weeping ; (there are those who weep In joy — but then they never look as thou dost !) Why hast thou come so late ! I waited long — How very long ! — and thou wert by my side. Sometimes in dreams! (how sad it is to dream, And play with shadows, — flung, perhaps, from graves ! Why come by night, who may not come by day ? Why mock for moments, who were true for years ?) How long and heavily, from day to day, 1 hung upon the hope that grows from fear ! But thou hast come at last ! — it is too late ! I cannot love again !— thou, still, art young, And fair — but as a vestal ! and the votv, My pale Floranthe ! is upon thy heart ! Thou canst not love again ! — 7 is all too lale! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 185 Sit here, Floranthe ! — come to me, mine own ! My friend! (wliy dost thou start?) and I will sing The air I used to sing thee, long ago, And touch our old guitar,— .: My little doves were ta'en away From that glad nest of theirs, Across an ocean foaming aye, And tempest-clouded airs, — My little doves ! who lately knew The sky and wave, by warmth and blue ! And now, within the city prison. In mist and chillness pent. With sudden upward look they listen For sounds of past content — For lapse of water, swell of breeze, Or nut-fruit falling from the trees ! The stir, without the glow, of passion — The trivimph of the mart — The gold and silver's dreary clashing With man's metallic heart — The wheeled pomp — the pauper tread — These only sounds are heard, instead ! Yet still, as on my human hand Their fearless heads they lean, — And almost seem to understand What human musings mean, (With such a plaintive gaze their eyne Are fastened upwardly to mine !) Their chant is soft as on the nest, Beneath the sunny sky : For love, that stirred it in their breast, Remains vmdyingly, — And 'neath the city's shade, can keep The well of music clear and deep. 196 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And love, that keeps the music, fills With pastoral memories : — All echoings from out the hills, All droppings from the skies, All flowings from the wave and wind, Remembered in their chant I find. So teach ye me the wisest part, My little doves ! — to move Along the city ways, with heart Assured by holy love, And vocal vdth such songs as own A fountain to the world unknown ! 'T was hard to sing by Babel's stream- More hard, in Babel's street ! But if the soulless creatures deem Their music not unmeet For sunless walls — let us begin, Who wear immortal wings, within ! To me, fair memories belong Of scenes that erst did bless, — For no regret — but present song. And lasting thankfulness — And very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they ! I will have hopes that cannot fade, For flowers the valley yields — I will have humble thoughts, instead Of silent, dewy fields ! My spirit and my God shall be My sea-ward hill — my boundless sea 1 THE ENGLISH HELICON. H)7 OH! ENVIE'S AN UNC ANNIE GUEST. BY MRS. SOUTHKY (CAROLINE BOWLEs). Oh ! Envie 's an uncannie guest ! — I 've heard it a' way, naethin' doubtin',— An' yet, she bideth i' my breast, An' winna gang, for a' my routin' ! She does na wear her foulest face To scare me quite — the crafty quean ! But whiles, a sentimental grace— A saft, poetic, pensive mien. As — " Hark ! " quo' she, " that mirthfu' sang — Yon birdie's — frae the dancin' rowans ; An' mark yon lassie link alang, "Sae lightsome, o'er the dewy gowans ! *' Oh, warldly honours — warldly walth — How far thae lowly lots surpass ye — Contentit labour, jocund health, O' yon sma' bird, an' simple lassie ! " Blythe, bonnie creatures ! fain would I, Tho' walth an' fame I 've nane to barter — " Sae softly thus will Envie sigh — Sae saintly — like a virgin martyr ! Nor scowleth she, wi' fiendish leuks, At heaps o' gowd or laurel crowns. But gravely whispers, — " Gowd buys beuks, An' lovin" lauds an' silver soun's ! " 198 THE ENGLISH HELICON. An' that's but truth, an' little wrang, We '11 a' alloo, in siclike havers ; But let alane the jaud, — or lang, She starts mair guilefu' clishmaclavers. As — " Leuk !" quo' she, " yon burly chiel, Wi' red, round face, like Hob the miller, What blunderin' turn o' Fortune's wheel Gat him the luck o' mickle siller ? " What earthly bliss conceiveth he Ayont a mess o' sav'ry pottage — A flarin' coach — a shrievaltie- — A gimcrack castle, or a cottage '? " An' tither wise-like, wizen carle, Wi' visage yellow as a crocus, An' eyes a' puckered in a harl, That peer through 's han' (which mak's a focus) ! " At yonner awfu' brick-dust daub. His bran-new Reubens — Reubens ! horrit ! — Ay, warrantit by Mynheer Schaub, Wha 's pooched the ninny's thoosan's for it : — " An' that auld crabbit chuff! wha pays Doon hunderts for an auld Elzeevir : — An' that young fule ! wi' four blood bays, An' nae mair spirit than a weaver, " For aught that 's really fine an' gran' — An' yet the cretur 's travelled Europe, An' tanks o' Rome, the Vatican, The Greeks, the Louvre, Voltaire, an' Merope : — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 199 " An' that gay dowager an' daughters, Wha 've been abroad, an' brought back liame French laces— graces — scented waters — Mosaics — Cameos, an' — fame : — " An' a' thae folk rin to an' fra. An' scatter gowd like chucky-stanes ; While ither folk — for aught I knaw, As gude, if no as lucky anes" " Haud, Madame Envie ! Are ye there ?" Quoth I — " Methinks, frae sma' beginnin's, For a' yere sanctimonious air, Ye 're gettin' on till serious sinnin's ! " What 's ways o' ither folk to me ? Or a' their gowd — or hoo they spend it ? Fause hizzie ! let a bodie be Wha 'd fain be humble and contentit ! " " Oh ! very weel — nae need," quo' she, " To rage, wi' virtue sae heroic ; Mak much o' yere philosophie, Ye '11 need it a', my leddy Stoic ! " When Beltane comes — an' a' the dells An' a' the banks an' braes are ringin' Wi' bleat o' lambs, an' tinklin' bells, An' wimplin' burns, an' lintwhites singin',— " An' a' the bonnie broomie knowes Wi' tufts o' flowerin' May are crested, Festooned wi' monie a wildiu' rose. An' vi'lets, 'mangst the auld roots nested, — 200 THE ENGLISH HELICON. " An' every whiiF o' win 's a freight, Frae heaven itsel', o' sweet sensation — An' every livin' thing 's elate Wi' nature's blissfu' renovation, — " An ye 're a captive, sick an' lane, Sae sadly frae yere window peerin', — Ye '11 need a heart o' flint and stane To bar me fairly out o' hearin' ! " An' liltin' loud, like merle in June, Comes kintra Joan, but loupin' pass ye- I guess we '11 wauk that auncient croon ' Oh, heaven ! were I some cottage lassie !' THE LAST MAN. BY THOMAS CAMI'liELL. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, - The sun himself must die, — Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality ! I saw a vision, in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time ! I saw thp last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 201 The sun's eye had a sickly glare, — The earth with age was wan, — The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man ! Some had expired in fight, — the brands Still rusted in their bony hands, — In plague and famine some ; Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; And ships were drifting, with the dead, To shores where all was dumb ! Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood. With dauntless words and high. That shook the sere leaves from the wood. As if a storm passed by : — Saying, — we 're twins in death, proud sun ! Thy face is cold — thy race is run — 'T is Mercy bids thee go ; For thou, ten thousand thousand years, Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow ! What though, beneath thee, man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill, — And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will, — Yet mourn I not thy parted sway. Thou dim discrowned king of day ! For all those trophied arts And triumphs that, beneath thee, sprang. Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on hviman hearts. 202 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Go ! — let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again ! Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain, anew, to writhe, — Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred. Or mown in battle by the sword. Like grass beneath the scythe ! Even I am weary, in yon skies To watch thy fading fire ; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire ! My lips, that speak thy dirge of death — Their rounded gasp and gurghng breath To see thou shalt not boast : The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, — The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost ! This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark ; Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim. When thou thyself art dark ! No ! it shall live again, — and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine,— By Him recalled to breath. Who captive led captivity. Who robbed the grave of victory. And took the sting from Death ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 203 Go, sun ! — while Mercy holds me up On Nature's awful waste, To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste- Go ! — tell the night, that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race. On earth's sepulchral clod. The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God ! HOW CAN I SING? BY SYDNEY WALKER. How can I sing ? — All power, all good. The high designs and hopes of yore, Knowledge, and faith, and love, — the food That fed the fire of song, — are o'er ! And I, in darkness and alone. Sit cowering o'er its embers drear, — Remembering how, of old, it shone, A light to guide — a warmtli to cheer ! Oh ! when shall care and strife be o'er, — And torn affection cease to smart, — And peace and joy return once more. To cheer a sad and restless heart ! 204 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The lamp of hope is quenched in night,— And dull is friendship's soul-bright eye,- And cold the hearth of home-delight, — And mute the voice of phantasy ! I seek for comfort — all in vain, — I fly to shadows for relief, — And call old fancies back again, — And breathe on pleasure's withered leaf. In vain, for days gone by I mourn, And feebly murmur, o'er and o'er. My fretful cry — " Return ! return ! " — Alas, the dead return no more ! It may not be ! — my lot of thrall Was dealt me by a mightier hand ; The grief, that came not at my call. Will not depart at my command. Then ask me not, sweet friend ! to wake The harp, so dear to thee of yore ; Wait, till the clouds of sorrow break. And I can hope and love once more. When pain has done its part assigned, And set the chastened spirit free, — My heart again a voice shall find, — And my first notes be poured to thee ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 205 NIGHT. BY JAMES MONTOOMF.RV. Night is the time for rest ! — How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, — • Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own deli^jhtful bed ! "t>' Night is the time for dreams ! — The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems. Mix in fantastic strife : Ah ! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams, by daylight, are ! Night is the time for toil ! — To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield ; Till all is ours that sages taught. That poets sang, and heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep! — To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory, where sleep The joys of other years, — 20G THE ENGLISH HELICON. Hopes, that were angels at their birth, But died when young, like things of earth ! Night is the time to watch ! — O'er ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, — or catch The full moon's earliest glance ; That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved, and left behind ! Night is the time for care ! — Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair Come to our lonely tent, — Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host. Summoned to die by Caesar's ghost ! Night is the time to think ! — When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight, — and, on the utmost brink Of yonder starry pole. Discerns, beyond the abyss of night, The dawn of uncreated light ! Night is the time to pray ! — Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away : — So will his follower do ; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 207 Night is the time for death ! — When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, — From sin and suffering cease, — Think of heaven's bliss, — and give the sign To parting friends. — Such death be mine ! ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. BY LEIGH HUNT. Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) Awoke, one night, from a deep dream of peace ; And saw, within the moonlight in his room, — Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, — An angel, writing in a book of gold ! Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold : And to the Presence in the room he said, — " What writest thou ? " — The vision raised its head ; And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, — " The names of those who love the Lord ! " " And is mine one ? " — said Abou. " Nay, not so ! " Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, — But cheerly still ; — and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote and vanished. The next night, It came again, with a great wakening light ; And shewed the names whom love of God had blessed, — And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 208 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. (From ihe Sl'ai'ish.) BY .1. a. LOCK 11, MIT. At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a trampling heard ; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe ! " What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing ? " — " A tower is fallen, a star is set.— Alas ! alas for Celin !" Three times they knock, three times they cry, — and wide the doors they throv/ ; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go ; In gloomy lines they mustering stand, beneath the hollow porch. Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch ; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing, For all have heard the misery. — " Alas ! alas for Celin !" Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood, — 'T was at the solemn jousting — around the nobles stood ; The nobles of the land were there, and the ladies bright and fair Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share ; But now, the nobles all lament — the ladies are bewailing — For he was Granada's darling knight. — " Alas ! alas for Celin ! " Before him, ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view ; Behind him, his four sisters — each wrapped in sable veil — Between the tambour's dismal strokes, take up their doleful tale ; THE ENGLISH HELICON. 209 When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing, And all the people far and near, cry — " Alas ! alas for Celin ! " Oh ! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, — The flovsrer of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all ; His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale. The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail ; And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their w^ailing. Its sound is like no earthly sound — '* Alas ! alas for Celin !" The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, — the Moor stands at his door, One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore ; Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green and blue ; Before each gate the bier stands still, — then bursts the loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low — " Alas ! alas for Celin ! " An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry, — Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye : 'Twas she that nursed him at her breast — that nursed him lonjr acfo : She knows not whom they all lament, — but soon she well shall know ! With one deep shriek, she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing, " Let me kiss my Cehn ere I die — Alas ! alas for Celin ! " EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, Death came, with friendly care, — The opening bud to heaven conveyed, And bade it blossom there ! 210 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE CHRISTIAN VIRGIN TO HER LOVER. l!Y THE REV. THOMAS DALE. Oh, lost to faith, to peace, to heaven ! Canst thou a recreant be To Him whose hfe for thine was given, Whose cross endured for thee ? Canst thou, for earthly joys, resign A love immortal, pure, divine, — Yet link thy plighted truth to mine, And cleave unchanged to me ? Thou canst not — and 'tis breathed in vain, Thy sophistry of love ! — Though not in pride or cold disdain Thy falsehood I reprove. Inly my heart may bleed ; but yet. Mine is no weak — no vain regret ; Thy wrongs to me I might forget, — But not to Him above. Cease, then ! — thy fond impassioned vow, In happier hours so dear, (No virgin pride restrains me now,) I must not turn to hear ! For still my erring heart might prove Too weak to spurn thy proffered love, — And tears, though feigned and false, might move. And prayers, though insincere. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 211 But no ! the tie so firmly bound Is torn asunder now ; How deep that sudden wrench may wound, It recks not to avow. Go thou to fortune and to fame ; I sink to sorrow — suffering — shame — Yet think, when glory gilds thy name, I would not be as thou ! Thou canst not light or wavering deem The bosom all thine own ; Thou know'st, in joy's enlivening beam, Or fortune's adverse frown. My pride, my bliss had been to share Thy hopes — to soothe thine hours of care — With thee the martyr's cross to bear. Or win the martyr's crown. 'T is o'er ! but never from my heart Shall time thine image blot ; The dreams of other days depart, — Thou shalt not be forgot ! And never, in the suppliant sigh, Poured forth to Him who sways the sky, Shall mine own name be breathed on high. And thine remembered not ! Farewell ! — and oh ! may He whose love Endures, though man rebel. In mercy yet thy guilt remove. Thy darkening clouds dispel ! Where'er thy wandering steps decline. My fondest prayers — nor only mine, — The aid of Israel's God be thine ; And in His name — Farewell ! 212 THE ENGLISH HELICON. I WANDERED LONELY. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills,— When, all at once, I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, — Beside the lake, beneath the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze ! Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way. They stretched, in never-ending line, Along the margin of a bay : — Ten thousand saw I, at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance ! The waves beside them danced ; — but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not be but gay. In such a jocund company ! I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie. In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude : — And then, my heart with pleasure fills. And dances with the daffodils ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 213 CHARADE. UY W. M. I'RAED. There hangs a portrait in an ancient hall :— A group of hunters meeting in their joy On a green lawn : the gladdest of them all Is old Sir Hubert's heir — a bright-eyed boy. A gentle girl has heard the bugle call ; And she has hurried from her book or toy To whisper caution. High the pony bounds, And look, my First steals off, before the hounds ! There is another picture : — that gay youth Is grown to manhood : by the great salt lake He girds his new sword on ; and gentle Ruth Smiles — smiles, and sobs as if her heart would break, And teaches vows of constancy and truth. And bids him keep my Second, for her sake, — A certain pledge, that, wander where he will. One heart will think and dream about him still ! And yet another picture : — from far lands. The truant is returned : but ah ! his bride, — Sickness has marred her beauty ! Mute he stands — Mute, in the darkened chamber, by her side, And brings the drugged cup — sweeter from his hands, — Still whispering hope, which she would check or chide ! Doth the charmed draught lure back the fainting soul. E'en from death's grasp ? — Oh, blessings on my Whole ! 214 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE LAST SEPARATION. BY SIR EDWARD LYTTON" BULWER, BART. We shall not rest together, love ! When death has wrenched my heart from thine ; The sun may smile thy grave above, When clouds are dark on mine ! I know not why — since in the tomb No instinct fires the silent heart — • And yet it seems a thought of gloom, That we should ever part ; — That, journeying through the toilsome past, Thus hand in hand and side by side, The rest we reach should, at the last. The weary ones divide ; — That the same breezes should not sigh The self-same funeral bovighs among, — Nor o'er one grave, at daybreak, die The night-bird's lonelj^ song ! A foolish thought ! — for ive are not The things that rest beneath the sod, — The very shapes we wore forgot, When near the smile of God. A foolish thought — yet human, too ! For love is not the soul's alone ; It winds around the form we woo, — The mortal we have known ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 21; The eyes that speak such tender truth, — The lips that every care assuage, — The hand that thrills the heart in youth, And smooths the couch in age, — With these — The Human — human love Will twine its thoughts and w^eave its doom, Aud still confound the life above With death beneath the tomb ! And who shall tell, in yonder skies. What earthlier instincts we retain,^ — What link, to sovils released, supplies The old material chain ? The stars that pierced this darksome state May fade in that mei'idian shore, — And human love, like human hate. Be memory, and no more. We will not think it : — for in vain Were all our dreams of heaven could shew, Without the hope to love, again, What we have loved below ! But still the heart will haunt the well Wherein the golden bowl lies broken, — And treasure, in the narrow cell. The past's most holy token ! Or wherefore grieve above the dead ? — Why bid the rose-tree o'er them bloom ? — Why fondly deck their dismal bed. And sanctify the tomb ? 'T is through the form the soul we love ; And hence, the thought ivill chill the heart. That, though our souls may meet above. Our forms shall rest apart ! 210 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE CULPRIT FAY, BY J. R. DRAKE (AMERICAN). 'T IS the middle watch of a summer's night — The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright ! Nought is seen, in the vault on high, But the moon and the stars and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue — A river of light on the welkin blue ! The moon looks down on old Cronest, — She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, And seems his huge grey form to throw In a silver cone on the wave below. His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut-bough and the cedar made ; And, through their clustering branches dark. Glimmers and dies the firefly's spark, — Like starry twinkles that momently break Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack ! The stars are on the moving stream, — And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam, In an eel-like, spiral line, below. The winds are whist, and the owl is still, — The bat in the shelvy rock is hid, — And nought is heard on the lonely hill, But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did ; And the plaint of the waiHng whip-poor-will, THE ENGLISH HELICON. 21" Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, — Ever a note of wail and wo, — Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow, 'T is the hour of fairy ban and spell : The wood-tick has kept the minutes well ; He has counted them all, with click and stroke, Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak ; And he has awakened the sentry elve Who sleeps with him in tlie haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the fays to their revelry ; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell — ('T was made of the white snail's pearly shell) : — • " Midnight comes, and all is well ! Hither, hither, wing your way ! 'Tis the dawn of the fairy day." They come from beds of lichen gi'een, — They creep from the muUen's velvet screen ; — Some, on the backs of beetles, fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees. Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high. And rocked about in the evening breeze ; — Some from the hum-bird's downy nest — They had driven him out by elfin power. And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour ; — Some had lain in the scoop of the rock. With glittering ising-stars inlaid, — And some had opened the four-o'clock, And stolen within its purple shade. 218 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And now, they throng the moonlight glade, Above — below — on every side, — Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride ! They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, — Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the buttercup : A scene of sorrow waits them now,^ — For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow ; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade ; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunned him in her eye of blue, — Fanned her cheek with his wing of air,^ — Played in the ringlets of her hair, — And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the lily-king's behest. For this, the shadowy tribes of air To the elfin court must haste away : — And now they stand expectant there. To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay ! The throne was reared upon the grass, Of spice-wood and of sassafras ; On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell Hung the burnished canopy — And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell Of the tulip's crimson drapery. The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, — On his brow the crown imperial shone, — The prisoner Fay was at his feet. And his peers were ranged around the throne. THE ENGLISH HELICON. He waved his sceptre in the air, — He looked around, and calmly spoke ; His brow was grave and his eye severe. But his voice in a softened accent broke : — " Fairy ! Fairy ! list, and mark ! Thou hast broke thine elfin chain ; Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark. And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain : Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity, In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye ; Thou hast scorned our dread decree, — And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high, But, well I know, her sinless mind Is pure as the angel forms above. Gentle and meek and chaste and kind, — Such as a spirit well might love ! Fairy ! had she spot or taint, Bitter had been thy punishment : — Tied to the hornet's shardy wings, — Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings,' — Or seven long ages doomed to dwell With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell, — Or every night to writhe and bleed Beneath the tread of the centipede, — Or, bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, Your jailer a spider huge and grim. Amid the carrion bodies to lie Of the worm and the bug and the murdered fly These it had been your lot to bear, Had a stain been fovuid on the earthly fair. Now list, and mark our mild decree, — Fairy ! this your doom must be : — 219 220 THE ENGLISH HELICON. " Thou shalt seek the beach of sand, Where the water bounds the elfin land ; Thou shalt watch the oozy brine, Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine. Then, dart the glistening arch below, And catch a drop from his silver bow. The water-sprites will wield their arms, And dash around, with roar and rave, And vain are the woodland spirits' charms, — They are the imps tliat rule the wave : Yet, trust thee in thy single might, — If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right. Thou shalt win the warlock fight ! " If the spray-bead gem be won, The stain of thy wing is washed away ; But another errand must be done Ere thy crime be lost for aye : — Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, — Thou must reillume its spark. Mount thy steed, and spur him high To the heaven's blue canopy ; And when thou seest a shooting star, Follow it fast, and follow it far — The last faint spark of its burning train Shall light the elfin lamp again ! Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay ; Hence ! to the water-side, away ! The goblin marked his monarch well ; He spake not, but he bowed him low, — Then plucked a crimson colen-bell. And turned him round, in act to go. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 221 The way is long — he cannot fly, His soiled wing has lost its power, And he winds adown the mountain hifirh. For many a sore and weary hour. Through dreary beds of tangled fern, — Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, — Over the grass and through the brake, Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake : Now o'er the violet's azure flush He skips along, in lightsome mood ; — And now he thrids the bramble-bush, Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. He has leaped the bog — he has pierced the brier — He has swum the brook — and waded the mire — Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak. And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. He had fallen to the ground outright, — For rugged and dim was his onward track, — But there came a spotted toad in sight. And he laughed as he jumped upon her back ! He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist, — He lashed her sides with an osier thong, — And now, through evening's dewy mist, With leap and spring they bound along, — Till the mountain's magic verge is past. And the beach of sand is reached at last. Soft and pale is the moony beam, Moveless still the glassy stream, — The wave is clear, the beach is bright With snowy shells and sparkling stones ; The shore-surge comes in ripples light, In murmurings faint and distant moans : 222 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And ever afar, in the silence deep, Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap ; And the bend of his graceful bow is seen — A glittering arch of silver sheen, Spanning the wave of burnished blue, And dripping with gems of the river-dew ! The elfin cast a glance around, As he 'lighted down from his courser-toad,— Then round his breast his wings he wound. And close to the river's brink he strode. He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer, — Above his head his arms he threw, Then tossed a tiny curve in air. And headlong plunged in the waters blue ! Up sprung the spirits of the waves, From sea-silk beds in their coral caves ; With snail-plate armour snatched in haste. They speed their way through the liquid waste ! Some are rapidly borne along On the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong, — Some on the blood-red leeches glide, — Some on the stony star-fish ride, — Some on the back of the lancing squab, — Some on the sideling soldier-crab, — And some on the jellied quarl, that flings At once a thousand streamy stings ! They cut the wave with the living oar. And hurry on to the moonlight shore, — To guard their realms, and chase away The footsteps of the invading Fay ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 223 Fearlessly he skims along, — His hope is high and his limbs are strong : He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing, And throws his feet with a frog-like fling ; His locks of gold on the waters shine, — At his breast the tiny foam-beads rise, — His back gleams bright above the brine, And the wake-line foam behind him lies. But the water-sprites are gathering near, To check his course along the tide, — Their warriors come in swift career. And hem him round on every side : On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold, — The quarl's long arms are round him rolled, — The prickly prong has pierced his skin, — And the sqviab has thrown his javelin, — The gritty star has rubbed him raw, — And the crab has struck with his giant claw. He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain ; He strikes around, but his blows are vain, — Hopeless is the unequal fight, — Fairy ! nought is left but fiight ! He turned him round, and fled amain, With hurry and dash to the beach again : He twisted over from side to side. And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide. The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet, And with all his might he flings his feet ; But the water-sprites are round him still, To cross his path and work him ill. They bade the wave before him rise, — They flung the sea-fire in his eyes,^ — 224 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And they stunned his ears with the scallop stroke, With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak ! Oh ! but a weary wight was he, When he reached the foot of the dogwood tree ! — Gashed and wounded and stiff and sore, He laid him down on the sandy shore : He blessed the force of the charmed line, And he banned the water-goblins' spite, — For he saw around, in the sweet moonshine. Their little wee faces above the brine. Giggling and laughing, with all their might, At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight ! Soon he gathered the balsam dew. From the sorrel-leaf and the henbane-bud ; Over each wound the balm he drew. And with cobweb lint he stanched the blood. The mild west wind was soft and low, — It cooled the heat of his burning brow, — And he felt new life in his sinews shoot, As he drank the juice of the cal'mus root : And now, he treads the fatal shore. As fresh and vigorous as before ! Wrapped in musing, stands the sprite : — 'T is the middle wane of night ! His task is hard — his way is far — But he must do his errand right, Ere dawning mounts her beamy car. And rolls her chariot-wheels of light ; And vain are the spells of fairy-land, — He must work with a human hand ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 22^ He cast a saddened look around, — But he felt new joy his bosom swell, When, glittering on the shadowed ground, He saw a purple muscle-shell ; Thither he ran, and he bent him low. He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow. And he pushed her over the yielding sand, Till he came to the verge of the haunted land. She was as lovely a pleasure-boat As ever fairy had paddled in. For she glowed with purple paint without. And shone with silvery pearl within : — A sculler's notch in the stern he made. An oar he shaped of the bootle blade ; Then sprung to his seat, with a lightsome leap, And launched afar on the calm blue deep ! The imps of the river yell and rave ; They had no power above the wave, But they heaved the billow before the prow. And they dashed the surge against her side. And they struck her keel with jerk and blow. Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. She wimpled about, in the pale moonbeam. Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed stream ; And momently, athwart her track. The quarl upreared his island back. And the fluttering scallop behind would float. And spatter the water about the boat ; But he bailed her out, with his colen-bell. And he kept her trimmed with a weary tread, While on every side, like lightning, fell The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. 226 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Onward still he held his way, Till he came where the column of moonshine lay, And saw, beneath the surface dim. The brown-backed sturgeon slowly swim : Around him were the goblin train — But he sculled with all his might and main, And followed wherever the sturgeon led, Till he saw him upward point his head ; Then he dropped his paddle-blade, — And held his colen-goblet up, To catch the drop, in its crimson cup. With sweeping tail and quivering fin. Through the wave the sturgeon flew. And, like the heaven-shot javelin, He sprang above the waters blue ! Instant as the star-fall light. He plunged him in the deep again. But left an arch of silver bright — The rainbow of the moony main ! It was a strange and lovely sight To see the puny gobhn there ; He seemed an angel-form of light. With azure wing and sunny hair. Throned on a cloud of purple fair, — Circled with blue and edged with white, — And sitting, at the fall of even. Beneath the bow of summer heaven ! A moment, and its lustre fell; — But, ere it met the billow blue, He caught within his crimson bell, A droplet of its sparkling dew ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 227 Joy to thee, Fay ! thy task is done, Thy wings are pure, for the gem is won — Cheerly ply thy dripping oar. And haste away to the elfin shore ! He turns, and lo ! on either side, The ripples on his path divide ; And the track o'er which his boat must pass Is smooth as a sheet of polished glass. Around, their limbs the sea-nymphs lave, With snowy arms half swelling out,' — While, on the glossed and gleamy wave, Their sea-green ringlets loosely float : They swim around with smile and song ; They press the bark with pearly hand, And gently urge her course along. Toward the beach of speckled sand : And, as he lightly leaped to land. They bade adieu, with nod and bow. Then gaily kissed each little hand, And dropped in the crystal deep below ! A moment stayed the fairy there ; He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer, — Then spread his wings of gilded blue. And on to the elfin court he flew ! As ever ye saw a bubble rise, And shine with a thousand changing dyes, Till, lessening far, through ether driven, It mingles with the hues of heaven, — As, at the glimpse of morning pale. The lance-fly spreads his silken sail, And gleams with blendings soft and bright, Till lost in the shades of fading night, — 228 THE ENGLISH HELICON. So rose from earth the lovely Fay- So vanished, far in heaven away ! Up, Fairy ! quit thy chick-weed bower ! The cricket has called the second hour ; Twice again, and the lark will rise To kiss the streaking of the skies ; Up ! thy charmed armour don, — Thou 'It need it, ere the night be gone. He put his acorn-helmet on ; — It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down : The corslet-plate that guarded his breast Was once the wild-bee's golden vest ; His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes, Was formed of the wings of butterflies ; His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen, — Studs of gold on a ground of green ; And the quivering lance, which he brandished bright, Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. Swift he bestrode his firefly steed ; He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue, — He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed, — And away, like a glance of thought, he flew, To skim the heavens, and follow far The fiery trail of the rocket-star ! The moth-fly, as he shot in air, Crept under the leaf, and hid her there ; The katy-did forgot its lay, — The prowling gnat fled fast away, — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 229 The fell inoscheto checked his drone, And folded his wings till the Fay was gone, — And the wily beetle dropped his head, And fell on tlie ground, as if he were dead. They crouched them close in the darksome shade, They quaked all o'er with awe and fear,— For they had felt the blue-bent blade. And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear. Many a time, on a summer's night, When the sky was clear and the moon was bright, They had been roused from the haunted ground, By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound ; They had heard the tiny bugle-liorn, — They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string, Wlien the vine-twig boughs were tightly drawn. And the nettle shaft through air was borne. Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wins: : And now they deemed the courier ouphe Some hunter sprite of the elfin ground ; And they watched till they saw him mount the roof That canopies the world around ; — Then, glad, they left their covert lair. And freaked about in the midnight air. Up to the vaulted firmament His path the firefly courser bent ; And, at every gallop, on the wind, He flung a glittering spark behind ! He flies like a feather in the blast, Till the first light cloud in heaven is past. But the shapes of air have begun their work, And a drizzly mist is round him cast. He cannot see through the mantle murk. He shivers with cold, but he urges fast : 230 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade, He lashes his steed, and spurs amain, — For shadowy hands have twitched the rein. And flame-shot tongues around him played ; And near him many a fiendish eye Glared with a fell malignity, — And yells of rage and shrieks of fear Came screaming on his startled ear! His wings are wet around his breast, — The plume hangs dripping from his crest, — His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare,— And his ears are stunned with the thvmder's blare. But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew, He thrust before and he struck behind. Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through, And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind : — Howling the misty spectres flew. They rend the air with frightful cries, — For he has gained the welkin blue, And the land of clouds beneath him lies ! Up to the cope careering swift. In breathless motion fast, Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift. Or the sea-roc rides the blast, — The sapphire sheet of eve is shot. The sphered moon is past, The earth but seems a tiny blot On a sheet of azure cast ! Oh ! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight. To tread the starry plain of even, — To meet the thousand eyes of night. And feel the cooling breath of heaven ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 231 But the Elfin made no stop or stay, Till he came to the bank of the milky-way ; Then he checked his courser's foot, And watched for the glimpse of the planet-shoot ! Sudden, along the snowy tide, That swelled to meet their footsteps' fall, The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide. Attired in sunset's crimson pall ! Around the Fay they weave the dance, They skip before him on the plain, — And one has taken his wasp-sting lance, And one upholds his bridle-rein. With warblings wild they lead him on. To where, through clouds of amber seen, Studded with stars, resplendent shone The palace of the sylphid queen ! Its spiral columns, gleaming bright, Were streamers of the northern light, — Its curtain's light and lovely flush Was of the morning's rosy blush, — And the ceiling fair, that rose aboon, The white and feathery fleece of noon ! But oh ! how fair the shape that lay, Beneath a rainbow bending bright ! She seemed, to the entranced Fay, The loveliest of the forms of light. Her mantle was the purple rolled, At twilight, in the west afar ; 'Twas tied with threads of dawning gold, And buttoned with a sparkhng star. 232 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Her face was like the lily roon That veils the vestal planet's hue ; Her eyes, tw^o beamlets from the moon, Set floating in the welkin blue. Her hair is like the sunny beam, — And the diamond gems which round it gleam • Are the pure drops of dewy even, That ne'er have left their native heaven ! She raised her eyes to the wondering sprite ; And they leaped with smiles, — for, well I ween, Never before, in the bowers of light, Had the form of an earthly fay been seen. Long she looked in his tiny face — Long with his butterfly cloak she played ; She smoothed his wings of azure lace, And handled the tassel of his blade : And as he told, in accents low. The story of his love and woe. She felt new pains in her bosom rise. And the tear-drop started in her eyes. And " Oh, sweet spirit of earth ! " she cried, " Return no more to your woodland height ; But ever here with me abide In the land of everlasting light ! Within the fleecy drift we '11 lie, — We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim ; And all the jewels of the sky Around thy brow shall brightly beam ! And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream That rolls its whitening foam aboon, And ride upon the lightning's gleam. And dance upon the orbed moon ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 233 We '11 sit within the Pleiad ring, — We '11 rest on Orion's starry belt, — And I will bid my sylphs to sing The song that makes the dew-mist melt : Their harps are of the umber shade That hides the blush of waking day, And every gleamy string is made Of silvery moonshine's lengthened ray : — And thou shalt pillow on my breast, While heavenly breathings float around, And, with the sylphs of ether blest. Forget the joys of fairy ground !" She was lovely and fair to see, — And the elfin's heart beat fitfully ! But lovelier far, and still more fair. The earthly form imprinted there ! Nought he saw, in the heavens above, Was half so dear as his mortal love : For he thought upon her looks so meek, — And he thought of the light fiush on her cheek. Never again might he bask and lie On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye ; But in his dreams her form to see, — To clasp her in his revery, — To think upon his virgin bride, — Were worth all heaven and earth beside ! " Lady ! " he cried, " I have sworn, to-night, On the word of a fairy knight, To do my sentence-task aright : — My honour scarce is free from stain, I may not soil its snows again ; 234 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Betide me weal, betide me woe, Its mandate must be answered now! " Her bosom heaved with many a sigh. The tear was in her drooping eye ; But she led him to the palace-gate. And called the sylphs who hovered there,- And bade them fly, and bring him straight Of clouds condensed a sable car. With charm and spell she blessed it there, From all the fiends of upper air ; Then round him cast the shadowy shroud, And tied his steel behind the cloud ; And pressed his hand, as she bade him fly Far to the verge of the northern sky, — For, by its wane and wavering light, There was a star v/ould fall to-night ! Borne afar, on the wings of the blast, Northward away he speeds him fast ; And his courser follows the cloudy wain. Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain. The clouds roll backward, as he flies, Each flickering star behind him lies, — And he has reached the northern plain. And backed his firefly steed again, Ready to follow, in its flight. The streaming of the rocket-light. The star is yet in the vault of heaven, — But it rocks in the summer gale : And now, 't is fitful and uneven, And now, 't is deadly pale ; THE ENGLISH HELICON. 235 And now, 't is wrapped in sulphur-smoke, And quenched is its rayless beam ; And now, with a rattling thunder-stroke, It bursts in flash and flame ! As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance That the storm-spirit flings from high, The star shot flew o'er the welkin blue. As it fell from the sheeted sky ! As swift as the wind, in its trail behind, The elfin gallops along,- — The fiends of the cloud are bellowing loud, But the sylphid charm is strong ! He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire, While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze ; He watches each flake till its sparks expire. And rides in the light of its rays. He drove his steed to the lightning's speed, And caught a glimmering spark ; — Then wheeled around, to the fairy ground, And sped through the midnight dark ! Ouphe and goblin ! imp and sprite ! Elf of eve ! and starry fay ! Ye that love the moon's soft light. Hither — hither wend your way ! Twine ye in a jocund ring, — Sing and trip it merrily, Hand to hand, and wing to wing. Round the wild witch-hazel tree ! 236 ^ THE ENGLISH HELICON. Hail the wanderer again, With dance and song, and lute and lyre ; — Pure his wing and strong his chain. And doubly bright his fairy fire ! Twine ye in an airy round, — Brush the dew and print the lea ; Skip and gambol, hop and bound, Round the wild witch-hazel tree ! The beetle guards our holy ground, — He flies about the haunted place, And if mortal there be found. He hums in his ears and flaps his face : The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay. The owlet's eyes our lantern be ; Thus we sing and dance and play. Round the wild witch-hazel tree ! But hark ! — from tower on tree-top high, The sentry elf his call has made, — A streak is in the eastern sky, — Shapes of moonlight ! flit and fade ! The hill-tops gleam in morning's spring, — The sky-lark shakes his dappled wing, — The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn, — The cock has crowed, — and the fays are gone ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 237 THE TREE OF RIVELIN. BY EBENEZER ELLIOTT. The lightning, like an Arab, crossed The moon's dark path on high ! And wild, on Rivelin, writhed and tossed The stars and troubled sky, — Where, lone, the tree of ages grew. With branches wide and tall ; — Ah ! who, when such a tempest blew, Could hear his stormy fall ? But now the skies, the stars are still,— The, blue wave sleeps again, — And heath and moss, by rock and rill, Are whispering, in disdain. That Rivelin's side is desolate. Her giant in the dust ! Beware, oh, power ! — for God is great. Oh, guilt ! — for God is just ! And boast not, pride ! while millions pine, That wealth secures thy home ; — The storm that shakes all hearths but thine Is not the storm to come ! The tremour of the stars is pale,' — The dead clod quakes with fear, — The worm slinks down o'er hill and vale, When God in wrath draws near ! But if the Upas will not bend, Beneath the frown of heaven, A whisper cometh, which shall rend What thunder hath not riven ! 238 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. RY R. M. MILNES. No ! though all the winds that lie In the circle of the sky Trace him out, and pray and moan, Each in its most plaintive tone, — No ! thougli earth be split with sighs, And all the kings that reign Over nature's mysteries Be our faithfullest allies, — All — all is vain ! They may follow on his track. But He never will come back, — Never again ! Youth is gone away, — Cruel cruel Youth ! Full of gentleness and ruth Did we think him, all his stay ! How had he the heart to wreak Such a woe on us so weak, — He that was so tender-meek ? How could he be made to learn To find pleasure in our pain ? Could he leave us, to return Never again ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 249 Bow your heads very low ! Solemn-measured be your paces, Gathered up in grief your faces, — Sing sad music as ye go ! In disordered handfuls strew Strips of cypress, sprigs of rue ! In your hand be borne the bloom, Whose long petals once and only Look from their pale-leaved tomb, In the darkness lonely ! Let the nightshade's beaded coral Fall, in melancholy moral, Your wan brows around, — While, in very scorn, ye fling The amaranth upon the ground, As an unbelieved thing I What care we for its fair tale Of beauties that can never fail, Glories that can never wane ? No such blooms are on the track He has past, — who will come back Never again ! Alas ! we know not how he went, — We knew not he was going ; For had our tears once found a vent, We had stayed him with their flowing. It was an earthquake, when We awoke and found him gone, — We were miserable men, We were hopeless, every one ! Yes, he must have gone away In his guise of every day, — 240 THE ENGLISH HELICON. In his common dress, — the same Perfect face and perfect frame — For in feature, for in hmb. Who could be compared to him ? Firm his step, — as one who knows He is free, where'er he goes, — And withal, as light of spring As the arrow from the string : His impassioned eye had got Fire which the sun has not : Silk to feel, and gold to see, Fell his tresses full and free, — Like the morning-mists that glide Soft adown the mountain's side ! Most delicious 'twas to hear When his voice was trilling clear. As a silver-hearted bell, — Or to follow its low swell, When, as dreamy winds that stray Fainting 'mid jEolian chords, Inner music seemed to play Symphony to all his words ! In his hand was poised a spear, — Deftly poised — as to appear Resting of its proper will : Thus, a merry hvmter still. And engarlanded with bay, Must our Youth have gone away ! Though we half remember, now, ' He had borne, some little while. Something mournful in his smile — Something serious on his brow. Gentle heart ! — perhaps he knew The cruel deed he was about to do ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 241 Now, between us all and him There are rising mountains dim, — Forests of uncounted trees, — Spaces of unmeasured seas. Think, with him, how gay, of yore, We made sunshine out of shade, — Think, with him, how light we bore All the burden sorrow laid ! All went happily about him, — How shall we toil on without him ? How, without his cheering eye, Constant strength embreathing ever ? How, without him standing by. Aiding every hard endeavour ? For, when faintness or disease Had usurped upon our knees, If he deigned our lips to kiss With those Hving lips of his. We were lightened out of pain, We were up and hale again ! Now, without one blessing glance From his rose-lit countenance. We shall die, deserted men,^ — And not see him, even then ! We are cold — very cold ; All our blood is drying old. And a terrible heart-dearth Reigns for us in heaven and earth ! Forth we stretch our chilly fingers, In poor effort to attain Tepid embers, where still lingers Some preserving warmth — in vain. R 242 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Oh ! if Love — the sister dear Of Youth that we have lost, — Come not, in swift pity, here, — Come not, with a host Of affections strong and kind, To hold up our sinking mind, — If she will not, of her grace, Take her brother's holy place, And be, to us, at least a part Of what he was, in life and heart— The faintness that is on our breath Can have no other end but death ! MARIANA. BY ALFRED TENNYSON. With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all ; The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden- wall : The broken sheds looked sad and strange, Unlifted was the clinking latch, Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. — She only said, " My life is dreary. He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, — I would that I were dead !" THE ENGLISH HELICON. 243 Her tears fell with the dews at even, — Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by. And glanced athwart the glooming flats. — She only said, " The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" Upon the middle of the night. Waking, she heard the night-fowl crow ; The cock sung out, an hour ere light ; From the dark fen, the oxen's low Came to her : — without hope of change, In sleep, she seemed to walk forlorn. Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn. About the lonely moated grange. — She only said, " The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" About a stone-cast from the wall, A sluice with blackened waters slept, — And o'er it, many, round and small. The clustered marishmosses crept. Hard by, a poplar shook alway. All silver-green with gnarled bark, For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding grey, — - 244 THE ENGLISH HELICON. She only said, " My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" And ever when the moon was low. And the shrill winds were up an' away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway : — But when the moon was very low. And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. — She only said, " The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" All day, within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked ; The blue fly sang i' the pane ; the mouse Behind the moiUdering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about ; Old faces glimmered through the doors. Old footsteps trod the upper floors. Old voices called her from without. — She only said, " My life is dreary. He cometh not," she said ; She said, " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead !" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof — The slow clock ticking — and the sound Which, to the wooing wind aloof, The poplar made — did all confound THE ENGLISH HELICON. 245 Her sense : — but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day, Down-sloped, was westering in his bower. — Then, said she, " I am very dreary, He will not come," she said ; She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, Oh, God, that I were dead !" SONNET. BY THOMAS HOOD. There is a silence where hath been no sound,"^— There is a silence where no sound may be, — In the cold grave — under the deep deep sea, — Or in wide desert where no life is found. Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound ! No voice is hushed — no life treads silently ; But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, That never spoke, over the idle ground. But in green ruins, — in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where man hath been, — Though the dun fox, or wild hyaena, calls, — And owls, that flit continually between, Shriek to the echo, — and the low winds moan, — There the true Silence is — self-conscious and alone ! 246 'fHE ENGLISH HELICON. THE NEGLECTED CHILD. DY THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. I NEVER was a favourite, — My mother never smiled On me, with half the tenderness That blessed her fairer child : I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek, While fondled on her knee ; I 've turned away, to hide my tears, — There was no kiss for me ! And yet I strove to please, with all My little store of sense ; I strove to please, — and infancy Can rarely give offence ! But when my artless efforts met A cold, ungentle check, I did not dare to throw myself, In tears, upon her neck ! How blessed are the beautiful ! Love watches o'er their birth ; Oh, beauty ! in my nursery, I learned to know thy worth : — For, even there, I often felt Forsaken and forlorn, — And wished — for others wished it too- I never had been born ! THE EISTGLISH HELICON. 247 I 'm sure I was affectionate ; But in my sister's face There was a look of love, that claimed A smile or an embrace : — But when / raised my lip, to meet The pressure children prize, None knew the feelings of my heart, — They spoke not in my eyes ! But, oh ! that heart too keenly felt The anguish of neglect ! I saw my sister's lovely form With gems and roses decked ; I did not covet them ; — but oft. When wantonly reproved, I envied her the privilege Of beino^ so beloved. "O But soon a time of triumph came, — A time of sorrow too ; For sickness o'er my sister's form Her venomed mantle threw : — The features, once so beautiful, Now wore the hue of death ; And former friends shrank fearfully From her infectious breath. 'Twas then, unwearied, day and night, I watched beside her bed ; And fearlessly, upon my breast, I pillowed her poor head. She lived ! — and loved me, for my care,- My grief was at an end ; I was a lonely being once,' — But now, T have a friend ! 248 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE BIRTH OF A POET. BY JOHN NEAL (AMERICAN). On a blue summer night, While the stars were asleep, Like gems of the deep. In their own drowsy light — While the newly-mown hay On the green earth lay, And all that came near it went scented away — From a lone woody place. There looked out a face. With large blue eyes, — Like the wet, warm skies. Brimful of water and light, — A profusion of hair Flashing out on the air, And a forehead alarmingly bright ! 'Twas the head of a poet ! He grew — As the sweet, strange flowers of the wilderness grow, In the dropping of natural dew, — Unheeded — alone, Till his heart had blown — As the sweet, strange flowers of the wilderness blow. Till every thought wore a changeable stain — Like flower-leaves wet with the sunset rain ! A proud and passionate boy was he, — Like all the children of poesy, — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 249 With a haughty look and a haughty tread, And something awful about his head ; With wonderful eyes, Full of woe and surprise, — Like the eyes of them that can see the dead ! Looking about, For a moment or two, he stood On the shore of the mighty wood : Then ventured out, With a bounding step and a joyful shout, — The brave sky bending o'er him, — The broad sea all before him ! THE COMMON LOT. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. Once, in the flight of ages past, There lived a man : — and who was he ? — Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast. That man resembled Thee ! Unknown the region of his birth, — The land in which he died unknown : His name hath perished from the earth. This truth survives alone : — That joy and grief, and hope and fear, Alternate, triumphed in his breast ; His bliss and woe — a smile, a tear ! — Oblivion hides the rest. 250 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The bounding pulse — the languid limb — The changing spirits' rise and fall — We know that these were felt by him, For these are felt by all ! He suffered, — but his pangs are o'er ! Enjoyed, — but his delights are fled ! Had friends, — his friends are now no more ! And foes, — his foes are dead ! He loved, — but whom he loved, the grave Hath lost in its unconscious womb : Oh ! she was fair : — but nought could save Her beauty from the tomb. He saw — whatever thou hast seen ; Encountered — all that trovibles thee : He was — whatever thou hast been ; He is — what thou shalt be ! The rolling seasons — day and night — Sun, moon and stars — the earth and main — Erewhile his portion, life and light, To him exist in vain. The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw. Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew ! The annals of the human race — Their ruins, since the world began — Of him afford no other trace Than this, — There lived a Man ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 251 BIRDS IN SUMMER. BY MARY IIOWITT. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in each leafy tree ; — In the leafy trees so broad and tall, Like a green and beautiful palace-hall, With its airy chambers, light and boon. That open to sun and stars and moon, — That open unto the bright blue sky. And the frolicsome winds as they wander by ! They have left their nests in the forest-bough, — Those homes of delight they need not now ; And, the young and the old, they wander out, And traverse their green world round about : And, hark ! at the top of this leafy hall, How one to the other they lovingly call ; " Come up, come up ! " they seem to say, " Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway ! " Come up, come up ! for the world is fair. Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air ! " And the birds below give back the cry, "We come, we come, to the branches high ! " How pleasant the hfe of a bird must be, Flitting about in the leafy tree, — And away through the air what joy to go, And to look on the green bright earth below ! How pleasant the life of a bird must be. Skimming about on the breezy sea, — 252 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Cresting the billows like silvery foam, And then wheeling away to its clifF-built home ! What joy it must be to sail, upborne By a strong, free wing, through the rosy morn, — To meet the young sun face to face, And pierce like a shaft the boundless space ! To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud, And to sing in the thunder-halls aloud ; — To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight. With the vipper cloud-winds ; — oh, what delight ! Oh ! what would I give, like a bird, to go Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow, And to see how the water-drops are kissed Into green, and yellow, and amethyst ! How pleasant the life of a bird must be, — Wherever it listeth, there to flee ! To go, when a joyful fancy calls. Dashing adown 'mong the waterfalls ; Then, wheeling about with its mates at play. Above and below, and among the spray. Hither and thither, — with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child ! What joy it must be, like a living breeze, To flutter about 'mong the flowering trees ! Lightly to soar, — and to see beneath The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, — And the yellow furze, like flelds of gold, That gladden some fairy region old ! On mountain-tops^on the billowy sea — On the leafy stems of the forest-tree — How pleasant the life of a bird must be ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 253 THE HUNTER. BY PROFESSOR WILSON. High life of a hunter ! — he meets, on the hill, The new-wakened daylight, so bright and so still ; And feels, as the clouds of the morning imroll, The silence, the splendour, ennoble his soul ! 'Tis his on the mountains to stalk like a ghost, Enshrouded in mist, in which nature is lost ; Till he lifts up his eyes, and flood, valley and height. In one moment, all swim in an ocean of light, — While the sun, like a glorious banner unfurled. Seems to wave o'er a new, more magnificent world ! 'Tis his, by the mouth of some cavern his seat, The lightning of heaven to see at his feet, — While the thunder below him, that growls from the cloud, To him comes in echo more awfully loud. When the clear depth of noontide, with ghttering motion, O'erflows the lone glens — an aerial ocean,^ — When the earth and the heavens, in union profound. Lie blended in beauty that knows not a sound, — As his eyes in the sunshiny sohtude close, 'Neath a rock of the desert in dreaming repose, — He sees in his slumbers such visions of old. As wild Gaelic songs to his infancy told ; O'er the mountains a thousand pkimed hunters are borne,- And he starts from his dream, at the blast of the horn ! 254 THE ENGLISH HELICON. LOVE AND REASON, BY THOMAS MOORE. 'T WAS in the summer-time so sweet, When hearts and flowers are both in season, That — who, of all the world, should meet, One early dawn, but Love and Reason ! Love told his dream of yester-night, While Reason talked about the weather : — The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright. And on they took their way together. The boy in many a gambol flew ; — While Reason like a Juno stalked. And from her portly figure threw A lengthened shadow, as she walked. No wonder Love, as on they passed. Should find that svmny morning chill, — For still the shadow Reason cast Fell on the boy, and cooled him still ! In vain he tried his wings to warm. Or find a pathway not so dim, — For still the maid's gigantic form Would pass between the sun and him ! " This must not be," said little Love, — " The sun was made for more than you." So, turning through a myrtle-grove, He bade the portly nymph adieu ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 255 Now, gaily roves the laughing boy, O'er many a mead — by many a stream — In every breeze inhaling joy, And drinking bliss in every beam. From all the gardens — all the bowers — He culled the many sweets they shaded ; And ate the fruits, and smelt the flowers. Till taste was gone, and odour faded ! But now, the sun, in pomp of noon. Looked blazing o'er the parched plains ; Alas ! the boy grew languid soon, And fever thrilled through all his veins ! The dew forsook his baby brow, No more with vivid bloom he smiled ; — Oh ! where was tranquil Reason now. To cast her shadow o'er the child ? Beneath a green and aged palm, — His foot at length for shelter turning, — He saw the nymph reclining calm, With brow as cool as his was burning ! *t> " Oh ! take me to that bosom cold," In murmurs, at her feet, he said ; And Reason oped her garment's fold. And fluno" it round his fevered head. '& He felt her bosom's icy touch. And soon it lulled his pulse to rest ; — For, ah ! the chill was quite too much, And Love expired — on Reason's breast ! 256 THE ENGLISH HELICON. ALNWICK CASTLE. BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK (aMERICAn). Home of the Percys' higli-born race, — Home of their beautiful and brave, — Alike their birth and burial place, — Their cradle, and their grave ! Still, sternly o'er the castle-gate, Their house's lion stands in state, As in his proud departed hours ; And warriors frown, in stone, on high, And feudal banners " flout the sky" Above his princely towers ! A gentle hill its side inclines. Lovely in England's fadeless green. To meet the quiet stream which winds Through this romantic scene, — As silently and sweetly still, As when, at evening, on that hill, While summer's wind blew soft and low, Seated by gallant Hotspur's side. His Katharine was a happy bride, A thousand years ago ! Gaze on the abbey's ruined pile ! — Does not the succouring ivy, keeping Her watch around it, seem to smile. As o'er a loved one sleeping ? One solitary turret grey Still tells, in melancholy glory, The legend of the Cheviot day, — The Percys' proudest border-story. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 257 That day its roof was triumph's arch ; — Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, The light step of the soldier's march, The music of the trump and drum ; And babe and sire, the old, the young. And the monk's hymn and minstrel's song, And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, Welcomed her warrior home. Wild roses, by the abbey-towers, Are gay, in their young bud and bloom ; — They were born of a race of funeral flowers That garlanded, in long-gone hours, A Templar's knightly tomb ! He died, the sword in his mailed hand. On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, — Where the cross was damped with his dying breath, — When blood ran free as festal wine. And the sainted air of Palestine Was thick with the darts of death. Wise with the lore of centuries, What tales, if there be " tongues in trees," Those giant oaks could tell. Of beings born and buried here, — Tales of the peasant and the peer, Tales of the bridal and the bier. The welcome and farewell, — Since, on their boughs, the startled bird. First, in her twilight slumbers, heard The Norman's curfew-bell ! I wandered through the lofty halls Trod by the Percys of old fame ; And traced upon the chapel-walls Each high, heroic name, — s 25S THE ENGLISH HELICON. From him who once his standard set Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, — To him who, when a younger son. Fought for King George at Lexington, A major of dragoons ! * * * * That last half stanza — it has dashed From my warm lip the sparkling cup ! The light that o'er my eye-beam flashed — The power that bore my spirit up Above this bank-note world — is gone ! And Alnwick 's but a market-town, — And this, alas ! its market-day, — And beasts and borderers throng the way ; Oxen and bleating lambs, in lots, — Northumbrian boors, and plaided Scots, — Men in the coal and cattle line, From Teviot's bard and hero land. From royal Berwick's beach of sand, From WooUer, Morpeth, Hexham, and Newcastle-upon-Tyne ! These are not the romantic times So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes. So dazzling to the dreaming boy : Ours are the days of fact — not fable,- — Of knights— but not of the Round Table,- Of BailUe Jarvie — not Rob Roy ! 'T is what " our President," Monroe, Has called " the era of good feeling : — The Highlander— the bitterest foe To modern laws — has felt their blow, Consented to be taxed, and vote. And put on pantaloons and coat, . THE ENGLISH HELICON. 259 And leave off cattle- stealing : — Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, The Douglas in red herrings ; And noble name, and cultured land. Palace, and park, and vassal band Are powerless to the notes of hand Of Rothschild or the Barings ! The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come : — to-day the turbaned Turk (Sleep, Richard of the lion-heart, — Sleep on, nor from your cerements start !) Is England's friend and fast ally : The Moslem tramples on the Greek, And on the Cross and altar-stone, — And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek. And sees the Christian father die ; And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven. By Europe's craven chivalry ! You '11 ask if yet the Percy lives In the armed pomp of feudal state ? The present representatives Of Hotspur and his " gentle Kate" Are some half dozen serving-men. In the drab coat of WiUiam Penn, — A chambermaid, whose lip and eye And cheek and brown hair, bright and curling, Spoke nature's aristocracy, — And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower and hall. From donjon-keep to turret-wall, For ten-and-sixpence sterling ! 260 THE ENGLISH HELTCON. THE PEN. (Frtim the Oret-k ni T/et/es.) in THE REV. DR. CROLV. Hfiriv axfjeiov KaXcijAos (pvrov. k.t.X. I WAS an useless thing, a lonely reed ! No blossom hung its beauty on the weed. Alike in summer's sun and winter's gloom, I sighed no fragrance, and I wore no bloom. No cluster wreathed me ; — day and night I pined On the wild moor, and withered in the wind. At length, a wanderer found me. — From my side He smoothed the pale decaying leaves, and dyed My lips in Helicon ! From that high hour I SPOKE ! — My words were flame and living power ! I shone ! — night died ! As if a trumpet called, Man's spirit rose, pure, fiery, disenthralled ! Tyrants of earth ! ye saw your light decline When I stood forth, a wonder and a sign ! To me the iron sceptre was a wand, — The roar of nations pealed at my command ; To me the dungeon, sword, and scourge were vain, I smote the smiter, and I broke the chain : Or towering o'er them all, without a plume, I pierced the purple air, the tempest's gloom ; Till burst the Olympian splendours on thine eye, Stars, temples, thrones, and gods, — Infinity ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 261 THE WILD CHERRY-TREE. BY BARRY CORNWALL. Oh ! there never was yet so fair a thing, By racing river or bubbling spring, Nothing that ever so gaily grew Up from the ground when the skies were blue, Nothing so brave — nothing so free As thou — my wild, wild Cherry-tree ! Jove ! how it danced in the gusty breeze ! Jove ! how it frolicked amongst the trees ! Dashing the pride of the poplar down, — Stripping the thorn of his hoary crown ! Oak or ash — what matter to thee ? 'Twas the same to my wild, wild Cherry-tree ! Never at rest, — like one that 's young, — Abroad to the winds its arms it flunff. Shaking its bright and crowned head, Whilst 1 stole up for its berries red — Beautiful berries ! beautiful tree ! Hurrah ! for the wild, wild Cherry-tree ! Back I fly to the days gone by, And I see thy branches against the sky ; I see on the grass thy blossoms shed, I see (nay 1 taste) thy berries red. And I shout — like the tempest loud and free — Hurrah ! for the wild, wild Cherry-true ! 262 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE BOON OF MEMORY. BY MRS. HEMANS. I GO, I go ! — and must mine image fade From the green spots wherein my childhood played, By my own streams ? Must my life part from each familiar place. As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace Of its lone themes ? Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget The welcomes there,^ — the hours when we have met In grief or glee ? All the sweet counsel, the communion high, The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, Poured full and free ? A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give, To shrine my name in hearts where I would live For evermore ! Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt, Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, A thought restore ! In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, In the dim brooding violet of the dell, Set deep that thought ! And let the sunset's melancholy glow. And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low, With me be fraught ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 263 And Memory answered me :— " Wild wish and vain ! I have no hues the loveliest to detain In the heart's core. The place they held in bosoms all their own, Soon, with new shadows filled, new flowers o'ergrown, Is their's no more !" Hast thou such power, O Love ? — And Love replied, "It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide Of hope and trust, Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain, — 'T is but to write, with the heart's fiery rain, Wild words on dust ! " Song, is the gift with thee ? — I ask a lay, Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away From the still breast ; FiUed with a tone — oh ! not for deathless fame, But a sweet haunting murmur of my name. Where it would rest. And Song made answer — " It is not in me, Though called immortal — though my gifts may be All but divine. A place of lonely brightness I can give ; A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live — This is not mine ! " Death, Death ! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil ? And Death, the Strong One, spoke : — " I can but still Each vain regret. What if forgotten ? — All thy soul would crave. Thou too, within the mantle of the grave, Wilt soon forget!" 264 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, As from all nature's voices one reply — But one — was given : — " Earth has no heart, fond dreamer ! with a tone To send thee back the spirit of thine own— Seek it in heaven !" SONNET. BY MISS E. L. MONTAGU. At length she comes — the spirit of my dreams — The long-sought dove of my forsaken ark ! Young Joy, — whose smiles to me are as the beams Which pierce some caverned rock, where all was dark! Thou heavenly dweller in the untroubled breast, — Song: of the heart and music of the mind — Look on a brow that ne'er hath known the rest Which happier beings in thy presence find ! Hath she no voice ? — Or is't that to mine ear That child of melody alone is mute ? — Lo ! her soft form all faintly doth appear, — Her lip is soundless as an unstrung lute, — And, breathing, fair, and life-like as she seems, Her place is still within the world of dreams ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 265 THE LOST STAR. BY MISS LANDON. A LIGHT is gone from yonder sky, A star has left its sphere ! The beautiful — and do they die In yon bright world, as here ? Will that star leave a lonely place, A darkness on the night ? — No ! — few will miss its lovely face. And none think heaven less bright ! What wert thou star of — vanished one ? What mystery was thine ? Thy beauty from the east is gone : What was thy sway and sign ? Wert thou the star of opening youth ? — And is it then for thee, Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth, So early cease to be ? Of hope ? — and was it to express How soon hope sinks in shade ? Or else of human loveliness, — In sign how it will fade ? Or was thy dying — like the song In music to the last — An echo flung the winds among, And then for ever past ? 266 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Or didst thou sink as stars whose light The fair moon renders vain ? The rest shine forth the next dark night, — Thou didst not shine again ! Didst thou fade gradual, from the time The first great curse was hurled, Till lost in sorrow and in crime, — Star of our early world ! Forgotten and departed star ! A thousand glories shine Round the blue midnight's regal car, — Who then remembers thine ? Save when some mournful bard, like me, Dreams over beauty gone. And, in the fate that waited thee, Reads what will be his own ! 'TIS TIME THIS HEART. BY LORD BYRON. 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move : Yet, though I cannot be beloved. Still let me love ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 267 My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; — The worm, the canker and the grief Are mine alone ! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze — A funeral pile ! The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love I cannot share, — But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — Such thoughts should shake my soul — nor now, — Where glory decks the hero's bier. Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field — Glory and Greece — around me see ! The Spartan, borne upon his shield. Was not more free ! Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake ! ) Awake, my spirit ! — Think through ivhom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then, strike home ! Tread those reviving passions down. Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. 268 THE ENGLISH HELICON. If thou regrett'st thy youth, ivhy live ? The land of honourable death Is here : — up to the field, and give Away thy breath ! Seek out — less often sought than found — A soldier's grave — for thee the best ! Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest ! TO A STATUE OF HERCULES. BY SAMUEL ROGERS. And dost thou still — thou mass of breathing stone ! (Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurled) Still sit as on the fragment of a world, — Surviving all, majestic and alone ? What though the spii-its of the north — that swept Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she slept — Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk Deep in the dust 'mid tower and temple sunk ; Soon, to subdue mankind, 't was thine to rise ! — Still, still unquelled thy glorious energies ! Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught Bright revelations of the good they sought : By thee, that long-lost spell in secret given. To draw down gods, and lift the soul to heaven ! THE ENGLISH HELICOX. 269 THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Oh ! my love's like the steadfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run ! Nor hoary hairs — nor forty years — Nor moments between sighs and fears — Nor nights of thought — nor days of pain — Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain — Nor mirth — nor sweetest song, which flows To sober joys and soften woes — Can make my heart or fancy flee, One moment, my sweet wife, from thee ! Even while I muse, I see thee sit. In maiden bloom and matron wit ; Fair, gentle, as when first I sued. Ye seem, — but of sedater mood : Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when, beneath Arbigland tree, We stayed and wooed — and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon, — Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, "When looks were fond, and words were few ! Though I see smiling at thy feet Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet, — And time, and care, and birth-time woes Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose, — 270 THE ENGLISH HELICON. To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong All that charms me of tale or song ; When words come down, like dews, unsovight, With gleams of deep enthusiast thought, — And fancy in her heaven flies free, — They come, my love, they come from thee! Oh, when more thought we gave, of old. To silver than some give to gold, — 'T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er What things should deck our humble bower ! 'T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee. The golden fruit from fortune's tree : And sweeter still to choose and twine A garland for these locks of thine, — A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow and woods are green ! At times, there come — as come there ought — Grave moments of sedater thought ; — When fortune frowns, nor lends our night One gleam of her inconstant light, — And hope, that decks the peasant's bower. Shines, like the rainbow, through the shower ! Oh, then I see, while seated nigh, A mother's heart shine in thine eye ; And proud resolve and purpose meek Speak of thee more than words can speak : — I think the wedded wife of mine The best of all that 's not divine ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 271 THE OLD BEGGAR. BY THOMAS POWELL. There was an old and haggard man, Who swept a crossing — where It was my wont, each morn, to pass In weather foul and fair. He seemed so bowed with wretchedness, I thought, as I passed by, That it must be a pleasant thing For such a man to die ! For, in the rain, or scorching sun, In winds both cold and keen, With head all bare and naked feet. This withered man was seen. He was so very wan and cold. That as I nearer drew, Each morn and night, to where he stood, A sadness pierced me through ! And if I chanced to catch his look From eyes so sunk and pale, I never read in any book So piteous a tale. 272 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And then, again, I inly said. As I was passing by, " Great God ! — oh, what a joyful thing For such a man to die !" It was upon that happy morn When sabbath-bells do ring — And call us all, both old and young, To praise our Heavenly King, — That as, with contrite heart and soul, To prayer I slowly trod. This poor old man was also bent To go and praise his God. But, what a change ! — His face was gay. And he was cleaner drest ; His eye shone bright with cheerfulness — He seemed so truly blest ! And 't was my chance, that morn, to stand, Near him in the church aisle, — And, at each pause, to hear his voice, And see his happy smile. His voice was full of prayer and joy, — Praise came with every breath, — His kindling glance revealed the hope Which triumphs over death ! And then, with wiser heart, I thought. As tears came o'er each eye, " Great God ! — oh, what a joyful thing For such a man to die ! " THE ENGLISH HELICON. 273 ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. BY BAURY CORNWALL. Hither come, at close of day, And o'er this dust, sweet mothers, pray ! A little infant lies within. Who never knew the name of sin, — Beloved — bright — and all our own ; Like morning fair — and sooner flown ! No leaves or garlands wither here, Like those in foreign lands ; No marble hides our dear one's bier, The work of alien hands : The months it lived, the name it bore, The silver telle th, — nothing more ! No more !— yet Silence stalketh round This vault so dim and deep, And Death keeps watch, without a sound. Where all lie pale and sleep ; — But palest here and latest hid, Is He — beneath this coffin-lid ! How fair he was — how very fair, — What dreams we pondered o'er. Making his life so long and clear. His fortunes flowing o'er, — Our hopes, (that he would happy be. When we ourselves were old). The scenes we saw, or hoped to see, — They 're soon and sadly told. T 274 THE ENGLISH HELICON. All was a dream ! — it came and fled, And left us here, among the dead ! Pray, mothers ! pray, at close of day, — While we, sad parents, weep alway ! Pray, too, (and softly be 't and long,) That all your babes, now fair and strong, May blossom like — not like the rose, For that doth fade when summer goes, — ('T was thus our pretty infant died. The summer and its mother's pride !) — But, like some stern enduring tree, That reacheth its green century, May grow, may flourish, — then decay, After a long, calm, happy day. Made happier by good deeds to men, And hopes in heaven to meet again ! Pray ! — From the happy, prayer is due ; While we ('tis all we, now, can do !) Will check our tears, and pray with you ! THE LAST WISH. r.Y T. F. TRIEBNER. On ! grant me but a spot, Where, in deep silence, with the dying day, I , too, may breathe my fainting life away, And be forgot! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 275 These prudent charities ! How make they answer to my soul's request, That she may be a blessing — and be blest, By holiest ties? It is a weary dream ! My past hopes haunt me, rnd each fond intent : The fairy visions young enchantment lent No longer gleam. Life's poor reality, Mocking each motion of the soul's desire, Kindles within my heart a living fire, By which I die ! SONNET. BY THE REV. WILLIAM HENRY BROOKFIELD. The yellow corn was waving, when we met ; And summer took its pastime, to a tune Wind-born of golden reeds, at quiet noon, — Of power to wake new hope and old regret. But now, the reaper's busy hand hath set His sickle there, — the burning harvest-moon Hath waned above the stubbled waste ; and soon Old winter comes, with sterner ravage yet. If then, for memory's weal, this amulet Of odoured thoughts I frame, for thee to wear. While outer things decay — mock not my fear, That fondly shapes a charm, lest thou forget ! — For hope will ebb with nature ; and I hear Sad autumn's wind moan through the forest sere ! 276 THE ENGLISH HELICON. A SCYTHIAN BANQUET SONG. BY J. R. (CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD). [The Scythians, according to Herodotus, made use of part of their enemies' bodies after death for many domestic purposes ; particularly of the skull, — which they scalped, wrapped in bull's-hide, and tilled up the cracks with gold : and, having gilded the hide and parts of the bone, they used the vessel as a drinking-cup, wreathing it with tiowers, at feasts.] I THINK my soul was childish yet, When first it knew my manhood's Foe ; But what I was, or where we met, I know not — and I shall not know. But I remember, now, the bed On which I waked, from such sick slumber As, after pangs of powerless dread, Is left upon the limbs, like lead,' — Amidst a calm and quiet number Of corpses, from whose cold decay Mine infant finger shrank away ; My brain was wild, my limbs were weak, And silence swallowed up my shriek — Eleleu! Alas ! my kindred, dark and dead, Were those from whom I held aloof; I lay beneath the ruins red Of what had been my childhood's roof : And those who quenched its wasted wood. As morning broke on me and mine, Preserved a babe baptized in blood, — And human grief hath been its food. And human life its wine ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 277 Wliat matter ? — those who left me there Well nerved mine infant limbs to bear What, heaped upon my haughty head, I might endure — but did not dread. Eleleu ! A stranger's hand, a stranger's love, Saved my life and soothed my w^oe, And taught my youth its strength to prove. To vs^ield the lance, and bend the bow. I slew the wolf, by Tyres' shore, — I tracked the pard by chasm and cliff; Rich were the warrior spoils I wore ; — Ye know me well, though now no more The lance obeys these fingers stiff! My hand was strong, my hope was high, All for the glance of one dark eye ; The hand is weak, the heart is chill — The glance that kindled, colder still. Eleleu ! By Tyres' banks, like Tyres' wave, The hours of youth went softly by : — Alas ! their silence could not save My being from an evil eye ! It watched me — little though I knew The wrath around me rising slow. Nor deemed my love, like Upas dew, A plague, that, where it settled, slew. My time approached ; — I met my Foe ! Down with a troop he came, by night ; We fought them, by their lances' light. On lifeless hearth and guardless gate. The dawn of day came desolate ! Eleleu ! 278 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Away, away — a Persian's slave, I saw my bird of beauty borne, In wild despair, — too w^eak to save, Too maddening to mourn. There dwells a sound within my brain Of horses' hoofs, beat swift and hollow, — Heard, when, across the distant plain, Elaira stretched her arms, in vahi. To him whose limbs were faint to follow. The spoiler knew not, when he fled. The power impending o'er his head, — The strength so few have tameless tried, That love can give, for grief to guide ! Eleleu ! I flung my bow behind my back. And took a javelin in my hand, And followed on the fiery track Their rapine left upon the land. The desert sun in silence set, — The desert darkness climbed the sky ; I knew that one was waking yet, Whose heart was wild, whose eye was wet, For me, and for my misery ! — One who had left her glance of grief. Of earthly guides my chosen and chief; — Through thirst and fear, by wave and hill, That dark eye watched and wooed me still. Eleleu ! Weary and weak — their traces lost — I roved the brazen cities through. That Helle's undulating coast Doth lift beside its billows blue. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 279 Till, in a palace-bordered street, In the dusk starlight of the day, A stalkless flower fell near my feet, Withered and worn, yet passing sweet ! Its root was left — how far away ! Its leaves were wet— ^though not with dew ; The breast that kept, the hand that threw, Were those of one, who sickened more For the sweet breeze of Tyres' shore. Eleleu ! My tale is long. Though bolts of brass Heed not their captive's faint upbraiding, They melt like wax, they bend like gra^s, At sorrow's touch, when love is aiding ! The night was dim, the stars were dead, The drifting clouds were grey and wide, — The captive joined me, and we fled : Quivering with joy, though cold with dread. She shuddered at my side. We passed the streets — we gained the gate. Where round the wall its watchers wait ; Our steps beneath were hushed and slow,^ — For the third time — I met my Foe ! Eleleu ! Swift answering, as his anger cried, Came down the sworded sentinels : I dashed their closing spears aside ; They thickened, as a torrent swells, When tempests feed its mountain-source : O'ermatched, borne down, with javelins rent, I backed them still with fainting force, Till the life curdled in its course, And left my madness innocent. 280 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The echo of a maiden's shriek Mixed with my dreaming long and weak ; And, when I woke, the daybreak fell Into a dark and silent cell. Eleleu ! Know ye the price that must atone, When power is mocked at by its slave ? Know ye the kind of mercy shewn, When pride condemns — though love would save ? A sullen plash was heard, that night, To check the calm of Helle's flow ; And there was much of love and light Quenched, where the foam-globes moved most white, With none to save — and few to know ! Me they led forth, at dawn of day, To mock, to torture, and to slay ; — They found my courage calm and mild. Until my Foe came near — and smiled ! Eleleu ! He told me how the midnight chasm Of ocean had been sweetly fed ; He paled — recoiling— for a spasm Came o'er the limbs they deemed were dead ! The earth grew hot — the sky grew black — - The twisted cords gave way, like tow ; I felt the branding fetters crack. And saw the torturers starting back, — And more I do not know. Until my stretched limbs dashed their way Through the cold sea's resulting spray. And left me where its surges bore Their A'oices to a lifeless shore. Eleleu ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 281 Mine aged eyes are dim and dry ; They have not much to see, or mourn, Save when, in sleep, pale thoughts pass by — My heart is with their footsteps worn Into a pathway ! Swift and steep, Their troops pass down it — and I feel not — Though they have words would make me weep, If I could tell their meaning deep — But /forget — and they reveal not! Oh, lost Elaira ! — when I go Where cold hands hold the soundless bow, Shall the black earth, all pitiless, Forget the early grave Of her, whom beauty did not bless, Affection could not save ? Eleleu ! Oh, lost Elaira ! — long, for thee. Sweet Tyres' banks have blushed, in vain ; And blight to them, and death to me. Shall break the links of memory's chain. My spirit keeps its lonely lair. In mouldering life to burn and blacken ; The throbs that moved it once, are there, Like winds that stir a dead man's hair, Unable to awaken ! Thy soul on earth supremely smiled, In beauty bright, in mercy mild ; It looked to love — it breathed to bless — It died, and left me — merciless. Eleleu ! And men shrink from me — with no sense That the fierce heart they fear and fly. Is one, whose only evidence Of beating is in agony. 282 THK ENGLISH HELICON. They know, with me, to match or melt, The sword or prayer alike are vain : The spirit's presence, half unfelt. Hath left — slow withering where it dwelt — One precedence of pain. All that my victims feel or fear Is well avenged by something here ; And every curse they breathe on me Joins in the deep voice of the sea^ — Eleleu ! It rolls — it coils — it foams — it flashes, Pale and putrid — ghastly green, — Lit with light of dead men's ashes Flickering through the black weed's screen ! Oh ! there, along the breathless land, Elaira keeps her couch allotted ; The waters wave her weary hand, And toss pale shells and ropy sand About her dark hair clasped and clotted ! The purple isles are bright, above The frail and moon-blanched bones of love ; Their citron breeze is full of bliss — Her lips are cool, without its kiss ! Eleleu ! My thovights are wandering and weak ; — Forgive an old man's dotard dreaming ! I know not sometimes, when I speak Such visions as have quiet seeming. I told you how my madness bore My limbs from torture. When I woke, I do remember something more Of wandering on the wet sea-shore, By waving weed and withered rock, — ^^Jku-^-^^ Wifw ■m THE ENGLISH HELICON. 283 Calling Elaira, till the name Crossed o'er the waters, as they came — Mildly — to hallow and to bless Even what had made it meaningless. Eleleu ! The waves, in answering murmurs mixed, Tossed a frail fetter on the sand : Too well I knew whose fingers fixed — Whose arm had lost — the golden band ! For such it was as still confines Faint Beauty's arm, who will not listen The words of love, that mockery twines To soothe the soul that pants and pines Within its rose-encumbered prison. The waters freed her : — she who wore Fetter or armlet needs no more ! Could the waves tell — which saw me lift — For whom I kept their glittering gift ? Eleleu ! Slow drifts the hour when patience waits Revenge's answered orison ; But, one by one, the darkening fates Will draw the balanced axle on, — Till torture pays the price of pride. And watches wave, with sullen shine. The sword of sorrow, justified. The long years kept their quiet glide : His hour was past ; — they brought me mine ! When, steed to steed, and rank to rank. With matched numbers fierce and frank, — The war-wolves waiting near to see Our battle bright — my Foe met Me ! Ila — Hurra ! 284 THE ENGLISH HELICON. As the tiger tears through the jungle reeds, — As the west wind breaks through the sharp corn-ears, — As the quick death follows where lightning leads, — Did my dark horse bear through the bended spears ! And the blood came up to my brain, like a mist, With a dark delight and a fiery feel ; For the black darts hailed, and the javelins hissed. To the corpses clasped in their tortured twist, From mine arms like rain from the red-hot steel. Well went the wild horses — well rode their lords — Wide waved the sea of their circling swords ; But down went the wild steeds — down went the sea — Down went the dark banners, — down went He ! Ha — Hurra ! For, forward fixed, my frenzy rushed, To one pale plume, of fitful wave ; With failing strength, o'er corses crushed, My horse obeyed the spurs I gave. Slow rolled the tide of battle by, And left me on the field alone ; Save that a goodly company Lay gazing on the bright blue sky, — All as stiff" as stone ! And the howling wolves came, merry and thick. The flesh to tear and the bones to pick : I left his carcass, a headless prize. To these priests of mine anger's sacrifice. Ha — Hurra ! Hungry they came ; though at first they fied From the grizly look of a stranger-guest — From a horse with its hoof on a dead man's head, And a soldier who leaned on a lance in his breast. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 285 The night-wind's voice was hoarse and deep, — But there were thoughts within me, rougher, When my foiled passion could not keep His eyes from settling into sleep That could not see — nor suffer. He knew his spirit was delivered By the last nerve my sword had severed ; And lay — his death-pang scarcely done — Stretched at my mercy — asking none. Eleleu ! His lips were pale. They once had worn A fiercer paleness. For a while. Their gashes kept the curl of scorn, But now — they always smile ! A life, like that of smouldering ashes. Had kept his shadowy eyeballs burning ; Full through the neck my sabre crashes — The black blood burst beneath their lashes. In the strained sickness of their turnine". By my bridle-rein did I hang the head. And I spurred my horse through the quick and dead, Till his hoofs and his hair dropped thick and fresh From the black morass of gore and flesh. Ha — Hurra ! My Foe had left me little gold, To mock the stolen food of the grave, — Except one circlet : — I have told The arm that lost, the surge that gave ! Flexile it was, of fairest twist ; Pressing its sunlike-woven line, A careless counter had not missed One pulse along a maiden's wrist, — So softly did the clasp confine. 286 THE ENGLISH HELICON. This — molten till it flowed as free As daybreak on the Egean sea — He who once clasped — for love to sever, And death to loose — received, — for ever ! I poured it round the wrinkled brow. Till hissed its cold, corrupted skin ; Through sinuous nerves the fiery flow Sucked and seared the brain within. The brittle bones were well annealed ; A bull's hide bound the goblet grim, — Which backwards bended, and revealed The dark eye sealed — the set lips peeled — liOok here ! how I have pardoned him ! They call it glorious to forgive ; 'Tis dangerous, among those that live, — But the dead are daggerless and mild. And my Foe smiles on me — like a child ! Fill me the wine ! — for daylight fades. The evening mists fall cold and blue ; My soul is crossed with lonelier shades. My brow is damp with darker dew. The earth hath nothing but its bed Left more for me to seek, or shun ; My rage is past — my vengeance fed — The grass is wet with what I 've shed, — The air is dark with what I 've done ; And the grey mound that I have built. Of intermingled grief and guilt. Sits on my breast with sterner seat Than my old heart can bear — and beat. Eleleu ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 287 Fill wine ! These fleshless jaws are dry, And gurgle with the crimson breath ! Fill me the wine ! — for such as I Are meet, methinks, to drink with death ! Give me the roses ! They shall weave One crown for me, and one for him, — Fresher than his compeers receive. Who slumber where the white worms leave Their tracks of slime on cheek and limb ! Kiss me, mine enemy ! Lo ! how it slips — The rich, red wine — through his skeleton lips ! His eyeholes glitter — his loose teeth shake, — But their words are all drowsy — and will not awake ! That lifeless gaze is fixed on me, — Those lips would hail a bounden brother ; We sit in love, — and smile to see The things that we have made each other. The wreaking of our wrath has reft Our souls of all that loved or lightened ; He knows the heart his hand has left. He sees its calm and closeless cleft, — And / — the bones my vengeance whitened ! , Kiss me, mine enemy ! Fill thee with wine ! Be the flush of thy revelling mingled with mine ; Since the hate and the horror we drew with our breath Are lost in forgiveness, and darkened in death! 288 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL'S SONG. BY SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BART. Buy my flowers — Oh buy— I pray ! The Blind Girl comes from afar : If the earth be as fair as I hear them say, — These flowers her children are, — Do they her beauty keep ? They are fresh from her lap, I know ; For I caught them fast asleep In her arms, an hour ago, With the air which is her breath — Her soft and delicate breath — Over them murmuring low ! On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet, — And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet : For she weeps, — that gentle mother weeps — (As, morn and night, her watch she keeps, With a yearning heart and a passionate care). To see the young things grow so fair ! She weeps — for love, she weeps ; And the dews are the tears she weeps. From the well of a mother's love I Ye have a world of light. Where love in the loved rejoices, — But the Blind Girl's home is the house of night. And its beings are empty voices ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 289 As one in the realm below, I stand by the streams of woe ! I hear the vain shadows glide, — I feel their soft breath at my side, — And T thirst the loved forms to see, — And I stretch my fond arms around, — And I catch but a shapeless sound, For the living are ghosts to me ! Come buy — come buy ! Hark ! how the sweet things sigh, (For they have a voice like ours), " The breath of the blind-girl closes The leaves of the saddening roses! — We are tender, — we sons of light. We shrink from this child of night ! From the grasp of the blind-girl free us, — We yearn for the eyes that see us ! We are for night too gay, — In your eyes we behold the day : Oh buy — Oh buy the flowers ! " TO THE PICTURE OF A DEAD GIRL. BY T. K. HERVEY. The same — and oh ! how beautiful ! — the same As memory meets thee through the mist of years ! — Love's roses on thy cheek, and feeling's flame Lighting an eye unchanged in all — but tears ! 200 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Upon thy severed lips the very smile Remembered well — the sunlight of my youth ; But gone the shadow that would steal, the while, To mar its brightness, and to mock its truth ! — Once more I see thee, as I saw thee last. The lost restored — the vision of the past! How like to what thou wert — and art not now ! Yet oh, how more resembling what thou art ! There dwells no cloud upon that pictured brow, As sorrow sits no longer in thy heart ; Gone where its very wishes are at rest, And all its throbbings hushed and achings healed : — I gaze, till half I deem thee to my breast, In thine immortal loveliness, revealed ; And see thee, as in some permitted dream, There, where thou art what, here, thou dost but seem ! I loved thee passing well ! — thou wert a beam Of pleasant beauty on this stormy sea : With just so much of mirth as might redeem Man from the musings of his misery ; Yet ever pensive, — like a thing from home ! Lovely and lonely as a single star ! But kind and true to me, as thou hadst come From thine own element — so very far. Only to be a cynosure to eyes Now sickening at the sunshine of the skies ! 't> It were a crime to weep ! — 'tis none to kneel As now I kneel, before this type of thee. And worship her, who taught my soul to feel Such worship is no vain idolatry. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 291 Thou wert my spirit's spirit — and thou art ; Tliough this be all of thee time hath not reft, — Save the old thoughts that hang about the heart, Like withered leaves that many storms have left! I turn from living looks — the cold, the dull. To any trace of thee — the lost, the beautiful ! Broken, and bowed, and wasted with regret, I gaze and weep — why do I weep alone ! I would not — would not if I could — forget ; But I am all remembrance — it hath grown My very being ! — Will she never speak ? The lips are parted ; and the braided hair Seemed as it waved upon her brightening cheek ; And smile, and everything — but breath — are there ! Oh ! for the voice that I have stayed to hear — Only in dreams — so many a lonely year ! It will not be : — away, bright cheat, away ! Cold, far too cold to love ! — thy look grows strange ; I want the thousand thoughts that used to play. Like lights and shadowings, in chequered change. That smile ! — I know thou art not like her now ; Within her land — where'er it be — of liirht, She smiles not while a cloud is on my brow. When will it pass away — this heavy night ! Oh ! will the cool, clear morning never come, And light me to her, in her spirit's home ! 292 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE VICTIM BRIDE. BY W. H. HARRISON. I SAW her in lier summer bower ; — and oh ! upon my sight, Methought, there never beamed a form more beautiful and bright ! So young, so fair, — she seemed as one of those aerial things That live but in the poet's high and wild imaginings ; Or like those shapes ^e meet in dreams,^ — from which we wake, to weep That the earth hath no creation like the figments of our sleep ! Her parent — did he love his child o'er all life's other things ? As traders love the merchandise from which their profit springs ! Old age came by, with tottering step ; and, for the sordid gold With which the dotard urged his suit, the maiden's peace was sold : And (for her father's iron heart was proof against her prayer), The hand he could not win from love, was given by despair. I saw them tread the churchyard path ; and such a wedding train I dare not look on, mocking mirth, amid the graves again ! The bridemaids — each one beautiful as Eve, in Eden's bowers — • Rained bitter tears vipon the way they should have strewn with flowers ;- Till seemed that young and white-robed band the funeral array Of some dear friend whom youth had lent, and death had stolen away ! The priest — he saw the bridal group before the altar stand, — And sighed, as he drew forth the book with a slow reluctant hand : He saw the virgin's flower-wreathed hair, above her streaming eyes, (That thus a Christian rite shoidd mock a pagan sacrifice !) And when his trembling voice went up for blessing on the pair, Faith, in his saddened spirit, brought no answer to the prayer. There, stood the palsied bridegroom, in youth's gay ensigns drest — Oh ! fitter for those wasted limbs were shrovid than bridal vest ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 293 I watched him when the ring was claimed — how hard to loose his hold ! He held it with a miser's clutch — it was his darling gold ! His shrivelled hand was wet with the tears his bride poured forth, in vain, And it trembled, like an autumn leaf, beneath the beating rain ! I 've seen her since that dreadful morn ! — her golden fetters rest Even as the weight of incubus upon her weary breast : And in his kinder day when Death shall deal his gentler blow. Her pale cheek will not yield a rose to wreathe the victor's brow. Her once bright eye is lustreless, and bowed her fragile form. And she longeth for the bridal that vidll wed her to the worm ! SONNET. HY THOMAS HOOD. It is not death, that, sometime, in a sigh. This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight,- That, sometime, these bright stars, that now reply In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night, — That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow, — That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright Be lapped in alien clay, and laid below : It is not death to know this ; — but to know That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves, In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go So duly and so oft, — and when grass waves Over the past-away, there may be, then. No resurrection in tlie minds of men ! 294 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE LIFE OF THE LIVING. BY THE REV. F. W. FABER. The whole world lies beneath a spell — A charm of dreadest power, — And life hath some new miracle Worked for it every hour ! Hast thou ever been, on a misty night, In a deep and solemn dale, When the firs, like spirits, stand upright In a soft, transparent veil, — While the moon with rings of muffled light Hath girdled her chariot pale ? Hast thou ever sat on a mountain-brow, When the sun was bright and the wind was low,- And gazed on the groups of silent wood That hang by the brink of a crystal flood, — When the wind starts up from his hidden lair, Like a thing refreshed by sleep, On the scene so summer-like and fair, And the quietness so deep ? The far-off pass and the broken fell With a hoarse and hollow murmur swell. As the giant rides along ; He comes, with sceptre bare to break The pageant mirrored in the lake, — And the whole forest- depths to shake With fury loud and strong ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 295 He hath bent the poplar as he past, As the tempest bends the tall ship-mast ; He hath twisted the boughs of the lofty ash, — And the old oak moaned beneath his lash ; • And yet, to thee, like some strange dream The wild wind's savage sport doth seem, — For thou art still on thy mountain-brow, With the sun all bright and the wind all low ! Ah ! such, at best, is this weak life, — A mournful and mysterious strife, Where each man to his neighbour seems Like the stirring forms in motley dreams ; And shadows fall from cloudless skies, And lights in darkness gleam, And endless are the mysteries Of this unbroken dream ! And we gaze as dreamers have done, of yore, On a sight they think they have seen before : — And the far-off hills, and the neighbouring woods, And the gleaming pools of the winding floods. Are blent in the sunset's misty hue, When colour and distance are both untrue. To the eye of mortal it may not be To look on his own soul, — But like a dim half-hidden sea Before him it doth roll. It is green as the green earth's sunny grass,^ — It is blue as the bluest sky, — It is black as night when the tempests pass. And the snow-white sea-birds cry ! The weary billow hath no soft sleeps, — For its colour and change are given Not fiom the heart of its beating deeps. But fall from the face of heaven ! 296 THE ENGLISH HELICON. When the day is fair, and the gale at sleep, There are marvellous things that lie Full many and many a fathom deep, Moving and resting uncertainly ; — Things tinted, dark, and bright, Brave jev^els seen Through the solid green. Gleaming and giving light. And after the storm, — when the summer calm Drops dovv^n on the sea, like a holy charm, When the clouds on high Float quietly. Like angels winnowing by, — We see, by the dawn, that the furrowed shore With broken things is strewn all o'er, From the hollow ocean brought ;■ — Quaint carved works man never wTOUght, — And plants earth never bore, — New metals torn from their ancient bed,— And the wave-bleached bones of the unknown dead The beach that we scan Is the soul of man, With the wrecks of its former being, — With the tokens of dread That the life which is fled Is blent with the life that is fleeing ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. . 297 LEONIDAS. BY THE REV. DR. CROLY. Shout for the mighty men Who died along this shore, — Who died within this mountain-glen, — For never nobler chieftain's head Was laid on valour's crimson bed, Nor ever prouder gore Sprang forth, than their's v^rho won the day Upon thy strand — Thermopylae ! Shout for the mighty men Who on the Persian tents. Like lions, from their midnight den Bounding on the slumbering deer, Rushed — a storm of sword and spear ; — Like the roused elements Let loose from an immortal hand. To chasten or to crush a land ! But there are none to hear ; Greece is a hopeless slave. Leonidas ! no hand is near To lift thy fiery falchion now ; No warrior makes the warrior's vow Upon thy sea- washed grave. The voice that should be raised by men, Must now be given by wave and glen. 298 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And it is given ! — the surge — The tree — the rock — the sand — On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge, In sounds that speak but to the free, The memory of thine and thee ! The vision of thy band Still gleams within the glorious dell, Where their gore hallowed, as it fell ! And is thy grandeur done ? Mother of men like these ! Has not thy outcry gone Where Justice has an ear to hear ? — Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear ; Till in thy crimsoned seas, Are plunged the chain and scymitar,' — Greece shall be a new-born Star ! LOVE. BY S. T. COLERIDGE. All thoughts, all passions, all delights,- Whatever stirs this mortal frame, — All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 299 Oft, in my waking dreams, do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, steahng o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there — my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the armed man, — - The statue of the armed knight ; She stood, and listened to my lay. Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own,^ — My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She Hstened with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face ! I told her of the knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand, — And that for ten long years he wooed The lady of the land. 300 THE ENGLISH HELICON. I told her how he pined : — and, ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own ! She listened with a flitting blush, — With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! But, when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely knight, — And that he crossed the mountain-woods. Nor rested day nor night ; — That sometimes from the savage den, — And sometimes from the darksome shade, — And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, — There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright, — And that he knew it was a fiend, This miserable knight ! — And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land ; — And how she wept, and clasped his knees,— And how she tended him in vain, — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ; — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 301 And that she nursed him in a cave ; — And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay ; — His dying words — but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity ! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; — The music and the doleful tale, — The rich and balmy eve ; — And hopes — and fears that kindle hope— An undistinguishable throng, — And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long ! She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame ; And, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name ! Her bosom heaved ; — she stepped aside — As conscious of my look she stept — Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me, and wept ! She half enclosed me with her arms, — She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face ! 302 THE ENGLISH HELICON. 'T was partly love, and partly fear, — And partly 't was a bashful aft, That I might rather feel, than see. The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, — and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride : — And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride ! THE SCULPTOR OF CYPRUS. IJY THE REV. JOHN GRAHAM. It was a vine-o'ershadowed cave, That looked toward the sea, — Where shoreward still the laughing wave Leapt childlike in its glee ; — But the winds which were its playmates gave Their music mournfully ! For they were laden with the sighs Of a deep and dread devotion, And burdened with the agonies Of a mortal soul's emotion, — Of a love but told unto the skies. And whispered to the ocean. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 303 But, once, when fair Selene kept Her path, in phantom-glory, A sea-maid to the cavern crept. And listened to the story, — While all her other sisters slept. Under the billows hoary ! * * * » * 'T was the voice of a dying youth, who prayed To a woman-statue there, — An idol, which himself had made For worship all too fair ; And thus his mingled vows he paid Of passion and despair. — " Oh, why so marble-cold, my sweet? So motionless, mine own ? It is not thus that lips should meet. When lovers are alone ! Love's touch, methinks, might lend its heat To even a heart of stone ! " Oh, let me breathe my fevered breath Into those lips divine ; If life within them languisheth Take — take one half of mine ; Or give me thence one half of death, 'Tis welcome — so 'tis thine ! " The wandering breeze has heard my prayer, — And so has the restless sea ; And the rocks have answered my despair With echoed agony ;■: — No claim have I on earth or air. That they should pity me ! 304 THE ENGLISH HELICON. " I gave not shape to the viewless storm, Nor beauty to the wind, — But thou know'st I freed thy prisoned form From the marble where it pined ; Thou wokest thence in beauty warm, — Oh, wherefore not in mind ? " Creation's spell had prisoned thee In the quarry's inmost gloom, — Who was it came to set thee free From that lone and loveless doom ? Its darkling chambers, but for me, To-day had been thy tomb ! " 'T was I who loosed each limb of thine From the marble's formless girth, — And called thee, 'neath the glad sunshine, From death to second birth : And I love thee not like one divine, — Such loves are not for earth ! " Alas ! alas ! — I view thee With the thoughts of a child of clay ; And thus I bend to woo thee, As only a mortal may, — Making my prayer unto thee, In the absence of the day I " And thou,— bright daughter of the foam !- If such indeed there be, — If I have made my heart a home Wherein to shelter thee, — Oh ! haste, or e'er the sun hath clomb Above thy parent sea ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 305 "If, as thou knowest, I have stood In worship at thy shrine, — Or garlanded with many a bud Thy birth-place of the brine,— Give death to me, — or breath and blood To this sweet shape of mine !" He bent : — his kisses on her lips Fell, like a flashing shower, Fast as the wild bee's, when he sips Its fragrance from the flower : Till, suddenly, a deej) eclipse Around him seemed to lower ! It was a gush of silken hair, That o'er his eyelids flew ; And oh ! tJiat midnight mirrored there Twin stars, of azure hue, — And hung around a white neck, where Life's warm blood wandered through. He felt a heart which seemed to beat. In love, against hi? side ; He felt a young cheek's kindling heat, As if in blushes dyed ; — And knelt, enraptured at the feet. Of his breathing statue-bride ! ***** The sea — as tutored by that spell, — Took up a softer tone. And spirit-harps, o'er rock and dell, Went answering with their own ; — For love had wrought his miracle. And given life to — stone ! V 306 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE HAPPY VALLEY. BY THOMAS MILLER. It was a valley filled with sweetest sounds : A languid music haunted everywhere, — Like those with which a summer-eve abounds, From rustling corn, and song-birds calling clear, Down sloping-uplands, which some wood surrounds, With tinkling rills just heard — but not too near ; Or lowing cattle on the distant plain, And swing of far-off bells, now caught, then lost again ! It seemed like Eden's angel-peopled vale, — So bright the sky, so soft the streams did flow. Such tones came riding on the musk-winged gale, — The very air seemed sleepily to blow ; And choicest flowers enamelled every dale, Flushed with the richest sunlight's rosy glow : It was a valley drowsy with delight. Such fragrance floated round, svich beauty dimmed the sight. The golden-belted bees hummed in the air, — The tall silk grasses bent and waved along, — The trees slept in the steeping sunbeams' glare, — The dreamy river chimed its undersong. And took its own free course without a care, — Amid the boughs did lute-tongued songsters throng, Until the valley throbbed beneath their lays. And echo echo chased, through many a leafy maze ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 307 And shapes were there, like spirits of the flowers, Sent down to see the summer Beauties dress, And feed their fragrant mouths with silver showers : Their eyes peeped out from many a green recess, And their fair forms made light the thick-set bowers ; The very flowers seemed eager to caress Such living sisters ; and the boughs, long-leaved. Clustered, to catch the sighs their pearl-flushed bosoms heaved. One, through her long loose hair, was backward peeping, Or throwing, with raised arm, the locks aside ; Another high a pile of flowers was heaping, Or looking love askance ; and, 'when descried, Her coy glance on the bedded-greensward keeping, She pulled the flowers to pieces, as she sighed, — Then blushed, like timid daybreak, when the dawn Looks crimson on the night, and then again 's withdrawn. One, with her warm and milk-white arms outspread, On tip-toe tripped along a sunlit glade, — Half turned the matchless scvdpture of her head, And half shook down her silken circling braid ; Her back-blown scarf an arched rainbow made. She seemed to float on air — so light she sped. Skimming the wavy flowers, as she passed by. With fair and printless feet, like clouds along the sky. One sat alone, within a shady nook. With wild wood songs the lazy hours beguiling, — Or looking at her shadow in the brook, Trying to frown, then at the efibrt smiling ; Her laughing eyes mocked every serious look, — 'Twas as if Love stood at himself reviling : 308 THE ENGLISH HELICON. She threw in flowers, and watched them float away, Then at her beauty looked, then sang a sweeter lay. Others on beds of roses lay reclined. The regal flowers athwart their full lips thrown. And in one fragrance both their sweets combined. As if they on the self-same stem had grown, So close were rose and lip together twined — A double flower that from one bud had blown — Till none cou.ld tell, so closely were they blended, Where swelled the curving lip, or where the rose-bloom ended. One, half-asleep, crushing the twined flowers, Upon a velvet slope, like Dian, lay, — Still as a lark that mid the daisies cowers : Her looped-up tunic, tossed in disarray, Shewed rounded limbs, too fair for earthly bowers, — They looked like roses on a cloudy day, — The warm white dulled amid the colder green, — The flowers too rough a couch that lovely shape to screen ! Some lay, like Thetis' nymphs, along the shore. With ocean-pearl combing their golden locks. And singing to the waves for evermore ; Sinking, like flowers, at eve, beside the rocks, If but a sound above the muffled roar Of the low waves was heard. In little flocks, Others went trooping through the wooded alleys, Their kirtles glancing white, like streams in sunny valleys. They were such forms as, imaged in the night, Sail, in our dreams, across the heaven's steep blue, — When the closed lid sees visions streaming bright, Too beautiful to meet the naked view — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 309 Like faces formed in clouds of silver light. Women they were ! — such as the angels knew — Such as the Mammoth looked on, ere he fled, Scared by the lovers' wings, that streamed in sunset red ! THE GRAVE. BY V. I STOOD within the grave's o'ershadowing vault ! Gloomy and damp it stretched its vast domain : Shades were its boundary ; for my strained eye sought For other limit to its width, in vain. Faint, from the entrance, came a daylight ray. And distant sound of living men and things ; This, in the encountering darkness passed away. That, took the tone in which a mourner sings. I lit a torch at a sepulchral lamp, Which shot a thread of light amid the gloom ; And, feebly bvu-ning 'gainst the rolling damp, I bore it through the regions of the tomb. Around me stretched the slumbers of the dead, — Whereof the silence ached upon mine ear ; More and more noiseless did I make my tread. And yet its echoes chilled my heart with fear. The former men of every age and place. From all their wanderings gathered, round me lay ; The dust of withered empires did I trace, And stood 'mid generations passed away. 310 THE ENGLISH HELICON. I saw whole cities, that, in flood or fire, Or famine or the plague, gave up their breath, — Whole armies whom a day beheld expire. Swept by ten thousands to the arms of death ! I saw the old world's white and wave-swept bones — A giant heap of creatures that had been ; Far and confused, the broken skeletons Lay strewn beyond mine eye's remotest ken. Death's various shrines — the urn, the stone, the lamp — Were scattered round, confused, amid the dead ; Symbols and types were mouldering in the damp, — Their shapes were waning and their meaning fled. Unspoken tongues, perchance in praise or woe, Were charactered on tablets time had swept ; And deep were half their letters hid, below The thick small dust of those they once had wept. No hand was here to wipe the dust awa^, — No reader of the writing traced beneath, — No spirit sitting by its form of clay, — No sigh nor sound from all the heaps of death ! One place alone had ceased to hold its prey : — A form had pressed it and was there no more ; The garments of the grave beside it lay. Where once they wrapped Him on the rocky floor. He only, with returning footsteps, broke Th' eternal calm wherewith the tomb was bound ; Among the sleeping dead alone He woke. And blessed, with outstretched hands, the host around ! THE ENGLISH HEUCON. 3]1 Well is it that such blessing hovers here,' — To soothe each sad survivor of the throng, Who haunt the portals of the solemn sphere. And pour their woe the loaded air along ! They to the verge have followed what they love, And on the insuperable threshold stand ; With cherished names its speechless calm reprove. And stretch in the abyss their ungrasped hand ! But vainly there they seek their soul's relief. And of the obdurate grave its prey implore, — Till death himself shall medicine their grief, Closing their eyes by those they wept before. All that have died — the earth's whole race — repose Where death collects his treasures, heap on heap ; O'er each one's busy day the night-shades close, — Its actors, sufferers, schools, kings, armies — sleep A WINTER THOUGHT. BY W. H. HARRISON. In youth's bright morn, we hope through hfe. As o'er smooth ice, to glide ; — But P'ate too often flings the salt Of tears upon our slide ! 312 THE ENGLISH HELICON. PASSING AWAY. A DREAM. BY THE REV. J. PIERPOINT (AMERICAN). Was it the chime of a tiny bell, That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, — Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell, That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, When the winds and the waves lie. together asleep. And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep, — She dispensing her silvery light, And he his notes as silvery quite, — While the boatman listens and ships his oar. To catch the music that comes from the shore ? Hark ! the notes, on my ear that play. Are set to words : — as they float, they say, " Passing away ! passing away!" But no ! it was not a fairy's shell. Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear ; Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell. Striking the hour, that filled my ear, As I lay in my dream ! Yet was it a chime That told of the flow of the stream of time. For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung. And a plump little girl for a pendulum swung, (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing ;) And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet. And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, " Passing away ! passing away! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 313 Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow ! And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, Seemed to point to the girl below. And lo, she had changed! — in a few short hours Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers. That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung This way and that, as she, dancing, swung, In the fullness of grace and of womanly pride. That told me she soon was to be a bride. — Yet then, when expecting her happiest day. In the same sweet voice, I heard her say, " Passing away ! passing away ! " While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade Of thought or care stole softly over, — Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made. Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. The rose yet lay on her cheek, — but its flush Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels. That marched so calmly round above her ; Was a little dimmed, as when evening steals Upon noon's hot face.^ — Yet one couldn't but love her ; For she looked like a mother, whose first babe lay Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day ; — And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say, " Passing away ! passing away ! " While yet I looked, what a change there came ! Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan ; Stooping and staffed was her withered frame ; — Yet, just as busily, swung she on. 314 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The garland beneath her had fallen to dust, — The wheels above her were eaten with rust,' — The hands, that over the dial swept. Grew crooked and tarnished, — but on they kept : And still there came that silver tone From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone, — (Let me never forget, till my dying day, The tone or the burden of her lay ! — ) " Passing away ! passing away ! " THE ADOPTED CHILD. BY MRS. HEMANS. "Why wouldst thou leave me, Oh! gentle child ? Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, — A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall, — Mine is a fair and a pillared hall. Where many an image of marble gleams. And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." " Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play, Through the long bright hours of the smnmer day ; They find the red cup-moss where they climb, And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know- Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go !" " Content thee, boy, in my bower to dwell ! Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well ; — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 315 Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, — Harps which the wandering breezes tune, — And the silvery wood-note of many a bird, Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." " Oh ! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, A song of the hills more sweet than all : She sings it under our own green tree, To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; I dreamt last night of that music low — Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go ! " " Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest, — She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no more. Nor hear her song at the cabin-door : Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh. And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." " Is my mother gone from her home away ? But I know that my brothers are there at play ; — I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell. Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well ; Or they launch their boats where the bright streams flow — Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go !" " Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now, — They sport no more on the mountain's brow : They have left the fern by the spring's green side. And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. Be thou at peace, in thy brighter lot. For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." "Are they gone — all gone from the sunny hill? — But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ; 316 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, — And the heath is bent by the singing-bee, — And the waters leap, — and the fresh winds blow,- Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go ! " THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. BY \V. M. PRAED. Years, years ago, — ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty, — Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, — Years, years ago, — while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — In short, while I was yet a boy, — I fell in love with Laura Lily ! I saw her at the County- Ball : — There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet, in that old hall. Of hands across and down the middle, Her's was the subtlest spell, by far, Of all that set young hearts romancing ; She was our queen, our rose, our star ; And then she danced — Oh, heaven, her dancing ! Dark was her hair ; her hand was white ; Her voice was exquisitely tender ; Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 1 never saw a waist so slender ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 317 Her every look, her every smile, Shot, right and left, a score of arrows ; — I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wondered where she 'd left her sparrows ! She talked — of politics or prayers, — Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, — Of danglers or of dancing bears. Of battles or the last new bonnets : — By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a tittle ; If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed ; — I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling ! My father frowned ; — but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling ? She was the daughter of a dean. Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother, just thirteen. Whose colour was extremely hectic : Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second cousin was a peer. And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles, and the three-per-cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes, and rents. Oh, what are they, to love's sensations ! 318 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honours, Cvipid chooses ; He cares as little for the stocks. As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. She sketched ; — the vale, the wood, the beach Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : She botanised ; — I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading ! She warbled Handel ; — it was grand ; She made the Catalan! jealous : She touched the organ ; — I could stand For hovirs and hours, to blow the bellows ! She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories, — Paintings of butterflies — and Rome, — Patterns for trimmings, — Persian stories, — Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, — Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, — • And autographs of Prince Leboo, — And recipes for elder-water ! And she was flattered — worshipped — bored ; Her steps were watched ; her dress was noted ; Her poodle dog was quite adored ; Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, — and every heart was glad. As if the taxes were aboHshed ; She frowned, — and every look was sad. As if the opera were demolished. She smiled on many — just for fun, — / knew that there was nothing in it ; I was the first — the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 319 I knew it, — for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded : She wrote a charming hand, — and, oh ! How sweetly all her notes were folded ! Our love was like most other loves ; A little glow — a little shiver — A rose-bud and a pair of gloves — And " Fly not yet" upon the river ; — Some jealousy of some one's heir, — Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, — A miniature — a lock of hair — The usual vows — and then we parted ! We parted I^ — months and years rolled by : — We met again, four summers after ; Our parting was all sob and sigh, — Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ! For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers ; — And she was not the Ball-Room Belle, But only — Mrs. Something Rogers ! THE BOY AND THE HOLY IMAGE. BY MARY HOWITT. Among green, pleasant meadows, All in a grove so wild, Was set a marble image Of the Virgin and the Child. 320 THE ENGLISH HELICON. There oft, on summer evenings, A lonely boy would rove, To play beside the image That sanctified the grove. Oft sate his mother by him, Among the shadows dim, — And told how the Lord Jesus Was once a child, like him. " And now, from highest heaven He doth look down each day. And sees whate'er thou doest, And hears what thou dost say." Thus spoke his tender mother : — And, on an evening bright, When the clear, bright sun descended, 'Mid clouds of rosy light, Again the boy was playing : And earnestly said he, " Oh, beautiful child, Jesus, Come down and play with me ! " I will find thee flowers the fairest. And weave for thee a crown ; I will get thee ripe, red strawberries. If thou wilt but come down I " Oh, holy, holy mother ! Put him down from off" thy knee, — For in these silent meadows. There are none to play with me ! " THE ENGLISH HELICON. 321 Thus spoke the boy so lonely, The while his mother heard ; But on his prayer she pondered, And spoke to him no word. That self-same night, she dreamed A lovely dream of joy ; — She thought she saw young Jesus There, playing with the boy. " And, for the fruits and flowers Which thou hast brought to me, Rich blessing shall be given A thousand-fold to thee ! " For, in the fields of heaven Thou shalt roam with me, at will, And of bright fruits celestial Shalt have, dear child, thy fill ! " Thus tenderly and kindly The fair child, Jesus, spoke : — And, full of careful musings, The anxious mother woke. And thus it was accomplished ; — In a short month and a day. That lonely boy so gentle Upon his deathbed lay. And thus he spoke, in dying t — " Oh, mother dear ! I see The beautiful child, Jpsus A-comin£^ down to me ! w THE ENGLISH HELICOX. " And in his hand he beareth Bright flowers, as white as snow, And red and juicy strawberries, — Dear mother, let me go ! " He died ! But that fond mother Her sorrow did restrain; For she knew he was with Jesus, — And she asked him not again ! TO A LADY. liY T. F. TRIEBNER. Sweet lady ! should I tell thee that / love, Five joyous hearts, whose life is glad in mine, Were broken by that vow. But less divine I may not think thee than thy looks approve : — For never did the Idalian goddess move In more excelling beauty, self-create, Than thou, a maiden of earth's low estate, In thy meek majesty of quiet love ! Nor deem this simple homage little worth. Because unto ideal virtues given : — If in thy face — and be the sin forgiven ! — We trace the soul of some celestial birth, Marvel not, lady ! — for we know of heaven But by the faith we realise on earth ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. :}2o STANZAS. BY T. STODDAUT. The image is unfaded of My first ideal dream ; Thy voice is lingering round me, like The music of a stream ! Thy low sweet voice — I cannot rend The silver tones apart ; Their' s is the soft, rich harmony That quieteth the heart ! I seek thee in the city, where The gay and thoughtless are, — And the shadow of thy beauty is As the tracery of a star : I seek thee near thy home, amid The bower of olden trees ; — Do those fair ringlets never play To the soft summer breeze ? I find thee not ! — thy footsteps are On thine own sainted hearth ; My heart is left to link thine hours With melody and mirth : How should the least or latest thought Be wasted upon me !• — Thou art among the beautiful, The bright are circling thee 324 THE ENGLISH HELICON. I give tliee all — the fervent prayer Of my most holy hours ; Be blessings thine, beloved ! like The dew-fall among flowers ! Why is not the heart broken, when Its truth is given in vain ? — The quenched fire of the altar, who Shall kindle it again ! Oh ! were I a small singing-bird, My summer nest should be In the shadow of thy beauty, on A quiet leafy tree ; Mid the green bower where thou dwellest I would wake a low, sweet tune, — Always on love and sorrow, In the balmy month of June ! Thoii listenest to the happy things That wanton in the sky, — Would they, at thy rebuke, drop down To the cold earth, and die ? Thou gazest, when the western sun Doth sheath his gleaming wing, — Would he lead twilight to thy wish. The old, imaltering ? Yet these are loved — while I am bid To suffer and despair ! — I would lie among the buried — grief Lays down its burthen there ! Thou cou.ldst not feel so slightingly For the heart-broken, then, — Shedding no consecrating tear. Whispering no Amen ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 325 LINES ON A BUST OF SHAKSPERE. BY HENRY NEELK. His was the master-spirit ! — at his spells The heart gave up its secrets ; — like the Mount Of Horeb, smitten by the prophet's rod, Its hidden springs gushed forth. Time, that grey rock On whose bleak sides the fame of meaner bards Is dashed to ruin, was the pedestal On which his genius rose, — and, rooted there, Stands, like a mighty statue, reared so high Above the clouds and changes of the world. That heaven's unshorn and unimpeded beams Have round its awful brows a glory shed, Immortal as their own ! Like those fair birds, Of glittering plumage, whose heaven-pointing pinions Beam light on that dim world they leave behind, And while they spurn, adorn it, — so his spirit, His " dainty spirit," while it soared above This dull, gross compound, scattered, as it flew. Treasures of light and loveliness ! And these Were "gentle Shakspere's" features! — this the eye Whence earth's least earthly mind looked out, and flashed Amazement on the nations ! — this the brow Where lofty thought majestically brooded, Seated as on a throne ! — and these the lips That warbled music, stolen from heaven's own choir, When seraph-harps rang sweetest ! But I tempt A theme too high, — and mount, like Icarus, •'526 THE ENGLISH HELICOX. On wings that melt before the blaze they worship. Alas ! my hand is weak, my lyre is wild ! Else should the eye, whose wondering gaze is fixed Upon this breathing bust, awaken strains Lofty as those the glance of Phoebus struck From Memnon's ruined statue ! — the rapt soul Should breathe in numbers, and, in dulcet notes, *' Discourse most eloquent music !" INCOGNITA. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. Image of One who lived of yore ! Hail to that lovely mien. Once quick and conscious, — now no more On land or ocean seen ! Were all earth's breathing forms to pass Before me, in Agrippa's glass, Many as fair as Thou might be. But oh ! not one — not one like Thee! Thou art no child of fancy : — thou The very look dost wear That gave enchantment to a brow Wreathed with luxuriant hair, Lips of the morn embathed in dew. And eyes of evening's starry blue : Of all who e'er enjoyed the sun, Thou art the image of but One! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 327 And who was She, in virgin prime And May of womanhood, Whose roses here, miplucked by Time, In shadowy tints have stood, — While many a winter's withering blast Hath o'er tlie dark cold chamber passed, In which her once-resplendent form Slmnbered to dust, beneath the storm ? Of gentle blood, — upon her birth Consenting planets smiled ; And she had seen those days of mirth That frolic round the child : To bridal bloom her strength had sprung, — Behold her beautifvil and young ! Lives there a record, which hath told That she was wedded — widowed — old ? How long her date 't were vain to guess : The pencil's cunning art Can but a single glance express, — One motion of the heart, — A smile,- — a blush, — a transient grace Of air and attitude and face, — One passion's changing colour mix, — One moment's flight for ages fix ! Her joys and griefs, alike in vain, Would fancy here recall, — Her throbs of ecstasy or pain Lulled in oblivion all ! With her, methinks, life's little hour Passed like the fragrance of a flower, That leaves upon the vernal wind Sweetness we ne'er again may find. 328 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Where dwelt she ? — Ask yon aged tree, Wliose boughs embower the lawn, Whether the birds' wild minstrelsy Awoke her here at dawn ; Whether beneath its youthful shade, At noon, in infancy, she played ? — If from the oak no answer come. Of her all oracles are dumb ! The dead are like the stars by day ; Withdrawn from mortal eye, But not extinct, they hold their way, In glory, through the sky. Spirits, from bondage thus set free. Vanish, amidst immensity, Where human thought, like human sight, Fails to pursue their trackless flight. Somewhere w^ithin created space, Could I explore that round, In bliss or woe, there is a place Where she might still be found. And oh ! vmless those eyes deceive, I may, I must, I will believe That she, whose charms so meekly glow. Is what she only seemed below, — An angel in that glorious realm Where God himself is King ! But awe and fear, that overwhelm Presumption, check my wing ; Nor dare imagination look Upon the symbols of that book, Wherein eternity enrolls The judgments on departed souls ! THK ENGLISH HELICON. 329 Of her of whom these pictured hnes A faint resemblance form, — Fair as the second rainbow shines Aloof amid the storm, — Of Her, this "shadow of a shade," Like its original, must fade, And she, forgotten when unseen, Shall be as if she ne'er had been. Ah ! then, perchance, this dreaming strain. Of all that e'er I svmg, A lorn memorial may remain, When silent lies my tongue ; When shot the meteor of my fame, Lost the vain echo of my name, This leaf — this fallen leaf — may be The only trace of her and me ! With One who lived of old, my song In lowly cadence rose : To One who is unborn, belong The accents of its close. Ages to come, with courteovis ear. Some youth my warning voice may hear ; — And voices from the dead should be The warnings of eternity ! \Mien these weak lines thy presence greet, Reader ! if I am blessed, Again, as spirits, may we ineet, In glory and in rest ! If not, — and / have lost my way, Here part we ; — go not thou astray I No tomb — no verse my story tell! — Once, and for ever, Fare thee well ! 330 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. (Jruui the Spaaish.) BY J. G. LOCKHART. " Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Rise lip, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing ; And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze, witli all the town ! " Arise, arise, Xarifa ! I see Andalla's face,— He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace : Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquiver, Rode bridegroom forth so brave as he, so brave and lovely never ! Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple mixed with white, I guess 't was wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night : — Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze, with all the town ! " What aileth thee, Xarifa ! — what makes thine eyes look down ? Wliy stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town ? I 've heard you say, on many a day, — and sure you said the truth ! — Andalla rides without a peer, among all Granada's youth. Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go, Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow : — Then rise, — oh, rise, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze, with all the town !" THE ENGLISH HELICON. 331 The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down, Nor came she to the window, to gaze with all the town ; But, though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove. And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa wove : One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh, — That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow drooping from her eye. " No — no !" she sighs, — " bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze upon Andalla, with ail the gazhig town !" " Why rise ye not, Xarifa ! — nor lay your cushion down ? Why gaze ye not,' Xarifa ! — with all the gazing town ? Hear — hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry ! He stops at Zara's palace-gate ! — why sit ye still — oh, why?" " At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate ! in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth, with tears, — and was my lover. r will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down. To gaze on false Andalla, with all the gazing town !" DEATH OF AN INFANT. BY MRS. SIGOURNF.Y (aMKIIICAN). Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow,- And dashed it out ! There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip ; — he touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded! Forth from those blue eyes. There spoke a wishfid tenderness — a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence Alone can wear : — with ruthless haste, he bound 332 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The silken fringes of their curtaining lids For ever ! There had been a murmuring sound With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears : — the spoiler set His seal of silence ! But there beamed a smile So fixed and holy from that marble brow, — Death gazed and left it there ; — he dared not steal The signet-ring of heaven ! THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. We walked along — while, bright and red, Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stopped, — he looked, and said, " The will of God be done!" A village schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering grey ; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass. And by the steaming rills. We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 333 "Our work," said I, "was well begun; — Then, from thy breast, what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought ? " A second time did Matthew stop ; And, fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top. To me he made reply : — " Yon cloud, with that long purple cleft, Brings fresh into my mind A day like this, which I have left Full thirty years behind. " And, just above yon slope of corn. Such colours, and no other. Were in the sky, that April morn, — Of this the very brother. " With rod and line, I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave ; And, to the churchyard come, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave. " Nine summers had she scarcely seen, — The pride of all the vale ! And then she sang,^ — she would have been A very nightingale ! " Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; And yet I loved her more — For so it seemed, — than, till that day, 1 e'er had loved before. 334 THE ENGLISH HELICON. " And, turning from her grave, I met. Beside the churchyard yew, A blooming girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew. " A basket on her head she bare, — Her brow was smooth and white : To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight! " No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free ; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea! "There came from me a sigh of pain, Which I could ill confine: — I looked at her — and looked again : And did not wish her mine ! " Matthew is in his grave ; — yet now, Methinks, I see him stand. As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand ! THE FOUNTAIN. IN CONTINUATION OF THE FOREGOING. We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, — A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 335 We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat ; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet. " Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match This water's pleasant tune. With some old border-song, or catch, That suits a summer's noon; — Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here, beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes, Which you last April made ! " In silence Matthew lay,' — and eyed The spring beneath the tree ; And thus the dear old Man replied — The grey-haired man of glee : — " No check, no stay this streamlet fears ; How merrily it goes ! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years. And flow as now it flows ! "And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. " My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, — For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard ! 330 THE ENGLISH HELICON. " Thus fares it still, in our decay : — And yet the wiser niind Movirns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind. " The blackbird, amid leafy trees, The lark, above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please,- Are quiet when they will. " With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife : — they see A happy youth ; and their old age Is beautiful and free. " But we are pressed by heavy laws ; And often, glad no more. We wear a face of joy — because We have been glad of yore ! " If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, — The household hearts that were his own,- It is the man of inirth. "My days, my friend! are almost gone; My life has been approved — And many love me ; but by none Am I enough beloved! " " Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains ! I live, and sing my idle songs, Upon, these happy plains. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 337 " And, Matthew ! for thy children dead, I '11 be a son to thee ! " At this, he grasped my hand, and said, — " Alas ! that cannot be !" We rose up from the fountain-side ; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide, — And through the wood we went. And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, He sang those witty rhymes, — About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewildered chimes ! INVOCATION TO LOVE. BY MISS E. L. MONTAGU. Spirit of Beauty — that in upper air Thy wings in dews of Eden steepest. Oh, hear ! Where'er Thy throne thou keepest, — Or far or near, — In ether pure, or mid the cloudlands fair ! Cast down thine alien bow, — Which first unto thy faltering hand was given. When thy young form the Grecian fabler drew, In ages long ago ; X 338 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Ere yet, by thee inspired, lie knew To robe thee, mercy-like, in hues of heaven, Or paint thee meek in humanising woe ! Spirit divine ! Wherever shine Those stars — those soul-awakening eyes of thine- Whose bluer orbs make the blue sky seem pale. Till, envy-filled, she draws a veil Of earth-born clouds before our mortal view — Look down — look down ! Thou, gentlest Love ! art mortal too, • — In all save death : Thy brows are girt with an immortal crown ; And, though thou feelest every sigh That hovering waits on human breath. Thou canst not die ! Oh ! bend thine eyes upon the weeping earth, — Which, since its earliest birth. Like a poor orphan, full of sorrow-fears, Hath walked in tears ! Thou art an orphan, Love ! Thy history's page was yet unrolled When, in that dim tale of old. They gave thee Beauty for thy mother : There dwelleth not another Like unto thee, in all those worlds above ; — Thou standest, as thou ever stood'st, — alone ! Homeless thou art, Save in the universal heart Of man, whose soul adopts thee for its own. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 339 Some unimagined being was thy sire — Some glorified and crowned spirit, From whom thou dost inherit Thy deep devotion's heavenly fire : Thy mother, born where humbler planets roll, Lent thee thy soft humility of soul ! Unchanged, unfaded by the passing hours, Sweet Spirit, thou art ours In woe or weal : Thou knowest, and canst feel. How many pangs our bosom-shrine surround ; — All ties. All human sympathies. Keep thee for ever to that altar bound. If, 'neath the holy light of day, Thou sportest with the child at play, — Thou fillest up the little space Between it and its mother's face. Till it can nor feel, nor see. Aught on earth save her and thee ; While, as she smooths its clustering hair, Her tears fall on thee, unaware ! Before thy throne the poet kneels, in prayer : — He hears thy footstep in the softening shower, Thy voice amid the storm. And sees thy form In every flower ! And we who walk in darkness — we, too, feel Thy chastening presence round us steal. Ah ! who our wounds should heal, If thou wert far ? 340 THE ENGLISH HELICON. And if, alas ! we blindly war, In an unnatural, unholy strife, With thee — our strength — our fovmtain — and our life- 'T is but thy mortal part which we would cast Back on the dark and perishable past. Yet, pardon, mighty Love ! In that our human hearts are anguish-riven : In vain. We burst our chain, — Thou reignest still, whose kingdom is above — Conquered on earth — but glorified in heaven ! YOUTH AND AGE. BY S. T. COLERIDGE. Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying. Where Hope clung feeding like a bee — Both were mine ! Life went a-maying, With nature, hope and poesy, When I was young ! When I was young ? — Ah, woful when ! Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then ! This breathing house not built with hands,— This body that does me grievous wrong, - O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands How lightly then it flashed along ! — Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore. On winding lakes and rivers wide, THE ENGLISH HELICON. ."$41 That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide, — Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in 't, together ! Flowers are lovely — love is flower-Uke ; Friendship is a sheltering tree ; — Oh ! the joys that came down, shower-like. Of friendship, love and liberty. Ere I was old ! Ere I was old ? — Ah, woful ere. Which tells me. Youth 's no longer here ! Oh, Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that thou and I were one, I '11 think it but a fond conceit — It cannot be — that thou art gone ! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled : — And thou wert aye a masker bold ! What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe that thou art gone ? I see these locks in silvery slips. This drooping gait, this altered size ; — But springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! Life is but thought : — so think I will That Youth and I are house-mates, still ! Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve ! Where no hope is, life 's a warning, That only serves to make us grieve. When we are old ! That only serves to make us grieve. With oft and tedious taking-leave, — 342 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Like some poor, nigh-related guest, That may not rudely be dismist, Yet hath outstayed his welcome while. And tells the jest — Vvdthout the smile ! THE NIGHT IS CLOSING ROUND, MOTHER, BY BARRY CORNWALL. The night is closing round, mother ! The shadows are thick and deep ! All round me they cling, like an iron ring, And I cannot — cannot sleep ! Ah, heaven ! — thy hand, thy hand, mother ! Let me lie on thy nursing breast ! They have smitten my brain with a piercing pain But 't is gone ! — and I now shall rest. I could sleep a long, long sleep, mother ! So, seek me a calm, cool bed : — You may lay me low, in the virgin snow, With a moss-bank for my head. I would lie in the wild, wild woods, mother ! Where nought but the birds are known ; Were nothing is seen but the branches green, And flowers on the greensward strown. No lovers there witch the air, mother ! Nor mock at the holy sky : — One may live and be gay, like a summer day. And at last, like the summer, — die ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. ;54;3 YOUTH TOOK, ONE SUMMER DAY, HIS LYRE. LY V. Youth took, one summer day, his lyre, And idly struck each golden wire : — Just as fancy bade him play, Rose and sank the flowing lay ; Time and place he cared not for, — Yet his wandering hand had more That music of his votary asks Than the student's gravest tasks. Sweet notes came out, and hung around, Like a cloud of precious sovind, — Blending frolic tones, whose mirth Seemed all that there is gay on earth. With some which e'en the heart wovild melt Of those who feared, or loved, or felt. While thus he played, a form passed by. With aiding staff and calm cold eye ; And stopped to hear his fingers bring Such music from his careless string. "Grey Age !" cried Youth — and smiled, and stayed The hand that on the lyre was laid, — " Delayest thou to hear one twine Such an idle tune as mine ?" " Ay, fair youth !" rephed the sage, " Many a fond ear there may be, — But, be sure, there's none like Age, Kind, and fond — and friend to thee ! " 344 THE ENGLISH HELICON. " Nay, dost thou say so ?" Youth replied : " Then shall a worthier strain be tried ! I '11 give my wandering notes a rule, And tame my idle melody ; My musings what grave theme shall school ? Kind, grey Age, I'll sing of thee !" He changed his key ; — a graver one, A slower time, were now begun :j Yet ever, through the measure, pressed The accents of his frolic breast ; And, though the theme was Age, in sooth. The singer and the song were Youth ! " Thou anchorest in the port of life, — The storm is braved — the sea behind ; And, rescued from its oft-proved strife, Listenest the raging of the wind. / have loosed my svimmer bark, — Sky and sea and earth look fair ; And yet, they say 't will all be dark. Before I too am anchored there. Is it so ? Within my breast There 's such a flood and pulse of glee, That let Misfortune do her best, Methinks there must be joy for me ! But thou through joy and grief hast moved,— What / am proving thou hast proved. Hope says to me, the storms that lower Will break before my bright sun's power ; Or if I dread to meet the gloom, She tells me it will never come : — Thou needest not hope's guiding eye. For come what will thy strength is ready. My spread sail trusts the summer sky, — Biit thine is furled, thy anchor steady ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 345 Oh, Age ! thou hast forgot how sweet 'T is to beheve all things are true, — To think each wish its aim will meet. And mid-day keep morn's lovely hue ! Yet, know I, thou wouldst not resume, E'en if thou couldst, that feeling's bloom ; — No ! Age, again thou wouldst not be Such a light, wild thing as me ! Full many a deep enjoyment cheers The gathered number of thy years : — Good deeds around thee shed a lisht, — And spirit strengthened in the fight, — And calm wide views of things that seem To me like some mysterious dream : Then, too, thy lighted hearth around. Are steady friends, by proved ties bound ; And all that love thee, now, must be Still loved through wide eternity ! But, oh ! there's many a broken tie Will mark my oft-united way ; — I see full many a changing eye. And I — / love as light as they ! " But, Age ! he speaks no truth, who says That mine are all life's sunny rays. Thou, its high mountains steep upon. Above the clime of flowers hast gone : — Yet day-beams gild that head of thine. That reach not these brown locks of mine ; — Beams of another day, that lie. For me, beyond full many a sorrow — While thou above them stand'st on high, Beholding now the kindling morrow ! 34t> THE ENGLISH HELICON. Ah ! tell me of that new-born liccht, — Those purer scenes that round thee risc,- And how, if grief must cloud delight, To make it lead me to the skies ! And / will breathe, upon thine ear, Tones of the wild unburthened glee Which thou wilt love, e'en yet, to hear,— For once such tones belonoed to thee ! Yes, Age — the life of each we'll make The sweeter — in that both partake !" THE STUDENT. liY Miss E. B. BARKETT. " My midnight lamp is weary as my soul, — And, being unimmortal, has gone out ! And now, alone, yon moony lamp of heaven — "Which God lit, and not man — illuminates These volumes, others wrote in weariness, — As I have read them ; and this cheek and brow. Whose paleness, burned in with heats of thought, Would make an angel smile, to see how ill Clay, thrust from Paradise, consorts with mind — If angels could, like men, smile bitterly ! " Yet, must my brow be paler ! 1 have vowed To clip it with the crown which cannot fade, THE ENGLISH HELICON. 347 When it is faded. Not in vain ye cry, Oh ! glorious voices, that survive the tongues From VFhence was drawn your separate sovereignty — For I would reign beside you! I would melt The golden treasures of my health and life Into that name ! My lips are vowed apart From cheerful words — mine ears from pleasant sounds — Mine eyes from sights God made so beautiful — My feet from wanderings under shady trees — My hands from clasping of dear-loving friends — My very heart from feelings which move soft ! Vowed am I from the day's delightsomeness, And dreams of night! — and when the house is dumb In sleep — which is the pause 'twixt life and life — I live and waken thus ; and pluck away Slumber's sleek poppies from my pained lids — Goading my mind, with thongs wrought by herself, To toil and struggle along this mountain-path — Which hath no mountain-airs — until she sweat. Like Adam's brow,' — and gasp, and rend away, In agony, her garment of the flesh ! " And so, his midnight lamp was lit anew,- — And burned till morning. But his lamp of life Till morning burn'd not ! He was found embraced, Close, cold and stiff, by death's compelling sleep ; His breast and brow supported on a page Charactered over with a praise offame, — Of its divineness and beatitude — Words which had often caused that heart to throb, That cheek to burn ; though silent lay they, now, — Without a single beating in the pulse, And all the fever gone ! 348 THE ENGLISH HELICON. I saw a bay Spring, verdant, from a newly-fashioned grave : The grass upon the grave was verdanter, — That being watered by the eyes of One Who bore not to look up toward the tree ! Others looked on it — some, with passing glance. Because the light wind stirred in its leaves ; And some, with sudden lighting of the soul, In admiration's ecstasy ! — ay ! some Did wag their heads like oracles, and say, " 'T is very well ! " But none remembered The heart which housed the root — except that One Whose sight was lost in weeping ! Is it thus. Ambition ! — idol of the intellect ? Shall we drink aconite, alone to use Thy golden bowl— and sleep ourselves to death, To dream thy visions about life ? Oh, power ! That art a very feebleness ! — before Thy clayey feet we bend our knees of clay, — And round thy senseless brow bind diadems, With paralytic hands, — and shout " A god !" With voices mortal-hoarse ! Who can discern Th' infirmities they share in ? Being blind. We cannot see thy blindness : — being weak, We cannot feel thy weakness : — being low, We cannot mete thy baseness : — being unwise. We cannot understand thine idiocy ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 349 MY MOTHER'S GRAVE. ANONYMOUS. My mother's grave — my mother's grave ! Oh ! dreamless is her slumber there ; And drowsily the banners w^ave O'er her that w^as so chaste and fair ! Yea! love is dead and memory faded : But when the dew is on the brake, — And silence sleeps on earth and sea,- And mourners weep — and ghosts awake,- Oh ! then she cometh back to me, In her cold beauty darkly shaded ! I cannot guess her face or form ; — But what to me is form or face ? I do not ask the weary worm To give me back each buried grace Of glistening eyes or traihng tresses ! I only feel that she is here, — And that we meet, and that we part,- And that I drink within mine ear, And that I clasp around my heart, Her sweet, still voice, and soft caresses ! Not in the waking thought by day, Not in the sightless dream by night, Do the mild tones and glances play Of her who was my cradle's light ! 350 THE ENGLISH HELICON. But in some twilight of calm weather, She glides, by fancy dimly wrought, — A glittering cloud, a darkling beam,- With all the quiet of a thought. And all the passion of a dream, Linked, in a golden spell, together ! A BIRTH-DAY BALLAD. BY MISS M. J. JEWSSURY (mRS. FLETCHEr). Thou art plucking spring roses, Genie ! And a little red rose art thou, — Thou hast unfolded to day, Genie ! Another bright leaf, I trow : But the roses will live and die, Genie! Many and many a time, Ere thou hast unfolded quite. Genie ! — Grown into maiden prime ! Thou art looking now at the birds. Genie !- But oh, do not wish their wing ! That would only tempt the fowler, Genie !- Stay thou on earth, and sing : Stay in the nursing nest. Genie! — Be not soon thence beguiled. Thou wilt never find a second. Genie ! — Never be twice a child ! •hiW"^ ?f" \ , ^^/ i '4 / i if' /''' '•'%^Vr "''^^ THE ENGLISH HELICON. 351 Thou art building towers of pebbles, Genie ! — Pile them up brave and high ; And leave them to follow a bee, Genie ! As he wandereth singing by : But if thy towers fall down, Genie ! And if the brown bee is lost. Never weep — for thou must learn, Genie ! How soon life's schemes are crossed. Thy hand is in a bright boy's, Genie ! He calls thee his sweet, wee wife, — But let not thy little heart think. Genie ! Childhood the prophet of life : It may be life's minstrel. Genie ! And sing sweet songs and clear, — But minstrel and prophet now. Genie ! Are not united here. What will thy future fate be, Genie? Alas ! shall I live to see ? For thou art scarcely a sapling. Genie ! And I am a moss-grown tree ! I am shedding life's leaves fast, Genie ! Thou art in blossom sweet ; But think betimes of the grave, Genie ! Where young and old oft meet ! 352 THE ENGLISH HELICON. THE GROTTO OF EGERIA. BY T. K. HERVEY. A GUSH of waters ! — faint and sweet and wild, Like the far echo of the voice of years, — The ancient Nature, singing to her child The self-same hymn that lulled the infant spheres !- A spell of song not louder than a sigh, Yet speaking like a trumpet to the heart, — And thoughts that lift themselves, triumphingly, O'er time — where time has triumphed over art, — As wild-flowers climb its ruins, — haunt it still ; While, still, above the consecrated spot. Lifts up its prophet voice the ancient rill. And flings its oracles along the grot ! But, where is She — the Lady of the stream, — And He whose worship was — and is — a dream ? Silent, yet full of voices ! — desolate. Yet filled with memories, like a broken heart ! — Oh ! for a vision like to his who sate With thee, and with the moon and stars, apart, By the cool fountain — many a livelong even,^ — That speaks, unheeded, to the desert, now, — When vanished clouds had left the air all heaven. And all was silent, save the stream and thou, Egeria ! — solemn thought upon his brows. For all his diadem, — thy spirit-eyes THE ENGLISH HELICON. 35; His only homage, — and the flitting boughs And birds, alone, between him and the skies ! — Each outward sense expanded to a soul, — And every feeling tuned into a truth, — And all the bosom's shattered strings made whole. And all its worn-out powers retouched with youth, Beneath thy spell — that chastened while it charmed, Thy words — that touched the spirit while they taught. Thy look — that uttered wisdom while it warmed, And moulded fancy in the stamp of thought, And breathed an atmosphere below, above, Light to the soul— and to the senses love ! Beautiful dreams ! — that haunt the younger earth, In poet's pencil or in minstrel's song, — Like sighs — or rainbows — dying in their birth. Perceived a moment, and remembered long ! But, no ! — bright visions ! — fables of the heart ! Not to the past, alone, do ye belong ; Types for all ages, — wove when early art To feeling gave a voice — to truth a tongue ! Oh ! what if Gods have left the Grecian mount. And shrines are voiceless on the classic shore. And lone Egeria by the gushing fount Waits for her monarch-lover never more, — Who hath not his Egeria ? — some sweet thought, Shrouded and shrined within his heart of hearts, More closely cherished, and more fondly sought, Still, as the daylight of the soul departs ; — The visioned lady of the spring, that wells In the green valley of his brighter years. 354 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Or gentle spirit that for ever dwells, And sings of hope, beside the fount of tears I In the heart's trance — the calenture of mind That haunts the soul-sick mariner of life, And paints the fields that he has left behind. Like green Morganas, on the tempest's strife ; — In the dim hour when memory — whose song Is still of buried hope, — sings back the dead, And perished looks and forms — a phantom-throng, — With melancholy eyes and soundless tread. Like lost Eurydices, from graves, retrack The long-deserted chambers of the brain, Until the yearning soul looks fondly back. To clasp them,' — and they vanish, once again ; — At even, — when the fight of youth is done, And sorrow — like the " searchers of the slain," — Turns up the cold, dead faces, one by one. Of prostrate joys and wishes, — but in vain ! And finds that all is lost, — and walks around, 'Mid hopes that, each, has perished of its wound ; — Then, pale Egeria ! to thy moon-lit cave The maddened and the mourner may retire, To cool the spirit's fever in thy wave, And gather inspiration from thy lyre ; — In solemn musings, when the world is still, To woo a love less fleeting to the breast. Or lie and dream, beside the prophet-rill That resteth never, while it whispers rest ; — Like Numa, cast earth's cares and crowns aside, And commune with a spiritual bride ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 355 THE SHIP OF HEAVEN. A DREAM. BY CHARLES SWAIN. " There 's nothing abroad, — 't is a dream — a delusion 1" — Hogg. 'Tis day — but sun or sky No human eye may see ; Like a mighty shroud, the heavy air Hangs dim and drearily ! 'Tis day — yet on the rock The falcon sits forlorn, Awaiting, cold and restlessly, The coming of the morn. A ray, as of the sun. Flashes along the deep ; And, hark ! dull whispers of the blast, Through the old forest sweep ! Yet all is calm, as lulled By some magician's wand : It is no sun that lights the deep — No blast that sweeps the land ! Like mountains that have been By ancient tempests riven, Opens in wild sublimity The lofty arch of heaven ! 356 THE ENGLISH HELICON. The giant clouds dissolve Mysteriously away — As darkness melts to radiance, Before the power of day. Innumerable beams Of variegated light Burst, from that everlasting sphere, Upon my tranced sight ! Temples of living fire. Mild as the lunar ray — Fountains that overflow with stars, Shine up the open way ! Suddenly, from the vault. Like lightning when storms rave, A bow of atmospheric hues Spans the vast heaven and wave ! A Ship ! — a heavenly Ship ! Her sails are clouds of snow, Fine as the summer moon shines through. On pleasant eves below. From the miraculous cleft She takes her beauteous flight — And launching on the tide of air. Speeds down the waves of light ! Gushes the trumpet's breath With organ melody ; — And, af the sound, ten thousand shapes Spring from the groaning sea ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 357 The sea gives up its dead — Its brave, its honoured dead ; Their thronging footsteps press the deck, But soundless is their tread ! The aged and withered brow — The stately and the fair — The warrior-knight and lowly hind — The prince and slave — meet there. They gaze on me, with eyes That evermore dilate. As if with the thin gelid air Engrossed — incorporate. Their forms glide, like star-rays Upon a rapid stream,^ — Pale, shadowy, changeful, — still in all Identical they seem ! Again the Ship of Heaven Her wondrous path doth take ; Silently she moves o'er the sea — Her vast stern leaves no wake ! Vain is my wish to move ; A ponderous column, bound With demon-chains upon my breast, Confines me to the ground. Vain is my hope to speak ; Language denies the power To tell the bitter agony — The terror of this hour ! 358 THE ENGLISH HELICON. 'Tis past !^ — back to my heart The fevered blood springs, now, And the illusions of dark sleep Fast leave my aching brow ! WINDERMERE. BY T. F. TRIEIiNER. By day, we roved the woods among, We clomb the mount, we skimmed the mere,^ — At eve, the festal hall and song Came, as they thought, my heart to cheer. " Why sleeps thy lyre," Eugenius asked, " 'Mid scenes so fair, 'mong forms so bright ?" " My lyre," I said, " will not be tasked ; — I know not why it sleeps, aright." Next time we met — ^my friend and I — 'Twas far off by our cottage fire. My Anna and her fair-haired boy Were listening to my lonely lyre : Of hope and truth the song was made, — Home-feelings, tender, calm, and clear ; — ■' I ask not, now," Eugenius said, *' Why slept thy lyre, at Windermere !" THE ENGLISH HELICON. 359 STANZAS. BY \V. M. PRAED. The lady of his love, oh, she was changed. As by the sickness of the soul ! — Byron. I KNOW that it must be ! Yea ! thovi art changed — all worshipped as thou art, Mourned as thou shalt be ! — sickness of the heart Hath done its work on thee ! The dim eyes tell a tale — A piteous tale, of vigils ; and the trace Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face — Beauteous, and yet so pale ! Changed, love ! — but not alone ! / am not what they think me ; though my cheek Wear but its last year's furrow, — though I speak Thus in my natural tone. The temple of my youth Was strong in moral purpose : — once, I felt The glory of philosophy, and knelt In the pure shrine of truth. I went into the storm. And mocked the billows of the tossing sea : I said to fate, — " Wliat wilt thou do to me ? I have not harmed a worm !" 360 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Vainly the heart is steeled In wisdom's armour ; — let her burn her books ! I look upon them as the soldier looks Upon his cloven shield. Virtue and virtue's rest, — How have they perished ! Through my onward course Repentance dogs my footsteps ! — black remorse Is my familiar guest ! The glory and the glow Of the world's loveliness have passed away ; And fate hath little to inflict, to-day. And nothing to bestow ! Is not the damning line Of guilt and grief engraven on me, now ? And the fierce passion which hath scathed thy brow, Hath it not blasted mine ? No matter ! I will turn To the straight path of duty : — I have wrought. At last, my wayward spirit to be taught What it hath yet to learn. Labour shall be my lot : — My kindred shall be joyful in my praise ; And fame shall twine for me, in after days, A wreath I covet not. And if I cannot make. Dearest ! thy hope my hope, thy trust my trust, Yet will I study to be good and just. And blameless — for thy sake. THE ENGLISH HELICON. 361 Thou mayst have comfort yet ! Whate'er the source from which those waters glide, Thou hast found healing mercy in their tide ; — Be happy — and forget ! Forget me, — and farewell ! But say not that, in me, new hopes and fears, Or absence, or the lapse of gradual years, Will break thy memory's spell ! Indelibly, within, All I have lost is written ! — and the theme Which silence whispers to my thoughts and dream. Is sorrow still — and sin ! THE WARNING VOICE. DY W. H. HARRISON. My youth had glad and golden hours, — but these were few and fleet, For I was early called to quit my boyhood's blest retreat ; And so, with not a friend to cheer or counsel me, was thrown Amid the herd of Mammon's slaves — and found myself alone ! I in the path of letters toiled — that path so thickly spread With roses — ah ! the thorns are felt by those who up it tread ! The bitter pangs of " hope deferred" were mine, in the pursuit ; And long I trimmed and pruned the vine, while others plucked the fruit. 362 THE ENGLISH HELICON. But cheerly, now, my vessel glides : — the quicksand and the shoal Are past ; and wreck-denouncing waves no more around her roll ; The clouds that round her early course cast doubt and gloom, are gone ; And winds, that then adversely blew, now bear me bravely on ! Of foes whom, in my uphill road, I found so fierce and strong, A few. have seen, and deeply felt, they did me grievous wrong ; And others have been swept from earth by time's unsparing wing ; And some, if they retain their wrath, now lack the power to sting. My cottage hath a blazing hearth — my board hath ample fare. And healthful cheeks and beaming eyes and merry hearts are there : Their mother's smile is yet as sweet as when, at first, it told She prized a fond and faithful heart above the worldling's gold. And yet, a sad and solemn thought intrudes upon my bliss, — Lord ! what am I, that mine should be such happiness as this ? Why, while around on every hand far worthier ones I see Condemned to tread life's sterile wastes, bloom flowers like these for me ? "Wherefore?" — a Spirit answers me : — " Thine early hopes were marred. In mercy to thy perilled soul, — and still thy heart was hard ; Then He who laid thy burthen on withdrew His chastening rod, And sought, by gentle means, to win the sinner to his God ! " But, oh! He will not always strive ! — Then, ere the day be spent, And night — a long dread night — steal on, repent, vain man, repent ! Lest, when the vineyard's Lord shall come, and still no fruit be found. He say, ' Cut down tliis barren tree ! — why cumbereth it the ground ? ' " THE ENGLISH HELICON. 363 CHILDHOOD. BY THE REV. F. W. FABER. Dost thou remember how we lived at home — That it was like an oriental place, Where right and wrong, and praise and blame, did come By ways we wondered at and durst not trace, And gloom and sadness were but shadows thrown From griefs that were our sire's, and not our own ? It was a moat about our souls, — an arm Of sea, that made the world a foreign shore ; And we were too enamoured of the charm To dream that barks might come and waft us o'er. Cold snow was on the hills ; — and they did wear Too wild and wan a look to tempt us there ! We had traditions of our own, to weave A web of creed and rite and sacred thought : — And when a stranger, who did not believe As they who were our types of God had taught. Came to our home, how harsh his words did seem, — Like sounds that mar, but cannot break, a dream ! And, then in Scripture some higli things there were, Of which, they said, we must not read or talk ; And we, through fear, did never trespass there, — But made our bibles like our twilight walk In the deep woodlands, where we durst not roam To spots from whence we could not see our home ! 3G1 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Albeit we fondly hoped, when we were men, To learn the lore our parents loved so well, And read the rites and symbols which were then But letters of a word we could not spell — Church-bells, and Sundays when we did not play, And sacraments at which we might not stay. But we, too soon, from our safe place were driven ; The world broke in upon our orphaned life ! Dawnings of good — young flowers that looked to heaven- It left untilled, for what seemed manlier strife ; Like a too-early summer, bringing fruit Where spring perchance had meant another shoot ! Some begin life too soon ! — Like sailors thrown Upon a shore where common things look strange. Like them they roam about a foreign town. And grief awhile may own the force of change ;' — Yet, though, one hour, new dress and tongue may please, Our second thoughts look homeward, ill at ease ! Come then unto our childhood's wreck again — The rocks hard by our father's early grave — And take the few chance treasures that rernain. And live, through manhood, upon what we save ! So shall we roam the same old shore, at will, In the fond faith that we are children still ! Christian ! thy dream is now — it was not then ! Oh ! it were strange if childhood were a dream ! Strife and the world are dreams ! to wakeful men, — Childhood and home as jealous angels seem : Like shapes and hues that play in clouds, at even, They have but shifted from thee, into heaven ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 36f) TEN YEARS AGO. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. Ten years ago — ten years ago — Life was, to us, a fairy scene, — And the keen blasts of worldly woe Had seared not then its pathway green : Youth and its thousand dreams were ours — Feelings we ne'er can know again — Unwithered hopes — unwasted powers — And frames unworn by mortal pain ; Such was the bright and genial flow Of life with us — ten years ago ! Time has not blanched a single hair, That clusters round thy forehead now, — Nor hath the cankering touch of care Left even one furrow on thy brow : Thine eyes are blue as when we met, In love's deep truth, in earlier years ; Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet, Though somewhat stained by secret tears ;- But where, oh ! where 's the spirit's glow That shone through all — ten years ago ? I, too, am changed — I scarce know why, — Can feel each flagging pulse decay. And youth and health and visions high Melt, like a wreath of snow, away ! — 3GG THE ENGLISH HELICON. Time cannot, sure, have wrought the ill ! Though worn in this world's sickening strife. In soul and form — I linger still In the first sunnmer month of life ; Yet journey on my path below — Oh ! how unlike — ten years ago ! But look not thus ! — ^I would not give The wreck of hopes that thou must share. To bid those joyous hours revive, When all around me seemed so fair ! We 've wandered on in sunny weather, When winds were low and flowers in bloom, And, hand in hand, have kept together, And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom — Endeared by ties we could not know When life was young— ten years ago ! Has fortune frowned ? — her frowns were vain, For hearts like ours she could not chill ! Have friends proved false ? — their love might wane. But ours grew fonder, firmer, still ! Twin barks on this world's changing wave, Steadfast in calms — in tempests tried — In concert still our fate we '11 brave, — Together cleave life's fitful tide, — Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow, Youth's first wild dreams — ten years ago ! Have we not knelt beside his bed, And watched our first-born blossom die ? Hoped — till the shade of hope had fled. Then wept — till feeling's fount was dry 1 THE ENGLISH HELICON. 367 Was it not sweet, in that dark hour, To think — 'mid mutual tears and sighs — Our bud had left its earthly bower And burst to bloom in Paradise ? What, to the thought that soothed that woe. Were heartless joys — ten years ago 1 Yes ! it is sweet, when heaven is bright. To share its sunny beams with thee, — But sweeter far, 'mid clouds and blight. To have thee near, to weep with me ! Then dry those tears ! — though something changed From what we were in earlier youth. Time, that hath friends and hopes estranged, Hath left us love, in all its truth ; — Sweet feelings we would not forego, For life's best joys — ten years ago ! THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. BY THOMAS MOORE. The turf shall be my fragrant shrine, — My temple, Lord ! that arch of Thine, — My censer's breath the mountain airs, — And silent thoughts my only prayers ! My choir shall be the moonlight waves, When murmuring homeward to their caves,- 368 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Or when the stillness of the sea, Even more than music, breathes of Thee ! I I '11 seek, by day, some glade unknown. All light and silence — like Thy throne ! And the pale stars shall be, at night, The only eyes that watch my rite ! Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look. Shall be my pure and shining book, — Where I shall read, in words of flame. The glories of Thy wondrous name ! I '11 read Thy anger in the rack That clouds awhile the day-beam's track, — Thy mercy in the azure hue Of sunny brightness breaking through ! There's nothing bright — above — below, — From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,- But in its light my soul can see Some feature of Thy Deity ! There's nothing dark — below — above, But in its gloom I trace Thy love, — And meekly wait that moment when Thy touch shall turn all bright again I THE ENGLISH HELICON. 369 INVOCATION. BY MRS. HEMANS. Answer me, burning stars of night ! Where is the spirit gone, That past the reach of human sight, As a swift breeze hath flown ? — - And the stars answered me, — " We roll In hght and power on high ; But, of the never-dying soul Ask that which cannot die." Oh ! many-toned and chainless wind ! Thou art a wanderer free ; Tell me if thou its place canst find. Far over mount and sea ? — And the wind murmured, in reply, — '* The blue deep I have crossed. And met its barks and billows high, But not what thou hast lost." Ye clouds, that gorgeously repose Around the setting sun. Answer ! — have ye a home for those Whose earthly race is run? — The bright clouds answered, — " We depart. We vanish from the sky ; Ask what is deathless in thy heart. For that which cannot die." z 370 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Speak then, thou voice of God, within, — Thou of the deep, low tone ! Answer me, through life's restless din. Where is the spirit flown ? — And the voice answered, — " Be thou still ! Enough to know is given ; Clouds, winds and stars their part fulfil, — Thine is to trust in heaven !" THE SERPENT-CHA.RMER. (From a Pictare by StewardBon.) BY THE REV. DR. CROLY. "Is it a vision? For I've seen such things Among the morning skies, and the sweet iii-es That play round tree-tops in the setting sun." The bower is Indian — of the drapery That weaves its living woof of flowers and fruits, Red with the kisses of the amorous sun. The roof is canopied with the damask rose. Vaulting a floor of violet, here and there Strewed with some bud fresh dropping from the stem ; Veining the blue — like gold in lazuli. A form is in that bower, that might be thought Placed there for man to worship, — one of those That sit on evening clouds, and wreathe their wings With pearls still wet from dews of Paradise. Yet she is human ; and the silvery shawl, That, like a holy circle o'er a saint, THE ENGLISH HELICON. 371 Crowns her pale beauty, binds a weary brow, Besieged with memories that make it pale. ******** She sits upon the ground, and in one hand She lifts a flute, that breathes rich melodies, Like the wind's wooing of the rose ; and one Holds a bright serpent in a silken band. Her eye is on him, and his eye on her. As if she found in him one thing to love ; As if he felt her beauty — not her chain, — And lived upon her melancholy smile. Her song has stirred him ; it has stirred herself ; For on her eyelash hangs a glistening tear, The heart's quick tribute to times past and gone ; And such wild sportings as he can, he tries Before her powerful eye, and suits his dance, Quicker or slower, to her wandering song. ******** He shoots along the purple floor, and lies Straight as a prostrate column, and as still As its pale marble ; then sweeps iip his coil Surge upon surge, and lays his gorgeous head With its fixed sleepless eye i' the centre ring, The watcher of his living citadel ; Then rolls away as loose as the sea- wave : Anon, he stoops, like the wild swan, and shews A neck as arched and silvery ; then the vine Must be outdone, and he 's as lithe and curled, And glistens through the leaves as proud a green. But now the song grows loftier, and his pomp Must all be worn to please his Indian queen. He rises from his train, that on the ground 372 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Floats in gold circles, and his glittering head Towers in the sunset, like a rising flame ; And he has put on colours that make dim The stones of the Indian mine : his length is sheathed In mail, that has for plates the mother-pearl, And for its studs the diamond : not a ray, That strikes his neck, from that descending sun, But rings it with a collar of rich gems. Or sheets it all in emerald, or the blaze Of rubies. From beneath his burning crest Flashes the eye — a living chrysolite — Yet fixed, in all its shootings, on one form. That thanks its duty with a faint fond smile. So stands and shines he, till the charm is done, And that sweet sound and sweeter smile have sunk In silence, and in shade ! TO ADELAIDE. BY BARRY CORNWALL. Child of my heart ! — my sweet, beloved first-born ! Thou dove who tidings bring'st of calmer hours ! Thou rainbow who dost shine when all the showers Are past, — or passing ! Rose which hath no thorn,— No spot, no blemish, — pure, and unforlorn — Untouched, untainted ! O, my flower of flowers ! More welcome than to bees are summer bowers. To stranded seamen life-assuring morn ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 373 Welcome — a thousand welcomes ! Care, who clings 'Round all, seems loosening now its serpent fold : New hope springs upward ; and the bright world seems Cast back into a youth of endless springs ! Sweet mother, is it so ?— or, grow I old, Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams ? THE PASTORAL SONG. BY R. M. MILNES. I WANDERED by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill, — I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still ; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird. But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree, — I watched the long, long shade. And as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word, — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. 374 THE ENGLISH HELICON. He came not, — no, he came not, — The night came on alone, The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne ; The evening air passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred, — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, — When something stood behind ; A hand was on my shoulder, — I knew its touch was kind : It drew me nearer — nearer, — We did not speak one word, — For the beating of our own hearts, Was all the sound we heard ! FAIRIES' SONG. BY THE REV. JOHN GRAHAM. Our acorn cup is brimming o'er, With drops of pearly dew ; — By fairy hands 't was gathered, from The violet's eye of blue. Oh ! could we dash the melting tear From many a mortal eye. As quickly as the cold dew-drops That on the floweret lie ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 875 From yonder turf is mirrored back The silver of the moon, — And where our fairy feet have trod, It will be greener soon. The green herb drinks, unwithering, The life that we impart : — Oh ! that our echoing steps could fling A freshness o'er the heart ! THE PAINS OF SLEEP. BY S. T. COLERIDGE. Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, It hath not been my use to pray With moving lips or bended knees ; But silently, by slow degrees. My spirit I to love compose, — In humble trust mine eye-lids close, — With reverential resignation. No wish conceived, no thought exprest, Only a sense of supplication, — A sense o'er all my soul imprest That I am weak — yet not unblest, Since, in me, round me, every where, Eternal strength and wisdom are. 37G THE ENGLISH HELICON. But, yester-night, I prayed aloud, — In anguish and in agony, — Up-starting from the fiendish crowd Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me ! — A lurid light — a trampling throng — Sense of intolerable wrong — And whom I scorned, those only strong ! — Thirst of revenge — the powerless will Still baffled, and yet burning still !— Desire, with loathing strangely mixed, On wild or hateful objects fixed — Fantastic passions — maddening brawl — And shame and terror over all ! — Deeds to be hid, which were not hid. Which, all confused, I could not know Whether I suffered, or I did : For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe, — My own or others' — still the same Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame ! So two nights passed : — the night's dismay Saddened and stunned the coming day ; Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me Distemper's worst calamity. The third night, when my own loud scream Had waked me from the fiendish dream, O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, I wept as I had been a child ; And having thus, by tears, subdued My anguish to a milder mood, Such punishments, I said, were due To natures deepliest stained with sin, — For aye entempesting anew The unfathomable hell within, — THE ENGLISH HELICON. 377 The horror of their deeds to view, To know and loathe — yet wish and do ! Such griefs with such men well agree, — But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? To be beloved is all I need, — And whom I love — I love indeed I CHARADE. BY W. M. PRAED. My First was creeping on its way. Through the mists of a cold October day, When a minstrel came to its muddy bed. With a harp on his shoulder, a wreath on his head ;- And, " How shall I pass," the poor boy cried, " To the cloisters and courts on the other side ?" Old EucHd came, — and he frowned a frown. And dashed the harp and the green wreath down : He led the bard, with a stately march, To my Second's long and lettered arch, — And, " See," said the sage, " how every ass Over the sacred stream must pass !" The youth was mournful — the youth was mute ; He sighed for his laurel — he sobbed for his lute : The youth took comfort — the youth took snuff, — He followed, in faith, that teacher gruff; — And he sits, ever since, in my Whole's kind lap. In a silken gown and a trencher cap ! 378 J'HE ENGLISH HELICON. THE LAND OF SPIRITS. liY CHARLES SWAIN. Over the last long seas, That leave the level coast for evermore, Rolling, for centuries, On to the shadowy land — the spirit's shore,^ — The soul had gift and power To travel swift as light ; — for light it seemed — A beam, a starry flower From whence, like perfume, dazzling glory streamed ! On — with the waters on — The long, wide waters of eternity. Swift as a thought is gone, The ransomed soul sped on its mission free ; — Silent as were the waves, Whose swiftness gave no sound — no murmur — back, As, o'er a sea of graves, Wandered the spirit on its lonely track ! The azure breeze swept by, Hushed, as an aparition ! — not a sound, From farthest sea to sky. Woke the eternal sleep — the calm profound ! The vault hung like a glass, In which we might behold the things to be — Where shapes of beauty pass Mirrored in worlds of immortality ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 379 Oh ! never since the Word Spake to the living floods, and said, — " Be still ! " Had one low murmuring chord, Broke the divine commandment of HIS will. 'T was glorious when the first Pure spirit from the nearest heaven past, — And the white waters burst Full to the shore — the spirits' shore — at last ! 'T was glorious when the stream Of silvery voices — like an unknown song Heard in some minstrel's dream — Came wafted with the sainted breeze along : Distant, yet, oh, how clear — How exquisitely sweet ! — Earth's finest tone Were discord to the ear. When heard that burst of harmonies unknown. The splendour of the soul — The beauty born of God — what harp may tell ? Angels know not the whole Bright marvels of the sphere in which they dwell. As colours light the gem, Yet none perceive from whence their hues arise — So shone God's rays on them, — Beautiful mysteries of the elder skies ! The eloquence of grace — A gladness beyond name — a dove-born air — Lighted each holy face. Each radiant feature of the spirit there : The innocent spring flower. Blooming in whiteness near some moonlight brook, Undimmed by cloud or shower, May image best that purity of look. 380 THE ENGLISH HELICON The land — the spirits' land ! Earth hath its thousand shadows — heaven hath none- Why call " The Shadowy Band" Spirits that visit the celestial throne ? All shroud and shade are rife Within the world of death, decay, and gloom ; Here reigns the light of life — Eternal brightness, and immortal bloom ! The temples and the fanes Built by archangel hands fall not away ; — On earth — oh ! what remains Of all its pomp — its glory of a day ? Build your proud arches high, Raise your bright domes — your architectural shrines- Behold — how low they lie ! Can this be substance which thus soon declines ? Your monuments are dust — And your " Eternal City" reels and falls ! — So ends all human trust, Though built by kings, on adamantine walls ! The land — the spirits' land — There only may the heart in surety love ; The beautiful — the grand — Are emanations from a world above ! Were there a word could tell — A colour paint — a tone, a look, convey — The thoughts that in me dwell. Not unforgot this song should pass away. But I return from things Beyond my nature's grasp — the quest of mind, — And fold my spirit's wings. With a deep inward prayer — a will resigned ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. 381 THE PAST. BY BARRY CORNWALL. This common field, this little brook,— What is there hidden in these two, That I so often on them look, — Oftener than on the heavens blue l No beauty lies upon the field, — Small music doth the river yield, — And yet I look and look again, With something of a pleasant pain ! 'T is thirty — can 't be thirty — years. Since last I stood upon this plank, Which o'er the brook its figure rears, — And watched the pebbles, as they sank f How white the stream ! I still remember Its margin glassed by hoar December, And how the sun fell on the snow, — Ah ! can it be so long ago ? It Cometh back !— So blythe, so bright. It hurries to my eager ken. As though but one short winter's night Had darkened o'er the world since then ! It is the same clear dazzling scene : — Perhaps the grass is scarce as green ; Perhaps the river's troubled voice Doth not so plainly say — " Rejoiee !" 382 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Yet Nature surely never ranges, — Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown, - But, ever joyful, merely changes The primrose for the thistle-down : 'Tis we alone, who, waxing old, Look on her with an aspect cold, — Dissolve her in our burning tears, — Or clothe her with the mists of years ! Then, why should not the grass be green, — And why should not the river's song Be merry, — as they both have been "V^Hien I was here, an urchin strong ? Ah, true — too true ! I see the sun Through thirty winter years hath run, — For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook. Usurp the urchin's laughing look ! So be it ! I have lost — and won ! For, once the past was poor to me,— The future dim : — and though the sun Shed life and strength, and I was free, I felt not — knew no grateful pleasure ; All seemed but as the common measure : But NOW — the experienced spirit, old. Turns all the leaden past to gold ! THE ENGLISH HELICON. ,38.'} THE FUNERAL GENIUS. BY MRS. HEMANS. Thou shouldst be looked on when the starlight falls Through the blue stillness of the summer-air,^ — Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls — It hath too fitful and too wild a glare ! And thou ! thy rest — the soft, the lovely — -seems To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. Flowers are upon thy brow ; for so the dead Were crowned of old — with pale spring-flowers, like these Sleep on thine eye hath sunk ; yet softly shed, As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom, Which of the grove seems breathing — not the tomb ! They feared not death, whose calm and gracious thought Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee ; — They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought. And laid thy head against the forest tree, As that of one, by music's dreamy close, On the wood-violets, lulled to deep repose ! They feared not death ! — yet who shall say his touch Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair ? Doth he bestow, or will he leave, so much Of tender beauty as thy features wear, Thou sleeper of the bower ? — on whose young eyes So still a night — a night of summer — lies ! ;J84 THE ENGLISH HELICON. Had they seen aught like thee ? — Did some fair boy Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest ? — His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy, And drooping, as with heavy dews oppressed ; And his eye veiled so softly by its fringe, And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge ? Oh ! happy, if to them the one dread hour Made known its lessons from a brow like thine ! If all their knowledge of the spoilers power Came by a look so tranquilly divine ! — Let him, who thus hath seen the lovely part, Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart ! But thou, fair slumberer ! — was there less of woe, Or love, or terror, in the days of old. That men poured out their gladdening spirit's flow, Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold, And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, — Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting ? In the dark bosom of the earth they laid Far more than we— for loftier faith is ours ! Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs arrayed. And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. Is it for MS a darker gloom to shed O'er its dim precincts ? — Do we not intrust But for a time, its chambers with our dead, And strew immortal seed upon the dust ? — Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, When living light hath touched the brow of death ! UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. ^rr'D MLi) r.T^P & J# hi'- 1 A- \m Form L9-25m-8, '46 (9852)444 V II I II 1 II llll 11 11 III Nil III! II III! ilill ill II 1 1 I 3 1158 00558 9410 AA 000 297 558 9