bOkAAAAJlLAAA^
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
SANTA BARBARA
PRESENTED BY
MR. GEORGE COBB
:^=i^^
THE POETS' GALLERY.
THE
POETS' GALLEEY
A SERIES OF
PORTRAIT ILLUSTRATIONS
ii'itis| f flits.
PAINTINGS DESIGNED EXPRESSLY FOR THIS WORK BY THE MOST EMINENT BRITISH
ARTISTS.
NEW Y O E K :
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
443 AND 445 BROADWAY.
M D CCCLXI.
CONTENTS.
Paintee.
1. ADORATION, W.Boxall, .
2. GEXEVIEVE, .... Meadoics,
3. TUE DREAMER, .... IF. Boxall, .
4. EMILY, B. T. Farris, .
5. TUE GLEANER, .... Landseer, R A.,
6. THE MAY QUEEN", ... IF. JSoxall,
7. NATURE'S FAVORITE, . . TF Boxall, .
8. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, . J. TF WriffM, .
9. MATILDA, TF. Boxall,
10. MARIANNE, . . . • J". TF Wrifflit,
11. THE SHADE OF SADNESS, . . TF Boxall, .
12. EDDERLINE, .... F.Stone, .
13. CAROLINE, J. mimes, .
14. MEDORA, F. Stone, .
15. JULIA, J. TF Wright,
16. HELENA, F. Stgne, .
IT. THE SPIRIT OF NORMAN ABBEY, E. G. Wood,
18. SOPHY, W. Boxall,
19. RUTH, TF Boxall, .
20. TUE WIDOW, . . . . TF Boxall,
2L THE FAIR PATRICIAN, . . A. E. Chalon, B.
Enceavee.
PAGE
. W. FlNDEX, .
. 7
n. T. Ryall, .
11
. CiiAELES Lewis,
. 17
G. Adcock,
29
. II. T. Ryall,
. 35
H. RoBixsox, .
39
. W. n. Mote,
. 47
H. T. Ryall, .
53
. H. ROBIN'SOX,
. 55
J. HOPWOOD,
59
. W. H. Mote,
. 63
Eagletox,
G7
, II. T. Ryall,
. 71
H. T. Ryall, .
75
. R. A. Aetlett,
. 81
II. T. Ryall, .
85
. E. FlNDEX, .
. 89
II. Robinson, .
93
. R. A. Aetlett,
. 95
11. Robinson, .
105
A. R. A. Aetlett,
. 109
6 CONTENTS.
Paintek.
22. THE GENTLE STUDENT, . . F. Stone, .
23. CECILIA, F. Stone, .
24. THE YOUNG OLYMPIA, . . F. T. Parris, .
25. THE LADY ADELINE, . . A. R Chalon, R A.
2G. EEINNA, F. Stone, .
27. AUKORA, F.Stone, .
28. THE NUN, W. Boxall, .
29. ELEANORE, . . . . F. Stone, .
30. THE MAID OF LISMORE, . . F. Stone, .
31. THE GONDOLA, . . . G. Brown,
32. THE PLEASING THOUGHT, . W. Boxall, .
33. THE WILD FLOWER, . . . TF. Boxall,
34. ISABELLA, G. Broicn, .
35. THE PASSION-FLOWER, . . D. M'Clise,
36. MARGARITA, F. Stone, .
Engkavek.
PAGE
R. A. Aktlett,
115
^Y. H. Mote, .
119
U. T. Ryall, .
123
II. Robinson,
127
CnAELES Lewis,
131
R. n. Dyer,
133
n. T. Ryall, .
137
J. S. Agae,
141
R. H. Dyer, .
145
W. n. Mote, .
149
R. A. Aetlett,
153
II. T. Etall, .
155
J. Wagstaff, .
159
Hollis,
167
W. H. Mote, .
171
THE
POETS' GALLEBY
ADORATION.
The stillness of a spirit lies
Upon her liusli'd and happy heart ;
And on her brow and in her eyes,
Are thoughts that play a prophet's paii:,
And look, mth power, upon the skies,
To read their lofty mysteries ! —
Before her rests the scroll, unrollVl,
Where every tale of every star
That, on its Avheels of molten gold,
Majestically moves afar —
The lanoTiao-e of each flower that blows —
The song of every breeze that sings —
The meteor's mission, as it goes
By, on its burning wings —
ADORATION.
And all creation's secrets, stand
Translated, by tlie self-same liand
That liung tlie oracles on liigh,
And wTote the legends in the sky,
In letters both too dark and brio-ht
For earthly skill or earthly sight : —
Till all the tniths by angels sung,
His mercy told in mortal tongue ;
And light along his riddles smiled.
That solves them for this almost child !
How beautiful she looks ! — as flowers
When newly touched with heaven's dew ;
Upon her soul the sacred showers
Of truth have fall'n anew ! —
She to the fount of life has gone.
To draw forth " water from its wells,'' —
And bathed in Jordan, where alone
The chann of healing dwells ! —
The hallow'd dove within her breast
Looks through her soft and serious eyes,
And, on her forehead, glimpses rest
Of glory fr'om the skies !
Oh ! clasp the treasure to thy heart
Which thou so soon hast found, —
Thy youth has " ta'en the better part," —
Thou art on " holy ground,"
A\Tiere words to make thine age rejoice
Shall reach thee, in the " still, small voice ! "
ADORATION. 9
Sit thou by Sion's pleasant streams,
Nor leave tliem for tlie far-off waters
That lull with, no sucli tappy dreams
Jerusalem's lost daugliters ; —
Beside wliose dark and loveless deeps
The captive spirit sits and weej)s ;
And harps that were in Judah strung,
Upon earth's branches tuneless hung.
Fling, as the world's wind passes o'er.
Their unblest sounds on Edom's shore,
But sing, in that " strange land," the " Lord's song," never
^^1^6 • T. K. IIEKYET.
n.
Was man e'er doom'd that beauty made
By mimic art should haunt him ;
Like Orpheus, I adore a shade.
And dote upon a phantom.
Thou maid that in my inmost thought
Art fancifully sainted.
Why liv'st thou not — why art thou nought
But canvas sweetly painted ?
Whose looks seem lifted to the skies,
Too pure for love of mortals —
As if they drew angelic eyes
To greet thee at heaven's portals.
10 ADORATION.
Yet loveliness has here no grace
Absti'acted or Ideal —
Art ne'er but from a living face
Drew looks so seeming real.
Wliat wert thou, maid ? — thy life — thy name
Oblivion hides in mystery ;
Thou from thy face my heart could frame
A long romantic history.
Transported to thy time I seem,
Though dust thy coffin covers —
And hear the songs, in fancy's di'eam,
Of thy devoted lovers.
How witching must have been thy breath —
How sweet the living charmer —
"Whose every semblance after death
Can make the heart grow warmer !
Adieu, the charms that vainly move
My soul in their possession —
That prompt my lips to speak of love.
Yet rob them of expression.
Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised
Was but a poet's duty ;
And shame to him that ever gazed
Impassive on thy beauty.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
/I
/
GEKEVIEYE.
All thoiiglits, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking di'eams do I
Live o'er again that happy horn*,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The Moonshine, stealing o'er the scene.
Had blended Avith the lights of eve.
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve !
She leant against the armed man,
The statue of the aimed knight ;
She stood and listen'd to my lay.
Amid the lingering light.
12 GENEVIEVE.
Few sorrows liatli slie of lier o^^ti,
My liope ! my joy ! my Genevieve !
She loves me best wliene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story —
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin mid and hoar}^
She listen'd 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 woo'd
The Lady of the Land.
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 listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace :
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face !
GENEVIEVE. , 13
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he cross'd 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 look'd 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 ]eaj)'d amid a murderous band.
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land ! —
And how she wept and clasp'd his knees.
And how she tended him in vain —
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain : —
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 : —
14 • GENEVIEVE.
His dying words — but wlien I reacli'd
That tenderest strain of all tlie ditt}-,
My faltering voice and pausing liarp
Disturb'd lier soul with pity ! —
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve :
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve ; —
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope.
An uudistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued.
Subdued and cherish'd lono; —
She wept with pity and delight.
She blush'd with love, and virgin shame ;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved — she stept 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.
GENEVIEVE. 15
'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
I calni'd her fears, and she was calm.
And told her love with virgin pride.
And so I won my Gene\deve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
n.
Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair.
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught
From contemplation — where serenely wrought.
Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair —
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought —
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colors blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent,)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn —
Such seemest thou — but how much more excellent !
With naught Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn.
BYKON.
10 GENEVIEVE.
in.
Thy cheek is pale with tliouglit, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely tliat if Mii'tli could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow :
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oli !
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship) more, but cannot love thee less.
BTKON.
-^^"
v
V .
/•
^
<^*
THE DREAMER.
Sleep on, and dream of heaven awliile,
Thougli shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile,
And move, and breathe delicious sighs !
Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks,
And mantle o'er her neck of snow ;
Ah, no^v she murmui's, now she speaks
What most I ^\dsh — and fear to know.
She starts, she trembles, and she weeps !
Her fair hands folded on her breast.
— And now, how like a saint she sleeps !
A seraph in the realms of rest !
Sleep on secure ! above control,
Thy thoughts belong to heaven and thee !
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain ^vithin its sanctuary !
SAMUEL R0QER3.
18 THE DREAMER.
n.
On your curls' fair roundness stand
Golden lights serenely ;
One cheek, pushed out hy the hand,
Folds the dimple inly —
Little head and little foot
Hea\y laid for pleasure ;
Underneath the lids half shut
Plants the shining azure ;
Open soul'd in noonday sun,
So, you lie and slumber ;
Nothing evil having done,
Nothins: can encumber.
I, who cannot sleep as well,
Shall I sigh to view you ?
Or sigh fui'ther to foretell
All that may undo you ?
Nay, keep smiling, gentle child.
Ere the fate appeareth !
I smile, too ; for patience mild
Pleasure's token weareth.
Nay, keep sleeping before loss ;
I shall sleep, though losing !
As by cradle, so by cross.
Sweet is the reposing.
THE DREAMER. 19
And God knows, wLo sees us twain,
Child at cLildisli leisure,
I am all as tired of pain
As you are of pleasui'e.
Very soon, too, by His grace
Gently wrapt around me,
I shall show as calm a face,
I shall sleep as soundly —
Differing in this, that I,
SleejDing, must be colder.
And, in waking presently,
Brio;hter to beholder —
Differing in this beside,
(Sleeper, have you heard me ?
Do you move, and open wide
Your great eyes toward me ?)
That while I you draw withal
From this slumber solely.
Me, from mine, an angel shall,
Trumpet-tongued and holy !
ELIZABETH BAKEETT BROWNING.
HI.
Art thou a thing of mortal birth.
Whose happy home is on our earth ?
Does human blood with life imbue
Those wandering veins of lieavenly lilue,
20 THE DREAMEK.
That stray along that forehead fair,
Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair ?
Oh ! can that light and airy breath
Steal from a being doomed to death ;
Those featm-es to the grave be sent
In sleep thus mutely eloquent ?
Or, art thou, what thy form would seem,
A j^hantom of a blessed dream ?
A himian shape I feel thou art —
I feel it at my beating heart.
Those tremors both of soul and sense
Awoke by infant innocence !
Though dear the forms by Fancy wove.
We love them with a transient love ;
Thoughts from the li\dng world intrude
Even on her deepest solitude :
But, lovely child ! thy magic stole
At once into my inmost soul,
With feelings as thy beauty fair,
And left no other vision there.
To me thy parents are unknowTi ;
Glad would they be their child to own !
And well they must have loved before.
If since thy birth they loved not more.
Thou art a branch of noble stem.
And, seeing thee, I figure them.
What many a childless one would give,
If thou in their still home would' st live !
Though in thy face no family line
Might sweetly say, " This babe is mine ! "
THE DREAMER. 21
111 time thou wouldst become the same
As theii* own child,— all but the name.
How happy must thy parents be
"Who daily live in sight of thee !
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek
Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak,
And feel all natui'al griefs beguiled
By thee, their fond, theii' duteous child.
What joy must in theii' souls have stirr'd
When thy first broken words were heard —
Words, that, inspired by heaven, express'd
The transports dancing in thy breast !
And for thy smile ! — thy lij^, cheek, brow,
Even while I gaze, are kindling now.
I call'd thee duteous ; am I wrong ?
No ! truth, I feel, is in my song :
Duteous, thy heart's still beatings move
To God, to nature, and to love !
To God ! — for thou, a harmless child,
Hast kept his temple undefiled :
To nature ! — for thy tears and sighs
Obey alone her mysteries :
To love ! — for fiends of hate might see
Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee.
What wonder then, though in thy dreams
Thy face with mystic meaning beams !
Oh ! that my sj^irit's eye could see
Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy !
That light of dreaming soul appears
To play from thoughts above thy years ;
22 THE DREAMER.
Tliou smilest as if tliy soul were soaring
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring.
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye ?
What brighter throne can brisj-htness find
To reign on, than an infant's mind,
Ere sin destroy, or error dim,
The glory of the seraphim ?
But now thy changing smiles ex]3ress
Intelligible happiness.
I feel my soul thy soul 2:>artake.
Wliat grief ! if thou wouldst now awake !
With infants happy as thyself
I see thee bound, a playful elf ;
I see thou art a darlino: child,
Among thy playmates bold and wild ;
They love thee well ; thou art the queen
Of all their sports, in bower or green ;
And if thou livest to woman's height.
In thee A\dll friendship, love, delight.
And live thou surely must ; thy life
Is far too spiiitual for the strife
Of mortal pain ; nor could disease
Find heart to prey on smiles like these.
Oh ! thou wilt be an angel bright —
To those thou lovest, a saving light —
The staff of age, the help sublime
Of eri'ing youth, and stubborn prime ;
And Avhen thou goest to heaven again.
Thy vanishing be like the strain
THE DREAMER. 23
Of airy liarp — so soft the tone
The ear scarce knows when it is gone !
Thi'ice blessed he whose stars design
His pui'e spii'it to lean on thine,
And watchftil share, for days and years,
Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears.
For good and guiltless as thou art.
Some transient griefs will touch thy heait —
Griefs that along thy alter'd face
Will breathe a more subduing grace
Than even those looks of joy that lie
On the soft cheek of infancy.
Though looks, God knows, are cradled there,
That guilt might cleanse, or soothe despair.
Oh ! vision fail' ! that I could be
Again as young, as pure, as thee !
Vain msh ! the rainbow's radiant form
May view, but cannot brave, the storm ;
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
That paint the bird of Paradise ;
And years, so Fate hath orderVl, roll
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.
Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace,
Such as the gladness of thy face,
O sinless babe, by God are given
To charm the wanderer back to heaven.
No common impulse hath me led
To this green spot, thy quiet bed.
Where by mere gladness overcome,
In sleep thou dreamest of thy home.
24 THE DREAMER.
When to the lake I would have gone,
A wondrous beauty drew me on —
Such beauty as the spirit sees
In glittering fields and moveless trees,
After a wami and silent shower
Ere falls on earth the twilight hour.
"What led me hither, all can say
Who, knowing God, his vriR obey.
Thy slumbers now cannot be long ;
Thy little dreams become too strong
For sleep — too like realities ;
Soon shall I see those hidden eyes.
Thou wakest, and starting from the ground,
In dear amazement look'st around ;
Like one who, little given to roam.
Wonders to find herself from home !
But when a stranger meets thy view,
Glistens thine eye with wilder hue.
A moment's thought who I may be.
Blends with thy smiles of courtesy.
Fair was that face as break of dawn.
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn,
Like a thin veil that half conceal'd
The light of soul, and half reveal'd.
While thy hush'd heart with visions ^^Tought,
Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought,
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak,
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek —
Such summer-clouds as travel light.
When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright, —
THE DREAMER. 25
Till tliou awokest ; tlien to tliine eye
Tliy ^vliole lieart leapt in ecstasy !
And lovely is tliat lieart of tliine,
Or sure those eyes could never shine
Witli sucli a ^vild, j^et bashful glee,
Gay, half-o'ercome tmiidity !
Nature has breathed into thy face
A spirit of unconscious grace —
A spirit that lies never still,
And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy mil :
As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake
Soft airs a gentle ri2:)pling make.
Till, ere we know, the strangers fly.
And Avater blends again with sky.
O happy sprite ! didst thou but know
What pleasures through my being flo^v
From thy soft eyes ! a holier feeling
From their bue light could ne'er be stealing ;
But thou wouldst be more loth to part.
And give me more of that glad heart.
Oh ! gone thou art ! and bearest hence
The glory of thine innocence.
But with deej) joy I breathe the air
That kissed thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair,
And feel, though fate our lives must sever,
Yet shall thy image live for ever !
JOHN wn.soN.
26 THE DKEAMEK.
ly.
Deae child ! wliom sleep can hardly tame,
As live and beautiful as flame,
Thou glancest round my graver hours
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers
Were not by mortal forehead worn,
But on the summer breeze were borne,
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves
Came glistening down from dreamy caves.
With bright round cheek, amid whose glow
Delight and wonder come and go ;
And eyes whose inward meanings play,
Congenial with the light of day ;
And l)row so cahn, a home for Thought
Before he knows his dwelling wrought ;
Though wise indeed thou seemest not,
Thou biisrhtenest well the wise man's lot.
That shout proclaims the imdoubting mind ;
That laughter leaves no ache behind ;
And in thy look and dance of glee,
Unforced, unthought of, simply fi-ee,
IIo^v weak the schoolman's fonnal art
Thy soul and body's bliss to part !
I hail thee Childhood's very Lord,
In gaze and glance, in voice and word.
THE DREAMER. 2<
In spite of all foreboding fear,
A tiling tliou art of present clieer ;
And tlins to he beloved and known,
As is a rushy fountain's tone.
As is tlie forest's leafy sLade,
Or blackbii'd's liidden serenade.
Thou art a flash that lights the whole —
A gush from nature's vernal soul.
And yet, dear child ! ^\dthin thee lives
A power that deeper feeling gives,
That makes thee more than light or air.
Than all things sweet and all things fair ;
And sweet and fair as aught may be
Diviner life belongs to thee.
For 'mid thine aimless joys began
The perfect heart and will of Man.
Thus what thou art foreshows to me
How greater far thou soon shalt be ;
And while amid thy garlands blow
The winds that warbling come and go,
Ever within, not loud but clear,
Prophetic murmur fills the ear.
And says that every human birth
Anew discloses God to earth.
JOHN STEELING.
28 THE DREAMER.
Y.
On ! I can watcli and almost weep
To view some angel cliild asleep ;
To mark tlie alabaster brow
AYliere sinless calm is brooding now,
Or see tlie silken fringe tkat lies
And covers its innocuous eyes.
So have I stood and lieard eacli breath
Like music in melodious deatL,
And soft and low it swells and lieaves,
And at eacli fall suck cadence leaves,
As may to pious fancy seem
A sigk for glory in its dream.
JAMES MONTGOMEPvY.
"^H^
*»fc*f;^''
S^^'
EMILY
I.
He came across tlie meadow-pass,
Tliat smnmer eve of eves —
The suu-Iiglit stream'd along the grass
And glanced amid the leaves ;
And from the shrubbery below,
And from the garden trees,
He heard the thrushes' music flow
And humming of the bees ;
The garden-gate was swung apart —
The space was brief between ;
But there, for throbbing of his heart.
He paused perforce to lean.
He lean'd upon the garden-gate ;
He look'd, and scarce he breathed ;
Within the little porch she sate,
With woodbine overwreathecl ;
30 EMILY.
Her eyes upon lier work were Ijent,
Unconscious who was nigli ;
But oft the needle slowly went,
And oft did idle lie ;
And ever to lier lips arose
Sweet fragments sweetly sung,
But ever, ere tlie notes could close.
She husli'd them on her tongue.
Her fancies as they come and go.
Her pure face speaks the while ;
For now it is a flitting glow,
And now a breaking smile ;
And now it is a graver shade,
When holier thoughts are there —
An angel's pinion might he stay'd
To see a sight so fair ;
But still they hid her looks of light,
Those downcast eyelids pale —
Two lovely clouds, so silken white,
Two lovelier stars that veil.
The sun at length his burning edge
Had rested on the hill,
And, save one thrush from out the hedge,
Both bower and grove were still.
The sun had almost bade farewell ;
But one reluctant ray
Still loved within that porch to dwell,
As charmed there to stay —
EMILY. 31
It stole aslant tlie pear-tree bough,
And through the woodbine fringe,
And kiss'd the maiden's neck and brow,
And bathed her in its tinge.
O, beauty of my heart ! he said,
O, darling, darling mine !
Was ever light of evening shed
On loveliness like thine ?
Why should I ever leave this spot,
But gaze until I die ?
A moment from that bursting thought
She felt his footstep nigh.
One sudden, lifted glance — but one —
A tremor and a start —
So gently was theii- greeting done
That who would guess their heai*t ?
Long, long the sun had sunken down,
And all his golden hail
Had died away to lines of brown,
In duskier hues that fail.
The grasshopper was chirj)ing shrill —
'No other living sound
Accompanied the tiny rill
That giu'gled under ground —
No other living sound, unless
Some spirit bent to hear
Low AS'ords of human tenderness
And mingling whispers near.
32 EMILY.
The stars, like pallid gems at first,
Deep in tlie liquid sky,
NoAV foi-tli upon tke darkness burst,
Sole kings and liglits on high ;
For splendor, myriad-fold, supreme,
No rival moonlight strove ;
Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam,
Nor more majestic Jove.
But what if hearts there beat that night
That recked not of the skies,
Or only felt theii* imaged light
In one another's eyes ?
And if two worlds of hidden thou2:ht
And longing passion met,
Which, passing human language, sought
And found an utterance yet ;
And if they trembled as the flowers
That droop across the stream,
And muse the while the starry hours
Wait o'er them like a dream ; —
And if, when came the parting time,
They falter' d still and clung ;
What is it all ? An ancient rhyme
Ten thousand times besung —
That part of Paradise which man
Without the portal knows ;
Which hath been since the world l)egan.
And shall be till its close.
ANONYMOUS.
EMILY. 33
n.
Her eye lias wander'cl from the book
That rests upon lier knee ;
Gone from that page of love and war,
Where can her fancy be ?
Is it amid those pleasant vales
Where once her childhood stray'd ;
Those olive groves upon the hill,
The myrtles in the glade ; —
Where, almost hidden from the bee,
The early violet dwells,
Or where the Spring chimes fragrant peals
From the blue hyacinth bells ?
Ah ! there is color on her cheek,
And languor in her eye ;
It is some deeper, dearer thought,
That now is flitting by !
A history of old romance
That painted page has shown ;
How can she read of others' love
And not recall her own ?
Her heart is in the tented field,
A youthful kniglit is there ;
Ah ! well she knows the scarf and glove
Which he is vow'd to wear.
34 EMILY.
Upon that scarf, upon that glove,
Her tears have left their stain ;
But they will wear a deeper dye.
Ere brought to her again.
Ah ! absence is not darkness all —
It hath its lighter hour,
When youth is fresh upon the soul^
And fancy tries its power :
That maiden with her wandering eye.
The sweet flush on her brow.
One image present on her mind —
Is she not happy now ?
Yes ; haunted by those gentle dreams
Which early life but hnows :
The first warmth over morning's sky —
The first dew on the rose ; —
Ere colder, dai'ker feelings rise
Within the mind's pure spring ;
When hope soars lark-like through the air,
With sunshine on its wing.
An innocent and happy love
Is in that youthful face ;
God grant that never coming years
May leave a sadder trace !
Life's book has one or two fair leaves ;
Ah, such should be for thine !
That young face is too kind, too good
To bear a harsher line.
MISS LANDON.
*'*^.,
»*Wi.H,.^
THE GLEANER.
She stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripen'd ; — such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell —
Which Avere blackest none could tell ;
But lone: lashes veil'd a lio-lit
That had else been all too bright.
Sure, I said, heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come.
Share my harvest and my home.
THOMAS HOOD.
36 THE GLEANER.
n.
Child of Nature ! liapj^ier tliou,
Guileless botli of lieart and brow,
Than full many a higli-born fair
Deck'd witli jewels rich and rare.
Broider'd zone and silken vest
Hide, too oft, an aching breast ;
Glittering gems with ringlets shine,
Boasting less of grace than thine.
In thy bloom of youthful pride.
With thy guardian by thy side.
Thoughts, which blissful visions give,
At thy bidding wake and live.
Thoughts — of nature's beauties born,
Russet fields of ripen'd corn,
Sunshine bright, and balmy breeze
Playing through the leafy trees.
Dreams of her, the fair and young.
By the bard of Idlesse sung ;
Her who " once had friends ; " but thou
Hast thine ^^dth thee, even now.
Health and peace, and sweet content.
Store of fancies innocent ;
And that pla}mate, in his glee, —
These are friends befittino* thee.
THE GLEANER. 37
Blended witli sucli visions briglit,
Rises one of liolier light ;
Lovely botli to lieart and eye
In its own simplicity :
'Tis of her, the gentle maid,
Who in Boaz' corn-fields stray'd ;
Meekly o'er her labor leaning,
For her widow'd mother gleaning !
Since, her memory to revive
Is thy proud prerogative.
What can poet wish for thee,
But as blest as her to be ?
BEPvNAED BAKTON.
ni.
Her brow is pure as thought can be.
And whiter than the foam-clad sea,
Exj^anded with an arch of grace
Like heaven's above a heavenly face ;
And on that polish'd cheek, behold
Her ringlets, by the breeze unroll'd.
In gleaming motion dance and shake
Like ripples on a restless lake.
38 THE GLEANER.
Her years are on tlie verge of lieaven, —
That period wlien to life is given
Tlie freshness of elastic youth
Yet touch'd with woman's deeper truth.
Again behold that virgin face !
'Tis beauty in the mould of grace ;
Incarnate soul lies sculptured there ;
A feeling so di\dnely fail*
Is dwelling in those dark-fi'inged eyes,
That when they front congenial skies,
Pure spirits well might deem that earth
Had copied some celestial bii-th,
Or beauty in the world had gi'own,
All spirit-like, to watch theii' own.
JAMES M0XTG05IEET.
X
<^
/
w^,^
^sr—
m
THE MAY QUEEN.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, motlier dear;
To-moiTow 'ill be tlie happiest time of all the glad New-year —
Of all tlie glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day ;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.
There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as
mine ;
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline ;
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say :
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake.
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break ;
But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay ;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.
40 THE MAY QUEEN.
As I came i\y> the valley, ^vLom tliink ye should I see,
But Rol)in leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ?
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, —
But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.
He thought I Tvas a ghost, mother, for I was all in white ;
And I ran by him A\'itliout speaking, like a flash of light.
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not Avhat they say.
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.
They say he 's dying all for love — but that can never be ;
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ?
There's many a bolder lad i'll woo me any summer day ;
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.
Little Eflae shall go with me to-morrow to the green.
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ;
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away,
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May
The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wa\^ bowers.
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ;
And the ^^dld marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hol-
lows gray,
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
.May.
THE MAY QUE EX. 41
The niglit- winds come and go, motlier, upon tlie meadow-grass,
And tlie liappy stars above tliem seem to brigliten as tliey pass ;
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, Tm to be Queen o' the
May.
All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still,
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the
May.
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year :
-To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day.
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the
May.
NEW YEAR'S EVE.
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 you 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 blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
G
42 THE MAY QUEEN.
Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a merry day —
Beneatli tlie liawtlioru on the green they made me Queen of May ;
And we danced about the Maypole and in the liazel 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 snowdi'ops 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 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree,
And the tufted plover pij^e along the fallow lea,
And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.
Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine,
In the early, early morning the summer sun 'ill shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm ujion the hill —
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
A\nien the flowers come again, mother, beneath t]ie waning light.
You'll never see me more in the long gray 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'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the ha^vthorn shade,
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear you when you pass.
With your feet above my head, in the long and pleasant grass.
THE MAY QUEEN. 43
I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ;
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow ;
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild ;
You should not fret for me, mother — you have another child.
If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-j)lace ;
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ;
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say,
And be often, often ^yiih. you, when you think I'm far away.
Good-night ! good-night ! when I have said good-night for ever-
more.
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door.
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She'll find my garden-tools upon the gi'anary floor.
Let her take 'em — they are hers ; I shall never garden more.
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set
About the parlor- window, and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother ! Call me before the day is born.
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.
44 THE MAY QUEEN
COXCLUSIOIh.
I THOUGHT to pass awaj before, and yet alive I am ;
And in tlie fields all round I hear tlie bleating of tbe lamb.
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year !
To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.
Oh sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies ;
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise ;
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow ;
And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go.
It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun ;
And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet, His will be done !
But still I think it can't be longj; before I find release ;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.
Oh blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair !
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there !
Oh blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head !
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.
He show'd me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin ;
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in.
Nor Avould I now be well, mother, again, if that could be ;
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.
I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat —
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet ;
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
THE MAY QUEEX. 45
All in the wild Marcli-mornino- 1 lieard tlie anorels call —
It was wlien the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ;
The trees began to whisj^er, and the wdnd began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning, I heard them call my soul.
For lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear ;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ;
With all my strength I pray'd for both — -and so I felt resign'd,
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed ;
And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,
And up the valley came again the music on the wind.
But you were sleeping ; ana I said, " It's not for them — it's mine ; "
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars —
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars.
So now I think my time is near ; I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that Avay my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day ;
But Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away.
And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ;
There's many worthier than I would make him happy yet.
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I mio-ht have been his wife :
But all these thino-s have ceased to be, with mv desire of life.
46 THE MAY QUEEX.
Oh look ! the sun begins to rise ! the heavens are in a glow ;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine —
AVild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice that now is sj^eaking may be beyond the sun —
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true —
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ?
For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home.
And there to wait a little while till you and Eflie come —
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast —
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
ALFKED TENNYSON.
NATURE'S FAVORITE
He prayetli well, who lovetli well
Both man and bird and beast. Ancient Maeixer.
Piped the blackbird on tlie beechwood spray :
" Pretty maid, slow wanderiog this way,
What's your name ? " quoth he —
" What's your name ? O stoj) and straight unfold,
Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold ! " —
" Little Bell." said she.
Little Bell sat down beneatli the rocks,
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks —
" Bonny bird," quoth she,
" Sing me your best song before I go."
" Here's the very finest song I know,
Little Bell," said he.
48 NATURE'S FAVORITE.
And the blackbird piped ; you never lieard
Half so gay a song from any bird —
Full of quips and wiles,
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of tliat sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er witb smiles.
And tlie while the bonny bird did j^our
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er
'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow.
And shine forth in happy overflow
From the blue, bright eyes.
Down the dell she tripp'd, and through the glade,
Peep'd the squirrel from the hazel shade,
And from out the tree
Swung, and leap'd, and frolick'd, void of fear —
While bold blackbird piped that all might hear —
" Little Bell ! '' piped he.
Little Bell sat down amid the fern —
" Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return —
Bring me nuts," quoth she.
Up, away the frisky squiiTel hies —
Golden, wood-lights glancing in his eyes —
And adown the tree.
Great ripe nuts, kiss'd brown by July sun.
In the little lap, dropp'd one by one —
. Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun !
" Happy Bell ! " pipes he.
NATURE'S FAVORITE. 49
Little Bell look'd up and down the glade —
" SquiiTel, squirrel, if you're not afi-aid,
Come and share witli me ! "
Down came squiiTel eager for his fare —
Down came bonny blackbird I declare ;
Little Bell gave each his honest share —
All the merry three !
And the while these frolic playmates twain
Piped and frisk'd from bough to bough again,
'Neath the mornino; skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seem'd to grow and grow.
And shine out in happy ovei^ow,
From her blue, bright eyes.
By her snow-white cot at close of day,
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray —
Very calm and clear
Eose the praying voice to where, unseen,
In blue heaven an angel shape serene
Paused awhile to hear —
" What good child is this," the angel said,
" That with happy heart, beside her bed
Prays so lovingly ? "
Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft,
Croon'd the ])lackbird in the orchard croft,
" Bell, dear Bell ! " croon'd he.
50 NATURE'S FAVORITE.
" Wliom God's creatures love," tlie angel fair
Murmured, " God dotli bless with angels' care ;
Child, thy bed shall be
Folded safe from harm — Love deep and kind,
Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind.
Little Bell, for thee."
T. WESTWOOD.
II.
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
When Nature said : A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown ;
This child I to myself will take ;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.
Myself mil to my darling be
Both law and impulse ; and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
She shall be sportive as the fa"wn.
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs ;
And hers shall be the breathing balm
And hers the silent and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
NATURE'S FAVORITE. 51
The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her ; for her the willow bend ;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the stonn,
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
The stars of midnio-ht shall be dear
To her ; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place,
Where ri\Tilets dance their way^vard round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
And vital feelins-s of delig^ht
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell ;
Such thoughts unto her I will give.
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.
WILLIAM VOKDSWORTH.
52 KATUliE'S i'AVURITE.
m.
Her bosom was a soft retreat
For love, and love alone,
And yet lier heart had never beat
To love's delicious tone.
It dwelt mthin its circle free
From tender thoughts like these,
"Waiting the little deity,
As the blossom waits the breeze,
Before it throws the leaves apart.
And trembles, like the love-touched heart.
She was a creatm'e, strange as fan*.
First mom^nful and then wild —
Now laughing on the clear bright air
As merry as a child ;
Then, melting do^vn as soft as even
Beneath some new control.
She'd throw her hazel eyes to heaven,
And sing with all her soul.
In tones as rich as some young bird's,
Warblino- her o^vn delicrhtful words.
o o
AMELIA B. WELBY.
i«
'<K^'-
y;
GERTRUDE OF W YOUNG.
Apaet tliere was a deej) untrodden grot,
Where oft tlie reading lioui's sweet Gertiiide wore ;
Tradition had not named its lonely spot ;
But here (metliinks) might India's sons explore
Their fathers' dust, or lift,- perchance of yore,
Theii' voice to the Great Spirit : — rocks sublime
To human art a sportive semblance bore,
And yellow lichens covered all the clime
Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd by time.
But high in amphitheatre above,
His aims the everlasting aloes threw ;
Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove
As if instinct with living spirit grew,
Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue ;
And now suspended was the pleasing din.
Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew,
Like the first note of organ lieard within
Cathedi'al aisles, — ere yet its symi)hony begin.
54 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.
It was in this lone valley slie would cliarm
Tlie lingering noon, wliere flowers a coucli Lad strewn,
Her clieek reclining, and lier snowy arm
On hillock by tlie palm-tree lialf o'ergrown ;
And aye that volume on her lap is thrown
Which every heart of human mould endears ;
With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone,
And no intruding visitation fears,
To shame the unconscious laugh, or stoj) her sweetest tears.
And naught within the grove was heard or seen
But stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound,
Or winglet of the faiiy humming-bird,
Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round,
When lo ! there enter'd to its inmost ground
A youth, the stranger of a distant land ;
He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound ;
But late the equator suns his cheek had tann'd,
And California's gales his roving bosom fann'd.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
-J^.
V
A'/
MATILDA
I.
I LOOK into tliy laughing eyes, —
As bright and blue as summer-skies, —
And watch the thoughts that upward spring.
Like birds upon a painted wing ;
And to my soul a vision steals.
That just siicli smiling eyes reveals.
With bird-like hopes to make them gay, —
Till all the bright ones flew away !
I gaze upon thy rose-red lips f
How beautiful, amid their dew !
As never o'er theii* bloom had pass'd
The breath of one adieu ; —
Till other lips before me rise,
With tones as sweet as sweetest bells, —
Until their music turn'd to sighs,
Like^9«,s<9w?Y7-bells, — and dew and dyes
Were wither'd by farewells !
56 MATILDA.
I see, Tvitliin thy snowy breast,
The tide of feeling sink and swell,
As storm had never touched its rest,
But one bright noon had made it blest,
"With never- waning spell ! —
Has every wish that, like a boat,
Thy heart has launch'd on that calm sea.
Come brightly back, and only brought
New treasure-stores to thee ?
Oh, for the white and silken sails —
That one yoimg spii'it ventur'd forth, —
A heart, whose hopes went everywhere.
East, west, and south, and north ;
But one was sunk— and one a wreck —
And noio she watches, mournfully.
Where hope has not a single deck
On fancy's silent sea !
T. K HEKVET.
n.
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleam'd upon my sight
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament ;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ;
Like twilight's too, her dusky hair ;
MATILDA. 5*7
But all tliino^s else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn —
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty ;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet ;
A creature, not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food —
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eyes serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death ;
The reason firm, the temperate will.
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill :
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd.
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.
58
MATILDA.
III.
How Time witli magic imconfess'cl,
Has moulded feelings in tliy breast,
Whicli now like buried music float
Witli soft and secret undernote ;
So delicate, tbey scarce appear
To haunt thy spirit's maiden sphere.
But waken'd once, — and they shall be
A soul ^^dthin a soul to thee !
Emotions of themselves afi'aid
A Temple in thy heart have made,
Wherein they flutter like a bird
That trembles when a voice is heard.
JAMES MONTGOMEET.
'J»*(?«'v^/^
'^:}
MARIANNE.
She was a witchering creature, o'er wliose head
Scarce eigliteen summers on briglit wings had flown
Into whose spirit poetry had shed
Her sweetest odors, breathed fresh from her own ;
Pure modesty around her light form sj^read
Her spotless drapeiy, and, like a zone,
Beauty encircled her, for her ^vild glances
Spell-bound all hearts in sweet bewildering trances.
Her beauty was of a mysterious Idnd,
Baffling the pencil, that its charms would trace.
For the rich depths of her illumined mind
Such flitting gleams gave to her love-toned face,
That the spell-taken eye could ever find
Some chann unseen before ; a willowy grace
Play'd in the movements of her form, just mouklcd
Into soft roundness, like a rose unfolded.
AMELIA 1!. wr.LBV.
gQ MARIA X X E .
" On ! what a deatliless beauty lies
Upon this world of oui's !
By night, it has its starry eyes,
By day, its eyes of flowers : —
Its very tempests walk the skies
To give the rainbow bii-th,
And everywhere, methinks, love lies
U2:)on this blessed earth !
" They say, ere time and I shall part.
That smiles with sighs must meet, —
I know, by mine own sighing heart.
That sighs are very sweet ! —
They tell me hope and love must die,
And weeping comes with years, —
I never felt a single joy
Beyond the joy of tears !
" They bid me mark, upon the grass.
The shadow, as it flies, —
I love to see the shadow pass,
Alons: the earth and skies ! —
And thus, they say, shall sorrow steal
Along my spiiit's light, —
If soiTOW lends the eye a veil
So beautifully dark, I feel
I would not have it bright !
MARIANNE. Gl
"Tliey speak of the inconstant rnoou, —
To me tlieii' words seem strange ;
Of all her charms the croAvning one
Is that unresting change !
They show the leaves by Autumn curled,
' And sere,' they say, ' and dull,' —
I do not know, in all the world,
A sight so beautiful I "
Oh love ! young love ! — they preach in vain,
Who seek to make thee wise ;
Thou canst not see or grief or pain,
With those glad, sunny eyes : —
Creation, in its myriad parts,
One moral yields alone.
And life, in all its thousand hearts,
Is colored by thine own !
For thee the future has no show.
To thee the past is o'er, —
" To-day, to-day ! " — ^it shall be so
No more — oh ! never more !
Where wisdom fail'd, shall all be changed.
By time's unfailing spell, —
The future and the past avenged.
Too well — oh ! all too well !
T. K. IIEKVET.
Q2 MARIANNE.
in.
Who sliall be fairest ?
"VVho sliall be rarest ?
AVho sliall be first in the songs that we sing ?
Slie wlio is kindest,
"VVlien Fortune is blindest,
Beaiing tlu-ougli Avinter tlie blooms of tlie spring ;
Cliarm of our gladness,
Friend of oui' sadness.
Angel of Life, wlien its pleasm^es take wing !
Slie sliall be faii-est,
Ske skall be rarest,
Ske skall be first in tke songs tkat we sing !
Wko sliall be nearest,
Noblest, and dearest,
Named but witk konor and pride evermore ?
He, tke undaunted,
Wkose banner is planted
On Glory's kigk ramparts and battlements koar ;
Fearless of danger,
To falsekood a stranger.
Looking not back wkile tkere's Duty before !
He skall be nearest,
He skall be dearest.
He skall be first in oui' kearts evermore !
UlCKAY.
SHADE OF SADNESS.
I.
I HAVE a fair and gentle friend,
Whose heart is pure, I ween,
As ever was a maiden's heart
At joyous seventeen ;
She dwells among us like a star,
That, from its bower of bliss,
Looks down, yet gathers not a stain
From aught it sees in this.
I do not mean that flattery
Has never reach'd her ear ;
I only say its syren song
Has no effect on her ;
For she is all simplicity,
A creature soft and mild —
Though on the eve of womanhood,
In heart a very child.
04 SHADE OF SADNESS.
And yet within the misty depths
Of her dark dreamy eyes,
A shadowy something, like deep thought.
In tender sadness lies ;
For though her glance still shines as bright
As in her childish years,
Its wildness and its lustre, now,
Are soften'd down by tears : —
Tears, that steal not from hidden springs
Of sorrow and regret,
For none but lovely feelings
In her gentle breast have met ;
For eveiy tear that gems her eye,
From her young bosom flows
Like dew-drops from a golden star.
Or perfume from a rose.
For e'en in life's delicious spring,
We oft have memories
That throw around our sunny hearts
A transient cloud of sighs ;
For a wondrous change within the heart
At that sweet time is A\Touglit,
When on the heart is softly laid
A spell of deeper thought.
And she has reach'd that lovely time.
That sweet poetic age,
When to the eye each floweret's leaf
Seems like a glowing page ;
SHADE OF SADNESS. 65
For a beauty and a mysterj^
About tlie heart are thrown,
When childhood's merry laughter }'ields
To gWhood's softer tone.
I do not know if round her heart
Love yet hath thrown his wing,
I rather think she's like myself,
An April-hearted thing :
I only know that she is fair.
And loves me passing well ;
But who this gentle maiden is
I feel not free to tell.
II.
Wheist in those eyes of tenderest light
A sadness, as of love, I see,
I sometimes think when I am sad,
They look with kindness upon me.
O gentlest maiden ! dost thou grieve
For pleasant seasons past and gone ;
And love to trace in others' looks
A SHADE OF SADNESS like thy own ?
Perhaps on some unthankful heart
For all thy hopes thou didst depend ;
And now dost fondly turn to mark
The look but of a pitying friend.
G() SHADE OF SAD XESS.
Distrust me not — by liopes most dear
I swear, and God my witness be,
Tliis heart Avliicli wants a friend itself,
Should bleed to purchase peace for thee.
When care sat dimly on thy brow,
Its secret cause I would not seek,
But kiss perhaps a falling tear.
And press thy hand, and never speak.
E'en now I inly pray that soon
Thy heart may ev'ry bliss attain ;
But mine, alas ! which pitied thee,
I fear will never rest again.
W. L. E0WLE3.
EDDERLINE.
I.
Her dove-like spirit tlii'ougli lier mournM eyes
Looks softly upward to its native heaven ;
For a love-spell upon lier being lies,
Whose many mystic links may not be riven ;
Love breathed into her girlish heart, perchance.
On some sweet eve, besides a pleasant stream,
Pour'd from the lightning of a radiant glance.
Till love's wild passion kindled passion's dream.
For love at first is but a dreamy thing.
That slyly nestles in the human heart,
A morning lark, that never plumes its wing.
Till hopes and fears, like lights and shadows, part
And thus unconscious as she looks above,
She Ijreathes his blessed name in murnmrs low,
Yet never for a moment thinks of lo\e.
And almost wonders why she murmurs so.
68 EDDERLINE.
All ! mournful one ! tlie tliouglits tliou wilt not sj)eak,
Tlieii' trembling music at tliy heart-strings play,
Till tlie briglit blood, that mantles to thy clieek,
In faint and fainter blushes melts away.
Thine is the mournful joy, that in the dawn
Of early love upon the spirit broods,
Till the young heart., grown timid as a fawn.
Seeks the still starlight and the shado^^y woods.
Yes, by the chasten'd light of those soft eyes,
That never swam in sori'owing tears before.
By the low breathing of those mournful sighs,
That, like a mist-wi^eath, cloud thy sj^ii'it o'er.
And by the color that doth come and go,
Making more lovely thy bewildering charms, — ■
Maiden ! 'tis love that fills thy breast of snow,
Heavino; mth tender fears and soft alarms.
My bosom trembles at the love intense.
Breathed eloquently from thine earnest eyes ;
The love that is to thee a new-born sense,
"Waking sweet thoughts and gentle sympathies :
O ! for the sake of all thou wert, and art.
May love's soft Eden-winds, that seem to kiss
The very foldings of thy love-toned heart.
Be but the prelude to some deeper bliss.
AMELIA B. "W'ELBT.
EDDERLIXE. 69
II.
Now hymns are heard at every fountain
Where the land birds trim theii* wings,
And boldly booming up the mountain,
Where the dewy heath-ilower springs.
Upon the freshening gales of morn
Showers of headlong bees are borne.
Till far and ^^T.de vrith harp and horn
The bahny desert rings.
This the pensiv^e lady knows.
So round her lovely frame she throws
The cloudlike float of her array,
And with a blessing and a prayer
She fixeth in her raven haii*
The jewel that her lover gave
The night before he cross'd the wave
To kingdoms far away.
Soft steps are winding down the stair,
And now beneath the morning air
Her breast breathes strong and free ;
The sun in his prime glorious horn-
Is up, and with a purple shower
Hath bathed the billowy sea.
Lo ! morning's dewy hush di\dne
Hath calm'd the eyes of Edderline !
Shaded by the glooms that fall
From the old gray castle Avall ;
TO EDDERLINE.
Or, from tlie glooms emerging bright,
Cloud-like walking tlirougli the light,
She sends the blessing of her smiles
O'er dancing waves and steadfast isles,
And creature though she be of earth,
Heaven feels the beauty of her mirth.
IIo^v seraph-like the silent greeting
Streaming from her dark blue eyes.
At their earliest matin meeting
Upwards to the dark blue skies !
Quickly glancing, gliding slowly.
Child of mirth or melancholy,
As her midnight dream again.
Of the hush'd or roaring main.
Come and goes across her brain.
Now she sees the ship returning,
Every mast with ensigns burning.
Star-bright o'er the cloud of sails,
As queen-like doAvn the green sea-vales
She stoops, or o'er the mountains green
Re-ascending like a queen !
Glad the heart of hoary ocean
In the beauty of her motion.
PEOFESSOR ■WILSON.
^:
^
CAROLINE.
In summer, when tlie days were long,
We walk'cl tos-etlier in tlie wood :
Our lieaii; was light, our step was strong ;
Sweet flutteriugs were there in our blood,
In summer, when the days were long.
We stray'd from morn till evening came ;
We gather d flowers, and wove us ero^vns ;
We walk'd 'mid poppies red as flame.
Or sat upon the yellow do-\vns ;
And always wish'd our life the same.
In summer, when the days were long.
We leap'd the hedgerow, cross'd the brook ;
And still her voice flow'd forth in song.
Or else she read some graceful book.
In summer, when the days were long.
72 CAROLINE.
And then we sat beneatli tlie trees,-
With shadows lessening in the noon ;
And, in the sunlight and the breeze.
We feasted, many a gorgeous June,
While larks were singing o'er the leas.
In summer, when the days were long.
On dainty chicken, snow-white bread,
We feasted, with no grace but song.
We pluck'd Avild strawberries, ripe and red,
In summer, when the days were long.
We loved, and yet we knew it not —
For loving seem'd like breathing then ;
We found a heaven in every spot ;
Saw angels, too, in all good men ;
And dream'd of God in grove and grot.
In summer, when the days are long,
Alone I wander, muse alone ;
I see her not ; Ijut that old song
Under the fi'agrant ^yill(\ is blown,
In sunimer, when the days are long.
Alone I wander in the wood ;
But one fair spii'it hears my sighs ;
And half I see, so glad and good.
The honest daylight of her eyes,
Tliat charm'd me under earlier skies.
CARCLIITE. 73
In summer, when tlie days are long,
I love lier as we loved of old ;
My heart is light, my step is strong ;
For love brings back those hom's of gold.
In summer, when the days are long.
A::fONTMOUS.
n.
I'll bid the hyacinth to blow,
I'll teach my grotto green to be ;
And sing my true love, all below
The holly bower and myrtle-tree.
There all his wildwood sweets to bring
The sweet south wind shall wander by.
And with the music of his wing.
Delight my rustling canopy.
Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime,
Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain heatli, and moory tliyme.
"With all thy rural echoes come.
Sweet comrade of the rosy day.
Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.
10
Y4 CAROLINE,
Where'er tliy morning breatli lias play'd,
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,
Come to my blossom- woven shade,
Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.
For sure from some enchanted isle,
Where heaven and love their sabbath hold,
When pure and happy spirits smile,
Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould ; —
From some green Eden of the deep,
Where pleasure's sigh alone is heaved.
Where tears of rapture lovers weep.
Endear' d — undoubting — undeceived ; —
From some sweet Paradise afar
Thy Music wanders — distant — lost —
Where Nature lights her leading Star,
And love is never, never, cross'd.
Oh ! gentle gale of Eden bowers,
If back thy rosy feet should roam
To revel with the cloudless hours
In Nature's more propitious home, —
Name to thy loved Elysian groves,
That o'er enchanted Spirits twine,
A fairer form than Cherub loves —
And let the name be Caroline.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
MED OR A.
The Sun liatli sunk— and, darker tlian tlie niglit,
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height,
Medora's heart— the thii'd day's come and gone—
With it he comes not— sends not— faithless one !
The wind was fair though light ; and storms were none.
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet,
His only tidings that they had not met !
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale
Had Conrad waited for that single sail.
The night-breeze freshens— she that day had pass'd
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ;
Sadly she sate— on high— Impatience bore
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away :
She saw not— felt not this— nor dared depart,
Nor deem'd it cold— her chill was at her heart ;
Till grew such certainty from that suspense—
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense !
76 MEDORA.
It came at last — a sad and sliatter'd boat,
"Whose inmates fii'st belield whom first they sought ;
Some bleeding — all most ^vretched — these the few —
Scarce knew they how escaped — tlih' all they knew
In silence, darkling, each apj^earVl to wait
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate:
Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear
To tmst their accents to Medora's ear.
She saw at once, yet sunk not — treml)led not —
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot ;
Within that meek fair fonn, were feelings high,
That deem'd not till they found their energy.
While yet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter'd — ^^vept.
All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ;
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said,
" With nothing left to love — there's naught to dread.
'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might
Delirium gathers from the fever's height.
" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell
What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well :
Yet ^vould I ask — almost my lip denies
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies ! "
" Lady ! we know not — scarce ^\'ith life we fled ;
But here is one denies that he is dead :
He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive."
She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive —
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then withstood ;
Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued ;
MEDORA. 77
Slie totters — falls — and senseless had the wave
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ;
But that with hands though rude, yet weej^ing eyes,
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supj^lies :
Dash o'er her death-like cheek the ocean dew.
Raise — ^fan — sustain — till life returns anew ;
Awake her handmaids, mth the matrons leave
That fainting fonn o'er which they gaze and grieve :
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short.
In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange,
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ;
All, save repose of flight : still lingering there
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ;
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led.
Will save him living, or appease him dead.
Wo to his foes ! there yet survive a few,
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true.
The lights are high on beacon and from bower.
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower :
He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark,
Amid so many, hers alone is dark.
'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fbil'd,
Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd.
With the first boat descends he for the shore,
And looks impatient on the lingering oar.
Oh ! Ibr a Aviug beyond the falcon's flight.
To bear him like an arrow to that height !'
78 MED OR A.
Witli ttie first pause the resting rowers gave,
He waits not — looks not — leaps into tlie wave,
Strives througli the surge, bestrides the beach, and high
Ascends the path familiar to his eye.
He reach'd this turret door — he paused — no sound
Broke from within ; and all was night around.
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor rej^ly
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ;
He knock'd — ^but faintly — for his trembling hand
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand.
The portal opens — 'tis a well-known face —
But not the form he panted to embrace.
Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd.
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ;
He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all —
It quits his grasp, expmng in the fall.
He would not wait for that reviving ray —
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ;
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore.
Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ;
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold !
He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look.
And set the anxious fi'ame that lately shook :
He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain.
And know, but dare not oa\ti, we gaze in vain !
In life itself she was so still and fair.
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ;
MEDORA. 79
And tlie cold flowers, her colder liand contain'd,
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep,
And made it almost mockery yet to weep :
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow,
And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below —
Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ;
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse.
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips —
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile.
And wished repose — ^but only for a while ;
But the white shroud, and each extended tress.
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness.
Which, late the sj)ort of every summer wind,
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ;
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier —
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ?
He ask'd no question — all were answerVl now
By the first glance on that still, marble brow :
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ?
The love of youth, the hope of better years,
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears,
The only living thing he could not hate,
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate,
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore,
For peace, those realms where guilt can never soar :
The proud — the wayward — who have fixed below
Their joy, and find this earth enough for wo,
80 M E D R A .
Lose in that one their all — ^perchance a mite.
But wlio in. patience parts with all delight ?
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern
Mask hearts Avhere grief hath little left to learn ;
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost,
In smiles that least befit who wear them most.
"'^.
JULIA.
The age of roses — yet tliy clieek is pale !
Of future dreams — yet tHne are with the past !
Can menioiy's forms along thy bosom sail,
And on thy brow no darker shadow cast ?
Oh, blessed youth ! — when fond remembrance paints
Her landscapes on the heart, without a grave.
And whispers to the spirit no complaints
Save the sweet sighing of time's passing wave ! —
There comes a day, when thought is like the steed,
The "pale and phantom-steed bestrid by death.
That rides o'er corpses ;— like the lightning's speed.
That, what it brightens, scorches Avitli its breath ! —
When memoiy is the curfew of the mind.
That only speaks to tell the houa* of glooms ;
Or, — with the maniac whom " no man could bind," —
Makes all its dwelling in the place of tombs !
How fair a thing is memory to thee !
Thou art as one who gazeth on a star,
Eejoicing in its light — yet silently,
And sad, because he gazeth /row^ afar !
11
S2 JULIA.
Remembrance — like the breeze that meets hut flowers,-
Brings fragrance from tliy vale of vanisli'd years ;
Or sinks along tliy heart — like de^v — in showers
That di-aw forth sweetness, while they fill with tears !-
Thought, like an angel, on thy forehead sits,
Clad in white garments, — for thy brow is pale,
As theirs are, ever, who look back, — ^as fits
The nun of feeling, wi'app'd in memory's veil ! —
As one who listens to the song of bii'ds,
That hide, among the green leaves, from her sight, —
Or sits and muses on mysterious words.
Half-heard, amid the watches of the night,
Or dimly dreamt, — art thou ! — (while fancy brings
Around thee songs that, in themselves, are glad.
But play'd by \Tiewless hands, on viewless strings, —
And tones from unseen harj^s are ever sad !) —
Not ga}', but calm — not soiTowful, though mild : —
Oh ! for the days when memory was a child !
T. K. IirRTEY.
II.
Let me for once describe her — once — for she
Herself hath pass'd into my memor^^,
As 'twere some angel image, and there clings.
Like music round the harp's ^olian strings :
A word — a breath revives her, and she stands
As beautiful, and young, and free fi'om care.
As when upon the Tyber's yellow sands
She loosen'd to the winds her golden hair.
JULIA. 83
In almost cliildliood ; and in pastime run
Like young Aurora from tlie morning sun.
Oil ! never was a fonn so delicate
Fashion'd in dream or story, to create
Wonder or love in man. I cannot tell
Half of the charms I saw — I see ; but well
Each one became her. She was very fair,
And young, I said ; and her thick tresses were
Of the bright color of the light of day :
Her eyes were like the dove's — like Hebe's — or
The maiden moon, or starlight seen afar,
Or like — some eyes I know but may not say.
Never were kisses gather'cl fi-om such lips,
And not the honey which the wild bee sips
From flowers that on the thymy mountains grow
Hard by Ilissus, half so rich : — Her brow
Was darker than her hair, and arch'd and fine,
And sunny smiles would often, often shine
Over a mouth from which came sounds more sweet
Than dying winds, or waters when they meet
Gently, and seem telling and talking o'er
The silence they so long had kept before.
III.
Day, in melting purple dying ;
Blossoms, all around me sighing ;
Fragrance, from the lilies straying ;
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ;
Ye but waken my distress ;
I am sick of loneliness !
84 JULIA.
Tliou, to wlioni I love to hearken,
Come, ere niglit around me darken ;
Though thy softness but deceive me,
Say thou 'rt true, and I'll believe thee ;
Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,
Let me think it innocent !
Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ;
All I ask is fi-iendship's pleasure ;
Let the shinins; ore lie darkling: — •
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ;
Gifts and gold are naught to me,
I would only look to thee :
Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,
Ecstasy but in revealing ;
Paint to thee the deej) sensation,
Raj)ture in participation ;
Yet but torture, if compress'd
In a lone, unfriended breast.
\
■> A'-
^
■ i
HELENA.
Why mourns the dark-Lair'd daughter of the Isles ? —
Whose free glad breezes, and whose soft pure air,
Should waken round thee only flowers and smiles ; —
Why should not all be glad where all is fair !
If beauty to the beautiftd be joy.
Thou shouldst be joyous, — and the sunny clime
That old tradition peopled from the sky
Should ring with music to the march of time ;
Scenes where the soul of loveliness so long
Hath made a temple of each vine-clad hill, —
Beautiful valleys where the breath of song
Floats, like a spirit, o'er each haunted rill, —
Shores, where the thoughts — that have not died^ — liad birtli,
And made the land a worship to the earth !
Alas, the mourner ! — Greece was, then, a bride.
With Genius for her dowry ; and her s])ouse
Stood, in his untamed beauty, by her side.
The youthful Valor — of an ancient house ;
86 HELENA.
And Freedom was tlieir cliild ! — tlie boy is dead !
His sire died &st ! — and o'er her lonely lot,
The widow and the childless hangs her head,
Like Rachael, weeping that her son is not ! —
— " He is not dead, but sleejjeth ! " — Hark ! the sea,
The wild, glad waters — with their revehy.
That gird thee round — have language in their waves,
That speaks, like trumpets, to a land of slaves, —
" Remember us, the tameless and the free.
When the mad Persian flung his chains upon the sea ! "
Thy very sighs, that fetters cannot bind.
Have lessons for thee ; — and the prophet-wind.
That walks and shouts where'er it will, a tone
Whose meaning should have echoes in thine own ! —
They shall awake him ! — lo ! he is awake.
And treads the mountains, flinging to the gale
His battle cry ! — yet ah ! the voice that spake
Of old was louder, — and his cheek is pale, —
And years have done him wTong ! — ^The while he slept,
Plis father's sword hath rusted, and his own, —
The tears have scorched him that his mother wept,
And half the beauty of his youth is gone !
And thou, sweet lady of the mourning isles !
A true-born dausrhter of the land thou art,
That smiles not till she sees her mother's smiles ; —
The country's chains lie heavy on thy heart ! —
Perchance, like her, thott art a widow too,
A widow and an orphan, — and the fate
That hcpt her thus, hath, haply, made thee so,
And left thee lone — alone and desolate ! —
HELENA. . 87
Now, in thy dreams, amid the ruin'd halls
Of thy ^\Tong'd land, perchance tliere mingles one,
Whose chambers, — echoing back the waterfalls, —
For thee — for thee had voices of their o^^'n !
Amid thy visions of thy lofty sires, —
Whose tombs are altars, — haply there may be
An infant'' s grave — whose quiet pomp aspii*es
To be a shi'ine to thee — and only thee !
— But, who shall read the sign upon thy brow.
Save that its tale is soitow ? — J^ven iwiv,
Thine and thy country's portion is to mourn ; —
Oh ! much is lost that never can return.
And fancy paints not Greece — without her funeral Urn !
T. K. HEEVET.
n.
Tkcstk ye the desolate must live apart.
By solemn vows to convent-walls confined ?
Ah ! no ; Vvith men may dwell the cloister'd heart.
And in a crowd the isolated mind.
Tearless, behind the prison-bars of fate
The world sees not how desolate they stand,
Gazing so fondly through the iron grate
Upon the promised yet forbidden land —
Patience the shrine to which their bleeding feet,
Day after day, in voiceless pennace turn ;
Silence the holy cell and calm retreat
In ^vhich unseen their meek devotions l)urn ;
Life is to them a vigil which none share,
Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer.
IIENItV T. TUCKERMAN.
88 HELENA,
III.
Natuee did lier so mucli right
As she scorns the helj) of art.
In as many virtues dight
As e'er yet embraced a heart.
So much good so truly tried,
Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath, without desire
To make known how much she hath ;
And her anger flames no higher
Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pity as may be.
Though perhaps not so to me.
Reason masters every sense.
And her virtues grace her birth ;
Lovely as all excellence,
Modest in her most of mirth.
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.
WILLIAM BEO-n-NE.
THE SPIRIT OF lORMAN ABBEY.
-Lo ! a monk, arrayVl
In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appear'd,
Now in the moonliglit, and now laj)sed in sliade,
"W itli steps tliat trod as lieavy, yet unlieard ;
His garments only a sliglit murmur made ;
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,
But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juan by.
Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye.
Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint
Of such a spirit in these halls of old.
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't
Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold,
Coin'd irom surviving superstition's mint,
Which passes ghosts in cuiTency like gold,
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper,
And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ?
12
90 THE SPIRIT or NORMAN ABBEY.
Once, twice, tlirice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of aii-.
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place :
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare,
Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base'
As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair
Tmne like a knot of snakes around his face ;
He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted.
To ask the reverend person w^hat he wanted.
The third time, after a still longer pause.
The shadow pass'd away — but where ? the hall
Was long, and thus far there was no great cause
To think his vanishing unnatural :
Doors there were many, through which, by the laws
Of physics, bodies whether short or tall
Might come or go ; but Juan could not state
Through which the sj)ectre seem'd to evaporate.
He stood — how long, he knew not, but it seem'd
An age — expectant, powerless, with his eyes
StraiuVl on the sj)ot where first the figure gleam'd ;
Then by degrees recall'd his energies.
And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream,
But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise.
Waking ah-eady, and return'd at length
Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.
The door flew wide, not swiftly, — but, as fly
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight —
And then swung back ; nor close — but stood awry.
Half letting in long shadows on the light,
THE SPIRIT OF XORMAX ABBEY. 91
Which still iu Juan's candlesticks burn'd high,
For he had two, both tolerably bright,
And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood
The sable £i*aii' in his solemn hood.
Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken
The night before ; but being sick of shaking,
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken ;
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ;
His own internal ghost began to awaken
Within him, and to c^uell his corporal quaking —
Hinting that soul and body on the whole
Were odds ascainst a disembodied soul.
o
And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce,
And he arose, advanced — the shade retreated :
But Juan, eager now the tnith to pierce,
FoUow'd, his viens no longer cold, but heated.
Resolved to trust the mystery carte and tierce,
At whatsoever risk of being defeated :
The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until
He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone-still.
Juan put forth one arm — Eternal powers !
It touch'd no soul, no body, but the wall,
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers,
Checker'd with all the tracery of tlui hall ;
He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers
When he can't tell what 'tis that doth ajipal.
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.
92 THE SPIRIT OF NORMAN ABBEY.
But still the shade remain'd : the blue eyes glared,
And rather variably for stouy death ;
Yet one thing rather good the grave hath sj^ared,
The ghost had a remarkbly sweet breath :
A stras^cjlinof curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ;
A red lip, "vvith two rows of pearls beneath.
Gleam VI forth, as through the casements' ivy shroud
The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud.
And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust
His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder !
It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust.
Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.
He found, as people on most trials must,
That he had made at first a silly blunder.
And that in his confusion he had caught
Only the wall, instead of what he sought.
The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul
As ever lurh'd beneath a holy hood :
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole
Forth into something much like flesh and blood ;
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl.
And they reveal' d — alas ! that e'er they should ! —
In fall, voluptuous, but 7iot o'ergYown bullc,
The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz-Fulke !
BYEON.
/ ^
SOPHY.
Men say tliere is a gentle flower,
That, born beneatli an eastern sky,
Witliout tlie gift of sun or sliower.
Gives out its precious sigli ;
That — ^^itli affection — sweetly dwells
Beneatli the Indian's stately dome,
Or freely throws its fragrant spells
Around his lowly home, —
Fed only by the sacred air
That, as a spirit, hovers there !
And thou art like that fairy thing,
Though gifted by a colder sky.
With scent and bloom, too pure to fling
Before the passer-by ; —
Who, with the star-flowers of thine eyes,
Couldst brighten still the brightest lot.
Or with thy fond and fragrant sighs.
Make rich the poor man's cot ! —
94 SOPHY.
An Englisli Ruth, — in good or ill,
To follow ^vheresoe'er we roam,
And liang thy precious garlands, still.
Amid the breath of home !
— My weary heart ! my weary heart !
It is a pleasant thing
To wander from the crowd apart,
When faint and chill'd and worn thou art,
And fold thy restless wing.
Beside the sweet and quiet streams,
Where grow life's lily-bells, —
And peace — that feeds on haj)j)y dreams,
And utters music — dwells, —
And Love, beside the gushing springs.
Like some young Naiad, sits and sings !
To leave, awhile, the barren height,
Where thou, too long, hast striven.
As if the spirit's ujnvard flight
Had been the path to heaven ; —
And musing by love's haunted rill,
Earth's "river of the blest,"
To see how sweetly heaven, still,
Is min^or'd on its breast.
And feel thou, there, art nearer far
To that bright land of sun and star !
T. K. HEKYET.
t
RUTH.
When- Eutli was left lialf desolate,
Her Father took another Mate ;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill.
In thoughtless fi'eedom, bold.
And she had made a pij^e of straw.
And music from that j^ipe could draw
Like sounds of winds and floods ;
Had ]3uilt a bower upon the green.
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.
Beneath her father's roof, alone
She seem'd to live ; her thoughts her own ;
Herself her own deliglit ;
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay ;
And, i^assing thus the livelong day.
She grew to woman's height.
96 RUTH.
There came a Youtli from Georgia's shore,-
A military casque lie wore,
Witli splendid feathers drest ;
He brought them from the Cherokees ;
The feathers nodded in the breeze,
And made a gallant crest.
From Indian blood you deem him sprung :
But no ! he spake the English tongue.
And bore a soldier's name ;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,
He 'cross the ocean came.
With hues of genius on his cheek,
In finest tones the Youth could speak :—
While he was yet a boy.
The moon, the glory of the sun.
And streams that murmur as they run,
Had been his dearest joy.
He was a lovely Youth ! I guess
The panther in the wilderness
Was not so fail' as he ;
And when he chose to sport and play.
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.
Among the Indians he had fought.
And with him may tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear ;
RUTH. 07
Sucli tales as told to any maid
By such a Youth, in the gi-een shade,
Were perilous to hear.
He told of girls — a happy rout ! —
Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
Their pleasant Indian town,
To gather strawberries all day long ;
Returnino; with a choral sono*
When daylight is gone down.
He spake* of plants that hourly change
Their blossoms, through a boundless range
Of intermingling hues ;
With budding, fading, faded flowers,
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews.
He told of the magnolia spread
High as a cloud, high over head !
The cypress and her spire ; —
Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
To set the hills on fire.
The Youth of green savannas spake
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crowds
Of islands, that together lie.
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.
13
98 RUTH.
" How pleasant," then lie said, " it were,
A fislier or a hunter there,
In sunshine or in shade
To wander with an easy mind ;
And build a household fire, and find
A home in every glade !
" What davs and what brio-ht years ! Ah me !
Our life were life indeed, with thee
So pass'd in quiet bliss.
And all the while," said he, " to know
That Ave are in a world of woe,
On such an earth as this ! "
And then he sometimes interwove
Fond thoughts about a father's love :
" For there," said he, " are spun
Around the heart such tender ties,
That our o^vn children to our eyes
Are dearer than the sun.
" Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me
My helpmate in the woods to be.
Our shed at night to rear ;
Or run, my own adopted bride,
A sylvan huntress at my side,
And drive the flying deer !
" Beloved Ruth ! " — No more he said.
The wakeful Ri]
A solitary tear :
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
RUTH. 99
She thouglit again, — and did agree,
With liim to sail across tlie sea.
And drive the flying deer.
" And now, as fitting is and right,
We in the church our faith will plight,
A husband and a wife."
Even so they did ; and I may say
That to sweet Ruth that happy day
Was more than human life.
Through dream and vision did she sink.
Delighted all the while to think
That on those lonesome floods.
And green savannas, she should share
.His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.
But, as you have before been told.
This Strij)ling, sj)ortive, gay, and bold.
And with his dancing crest,
So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the West.
The wind, the tempest roaring high.
The tumult of a tropic sky,
Mio-ht well be danixerous food
For him, a Youth to whom was given
So much of earth, so much of heaven.
And such impetuous blood.
100 RUTH.
Whatever in tliose climes lie found
Irregular in siglit or sound
Did to Lis mind impart
A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
To his own powers, and justified
Tlie workings of his heart.
Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought.
The beauteous forms of nature wi'ought.
Fair trees and gorgeous flowers ;
The breezes their own languor lent ;
The stars had feelings which they sent
Into those favor'd bowers.
Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
That sometimes there did intervene
Pure hopes of high intent :
For passions link'd to forms so fair
And stately, needs must have their share
Of noble sentiment.
But ill he lived, much evil saw.
With men to whom no better law
Nor better life was known ;
Deliberately, and undeceived.
Those wild men's vices he received,
And gave them back his own.
His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low desires :
RUTH. 101
A Man who mtliout self-control
Would seek what the degraded soul
Unworthily admii'es.
And yet he with no feign'd delight
Had woo'd the Maiden, day and night
Had loved her, night and morn :
What could he less than love a Maid
Whose heart with so much nature play'd ?
So hind and so forlorn !
Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,
" O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead ;
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain,
Encompass'd me on every side
When I, in confidence and pride.
Had cross'd the Atlantic main.
^' Before me shone a glorious world,
Fresh as a banner bright, unfm^'d
To music suddenly :
I look'd upon those hills and plains,
And seem'd as if let loose from chains,
To live at liberty.
" No more of this ; for now, by thee,
Dear llutli ! more hap2:)ily set fi'ee,
With nobler zeal I Inirn ;
My soul from darkness is released,
Like the whole sky when to the cast
The morning doth return."
102 RUTH.
Full soon tliat better mind was gone ;
No hope, no wish, remain'cl, not one, —
They stirr'd him now no more ;
New objects did new pleasure give.
And once as-ain he wish'd to live
As lawless as before.
Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
They for the voyage were prepared.
And went to the sea-shore ;
But when they thither came, the Youth
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
Could never find him more.
God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had
That she in half a year was mad.
And in a prison housed ;
And there, with many a doleful song
Made of wild words, her cup of ^\Tong
She fearfully caroused.
Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
No wanted sun, nor rain, no dew.
Nor pastimes of the May ; —
They all were mth her in her cell ;
And a clear brook with cheerful knell
Did o'er the pebbles play.
When Ruth the seasons thus had lain,
There came a respite to her pain ;
She from her prison fled ;
RUTH. 103
But of tlie Vacant none took tlioucrlit ;
And where it liked her best slie souelit
Her shelter and lier bread.
Among the fields she breathed again :
The master-cun^ent of her brain
Kan permanent and free ;
And, coming to the Banks of Tone,
There did she rest, and dwell alone
Under the greenwood tree.
The engines of her pain, the tools
That shaped her soitow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves, — she loved them still ;
Nor ever taxed them with the ill
Which had been done to her.
A Barn her winter bed supplies ;
But till the warmth of summer skies
And summer days is gone,
(And all do in this tale agree,)
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
And other home hath none.
An innocent life, yet far astray !
And Buth will, long before her day,
Be broken down and old :
Sore aches she needs must have ! but less
Of mind than body's wretchedness.
From damp, and rain, and cold.
104 RUTH.
If she is prest by want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road-side ;
And there she begs at one steep place
Where up and down, with easy pace,
The horseman-travellers ride.
That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
Or thro^vn away ; but \vith a flute
Her loneliness she cheers :
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk.
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock woodman hears.
I, too, have pass'd her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By S2:)outs and fountains wild, —
Such small machinery as she turn'd
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,
A young and happy Child !
Farewell ! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fiited Ruth, in hallow'd mould
Thy corpse shall buried be.
For thee a funeral bell shall ring.
And all the congregation sing
A Chi'istian psalm for thee.
WILLIAM WOEDSWOETH.
THE WIDOW.
The courtly hall is gleaming bright
With fashion's graceful throng —
All hearts are chain'd in still delight,
For like the heaven-borne voice of nig-ht
Breathes Handel's sacred song.
Nor on my spirit melts in vain
The deep — the wild — the mournful strain
That fills the echoing hall
(Though many a callous soul be there)
With sighs, and sobs, and cherish'd pain —
— While on a face, as seraph's fair,
Mine eyes in sadness fall.
Not those the tears that smilins: flow
As fancied sorrow bleeds,
Like dew upon the rose's glow ;
— That lady, 'mid the glittering show
Is clothed in Widow's weeds.
14
106 THE WIDOW
She sits in reverie profound,
And drinks and lives upon tlie sound
As if she ne'er would wake !
Her closed eyes cannot hold the tears
That tell what dreams her soul have bound-
In memory they of other years
For a dead husband's sake.
Methinks her inmost soul lies sj)read
Before my tearful sight —
A garden w^hose best flowers are dead,
A sky still fair (though darkened)
With hues of lingering light.
I see the varying feelings chase
Each other o'er her pallid face.
From shade to deepest gloom.
She thinks on li™g objects dear,
And pleasure lends a cheerful grace ;
But oh ! that look so dim and drear,
— Her heart is in the tomb.
Kivalling the tender crescent moon
The star of evening shines —
A waiTQ, still, balmy night of June,
Low-munnuring wiith a fitful tune
From yonder grove of pines.
In the silence of that starry sky.
Exchanging vows of constancy.
Two happy lovers stray.
THE WIDOW. 107
— ^To ter how sad and strange ! to know,
In darkness while the phantoms fade,
That one a wddow'd wTetch is now,
The other in the clay.
A wilder gleam disturl3S her eye.
Oh, hush the deepening strain !
And must the youthful wamor die ?
A gorgeous funeral passes by,
The dead-march stuns her brain.
The singing voice she hears no more.
Across his gi'ave the thunders roar !
How weeps yon gallant band
O'er him their valor could not save !
For the bayonet is red wdth gore
And he, the beautiful, the brave,
Now sleeps in Egypt's sand.
The song dies 'mid the silent strings.
And the Hall is now alive
With a thousand gay and fluttering things ;-
— ^The noise to her a comfort brings,
Her heart and soul revive.
With solemn pace and loving pride
She walks by her fair daughter's side,
Who views with young deliglit
The gaudy sj^arkling revelry, —
Unconscious that from far and wide
On her is turn'd each charmed eye,
The beauty of the night.
108 THE WIDOW.
A spii'it she, and Joy her name !
She walks upon the air ;
Grace swims throughout her fragile fr*ame,
And glistens like a lambent flame,
Amid her golden hair.
Her eyes are of the heavenly blue,
A cloudless twilight bathed in dew ;
The blushes on her cheek,
Like the roses of the vernal year
That lend the vii'gin snow their hue —
And oh, what pure delight to hear
The gentle vision speak !
Yet, dearer than that rosy glow
To me yon cheek so wan ;
Lovely, I thought it long ago,
But lovelier far now blanch'd with wo
Like the breast-down of the Swan.
Lovely thou art ! yet none may dare
That placid soul to move.
Most beautiful thy braided hair,
But awful holiness breathes there,
Unmeet for earthly love.
More touching far than deep distress
Thy smiles of languid happiness.
That like the gleams of Even
O'er thy calm cheek serenely play.
— ^Thus at the silent hour we bless,
Unmindful of the joyous day,
The still sad face of heaven.
PEOFESSOK TVILSOIT.
THE FAIR PATRICIAN.
She came amidst tlie lovely and tlie proud,
Peerless ; and when slie moved, the gallant crowd
Divided, as the obsequious vapors light
Divide to let the queen-moon pass by night :
Then looks of love were seen, and many a sigh
Was wasted on the air, and some aloud
Talked of the pangs they felt and swore to die : —
She, like the solitary rose that springs
In the first warmth of summer days, and flings
A perfume the more sweet because alone —
Just bursting into beauty, with a zone
Half girl's, half woman's, smiled and then forgot
Those gentle things to which she answer'd not.
But when Colonna's heir bespoke her hand,
And led her to the dance, she question'd Avhy
His brother join'd not in that revelry :
Careless he turn'd aside, and did command
Loudly the many instruments to sound.
And well did that young couple tread the ground
110 THE FAIR PATRICIAN.
Eacli step was lost in each accordant note,
Wliicli tln-ougli the palace seem'd that night to float
As merrily, as though the Satyr-god
With his inspiring reed, (the mighty Pan,)
Had left his old Arcadian woods, and trod
Piping along the shores Italian.
Again she asked in vain : yet, as he turn'd
(The brother) from her, a fierce color bui^n'd
Upon his cheek, and fading left it pale
As death, and half proclaim'd the guilty tale.
— She dwelt upon that night till pity grew
Into a wilder passion : the sweet dew
That linger'd in her eye " for pity's sake,"
Was (like an exhalation in the sun)
Dried and absorb' d by love. Oh ! Love can take
What shape he pleases, and when once begun
His fieiy inroad in the soul, how vain
The after-knowledge which his presence gives !
We weep or rave, but still he lives and lives,
Master and lord, 'midst pride and tears and pain.
* % -X- * -X- *
Then Marcian sought his home. A ghastly gloom
Hung o'er the pillars and the wrecks of Rome.
Unlike he was in boyhood, — yet so grave
They doubted sometimes if he quite forgave
The past ; and then there play'd a moody smile
About his mouth, and he at times would speak
Of one with heavenly bloom upon her cheek,
Whose vision did his convent hours beguile ;
A phantom shape, and which in sleep still came
And fann'd the color of his cheek to flame.—
THE FAIR PATRICIAN. Ill
Sometimes lias lie been known to gaze afar
WatcLing tlie coming of the evening star,
And as it progress'd toward tlie middle sky,
Like the still twilight's lonely deity,
Would fancy that a spirit resided there,
A gentle spirit and young, with golden hail*,
And eyes as blue as the blue dome above,
And a voice as tender as the sound of love.
— One morning as he lay half listlessly
Within the shadow of a column, where
His forehead met such gusts of cooling air
As the bright summer knows in Italy,
A gorgeous cavalcade went thundering by,
Dusty, and worn with travel : As it pass'd.
Some said the great Count had return'd, at last,
From his long absence upon foreign lands :
'Twas told that many countries he had seen,
(He and his lady daughter,) and had been
A long time journeying on the Syrian sands,
And visited holy spots, and places where
The Christian roused the Pa2:an from his lair.
And taught him charity and creeds divine,
By spilling his bright blood in Palestine.
And Julia saw the youth she loved again:
But he was. now the great Colonna's heir,
And she whom he had left so young and fair,
A few short years ago, was grown, with pain
Of thoughts unutter'd, (a heart-eating care,)
Pale as a statue. When he met her first,
He gazed and gasp'd as though his heart would burst.
112 THE FAIR PATRICIAN.
Her fiorure came before him like a dream
Reveal'd at morning, and a sunny gleam
Broke in upon Lis soul and lit his eye
With something of a tender prophecy.
And was she then the shape he oft had seen,
By day and night, — she who had such strange power
Over the terrors of his wildest horn* ?
And was it not a phantom that had been
Wandering about him ? Oh, with that deep fear
He listen'd now, to mark if he could hear
The voice that lull'd him, — but she never spoke ;
For in her heart her o^vn young love awoke
From its long slumber, and chain'd do^vn her tongue,
And she sate mute before him : he, the while.
Stood feasting on her melancholy smile.
Till o'er his eyes a dizzy vapor hung,
And he rush'd forth into the freshening air.
Which kiss'd and play'd about his temples bare,
And he grew calm. Not unobserved he fled.
For she who mourn'd him once as lost and dead,
Saw with a glance, as none but women see,
His secret passion, and home silently
She went rejoicing, till Vitelli ask'd
" W^herefore her spuit fell," — and then she task'd
Her fancy for excuse wherewith to hide
Her thoughts and turn his curious gaze aside.
* * * * 4fr *
It was the voice — the very voice that rung
Long in his brain that now so sweetly sung. —
Whither, ah ! whither is my lost love straying —
THE FAIR PATRICIAN. 113
Upon what pleasant land beyond the sea ?
Oh ! ye winds now playing
Like airy spirits round my temples free,
Fly and tell him this from me :
Tell, him, sweet winds, that in my woman's bosom
My young love still retains its perfect power,
Or, like the summer blossom,
That changes still from bud to the full-blown flower,
Grows ^vith every passing hour.
Say (and say gently) that since we two parted.
How little joy — much sorrow I have known :
Only not broken-hearted
Because I muse upon bright moments gone.
And dream and think of him alone.
* «- -%■ * * -»
■ — He soothed her for a time, and she grew calm,
For lover's language is the sm'est balm
To hearts that sorrow much : that night they parted
With kisses and with tears, but both light-hearted.
And many a vow was made and promise spoke.
And well believed by both and never broke :
They parted, but froixi that time often met,
In that same garden when the sun had set.
And for a while Colonna's mind forgot,
In the fair present hour, his future lot.
Sleep softly, on your bridal pillows, sleep.
Excellent pair ! hajij^y and young and true ;
And o'er your days, and o'er your slumbers deep
And airy dreams, may Love's divinest dew
1^^ THE FAIR PATRICIAN.
Be scatter'd like tlie April rains of heaven :
And may your tender words, wMsper'd at even,
Be v,^oven into music ; and, as the wind
Leaves when it flies a sweetness still behind.
When distant, may each silver sounding tone
"Weigh on the other's heart, and bring (though gone)
The. absent back ; and may no envy sever
Your joys, but may each love — be loved for ever.
BAEEY CORNWALL.
THE GENTLE STUDENT.
I.
Life's golden age ! — ^wlien all it knows of grief
Is gatlier'd from tlie records grief hath given ;
And youthful pity reads the tragic leaf,
As angels read the leaves of fate, in heaven,
Unstain'd themselves, yet weeping for the stain
That dims the spirits of a darker birth,
And grieving — with a grief that is not pain —
Above the mourners of the mom^ning earth !
The age when very tears are sweet ! — the tears
Of children and of angels cannot flow
From bitter founts ; and sadness, when she hears
And weeps the woes of others, is not woe !
The young, sweet season, when the heai-t, as yet.
Is but a student in the lore of sighs,
Ere years have made the spirit wise, or set
Their crowns of anguish o'er the darken'd eyes-!
110 THE GENTLE STUDENT.
Sweet student ! — wlio dost read all tales as truth
By tlie brigM lights of tliine own bless'd age,
And, with the fleeting alchemy of youth.
Canst draw out pleasui'e from the saddest page, —
What is the legend that enchains thee, now ?
Of him who " loved not wisely but too well " ? —
Or her Avhose dark and oriental brow
Held the world's masters in its swarthy spell ? —
Or laughing Beatrice, who flung around
Her shafts, until they pierced her own wild heart ? —
Or Ruth, an-hunger'd upon stranger-ground ? —
Or Hagar, in the "\\dlderness apart.
And fed by angels ? — or the solemn tale
Of those who wander'd fi'om the happy vale.
The bright Amharan valley ? — Who shall say ?
I read no title on thy pictm'ed book ;
And from its leaves my spii'it turns away,
Upon a higher page — in vain — to look.
Thy fair, young forehead ! — oh ! that I might see
The volume of thy future years uuroU'd ! —
Shall they who read it weep or smile for thee ? —
How shall the stoiy of thy fate be told ? —
Of all the tales that charm thy fancy, now.
With imaged fortunes, which shall be thine o^\ti ? —
No sign is printed on thy spotless brow,
Of all the store — hereafter to be knowTi —
Of written thought, A^^thin, — the hidden dreams
To be unfolded as the work is read ; —
No index of the glad or mournful themes
Along its pages, by their author spread !
THE GENTLE STUDENT. 117
The story can be learnt by Time, alone,
Tlie leaves can but be open'd, one by one ! —
To me, thy book and thou — in thy sweet age, —
Alike are tales without a title-page !
T. K. HEEYET.
n.
The last time that we quarrell'd, love,
It was an April day,
And through the gushing of the rain.
That beat against the window-pane,
We saw the sunbeams play.
The linnet never ceased its song.
Merry it seem'd, and fi'ee ; —
" Your eyes have long since made it up.
And why not lips ? " quoth he —
You thought ; — I thought ; — and so 'twas done-
Under the greenwood tree.
The next time that we quarrel, love,
Far distant be the day.
Of chiding look or angry word !
We'll not forget the little bird
That sang upon the spray.
Amid your tears, as bright as rain
When Heaven's fair bow extends.
118 THE GENTLE STUDENT.
Your eyes shall mark where love begins,
And cold estrangement ends ;
You'll tliink ; — I'll think ; — and as of old,
You'll kiss me, and be Mends.
MACKAY.
CECILIA.
It haunts me — oli ! it liaunts me yet,
That song of yester-eve !
It had a murmur like regret,
Yet did not make me grieve ; —
It seem'd to lead my heart, again.
O'er all its pleasant years,
A path without remorse or pain,
And yet, beneath that simple strain.
Mine eyes were dim with tears !
Methouo-ht the wild notes seem'd to rise,
Loosed fi'om the golden strings.
Like singins: birds that seek the skies.
On new-enfranchised wings ; —
And, still, I seem to hear them play
Beyond the reach of sight.
And pour theu* sweet and soften'd lay.
In dream-like music far away,
Amid their homes of light.
120 CECILIA.
Unlieard before, — and yet it took
An old familiar tone ;
As stranger-eyes wear, oft, a look
Of eyes tkat we liave known
In some forgotten time and place.
And liglit, with sudden spell,
Some darken'd thought, some shadowy trace,
Whose silent and mysterious grace
The heart remembers Avell.
An antique, yet a novel, tone !
The past and future years,
New voices, mix'd with voices gone.
Were murmuring in mine ears ;
Fresh streams of feeling seem'd to rush,
With ancient ones, along.
And hidden springs of thought to gush,
Within my spirit's Horeb-hush,
Beneath the touch of song !
A song, methinks, is like a sigh ! —
Both seem to soar from earth.
And each is waken'd but to die,
Exhaling in its birth ;
Yet both to mortal hearts belong
By many nameless sympathies ;
And each is o'er the other strong,
For they who sigh are soothed by song.
And songs are paid in sighs !
T. K. HEEVET.
CECILIA. 121
II.
The grace of chilcllioocl clings to thee,
In thy maturing youth ;
Thy "woman looks are eloquent
With purity and truth ;
And, in thy gentle mien, there is
The steadfastness of Ruth.
There have been lochs of richer brown,
And eyes as calmly bright,
And cheeks that blush'd a rosier hue,
And brows as marble white ;
But never one, whose' beauty stirr'd
The heart to more delight.
Expression such as thine it was, —
As beautiful and mild, —
That, in the watches of the night,
Upon the painter smiled.
Beside his canvas dreaming of
Madonna and her Child.
Thy mind is like a placid stream, •
Outspread beneath the sky,
That mirrors in its waters all
The changing world on high, —
The sun, the stars, the wandering cloud,
That slowly saileth by.
16
122 CECILIA.
We are not wholly left of Heaven,
While sucli remain on earth,
Who from no human standard take
The measure of their worth,
But were created perfect by
The Hand that gave them birth.
WALTER M. LINDSAY.
'^'
THE YOUNG OLYMPIA.
The young Olympia ! — On her face tlie dyes
Were yet warm witli tlie dance's exercise,
Tlie laugli upon lier full red lij) yet liung,
And, arrow-like, flasli'd liglit words from her tongue.
She had more loveliness than beauty ; hers
Was that enchantment which the heart confers ;
A mouth sweet from its smiles, a glancing eye.
Which had o'er all expression mastery :
Laughing its orb, but the long dark lash made
Somewhat of sadness mth its twilight shade.
And suiting well the upcast look which seem'd
At times as it of melancholy dream'd ;
Her cheek was as a rainbow, it so changed.
As each emotion on its surface ranged ;
And every word had its comj^anion blush,
But evanescent as the crimson flush
That tints the day-break ; and her stej:) was light
As the gale passing o'er the leaves at night ;
124 THE YOUXG OLYMPIA.
In trutli tliose snow feet were too like tlie wind,
Too slisrlit to leave a sinij;le trace behind.
She lean'd against a pillar, and one hand
Smootli'd back tlie curls that Lad escaped the band
Of wreathed white pearls — a soft and fitting chain
In bondage such bright prisoners to retain.
The other was from the white marble known
But by the clasping of its emerald zone ;
And lighted up her brow, and flash'd her eye,
As many that were wandering careless by
Caught but a sound, and paused to hear what more
Her lip might utter of its honey store.
She had that sparkling wit which is like light.
Making all things touch'd with its radiance bright ;
And a sweet voice whose words would chain all round
Although they had no other charm than sound.
And many named her name, and each with praise ;
Some with her passionate beauty fill'd theii' gaze,
Some mark'd her graceful step, and others spoke
Of the so many hearts that own'd the yoke
Of her bewildering smile ; meantime, her own
Seem'd as that it no other love had known
Than its sweet love of Nature, music, song,
Which as by right to woman's world belong.
And make it lovely for Love's dwelling-place.
Alas ! that he should leave his fiery trace !
But this bright creature's brow seem'd all too fair,
Too gay, for Love to be a dweller there ;
For Love brings sorrow ; yet you might descry
A troubled flashing in that brilliant eye.
THE YOUNG OLYMPIA. 125
A troubled color on tliat varying cheek,
A hurry in the tremulous lip to speak,
Avoidance of sad topics, as to shun
Somewhat the spirit dared not rest upon ;
An unquiet feverishness, a change of place,
A pretty pettishness, if on her face
A look dwelt as in scrutiny to seek
"What hidden meanings from its change might break.
MISS LANDON.
II.
Ah ! cruel-hearted maiden ! provoking pretty one !
You little know, (like " Diamond,") the mischief you have done !
How many hearts you've broken, is more than I can tell.
But that you've played the deuce with one, alas ! is known too
well.
To every homage Love can pay, insensible you seem —
How can the dark-eyed one " keep dark " on such a tender theme ?
Why not consent humanely and graciously to spare
(To ease the poor subscriber's mind) a ringlet of her hair ?
I've many treasures of the sort — aye, something like a score,
(As near as I can reckon — perhaps there may be more.)
And some are very beautiful — there's one as black as ink.
Which I have kept on hand at least a dozen years, I think.
There's one as pale as amber, and one as white as snow,
And one that's soft and flaxen — another more like tow.
126 THE YOUNG OLYMPIA.
And one as golden as tlie crown upon Victoria's liead ;
Another auburn — or perchance, the least inclined to red.
And here is one — a splendid one — this curl of wavy brown !
'Tis from a head that niioht have turn'd the heads of half the
to\m.
And thou may'st have them all for one of those dark locks of
thine,
That over snowy neck and brow so lovingly entwine.
* * « « * -X- *
II. n. CKOWXELL.
.r^ "^
^
THE LADY ADELINE.
SuDDEif a flood of lustre playVl
Over a lofty balustrade,
Music and perfume swept the air
Messengers sweet for tlie spring to prepare ;
And like a sunny vision sent
For worship and astonishment,
Aside a radiant ladye flung
The veil that o'er her beauty hung.
With stately grace to those below,
She bent her gem encircled brow.
And bade them welcome in the name
Of her they saved, the castle's dame,
Who had not let another pay
Thanks, greeting to their brave an-ay —
But she had vow'd the battle night
To fasting, prayer, and holy rite.
On the air the last tones of the music die,
The odor passes away like a sigh.
128 THE LADY ADELINE.
The torches flash a. parting gleam,
And she vanishes as she came, like a dream.
But many an eye dwelt on the shade,
Till fancy again her form disj)lay'd,
And still again seem'd many an ear
The softness of her voice to hear,
And many a heart had a vision that night
AVhich future years never banish'd quite.
And sio'n and sound of festival
Ai'e ringing through that castle hall ;
Lamps like faery planets shine
O'er massive cups of the genial wine,
And shed a ray more soft; and fair
Than the broad red gleam of the torches' glare ;
And flitting like a ]*ainbow, inlays
In beautiful and changing rays.
When fi'om the pictured windows fall
The color'd shadows o'er the hall ;
As every pane some bright hue lent
To vary the lighted element.
The ladye of the festive board
"VYas ward to the castle's absent lord ;
The Ladye Adeline — the same
Bright vision that with theii' greeting came.
On the knot of her -s^Teathed hair was set
A blood-red niby coronet :
But anions; the midniofht cloud of curls
That hung o'er her l)row, were Eastern pearls,
THE LADY ADELINE. 129
As if to tell witli wealth of snow
How white her forehead could look below.
Around her floated a veil of white,
Like the silvery rack round the star of twilight.
And down to the ground her mantle's fold
Spread its length of purple and gold ;
And sparkling gems were around her aiTQ,
That shone like marble, only w^arm,
With the blue veins' wanderino; tide.
And the hand with its crimson blush inside.
A zone of precious stones embraced
The graceful cucle of her waist,
Sparkling as if they were proud
Of the clasp to them allow'd.
But yet there was 'mid this excess
Of soft and dazzling loveliness,
A something in the eye and hand.
And forehead, speaking of command :
An eye whose dark flash seem'd allied
To even more than beauty's pride ; —
A hand as only used to wave
Its sign to worshipper and slave ; —
A forehead — l)ut that was too fair
To read of aught save beauty there.
And Kaymond had the place of pride,
The place so envied, by her side —
The victor's seat ; and overhead
The banner he had won was spread.
His health was pledged ! — he only heard
The murmur of one silver word ;
17
130 THE LADY ADELINE.
The pageant seein'd to facie away,
Vanisli'd tlie board and glad aiTay,
The gorgeous had around grew dim,
There shone one only light for him,
That radiant fonn whose brisrhtness fell
o
In power upon him like a spell,
Laid in its strength by Love to reign
Deyj)otic over heart and braiu.
Silent he stood amid the mirth.
Oh, love is timid in its birth !
"Watching her lightest look or stir
As he but look'd and breathed with her.
Gay words were passing, but he leant
In silence, yet one quick glance sent —
His secret is no more his own —
When has a woman her power not known ?
ERINNA.
Theee is an antique gem, on wMcli lier brow
Ketains its graven l3eauty even now.
Her liaii' is braded, but one curl behind
Floats as enamor'd of tlie summer wind ;
Tlie rest is simple. Is slie not too fair
Even to tLink of maiden's sweetest care ?
The mouth and brow are contrasts. One so fraught
With pride, the melancholy pride of thought
Conscious of power, and yet forced to know
How little way such power as that can go ;
Kegretting, while too proud of the fine mind, .
Which raises but to part it from its kind :
But the sweet mouth had nothing of all this ;
It was a mouth the rose had lean'd to kiss.
For her young sister, telling, now though mute,
How soft an echo it was to the lute.
The one spoke genius, in its high revealing ;
The other smiled a woman's gentle feeling.
132 ERINNA.
It was a lovely face : the Greek outline
FloA\dng, yet delicate and feminine ;
The glorious lightning of the kindled eye,
Kaised, as it communed with its native sky,
A lovely face, the spirit's fitting shrine ;
The one almost, the other quite, divine.
MISS LAiTDON.
AURORA.
She did steer
Her gentle course along life's dangerous sea,
For sixteen pleasant summers quietly.
Her shape was delicate, her motion fi'ee
As his, that charter'd libertine, the air.
Or Dian's, when upon the mountains she
Folio w'd the fawn : her bosom full and fair ;
It seem'd as Love itself might thither flee
For shelter when his brow was parch'd with care ;
And her white arm, like marble turn'd by gi'ace,
Was of good length and in its j^roper place.
-» •:«• * -;> -X- -::•
And thou, poor Spanish maid, ah ! what hadst thou
Done to the archer blind, that he should dart
His cruel shafts, till thou wast forced to bow
In bitter anguish, aye, endure the smart
The more because thou wor'st a smiling brow
While the dark arrow canker'd at thy heart ?
134 AURORA.
Yet jeer her not : if 'twere a folly, slie
Ilatli paid (how fii-mly jjaid) Love's penalty :
Oft would she sit and look upon the sky,
When rich clouds in the golden sunset lay
Basking, and love to hear the soft winds sigh
That come like music at the close of day
Trembling among the orange blooms, and die
As 'twere from every sweetness. She was gay,
Meekly and calmly gay, and then her gaze
Was brighter than belongs to dying days ;
And on her young thin cheek a vi\dd flush,
A clear transparent color, sate awhile :
'Twas like, a bard would say, the morning's blush ;
And round her mouth there play'd a gentle smile,
Which though at first it might your terrors hush,
It could not, though it strove, at last beguile ;
And her hand shook, and then rose the blue vein
Branching about in all its windings plain.
BAEKY COENWALL.
n.
Perhaps the lady of my love is now
Looking upon the skies. A single star
Is risins: in the East, and from afar
Sheds a most tremulous lustre : Silent Night
Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow :
But see, it motions, with its lovely light,
AURORA. 235
Onwards and onwards througli those depths of blue,
To its appointed course steadfast and true.
So, dearest, would I fain be unto tliee.
Steadfast for ever,— like yon planet fair ;
And yet more like art tJioic a jewel rare.
Oh ! brighter than the brightest star, to nie.
Come hither, my young love ; and I will wear
Thy beauty on my breast delightedly.
BAEET COEITO^ALL.
in.
Sue walks in beauty like the nio-ht
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ;
And all that's best of dark and briirht
Meets in her aspect and her eyes :
Thus mellowed to that tender lidit
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less.
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face —
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
18G AURORA.
And on tliat clieek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
Tlie smiles that win, the tints that glow.
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
BTEON.
^ n
THE NUN.
I.
Home ! liome ! — I would go liome ! — nietliinks I liear
The long-liush'd voices singing far away ;
The eyes that made earth's very deserts dear
Shed o'er my night a portion of their day ;
The lost are found, — the vanish'd are return'd, —
And they were angels whom I wildly mom-n'd !
How has my soul sat down amid its glooms,
A wounded captive, counting o'er its scars, —
And linger'd, weeping, 'mid the shade of tombs.
For those ^v'hose dwelling Avas the light of stars ! —
How have I call'd to earth — and miss'd replies
That should have reach'd me from the far, "bright skies !
Till, heavy with its grief, my spirit slept,
And had a dream, like his of Bethel, given —
A ladder, with its path by angels kept,
And pointing upward to " the gate of heaven " ;
18
laS THE NUX.
On wliose briglit summit ^^sions were reveal'd,
That liusli'd its tlirobbings and its acliings heal'd.
Wliat portion liave I, on tliis low, dim earth,
Where grief is nourish'd by the hand of joy,
Where love is as a fount of tears, — and mirth
Grows pale to find her echo is a sigh, —
Where time -wrecks something with its smoothest waves,
And every year sets up memorial-graves !
Where they who smile must weep because they smiled —
Where partings make it mournful that we meet,
And memory weaves her shrouds for some lost child
Of hope, laid daily at her silent feet ! —
My country lies beneath a deathless air,
And all that leaves me here awaits me there.
I would go home ! — ye bright and staiTy bands
That shine on heaven's pathway of the skies, — ■
Like the Aving'd Cherubim whose flaming brands
Kept watch along the walls of Paradise, —
Oh ! for a pinion swifter than your flight.
To bear me to the land beyond your light !
Home would I go, — my hopes have gone before, —
There where my treasure is my heart would be !
The voices that the earth shall hear no more
Are calling, with their spirit-tones, for me : —
" Immortal longings " stir within my breast ;
Oh ! let me " flee away, and be at rest " !
T. K. HEEVEY.
THE NUN. 139
11.
Befoee thee is tlie open book
Of God's revealed word ;
Upon it rests thy clasjDed hands.
No utterance has stirrVI
The silent breathing of thy lij^s,
And yet thy prayer is heard.
Thou prayest that thy life may be
So order'd, that its end
Will find thy soul at peace with Heaven.
No earthly wishes blend
"With holier thoughts. Untainted, all
Thy prayers to God ascend.
As Mary turn'd from all the world,
And suffer'd not its care
To come between her path and heaven, —
And could her beauty wear
Unconscious as the opening flower ; —
So thou, than whom more fair
Are none in all this glorious earth.
Canst see each troubled soul
Around thee, strew its path with thorns ;—
And, with a sw^eet control
Of all thyself, await in peace
Until the golden bowl
140 THE XUN.
Is broken at tlie fount of life, —
Until tlie silver cord
Is loosed between thee and tlie world.
Tliou knowest that thy Lord,
To whom such innocence is given,
Will make thee thy reward.
WALTER M. LINDSAY.
ELEANOPiE.
Thy dark eyes open'd not,
Nor first reveal'd themselves to Englisli air,
For there is nothing here.
Which from the outward to the inward brought,
Moukled thy baby thought.
Far off from human neighborhood,
Thou wast born on a summer morn,
A mile beneath the cedarwood.
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann d
With breezes from our oaken glades,
But thou wast nursed in some delicious land
Of lavish lights and floating shades :
And flattering thy childish thought.
The oriental fairy brought,
At the moment of thy biiih.
From old wellheads of haunted rills.
And the hearts of purple hills,
And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore.
The choicest wealth of all the earth,
Jewel or shell, or starry ore.
To deck thy cradle, Eleiinore.
142 ELEAXORE.
How may full-sail'd verse express,
How may measured words adore
The full-flowing liarmony
Of tliy swaulike stateliness,
Eleanore ?
The luxuriant symmetry
Of thy floating gracefulness,
Eleanore ?
Every turn and glance of thine,
Every lineament divine,
Eleanore,
And the steady sunset glow,
That stays upon thee ? For in thee
Is nothing sudden, nothing single ;
Like two streams of incense free
From one censer, in one shrine,
Thous-ht and motion minsfle,
Min2:le ever. Motions flow
To one another, even as though
They were modulated so
To an unheard melody,
Which lives about thee, and a sweep
Of richest pauses, evermore
Dra^vn from each other mellow-deep.
Who may express thee, Eleanore ?
I stand before thee, Eleanore ;
I see thy beauty gradually unfold,
Daily and hourly, more and more.
I muse, as in a trance, the while
Slowly, as from a cloud of gold.
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile.
ELEiXORE. 143
I muse as in a trance, wliene'er
The languors of thy love-deep eyes
Float on to me. I would I were
So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies,
To stand apart, and to adore,
Gazino; on thee for evermore,
O 7
Serene, imj)erial Eleanore !
ALFRED TEXNTSON.
XL
Those cheeks are beautiful, are bright
As the red rose with dewdrops graced ;
And faultless is the lovely light
Of those dear eyes, that, on me placed,
Pierce to my very heart, and fill
My soul with love's consuming fires.
While passion burns and reigns at will ;
So deep the love that fair inspires !
But joy upon her beauteous foim
Attends, her hues so bright to shed
O'er those red lips, before whose waiTii
And beaming smile all care is fled.
She is to me all light and joy,
I faint, I die, before her frown ;
Even Venus, lived she yet on earth,
A fairer goddess here must own.
144 ELEAXORE.
"Wliile many moui'n the vanisli'd liglit
Of summer, and the sweet sun's face,
I mourn that these, however bright.
No anoTiish from the soul can chase
o
By love inflicted : all around,
Nor song of birds, nor ladies' bloom,
Nor flowers upspringing from the ground,
Can chase or cheer the spirit's gloom.
WOLFKAM OF ESCHEKBUCH.
{Minnesinger.)
THE MAID OF LIS MORE.
I.
"Why cloth tlie maiden turn away
From voice so sweet, and words so dear ?
Why doth the maiden turn away,
• "When love and flattery woo her ear ?
And rarely that enchanted twain.
Whisper in woman's ear in vain.
Why doth the maiden leave the hall ?
No face is fair as hers is fair.
No step has such a fauy fall,
No azure eyes like hers are there.
The maiden seeks her lonely bower,
Although her father's guests are met ;
She knows it is the midnight hour.
She knows the first pale star is set.
And now the silver moon-beams wake
The spirits of the haunted Lake.
The waves take rainbow hues, and now
The shining train are gliding by,
Their chieftain lifts his gloi'ious brow,
The maiden meets his lingering eye.
14() THE MAID OF LISMORE.
The glittering sliapes melt into night ;
Another look, tlieir chief is gone,
And cliill and gray comes morning's light.
And clear and cold the Lake flows on ;
Close, close the casement, not for sleep,
Over such visions eyes but weep.
How many share such destiny.
How many, lured by fancy's beam,
Ask the impossible to be.
And pine, the victims of a dream !
MISS LANDON.
II.
" A WEAEY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine !
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine !
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green — •
No more of me you knew.
My love !
No more of me you knew.
" This morn is merry June, I trow —
The rose is budding fain ;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere wc two meet airain."
THE MAID OF LISMORE. 147
He turn'd his charger as lie spake,
Uj)on the river shore ;
He srave his bridle reins a shake,
Said, " Adieu for evermore,
My love !
And adieu for evermore."
SIE WALTEE SCOTT.
III.
I GIVE thee treasures hour by hour.
That old-time princes ask'd in vain.
And pined for in their useless power
Or died of passion's eager pain.
I give thee love as God gives light, .
Aside from merit or from prayer,
Kejoicing in its own delight.
And fi-eer than the lavish air.
I give thee prayers, like jewels strung
On golden threads of hope and fear ;
And tenderer thoughts than ever rung
In a sad angel's pitying tear.
As earth pours freely to the sea
Her thousand streams of wealth untold.
So flows my silent life to thee.
Glad that its very sands are gold.
148 THE MAID OF LISMORE.
What care I for thy carelessness ?
I give from depths that ovei'flow,
Regardless that their power to bless
Thy spirit cannot sound or know.
Far lingering on the distant dawn
My triumj)h shines, more sweet than late ;
When from these mortal mists withdrawn,
Thy heart shall know me — I can wait.
EOSE TEERY.
^(P7/y>^UL
x7
THE GONDOLA.
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now tlie white ;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ;
Nor mnks the gold-fin in the porphyiy font ;
The fire-fly wakens ; waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open nnto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake ;
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
ALFEED TENNYSON.
150 THE GOXDOLA.
II.
The Gondola glides
Like a sj)irit of nigM,
O'er the slumbering tides,
111 tlie calm moonlio-lit : —
The star of the North
Shows her golden eye,
But a brighter looks forth
From yon lattice on high !
Her taper is out.
And the silver beam
Floats the maiden about,
Like a beautiful dream !
And the beat of her heai-t
Makes her tremble all o'er,
And she lists with a start
To the dash of the oar.
But the moments are past
And her fears are at rest.
And her lover at last
Holds her clasped to his breast ;
And the planet above.
And the quiet blue sea,
Are pledged to his love
And his constancy.
TUE GONDOLA. 151
Her cheek is reclined
On tlie liome of liis breast,
And liis fingers are t"\vined
'Mid lier ringlets whicli rest
In many a fold
O'er Ms arm, that is placed
Round the cincture of gold
Which encircles her waist.
He looks on the stars,
Which are gemming the blue.
And devoutly he swears
He will ever be true ;
Then bends him to hear
The lov/ sound of her sigh,
And kiss the fond tear
From her beautiful eye.
And he watches its flashes,
Which brightly reveal
What the long fringing lashes
Would vainly conceal ;
And reads — while he kneels —
All his ardor to speak —
Her reply, as it steals
In a blush o'er her cheek !
'Till, now by the prayers
Which so softly reprove,
On his bosom, in tears,
She half murmurs her love ;
152 THE GONDOLA.
And tlie stifled confession
. Enraptm'cd lie sips,
'Mid tlie breathings of passion,
In dew fi'om lier lips !
m.
Thou liast beauty briglit and fair,
Manner noble, aspect fi'ee,
Eyes that are untouclied by care :
What then do we ask from thee ?
Thou hast reason quick and strong.
Wit that envious men admke.
And a voice itself a song !
What then can we still desire ?
Something thou dost want, O queen !
(As the gold doth ask alloy,)
Tears — amid thy laughter seen.
Pity mingling mth thy joy.
T. K. UERVEY,
BAEET COENTVALL.
%
THE PLEASING THOUGHT.
Ah ! little do tliose features wear
The shade of grief, the soil of care ;
The hair is parted o'er a brow
Open and white as mountain snow,
And thence descends in many a ring,
With sun and summer glistening.
Yet something on that brow has wrought
A moment's cast of passing thought :
Musing of gentle dreams, like those
Which tint the slumbers of the rose :
Not love, — love is not yet with thee —
But just a glimpse what love may be :
A memory of some last night's sigh.
When flitting blush and drooping eye
Answered some youthful cavalier,
Whose words sank pleasant on thine ear,
To stir, but not to fill the heart ; —
Dreaming of such, fair girl, thou art.
20
154 THE PLEASING THOUGHT.
Thou blessed season of our sj)riug,
When hopes are angels on the wing ;
Bound upwards to theu' heavenly shore,
Alas ! to visit earth no more,
Then step and laugh alike are light,
When, like a summer morning bright,
Our spirits in their mirth are such,
As turn to gold whate'er they touch.
The past ! 'tis nothing, — childhood's day
Has rolled too recently away.
For youth to shed those mournful tears
That fill the eye in older years.
When care looks back on that bright leaf.
Of ready smiles and short-lived grief.
The future ! 'tis the promised land,
To which Hope points wdth prophet hand.
Telling us fairy tales of flowers
That only change for fruit — and ours.
Thouo'h false, thousrh fleeting^, and thous^h vain.
Thou blessed time I say again.
Glad being, Avith thy downcast eyes,
And visionary look that lies
Beneath their shadow, thou shalt share
A world, where all my treasures are, —
My lute's sweet empire, filled with all
That will obey my spirit's call ;
A world lit up by fancy's sun !
Ah ! little like our actual one.
MISS LAJJDON.
THE WILD-FLOWER
I.
Lo ! walking fortli into the sunny air,
Her face yet sliaded by the pensiveness
Breathed o'er it from her holy orisons,
She pours a blessing from her dewy eyes
O'er that low roof, and then the large blue orbs
Salute serenely the high arch of heaven.
On — on she shines away into the woods !
And all the birds burst out in ecstasy
As she hath reappear'd. And now she stands
In a long glade beside the Fames' well —
So named she in delight a tiny spring
In the rich mosses, fringed "svith flowery dyes,
O'erhung by tiny trees, that tinier still
Seem'd through that mirror, in whose light she loved
Each morn to reinstate with sim])le liraids,
Into its silken snood her ^^rgin hair,
Unconsciously admired, by her own soul
156 THE WILD-FLOWER.
Made liappy — such is nature's law benign —
Even by the beauty of her ow^n innocence.
Of gentle blood was she ; but tide of time,
Age after age, bore onwards to decay
The fortunes of her fathers, and at last
The memory of the once illustrious dead
Forgotten quite, and to all common ears
The name they were so proud of most obscm^e
And meaningless, among the forest woods.
The poor descendant of that house was now,
But for the delicate wild-flower, blooming there.
Last of his race, a lowly Forester !
Yet never Lady in her jewell'd pride,
As she aj)pear'd upon her bridal morn,
Pictured by limner, who had lived in love
With rarest beauty all his life, in halls
Of nobles, and the palaces of kings.
E'er look'd more lovely through time's tints divine,
Than she who stood now by the Fairies' w^ell
Imagination's phantom, lily-fair.
In pure simplicity of himiblest life.
PEOFESSOE WILSON.
XL
On fairest of the rural maids !
Thy birth was in the forest shades :
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
"Were all that met thine infant eye.
THE WILD FLOWER. 15^
Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child.
Were ever in the sylvan wild ;
And all the beauty of the j)lace
Is in thy heart and on thy face.
The twilight of the trees and rocks
Is in the light shade of thy locks ;
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
Its playful way among the leaves.
Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
And silent waters heaven is seen ;
Their lashes are the herbs that look
On their young figures in the brook.
The forest depths, by foot unpress'd.
Are not more sinless than thy breast ;
The holy peace, that fills the air
Of those calm solitudes is there.
■VraLLIAM C BETANT.
III.
She is one in whom I find
All things fair and bright combined ;
When her beauteous form I see,
Kings themselves might envy me ;
Joy with joy is gilded o'er.
Till the heart can hold no more.
158 THE WILD FLOWER.
She is bright as morning sun,
She. my fairest, loveliest one ;
For the honor of the fair,
I will sing her l^eauty rare,
Every thing I'll do and be
So my lady solace me.
STEINMAK, {Minnesinger.)
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ISABELLA.
Scene. — A J2ooni, with a Banquet.
Isabella.
Time lags, and slights his duty. I remember
The days when he would fly. How sweet they were !
Then I rebuked his speed, and now — and now —
I drench his wing with tears. How heavily
The minutes pass ! Can he avoid me ? No.
1 hear a step come sounding through the hall.
It is the murderer Sforza. Now, my heart !
Else up in thy full strength, and do the act
Of justice bravely. So, he's here.
{Enter Sfoeza.)
Sfoeza.
My love !
O my delight, my Deity ! I am come
To thank you for being gracious. I am late %
Isabella.
No ! in the best of times, sir.
160 isabella,
Sfoeza.
Yet you look
Not gay, my Isabella. Nouglit lias happened
To shake your promise ?
Isabella.
Be assured of that.
Doubt not, nor chide, my lord. My heart you know
Falls faint at times. To-night I'll do my best
To entertain you as you merit.
Sfoeza.
Better I ho2:>e, my Isabella.
Isabella.
Your grace
May challenge any thing ; from me the most.
Although a widow, not divested quite
Of all her sorrows, I am here to smile
Like tearful April on you : but you'll grow
To vanity, sir, unless some stop be put
To your amorous conquests. I must do't.
Sfoeza.
You shall.
You shall, my Isabella.
Isabella.
Sir, I will.
You shall be wholly mine, till death shall part us.
I Imve been full of miseries ; they have swelled
My heart to bursting. You shall soothe me.
ISABELLA. 161
SrOKZA.
How?
Isabella.
We'll find a way : nay, not so free, my lord ;
I must be won witli words, (tliongli hollow) smiles,
And vows, (altliough you mean tliem not) kind looks
And excellent flattery. Come, my lord, wliat say you ?
I'm all impatience.
SroEZA.
Ok ! wkat can I say ?
Tkou art so lovely, that all words must fail.
Tkey of wkom poets sing men say were shadows ;
Thus will tkey swear of tkee.
Isabella.
Alas ! my lord.
I kave no laureate kere to lie in rkyme ;
So must remain unsung.
Sfoeza.
But I will kave
Your name recorded in tke sweetest verse ;
Like lier, wko, in old inunitable tales.
Was pictured gatkering flowers in Sicily,
And raised to Pluto's tkrone ; metkinks ske was
A beautiful propkecy of tkee ; and tkere
Mountains skall rise, and grassy valleys lie
Asleep i' tke sun, and l)lue Sicilian streams
Skall wander, and green woods (just toucked witk ligkt)
Skall yield tkeir forekeads to some western wind,
21
162 ISABELLA.
And bend to briglit Apollo as lie comes
Smiling from. out tlie east. What more ? WLy, you
Shall kneel and pluck the flowers, and look aside,
Hearkening for me ; and — I will be there, (a god,)
Rushing towards thee, my sweet Proserpina.
An ugly story !
How, sweet ?
Isabella.
Sfoeza.
Isabella.
You would take me
To — Hell then ? but forgive me, I am ill ;
Distract at times ; we'll now forget it all.
Come, you will taste my poor repast ?
Sfoeza.
Oh, sm*ely.
Isabella.
We'll be alone.
Sfoeza.
'Tis better. Yet I have {Tlmj feast.
No relish for common viands. Shall I drink
To thee, my queen \
Isabella.
To me, sir. This (look on't)
Is a curious wine ; and like those precious drops
Sought by philosophers, (the life elixir,)
Will make you immortal.
isabella. 1g3
Sfoeza.
Give it me, my love.
May you ne'er know an Lour of sorrow.
Isabella.
Ha!
Stay, stay ; soft, put it down.
Sfoeza.
Why, liow is tliis ?
Isabella.
Would — would you drink without me ? Shame upon you.
Look at this fruit ; a sea- worn captain, one
Who had sailed all 'round the world, brought it for me
From the Indian isles ; the natives there, men say,
Worship it. This —
Sfoeza.
It has a luscious taste.
My nephew, when he lived, loved such a fruit.
Isabella.
Thanks, spirits of vengeance ! [aside.
Now you shall taste the immortal wine, my lord.
And drink a health to Cupid.
Sfoeza.
Cupid, then,
He was a cunning god ; he dimmed men's eyes,
'Tis prettily said i' the fable. But ony eyes
(Yet how I love !) are clear as though I were
A stoic. Ah !
x64 isabella.
Isabella.
What ails my lord ?
SroEZA.
Tlie wine is cold.
Isabella.
You'll find it warmer, shortly.
It is its nature, as I'm told, to lieat
The heart. My lord, I read but yesterday
Of an old man, a Grecian poet, who
Devoted all his life to wine, and died
O' the grape. Methinks 'twas just.
SroEZA.
'Twas so. This wine
Isabella.
And stories have been told of men whose lives
"Were infamous, and so their end. I mean
That the red murderer has himself been murdered
The traitor struck with treason. He who let
The orphan perish, came himself to want ;
Thufe justice and great God have ordered it !
So that the scene of evil has been turned
Against the actor ; pain paid back with pain ;
And ^-)oison given for j^oison.
Sfoeza.
O my heart !
Isabella.
Is the wine still so cold, sir ?
isabella. 165
Sfoeza.
I am burning,
Some water ! I bm-n with, tliirst. Oli ! wliat is this ?
Isabella.
You're pale ; I'll call for help. Here !
[^Servants enter.
Isabella.
Bind tliat man
To his seat.
Sfoeza.
Ah ! traitress.
Isabella.
Leave us now, alone. [^Servants exeunt.
My lord ! I'll not deceive you ; you have di'ank
Your last draught in this world.
Sfoeza.
My heart, my heart !
Traitress ! I faint faint ah !
Isabella.
I would have done
Some act of justice in a milder shape;
But it could not be. I felt that you must die /
For my sake, for my boy, for Milom. You
Murdered my lord husband. Stare not thus ;
'Tis melancholy truth. You have usmped
The first place in the dukedom ; have swept down
My child's rights to the dust. What say you, sir ?
166 ISABELLA.
Do you iinpeacli my story ? While you've time,
Give answer. [He dies.
You are silent l then are you
Condemned forever. I could grieve, almost.
To see his ghastly stare. His eye is vague ;
Is motionless. How like those shapes he grows.
That sit in stony whiteness over tombs,
Memorials of theii* cold inhabitants.
Speak ! are you sunk to stone ? What can you say
In your defence, sir ? Turn your eyes away.
How dare you look at me so steadily ?
You shall be amorous no more. Must I
Rouse you ? How idly his arms hang. Tm-n your eyes
Aside. I dare not touch him ; yet I must.
Ha ! he is dead — dead ; slain by me ! Great Heaven !
Forgive me ! I'm a widow, broken-hearted.
A mother, too ; 'twas for my child I struck.
Yon bloody man did press so hardly on us ;
He would have torn my pretty bird from me ;
I had but one ; what could I do to save it ?
There was no other way !
BAEET COENVALL.
THE PASSION FLOWER
I.
'Tis niglit, tis niglit ! tlie lioui' of hours,
When love lies down with folded wino;s,
By Psyche in her starless bowers,
And down his fatal aiTows flings ;
Those bowers whence not a word is heard,
Save only from the bridal bird,
Who 'midst that utter darkness sin2:s
Sweet music, like the running springs ;
This her burden, soft and clear, —
" Love is here ! Love is here ! "
'Tis night ! the moon is on the stream,
Bright spells are on the soothed sea.
And hope, the child, is gone to dream
Of pleasures — which may never 1 )e !
And now is haggard care asleep ;
1G8 THE PASSION FLOWER.
Now dotli the widow Sorrow smile,
And slaves are liusli'd in slumber deep,
Forgetting grief and toil awliile !
"Wliat siglit can tiery morning show,
To shame the stars or pale moonlight ?
AVhat beauty can the day bestow.
Like that which falls with gentle night ?
Sweet lady, sing I not aright ?
Oh, turn and tell me, — for the day
Is faint and fading fast away ;
And now comes back the hour of hours.
When love his lovelier mistress seeks.
Sighing like winds 'mongst evening flowers.
Until the maiden silence speaks !
Fair girl, methinks — nay, hither turn
Those eyes, which 'midst their blushes burn !
Methinks, at such a time, one's heart
Can better bear both sweet and smart ;
Love's look — the first — which never dieth
Or death — which comes when beauty flieth —
When strength is slain, when youth is past,
And all, save truth, is lost at last !
BAEKY COKNTVALL.
THE PASSION FLOWER. ^QQ
n.
Long liave I searcli'd o'er memory's scroll,
Yet there, in vain, have sought to trace
The record of a gentler soul —
A sweeter form — a lovelier face.
And thou, beloved ! oft hast deign'd
Those calm and radiant eyes to bend.
And those dear lips that never feigned,
To move, in converse with thy friend.
Thou little knew'st what words unbreathed
Lay burning at his heart the while —
What wild, impassion'd thoughts were wreathed
By the calm mockery of a smile.
II. n. EKOAVXELL.
III.
Stay ! let the breeze still blow on me
That pass'd o'er liei\ my heart's true queen !
"Were she not sweet as sweet can be.
So soft that breeze had never been.
O'ercome, my heart to her l)ows down ;
Yet heaven protect thee, lady, still !
O were those roseate lips my o^mi,
I might defy e'en age's chill.
90!
170 THE TASSION FLOWER.
Before tliat loveliest of the land
Well may tlie boaster's tongue run low
I view those eyes, tbat lily hand,
And still toward where she tames bow.
O niig^ht I that fau' form enfold,
As evening sweetly closed on us !
No — that were more than heart could hold
Enough for me to praise her thus.
HENET OF ANHALT,
{Minnesinger.)
MARGAPiITA.
I.
Gentle maiden, wandering ever
By tlie winding Guadalquivir,
Liglit as the feather wliicli tlie wind
Waves o'er tliy smootli and placid brow ;
What thought is passing o'er thy mind,
To leave a moment's shadow now,
Gentle Margarita ?
'Tis not of grief, 'tis not of care —
In these thy gay soul hath no share —
No gloom can long endure to be
Where those are whom the world caress ;
If ausrlit of sadness visit thee,
'Tis sadness born of joy's excess.
Pensive Margarita !
172 MARGARITA.
Thy joy of heart will come agaiu,
Like sunshine to thy native Spain,
"When clouds have faded from her sky ;
Then by the clear and tranquil river,
Tliy step as free, thy hopes as high.
Go, hail thy own dear Guadalquivir,
MeiTy Margarita !
S. C. HALL.
THE EKD.
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