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Page [1]

THE
MOON SEEN BY DAY.

THOU most companionless! what dost thou here
    Walking the bright but foreign fields of day?
Faint, as if weary of that golden sphere,
    Where little more than wonder greets thy ray,
Doing cold homage to thy daring flight,
    Weak, lovely rival of the unenvying sun!
Who only smiles to see his throne by right,—
    Where his supremacy will bow to none—
    By such a soft and meek-browed Being won,
As thee, thou shrinking stranger in a sky
Whose blaze seems weighing down thy modest eye,
And dulling its pure lustre; never made
To stand forth thus, without a single shade,
In the broad noon of daylight's loud domain,
Where heartless crowds thy nature so profane;
And they, who loved thee in thy deep-hushed home,
Feel thee another in that dazzling dome.

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Page 2

Sisterless spirit! palest of the pale!
    Like a white violet, beaten by the rain,—
A single one, that, strange as it is frail,
    Has sprung by chance, where every pencilled vein
Of its young heart lies open to the gaze
    Of each gay flower-group, in the sun-filled air;
Making it fear, its wet, wan cheek to raise,
    And meet the summer multitude's bright stare.
    Thou to me look'st heart-sick of all this glare,
And pining for thine own land's raven veil,
Through whose soft folds of stillness more avail
Thy dearer, holier smiles, and glistening hair
Flung down and streaming o'er the bosom bare
Of the clear waters, breathing their deep love;
While star-beams girdle thy pure zone above,
And every nearer cloud that wanders by
Catches a silent sweetness from thine eye.

What art thou like, oh! solitary thing?
    Something is in thee touches much my heart—
Bending its reeds of feeling with a wing
    Cold as the winds that have sad music's art,
Among those green, wild river-flutes, that taught
    The lip of man to imitate their sigh.—
What is in thee of bitterness, oh! what,
    Angel of silence in day's gaudy sky!
    To bow my spirit thus o'erwhelmingly,

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Beneath the meaning of thy mournful smile?
What likeness, as I gaze, grows clear the while
In thine to other features,—of a fate
As high, as strange, as proudly desolate?
Which, as it diadems the drooping head
With light and sound, but dims, and maketh dead
The glory nature gave to her who wears
The sweeter power that no such sceptre bears.

Alas! too strong it grows,—the likeness mute!—
    What is this lonely look, but the gilt shame
Twined round the sensitive ethereal lute,
    (Along with all thy glorious laurels, Fame!)
When woman's veil is gone!—when song hath laid
    (As it will ever lay) the bosom bare,
And she whose lip was of itself afraid,
    Trembles to hear her own name fill the air—
    A worthless echo! for which fewer care,
Than for the humblest, most ungifted breast,
Whose feelings but like moonlight are expressed
In the sweet silence of her natural home;
Not where the world's whole day-light crowds may come
To gaze on them: oh! what though many eyes
Will pause to bend on hers in gentlest guise,
A moment as they pass; she stands apart—
They cannot pay her for the thoughts that start.

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Genius! whose snow-white wings show life's least stain,
    Lonely enough on earth thou ever art,
But never half so lonely, or so vain,
    As when thy burning breath disturbs the heart
Whose path should be but as a forest stream,
    Whispering along, looked through by only heaven,
And the lone primrosed banks that edge its gleam,
    Smiling back love for the green freshness given:—
    Where never bough that curtains it is riven,
But casts its autumn-sorrows year by year,
Its yellow leaves upon that bosom clear,
Which sighs, and bears them out of thought away.
Oh! thou young queen, that vainly wouldst look gay,
In this, thy foreign realm! sad bride of light!
Dear star of peace! have I e'er wished such height?
Me, may but silence veil unto my grave,
And there, there only, the cold laurel wave!

1829.

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Page 5

JULIE DE M——.

SHE went from us, and we scarce thought then
To meet in this changeful world again;
We forgave the gladness that lit her smile
With very tears, to go from our Isle;
We smiled through our own most deep regret—
Gay words alone were spoke—and yet,
'Twas well nigh the parting of those who know
That their voices shall mingle no more below.
We might go to her—but oh! never more
Would she come to our bright but bitter shore;—
"Its valleys," she said, "were the loveliest things
She had seen in her sorrowful wanderings;
They were almost like her own matchless land's,
Her glorious, her peaceful Switzerland's!
Its mountain chains, as they broke on her eye,
Made her think of her own dear quiet sky;
Their grand and their graceful sweep was more
Like those, which seen from her own lake, wore

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At sunset, that soft, faint, blood-red light,
So beautiful on their peaks' pure white,
Than any she yet had since beheld.
Yes, they were like, but her hills swelled
Proudlier far; and then on our's
Where was the breath of her free, wild flowers?
That magnificent one, whose deep blue urn∗
Keeps the crystal dew till the mid-noon burn;
It grew by thousands all up those hills,
And beside the gush of their many rills;
And still in its sickliness it was dear,
When she met it pale in our gardens here.
And where on our hills was the crown of those,
The eternal gleam of eternal snows?

    "Oh! no, our island-cheeks were fair,
Our island tresses of golden hair;
And glorious, most glorious the ocean roar,
For ever around our island-shore;
And its hearts were the kindest, and warmest on earth;
Its hearts! nay, her lip has no words for their worth:
But too often in it had Hope's bubble burst.
She had girlhood's heart when she came to it first;
But fifteen years were enough to tame
Any heart's light laugh—she was not the same;"

[Note *:]

The Gentianella.

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Page 7

And she smiled as she showed us the touch of care
Too soon in the braids of her raven hair.
She had long ago given the gay wreaths it wore
To the little groups round—she would wear them no more.
In their mirth she seemed to live over again
The times that lay far back in memory's ken;
And was happy, their small arms flung round her neck,
When their brows with those wreaths she would playfully deck.

    How human feelings can throw their shade
O'er the goodliest things our God hath made!
That eve of landing!—She could recall
The rocks, the glittering waves, and all;
The burst of gladness from those who stood
On the deck, as they cut through the foamy flood,
Watching with fixed, proud, kindling eye,
Their own emerald coast, and its golden sky;
While she turned away, to hide the tears
Of one who her place of exile nears.

    Yet, in those first years, it was not so hard
To look as if joy were yet unmarred.
"One more and then"—Hope whispered still—
That one went by; alas! one more still,
Oh! she was changed, but had yet to learn
A lesson of change more darkly stern.

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    Some had shrunk from the dazzling gift, that then
Hung on her lip,—which scarce again
Might care to witch round it the crowd, whose ring
Sought its "Nature"—in this world a lovely thing,
Though flinging its arrowy gayness round,
With a fearless random, to soothe or wound;
Yet when tenderness touched it, or sorrow, her speech
Had a simple poetry, hard to reach,
And her word of kindness was treasured more
Than another's bounty, such spell it bore.
Much still remained of those earlier days,
When the young stranger chained and charmed the gaze;
But much had her mournful heart laid down,
Since some felt a beauty was even in her frown—
For Truth, clear, lofty, and pure, was there—
No meaner thing might seem near it fair.
How the blood of her free-souled mountain race
Would rise in swift scorn to her changeful face!
And her ancient and noble house! (though now
A decaying name) how often her brow
Would catch some spark of its fire, gone out
In her brotherless home! where all about,
E'en 'mid its fallen fortunes, yet
Lingered proud memories, now but regret.

    But her's was a spirit not born to stoop:
Some might have seen that proud forehead droop

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Page 9

With sickness of heart, but none ever with shame;
She moved like a being above earth's blame.
Too much, perhaps, of an April sky,
Too little of lowliness marked her eye;
Too often, for woman's meekness, came,
O'er its fondness, the flash of indignant flame:
Still, a deep fount lay in her sensitive breast,
Of all that woman hath dearest and best:
And to our Isle 'twas enough she was one
With the touching claim of a strange land's tone.
But when we looked on her there, and thought
Of her life's best years and their withering lot;
Of how she had counted day after day,
And how hope deferred wears the heart away;
When we remembered our own home's smiles,
Not severed by seas—not away far miles,
Yet pined for, as only they can know,
Who were kept from its loved, in weal or woe:
How could we keep in mind one trace
Of moods, that her next least smile would efface?
But every year gave a gentler touch,
To the mind that had suffered and borne so much;
And before she left us, its generous tone
Prayed us to pardon all bitterness gone.

    We loved to stir up her enthusiast soul,
Till like her streams, in their downward roll.

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Page 10

From their springs, where Alp on Alp stands piled,
It would give forth its natural music wild;
Now richly strong, now soft and sad,
Then bursting away in freedom glad,
As she wandered in memory back again,
To her country, and spoke of cliff, and glen,—
Of the ranz-des-vaches through the silent air—
Of the precipice-spots where no foot marks were,
Save the Chamois', as he had bounded by,
O'er some fearful gulf, through the deep blue sky—
Of the lonely seat in the self-wreathed bower,
And the forest walk, in the noon's hot hour,
When the solemn darkness would burst, and show
The broad gold lake, deep, deep below—
Of the mountain-tracks she had loved to climb,
With one in the merry vintage-time,
When the song and the far-off laugh would sound
Through the clustering grapes, and thick leaves round,
With the echoes of those sweet, tinkling bells,
That the herdsman knew, through the heights and dells.
But her home!—there was not a flower, a bough,
A stone near its pathway, she had not now
Before her, as clear, as if once more there
She stood breathing its pure, wild, fragrant air.
She had been there in dreams through the voiceless night,
And had bitterly woke to the mocking light;
She had been there in thought through the gloomy day,
And had started to feel she was far away.

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Page 11

Her return to its roof, in that long left clime,
She had pictured—oh! many and many a time;
She had sometimes thought it would never come,
But she cared not now, she should die at home!—
She had pictured the meeting, the speechless joy,
That henceforth no parting on earth should destroy,
The cheeks pressed together, the long embrace,
The mute fond gaze in each other's face.
Would the mother remember her altered child—
Her Julia, her youngest, the glad, the wild?
And she—would that mother's gentle face
Startle her by its saddening trace
Of time, and the memories haunting one
Left in her widowhood's lateness, lone?

    Alas! it was strange—yet now it drew near,
A deadening feeling, a gloom, a fear,
Hung o'er the one desire of life,
Mingling a pain with delight's deep strife,
And a sense of shrinking, acutely wrought
With the bourne that never left her thought.
But, one glimpse of her valley, and this would pass,
Like the shadows that sailed o'er its sunny grass.

    Each gave her some parting pledge, to take
Back with her for green Erin's sake;
Sometimes to bring to her thought and gaze
The friends she had loved in her exile days;

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Things, scarce worth bearing o'er wave and hill,
(We felt,) but they would be something still,
To remind her of those, who could not soon
Forget the "farewell" of that lovely June.

    Oh! her look as she listened! she did not speak,
But her heart's quick heat rushed o'er her cheek;
And other tears, in a sudden gush,
Poured down fast o'er its crimson flush;
And the faint smile went from her trembling lip,
As she spoke of our long companionship:
Then came again with its bright, swift gleam,
As she said, there had crossed her one sweet hope-beam,
We must, must go to her mountain-land,
She should yet again clasp each dear hand.—
We only smiled with the doubting smile
That silently lets such dreams beguile.

    She went—she paused not—she reached her lake,—
The wood,—not a wind through its leaves was awake,—
The lonely pathway—the very door—
But a cloud dropped there—we might follow no more.
We only knew that the hour was dumb,
But for the waves with their gentle hum;
And that the full moon shone down clear,
On lake, wood, pathway, all things dear;
That the mother awoke from her lonely sleep,
In the arms of her child to start and weep:

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But that the wanderer did not wait,
To see, o'er her loved, ancestral gate
Many suns go down: no—did not stay
To look on one other vintage gay;
But, more hurryingly than she had sought
That landscape's beauty unforgot,
Fled from it, as if fear, or death,
Were in its every breeze's breath:
(Some whispered, with the vow even then,
Ne'er to return to it again).
But never did we gather more,
Than that some early dream was o'er,
Some fond and life-sustaining trust,
Crumbled away to barren dust.

She came again:—there had not more
Than a few short months gone fleetly o'er,
Since she left us, with thoughts of life's after years,
Till she came again, with few hopes or fears.—
With no wild burst of grief she came,
To many a glance she might seem the same;
Sickness had been on her cheek—but there
No looselier fell her still bright hair;
A somewhat had humbled her queen-like tread,
And slightly bowed down her lofty head;
Her tone was fainter, the fire seemed dead
That once gave her eye such a troubled light
Of passionate longing: a deeper night

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Page 14

But a calmer too, seemed her portion now.
Poor Julia! God be thy light below!
She named not her home again, and none
Asked how it looked in the setting sun;
Or whether her heart-beat had been loud,
When she saw it first in that moon-light shroud.
She mixed as before in the circle's mirth,
Like hundreds whose hopes are gone on earth;
The dance knew her step, and the laugh her tone:
All this may be and wild tears alone.∗

[Note *:]

"The heart knoweth his own bitterness."—PROV. xiv. 10.

1827.

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Page 15

THE SILENT ONE.

DEEPLY silent 'midst the loud!
    Silent as the blessed dead!
Thou amid the restless crowd
    Art a poem to be read.
Thou art like a statue lit
With inward radiance exquisite;
To the spirit's glance acute
Thy lips alone are marble-mute;
Thy very quietude intense
Disturbs the heart, like eloquence;
We vaguely feel, we dimly see,
That solemn secrets dwell with thee.

For wherefore—like that Eastern scene,∗
    Veiled in moonlight shadows deep,

[Note *:]

Hierapolis.

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Page 16

Where frozen cataracts, all serene,
    In soundless foam for ever sleep,—
Wherefore art thou calm and still
As one who ne'er could wildly weep,
When I see the earlier trace
Of swiftest passions on thy face?

Heat, as 'twere a furnace-breath,
    Has been marked to cross thy cheek,
Showing 'tis not feeling's death
    Will not let thee speak,
But a high, unwavering will—
A purpose imperturbable.

Thy piercing glance of hidden power
    Studies others, as if each
Paid some tribute to thy dower
    Of thoughts, that scorn terrestrial speech
To outshadow what they are.
Are they brought from worlds afar?—
Or from the grave?—Or from the strange,
Dark book of life—and grief—and change?
Ah! these could never yet compose
Hearts to thy supreme repose.

And what hast thou to do to seek,
    Treading in thy courtly ease,

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Page 17

Communion with the poor and meek,
    Where there is but God to please?
Go thou to kings, and bend thy knee,
    In statelier humility!

The haughty world will know its own
    Imposing signature on thee.
'Twould grieve it much, thy noble form
    Ignobly bowed to see,
Among the lowly of the earth,
    As if ye had a common birth.
For but to see thee is to rove
    In thought through princely halls of light,
And there to watch thee smile, and move
    In Envy's troubled sight;
And there to mark thy glance alone
Make a hundred hearts thy own.
Was it ever so?—I seek
Answer on thy stirless cheek.

But when thy dark and tranquil eye
    Convicts me in that stealthy gaze,
I am awed—I know not why—
    I am speechless in its rays,
As if a sudden blaze of light
Had struck my searching spirit's sight.

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Page 18

Oh! silent in thy matchless grace,
    As some majestic forest-flower,
Whose vast and shadowy dwelling place
    Has felt the elements of power,
In storm and lightning, bursting through
Its tropic richness pierced by few;
Is there nothing that would make
Thy spirit like Vesuvius wake?

Would I knew the mortal name,
    Or immortal, that could stir
Thy lips with tenderness, or shame,
    Or indignation; or could spur
Thy heart with Memory's cruel might;
To pour thy feelings forth to light!
I would not spare thee, if the spell
Were mine: I would not let thee dwell
In this scarcely human rest,
Amid the troubled—the unblest.

There is One Name—I heard it spoken;
    And then I saw at last
That depth of stillness round thee broken,
    As by a clarion's blast.

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Page 19

It was the one mysterious word
    Thy bosom's fountains to unclose,
Troubling with overflowing love
    Thy fathomless repose.
Thine eye,—at that despised Name,
    Worshipped in heaven,—more full of light,
With sacred dew suffused became.
    No more the breathless hush of night
Seemed brooding round thee; well didst thou,
With no cold lip, nor coward brow,
Bear witness to the only "True,"∗
"Whom none of this world's princes knew."

[Note *:]

Rev. xix. 11.

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Page 20

A DREAM.

1827.

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Page 27

WRITTEN FOR MISS D. W.'S ALBUM.

IT is not now that I can speak, while still
    Thy lakes, thy hills, thyself are in my sight;
I would be quiet—for the thoughts that fill
    My spirit's urn are a confused delight;
They must have time to settle to the clear
    Untroubled calm of memory, ere they show,
True as the water-depths around thee here,
    These images, that then will come and go,
An everlasting joy. Far, far away
As life, extends the shadow of to-day;
And keenlier present from the past will come
Thy sweet laugh's freshness pure, with all the Poet's home.

Rydal Mount, 1830.

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Page 28

TO A WEEPING ASH.∗

1828.

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Page 33

LINES COMPOSED AT SEA.

            "He leadeth me beside the still waters."

"BESIDE still waters!" yes, how deeply still!
    E'en on this night I feel thee lead my soul,
Oh! gracious Guide! whose voice within my breast,
    With power its deeper ocean to control,
Is breathing now such all-unearthly rest,
    While the wild sea doth lift me, at its will,
High on its thundering, tempest-maddened roll,
    To the dread summit of each moving hill;
Then downward suddenly to valleys dark
    Bear me again; and with a heavy sound,
(Like that which, as they sank to death,
    Has sternly spoken to the drowned,)
Sweep o'er the quivering, struggling ship,
That still,—without companionship,—
While pants her noble heart for breath,
Right onward holds her way, like fixed intrepid Faith!

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Page 34

Hark to the fathomless Atlantic's call
From its far solitudes!—while all its bays
With a deep voice reply! The solemn hall
Of the sky's temple, and the assembled stars,
That nothing feel of earth or earth-born wars,
Methinks are listening, with their silent gaze,
To the strong winds; and to the music fierce
Of their loud worship. Hark! again they raise
Their choral anthem's awful swell of praise:
Again the waves pour forth their savage lays,
Responded to afar by cliff and cavern tall.
I listen too—yet walk in heart with Thee,
Where there is nothing but the summer sound
Of stillest streams:—my pillow is the sea,
That like a bosom stung with griefs profound,
Never from guilt's dark memories to be free,
Trembles and heaves 'neath my reposing cheek,
Convulsively: and yet I am at rest;
I only see a form of glory meek,
Treading the deep. Oh! high and heavenly Guest!
"The sea is thine, and thou hast made it,"—thou,
With that most sorrowful and gentle brow,
Crowned upon earth with thorns! I hear thee speak;
And at thy feet the mighty waters lie,
In adoration, dumb, confessing they are weak.
And should for me no earthly morning break,
Sweet are thy words that whisper, "Fear not, it is I!"

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Page 35

ON THE DEATH
OF THE
FIRST BORN AND INFANT SON OF MR. AND MRS.
A—, AMERICAN MISSIONARIES AT SMYRNA.

"Go! thou young spirit to thy God,
    Go as a dew-drop goes,
At sunrise from the unfolding leaves
    Of summer's earliest rose!
Fade from our mortal sight, and hence
Go in thy crystal innocence!"

Such was my thought, thou sufferer meek!
    When first I heard thy soul
Had spread its fair, unsullied wings
    To seek heaven's radiant goal.
"Beautiful Blossom! go," I said,
"Who, who would weep the early dead?

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Page 36

"Thy little heart will breathe away
    Calmly its fragrant life;
Not one dark memory of sin
    To ruffle, with its strife,
Death's silent current, as it flows,
Bearing thee onward to repose.

"Not one wild pang, of fear, or grief,
    Or agonizing love,
To sadden thy celestial flight,
    Thou pure and precious dove!
No darkness on thy lonely way,
To that far world of endless day.

"None of the thoughts that trouble us,—
    None of the burning tears,
That the proud heart will sternly hide
    For long and weary years,
Until that dread, all-humbling hour
Wrings forth to sight their reckless shower;
And mind and soul give way at last,
In wanderings, breathing of the past.

"But thou!—there is no Past for thee,
    No memories save of flowers,
And sunshine, and the smiles of love
    That lit thy earthly hours:

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Page 37

Thou didst but look on earth, and go
From its unknown, untasted woe."

'Tis past.—Alas! o'er thee, even thee,
    All guiltless as thou wert,
Death's deep cold waters darkly rolled,
    Nor spared thine infant heart:
But now thy all of death is o'er,
And pain shall never touch thee more.

When flowers were shutting, and the moon
    Rose on the cypress trees,
The immortal flower, like those of earth,
    Shrank from the chill night-breeze;
Folded its fragile leaves like them,
And drooped in rest its wearied stem;
To wake with all that glorious band,
The martyrs of this solemn land.

'Twas not the excluded splendour soft,
    That Eastern moonbeams shed,
Which lit thy lips, and made thy look
    Too lovely for the dead.
No! on that night in truth it seemed
That on thy face a lustre streamed,
A light, but not of earthly skies,—
The light of thy Redeemer's eyes!

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Page 38

Oh! beautiful those gentle hands,
    That pure as sculpture lay!
The wondrous mystery of their grace
    Passed not with life away.
Instinct with soul, each snowy palm
Had language yet, though cold and calm;
And the transparent fingers still
An eloquence the heart to thrill.

Go! without one profaning tear
    Dropped on thy placid brow.
The heart grows sad with envy's gloom,
    To gaze upon thee now.
Go! go, thou little child, to heaven!
A blessed lot to thee is given.

But no!—it is a glorious doom,
    Strong in undaunted faith
To live, and calmly learn that life
    Is bitterer than death:
To know what thou canst never know
Of this polluted world below,
Trodden by Him who bore its whole
Dark horror on his spotless soul!

Like warriors, on its mortal field
    Wounded and faint to stand,
And yet defy the powers of hell
    To pluck us from His hand;

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Page 39

With ever-kindling courage high
To look upon the earth and sky,
And through affliction's heaviest shade
Move on, unconquered, undismayed!

Thou wert not granted thus to strive,
    Or the fierce conflict see;
"The heat and burden of the day"
    Were all unborne by thee!—
Shame on my coward spirit weak!
I spoke as the faint-hearted speak.
By all the fiery trials past,
By all to come, while life shall last,
By that victorious joy within,
Trampling to death all grief and sin,—
Thy early grave, thy tearless lot,
Thou blessed child! I envy not.

Smyrna.

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Page 40

THE MEETING OF THE BRITISH
ASSOCIATION IN DUBLIN, AUGUST, 1835.

THEY come! they come! a spirit-dazzling host!
Proud England's offspring!—Earth's least earthly boast,
    Science's every prophet-mantled son!

    As Alpine streams, in their majestic glee,
    Hastening to join some mighty current, run
Down from the solitary thrones of snow,
Where they were nursed, to human haunts below;
They, with their brother-minds, from many a height
In other climes, come flashing on our sight,
    As if the winter of the world were done.

    Even now, advancing o'er the sunny sea,
Some haply bend upon our island-coast
    The looks that nations have desired to see,

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Page 41

The genius-breathing smiles, that will not live
    Beneath the sculptor's most impassioned hand,
In aught the marble's sad, cold lips can give,—
    Chillingly gentle, or austerely grand,
Meet for the unborn to look upon, and share,
But not for us, oh! not for us to bear,
Whose souls have met, and started to receive
The electric influence of their living glow,
And feel its sweetness through our being flow.

    Our mental day becomes a splendid night,
More beautiful than noon!—A twilight still,
Awaiting keenly wonder's rapturous thrill,—
A sense of darkness to be lit by them,
Who come, our canopy of thought to gem,—
Deepens; and now a thousand hearts expand,
A thousand minds for sleepless joy prepare,
As,—like the stars assembling one by one
To their high conclave,—each unto his post
Speeds with the rays of glory he has won,
And takes, in Fame's clear firmament, his stand,
While silent triumph fills the summer air.

    Hail to your multiplying clusters bright,
Ye orbs sublime! ye fountain-minds of light!
We, with one burning heart, unto our fervid land,
Welcome the kings of earth, a high immortal band.

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Page 42

    But is it midnight, only midnight, yet?
Comes there a dawn in which even these shall fade?
Shall spirits more transcendantly arrayed
    In quenchless lustre, meet, than here have met,
To cast on all things an eclipsing shade?
Hark! even now mysterious sounds are heard,
As if the footsteps of the morning stirred
Towards our world: the murmur wide and deep,
Of thousand thousands starting up from sleep,
To meet some daylight, that doth onward creep
O'er ruined kingdoms,—Babylons decayed,—
The throbbing pulses of a world afraid,—
To bid the earth her ancient dreams forget.
Yes! sunrise hasteneth! eyes that now are wet
With tears too bitter to look up and see
This glittering crowd's fair pageantry,—
Hearts on their solitary path made wise
Earth's withering scorn in meekness to despise,
    And, like "the wise men from the East," bow down
With fearless love, on faith's adoring knee,
To Israel's king, whom Faith alone may see,
    Whose temples claimed and wore their wondrous crown
    Of suffering's glory, and of shame's renown,—
They too shall have a radiant hour ere long,
They too stand forth amid a royal throng.
Suddenly, brightly, mid the darkened skies,
Another Light shall on the nations rise;

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Page 43

"The Morning Star of God!"∗ —A joyous cry
Shall pierce the heavens: "the Bridegroom draweth nigh!"
And He who made these burning minds to shine,
Through Time's long night, with beauty so divine,—
He who "was dead and liveth," shall remove
The solemn veil that hides his awful love,
The curtain dark, whose folds before mankind
Seem shaken now as by some mighty wind.

[Note *:]

"The bright and morning star," Rev. xxii. 16.

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Page 44

"A FEW YEARS."

1828.

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Page 48

ON SEEING, IN 1833, THE OBELISK
ERECTED ON THE BANKS OF THE BOYNE, IN COMMEMORATION OF THE
VICTORY THERE GAINED IN 1690, BY WILLIAM III.

IS there not something awful in thy hush,
    Beautiful, thrilling, fame-illumined Vale!
Is not thy calmness solemn! with this flush
    Of Autumn, resting on thy silent tale,
Like fervour's glow concentred on some cheek
    Of lofty sweetness, when the lips are still,
And the uplifted eyes unmoving speak
    Freedom's resolve, and Faith's majestic will:
Thou, too, art offering breathlessly to God
Vows on yon altar of the unconquered sod!

It stands rock-lifted, with its mute appeal
    To the pure heavens; nor standeth so in vain,—
Itself the promise and the sacred seal
    Of the unchanging God, that he will rain
Light on the darkness; that thou still art loved,
    My own afflicted mother! and thy coasts
Yet to arise, a trophy as unmoved,
    Out of the deep, unto the Lord of Hosts,

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Page 49

A living emerald, not unmeet to gem
The Saviour's new Jerusalem.∗

Gone is the sound that shook yon winding glen,
    Yon wooded hill, and all the quiet ground:
Where are the banners now? the armed men?
    The tramp of horse, in scornful music drowned?
The foe's so firm encampment on yon height,
    Now guarded only by the golden spears
Of sunny corn? All, all has past from sight!
    Thus, too, shall pass thy tumult and thy tears,
My country! thus on thy sweet face remain
Only glad memories of a shattered chain.

Bright, bloodless river! on thy bosom pure
    There broods indeed the shadow of a day,
When no still swans, slow-moving thus secure,
    Crowned thee like lilies on thy peaceful way.
But through thy silver depths, for more than life,
    Brave men were pressing; from thy grassy brink
Plunged the calm leader in that righteous strife,
    In Truth's bright armour all too strong to shrink:
"Conqueror beloved!" e'en yet fast following rolls†
A full stern torrent of unwavering souls.

[Note *:]

"The fourth an emerald."—Rev. xxi. 19.

[Note †:]

"Conqueror beloved." See Wordsworth's sonnet to William III.

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Page 50

But oh! triumphal pyramid—and pledge
    Of sure deliverance!—doth not Nature speak
In these frail dwellers by the water's edge
    At thy firm-planted base? these blossoms weak
That cling to thee and look unto the skies;—
    The very depths of a celestial peace,
Serious and sweet, in their cerulean eyes,
    Pleading like prayer that storms and wrath might cease:
The same small faithful flower of tenderest blue,
That haunts the plain of Waterloo! †

Memory, and Love, and Constancy have well
    Chosen it their symbol;—shall not Freedom too,—
Since thus in solemn joy 'twill ever dwell
    Where despots fled and Slavery's night withdrew?
Yet here 'tis fraught with eloquence to breathe
    Prophetic hope unto the meek of earth;—
While humbly thus it weaves its sapphire wreath
    For thee, thou monarch-pile of haughtier birth!
Methinks on it thou seem'st from far above
To cast thy smile of most protecting love.

[Note *:]

Sir Walter Scott, in "Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk," mentions having met this flower, commonly called the "Forget-me-not," growing in remarkable luxuriance on the field of Waterloo.

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Page 51

Thus in the shadow of eternal Truth,
    Beside the glorious river of our God,∗
Thou shalt dwell safely, and forget thy youth,
    Dear Land of sorrow, and the blood-stained sod!
Of "burning lights" amid the darkness shining,†
    And martyr-graves that cry to heaven aloud.
Thou from thy heart its fetters disentwining,
    Shalt, flower-like, breathe untrampled by the proud;
No cruel hand to crush the unclosing leaves
Of life and light,—and all that undeceives.

Thus the defenceless shall THY shelter feel,
    Oh! strong Deliverer—mightier than men!
The Rock of Ages shall its strength reveal,
    And no hard bondage wring the soul again.
Spotless and tranquil as those snow-white birds,
    On living waters the redeemed shall rest,
As now the crystal current of thy words
    Shows them their image ever in thy breast:—
Earth, the enslaved, shall yet, unstained and free,
Bear one inscription—breathe one hymn to Thee!

[Note *:]

Psalm xlvi. 4.

[Note †:]

"He was a burning and a shining light."—John, v. 35.

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Page 52

FRAGMENT.

AH! yes—we mingle man with man,
    But none will be the first
To whisper of the gloom within,
    And mirth's enchantment burst.
'Tis long—too long till we can speak
    Even half of all we feel,
Or pour on hearts as dark as ours
    The tenderness might heal.
We pass each other by in life,
Unguessing of the hidden strife
In any bosom but our own,—
And, communing with it alone,
Separate we try to stem life's waves,
Then lie together in our graves.∗

[Note *:]

"Have we not all one Father? hath not one God created us?"—Malachi, ii. 10.

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Page 53

SLEEP.

HAST thou looked on Sleep, what time it lay
    In its sweet and solemn hush,
On some dear brow, that took by day
    The heart's quick smile or flush?
Hast thou watched for the stir of lip or cheek,
    To guess where its dreams might be;
'Mid bliss, which thy breath would fear to break,
    Or sorrow unshared by thee?
And if so,—while thou hast said "sleep on!"
    In the whisper, faint and fond,
Of love that grew with young life gone,
    And twined with hopes beyond,—
Has not a thrill passed o'er thee too;
    And a voice, though all was dumb?
And, breathed that starry stillness through,
    Has not the feeling come,
Sleep were a strangely awful thing,
Unshadowed by Jehovah's wing?

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Page 54

Hast thou leaned upon the pillow dark
    Of the sick-bed's mournful sleep,
Over its change and wreck, to mark
    What made thee long to weep?
While dread had frozen up thy heart,
    And would not let it melt,
And thy own sigh half made thee start,—
    Oh! surely thou hast felt,
Thus mute and listening for each breath,
That sleep was fearfully like death?

Like summer moonlight, hast thou seen
    Sleep resting on the eye,
Closed in its innocence serene,
    Of cherub Infancy?
Laughingly in its blueness yet
    Glistening beneath the fringe,
Whose dark length, stirless lay unwet
    Upon the bright cheek's tinge;
No single feature there left dull
Then did not Sleep look beautiful?

Its silken strength around him flung,
    Like woman's charmed chain;
His lion-might of nerve unstrung,
    His eagle spirit vain:
Hast thou seen kingly Manhood's Sleep?
    And, gazing on him then,

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Page 55

Not owned some other Arm must keep
    And guard the sons of men?
A shield of Love, he doth not see,
About his path and bed must be?

Hast thou seen Sleep's resisted balm
    On sorrow's paleness fall,
And shed there its own depth of calm,
    Oblivion sweet of all?
Yet, if thou hast never wearily,
    In pain, in sorrow waked,
Longing for sleep, deliciously
    To still the brow that ached,
Or on the heavy heart come down,
    Like twilight's softest dew,—
Oh! half its blessedness unknown,
    Could have been nought to you!
No,—joyous one! they touched not thee,
Those slumbers sent to misery.

But Sleep! who, who hath not
    Wandered through thy bright land?
Who ever felt, and hath forgot
    The witchery of thy wand?
The visit to our childhood's home,
    Its fireside smiles still there,
Just as ere change or death had come,
    Or strangers circled there!

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Page 56

The meeting with those gone to rest,
    And joy's tumultuous thrill,
In the kiss again so warmly prest
    On some cheek, long cold and still!
The glimpses of that country,
    Where God shall dry all eyes;
Of that land, beyond "the valley
    Of the shadow of Death" that lies!
These things are thine, mysterious Sleep!
They are what memory loves to keep.

1828.

---

Page 57

"HE SHALL RETURN UNTO THE DAYS
OF HIS YOUTH."∗

---

Page 62

ON REVISITING A SCENE IN IRELAND.

SO the river mirrors the Castle walls
    Just as it ever did!
And there they are, those old ruined halls,
    Half seen, half ivy-hid:
As haughtily facing the autumn blast,
    And wearing as royal an air,
And looking as jealous of glory past,
    As I knew them in days that were!

The lightning, and time, and the wild night-wind;
    All then have passed them by!
And left their green towers still dark out-lined
    On the blue and quiet sky:
They have scorned to bow to the storm's strong grasp,
    Which hath hurled down things more frail;
Scarce a grey stone stirred from the moss-wreath's clasp,
    At its whistling and dirge-like wail.

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Page 63

And, like silver sparkling in the sun,
    The bright river rolls on yet;
And gem-like, its graceful sweep upon
    The grassy isle is set;
And in emerald freshness the still banks lie:
    Oh! I remember all!
How such things live, while young hopes die,
    And air-built castles fall!

The names too, engraven here years ago,
    On the young tree's sun-gilt bark,—
Now, in the crimson day-fall's glow,
    A memory-thrilling mark!
I meet them, as I roam along,
    O'er the yellow, rustling leaves:
And thoughts, how many! o'er me throng
    Of other autumn eves!

1826.

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Page 64

A TALE OF THE SCOTTISH REBELLION.

"Had he been acquitted, or could he have obtained the Royal mercy, the day of his enlargement was fixed by the parents of both parties to have been that of their marriage."—"When it was ascertained that he was to suffer the cruel death which has just been described, the inconsolable young lady determined, notwithstanding the remonstrances of her friends, to witness the execution; and she accordingly followed the sledges in a hackney-coach, accompanied by a gentleman nearly related to her, and one female friend."—"She also succeeded in restraining her feelings through the bloody tragedy. But when all was over......."
—Rebellion in Scotland in 1745, by R. CHAMBERS.

THE bridal robes were ready; and her heart,
Sick with its dread, yet gave one throb of hope,
As she looked on them, and in thought beheld
Him whom they waited; unto her and life,
From that dark end, that grave's too cruel verge,
With his own smile returned; his own proud smile,
To look on her's, and read the silent love
Intensely shining on him thence, through tears,
That in their fall his ardent lip would meet.—
Even now, as vividly almost as truth,

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Page 65

She saw, heard, felt him at her side again,
Trying, through his own tears, to laugh away
The tremblingness he loved: she heard herself
At last, in broken words, on which he hung,
Reproach the unkind, the quenchless heat of soul,
That took no thought for her weak woman's heart,
That cared not should she die through very fear
For him: the restless daringness that loved
Danger's hot breath upon a rebel field
Better than her; a Prince's fatal smile,
Whose sorcery bequeathed, where'er it beamed,
A winding-sheet, or oftener in truth,
Uncoffined death,—than hers with quiet bliss!
But 'twould be so no more; his passionate blood
This lesson's fearfulness would surely cool;
And henceforth for her sake, teach it to flow
Less like the impetuous torrents of that land
Where he had won his sad pre-eminence;
Where human slaughter paused at last, but threw
The one dread shadow of its setting sun
Awfully wide; on many and many a heart,
That ne'er had fanned the rising of its flame.

Oh! yes, they would be yet,—it must be so,—
Happy; and only happier for this
Black cloud blown o'er; there was, for her young mind,
No other dream to which belief could cling,

---

Page 66

Upon the whelming deep of boundless dread,
Whereon she drifted; in conception's world,
No thought her heart had strength to grasp but this.
E'en though she saw the onward-rushing surge,
She shut her eyes upon the perilous hour,
Composed her brain, and turned to gaze on hope.

"What! in the very sight, at last, of love's
Unclouded summer land, could shipwreck be?
Oh! hush!" and suddenly, though pale, she took
The flowers and pearls that were to wreath her hair,
When he should look on it on that fond morn;
And with a trembling hand lifted them there,
And twined them through its silken wealth profuse,
Watched by her silent mirror's image sweet:
And then, as suddenly, tore down each bud,
And hid her face, and clasped her hands in pain;
Taunting herself with utter heartlessness,
That she could thus beguile one moment even,
Of all the iron hours that weighed her down,
Deeper and deeper, in that living grave,—
Suspense's brooding idleness of gloom.

But now 'twas morning; and the morning's sun,
The air's fresh breath, and every thing's sweet laugh,
Seemed whispering her to hope; and then she knew,
(For "Grief so deadly" knoweth when it hopes,)
She felt that joy might be her portion yet.

---

Page 67

Oh! mournful, fearful must have been the task
Of the faint lip, that like a naked sword,
Had to let fall that hour, upon her heart,
The stunning life-wound of those words, "he dies!"

And yet, at first she only looked like one
Upon whose suddenly uncovered ears
(Heard never till that hour before) should burst
Tremendously around, the deafening roar
Of the great ocean:—on her wakened brain
Those tidings as bewilderingly broke.
Not yet, though reason struggled towards the light,
Could comprehension seize their woe immense.
No statue ever heard more whitely still,
More breathless, and yet breathing forth throughout
A soul whose meaning startled those that saw:
And then she staggered blindly to a seat,
And shuddered long, as ice were in her veins,
And then without a tear was calm again.

But not that day she broke the silence dead.
And when she did, 'twas only to pronounce
Calmly her one desire, her fixed resolve,
To see her misery closer, and to drink
Its horror to the dregs: she would behold
His end, and how he bore himself; her eye
Would see that flash, the extinguishing of his,
To keep its closing glory in her soul.

---

Page 68

The mother listened, gazed, then on her neck
Fell, and sobbed forth, "Oh! my poor child, thou'rt mad!"

"No! mother dear, I am not mad; at times
I wish I were: but no! I am not yet.
I know my wish is wild, and may seem mad
To other women, in whom love is not
The thing it was in me; and if I cared
With prudent caution yet for mine own life,
Or still desired to treasure reason's light,
Clear, fresh, and healthful, as the happy do,
I surely would remain at home, and hear
'On such a day the bloody drama was,'—
Not look with my own eyes upon the whole.
But dost thou not believe that unto me
Madness or death were God's most precious gift?
Oh, mother! kind, dear mother! I must go.
You look into my face most tenderly:
Yes, look! I am not well, and yet as well
As I shall ever be; this heart is dead;
Nothing will harm me now: it is, I think,
The last desire that you will hear me breathe;
Oh! then oppose me not!—but pray for me,
That this o'ermastering grief, this awful love,
Whose mighty cataract draws me to its brink,
Be unremembered in the Book of God!

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Page 69

Now, dearest mother! do not any more
Weep so for me, for I am very calm."

Again 'twas morning, and again the sun
Laughed down from heaven's blue heights on all that lived,
And all who were to die before he sank!
Soon now, and the betrothed should be before
The mournful altar, where, despite of earth,
Their bridal yet should be, and her fixed soul
Follow him, as it would have done through life,
Forth to "the deserts of Eternity."

A somewhat like impatience to be there;
Suspicion, that even yet, fond cruelty
Would start from ambush to debar her heart
The poison which it thirsted for; had brought,
This morn, a fluttering redness to her cheek,
Fearfully beautiful, hope's wildest hue!
And a bright life was in her glance again,
As with a jealous swiftness, mute and stern,
Its piercing ray would pass over each face,
Making their whole contents her own; and then,
Marking that only agony lurked there,
'Twould sink to solemn gentleness again.

And now at last the fettered band might breathe
Once more the air, the pleasant summer air.—
Let the unbending be led forth to light!

---

Page 70

All things are ready on the chosen spot.
Oh! thou poor Prince! the hearts that broke for thee,
Yet loved thee on!—the showers and showers of blood
That deluged unrepentingly a land,
Ere all was over, and the sun gone down!
This was as nothing, and yet this methinks,
This drop of all, this single day of death,—
Or only even one cheek there, and that one
A woman's,—couldst thou, mingling in some guise
Belying thee, have stood there then, and seen,—
Its language would have been enough to wring
The burning tears in bitterer floods from thee,
Than even thy harvest on Culloden's field!
She followed in her deadly beauty on,
Amid the gathered multitude, nor seemed
To hear the trembling weeper at her side,
Who did beseech her to have mercy yet
On her own self: she would yield no consent
For halt, or pause, or breathing space wherein
To gather holy strength; till they had reached
The extremest boundary madness' self might dare;
And she could see the very flames to which
That lofty heart, that heart which was to her
The whole of light and life the world contained,
The breath of her existence, should be given!

Then, with a glassy and unruffled eye,
Within whose moveless balls it seemed that all

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Page 71

The blessed drops of understanding's dew
Were turned to ice, or dried with burning pain,
No more to glitter in its beams; she gazed—
Intently, quietly, most calmly gazed:
Gazed till 'twas finished, and the last wild shout
Burst forth exultingly,—then backward drew
Her dizzy head, and laid it on the neck,
Tenderly near that leaned: there laid it down,
And did not shriek, nor sigh, nor weep,—but died!

1829.

---

Page 72

SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HEART;
AN INCIDENT RELATED AS IT OCCURRED.

A BIRD, a lonely bird,
    That struggled with the blast,
A dove from the bright shores of Greece
    Flew to us as we past,
Over the sea, that with a furnace-sound,
That evening swept, our ship around.

To the fluttering sails, and bending mast,
    It clung with fainting wings;
I watched it, 'till it made me think
    Of many mournful things:
Of genius-winged, of dove-like minds,
Driven deathward by earth's cruel winds.

Of souls that wander forth,
    In the morning of their day,
As joyously, and fearing naught
    How high, how far they stray,

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Page 73

Over the glittering waves of bliss
That cover sorrow's cold abyss:
But, like that bird, at eve are glad
Of any rest, however sad;
Of any grave that may but be
Less drear than life's o'erwhelming sea.

They caught the weary bird,
    Then set it free to fly;
But it would not go—it came to us,
    To find a home or die.
Yet it was strange—the land was near,
    Its own immortal land;
Whose old and olive-shadowed heights,
    In beauty calmly grand,
Soared close above us:—did it come,
A heaven-sent dove,—nor wholly dumb;
With some sealed message unto us,
Which after-days made luminous?

Ah! superstitions, strange, yet dear,
    Long, long must haunt my life,
Whenever of that bird I think,
     Which through the noisy strife
Of winds and waters came, and brought
The balm a troubled bosom sought:
Nor smile, albeit my words confess,
The human heart's fond foolishness!

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Page 74

Smile not! the fragrance of a flower
Has o'er the mind mysterious power;
A breeze's tone may bring at last
Sweet tears we thought for ever past;
And keep to a more distant day
Madness itself perhaps away.

A bird may fascinate the eye
    That else would brood on inward sights;
Scenes of the past that never die,
    But through the long, dark, sleepless nights
Of the unhappy, freshly pass,
Distinct as life in memory's glass.

Where should a dove its shelter find,
    But in soft woman's breast?
To her 'twas given, and trembling there
    It nestled to its rest.
It did not die; it lived to seek
    Warm spots on which the sunshine fell;
It lived in all its beauty meek,
    Lived on to know me well:
It bore a charmed life, we said,—
Death claimed it, yet it was not dead.

Days passed, and still we glided on,
    O'er brilliant southern seas;

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Page 75

Nor seemed the happy bird to miss
    The flowering myrtle trees,
The rich fire-hued pomegranate buds,
    The acacia's feathery shade;
Aught of those glorious Grecian woods,
Where once its wings had strayed.

And every morning when I woke,
    Its soft eyes were on mine;
Till I dreamed some guardian seraph's looks
    Did on my slumbers shine;
And to my sense his care express,
By that pure type of holiness.

And every day it was a thing
    More and more fraught to me
With tokens of the love of God,—
    That high impervious mystery!
To sit and watch it, made me dream
    I was again a child,
Pouring on favourites such as it
    Affections fresh and wild;
And child-like happiness again
    Brought sunny fancies o'er my brain,
When trustingly upon my hand
It would alight and take its stand.

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Page 76

Days, weeks had fled, and swiftly now
    The good ship speeded on,
O'er Biscay's black unfathomed depths,
    While still, though faintlier shone,
June's northern sun; and now at last
Each strange and lovely coast was past,
That lay between us and our own
Fair Island!—Oh! the joy (unknown
Save by her wanderers) to behold
Once more that cloudy region cold!

'Twas in that very hour,—
    The moment of delight,
When I was summoned to descry
    Dimly that first, dear sight,—
Something, that at my feet
    Lay unobserved by me,
Was lifted with a look
    More than all words could be:
It was the dove,—dead! dead but warm,—
Dead, though it had outlived the storm,—
Dead, but oh! could it, could it be,—
Trampled and crushed to death by me!

Silently, but with looks that breathed
    A terror-tinged distress,
We stood;—it is not every heart
    What then was felt can guess;

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Page 77

No dweller on the life-filled land,
That moment's thoughts can understand:
Mine was a horror at the loss
Like his who killed "the Albatross."∗

Yes, laugh who will!—faint, motionless,
    I gazed in speechless gloom;
As though some dreadful prophecy
    Were written in the doom
Of that meek thing:—I thought of those
Who tread to death their life's repose,
And kill the dove of peace within,
Through folly, heedlessness, or sin:
Black clouds across my spirit swept,
Vague mists; I turned away and wept:
In truth, that lonely creature mild
Had made me utterly a child.

But thou! oh! dove-like Spirit good,
    Who watchest o'er thine own!
Leave us not ever on the waves
    Of life's dread sea, alone;
Suffer us not to banish Thee
    From the uncompanioned ark
Of our own soul; to voyage on
    In helpless misery dark!

[Note *:]

Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.

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Page 78

Never! whate'er may be our lot,
Thou, thou at least wilt leave us not!

No! other thoughts, in hours less weak,
    Came to me, and I saw
Mere blessed meanings emblem'd there;
    And sweeter, calmer awe
Stole o'er me, with diviner power,
From musings on that nerveless hour.

---

Page 79

SONNET
ON A FIRST APPROACH TO THE MENAI BRIDGE.

LIGHT as those delicate fairy threads we see,—
    That silver web of most consummate skill,
    Which, in the summer air, scarce visible,
Flings arches exquisite from tree to tree,—
Art thou, most wondrous Bridge! thy majesty
    Is as some beauteous dream-like miracle!—
    Terror, and doubt, and exultation's thrill
Into one breathless joy are blent by thee,
    And thy dread sky-borne pathway o'er the blue
And soundless sea, and dwindled ships that glide
    Mutely the bright enchanted region through:
While thou dost sit as Empress o'er the tide;
E'en like that Nation high, whose power and pride
    Could lift thee as her symbol to our view!

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Page 80

THE TWO LANDS,
(THE PAST AND FUTURE).

NOW, all my wishes wander, where?
    To a land I ne'er shall tread;
Where nothing stirs the death-still air,
    For death itself is dead,—
And troubleth not the lovely hours,
And toucheth not the smiles or flowers,
That shine for ever there.
Within that all-absorbing air
    Fear's anxious sigh is o'er;
And Change, so busy here, o'er it
Through all eternity can flit
                No more!

Years, in that land, the soul can live
    In a single moment's space;
Or in one sweet moment's world, for years
    Can make its fragrant dwelling-place;

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Page 81

Folding its wings to deep repose,
Delicious as thy sleep, oh! Rose
    Beneath the moon!
When the Nightingale sings over thee
    Among the leaves of June.

That land! we love, yet leave it;
    But its shadowy coast of rest
Follows us on,—as if it longed
    To draw us to its breast;
And to its whispers we reply,
With a tender but a hopeless sigh.

I see it, soft and beautiful
    As heaven's own pavement blue,
Down in my soul's deep sea; not dull,
    Though shadowy not untrue.
Land of the past! I see thy clouds
There lying calm; thy very shrouds
Seem sun-kissed here,
Thine eyes are smiling on me clear;
    Why can I not plunge in?
When I see you as I see the grass
Now at my feet—yes! see you pass,
Breathing behind my mind's mute glass—
    Hear you within!

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Page 82

What separates us? oh! most dear!
Why is it that I cannot then
Clasp one beloved neck again—
One warm hand feel?
So close! so far! who shall reveal,
    Land of the silent Past!
The mystery of thy treasured gleam?
Who say thou art not all a dream
    To which men melt at last?

Oh! no; we would not melt to thee,
    Beautiful as thou art;—
The instincts of infinity
    Press on the pilgrim heart:
How few could brook the dull delay,
To turn and live one single day,
One summer hour again!

And for the happy Past 'twere sadness
    If present now as then;
Present!—alas! its laugh of gladness
Were now to some more full of madness!
No! fare thee well! thou pleasant land—
Pleasant at least from where we stand;
Let us gaze back on thy lovely shore,
But we never wish to touch it more.

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Page 83

But oh! thou buried and silent world!
    That we see we know not where,
And believe in, because we feel our hearts
    Warm in the sunshine there;
Were it much more of mystery,
    More hard for the clasp of faith,
Should there be a land we feel, not see,
    The path to which is death?
Whence the hidden and lost are even thus
Gazing back through their tears of love on us—
    Speaking, though we may answer not,
Nor hear, save in dream-rapt hour,
    When their spirit-wings sweep our soul's still chords
With a deeply solemn power;
As we follow them on with pauseless tread
To that passage of night, through the earth's cold bed.

1829.

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Page 84

ON RECEIVING A LEAF,
BROUGHT FROM THE WEEPING WILLOW THAT IS PLANTED AT WATERLOO
WHERE THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEY'S LEG IS BURIED.

THOU single, stirless, faded leaf!
    Far from thy parent tree;—
What thoughts of glory, blood, and grief,
    Come rushing back with thee,
Tide-like, upon the quickening heart,
Remembering what, and whence thou art!

We hear again the gathering-note—
    The breathing ocean see,
Sweeping across that plain—while float,
    Defyingly and free,
Above proud France's eagles there
Our standards to the summer air!

The whole, like some wild splendid dream,
    Half horror and half joy,

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Page 85

Returns;—that fiery, heaven-roused gleam,
    To save and to destroy,
Lights up again the stillness deep,
That mournful plain where many sleep!

And oh! the lonely spot where thou
    Solemn and lovely grew,
Flung downward by the weeping bough,
    As if its green veil knew
The offering which to that small grave,
He of the lion-spirit gave!

How thousands yet shall pause by it,
    When we are with the dead!
And feel its thrilling memories flit
    Back, like rich odour shed,
Unperishingly touching round
That spot of proud and sacred ground!

Oh! heart-affecting 'twere to stand
    One moment beneath thee,
Thou weeper o'er that deathless land!
    Thou distant Willow-tree!
And feel those kindling thoughts that come
On fields like thine, when long left dumb!

Yes, bend there o'er the noble dust,
    In its glorious exile given

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Page 86

To that immortal soil's sad trust
    Where Europe's hosts have striven—
'Twas his, whom 'mid that gallant mass
Of heroes,—none might dare surpass!

1828.

---

Page 87

VERSES
TO THE MEMORY OF ——.

---

Page 90

THE MOON
SEEN THROUGH A TELESCOPE.

YET what have we to do with dreams
    Of bright vales in thy land?
Of hills, that like our hills of earth
    Magnificently stand,
Flinging their mighty shadows down,
For ever, with a kingly frown?

Moon! what is it to us,—of thee
    Whom never voice may reach,
From our low world, on which thy look
    Falls like soft music's speech,—
What is it that we catch some trace,
Likening thee to our dwelling-place?

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Page 91

Our lovely, mournful dwelling-place,
    Where death and life entwine!
Beauty and darkness; mirth and tears;
    Pain, sweetness, and decline!
Our outcast island, from yon sea
Of measureless immensity!

Why linger we, thus searching yet,
    Thy smile serenely fair?
With this so fond intentness too,
    As hope or fear hung there;
Chaining us to this closer gaze
Upon thy clear, still, solemn blaze!

Why vainly ask we thy mute beams,
    If in thy clime there be
Such things as sorrow, change, deep love,
    Perishing brilliancy?
If hearts go down unto the grave,
And eyes forget young vows they gave?

Or if the worship of the Lord
    Be the sole high employ
Of all thy bright unfallen world,
    Through one long day of joy;
And all the tears there wept be those
For our idolatries and woes?

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Page 92

What can this be to us? oh! man,
    A little lower than the angels made!
Even thou, in all thy wildness, dare not dream
    Of any upward path, while undecayed—
Of any passage to those worlds that shine
Down in their solemn splendour upon thine.

What then to us? oh! what, indeed,
    If, when our heavy eye
Closes in coldness, it lies shut
    To all eternity?
If so, shine on! but never will I raise,
Again to star or sky, my kindling soul or gaze:

But by this stir within, like kindred's touch
    Of tenderness, awakening in its strength,
After each blotted out and broken tie
    Had lain forgot, through many a cold year's length,
Till darts mysterious knowledge of some face
Over the heart where it had left no trace:

By something like to this,—some sudden gleams,
    Illumining, like prophecy, the soul,
In the dead stillness of the glorious night,
    When come deep longings for some loftier goal,—
We feel, we know our kindred with that heaven,
Our home to be, whose sin shall be forgiven.

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Page 93

And therefore comes this rush of vague, strong hope,
    This struggle of the weary heart to paint
All that may be, mid those, thy sunnier spots,
    Of endless love, and bliss without a taint:
Death lies between us, thou majestic moon!
But death, and its deep secrets, come full soon.

Observatory, 1827.

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Page 94

TO A LOVER OF AUTUMN.

1830.

---

Page 97

ON SEEING AGAIN, AFTER AN INTERVAL OF
SOME YEARS, A LIKENESS BY A LADY.

BEAUTIFUL painter! once so dear
To her whom thou hast imaged here,
Go take thy pencil now again
And paint thy friend—but not as then.
Paint her with a brow on which
    A thought of anguish lingers;
Cast o'er her eye-lids bitterly,
    Her trembling tear-wet fingers,
And breathe through all her altered mood
The consciousness of solitude,
With little, little thought or care,
If high or heart-subdued her air;
But, for those eyes that dwelt on thee,
In poet-dreams so lovingly,—
I say not now express their look,
Hide the glance thou need'st not brook.

And the dark folds of heavy hair,
(Which thy soft hand with graceful care,

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Page 98

    Wreathed playfully with snowy flowers)
Fling negligently down as veil
    Over the cheek that owned thy powers
So oft by sudden faintness pale,
When afterwards thy love became
Intensest hatred's smothered flame,—
Over the neck by sorrow stooped,
And the proud temples humbly drooped,
Falling to earth like midnight rain,
Disordered:—let them so remain,
And let the lips which thine have pressed,
Seem troubled by her mind's unrest.

And place this portrait by the side
Of one that looks with tranquil pride,
    And the deep silence of disdain,
Full on thy troubled conscience now;—
    Whose smile ne'er hinted aught of pain,
But whose erect and courteous brow
Haunts with upleasant awe thy life,
Awakening shame, and doubt, and strife;
Both are the same, those hidden eyes,
And those that beam with smiling lies.

Forget all that! 'tis past—'tis o'er,
Such looks shall trouble thee no more.
For the last time that face pourtray!
And let a purer light than day

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Page 99

    Stream on her lifted absent eyes;
Let love, too deep for utterance, seem
    Communing with her from the skies,
And let the stillness of a dream
    O'ershadow her—and open spread
Under her no more trembling hand
    That Volume for which hearts have shed
    Life's richest drops, and gladly bled;
Those leaves which of a peaceful land
Breathe to the weary:—let her be
Subdued to meekness visibly,
Like one who can at last forgive
    And bear unkindness quietly.
Oh! see thou let that meaning live
    Upon her lips:—all else resign;
Persuasiveness, and conscious power,
    And gifts that sought to win or shine:
Yet paint her not a broken flower,
    Far less aught sinless or divine;
Not of the beautiful, and yet
What some can never well forget;
But one for whom a veil is rent,
A dawn arisen, a midnight spent:
On whom the peace of the forgiven
Is shed abundantly from heaven.

1832.

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Page 100

KNOWLEDGE.

YES! 'tis a majestic thing,
Soaring on its heavenward wing
Through illimitable space:
Yet methinks its godlike grace,
Passing o'er the unfolding heart,
Makes its rest too often start;
Disturbs it with too rude a might,
O'erpowers it with too cold a light,
For mortality to bear
And leave us what we early were.

We catch the faded, languid tone,
Of life too passionately known,
And walk too soon beneath the sun
With surprise for ever done.
Too curiously we ventured near
The fountains of delight and fear;
Too eagerly we sought to taste
Existence; 'twas a fatal haste!

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Page 101

What is there remains to try?
Nothing, nothing, but to die!

Oh! if there were something new,
To give our life its early hue;
Any fresh emotion's lore,
Any thing unfelt before:
If the heart had yet a page
In its altered volume sage
Unopened, unperused, to show
Depths there that we did not know!
But the highest, lowest note
We have touched: we know by rote
All sensations it contains,
Its subtle sympathies, and pains,
And sweetnesses; and powers that wait
The rich developing of fate,—
And infirmities that creep
O'er it like resistless sleep.
We know the thoughts of others now
By merely glancing at their brow;
And worse, we know ourselves, and see
We are not all sublimity.

Alas! the poetry of thought
Too much of science soon has caught;
Leaf by leaf, we tear away,

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Page 102

From feeling's home, the veil that lay
O'er it to our childhood's view.
We shake to earth the drops of dew,
And search the only opening bud,
Till every part is understood.
Then,—first we faint beneath the blaze
That bursts upon our mortal gaze;
And then grow weary in our souls,
As time monotonously rolls—
Like a tale from mystery's pen
That we have read and read again,
Till we would cast it quite away
From sickening sight, and coldly say,
What is there remains to try?
Nothing, nothing, but to die!

1829.

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Page 103

SONNETS,
SUGGESTED BY REVISITING IN AUGUST, 1837, (AFTER AN ABSENCE FROM
IRELAND,) GLENDALOUGH AND OTHER PARTS OF THE COUNTY WICKLOW.

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Page 107

STANZAS.

Jesus when he had cried again with a loud voice yielded up the Ghost. —MATT. xxvii. 50.

SLEEP now! sleep on, oh earth! for never more,
What throbs so e'er convulse thee, shall a sound
Pass like that cry thy trembling bosom o'er;
Never again! Through the abyss profound
Shaking the stars upon its awful way,
Even as a blast might shake the forest leaves,
Its piercing love went up:—but terror lay
On thee, blood-sprinkled! thee whose dust believes
What man despiseth—"silence was in Heaven"—
Archangels veiled their faces in their wings:
Then burst that song from multitudes forgiven,
Which now for ever and for ever rings,
Here through His people's hearts—there on celestial strings.

Then "it was finished:"—all for which thine orb
Yet keeps its place amid the worlds of God,—
All for which darkness faileth to absorb
Thy wretched breast, where once He breathed and trod,

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Page 108

Was finished then: and now sleep on and rest!
And fear no more that over thee the sky
Shall murmur horror; it was once expressed
By all creation then, when daylight's eye
Looked down on Calvary, and the startled dead
Woke to that loud and melancholy cry.
No! sleep, poor world—it was for thee He bled,
For thee arose resistlessly on high
That pleading voice, and drooped in death that head,
And closed those wearied eyes, whose tears on thee were shed.

Thy wise, thy wicked trouble thee; and yet
What is their hum of impotence to thee?
That cry alone thy Mountains ne'er forget,
That cry alone shall ever awe thy Sea:
And weak (as midst the thunders of its waves)
Are human words to us whose souls have heard,
Hear yet that cry. Do thou with all thy graves,
Sleep on in sunshine, by their breath unstirred;
Till once again, a shout, a Trumpet-blast,
The last, the loudest, thou shalt wake to hear!
Shall rend the heavens, and downward through the vast
And echoing Infinite descending clear,
Shall bid thy wise be dumb, thy ransomed cease to fear!

1832.

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Page 109

TO A LITTLE GIRL.

1830.

---

Page 112

A POET'S REPLY.

---

Page 116

VERSES.

And they came unto the brook of Eshcol and cut down from thence a branch with one cluster of grapes. —NUMBERS xiii. 23.

1832.

---

Page 119

PSALM LXXIII. 25.

HERE, in this wounding world,
    Whom, whom have we but Thee!
Is much of sweetness the reward
    Of all our blind idolatry?
We drink at love's bright fount;
    We drink, but do we thirst no more?
We bear a cross—but not the one
    Thou—Ever-blessed bore!
And do we easier find the yoke—
    And is the burthen light?
Lighter than thine? that thus we cast
    Thy pitying tears from sight!
Does never weariness of heart
    Come over us like death?
Need we no rest unto our souls,
    No anchorage of faith?
Oh! Lord, thou knowest! full well canst thou
Discern upon a smiling brow
The bitter lie that would conceal
Pangs it is not in man to heal.

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Page 120

    Yet—whom have we in heaven but Thee?
        And there are none on earth
    We now desire besides thee, Lord!
        They all are nothing worth.
    Oh! by thine own deep sufferings, come!
And lead us back to God,—our Father and our home!

1826.

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Page 121

A CHARACTER.

1830.

---

Page 124

ON THE DEATH OF AN AGED RELATIVE.

1828.

---

Page 126

THE BOYS' SCHOOL.

1826.

---

Page 132

DEATH.

(A RECORD OF THE ELOQUENCE OF THE IRISH PULPIT.)

AS he spake I seemed to hear
    That deep and dismal current strong,
Swollen, and sweeping at my feet
    Rapidly along.

I heard the sound within my soul,
    As through those awful arches vast
The unreturning waters rushed
    In deepening blackness past.

I stood in spirit helplessly,
    On Death's appalling brink,
When lo! the crumbling banks of life
    Beneath me seemed to sink;

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Page 133

And leaf-like I was swept away,
    From light, from earth, from beings dear,
My brain was dizzy with the speed,
    My failing eye-lids grew unclear,
Like those which strive with coming sleep,
And shut beneath its dreamy Deep.

And yet the tendrils delicate,
    All torn and disentwined,
Of earthly feelings, quivering clung
    Around my struggling mind.

But still away, away I passed,
    On to that barrier dread;
And still around my heart there swelled
    Those freezing waves like lead;
And still upon mine ear a sound
Eternal—infinite—profound!

And yet even then! (oh! thou my soul
    Repose thy quiet eye
Ever with faith and courage strong
    Upon that inward prophecy!)

I felt "the everlasting arms"
    There still beneath me as in life;
Floods could not quench His precious love,
Nor touch His peace, which like a dove
    Brooded above the strife.

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Page 134

"Fear not," His pity seemed to say
"I—I have loved thee—come away!"—
And with a solemn trembling bliss,
I neared the dread, the unknown abyss.

1833.

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Page 135

CONSUMPTION.

WELL might they dream death was not nigh;
There was such brilliance in her eye,
On her young cheek so sweet a blush,
Warm as it were the summer's flush,
Oh! who could deem it was a bloom
Betrothed already to the tomb!
Yet—all, all promises that seem
Beautiful as a first hope-dream,
What are they? ask of earth and sky—
They are the very first to die;
At sunset's splendor who would say
It rose o'er the death-hour of day?
When Autumn, empress-like, moves on
'Mid vintage-music to her throne,
With hues of every Eastern gem
Circling her gorgeous diadem;
Who, as her scented turf he treads,
Would deem, the golden light she sheds,
Is but a torch, blazing thus clear,
To light the funeral of the year?

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Page 136

And she, that maiden of the land
Where hearts are warmest—Erin's land;
She whose brow, whose step, whose smile
Spoke all the spirit of her Isle;
Whose glance had poetry's sweet power,—
Faded, like sunset's, Autumn's hour.
They looked on her and thought—"Oh! no
She was too beautiful to go."
It could not be, the veil of night
Was falling on a thing so bright;
Falling on their world of bliss.
They felt her fond and gentle kiss,
Given as she bent her graceful form;
It could not be those lips so warm
Were to be cold and still—so soon,
Even ere one change of the young moon.
They trusted—how the heart will trust!
How what it loved must turn to dust;
How oft it must be coldly flung
From hopes to which like life it clung,
How wounded, almost withered be,
Ere it will learn earth's falsity!

One stood by her, their words were few,
She could not, would not, say "adieu,"
But cut one curl of chestnut hair,
And gave it him to keep and wear.

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Page 137

They parted.—Once they met again;—
Her coffin was her pillow then.
'Twas Spring—and violets were laid
Upon the white shroud of the maid;
When morning last was in the skies,
Sunlight was sparkling in those eyes;
Now on their closed lids it shone—
Deep silence told that she was gone.

1825.

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Page 138

THE POETIC GIFT.

BREATH of my soul! life of my life!
    Spirit! whate'er thou art,
Whose deep sweet mystery soothes, like love,
    The storms that sweep the heart;
Like Spring—like sunshine o'er my mind,
    I feel thee coming back,
And flowers, and warmth, and greenness fresh,
    Are springing in thy track.

What art thou—music of my mind?
    I listen and am calm.
Fame were as nothing to the power
    Of thy celestial balm.

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Page 139

I have thought thee one of God's own choir,
    Permitted thus at hours
To wander upon mercy's wings,
    From thy far world to ours:
For oh! possessing not possessed,
    Thou art not mine—but I
Am thine;—and with thee near, I feel
    To lose thee were to die.

To lose thee! oh! to lose thee!—thou
    Whose hour like that of tears,
Bears off the heart's long gathered snow,
    The avalanche of years;
The death-like weight, that silently,
    We know not well from whence,
Has come, and hangs upon the soul,
    And will not, will not thence.

To lose thee! 'twere a living grave,
    The sunset of all bliss,
Leaving, like lost affection's last
    Altered and freezing kiss,
The world another place—the light
    Of heaven a joyless thing;
Enthusiasm's flame gone out,
    Love, flown with wounded wing.

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Page 140

But who could bear to die, what time
    Thy inspiration's flood
Is rolling passionately strong,
    On through the kindling blood?
While, over anguish even, thy lip
    A moment's beauty breathes,
As the bee gathers honey drops
    From deadliest poison wreaths.

A little longer, Misery's self,
    Entranced and calmed, would wait;
While yet thy touch is on the chords,
    It feels not wholly desolate.
A little longer it would stay,
    Till their last tremblings close,
Then—then let death in kindness spread
    The pillow of repose!

And scarcely less thy soft, low sigh
    Stilleth the waves of joy,
Back rushing in their sudden tide,
    As if they would destroy.
In all thy moods, oh! Voice divine,
    Thou art a blessed thing;
If thou art madness—might our life
    Only such madness bring!

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Page 141

When clouds are on my heart—do thou,
    Bright spirit from my God,
Sing it to rest, and bear my soul
    From self and gloom abroad!
Loosen thought's chain, till sympathy
    Soareth unfettered forth,
To muse on others—upon all
    The unhappy of the earth!

1829.

---

Page 142

OTHER THOUGHTS ON THE POETIC GIFT.

1829.

---

Page 145

TO ——.

1832.

---

Page 147

FRAGMENT.

ALAS! how utterly we all exist
    Upon each other's will!
Cannot one smile give life,
    One word's unkindness kill?
One smile, from mortal eyes like our's,
Subject alike to sorrow's showers,
Troubled alike by moodier hours,
    Though not to us made visible?
One word, from lips that may repent,
    As keenly as our own,
Deep love's abrupt abandonment
    Of truth's far softer tone?
The flash that will escape the heart,
    Because it so adores,
That a shadow wakes the jealous start,
    Which wounds and then deplores
Till we, even though the worshipped, see
The price of all idolatry,

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Page 148

Weep o'er the prize that once we thought
Would heaven's own light to earth have brought,
And sometimes think, in lonely pain,
'Twere better be unloved again.
Too much our very lives
    Depend upon the breath
Of beings like ourselves,—
    The doomed to change and death:
Oh! too much do our souls to dust
Their concentrated fervour trust!

1830.

---

Page 149

ON READING "THE MAN OF TWO LIVES."

1829.

---

Page 151

KINDNESS.

---

Page 154

NATURE.
AND ITS INFLUENCES.

"And He breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul."

TALK not of light arising on the soul
From the sun's smile: say not the quiet moon
Subdues the heart to sympathy and peace
By its own gentleness: as if that man
And man's deep spirit, were but like his life,
A cloud, a flower, a wave!—ne'er tell the sad,
That the pure world of blameless nature sheds
The joy of trees, and streams, and mountain winds
Through the sick mind: they know it is not so;
They know how vain the soul-degrading faith.
The sun in heaven is subject unto us,
Not we to it—one hope can make it bright,
One grief can blacken it—its warmth is naught
Unto those inward spiritual founts,
Which icy thoughts have gathered deeply o'er;
Nor does it much delight eyes filled with tears,

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Page 155

That it should sparkle in those bitter drops,
Till they grow diamond-like as morning-dew
On a dark cypress. And the moon herself,
What though she give the shallower ocean laws,
And make the sea her captive—can she rule
The tides and billows of the human heart,
Or cast the subjugation of her eye
On us immortals?—go! perturbed mind
And try her power!—go out, and to the sky
And breathlessness of midnight call for peace;
And bid the stillness wrap thee, and pervade
Thy beating heart, as if thou wert indeed
Part of the perishable earth, that lies
With all its pulses still! will the clear moon
Do more than shame thee to a stony calm
By her cold look?—so like a changeless face
Of beautiful apathy, and mild surprise
At the strong workings of a soul whose depth
It cannot comprehend! But is this peace?
Is this to rest from weariness, and feel
That we are things beloved? Shall trees and streams
Whispering together, or to us, persuade
Our high existence that we do not need
Loftier communionship? and can we love
Leaves, waters, breezes with the solemn love,
The intense, the unutterable feeling hushed,
That we must have or die? Oh! vainest dream!
Into man's nostrils, God, the eternal God,

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Page 156

Has breathed the breath of everlasting life;
HIS love must light our being's endless path,
Or all created things, for evermore,
The bright, the beautiful, the calm, shall be
To us but mocking ministers of pain,—
And our eternity of life itself,
Be but a lone eternity of death.

1830.

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Page 157

GENIUS.

OH Genius! Genius! radiant is thy light
In the young eye:—whether at dead of night
Its ardent gaze follow thy eagle flight,
And on, on heavenward be sent
Through all the moonlit firmament,
Through depths unfathomed, o'er that shoreless sea
Of stars, and stillness, and immensity;
    When to thee, Genius! there comes breathed from thence
Unutterable music,—and when air and earth,
Voiceless as at creation's birth,
    Seem awed by night's magnificence;
Mute while those myriad lights are glistening,
In wonder and in worship listening
    To their eternal eloquence,
    Which speaketh of Omnipotence!

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Page 158

Whether the angel-form of Beauty pass thee by,
Her soft blush deepening to carnation's dye,
And thy fixed gaze in fond entrancement dwell
On the resistless witchery of her spell:
Whether, while thou standest on some eyry height,
    Bending thee o'er the mountain-guarded vale,
And musing how it ne'er hath known a blight,—
    Suddenly, thence upon the startled gale,
The bugle's blast, with spirit-stirring note,
Proudly and echoingly upward float,
Proclaiming battle's blood-red march begun,—
Victory or the death-wound yet alike unwon,—
But swelled with all the stormy, stern delight
Of headlong Valour, rushing to the fight:
Whether near St. Gothard's monarchy of peace,
    Ere sunset's tints from his high snows be gone;
Whether thy step be on the shores of Greece,
    At but the name of Marathon!

Yes, kindling is thy flash from the young eye!
    And beautiful thy warmth on the young cheek!
When thoughts rush to the heart,—burn there—and die,—
    Those thrilling thoughts that words may never speak;

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Page 159

Of essence too etherial, and too pure,
The withering touch of this world to endure,—
Borne on enthusiasm's mounting flame,
Back unto Heaven, the clime from whence they came.

Yet, Genius! yet—thou art a fearful gift!
Madness—a broken heart—an early grave,
These are thy portion;—vulture-like they wait,
And be their silent coming slow, or swift,
It is the same,—Misery hath marked thee with her seal of fate;
Oh! cling not unto earth,—it cannot save;
Onward, too surely, comes the dark and gathering wave;
Soonest thy warm and tremulous heart shall be
                    The earth-worm's prey!
Soonest thy soul-stamped brow shall sleep
                    In the cold clay!

And Fame may weep for thee, when thou art fled;
What are her tears? they seem in mockery shed,
So late, so worthless!—over one who wooed,
Unwearied wooed her; as aspiring Youth
Woos high-souled Beauty's love—
Silently—doubtingly—with looks alone,—
Fervently yet, and with a fatal truth;

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Page 160

Till proudly shrinking from her changeful mood,
    Her fickle, yet most fascinating smile,—
He tears him from the dear but dangerous one,
    His spirit hovering near her's the while,—
Wakes one wild strain of passion from his lute,
Then bids its music be for ever mute,
Gives all for one dark desperate hope,—to die,
Sepulchred in her memory.

Genius! thou rainbow 'mid the sons of men!
Who, who shall paint thee?—bitter were the task
To unveil the hectic hid beneath thy mask!
Thy statue should stand haughty and alone,
Pale, and yet glorious; lit by midnight's lamp,
And with a wreath of poisonous brilliance crowned;
But wrapt in lofty visions of thine own,
Seeming all heedless of death's gathering damp,
Or of the serpent round thy life-pulse wound.

Kindled to be extinguished in the tomb,
    Spark as thou art of deity!
Oh! mournfully mysterious is thy doom;—
And, bought with blight of life's young bloom,
    Dear is thy immortality!

At best thou art a fever of the soul,
Thy joy delirium—exquisite, but wild—

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Page 161

Mad as thy sorrow—spurning all control,
Vivid as summer lighting—gone as soon,
Gilding a night of pain that has no moon,
Faithless as dreams that once our youth beguiled,
Flitting away at grief's first death-bell toll,
And leaving not one trace to tell it ever smiled!

1826.

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Page 162

EMBLEMS OF TWO SISTERS.

LIKE a tree through soft surrounding mist
    In silvery dimness seen,
Standing amid the leafiest
    The still and separate queen,—
But half thy beauty was expressed,
Imagination dreamed the rest.

And lovelier that we saw not all
    We ever thought thou wert,
And watched to see the mantle fall
    From off thy pensive heart;
But still that shadowing mist remained,—
The perfect sight we never gained.

A something in thy smile forbid
    The thought that thou wert chill,
And yet thy tenderness was hid
    With such a strength of will,
Or such a veil of nature's own,
Thy sweetness was like a sculptured stone.

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Page 163

But thou! oh thou, the beautiful,
    Beyond a poet's dream!
Remembering thee, how faint and dull
    All words and symbols seem.

The swan upon clear waters? no,
    Too haughtily she moves;
And the mild moon has but the glow
    Of one who coldly loves;
June's sunset flush on hill and sea,
Heaven's evening smile, is more like thee.

But there's nothing like thee here,—
    Thou wert a dreamy thing:
The glassiest lake's still under-sphere,
    Reflecting on the wing
A dove amid the azure vast,
May feebly give the feeling cast
By thy sweet face, when on the sight
It rose like an illusion bright.

Again that evening's firelight seems,
    In memory now, to spread
Its rich illuminating gleams
    Around thy Grecian head:
Again thy smile, so sweet, so faint,
Meets me too exquisite to paint.

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Page 164

'Twas strange to hear thy shadow-like
    Harmonious hand of grace,
From harp-chords that had substance, strike
    The music of our race;
All common things seemed strange in thee,
That proved thee a reality!

1829.

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Page 165

"THY KINGDOM COME."

"Now learn a parable of the figtree. When his branch is yet tender, and putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh. So likewise, when ye shall see all these things, know that it is nigh, even at the doors." —MATTHEW, xxiv. 32, 33.

"Oh ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times?" —MATTHEW, xvi. 3.

HARK to the tempest-murmur near
    Approaching o'er the Future's sea!
Hark to the swelling war-cry clear,
    Of evil days to be!—
"Men's hearts are failing them for fear,"
    There is—there is "perplexity!"
Things of a dark portentous birth
Are coming on the astonished earth;
The trembling nations dare not look
On destiny's unopened book;
Sad were that heart's prophetic glance,
Should dimly pierce the dread expanse,—
To see the strong advancing waves,
And envy those within their graves!

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Page 166

The queen of nations—she!—even she
    Droops her majestic head!
Fair England's virgin bosom free,
    Grows faint with tears unshed;
And her once sunny smile of peace—
    Ah! whither has it fled?

Much that was like the sun in heaven,
    Grows dark;—and in the deepening night,
Much like the moon hath vainly striven
    To give a guiding light;
And some like stars, are downward driven
    From their once radiant height.
"The powers of heaven" are shaken now;
Things like the ancient mountains bow;
The holy and the strong are crushed
'Neath the dread avalanche;—and hushed
In the cold hopelessness of death,
Are kindly tones, and love's soft breath:
Oh! there are "wonders"—"signs" indeed!
Who shall their awful mystery read?

What if some daring seer should tell
    The silent writing on the wall!
Would scoffing Pride believe it well
    As erst Belshazzar's breathless hall?
The dazzling sentence who shall spell?
    Who tell the mighty that they fall?—

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Page 167

But hush! the fearful hand moves on;
Go! and let startled Babylon
Send for her wise men;—they will show
The interpretation is not woe.

Go! but within her brazen gates
    E'en now the unseen Deliverer stands—
HE whom "the prince of this world" hates,
    Will loose the captives' bands.
Joy to the race despised, that waits
    That Warrior from celestial lands!
The kingliest rivers that have rolled,
Euphrates-like, in glory bold,
Their bitter waters mockingly
Where Zion's children wept, shall be
Emptied for ever;—sin's deep streams,
And sorrow's, shall depart like dreams
Before his Trumpet's awful glee—
The Trumpet of the Jubilee!

Earthward his mighty army treads,
    The hosts of Heaven, prepared for war,—
He comes! he comes!—lift up your heads
    Ye blest, who of his kingdom are!
Fear not the midnight gloom that spreads;
He comes "the bright and morning Star."
Lift up thy darkly-troubled eye,
Oh Earth! and see thy summer nigh;

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Page 168

Its earliest leaves and buds appear
'Mid signs of storm, and woe, and fear.
He comes!—let every land rejoice!
Let the glad sea lift up its voice!
Let Hope's exulting music loud,
Answer each bursting thunder-cloud!
And let his Bride go forth to meet,
With love's deep bliss, his sacred feet!

February,

1835.

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Page 169

TO — ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

MY sister!—gloom is gathering,
    The Autumn's farewell gloom,—
And hues and flowers are withering,
    To tell us of the tomb.
Over my harp had crept the chill,
I cannot wake its tones at will;
Yet, on this day its chords would try
If they have aught of minstrelsy.
This day, what is it? it is one
That tells of times and feelings gone,
That turns thought back to one long fled,
When first a mother o'er thee shed
The thrilling tears of tenderness,
Of hope, and love, and happiness;
When first her lip to thine was pressed,
When first she watched thine infant rest;
When first a father looked on thee,
And to Jehovah bent the knee,
And prayed for thee a father's prayers,
Which purest, holiest fervour bears,

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Page 170

Oh! surely! ever bears on high,
Unto the throne of Deity.
We will not ask, "where now are they?"
Let echo tremulously say.
This is a day that points to years
We fondly dream will know no tears;
Yet, is this day, too, one of those
That whispers—years will have a close;
That whispers—but—O! Thought away!
Thus should I greet a natal day?
Since Joy's gay notes are all denied,
Better to cast my harp aside,
Than sadden with it those I love,—
Whose hopes and fears with mine enwove,
Have been in pleasure and in pain.
I did think to have woke a strain
Far different—but the thought was vain,—
This, and none other, would awake,
Then keep it for the minstrel's sake!
Wishes—I will not speak of mine,
Is not my spirit known to thine?
Only the kiss upon thy cheek,
All that is in my heart can speak.

1825.

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Page 171

THE PARTING AND THE MEETING.

THEY parted mutely, with averted eyes,
    Lest tears should force their way;
And yet they wished not that disguise,
    For they had much to say,—
But there are lips that dare not move
In their excess of grief or love.

They asked no promises to be
    Sometimes remembered—no!
They seemed to read futurity,
    And feel it must be so;
All the fond jealousies that were
Lay then forgotten in despair.

Once they had questioned were they loved;
    Now, memory's flush of shame,
In self-reproachful sweetness moved
    Where first such paleness came;
And their dark downcast eyes, the while,
Tried mournfully to act a smile.

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Page 172

A smile!—oh! not so strange and sad
    Is sunshine on a grave!—
Gone was that smile, the morning glad
    When laughed each brilliant wave,
And one lone lingerer on the shore
Gazed tearfully the waters o'er.

But now!—O not in sleep, nor dreams
    Of the heart's waking choice—
Are they to meet indeed?—it seems
    Too like a treacherous voice
That tells but half.—Ah! strange to own,
They now exult not—they alone!

Is it that fear and pain have part
    As certainly in love,
As shadows even when clouds depart
    In sunshine from above;
And sometimes darkliest mark the ground
Where sudden joy is brightest round?

Or is it that to meet again
    Is always somewhat sad,
Since nothing, nothing can have then
    The very look it had?
Or should it, we ourselves have changed
So much with time, 't would seem estranged?

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Page 173

Back to the sweet years long ago
    Affection wanders still,—
Till all the present seems to grow
    Grief-clouded, tame, and chill;
And love too anxiously would know
How much of love, the loved will show.

Yes, both perhaps in shrinking doubt
    Would, ere that hour, foresee
How much of change shall breathe about
    The welcoming to be;
Both try beneath a veil of pride
Love's agonizing fears to hide.

As they attempted no farewell,
    Their hearts perhaps will beat
Too wildly now their bliss to tell;
    And thus, those two may meet,
Just as they parted, with a fear
Lest feeling's depth should wring a tear!

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Page 174

A THOUGHT.

1827.

---

Page 181

THE FOREWARNED.

OH! thou of fatal gifts! who canst create
    Light where none is;—whose vision-haunted eye
    Things of this earth can deify;
    Or with the flash of one resistless glance,
Hearts and their secrets penetrate;
    Or into dark futurity advance
    Guesses, that reach by some most wondrous chance,
Truths in the volume of far distant Fate.

Thou! thou who dost within thyself possess
    A power o'er deep affections at thy will,
    Making proud eyes with tears of softness fill,
    Through love incomprehensible for thee;
    Strange, varying spirit,—who could never be
(Though memories of thee the sad mind oppress)
Forgotten, nor renounced, nor even loved much less!

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Page 182

Thou! unto whom Imagination's land
    Is as a native country, where thy soul
    Can wander freely, far from man's control,—
    And then returning, on the dull earth fold
    Thought's wearied wings,—and statue-like and cold
    (As some mute figure in a temple old,
With marble bosom, chillingly doth stand,)
Repulse without a word some fondly clasping hand.

Awake, thou dreamer! this shall have an end:
    Thou art thyself the fire that shall destroy
    Thy young capacities for boundless joy;
    Thou art thyself thy purest weal's alloy.
    With thine own happiness, though bright it seem,
    Thou, as in some infatuated dream,
Wilt play, as children with the flowers they rend;
    Yes! earthly friendships sometimes cease to beam,
Even on the hearts too tranquil to offend,—
Who then will long, on thee, unselfish softness spend?

And yet, in sooth, if souls be once entwined
    Truly with thine—alas! for them, not thee!
    They have put forth upon a shoreless sea,
    Who once have loved thee!—thy enslaving eye
    Knows well its gift; and in that smile's reply
There is the charm of the mysterious wind
    The fickle and unfathomable sky;

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Page 183

Cloudy, or wild, or brilliant it can be,—
    But still with power to fascinate and bind
    In every mood the vainly struggling mind,
Still baffling man its inner spell to see.
E'en when the indignant heart is almost free,
    If with one moment's softnesss, warm and kind,
    That smile beam pleadingly, its pride resigned,
Who, ever yet, its magic could defy?
What drooping bud of chilled affection die?
What wounded bosom sad, forgiving tears deny?

Oh! but for this one power by thee possessed,—
    How darkly isolated thou shouldst go
    Down to the grave!—how few would care to know,
Or give one sigh unto thy place of rest!—
Read humbly then the feelings unexpressed
    And inexpressible, that sometimes glow
    In silent eyes for thee—the thoughts that flow
From other souls into thy throbbing breast,
    So wordlessly:—and, well remember—woe!
    Woe to that conscious one, who gifted so,
To leave sweet influences deep impressed,
And bless with but a smile, maketh not others blest!

1830.

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Page 184

A YOUNG GIRL SEEN IN CHURCH.

WAS she an orphan?—can another grief
    So wholly chasten?—can another woe
So sanctify?—for she was (as a leaf
    Of hue funereal mid the Spring's young glow)
Robed in emphatic black:—the soul of night
    Filled her rich simply-parted ebon hair,
And raven eye-lashes, and made her bright
    With solemn lustre day can never wear.

Two younger buds, a sister at each side,
    Like little moon-lit clouds beside the moon,
Which up the sky's majestic temple glide,
    Clad darkly too, she led,—but music soon
Moved over her, and like a breeze of heaven,
    Shook from her lips the fragrance of her soul,—
And then, the thoughts with which my heart had striven,
    Spoke in my gaze, and would not brook control.

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Page 185

I bent upon her my astonished eye,
    That glowed, I felt, with an expression full
Of all that love which dares to deify,—
    That adoration of the beautiful
Which haunts the poet,—I forgot the sighs
    Of whispered prayer around me, and the page
Of hope divine, and the eternal eyes
    That look through every heart, in every place and age.
I gazed and gazed as though she were a star,
Unconscious and unfallen, which shone above, afar.

But eloquently grave, a crimson cloud
    Of deep disquietude her cheek o'erspread
With exquisite rebuke;—and then I bowed
    Like hers my earnest looks and conscious head,
Ashamed to have disturbed the current meek
    Of her translucent thoughts, and made them flow
Painfully earthward. But she veiled that cheek,—
    Veiled even its sweet reproach and sacred glow,
Like those pure flowers too sensitive to brook
    Noon's burning eye, and its oppressive look,
That shut, in beautiful displeasure, up
    Each brilliant petal of their heart's deep cup.

1832.

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Page 186

THE DEATH-BED AND GRAVE OF A
MISSIONARY'S WIFE.

        "MY soul's own chosen one! come near—
        Love! wherefore wilt thou keep me here?
        Dark to me earth's sunniest sky,
        Let me, let me die!

        "Keep me not! there burneth ever
        At this wasted heart a fever,
        Look upon my altered eye,
        Dearest! let me die!

        "You know not how my soul is tired
        Of whate'er it once desired,
        Oh! if you could feel as I,
        In mercy you would let me die.

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Page 187

        "But no! you will not let me go
        From a world of pain and woe,
        I cannot to my Saviour fly,
        You will not let me die!∗

        "Lo! the dawn makes pale the moon,
        Yes! it will be morning soon,
        Another weary day is nigh,
        Now let me, let me die!

        "Forgive me, loved one! this is wrong,
        But for rest, for Christ I long—
        Kiss me—take my parting sigh—
        It is past—I die."

From her faint lips mysteriously broke forth
    A clear exulting music!—as she fled
It was permitted unto us of earth,
    To hear the first far hymnings of the dead
Entering the courts of Heaven:—she sang! she sang!
The astonished hearts that listened, echoing rang
With glad thanksgivings: the redeemed was gone
To join the radiant choir around the eternal throne.

[Note *:]

This is not a solitary instance of the dying entertaining the idea that their spirit is detained by some living object of affection.

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Page 188

That lovely lady! on a foreign shore
    Far from her western transatlantic home,
I first beheld her,—life was almost o'er
In her calm hectic-lighted cheek, and eyes
Sweet as the brilliant pestilential skies
    'Neath which she sleeps, beyond the ocean's foam.
She cut her long black tresses off, and prayed
In her soft tone of me, that I would braid,
For the far friends she never more should see,
Those well-known locks, that unto them would be
Dear, for the sake of the cold buried brow,
And bosom stilled, o'er which they used to flow:
Then, with her feeble hand she would enclose
With love's last written words, the gift to those;
And thenceforth wait her Lord in unprofaned repose.

The sad accepted task, with solemn pride
My hand performed:—she was to me a bride,
Whose heavenly Bridegroom hastened, and 'twas mine
To share her waiting hours, and watch her shine
In more unearthly sweetness day by day,
While wasting sufferings slow, consumed her mortal clay.

'Twas mine, in midnight vigils by her bed,
His blessed words to whisper her, and shed
His peace around her, which had power to curb
The few meek sighs that would her soul disturb.

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Page 189

Those glorious midnights,—those far eastern skies,—
The piercing lustre, wonderful, superb,
Of their still hosts, not calmlier than her eyes
Looked through the darkness,—waiting for that dawn
When from our world their beams should be withdrawn.

And when at last it came, her quiet breath
On love's rich music floated forth to death,
To meet and hail her Saviour's light, and bless
The all-healing "Sun of Righteousness."

Her lone and cypress-shadowed grave, is where
The camel-bells through the clear golden air
Pass to the desert, with their dreamy sound
Of wild and solemn melody profound:—
Dark, giant hills the bright horizon bound,
    Looking as ancient as the ancient earth:
The awful shadow of the far-off Past,
O'er all the region, all the soil is cast,
    Like lingering memories of creation's birth.

Let the lone pilgrim, to Judea bound,
Pause on his burning path to Syrian wilds,
And by that grave (with one, a little child's,
Its sole companion in the silence round,)

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Page 190

Let him at evening rest, when inland blows
Fresh from the blue Egean, that sweet wind
That dies to stillness as the blossoms close,
And the awakening night, serene and kind,
With her cool breath and almost dazzling eyes
Calls forth the noontide's slumberers; when the gay
Wild Greek pours out unto Ionian skies,
Till morning break, full many a gleeful lay.

Ere yet the moonlight dance, and moonlight song
The scene's severe and serious beauty wrong,—
Ere young fair fingers rouse the soft guitars,
That seem to mock the gravely tranquil stars,—
There, let the wanderer, by that tomb repose
A few still moments!—Oh! if he be one
With soul to feel the living light, that throws
O'er that one spot, which earthly fame hath none,
A more pathetic glory than is shed
Round prouder soil above "the mighty dead;"
He will depart from thence as in a dream,
And calmly pass e'en that immortal stream
By which a Homer sang—and coldly see
The all-conquering Roman's track—the verdure-wreathed
And ruined arches beautiful; each tree
On all that haunted ground,—each step that leads
Toward the dark cypress woods, o'er fragrant weeds,
Along those banks, where breathe as they have breathed,

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Page 191

Through many a summer's long, lone, cloudless hours,
With glowing blush the Oleander flowers
Close by the river's brink.∗ Not even the bowers
Of that enchanting valley, fondly named
    For its smile's witchery, "Paradise," not all
Its silvery olive-boughs, shall have reclaimed
    To earth's contrasted fascination small,
                Imagination's spiritual eye,
From its enthusiast gaze lifted by her on high;
When once again, wide-sparkling, clear, and free,
Beneath his path shall roll, that deepliest azure sea.

[Note *:]

The River Meles.

1838.

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Page 192

CONTRASTED FEELINGS OF TWO SUMMER EVENINGS IN A CITY.

WRITTEN DURING A RESIDENCE IN THE COUNTRY.

OH city! city of my birth!
    How mournful seems the light,
Wherewith this sabbath evening's sun
    Has made thy stillness bright,—
Thy windows, that like burnished gold
    O'erlook the sickly grass,
Or glittering river's treeless banks,
    Whose sullied waters pass
With the proud gloom a slave might wear
Between its guard of victors there—
    Those walls that have so long shut in
Its no more gladsome hours,
    From sights each meaner brook may win,
Of moss, and meadow flowers,
And summer's earliest bees that creep
Into their bosoms while they sleep,

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Page 193

    Stirring them lightly, as a kiss might stir
A slumbering infant's cheek,
    Then passing, ere awakened quite,
Some other's breath to seek.
Instead of these things now, it mirrors what?
A pillared grandeur sad—a nature-staining blot!

Not so, thou city of my birth!
    All hopeful seems the light,
The sabbath smile that rests on thee
    As sunset melts in night!
No grassy haunt in greenwood depths
    So sends its beauty to my heart;
For here "the excellent of earth,"
    Whose fearless, fervent lips impart
Truth's fragrance to the air around,
Gem with their holy lives, the ground.

And thou, upon thy way, dark river!
    What green leaves ever dropped on thee,
What branches sighed above thee ever,
    Like those of Life's eternal Tree,
Which by thy side hath taken root,
And lifts to heaven its glorious fruit?

Be proud that mightier rivers flow
    On since creation's birth, nor know,

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Page 194

Those sounds whose heavenly meanings deep
    Chime after chime float o'er thy breast,
Now breathing to the silenced air,—
    Of an eternal rest.

And oh! flow on, flow on, thou sound
    Of that river whose streams make glad
The city of God!∗ —grow more profound
In the silence of the desert round,
    Till not one thirsting heart shall any more be sad.

Yes, till thy crystal waters bound
    The sinless city of our God,
Flow o'er the desolated ground,
    And o'er the death-sown, sod!

[Note *:]

Psalm xlvi. 4.

1832.

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Page 195

TO ——

"Though thou exalt thyself as the eagle, and though thou make thy nest among the stars, thence will I bring thee down saith the Lord." —OBADIAH, ver. 4.

1832.

---

Page 197

"HE FELL ASLEEP."

"And they stoned Stephen, calling upon God, and saying 'Lord Jesus receive my spirit.' And he kneeled down and cried with a loud voice, 'Lord lay not this sin to their charge.' And when he had said this he fell asleep." —ACTS, vii. 59, 60.

1838.

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Page 200

TO HAPPINESS.

"The way of peace have they not known."

BEAUTIFUL dove! they chase thee through the air,
    Thinking to lay their sacrilegious hands
Upon thy purest wings!—they proudly dare,
    With glittering fetters and with gorgeous bands,
To furnish forth a prison, where thy voice
    May haply send its music to their heart,
And teach even them, like angels to rejoice.
    But no, thou holy and thou free!—depart!—
Fly in the silence of thy meek disdain,
Fly unalarmed—though heavily they rain
Their golden arrows round thee:—they shall bind,
Sooner than thee, the rainbow, or the wind!

Fly to thine own green solitudes of peace,
    Which this world knows not—to the hearts as still
As forest-depths,—whose verdure doth not cease
    With summer's glory:—unto Zion's hill

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Page 201

Speed thee away! and to the river Death,
    Where, soothed at last, its cold and gloomy waves
Rush into seas of light!—And oh! be with
    The lonely soul, that well and nobly braves—
Not the last struggle, or its rapturous strife,
    But sin's fierce combat with the life of life!
Be thy soft pinions then, as wings of eagles strong,
To bear it up on high, above the touch of wrong!

Or, if thou leave us for a little while,
    Let the sad eyes that watch thee on thy flight,
Through many a bright immeasurable mile
    Follow thee onward, into realms of light
They else had never pierced,—till we shall say
    "Return not here sweet spirit! come not back,
Except to take us with thyself away,
    Along that glorious never-ending track!"—
Oh! like those men of Galilee who stood
Up-gazing into heaven—one brotherhood
On earth is yet, who still the promise hear,
"Wherefore, ye sad ones, stand ye gazing here?
Bliss hath departed from the sons of men,
But tears are not for you—your Lord shall come again!"

1833.

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Page 202

THE "MORNING STAR."

"I am the root and the offspring of David, and the bright and morning star." —REV. xxii. 16.

OH! Saviour, when our hearts are dark,
When even within the heaven-shut ark
We tremble, as we hear the sound
Of sin's wild deluge sweeping round,—
And o'er a buried world are borne,
Not as in faith's triumphant morn,
But tearfully,—with gaze intent
Upon a moonless firmament:
While yet no olive bough is brought
Across the troubled deep of thought,
While yet the dove of peace is far,
Arise, thou "bright and morning Star!"

Rise in thy brilliant light of love,
Our spirit's gloomy waves above!
And let the stillness of thine eye
Make beautiful the stormy sky!

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Page 203

Oh! thou who watchest when we weep—
Who "givest thy beloved sleep,"
Then let thy meek and tender ray
Sustain the weary on their way!
'Midst cruel doubts, that wound and mar,
Look forth thou "bright and morning Star!"

If chilling yet, and damp, the dawn
With midnight's veil but half withdrawn,
Broods o'er some newly wakened soul,
Called hence to seek its heavenly goal;
When first it keeps in sacred woe
The vigils only God can know;
When every star its darkness knew,
Burns pale and dim before its view,
Quenched in the coming of a day
When all, save Thou, shall pass away;
When earth has lost her moon-like smile,
And all the beauty of her guile,
And yet, no sun-rise fresh and clear
Breathes to the heart a healthful cheer;
Oh! in that sad and silent hour,
Ere night is past, or day has power,
Where'er the waiting, watching, are—
Look down thou "bright and morning Star!"

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Page 204

When, lonelier still, our mortal night
Is vanishing before the light
Of death's yet dim and struggling dawn;
When earth and time are almost gone,
And life is like a broken sleep
Whose far-departed visions sweep
In solemn mockery back again,
Before the keenly sentient brain;
When on our eyes weigh heavy clouds,
And one abyss of shadow shrouds
The Valley through whose depths we go;
And from eternal deserts blow
The winds that freeze our being's stream;
Then, on our dying features, beam
Illumination of delight!
And to our soul, and to our sight
The golden gates of heaven unbar!
Jesus! thou "bright and morning Star!"

And in that conflict, yet to shake
Earth's utmost bounds, when kings shall wake
To muster 'gainst the eternal "Word"
The last "great battle of the Lord;"∗
When with a fiery splendour dread,
In marshalled multitudes far-spread,

[Note *:]

Rev. xix. 13,19.

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(Comet-like, showering on their path
Terror and pestilential wrath,)
The principalities of hell
Enthroned on high shall seem to dwell,
And evil shall have deadliest power:
Suddenly—in that midnight hour,—
Leader of God's own hosts of war!
Appear, "thou bright and morning Star!"

1834.

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Page 206

COLUMBUS.

"The substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."

WELL may that dreamer symbolize
    Thee clear-eyed Faith!—The horizon's ring,
Bounding the old world's shores and skies,
    To him became a narrow thing,
    That caged his soul's enthusiast wing,
And wrung from him a captive's sighs.
    As stands the Christian upon earth,
So amidst men the stranger stood,
Wrapt in sublimest solitude!

Suns rose and set for eighteen years,
    And feelings passed away,—
But still, with all its hopes and fears,
    That vision's vastness lay
    On his tired life,—an early grey
Faded his locks,—and more than tears
    Gave to his deep Italian eyes

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Page 207

A sadder darkness,—as in vain
He lingered on the coast of Spain.

At last the iron bars of fate
    Gave way to his resistless soul;—
And thundering regions desolate,
    Where boundless waters breathe and roll,
    Haughtily questioned to what goal
The invader dreamed to penetrate.
    Never before had they beheld,
Like ocean-eagles gone astray,
Man, winging o'er their realm, his proud and perilous way.

Friends! friends—who thus with sails unfurled,
    Press onward to a land of faith!
"Deep calls to deep"—but shall that world
    Which hither o'er the gulfs of death,
    Already sends a sweeter breath,
And many a floating bough impearled
    With glowing buds of heavenly bliss,—
Shall that bright world whose signs we meet,
Be lost, though billows round us beat?

Shall the dear "dream" for which we bid
    Our native earth and home farewell,

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Perish the stormy floods amid?
    Nor rather into triumph swell;
    Too glorious for all floods to quell,
As those blest shores to others hid,
Nearer and nearer now we know,—
And almost hear the breakers loud
Deep murmuring "land!" in music proud.

If his mute lips until the virgin sod
    With rapture's tears he kneeling pressed,
How think ye, we, in presence of our God,
    Welcomed by angels to a Father's breast,
    Shall, amid that unutterable rest,
Kneel to embrace the pierced feet that trod
    Our world of sin? Oh! what is grief—
What is shame, loss,—yea agony or death,
What are all tempests to the joy of Faith?