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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 137 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian Poems Hamilton, Eliza Mary, 1807-1851 by Eliza Mary Hamilton Hodges and Smith Dublin 1838

This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler I:515. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:515mf.

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French July 13, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections.

[Title Page]

POEMS. BY ELIZA MARY HAMILTON. DUBLIN: HODGES AND SMITH, COLLEGE-GREEN. M.DCC.XXXVIII. Printed by R. GRAISBERRY. TOPROFESSOR SIR WILLIAM ROWAN HAMILTON,PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL IRISH ACADEMY,ANDROYAL ASTRONOMER OF IRELAND,THIS VOLUMEIS INSCRIBEDBY HIS AFFECTIONATE SISTER,

THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. The Moon seen by Day 1 Julie de M— 5 The Silent One 15 A Dream 20 Written for Miss D. W—'s Album 27 To a Weeping Ash 28 Lines composed at Sea 33 On the Death of the First-born and Infant Son of Mr. and Mrs. A——, American Missionaries at Smyrna 35 The Meeting of the British Association in Dublin, August, 1835 40 A few Years 44 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. 48 Fragment 52 Sleep 53 "He shall return unto the days of his youth" 57 On revisiting a Scene in Ireland 62 A Tale of the Scottish Rebellion 64 Superstitions of the Heart. (An Incident related as it occurred) 72 Sonnet on a first Approach to the Menai Bridge 79 The Two Lands. (The Past and Future) 80 On receiving a Leaf, brought from the Weeping Willow that is planted at Waterloo where the Marquis of Anglesey's Leg is buried 84 Verses to the Memory of —— 87 The Moon seen through a Telescope 90 To a Lover of Autumn 94 On seeing again, after an Interval of some Years, a Likeness by a Lady 97 Knowledge 100 Sonnets, suggested by revisiting in August, 1837, (after an absence from Ireland,) Glendalough, and other parts of the County Wicklow 103 Stanzas 107 To a Little Girl 109 A Poet's Reply 112 Verses 116 Psalm LXXIII. 25 119 A Character 121 On the Death of an Aged Relative 124 The Boys' School 126 Death. (A Record of the Eloquence of the Irish Pulpit) 132 Consumption 135 The Poetic Gift 138 Other Thoughts on the Poetic Gift 142 To —— 145 Fragment 147 On reading the Man of two Lives 149 Kindness 151 Nature, and its Influences 154 Genius 157 Emblems of two Sisters 162 "Thy Kingdom Come" 165 To — on her Birth-day 169 The Parting, and the Meeting 171 A Thought 174 The Forewarned 181 A Young Girl seen in Church 184 The Death-bed and Grave of a Missionary's Wife 186 Contrasted Feelings of two Summer Evenings in a City 192 To — 195 "He fell asleep" 197 To Happiness 200 "The Morning Star" 202 Columbus 206 THEMOON 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. 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, 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. 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. 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 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;"

The Gentianella.

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. 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 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. 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. 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; 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: 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 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.∗

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

1827. 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,

Hierapolis.

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, 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. 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. 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."

Rev. xix. 11.

A DREAM. I. "FALL o'er me, my dark hair! what, what care I now That thy tresses shine black on neck or on brow? I will never more wreath them with rose-bud or pearl; My temples are burning beneath each soft curl." II. She loosened the rich braids with tremulous haste, And flung down their dark length in wreaths to her waist, Then her pale hand in weariness listlessly fell.— She gazed!—oh, that mirror a wild tale could tell. III. There was shadowed the history of ruin within— Of the innocent hopes that must henceforth be sin; She covered her face, but no warm tears came; She raised it again—it was crimsoned with shame. IV. "Fall o'er me, thou mantle, whose funeral hue Of my own young doom is an emblem true; Fall down o'er me, like the night of the grave That soon shall be mine;—why seek they to save? V. "There they lie, the white blossoms, the same that I wore The morn of my bridal; they'll do to strew o'er My breast in the coffin, but never again Will I twine their snow-buds in these black locks as then. VI. "Never! never! Oh! how could I deck them with care That morn?—And, merciful heaven! how wear The look of the happy?—but all was in vain To hide from me memory's lingering pain. VII. "Go!—float on the winds; I have done with thy pride: Look dim!—look unlovely!—look aught that will hide From the mockery of homage, the whisperings of praise, This wreck of what once might be fair to the gaze. VIII. "Yet, flow down once more in thy free loose folds! While this lamp of the still night is all that beholds; Once more let me feel thy light shower warm On this aching bosom—this fading form! IX. "There is lovingness in thy silk-like touch: I remember one hand whose mute language was such. Remember!—that word brings a shuddering start— I must never remember; 'tis sickness of heart. X. "It is more—it is guilt, it is madness to think Of the days that are gone—'tis a precipice brink: Yes; cover me! cover me with thy black pall! Hope, heaven, pure thoughts, I have flung away all! XI. "I have broken the heart that gave me its faith, I have had deep revenge, but the price shall be death: Most deadly—most dreadful revenge! and for what? Yet, in truth, I did deem I had passed from thy thought. XII. "We had parted in anger; my soul could not brook The indignant, yet sorrowful, chill of that look: I had paid back its sting with a scorn as proud, And stood cold 'neath thy glance as with spirit unbowed. XIII. "And when I had humbled thy fond heart, had read Thy suspicion, that peace from my bosom had fled; When I saw on thy forehead thy mind's bitter pain, I had turned from its pleading in lofty disdain. XIV. "Yet many a midnight could tell how I wept— But that is all over!—such tears at last slept: I kept but in mind that red flush on thy brow— Oh thou worshipped!—thou wronged! couldst thou look on me now. XV. "I know how thine eye would pour down on my cheek Its pure tears; the all that thy lip could not speak: I know how thy lofty and generous love Would forgive, and would speak of forgiveness above. XVI. "How thy passionate pity, with heart-soothing tone, Would remember—would breathe of my misery alone: Thou noblest, farewell!—Yet, ere young truth grew frail, Couldst thou know how there reached me that withering tale. XVII. "Thou false!—had my clear mind forgotten its light? I know not—with all I had suffered it might: You had shunned me for years, till doubt's wildering gleam Came ever, and hinted, 'it was but a dream!' XVIII. "Why, why did we meet in this world again! Thy last look of anguish hath haunted my brain: It hath fed on my life—it hath sullied my soul— It hath waked sighs whose torture I cannot control. XIX. "I knew not till then how affection may sleep, May seem over and dead, in its stillness so deep; Till once more, in its sweetness and sorrow, the eye That looked love on our youth-time passes us by. XX. "Yes, curse me!—forget me!—Ah hush! I am mad: Thou curse me! were e'en my lot chosen with the bad! No, thy prayers will be mine in their tenderness still, All crushed as thy heart is, I know that they will. XXI. "Heaven knows I have need of those prayers; for my soul Has no strength left to turn to thy spirit's high goal: It is not for me to look up to its light, I am fallen, and guilty, and false in its sight. XXII. "I have broken my vows to man and to God! Oh! if ever you loved me, if ever we trod Together hope's path, teach me now to forget! Take thy smile from my heart that it haunt me not yet. XXIII. "Farewell! and for ever!—thou may'st not now stand E'en beside my death-pillow, mine clasping thy hand. Time was, I did hope, that my head on thy breast Beneath thy dear eye should sink calmly to rest. XXIV. "But that was a dream it were sin now to cherish, Henceforth I must let every dream of thee perish: And thou!—thou art deeply avenged, for alas! Tbe shadows of death will be harder to pass. XXV. "One token I'd leave ere I pass to that place Where words are unspoken, one kind word as trace Of kindness long o'er; I did love thee—how well, Let these locks—my last gift, and my early grave tell!" XXVI. I awoke—but the colouring of life was so wrought With the terrible vision, I never forgot That young bride of my dream, or her faint lip's low wail, It rushed back o'er my thought when you asked for a tale. 1827. 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. TO A WEEPING ASH.∗ I. ONE, 'mid the lofty hundreds round, Why pause we, oh! lowlier tree, On the mossy swell of the silent ground, Where the shadow circles thee? II. Why bend we on thee a longer glance, And one more softly lit With a meaning, as when life's young romance O'er our sobered hearts will flit?

This Poem and a few others in the volume have appeared before in different Periodicals.

III. Is it, that thou to us art less, Than thy forest brethren proud, A stranger in this green wilderness, This dark and stately crowd? IV. Or is it, that in thy sudden droop Down from the sunshine bright To the blue deep stream—that earthward stoop Of thy feathery branches light,— V. We see some emblem of things that were? Things that once high promise wore; But, too weak their weight of gifts to bear, Sank soon to rise no more! VI. No—we turn away with a heavy sigh From the emblems our minds will weave Like this:—for the passionate years pass by When we woo our thoughts to grieve. VII. And memory's power can have nought to do With thy spell whate'er it be: Till this sunset's blaze we never knew The wild, still path to thee. VIII. 'Tis that leaf-veiled on thy silvery bark, As meant not for all eyes, But by years engraven there deep and dark, This human record lies. IX. We pause to think what tale belongs To those two kind words, and where Now amongst all earth's colder throngs Are those who left them there. X. We ask, shall they ever come again To see this trace—and then, Oh! then, how feel?—shall sudden pain Darken with tears that ken? XI. Or, with pitying smile of world-taught scorn, Shall they themselves recall, Such as then they were, in life's fervent morn, When love, deep love was all? XII. Or, was the vow that here they gave Only too truly kept? Is one, are both in the quiet grave— Have love's last tears been wept? XIII. Yet what were to us the outline sad Or bright of their after fate: E'en, trusted Tree! if thy whispers had A music that could relate? XIV. Nothing!—then wherefore linger on, Musing, beneath thy shower Of emerald wreaths, on those now gone From thy once so well known bower? XV. Oh! surely there is some strong sweet fount Of feeling for all our kind, That can thus with its gentle might surmount The gulf between mind and mind: XVI. When the long-left stamp of a human hand Recording a strange heart's thrill, Can give thee this charm o'er the bright and grand, Thou stem of "the Weeping," still!∗

"As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man."—PROV. xxvii. 19.

1828. 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! 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!" ON THE DEATHOF THEFIRST 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? "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: 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! 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; 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. THE MEETING OF THE BRITISHASSOCIATION 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, 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. 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; "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.

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

"A FEW YEARS." I. OH! "a few years,"—how the words come Like frost across the heart! We need not weep,—we need not smile, For "a few years," a little while, And it will all depart; And we shall be with those who lie Where there is neither smile nor sigh. II. Yet—"a few years"—is this the whole Of chillness in the name? That, glad or wretched, "a few years," With their tumultuous hopes and fears, And 't will be all the same; Our names, our generation gone, Our day of life and life's dream done? III. Ah! this were nothing:—fewer still Will do to bury all That made life pleasant once, and threw Over its stream the sunny hue That it shall scarce recall. There is a gloomier grave than death, For hearts where love is as life's breath. IV. Aye, pain sleeps now;—but "a few years," And how all, all may change! How some whose hearts were as our own, So woven with ours, so like in tone, By then may have grown strange; Or keep but that tame, cutting show Of love, that freezes fervour's flow. V. Such things have been:—oh! "a few years," They teach us more of earth, And of what all its sweetest things, Its kindly ties, its hopes' young springs, Its dearest smiles are worth, Than aught its sage ones ever told Before our own fond breasts grew cold. VI. But worst and saddest; "a few years," And happy is the heart That can believe itself the same; Its now calm pulse, so dead, so tame, To be the one whose lightest start Was bliss, even though it wrung hot tears, To the cold rest of later years. VII. The storms and buds together gone, The sunshine and the rain,— Our hopes, our cares, our tears grown few,— We love not as we used to do, We never can again: And thus much for "a few short years"— Can the words breathe of much that cheers? VIII. Yet something we must love, while life Is warm within the breast; Oh! would that earth had not, even yet, Enough, too much, whereon to set The tenderness suppressed; Would this world had indeed no more On which affection's depth to pour! IX. For then how easy would it be, In contriteness of soul, Weary and sick, to bring to One, To the Unchangeable alone, Devotedly the whole! Then,—"a few years,"—at rest, forgiven,— Himself would dry all tears in heaven. 1828. ON SEEING, IN 1833, THE OBELISKERECTED ON THE BANKS OF THE BOYNE, IN COMMEMORATION OF THEVICTORY 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, 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.

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

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

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.

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.

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!

Psalm xlvi. 4.

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

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.∗

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

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? 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, 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! 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. "HE SHALL RETURN UNTO THE DAYSOF HIS YOUTH."∗ I. OH! no—there is a path, indeed, That o'er the solitary sea, And through the desert's depths, may lead Him who would turn and backward flee To scenes and friends forsaken long, His native hills and vales among. II. There is a track o'er mountains; bright With treacherous, everlasting snows, Where the dread Avalanche by night Is all that breaks the stern repose: Through gloomy forests love can find Its way to bosoms left behind.

Job, xxxiii. 25,

III. Down the dark, sea-washed precipice, Its slippery path it could retrace, Recross the fields of polar ice, To look on some beloved face; Or tread the dim and thundering hall, O'er-arched by Niagara's fall. IV. There is a path to age and death; It leads us through a mournful clime; We early feel its withering breath, The cutting breath of time: A path may be to founts of truth, But none unto "the days of youth." V. Nay, doubt it not! some do return E'en to those balmy days again; And drink, at Hope's own golden urn, Her waters clear as then: And purer—filled by God on high, For man to drink, and never die. VI. The morning of a brighter life Is yet to dawn for thee; Thy being's painful dream of strife Has yet to break and flee; And a refulgent sunrise show Pure dew-drops in this world of woe. VII. Believe thou never yet hast seen Earth, as illumed by that life's spring; Thou know'st not what her sweet looks mean, Of what her breezes sing; To thee the solemn stars are dumb; Thy nobler youth is yet to come. VIII. The freshness of the awakening heart; The fine and ever deepening sense, Of joy that is not to depart; The light-diffusing glow intense, Of love,—the blessed boundless trust Anchoring no more its hopes in dust. IX. These have not stirred within thee yet, Like life within unfolding buds; Or the glad foliage, freshly wet By gracious rains in quiet woods: A richer youth awaits thee still, A pulse with loftier bliss to thrill. X. Only "believe!" and though thy soul Be dark and dead, it shall arise, And from the sepulchre shall roll The stone away, that sealed thine eyes In the cold slumbers of despair; And thou shalt breathe immortal air. XI. And like "a little child," that lays Its head upon its mother's breast, Thou, from the glare of this world's rays, Shalt turn thy wearied eyes to rest, In peace that is not man's to give, Nor take away, nor yet forgive. XII. Do I speak mysteries?—'tis of such, God's deep, dark Volume speaks; I would its inner voice might touch And heal the heart that breaks: I would that its unfathomed sea Might bear thee homeward trustingly. XIII. "Dark with excessive light" it lies; The proud have perished in its deep; Earth, and the wisdom of the wise, Beneath its flood shall sleep; But some shall on its tide of truth, "Return unto the days of youth." XIV. "The poor in spirit," and the heart, An exile in this scornful world, The dreamers deemed,—shall so depart With faith's bright sails unfurled: They—they shall joyfully return Thitherward,—never more to mourn. 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. 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. 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, 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, 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. 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. 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! 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! 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 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. 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, 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! 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; 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. 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; 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!

Coleridge's Ancient Mariner.

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. SONNETON 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! 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; 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! 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. 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. ON RECEIVING A LEAF,BROUGHT FROM THE WEEPING WILLOW THAT IS PLANTED AT WATERLOOWHERE 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, 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 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. VERSESTO THE MEMORY OF ——. I. HER heart,—that precious jewel rare, Not to be bought nor sold,— Was not a flashing diamond proud, Bright, adamantine, cold! II. It was a burning ruby pure, Whose rich depths seemed to shine Ignited with a glow intense Of living fire divine. III. And from within,—its rays would cast Their crimson shadow soft, On the clearness of her noble cheek, In silent language oft. IV. And then a light, like that which floods Heaven, earth, ere sunset dies, Seemed shed o'er all her face and form, From her deep, glorious eyes. V. Round her fine lips the flame would play, And on her brow upraised:— Scarce seemed she then mortality To those who mutely gazed. VI. She lingered not to feel her mind's Enthusiast lamp grow dim: God had illumed its passionate blaze; Unquenched it passed to him. VII. At once the etherial fire burst through, With swift, consuming force: At once with lightning-speed it sought Its high and heavenly source. VIII. I looked upon her:—closed and cold The dark-fringed eyelids lay! The spirit that had fathomed mine Had passed from earth away. IX. I did not weep—to me death seemed In those young, lonely years, Too sweet a thing—too rich a boon— To sully it with tears. X. When hearts like hers are stilled at last, To throb, to breathe no more, Oh! never say that it is life But suffering that is o'er. THE MOONSEEN 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? 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? 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. 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. TO A LOVER OF AUTUMN. I. YOU blame me, sister! when I say That Autumn makes me sad; But quicklier still you silence me For thinking Spring is glad: Does it not prove, howe'er we blame, We all are very much the same? II. There is, in every breast that lives, A sadness of its own, That reason neither cures nor gives, Whose fountain is unknown: A something that we seldom tell, But that we cannot conquer well. III. Why is the joyous Spring to thee A melancholy thing? And why does Autumn unto me Such gloomy feelings bring? Neither can answer, but we know We do not merely fancy so. IV. It may have been some single hour That coloured them to both; Some vivid moment's lightning power, That growing with our growth, Made that to one for ever sad, Which to the other seems all glad. V. Perhaps the heart was beating fast With bliss too deep to say, When on a hawthorn bough we cast Our happy eyes away: Perhaps, when tears were ill restrained, That look on a dead leaf was chained. VI. We marked not then the hawthorn bough, Nor then the withered leaf: But they are felt intensely now, In silent joy or grief. Let us compassionately see, Man's spirit is a mystery! 1830. ON SEEING AGAIN, AFTER AN INTERVAL OFSOME 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, 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 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. 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! 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, 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. SONNETS,SUGGESTED BY REVISITING IN AUGUST, 1837, (AFTER AN ABSENCE FROMIRELAND,) GLENDALOUGH AND OTHER PARTS OF THE COUNTY WICKLOW. I. VALES, of my country, calm and bloodless yet! How oft beneath far skies intensely blue, Where no dear western tree my childhood knew, By a sweet shower of summer freshly wet, Glistening and trembling, my lone footsteps met As these do now—how many a time to you,— When death-black cypresses the darkness threw Of their dense forests round me, while I let Insensibly upon my spirit creep The solemn shadow of those thousand graves Midst which I breathed,∗—from the wide silence deep Of that soul-saddening land, across the waves Of the wild sea, I fled as if in sleep, And trod the verdure bright, which this fair woodwalk paves.

The graves of the Turkish burial-grounds in Asia Minor.

II. Beautiful land! though clouds are in thy skies, Floating like silent tears in eyes we love;— Though thou dost need God's rainbow from above To shine upon thee oft—for sorrow lies Heavy upon thee, and the very sighs Of breezes soft that through thy branches move, Seem with portentous tones of fear enwove To gentle hearts. There are who can despise, Yea hate thee, Isle of beauty and of woe! But few that ever gazed on thee could keep Hatred or scorn;—thy smile's resistless glow, Thy fresh o'erflowing love, have won to weep, Not seldom, some surprised, heart-conquered foe, Who could not, from thy shores, all stern and tearless go. III. nstinctively my feet a moment shrank From the dim windings of that grassy way, Where, to an emerald tint, the glow of day Was silently subdued, and heath-flowers drank The lingering dew-drops on each leaf-veiled bank; Then I remembered I had been away (In other lands, in many a crystal bay Of Grecian shores whose haunted beauty sank Into my soul) from that one Island fair Where never serpent lives. How strange the tale E'en to a son of Europe wandering there, Laden with all high knowledge, study-pale; When I affirmed that it in truth was so That aught of serpent-brood my country could not show! IV.THE SEVEN CHURCHES GLENDALOUGH. There are "seven churches" in the burning East, Scattered in ruins 'mid the ancient hills And cypress-darkened vales: their silence fills The very air with awe! the sounds have ceased Of old immortal times—nor man nor beast, Nor the glad murmurs low of running rills Pass the grey desolate olives—sadness stills The inmost pulses of the thoughtful breast, Where martyrs sleep, where the wild myrtle breathes Amid a realm of death; and man's least touch Leaves subtle poison on the vine's green wreaths, The sun-steeped orange-flowers.∗ My God! how much

The plague is communicated (it is believed) by a flower or leaf touched even by one who may not have the disease himself, but has been, though perhaps unconsciously, in contact with it.

Of thy rich love dost thou even yet out-pour Where once these churches rose, on a saint-trodden shore! V. Oh! must thy children leave thee, thou beloved! Shall all be vain! must the resplendent light, Shed from thy "Golden Candlestick,"∗ in night Dismal and dark, be quenched,—or far removed To happier lands? Or in the furnace proved Shalt thou come forth more holy and more bright, And rest thee humbly from the weary fight— Thy valiant Truth by heavenly hosts approved? Alas the dread impenetrable veil That shrouds thy Future! yet, if thou indeed Must only leave the spirit-thrilling tale Of all thy griefs for after times to heed, Fear not! the mounful record will prevail, And sanctify to earth thy every leafy dale!

Rev. i. 20.

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, 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. TO A LITTLE GIRL. I. THOU wild and playful! as the breeze, Whose wing is ruffling now The evening slumber of the trees, The drooped laburnum bough; And thine own dark loose locks, that o'er Thy downcast face, will half At moments hide, 'till shaken back, Thy sweet and blushing laugh. II. Thou suiting flower for Spring's caress! Thus won to silence now, And sitting 'neath her leafiness, With lifted listening brow; The blackbird pouring over us, Such loud yet soft delight, Is like thee—neither has a grief— A thought of storm or night. III. How lightly drops upon my neck, That soft encircling arm! A purer wreath than pearls to deck, A thing the heart to warm. My fawn-like favourite! soul hath touched Like light thy form and face, And to thy slightest motion given A gay yet stately grace. IV. Oh! very beautiful thou'lt be, When to the sun of time The bud of hope uncloses free, And thou adorn'st thy clime; While thy sweet mind's rich fragrance fills The atmosphere around, Making the circle where thou art Seem like enchanted ground. V. But they'll wreathe that Grecian head of thine With gaudy garlands bright, They'll let no shadowing veil decline Over that fine eye's light; They'll teach thee 'tis not well to let That simple crimson blush, So often to thy careless cheek, At each emotion rush. VI. Yes—thou art for the world—and I Know what the world ordains; The crystal soul's transparency, Its misting breath profanes. I shall not feel to thee as now— I shall not love thee so; For this first singleness of heart I shall but faintly know. VII. Yet in the triumph of thy gifts, When dazzling with delight, If thou should'st start, as truth uplifts Life's curtain, falsely bright, Remember this one silent hour! Wert thou not happy here? Gifts are but grief, too well thou'lt learn, Steal back and veil them, dear! 1830. A POET'S REPLY. I. "SONG is within thee—melody Struggling for utterance clear, Longing to pour its loving tones On human heart and ear. II. "And genius, with its haunting dream Of deathless things and grand, To burst from solitude, and roll A river through the land. III. "But wouldst thou sing so that the whole Hushed world shall pause to listen, And hearts by thousands throb response, And young eyes near thee glisten? IV. "Go dip thy lute in hope's clear stream, That joy illumes each morrow? No, but in life's deep dreary sea Of ever murmuring sorrow! V. "Then shall a power be in its strings, Swift, strong, as grief, as death,— All men have wept, all seen the clay That shut in human breath: VI. "All lost a something unforgot, For sake of which they keep Ever about their hearts the tears They cannot always weep. VII. "So Sorrow tinges sunniest things, Sorrow is on the leaves, The Spring's young air is full of her, The Autumn's golden eves. VIII. "All happier echoes now are lost— Have died from earth away, None wake but for the bards, who down Through grief's dark valleys stray." IX. The minstrel sighed:—"Then thou, my harp! In the gloomy world's old age, Seek not, desire not, hope not now Fame's glorious heritage! X. "I cannot, dare not sing to grief As I could once have sung, Sorrow hath madly swept thy chords Till all the stillness rung. XI. "But now with meek forgivingness, I gaze back on that night, As on a mournful mother's breast Who nursed me for the light; XII. "As the young and happy flower might think Of that dark, buried time, When earth was breathing through the seed, Life for a sunnier clime. XIII. "I dwell in thought's most peaceful land, In feeling's stillest spot,— Enough, if from some hearts beloved No time my songs shall blot!" VERSES. And they came unto the brook of Eshcol and cut down from thence a branch with one cluster of grapes. —NUMBERS xiii. 23. I. SISTER! have not we too come To a brook like Eshcol's own, Rich with many a lovely cluster Of a Vine that stands alone? Truth is reached; its crystal waters Whisper at our weary feet; And fruit-like words, low-bending o'er us, To our souls are sweet. II. And oh! the graceful Tree of Life, Whence they thus so meekly stoop! So kindly in a world of strife Where gentle spirits droop! On our hearts its shadow lieth Soft and clear as on a stream, And we see the land of promise Not as in a dream. III. One simple, graceful branch to-day, One bright, redundant cluster only, Enough for thought we bear away Back through deserts lonely, Back through this world's fruitage poor, And its mean degenerate vines; Can we, can we turn to them, While this in memory shines? IV. By its living sweetness deep, We will on and win that land; Not a doubt shall o'er us creep For the weakness of our band; Not earth's mighty hosts of war, Shall affright us, as we press Onward to our pleasant home, Through the dismal wilderness. V. We will sit beneath that Vine Which o'er us spreads from far above, Drooping with a grace divine Its lowly boughs of love; Is it not already ours, Our beautiful celestial Tree, Whose glory overshadoweth heaven, Whose root is in eternity! 1832. 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. 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. A CHARACTER. I. THY affection resembles a crystal stream, I have somewhere gazed on long; More purely clear does its stillness seem, Than steadfast, or true, or strong. II. For let but a summer wind blow o'er Its constancy to one, And the image that lay so deep before Is shaken on its throne. III. And whoever in passing may smile on thee, Shall meet an answering smile, And a calm transparent sympathy, Sweet for a little while. IV. But it does not last; e'en current-like, Thy feelings steal away: Whate'er may their sunny surface strike, Stirs them; but naught will stay. V. As harp-strings fervently reply Alike to many a hand, But after, all as quickly lie The same untroubled band. VI. 'Tis well for thee! well for a mind That grief would wildly move; But what for those who have consigned To thee their life through love? VII. Like rose-leaves on a river strewn, They may watch their fondness, sent Carelessly out of sight full soon, By memories that repent. VIII. And as the torn-up flower of joy Floats further still from view, May weep; but thou who could'st destroy, Wilt merely smile "adieu!" IX. And yet to think that one who thus Shall wound and injure hearts, Is good and kind, as few of us Whose love not so departs! X. To think of all thy gentleness, Like that Italian air Whose sweet warm breath has deadliness That life yet longs to dare! XI. Alas for earth! the weak then too Are tyrants like the strong; Even dreams that deified a few, We live to learn were wrong. XII. Yes! it is vain; though hope will rove Through realms too oft re-trod, There is no heaven but one above,— There is no god but God. 1830. ON THE DEATH OF AN AGED RELATIVE. I. AND this was death!—he closed his eyes, And gently fell asleep; As a cloud that has travelled through summer skies Sinks in the Western deep, When its waves have given up the last warm streak, Where Evening pillowed her fading cheek; And the myriad stars are assembling all, In the firmament's solemn breathless hall. II. To the last his look beamed kind on all, When he raised its feeling light; And some stood there, who could yet recall How it gladdened their earliest sight; For he ever loved the fetterless glee Of childhood to ring around his knee; His gentle hand, his smile it knew, And to lisp its loving welcome flew. III. But this is past, all past!—his place, Empty and silent now, Will bring a sadness o'er the face, A shadow o'er the brow;— But wherefore weep, when we think of breath Thus peacefully passing forth to death, Like the green from the leaves of the aged tree, When it drops at last unmurmuringly? IV. Death! death! whose footsteps are so still, That few can catch their sound, Till thy hand has grasped the heart's warm thrill, Weighing it to the ground: On us, on those we love, on all Let but thy night of silence fall As softly! and our souls no more Need shrink to plunge from life's steep shore, Into the never fathomed sea Of mercy and eternity! 1828. THE BOYS' SCHOOL. I. AND all this wild light-heartedness of youth Laughingly sparkling around lip and eye, This mirth unmixed, that looks in very truth Sunny and pure as if it could not die! Stirring the grave cheek with a smile to see Boyhood again, what boyhood still will be. II. This recklessness of sorrow! oh! to think That yet (how surely!) sorrow is for these, That some at least shall of her waters drink, And sickening turn from all earth's witcheries: That a few years at best, and youth is gone, And mists will gather over life's glad dawn! III. To think of nature quenched, warmth chilled, how soon! Of all the paths to ruin and to wrong,— All that like soft gleams from a treacherous moon, Will woo to evil, their whole path along. Me it makes sad at heart, and yet be ye As joyous still; nor dream of ills to be! IV. Ambition will find many a martyr here; And Love some fervent hearts to blight and leave; Pleasure too victims, round whom, year by year, Her poisoned web yet closer she will weave. Nay, do not say that this so deep gloom-stain Hath but its being in my own dark brain! V. Look on that proud brow, monarch-like, erect, Its coal-black curls blown off its palest height, That spirit could it brook shame, scorn, neglect? Would it not through the weary waking night, When passion's tide uncurbed grew madly strong, Fervently for the grave's cold shelter long? VI. And shall it then have learned to long in vain? The thought is dreadful! when no single drop Of earthly hope can soothe the fevered brain,— Should it in agony dash from it hope, And rush down, down, where hope can never come, Into the suicide's last fearful home! VII. That other changeful face, like April sky, All sweetness or all storminess by turns, Expression inexpressible flits by The eye, most strangely beautiful, that burns With flashes of deep feeling or wild mirth: Oh! Genius, I would know thee, yes! through the whole earth. VIII. Yet Fame, that now seems near thee as thy own, Like rising sun; should it in after days Mock thee and sink—in bitterness, alone, Haughtily hidden from the cold world's gaze, How tears will gush from those dark, smiling eyes, As one by one each glorious hope-dream dies! IX. That lip of gentle goodness, the cheek's glow, Those slightly sun-browned locks of silky gold, They might almost seem woman's, and yet no! The forehead, smooth albeit and fair, is bold; Man's lordliness of soul shines mildly there,— Young purity, untainted yet, beware! X. Forth, modestly secure, I see thee come; What is thy spur to win applause's prize? Holy affection, thoughts of happy home— Of triumph in its bright and tender eyes: Alas! a harsher world awaiteth thee, Severer judgment, colder sympathy! XI. Yonder dark cheek like India's, fierce and stern, The impetuous flush, the indignant lightning frown, All careless the crowd's love or hate to earn, Yet at the voice of fondness softening down; Oh! unrequited Love, alight not here! Few his heart's idols, but intensely dear. XII. And thou, the graceful, warrior-like, and tall! With merry glance, frank, open as the day, The ruling star and favourite of all; Thou of the witching tones, and free step gay, Like tread of hunter on his native hills— Well knowing of thy spell, to win to thine all wills! XIII. The gift of stirring eloquence is thine; And thine the dangerously doubtful art To guide men's minds, or creep into, and twine Round every pulse of woman's trusting heart. Should slow disease its fetters o'er thee fling, How will it bow thee down, and tame thy fearless wing! XIV. Yes, ardour's kindling fieriness is here, And young enthusiasm's headlong heat, Aspirings high, supreme contempt of fear, The generous burst, the passionate heart-beat, Quick jealousy of honour's lightest stain, Souls that will never stoop, but spurn all foreign rein. XV. And Mind, its might yet slumbering unknown, Like ocean's calmness; all the dawning light Of dazzling Intellect, whose glorious throne, High as the everlasting stars of night, Has homage from all nations, through all time, Whate'er the sons of men behold its blaze sublime: XVI. This may lie here, enfolded in the bud; The mountain river has a silent rise, Ere yet it pour along its giant flood, And send its voice of thunder to the skies: Yet sorrow is for thee, even thee, proud son Of immortality already won! XVII. But fare ye well! I will hope better things; I would not damp young happiness—oh! no: I would but warn you of the many stings Which sin hath made man's heritage of woe, That in your hearts there might be shed abroad When all things fail, the perfect peace of God. 1826. 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; 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. "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. 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? 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. 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. 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. 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. 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! 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. OTHER THOUGHTS ON THE POETIC GIFT. I. IT was a silent bank, where a few wild flowers grew, Stirring to every sudden air that on their slight leaves blew, And there was sweetness deep, that moved like music o'er my heart, In the sound of those low breezes, that sang unruled by art: And in the clear and quiet sky, a few soft clouds like snow, Were floating on, to perish soon, while on the moss below, Near me, were strewn the glittering drops of cool and frequent spray, Flung by a bright and laughing stream, that bounded on its way. II. I sat upon the grass, and bent over those lonely flowers, "Beautiful things!" why may not your deep peacefulness be ours? I murmured—and it seemed as though an answer soft but clear, The moonlight-coloured primrose breathed, in fragrance faint as fear; And the weak violet's trembling stem, whispered "for thee, repose, Life unprofaned, thus only, veiled, in lowly silence grows. Better to wither thus unknown, than bloom where every hand May touch and discompose the heart's fine leaves as they expand." III. 'Twas but a poet's fancy this:—what language hath a flower? And the loud bustling world would blame that idle dreaming hour, The waste of being and of power—the inaction and the sleep Of all those energies, whose fruit, the earth we tread should reap. And they would ask of me the use of cloud, or bud, or breeze, Or a few sparkling water-drops beneath some lonely trees? Their use to life, or to mankind?—they perished long ago; And even that they ever were, I perhaps only know. IV. So let me perish, I reply—their uselessness be mine! All ere the grave, but their repose, I wearily resign: One high emotion let me wake in some tired passer by' One aspiration of the heart to haunt it till it die: And I will brood no more in gloom o'er all the unachieved, But e'en self-reverently learn to bear, less keenly grieved, The unfitness of the poet's gift for uses of this earth, Whate'er its lauded gloriousness, its slight material worth. 1829. TO ——. I. WE two have sat together, Beside the brilliant hearth; And strayed together o'er the grass Of this our pleasant earth; When laughed its morning, we have met; And met when closed its even; And when its solemn moonlight rose; But shall we meet in heaven? II. Dear friend! I ask not dost thou care What are my hopes or fears; I know our eyes have met in smiles, And also met in tears: Take the deep question to thy heart, And let it be forgiven;— Are both of us (so bound on earth) Upon our way to heaven? III. If sometimes, to detain awhile Each other's voice and form, We have stirred up a gentle strife, A transient summer storm; Would! would that we whose words have thus, In wasted moments striven, Might fondly strive together now To reach the goal of heaven! IV. In paleness we have breathed farewell When parting, not for long; And each has felt in solitude If single 'midst the throng: Oh! what if e'er from either's lips A last farewell be given! What if there should be only one Amid the bliss of heaven! 1832. 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, 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. ON READING "THE MAN OF TWO LIVES." I. OH! to live life o'er again, And be what we were not!— And cautiously and wisely tread Each labyrinthine spot, Where Feeling's fiery hand flung down Its signature and blot On the white page of early hope, That page which now we seldom ope! II. Oh! for our mind once more as when 'Twas like an untouched lute! How many a time when wildliest sweet Its tones should now be mute! How lowlier thoughts and loftier aims Should temper griefs acute! How there should be a sterner guard, A law on every trembling chord! III. Then be it so!—Life! life, awake, And spread thy wings for heaven! If we have pained, we yet may watch, To soothe, and be forgiven; If all too feebly heretofore Love with low bonds hath striven, Yet may its flame sublimely rise Up through the blue and boundless skies. IV. One life indeed is swept from earth: It was our own, and we Stand on its grave, and deeply sad Its crowded weed-flowers see; Yet, though not one memorial there Save these can ever be, A life even here may still be ours Of pure, and green, and Spring-like hours. V. But we must first return in tears, Heal every wound we made, Unweave imaginations vain, And cast them down to fade; Our influence o'er men's hearts must be Elsewhere as incense laid, Ere all shall be at peace within, And that sweet life of calm begin. 1829. KINDNESS. I. WITHHOLD not, oh! withhold it not! Hast thou nothing more to give,— There's many a costlier boon forgot, When a passing look will live Or a tone of softness linger on In the mind o'er which long years have gone. Is it not so?—Look back from here To thy childhood's time, when the blush of fear Or the tears which thou hadst not learned to chain, Were quick as burning to teach thee pain; Canst thou remember no smile, that dried With its pitying sweetness mild, Those drops thou wert yet untrained to hide By the fetters of custom, the strength of pride; Till thou, too, while blushing smiled, And lifted thy hidden face once more, Like a rosebud in June when the rain is o'er? Or in after days, when thou, perhaps, Severed from friends and home, Gloomily watchedst thy life elapse;— Like a spot of river foam That is helplessly, aimlessly borne on With the rushing current, and swiftly gone;— If the voice of censure—the proud lip's scorn Fell on thee to make thee more forlorn; Canst thou remember no fearless eye, That was there like a sun in thy wintry sky, Smiling when none would smile but it, Warmest when all were cold, With a still-excusing softness lit, Gilding each cloud that past would flit, With a kindness nobly bold? Could'st thou now in thy days of brightness go Calmly where it lies shut below? And still in the multitude meet'st thou not A few, who pass but are ne'er forgot? One day's companion—who soon to thee Is as lost as a dreamt-of form,— A stranger thou ne'er again may'st see, But in whom all sweetest charity Was transparent, and pure, and warm; Have the watching looks—have the gentle deeds Been but mingled with memory's valueless weeds? Oh! no—when the brilliance of glowing thought Is remembered with undelight, When looks flashing power from the Past are brought Unwished to our spirit's sight; When we shut our eyes with a heavy sigh On much that seemed fair; when we long to fly From the dark fascination, the strong stern spell That unkindness can weave round the mind so well; When the silent Past itself is all Like some spectre-peopled marble hall, Which our very soul grows cold to tread Now, 'mid the lost—the changed—the dead! When its visions that gladdened our credulous youth Are hated because of their deep untruth; And faces that once it was bliss to see Come chillingly o'er the brain; Still, still, there is balm for the weary mind In the thought of the deeply, the fearlessly kind.— We have lived and loved, oh! not in vain, If with this sweet and silent chain We have bound and subdued, to forget us ne'er, Hearts, whose sorrows we sought and were suffered to share. 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, 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, 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. 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! 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; 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; 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— 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. 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. 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. '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. "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! 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?— 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; 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. 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, 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. 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. 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? 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! A THOUGHT. I. SUBLIME and sweet it passed me by,— Like one grand and solemn tone From some deep swell of symphony, That soars to God alone. II. 'T was but a thought—a shadowy thought, And yet, what have we here Save thoughts? those precious ones enwrought With all things bright or dear; III. Those pure ones, separate and unstained, Which the lip shrinks to own, As it deemed their sacredness profaned By any earthly tone. IV. Those lonely ones, and exquisite, Woke by the breath of June, When the leafiness around is lit By the still and glorious moon. V. Those burning ones, that light the eye, And kindle at a name, Thy thousand names that cannot die, Greece! mournful land of fame! VI. Those lofty ones, whose downward look Serenely rests on earth, And its passions that our spirit shook, Awhile seem nothing worth. VII. Those vast and deep, that love the peal Of the resounding sea, Beside whose boundlessness we feel Our immortality. VIII. What have we more in all this world, From first our hearts can love, Whose flag of light shines on unfurled, Even as our trust above? IX. What more that does not die, or lose The sweetness that it had,— Till even the green earth's joyous hues To us look dimmed and sad? X. What more that we can claim as ours, Through change and through decay, And those autumn years when life's young flowers Drop silently away? XI. Oh! nothing:—yet there is a goal Where these things are forgot,— And here, deep treasures for the soul, In the wide heaven of thought. XII. And back in softened mournfulness To founts yet sparkling there, Those sullied founts of happiness That are not what they were, XIII. And onward in glad freedom far, With the eagle's fearless flight, Up to a yet more dazzling Star Of everlasting light, XIV. In memory, in faith's sure hope How often we have flown! Darkly the buds of youth may droop, But these are still our own. XV. The smile, the last, the parting one, So sad, so very faint! The farewell fervently begun, But left for looks to paint; XVI. That glance in which we read the vow, While hand in hand lay yet, Of affection's faith that did but know It never could forget; XVII. All that has ever made our heart Beat quicker, with the rush Of feeling's tide,—all that had part In the young cheek's rapid flush; XVIII. Those moments of our lives, that live Each one a hoarded gem, Bringing sweet tears! oh! who would give One single thought of them?— XIX. 'Twas the day of rest, and deep repose Lay upon tree and grave, And beautiful the Spring-day rose On hill and sparkling wave: XX. And in that place of quietness— In the temple of the Lord, We knelt us down in lowliness, In one high faith's accord. XXI. And I thought o'er all my country then— The blessed and the free— In that same brotherhood again What thousands bent the knee! XXII. In every spot where on that morn, Sweetly the sabbath bell Had sent its voice, on soft winds borne, Of the "better land" to tell. XXIII. Where the sultry city's crowds were met— Where the struggling sunshine falls Through the heavy air (how lovely yet!) Upon the holy walls. XXIV. Or where they rose in ivied pride, From the grassiness around, Where, uncrushed, the early violets hide, Brightening the hallowed ground. XXV. From earth's assembled multitudes, Who knelt to be forgiven, I thought how then went mutely up The incense dear to heaven. XXVI. From the ship upon the ocean foam, From the strange land's saddening bloom, From the darkened peacefulness of home In the sick chamber's gloom, XXVII. How many a heart was lifting then The meek and contrite prayer, Wherever 'mongst the sons of men Thoughts of a Saviour were! 1827. 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! 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; 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. 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. 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. THE DEATH-BED AND GRAVE OF AMISSIONARY'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. "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.

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

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. 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,) 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, 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.

The River Meles.

1838. 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, 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, 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!

Psalm xlvi. 4.

1832. 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. I. YES! thou indeed art as an eagle, cleaving High solitudes profound,— Thought's mountain summits, far beneath thee leaving, And who of earth shall bring thee to the ground? Thy wings of intellect are dazzling-bright, Oh! earliest loved, I know not where they soar; I veil mine eyes before the splendid sight, I only know that this must once be o'er. II. For take thy flight, which hath a glorious seeming, Upward and upward, wandering through light! Smile in thy heart at faith's prophetic dreaming, That aught shall pluck thee from thy sovereign height! Go to thy throne amid the stars of heaven, Where death itself shall never touch thy crown! One dwelleth there—with Him if thou hast striven, Shall he not cast thee like the weakest down? III. Is there around the lofty habitation Of thy bright spirit any guard from him? Canst thou defy the inward desolation With which his wrath all brilliant thoughts can dim? Hast thou a heart that would not much be wounded Should burning arrows fall on it like rain,— Should love be crushed, and deepest trust confounded, And memory's self become unsleeping pain? IV. And what shall then those glorious wings avail thee, Bleeding, and faint, and powerless to rise, When all the refuges of this world fail thee, And coldly glitter the approachless skies? Oh! ere that hour, "a little child" again, Become in wisdom's renovated youth, And rise, an eagle, among fearless men, For Him who is "the Truth." 1832. "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. I. CALL it not death when Christ's redeemed Pass from the earth away, While eyes that ever fondly beamed Still light them on their way; II. While the supporting arms of love Pillow their faint heads still, And dearest lips that trembling move, Imprint their forehead's chill. III. They did not call it death who told That early martyr's tale, Whose angel beauty, meekly bold, Sank 'neath the dreadful hail, IV. The cruel shower of stormy hate Which on his sweetness fell, Crushing him 'neath its furious weight, With all the joy of hell! V. Call it not death, if like to him, Oh! chosen of the Lord! An hour of fearful martyrdom Be yours, of earth abhorred. VI. Like him ye shall but "fall asleep,"— Shall from your labours rest In quiet slumber, soft and deep, Upon your Saviour's breast. VII. Oh! no—there is no death for His,— But life's eternal light! Call death the blessed sleep it is,— The balmy summer night! VIII. And soon that veiling night, withdrawn Even from your graves shall be— Soon this corruption shall put on HIS incorruptibility! 1838. 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 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. 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! 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!" 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,

Rev. xix. 13,19.

(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. 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 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, 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? THE END.