WORDS OF WAYWARDNESS.
Reading edition
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BY PROFESSOR CAMPBELL.
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Hah! for the tide of the blood’s hot gush—
Hah! for the throng or proud thoughts that rush,
Reckless and riotous—why should they be
Iced by thy frown, Reality?
Give, give me back the early joy
Of youth’s warm hopes, of vows believed—
Again, again a dreaming boy
Let me be happy—though deceived.
Friendship,
they say, is but a name,
And woman’s love a meteor flame,
That feedeth upon fancy’s breath
A little while, then perisheth.
Out, out upon thee—out on thee!
Thou hideous hag, Reality.
Hah! tears again! dost ask me why
The tear upon this burning cheek,
The half repressed, yet bursting sigh?
The tear, the sigh, themselves must speak;
Must tell a tale of by-gone hours,
A vision of all fair and bright—
When my young path was strewn with flowers,
And every throb was of delight.
When joys were of each moment’s birth,
Nor care, nor doubt, an instant stole
From days of ever-changeful mirth,
That changeless shone upon the soul.
When hopes, that in mist-distance gleaming,
In promise e’en outvied the past,
Came ever, halcyon heralds seeming,
Of peace and bliss for aye to last.
But where is now the sportive wile
Of youth—so guileless and so gay—
The soul of love, of fire—the smile,
That spoke that soul—oh! where are they?
Of days that could such joys impart
What now remains? Their memory—
A cheerless, blasted youth—a heart
That breaketh fast, though silently.
And those proud hopes so fondly cherished,
Have they too proved, like Friendship, breath?
Ay, one by one, they all have perished—
Yet no—not all—there yet is death!
There yet remains to choose some spot,
Where, far from man and scorn, to lie—
And there, unheeded and forgot,
Alone—oh! God—alone to die.
Who talks of dying, while around
The earth’s so fair, the sky so bright?
With Folly’s wreath let day be crowned,
And Mirth and Music rule the night.
Another chord—the purple hills
Are bowing to the yellow vales—
The vales are smiling to the rills—
The rills make music for the gales,
That with the sunbeams twining hands,
Through groves and meads and streams are glancing
Adown the lanes, and on the sands
Of brave old Ocean madly dancing.
And brave old Ocean roareth so
His honest laugh, to see those Misses,
The pretty flow’rets bending low,
As though to shun the wired-god’s kisses.
Kisses—hah! hah!—around this string
Of other days what memories twine—
Bring, merry comrades, quickly bring
Youth-giving and song-making wine.
Fill, fill—on the faithful brim
Pile up the sparkling flood—
Drink, drink, till the living stream
Run conqueror through the blood.
Drink to the hill, the vale,
The stream and its jeweled brink,
To the warming ray and the cooling gale,
To earth and to ocean drink.
Drink to each thing that seems
Or loving or glad to be—
Nor wait to ask if those joyous beams
Be nature’s hypocrisy.
I’ve quaffed the brimming bowl
In mirth’s and madness’ hours—
And drenched my thirsty soul
In goblets crowned with flowers.
Of draughts so pure as this
’Tis luxury to sip,
But draught of purer bliss
Doth dwell on woman’s lip.
I’ve felt the glowing sun
Steal warmly to my heart’s
Faint throbs, when gazing on
The skies of southern parts.
But oh! a sun more bright,
A purer, warmer sky,
Of joy-embathing light,
Is found in woman’s eye.
’Neath holy Music’s spell
Hath lain each dream-rapt sense,
While on my spirit fell
Its gushing eloquence.
But oh! a spell there is
More potent to rejoice—
The soothing lowliness
Of woman’s whispered voice.
Then wonder not, if now
To her I pledge this cup,
To whom my earliest vow
First sent its incense up—
To her—the soul of verse,
Our hope, when hope-bereft—
Our blessing ’neath the curse—
Our all of Eden left.
Give, give me back the early joy
Of youth’s strong hopes, of vows believed—
Again, again a dreaming boy
Let me be happy, though deceived.
For who hath caught the answering sigh
Heaving sweet woman’s timid breast,
His longing soul fed on her eye,
And learned the rapture to be blest—
In lingering dalliance now to sip,
In boldness now of ardor roving,
To drink from eye, cheek, forehead, lip,
Of one beloved, and seeming loving.
Upon the tell-tale cheek to breathe,
Closer the clasping hands to wreathe,
As if no earthly power could sever
The bosoms met, as met forever—
While each responsive fluttering heart,
Beating as though ’twould gladly break
To tell the joy that tongue ne’er spake,
Longs from its heaving breast to part,
Nearer and nearer still to press
The soul of its soul’s happiness.
Oh! who has felt around his soul
The spells of this idolatry—
And wished not that his days should roll
Thus spell-bound to eternity.
Away with wisdom—’tis a cheat—
Away with truth—’tis all a lie—
Madness alone hath no deceit—
Falsehood alone no mockery.
OLDEN TIMES.