Part 2 — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

“Oh! bless’d are they who live and die like ‘him,’ Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn’d!” Wordsworth.

Banners hung drooping from on high In a dim cathedral’s nave, Making a gorgeous canopy O’er a noble, noble grave! And a marble warrior’s form beneath, With helm and crest array’d, As on his battle-bed of death, Lay in their crimson shade. Triumph yet linger’d in his eye, Ere by the dark night seal’d; And his head was pillow’d haughtily On standard and on shield. And shadowing that proud trophy-pile, With the glory of his wing, An eagle sat—yet seem’d the while Panting through heaven to spring. He sat upon a shiver’d lance, There by the sculptor bound; But in the light of his lifted glance Was that which scorn’d the ground. And a burning flood of gem-like hues, From a storied window pour’d, There fell, there centred, to suffuse The conqueror and his sword. A flood of hues—but one rich dye O’er all supremely spread, With a purple robe of royalty Mantling the mighty dead. Meet was that robe for him whose name Was a trumpet-note in war, His pathway still the march of fame, His eye the battle-star. But faintly, tenderly was thrown, From the colour’d light, one ray, Where a low and pale memorial-stone By the couch of glory lay. Few were the fond words chisell’d there, Mourning for parted worth; But the very heart of love and prayer Had given their sweetness forth. They spoke of one whose life had been As a hidden streamlet’s course, Bearing on health and joy unseen From its clear mountain-source: Whose young, pure memory, lying deep Midst rock, and wood, and hill, Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,[429] A soft light, meek and still: Whose gentle voice, too early call’d Unto Music’s land away, Had won for God the earth’s, enthrall’d By words of silvery sway. These were his victories—yet, enroll’d In no high song of fame, The pastor of the mountain-fold Left but to heaven his name. To heaven, and to the peasant’s hearth, A blessed household-sound; And finding lowly love on earth, Enough, enough, he found! Bright and more bright before me gleam’d That sainted image still, Till one sweet moonlight memory seem’d The regal fane to fill. Oh! how my silent spirit turn’d From those proud trophies nigh! How my full heart within me burn’d Like Him to live and die!

A child beside a hamlet’s fount at play, Her fair face laughing at the sunny day; A gush of waters tremulously bright, Kindling the air to gladness with their light; And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees, Darkening the turf; and, shadow’d o’er by these, A low, dim, woodland cottage—this was all! What had the scene for memory to recall With a fond look of love? What secret spell With the heart’s pictures made its image dwell? What but the spirit of the joyous child, That freshly forth o’er stream and verdure smiled, Casting upon the common things of earth A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!

I look’d on the field where the battle was spread, When thousands stood forth in their glancing array; And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed Through the dun-rolling clouds that o’ershadow’d the fray. I saw the dark forest of lances appear, As the ears of the harvest unnumber’d they stood; I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near, Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood. Afar the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll’d, Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair; On high to the gust stream’d the banner’s red fold, O’er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of despair. I look’d on the field of contention again, When the sabre was sheath’d and the tempest had past; The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, And the fem softly sigh’d in the low, wailing blast. Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, And bright shone the stars through the sky’s deepen’d blue; And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, Where the fox-glove lay gemm’d with its pearl-drops of dew. But where swept the ranks of that dark, frowning host, As the ocean in might, as the storm-cloud in speed? Where now are the thunders of victory’s boast— The slayer’s dread wrath, and the strength of the steed? Not a time-wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, To mark the lone scene of their shame or their pride; One grass-cover’d mound told the traveller alone Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and died! O Glory! behold thy famed guerdon’s extent: For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wasting lot— A name like the mist, when the night-beams are spent; A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot!

“Can guilt or misery ever enter here? Ah, no! the spirit of domestic peace, Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim, The hallow’d porch. She hath a heavenly smile, That sinks into the sullen soul of Vice, And wins him o’er to virtue.”—Wilson.

My father’s house once more, In its own moonlight beauty! Yet around, Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, Broods, never mark’d before! Is it the brooding night? Is it the shivery creeping on the air, That makes the home so tranquil and so fair, O’erwhelming to my sight? All solemnised it seems, And still’d, and darken’d in each time-worn hue, Since the rich, clustering roses met my view, As now, by starry gleams. And this high elm, where last I stood and linger’d—where my sisters made Our mother’s bower—I deem’d not that it cast So far and dark a shade! How spirit-like a tone Sighs through yon tree! My father’s place was there At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair! Now those gray locks are gone! My soul grows faint with fear! Even as if angel-steps had mark’d the sod. I tremble where I move—the voice of God Is in the foliage here! Is it indeed the night That makes my home so awful? Faithless-hearted! ’Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed The inborn, gladdening light! No outward thing is changed; Only the joy of purity is fled, And, long from nature’s melodies estranged, Thou hear’st their tones with dread. Therefore the calm abode, By thy dark spirit, is o’erhung with shade; And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God Makes thy sick heart afraid! The night-flowers round that door Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air; Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more To pass, and rest thee there. And must I turn away?— Hark, hark!—it is my mother’s voice I hear— Sadder than once it seem’d—yet soft and clear;— Doth she not seem to pray? My name!—I caught the sound! Oh! blessed tone of love—the deep, the mild! Mother! my mother! now receive thy child: Take back the lost and found!

“We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live; Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud; And, would we aught behold of higher worth Than that inanimate, cold world allow’d To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd, Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, Enveloping the earth; And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element.”—Coleridge.

Green spot of holy ground! If thou couldst yet be found, Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers; If not one sullying breath Of time, or change, or death, Had touch’d the vernal glory of thy bowers; Might our tired pilgrim-feet, Worn by the desert’s heat, On the bright freshness of thy turf repose? Might our eyes wander there Through heaven’s transparent air, And rest on colours of the immortal rose? Say, would thy balmy skies And fountain-melodies Our heritage of lost delight restore? Could thy soft honey-dews Through all our veins diffuse The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more? And might we, in the shade By thy tall cedars made, With angel-voices high communion hold? Would their sweet, solemn tone Give back the music gone, Our Being’s harmony, so jarr’d of old? Oh no!—thy sunny hours Might come with blossom-showers, All thy young leaves to spirit-lyres might thrill; But we—should we not bring Into thy realms of spring The shadows of our souls to haunt us still? What could thy flowers and airs Do for our earth-born cares? Would the world’s chain melt off and leave us free? No!—past each living stream, Still would some fever-dream Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee! Should we not shrink with fear If angel-steps were near, Feeling our burden’d souls within us die? How might our passions brook The still and searching look, The star-like glance of seraph purity? Thy golden-fruited grove Was not for pining love; Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies! Oh! thou wert but a part Of what man’s exiled heart Hath lost—the dower of inborn Paradise!

Night hung on Salem’s towers, And a brooding hush profound Lay where the Roman eagle shone High o’er the tents around— The tents that rose by thousands, In the moonlight glimmering pale; Like white waves of a frozen sea Filling an Alpine vale. And the Temple’s massy shadow Fell broad, and dark, and still, In peace—as if the Holy One Yet watch’d his chosen hill. But a fearful sound was heard In that old fane’s deepest heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a dread voice raised the cry, “Let us depart!” Within the fated city E’en then fierce discord raved, Though o’er night’s heaven the comet-sword Its vengeful token waved. There were shouts of kindred warfare Through the dark streets ringing high, Though every sign was full which told Of the bloody vintage nigh; Though the wild red spears and arrows Of many a meteor host Went flashing o’er the holy stars, In the sky now seen, now lost. And that fearful sound was heard In the Temple’s deepest heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a voice cried mournfully, “Let us depart!” But within the fated city There was revelry that night— The wine-cup and the timbrel note, And the blaze of banquet-light. The footsteps of the dancer Went bounding through the hall, And the music of the dulcimer Summon’d to festival: While the clash of brother-weapons Made lightning in the air, And the dying at the palace gates Lay down in their despair; And that fearful sound was heard At the Temple’s thrilling heart, As if mighty wings rush’d by, And a dread voice raised the cry, “Let us depart!”

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe, And by the weight of mortal agony Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow, My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain Sank on me with a mystery and a chain. I look’d once more—and, as the virtue shed Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray Of victory from thy mien; and round thy head, The halo, melting spirit-like away, Seem’d of the very soul’s bright rising born, To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn. And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming, Gazed in mute reverence woman’s earnest eye, Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming, With quenchless faith, and deep love’s fervency, Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil’d shrine, About the form, so mournfully divine! Oh! let thine image, as e’en then it rose, Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear, Making itself a temple of repose, Beyond the breath of human hope or fear! A holy place, where through all storms may lie One living beam of dayspring from on high.

“Could we but keep our spirits to that height, We might be happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal.”—Byron.

Return, my thoughts—come home! Ye wild and wing’d! what do ye o’er the deep? And wherefore thus the abyss of time o’ersweep, As birds the ocean-foam? Swifter than shooting-star, Swifter than lances of the northern-light, Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, Hath been your course afar! Through the bright battle-clime, Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams, And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, By temples of old time: Through the north’s ancient halls, Where banners thrill’d of yore—where harp-strings rung; But grass waves now o’er those that fought and sung, Hearth-light hath left their walls! Through forests old and dim, Where o’er the leaves dread magic seems to brood; And sometimes on the haunted solitude Rises the pilgrim’s hymn: Or where some fountain lies, With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming! There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming Of man’s lost paradise! Return, my thoughts—return! Cares wait your presence in life’s daily track, And voices, not of music, call you back— Harsh voices, cold and stem! Oh, no! return ye not! Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be! Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free, O’er many a haunted spot. Go! seek the martyr’s grave, Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast; Or, through the ruin’d cities of the past, Follow the wise and brave! Go! visit cell and shrine, Where woman hath endured!—thro’ wrong, thro’ scorn, Uncheer’d by fame, yet silently upborne By promptings more divine! Go, shoot the gulf of death! Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, Where the heart’s boundless love its rest may find, Where the storm sends no breath! Higher, and yet more high—! Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay On your victorious wings—mount, mount! Your way Is through eternity!

Oh! beautiful thou art, Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen! Crowning the depths, as with the light serene Of a pure heart. Bright lily of the wave! Rising in fearless grace with every swell, Thou seem’st as if a spirit meekly brave Dwelt in thy cell: Lifting alike thy head Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, Whether with foam or pictured azure spread The waters be. What is like thee, fair flower, The gentle and the firm! thus bearing up To the blue sky that alabaster cup, As to the shower? Oh! love is most like thee, The love of woman! quivering to the blast Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, Midst life’s dark sea. And faith—oh, is not faith Like thee, too, lily! springing into light, Still buoyantly, above the billows’ might, Through the storm’s breath? Yes! link’d with such high thought, Flower! let thine image in my bosom lie; Till something there of its own purity And peace be wrought— Something yet more divine Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed Forth from thy breast upon the river’s bed. As from a shrine.

He pass’d from earth Without his fame,—the calm, pure, starry fame He might have won, to guide on radiantly Full many a noble soul,—he sought it not; And e’en like brief and barren lightning pass’d The wayward child of genius. And the songs Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, Had shower’d forth recklessly, as ocean-waves Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed, They died before him;—they were winged seed Scatter’d afar, and, falling on the rock Of the world’s heart, had perish’d. One alone, One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain, The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls Of the kind few that loved him, with a love Faithful to even its disappointed hope, That song of tears found root, and by their hearths Full oft, in low and reverential tones, Fill’d with the piety of tenderness, Is murmur’d to their children, when his name On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls, Far from the world’s rude voices, far away. Oh! hear, and judge him gently; ’twas his last. I come alone, and faint I come— To nature’s arms I flee; The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee? The earliest odour of the flower, The bird’s first song is thine; Father in heaven! my dayspring’s hour Pour’d its vain incense on another shrine. Therefore my childhood’s once-loved scene Around me faded lies; Therefore, remembering what hath been, I ask, is this mine early paradise? It is, it is—but Thou art gone; Or if the trembling shade Breathe yet of thee, with alter’d tone Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay’d.

They rear’d no trophy o’er his grave, They hade no requiem flow; What left they there to tell the brave That a warrior sleeps below? A shiver’d spear, a cloven shield, A helm with its white plume torn, And a blood-stain’d turf on the fatal field, Where a chief to his rest was borne. He lies not where his fathers sleep, But who hath a tomb more proud? For the Syrian wilds his record keep, And a banner is his shroud.

“Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt They owe their ancestors; and make them swear To pay it, by transmitting down entire Those sacred rights to which themselves were born.” Akenside.

Look from the ancient mountains down, My noble English boy! Thy country’s fields around thee gleam In sunlight and in joy. Ages have roll’d since foeman’s march Pass’d o’er that old, firm sod; For well the land hath fealty held To freedom and to God! Gaze proudly on, my English boy! And let thy kindling mind Drink in the spirit of high thought From every chainless wind! There, in the shadow of old Time, The halls beneath thee lie Which pour’d forth to the fields of yore Our England’s chivalry. How bravely and how solemnly They stand, midst oak and yew! Whence Cressy’s yeomen haply framed The bow, in battle true. And round their walls the good swords hang Whose faith knew no alloy, And shields of knighthood, pure from stain: Gaze on, my English boy! Gaze where the hamlet’s ivied church Gleams by the antique elm, Or where the minster lifts the cross High through the air’s blue realm. Martyrs have shower’d their free heart’s blood That England’s prayer might rise, From those gray fanes of thoughtful years, Unfetter’d, to the skies. Along their aisles, beneath their trees, This earth’s most glorious dust, Once fired with valour, wisdom, song, Is laid in holy trust. Gaze on—gaze farther, farther yet— My gallant English boy! Yon blue sea bears thy country’s flag, The billows’ pride and joy! Those waves in many a fight have closed Above her faithful dead; That red-cross flag victoriously Hath floated o’er their bed. They perish’d—this green turf to keep By hostile tread unstain’d, These knightly halls inviolate, Those churches unprofaned. And high and clear their memory’s light Along our shore is set, And many an answering beacon-fire Shall there be kindled yet! Lift up thy heart, my English boy! And pray, like them to stand, Should God so summon thee, to guard The altars of the land.

Flower of starry clearness bright! Quivering urn of colour’d light! Hast thou drawn thy cup’s rich dye From the intenseness of the sky? From a long, long fervent gaze Through the year’s first golden days, Up that blue and silent deep, Where, like things of sculptured sleep, Alabaster clouds repose, With the sunshine on their snows? Thither was thy heart’s love turning, Like a censer ever burning, Till the purple heavens in thee Set their smile, Anemone? Or can those warm tints be caught Each from some quick glow of thought? So much of bright soul there seems In thy bendings and thy gleams, So much thy sweet life resembles That which feels, and weeps, and trembles, I could deem thee spirit-fill’d, As a reed by music thrill’d, When thy being I behold To each loving breath unfold, Or, like woman’s willowy form, Shrink before the gathering storm! I could ask a voice from thee, Delicate Anemone! Flower! thou seem’st not born to die With thy radiant purity, But to melt in air away, Mingling with the soft Spring-day, When the crystal heavens are still, And faint azure veils each hill, And the lime-leaf doth not move, Save to songs that stir the grove, And earth all glorified is seen, As imaged in some lake serene; —Then thy vanishing should be, Pure and meek Anemone! Flower! the laurel still may shed Brightness round the victor’s head; And the rose in beauty’s hair Still its festal glory wear; And the willow-leaves drop o’er Brows which love sustains no more: But by living rays refined, Thou, the trembler of the wind, Thou the spiritual flower, Sentient of each breeze and shower, Thou, rejoicing in the skies, And transpierced with all their dyes; Breathing vase, with light o’erflowing, Gem-like to thy centre glowing, Thou the poet’s type shalt be, Flower of soul, Anemone!

“The still, sad music of humanity, ... of ample power To chasten and subdue.”

——“We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live.”

“The harvest of the quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart,”

“Every little living nerve, That from bitter words doth swerve,”

“May bear bright, golden flowers, but not in this soil.”

“Let me then bear the burden of my bliss To some deep grove that oft hath veil’d my grief; There let me roam in solitude: no eye Shall then recall the triumph undeserved. And if some shining fountain suddenly On its clear mirror to my sight should give The form of one who, strangely, brightly crown’d, Seems musing in the blue reflected heaven, As it streams down through rocks and parted trees, Then will I dream that on the enchanted wave I see Elysium pictured! I will ask Who is the bless’d departed one?—the youth From long past ages with his glorious wreath? Who shall reveal his name?—who speak his worth? Oh! that another and another there Might press, with him to hold bright communing! Might I but see the minstrels and the chiefs Of the old time on that pure fountain-side. For evermore inseparably link’d As they were link’d in life! Not steel to steel Is bound more closely by the magnet’s power Than the same striving after lofty things Doth bind the bard and warrior. Homer’s life Was self-forgetfulness—he pour’d it forth, One rich libation to another’s fame: And Alexander through th’ Elysian grove To seek Achilles and his poet flies. Might I behold their meeting!”

They still disturb my heart— Still do they crowd my soul tumultuously— The troubling images of that vast world, Which—living, restless, fearful as it is— Yet, at the bidding of one master-mind, E’en as commanded by a demigod, Seems to fulfil its course. With eagerness, Yea, with a strange delight, my soul drank in The strong words of the experienced; but, alas! The more I listen’d, still the more I sank In mine own eyes; I seem’d to die away As into some faint echo of the rocks— A shadowy sound—a nothing!

When earth has men to reverence female hearts, To know the treasure of rich truth and love, Set deep within a high-soul’d woman’s breast; When the remembrance of our summer prime Keeps brightly in man’s heart a holy place; When the keen glance that pierces through so much Looks also tenderly through that dim veil By time or sickness hung round drooping forms, When the possession, stilling every wish, Draws not desire away to other wealth— A brighter dayspring then for us may dawn, Then may we solemnise our golden age.

Alas! that we so slowly learn to heed The secret signs and omens of the breast! An oracle speaks low within our hearts— Low, still, yet clear, its prophet-voice forewarns What to pursue, what shun. ... Yes! my whole soul misgave me silently When he and Tasso met.

Oh! mark’d and singled was the hour when first He met mine eye! Sickness and grief just then Had pass’d away: from long, long suffering freed, I lifted up my brow, and silently Gazed upon life again. The sunny day, The sweet looks of my kindred, made a light Of gladness round me, and my freshen’d heart Drank the rich, healing balm of hope once more. Then onward, through the glowing world, I dared To send my glance, and many a kind, bright shape There beckon’d from afar. Then first the youth, Led by a sister’s hand, before me stood, And my soul clung to him e’en then, O friend! To cling for evermore. Leo. Lament it not, My princess!—to have known heaven’s gifted ones Is to have gather’d into the full soul Inalienable wealth! Prin. Oh, precious things! The richly graced, the exquisite, are things To fear, to love with trembling! Beautiful Is the pure flame when on thy hearth it shines, When in the friendly torch it gives thee light, How gracious and how calm!—but, once unchain’d, Lo! ruin sweeps along its fatal path!

Alas, dear friend! my soul indeed is fix’d— Let him depart! Yet cannot I but feel Even now the sadness of long days to come— The cold void left me by a lost delight! No more shall sunrise from my opening eye Chase his bright image glorified in dreams; Glad hope to see him shall no longer stir With joyous flutterings my scarce-waken’d soul; And vainly, vainly, through yon garden bowers, Amidst the dewy shadows, my first look Shall seek his form! How blissful was the thought With him to share each golden evening’s peace! How grew the longing, hour by hour, to read His spirit yet more deeply! Day by day How my own being, tuned to happiness, Gave forth a voice of finer harmony!— Now is the twilight-gloom around me fallen: The festal day, the sun’s magnificence, All riches of this many-colour’d world, What are they now?—dim, soulless, desolate! Veil’d in the cloud that sinks upon my heart. Once was each day a life!—each care was mute, Even the low boding hush’d within the soul; And the smooth waters of a gliding stream, Without the rudder’s aid, bore lightly on Our fairy bark of joy!

Leon. If the kind words of friendship cannot soothe, The still, sweet influences of this fair world Shall win thee back unconsciously to peace. Prin. Yes! beautiful it is, the glowing world! So many a joy keeps flitting to and fro In all its paths, and ever, ever seems One step, but one, removed; till our fond thirst For the still fading fountain, step by step, Lures to the grave! So seldom do we find What seem’d by Nature moulded for our love, And for our bliss endow’d—or, if we find, So seldom to our yearning hearts can hold! That which once freely made itself our own Bursts from us!—that which eagerly we press’d We coldly loose! A treasure may be ours, Only we know it not, or know, perchance, Unconscious of its worth!

Alas! too well I feel, too true a voice Within me whispers, that the Mighty Power Which, on sustaining wings of strength and joy, Bears up the healthful spirit, will but cast Mine to the earth—will rend me utterly!—— I must away!

Rightly thou speak’st—I am myself no more; And yet in worth not less than I have been. Seems this a dark, strange riddle? Yet,’tis none! The gentle moon that gladdens thee by night— Thine eye, thy spirit irresistibly Winning with beams of love—mark! how it floats Through the day’s glare, a pale and powerless cloud! I am o’ercome by the full blaze of noon; Ye know me, and I know myself no more!

Vainly, too vainly, ’gainst the power I strive, Which, night and day, comes rushing through my soul! Without that pouring forth of thought and song My life is life no more! Wilt thou forbid the silkworm to spin on, When hourly, with the labour’d line, he draws Nearer to death. In vain!—the costly web Must from his inmost being still be wrought, Till he lies wrapp’d in his consummate shroud. Oh! that a gracious God to us may give The lot of that bless’d worm!—to spread free wings, And burst exultingly on brighter life, In a new realm of sunshine!

Thou art the same pure angel, as when first Thy radiance cross’d my path! Forgive, forgive, If for a moment, in his blind despair, The mortal’s troubled glance hath read thee wrong! Once more he knows thee! His expanding soul Flows forth to worship thee for evermore, And his full heart dissolves in tenderness. ... Is it false light which draws me on to thee? Is it delirium?—Is it thought inspired, And grasping first high truth divinely clear? Yes! ’tis even so—the feeling which alone Can make me bless’d on earth!

Can I then image no high-hearted man Whose pangs and conflicts have surpass’d mine own, That my vex’d soul might win sustaining power From thoughts of him? I cannot!—all is lost! One thing alone remains, one mournful boon: Nature on us, her suffering children, showers The gift of tears—the impassion’d cry of grief, When man can bear no more;—and with my woe, With mine above all others, hath been link’d Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour All, all its fulness forth! To me a God Hath given strong utterance for mine agony, When others, in their deep despair, are mute! ... Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man! I seem before thee as the troubled wave: But oh! be thoughtful!—in thy lofty strength Exult thou not! By nature’s might alike That rock was fix’d, that quivering wave was made The sensitive of storm! She sends her blasts— The living water flies—it quakes and swells, And bows down tremblingly with breaking foam; Yet once that mirror gave the bright sun back In calm transparence—once the gentle stars Lay still upon its undulating breast! Now the sweet peace is gone—the glory now Departed from the wave! I know myself No more in these dark perils, and no more I blush to lose that knowledge. From the bark Is wrench’d the rudder, and through all its frame The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my feet The rocking earth gives way—to thee I cling— I grasp thee with mine arms. In wild despair So doth the struggling sailor clasp the rock Whereon he perishes!

“All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, But must be borne. I stoop not to despair; For I have baffled with mine agony, And made me wings wherewith to overfly The narrow circus of my dungeon-wall; And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; And revell’d among men and things divine, And pour’d my spirit over Palestine, In honour of the sacred war for Him, The God who was on earth and is in heaven; For He hath strengthen’d me in heart and limb. That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, I have employ’d my penance to record How Salem’s shrine was won, and how adored.”

O sweetest voice! O bless’d familiar sound Of mother-words heard in the stranger’s land! I see the blue hills of my native shore, The far blue hills again! those cordial tones, Before the captive bid them freshly rise For ever welcome! Oh, by this deep joy, Know the true son of Greece!

Oh, hear me! look upon me! How my heart, After long desolation, now unfolds Unto this new delight, to kiss thy head, Thou dearest, dearest one of all on earth! To clasp thee with my arms, which were but thrown On the void winds before! Oh, give me way! Give my soul’s rapture way! The eternal fount Leaps not more brightly forth from cliff to cliff Of high Parnassus, down the golden vale, Than the strong joy bursts gushing from my heart, And swells around me to a flood of bliss— Orestes!—O my brother!

Man by the battle’s hour immortalised May fall, yet leave his name to living song; But of forsaken woman’s countless tears, What recks the after-world? The poet’s voice Tells naught of all the slow, sad, weary days, And long, long nights, through which the lonely soul Pour’d itself forth, consumed itself away, In passionate adjurings, vain desires, And ceaseless weepings for the early lost, The loved and vanish’d!

One draught from Lethe’s flood!—reach me one draught, One last cool goblet fill’d with dewy peace! Soon will the spasm of life departing leave My bosom free! Soon shall my spirit flow Along the deep waves of forgetfulness, Calmly and silently! away to you, Ye dead! Ye dwellers of the eternal cloud! Take home the son of earth, and let him steep His o’erworn senses in your dim repose For evermore.

Hark! in the trembling leaves Mysterious whispers: hark! a rushing sound Sweeps through yon twilight depth!—e’en now they come, They throng to greet their guest! And who are they Rejoicing each with each in stately joy, As a king’s children gather’d for the hour Of some high festival! Exultingly, And kindred-like, and godlike, on they pass— The glorious, wandering shapes! aged and young, Proud men and royal women! Lo! my race— My sire’s ancestral race!

O festal Spring! midst thy victorious glow, Far-spreading o’er the kindled woods and plains, And streams, that bound to meet thee from their chains, Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe For human hearts, and in the exulting flow Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone, Were we of mould all earthly—we alone, Sever’d from thy great spell, and doom’d to go Farther, still farther, from our sunny time, Never to feel the breathings of our prime, Never to flower again! But we, O Spring! Cheer’d by deep spirit-whispers not of earth, Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth, As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and sing.

Far from the rustlings of the poplar-bough, Which o’er my opening life wild music made, Far from the green hills with their heathery glow And flashing streams whereby my childhood play’d; In the dim city, midst the sounding flow Of restless life, to thee in love I turn O thou rich Sky! and from thy splendours learn How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow. With thee all shapes of glory find their home, And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome! By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, That Nature’s God hath left no spot unbless’d With founts of beauty for the eye of love.

Oh! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those Who, richly dower’d for life, are call’d to die Ere the soul’s flame, through storms, hath won repose In truth’s divinest ether, still and high! Let their mind’s riches claim a trustful sigh! Deem them but sad, sweet fragments of a strain, First notes of some yet struggling harmony, By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain Of many inspirations met, and held From its true sphere,—oh! soon it might have swell’d Majestically forth! Nor doubt that He, Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts made free!

Upward and upward still!—in pearly light The clouds are steep’d! the vernal spirit sighs With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies Woo thee, O bird! to thy celestial height. Bird, piercing heaven with music! thy free flight Hath meaning for all bosoms; most of all For those wherein the rapture and the might Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn, For their high place. O heirs of genius! learn From the sky’s bird your way! No joy may fill Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won To bless your songs, ye children of the sun! Save by the unswerving flight, upward and upward still!

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main! The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound In my lone being, made thy restless plain As the vast, shining floor of some dread fane, All paved with glass and fire. Yet, O blue deep! Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep, Never to thee did love with silvery chain Draw my soul’s dream, which through all nature sought What waves deny,—some bower of steadfast bliss, A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought, As with sweet flowers. But chasten’d hope for this Now turns from earth’s green valleys, as from thee, To that sole changeless world, where “there is no more sea.”[433]

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain-dale, Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard, Thy swell, thou deep! when evening calls the bird And bee to rest; when summer-tints grow pale, Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil; And peasant-steps are hastening to repose, And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower-cups close To the last whisper of the falling gale. Then midst the dying of all other sound, When the soul hears thy distant voice profound, Lone worshipping, and knows that through the night ’Twill worship still, then most its anthem-tone Speaks to our being of the Eternal One, Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might.

O Cambrian river! with slow music gliding By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin’d towers; Now midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding, Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers; Long flow’d the current of my life’s clear hours Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my dream, Tho’ time and change, and other mightier powers, Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth stream! Art winding still thy sunny meads along, Murmuring to cottage and gray hall thy song, Low, sweet, unchanged. My being’s tide hath pass’d Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain, If, thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain, Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep at last.

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight Of orchard-blooms upon the mossy bough? Doth their sweet household-smile waft back the glow Of childhood’s morn—the wondering, fresh delight In earth’s new colouring, then all strangely bright, A joy of fairyland? Doth some old nook, Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book, Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak’d blossoms white Shower’d o’er the turf, and the lone primrose-knot, And robin’s nest, still faithful to the spot, And the bee’s dreary chime? O gentle friend! The world’s cold breath, not Time’s, this life bereaves Of vernal gifts: time hallows what he leaves, And will for us endear spring-memories to the end. 8th May.

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, O far-off, grassy dell?—and dost thou see, When southern winds first wake their vernal singing, The star-gleam of the wood anemone? Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet? the bee Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell To their wild blooms? and, round my beechen tree, Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell? Oh, strange illusion! by the fond heart wrought, Whose own warm life suffuses nature’s face! My being’s tide of many-colour’d thought Hath pass’d from thee; and now, rich, leafy place! I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow’d by what hath been.

O vale and lake, within your mountain-urn Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep! Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep With light Elysian; for the hues that steep Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene, Most loved by evening and her dewy star! Oh! ne’er may man, with touch unhallow’d, jar The perfect music of thy charm serene! Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer.

Trees, gracious trees!—how rich a gift ye are, Crown of the earth! to human hearts and eyes! How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, Link’d with your forms and kindly whisperings rise! How the whole picture of a childhood lies Oft midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep! Till, gazing through them up the summer skies, As hush’d we stand, a breeze perchance may creep, And old, sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world Where memory coils—and lo! at once unfurl’d, The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight Spreads clear; while, gushing from their long-seal’d urn, Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers return, And a lost mother’s eye gives back its holy light.

And ye are strong to shelter!—all meek things, All that need home and covert, love your shade! Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, And nun-like violets, by the winds betray’d. Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath play’d With his first primrose-wreath: there love hath sought A veiling gloom for his unutter’d thought; And silent grief, of day’s keen glare afraid, A refuge for her tears; and ofttimes there Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, A native temple, solemn, hush’d, and dim; For wheresoe’er your murmuring tremours thrill The woody twilight, there man’s heart hath still Confess’d a spirit’s breath, and heard a ceaseless hymn.

O gentle story of the Indian isle! I loved thee in my lonely childhood well On the sea-shore, when day’s last, purple smile Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell And dying cadence lent a deeper spell Unto thine ocean-pictures. Midst thy palms And strange bright birds, my fancy joy’d to dwell, And watch the southern cross through midnight calms, And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless’d Thy vision of sweet love—kind, trustful, true, Lighting the citron groves, a heavenly guest, With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. Even then my young heart wept o’er this world’s power To reach with blight that holiest Eden-flower.

Still that last look is solemn! though thy rays, O sun! to-morrow will give back, we know, The joy to nature’s heart. Yet through the glow Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze Tracks thee with love half-fearful: and in days When earth too much adored thee, what a swell Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays, Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, O sun of Greece! O glorious, festal sun! Lost, lost!—for them thy golden hours were done, And darkness lay before them! Happier far Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain’d, Not thus for thy last parting unsustain’d— Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star.

Calm scenes of patriarch life! how long a power Your unworn pastoral images retain O’er the true heart, which in its childhood’s hour Drank their pure freshness deep! The camels’ train Winding in patience o’er the desert plain— The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock, The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock— Oh! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain, And in the influence of its touch how bless’d, Are these things link’d, in many a thoughtful breast, To household-memories, thro’ all change endear’d! —The matin bird, the ripple of a stream Beside our native porch, the hearth-light’s gleam, The voices, earliest by the soul revered!

What secret current of man’s nature turns Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow? Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, The pilgrim-spirit would adore and glow; Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and slow, Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know Where pass’d the shepherd-fathers of mankind. Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far Still points to where our alienated home Lay in bright peace? O thou true Eastern star! Saviour! atoning Lord! where’er we roam, Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain!

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard, Servant of God!—thy day is almost done; The charm now lingering in thy look and word Is that which hangs about thy setting sun— That which the meekness of decay hath won Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense Of life immortal—progress but begun— Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline; And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, By thy pure spirit touch’d with light divine; While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven.

Oh! what a joy to feel that, in my breast, The founts of childhood’s vernal fancies lay Still pure, though heavily and long repress’d By early-blighted leaves, which o’er their way Dark summer-storms had heaped. But free, glad play Once more was given them: to the sunshine’s glow, And the sweet wood-song’s penetrating flow, And to the wandering primrose-breath of May, And the rich hawthorn-odours, forth they sprung. Oh! not less freshly bright, that now a thought Of spiritual presence o’er them hung, And of immortal life! a germ, unwrought In childhood’s soul to power—now strong, serene, And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest scene.

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive The joy of verdure! See! the honey’d lime Showers cool green light o’er banks where wild-flowers weave Thick tapestry, and woodbine-tendrils climb Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. The rich deep masses of the sycamore Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime; And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each gale That sweeps the boughs: the chestnut-flowers are past, The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, But arches of sweet eglantine are cast From every hedge. Oh! never may we lose, Dear friend! our fresh delight in simplest nature’s hues! 2d June.

Father in heaven! from whom the simplest flower, On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown, Draws not sweet odour or young life alone, But the deep virtue of an inborn power, To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour With thoughts of Thee—to strengthen, to infuse Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues That speak thy presence! oh, with such a dower Grace thou my song!—the precious gift bestow From thy pure Spirit’s treasury divine, To wake one tear of purifying flow, To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine; So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain Be as the meek wild-flower’s—if transient, yet not vain.

“What in me is dark, Illumine; what is low, raise and support.”—Milton.

Far are the wings of intellect astray That strive not, Father! to thy heavenly seat; They rove, but mount not, and the tempests beat Still on their plumes. O Source of mental day! Chase from before my spirit’s track the array Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care, In troubled hosts that cross the purer air, And veil the opening of the starry way, Which brightens on to thee! Oh, guide thou right My thought’s weak pinion; clear my inward sight, The eternal springs of beauty to discern, Welling beside thy throne; unseal mine ear, Nature’s true oracles in joy to hear; Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn.

Yes! all things tell us of a birthright lost— A brightness from our nature pass’d away! Wanderers we seem that from an alien coast Would turn to where their Father’s mansion lay; And but by some lone flower, that midst decay Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, Revealing dimly, with gray moss o’ergrown, The faint, worn impress of its glory’s day, Can trace their once-free heritage, though dreams, Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams Flash o’er their souls. But One, oh! One alone, For us the ruin’d fabric may rebuild, And bid the wilderness again be fill’d With Eden-flowers—One mighty to atone! 27th June.[436]

Once more the eternal melodies from far Woo me like songs of home: once more discerning, Through fitful clouds, the pure majestic star Above the poet’s world serenely burning, Thither my soul, fresh-wing’d by love, is turning, As o’er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest, For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning, Whence glorious minds o’erlook this earth’s unrest. Now be the Spirit of heaven’s truth my guide Through the bright land!—that no brief gladness, found In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, May lure my footsteps from their aim aside: Their true, high quest—to seek, if ne’er to gain, The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain. 9th September.

There are who climb the mountain’s heathery side, Or, in life’s vernal strength triumphant, urge The bark’s fleet rushing through the crested surge, Or spur the courser’s fiery race of pride Over the green savannahs, gleaming wide By some vast lake; yet thus, on foaming sea, Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified By thy brave suffering. Thou from its dark cell Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, Filling the dedicated solitude With God; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell, Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie, There throned in peace divine is liberty!

How flows thy being now?—like some glad hymn One strain of solemn rapture?—doth thine eye Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim O’er the crown’d Alps, that, midst the upper sky, Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy? Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound Unto these dear, parental faces bound, Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by, Haunting thy prison-dreams? Where’er thou art, Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart! Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod, For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God!