Poems

When first in ancient time, from Jubal’s tongue The tuneful anthem filled the morning air, To sacred hymnings and Elysian song His music-breathing shell the minstrel woke. Devotion breathed aloud from every chord:— The voice of praise was heard in every tone, And prayer, and thanks to Him the Eternal One, To him, that with bright inspiration touched The high and gifted lyre of heavenly song, And warmed the soul with new vitality. A stirring energy through nature breathed:— The voice of adoration from her broke, Swelling aloud in every breeze, and heard Long in the sullen waterfall,—what time Soft Spring or hoary Autumn threw on earth Its bloom or blighting,—when the Summer smiled, Or Winter o’er the year’s sepulchre mourned. The Deity was there!—a nameless spirit Moved in the breasts of men to do him homage; And when the morning smiled, or evening pale Hung weeping o’er the melancholy urn, They came beneath the broad o’erarching trees, And in their tremulous shadow worshipped oft, Where pale the vine clung round their simple altars, And grey moss mantling hung. Above was heard The melody of winds, breathed out as the green trees Bowed to their quivering touch in living beauty, And birds sang forth their cheerful hymns. Below, The bright and widely wandering rivulet Struggled and gushed amongst the tangled roots, That choked its reedy fountain—and dark rocks Worn smooth by the constant current. Even there The listless wave, that stole with mellow voice Where reeds grew rank on the rushy-fringed brink, And the green sedge bent to the wandering wind, Sang with a cheerful song of sweet tranquillity. Men felt the heavenly influence—and it stole Like balm into their hearts, till all was peace; And even the air they breathed,—the light they saw,— Became religion,—for the ethereal spirit That to soft music wakes the chords of feeling, And mellows every thing to beauty,—moved With cheering energy within their breasts, And made all holy there—for all was love. The morning stars, that sweetly sang together— The moon, that hung at night in the mid-sky— Dayspring—and eventide—and all the fair And beautiful forms of nature, had a voice Of eloquent worship. Ocean with its tides Swelling and deep, where low the infant storm Hung on his dun, dark cloud, and heavily beat The pulses of the sea—sent forth a voice Of awful adoration to the spirit, That, wrapt in darkness, moved upon its face. And when the bow of evening arched the east, Or, in the moonlight pale, the curling wave Kissed with a sweet embrace the sea-worn beach, And soft the song of winds came o’er the waters, The mingled melody of wind and wave Touched like a heavenly anthem on the ear; For it arose a tuneful hymn of worship. And have our hearts grown cold? Are there on earth No pure reflections caught from heavenly light?— Have our mute lips no hymn—our souls no song?— Let him that in the summer-day of youth Keeps pure the holy fount of youthful feeling,— And him that in the nightfall of his years Lies down in his last sleep, and shuts in peace His dim pale eyes on life’s short wayfaring, Praise him that rules the destiny of man.

Round Autumn’s mouldering urn, Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale, When nightfall shades the quiet vale, And stars in beauty burn. ’Tis the year’s eventide. The wind,—like one that sighs in pain O’er joys that ne’er will bloom again, Mourns on the far hill-side. And yet my pensive eye Rests on the faint blue mountain long, And for the fairy-land of song, That lies beyond, I sigh. The moon unveils her brow; In the mid-sky her urn glows bright, And in her sad and mellowing light The valley sleeps below. Upon the hazel grey The lyre of Autumn hangs unstrung, And o’er its tremulous chords are flung The fringes of decay. I stand deep musing here, Beneath the dark and motionless beech, Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach My melancholy ear. The air breathes chill and free; A Spirit, in soft music calls From Autumn’s grey and moss-grown halls, And round her withered tree. The hoar and mantled oak, With moss and twisted ivy brown, Bends in its lifeless beauty down Where weeds the fountain choke. That fountain’s hollow voice Echoes the sound of precious things;— Of early feeling’s tuneful springs Choked with our blighted joys. Leaves, that the night-wind bears To earth’s cold bosom with a sigh, Are types of our mortality, And of our fading years. The tree that shades the plain, Wasting and hoar as time decays, Spring shall renew with cheerful days,— But not my joys again.

——Night rests in beauty on Mont Alto. Beneath its shade the beauteous Arno sleeps In Vallombrosa’s bosom, and dark trees Bend with a calm and quiet shadow down Upon the beauty of that silent river. Still in the west, a melancholy smile Mantles the lips of day, and twilight pale Moves like a spectre in the dusky sky; While eve’s sweet star on the fast-fading year Smiles calmly:—Music steals at intervals Across the water, with a tremulous swell, From out the upland dingle of tall firs, And a faint footfall sounds, where dim and dark Hangs the grey willow from the river’s brink, O’ershadowing its current. Slowly there The lover’s gondola drops down the stream, Silent,—save when its dipping oar is heard, Or in its eddy sighs the rippling wave. Mouldering and moss-grown, through the lapse of years, In motionless beauty stands the giant oak, Whilst those, that saw its green and flourishing youth, Are gone and are forgotten. Soft the fount, Whose secret springs the star-light pale discloses, Gushes in hollow music, and beyond The broader river sweeps its silent way, Mingling a silver current with that sea, Whose waters have no tides, coming nor going. On noiseless wing along that fair blue sea The halcyon flits,—and where the wearied storm Left a loud moaning, all is peace again. A calm is on the deep! The winds that came O’er the dark sea-surge with a tremulous breathing. And mourned on the dark cliff where weeds grew rank, And to the autumnal death-dirge the deep sea Heaved its long billows,—with a cheerless song Have passed away to the cold earth again, Like a wayfaring mourner. Silently Up from the calm sea’s dim and distant verge, Full and unveiled the moon’s broad disk emerges. On Tivoli, and where the fairy hues Of autumn glow upon Abruzzi’s woods, The silver light is spreading. Far above, Encompassed with their thin, cold atmosphere, The Apennines uplift their snowy brows, Glowing with colder beauty, where unheard The eagle screams in the fathomless ether, And stays his wearied wing. Here let us pause! The spirit of these solitudes—the soul That dwells within these steep and difficult places— Speaks a mysterious language to mine own, And brings unutterable musings. Earth Sleeps in the shades of nightfall, and the sea Spreads like a thin blue haze beneath my feet, Whilst the grey columns and the mouldering tombs Of the Imperial City, hidden deep Beneath the mantle of their shadows, rest. My spirit looks on earth!—A heavenly voice Comes silently: “Dreamer, is earth thy dwelling!— Lo! nursed within that fair and fruitful bosom Which has sustained thy being, and within The colder breast of Ocean, lie the germs Of thine own dissolution! E’en the air, That fans the clear blue sky and gives thee strength— Up from the sullen lake of mouldering reeds, And the wide waste of forest, where the osier Thrives in the damp and motionless atmosphere,— Shall bring the dire and wasting pestilence And blight thy cheek. Dream thou of higher things;— This world is not thy home!” And yet my eye Rests upon earth again! How beautiful, Where wild Velino heaves its sullen waves Down the high cliff of grey and shapeless granite,— Hung on the curling mist, the moonlight bow Arches the perilous river. A soft light Silvers the Albanian mountains, and the haze That rests upon their summits, mellows down The austerer features of their beauty. Faint And dim-discovered glow the Sabine hills, And listening to the sea’s monotonous shell, High on the cliffs of Terracina stands The castle of the royal Goth⁠[63] in ruins. But night is in her wane:—day’s early flush Glows like a hectic on her fading cheek, Wasting its beauty. And the opening dawn With cheerful lustre lights the royal city, Where, with its proud tiara of dark towers, It sleeps upon its own romantic bay.

Most beautiful, most gentle! Yet how lost To all that gladdens the fair earth; the eye That watched her being; the maternal care That kept and nourished her; and the calm light That steals from our own thoughts, and softly rests On youth’s green valleys and smooth-sliding waters. Alas! few suns of life, and fewer winds, Had withered or had wasted the fresh rose That bloomed upon her cheek; but one chill frost Came in that early Autumn, when ripe thought Is rich and beautiful,—and blighted it; And the fair stalk grew languid day by day, And drooped,—and drooped, and shed its many leaves. ’Tis said that some have died of love, and some, That once from beauty’s high romance had caught Love’s passionate feelings and heart-wasting cares, Have spurned life’s threshold with a desperate foot: And others have gone mad,—and she was one!— Her lover died at sea; and they had felt A coldness for each other when they parted; But love returned again, and to her ear Came tidings, that the ship which bore her lover Had suddenly gone down at sea, and all were lost. I saw her in her native vale, when high The aspiring lark up from the reedy river Mounted, on cheerful pinion; and she sat Casting smooth pebbles into a clear fountain, And marking how they sank; and oft she sighed For him that perished thus in the vast deep. She had a sea-shell, that her lover brought From the far-distant ocean, and she pressed Its smooth cold lips unto her ear, and thought It whispered tidings of the dark blue sea; And sad, she cried: “The tides are out!—and now I see his corse upon the stormy beach!” Around her neck a string of rose-lipped shells, And coral, and white pearl, was loosely hung, And close beside her lay a delicate fan, Made of the halcyon’s blue wing; and when She looked upon it, it would calm her thoughts As that bird calms the ocean,—for it gave Mournful, yet pleasant memory. Once I marked, When through the mountain hollows and green woods, That bent beneath its footsteps, the loud wind Came with a voice as of the restless deep, She raised her head, and on her pale cold cheek A beauty of diviner seeming came: And then she spread her hands, and smiled, as if She welcomed a long-absent friend,—and then Shrank timorously back again, and wept. I turned away: a multitude of thoughts, Mournful and dark, were crowding on my mind; And as I left that lost and ruined one, A living monument that still on earth There is warm love and deep sincerity,— She gazed upon the west, where the blue sky Held, like an ocean, in its wide embrace Those fairy islands of bright cloud, that lay So calm and quietly in the thin ether. And then she pointed where, alone and high, One little cloud sailed onward, like a lost And wandering bark, and fainter grew, and fainter, And soon was swallowed up in the blue depths. And when it sank away, she turned again With sad despondency and tears to earth. Three long and weary months,—yet not a whisper Of stern reproach for that cold parting! Then She sat no longer by her favourite fountain!— She was at rest for ever.

Here rest the weary oar!—soft airs Breathe out in the o’erarching sky; And Night!—sweet Night—serenely wears A smile of peace;—her noon is nigh. Where the tall fir in quiet stands, And waves, embracing the chaste shores, Move over sea-shells and bright sands,— Is heard the sound of dipping oars. Swift o’er the wave the light bark springs, Love’s midnight hour draws lingering near: And list!—his tuneful viol strings The young Venetian Gondolier. Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep, On earth, and her embosomed lakes, And where the silent rivers swept,— From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks. Soft music breathes around, and dies On the calm bosom of the sea; Whilst in her cell the novice sighs Her vespers to her rosary. At their dim altars bow fair forms, In tender charity for those, That, helpless left to life’s rude storms, Have never found this calm repose. The bell swings to its midnight chime, Relieved against the deep blue sky! Haste!—dip the oar again!—’tis time To seek Genevra’s balcony.

By yon still river, where the wave Is winding slow at evening’s close, The beech, upon a nameless grave, Its sadly-moving shadow throws. O’er the fair woods the sun looks down Upon the many-twinkling leaves, And twilight’s mellow shades are brown, Where darkly the green turf upheaves. The river glides in silence there, And hardly waves the sapling tree: Sweet flowers are springing, and the air Is full of balm,—but where is she! They bade her wed a son of pride, And leave the hopes she cherished long: She loved but one,—and would not hide A love which knew no wrong. And months went sadly on,—and years:— And she was wasting day by day: At length she died,—and many tears Were shed, that she should pass away. Then came a grey old man, and knelt With bitter weeping by her tomb:— And others mourned for him, who felt That he had sealed a daughter’s doom. The funeral train has long passed on, And time wiped dry the father’s tear! Farewell,—lost maiden!—there is one That mourns thee yet,—and he is here.

As the dim twilight shrouds The mountain’s purple crest, And summer’s white and folded clouds Are glowing in the west, Loud shouts come up the rocky dell, And voices hail the evening-bell. Faint is the goatherd’s song, And sighing comes the breeze: The silent river sweeps along, Amid its bended trees,— And the full moon shines faintly there, And music fills the evening air. Beneath the waving firs The tinkling cymbals sound; And as the wind the foliage stirs, I see the dancers bound Where the green branches, arched above, Bend over this fair scene of love. And he is there, that sought My young heart long ago! But he has left me,—though I thought He ne’er could leave me so. Ah! lovers’ vows—how frail are they! And his—were made but yesterday. Why comes he not? I call In tears upon him yet;— ’Twere better ne’er to love at all, Than love and then forget! Why comes he not? Alas! I should Reclaim him still, if weeping could. But see,—he leaves the glade, And beckons me away: He comes to seek his mountain maid!— I cannot chide his stay. Glad sounds along the valley swell, And voices hail the evening-bell.

They made the warrior’s grave beside The dashing of his native tide: And there was mourning in the glen— The strong wail of a thousand men— O’er him thus fallen in his pride, Ere mist of age—or blight or blast Had o’er his mighty spirit past. They made the warrior’s grave beneath The bending of the wild elm’s wreath, When the dark hunter’s piercing eye Had found that mountain rest on high, Where, scattered by the sharp wind’s breath, Beneath the rugged cliff were thrown The strong belt and the mouldering bone. Where was the warrior’s foot, when first The red sun on the mountain burst?— Where—when the sultry noon-time came On the green vales with scorching flame, And made the woodlands faint with thirst? ’Twas where the wind is keen and loud, And the grey eagle breasts the cloud. Where was the warrior’s foot, when night Veiled in thick cloud the mountain-height? None heard the loud and sudden crash,— None saw the fallen warrior dash Down the bare rock so high and white!— But he that drooped not in the chase Made on the hills his burial-place. They found him there, when the long day Of cold desertion passed away, And traces on that barren cleft Of struggling hard with death were left— Deep marks and footprints in the clay! And they have laid his feathery helm By the dark river and green elm.

I sat by my window one night, And watched how the stars grew high; And the earth and skies were a splendid sight To a sober and musing eye. From heaven the silver moon shone down With gentle and mellow ray, And beneath the crowded roofs of the town In broad light and shadow lay. A glory was on the silent sea, And mainland and island too, Till a haze came over the lowland lea, And shrouded that beautiful blue. Bright in the moon the autumn wood Its crimson scarf unrolled, And the trees like a splendid army stood In a panoply of gold! I saw them waving their banners high, As their crests to the night wind bowed, And a distant sound on the air went by, Like the whispering of a crowd. Then I watched from my window how fast The lights all around me fled, As the wearied man to his slumber passed, And the sick one to his bed. All faded save one, that burned With distant and steady light; But that, too, went out,—and I turned Where my own lamp within shone bright! Thus, thought I, our joys must die, Yes—the brightest from earth we win: Till each turns away, with a sigh, To the lamp that burns brightly within.

Where, from the eye of day, The dark and silent river Pursues through tangled woods a way O’er which the tall trees quiver; The silver mist, that breaks From out that woodland cover, Betrays the hidden path it takes And hangs the current over! So oft the thoughts that burst From hidden springs of feeling, Like silent streams, unseen at first, From our cold hearts are stealing: But soon the clouds that veil The eye of Love, when glowing, Betray the long unwhispered tale Of thoughts in darkness flowing.