Then thou hast loved?
Then thou hast loved?
Ay! so that life is boundAbout by it, as by a Gordian knot,Inseparable, until Death's sharp bladeDivide its inmost coil. There is a timeWhen all that sweeten'd youth and childhood dullsAnd fades to nothingness, as the faint moonPales at the bright foreshadowing of morn,And leaves heaven void, when every chord is dumbThat once made music in the soul, and lifeIs still and silent, though it be the pauseThat presages the storm and bitter strife,Whose fury ofttimes bends the spirit down,And strips it of its blossoms; Then to meO'er the blank chaos of my being came,As from the haunted chambers of deep thought,A glorious presence—an imagined grace,Whose footfalls as she rose pulsed thro' my heartWith tremblings exquisite. It was sweet Love,The Blessed! the Indwelling! that doth makeA virgin firmament for its pure light,Then at the pleading of its own deep want,Shines forth in glory and in tenderness.Amongst the laughing and the gay I went,Seeking for one to realize love's dream,As mid the countless hosts of heaven the sagePeers for the brightness of a new-born star.Then, soft hands trembled in my palm, and formsGraceful and rounded with the bloom of youth,Flitted about me in the languishmentOf music and sweet motion; voices low,And modulate from laughter unto sadness,Hung on the air like perfume on the wind,And eyes, flashing, and mild, and fond, spake too,A very Babel of soft speech, and yet—I sighed. Life seemed to me a painted daub—all glare,And show, and tinsel, where the eye in vainSought some green spot to rest on, till a mistSwam o'er it as in gazing at the sun.
Ay! so that life is boundAbout by it, as by a Gordian knot,Inseparable, until Death's sharp bladeDivide its inmost coil. There is a timeWhen all that sweeten'd youth and childhood dullsAnd fades to nothingness, as the faint moonPales at the bright foreshadowing of morn,And leaves heaven void, when every chord is dumbThat once made music in the soul, and lifeIs still and silent, though it be the pauseThat presages the storm and bitter strife,Whose fury ofttimes bends the spirit down,And strips it of its blossoms; Then to meO'er the blank chaos of my being came,As from the haunted chambers of deep thought,A glorious presence—an imagined grace,Whose footfalls as she rose pulsed thro' my heartWith tremblings exquisite. It was sweet Love,The Blessed! the Indwelling! that doth makeA virgin firmament for its pure light,Then at the pleading of its own deep want,Shines forth in glory and in tenderness.
Amongst the laughing and the gay I went,Seeking for one to realize love's dream,As mid the countless hosts of heaven the sagePeers for the brightness of a new-born star.Then, soft hands trembled in my palm, and formsGraceful and rounded with the bloom of youth,Flitted about me in the languishmentOf music and sweet motion; voices low,And modulate from laughter unto sadness,Hung on the air like perfume on the wind,And eyes, flashing, and mild, and fond, spake too,A very Babel of soft speech, and yet—I sighed. Life seemed to me a painted daub—all glare,And show, and tinsel, where the eye in vainSought some green spot to rest on, till a mistSwam o'er it as in gazing at the sun.
Man ofttimes palms an artificial lifeUpon the heart for that which is the true,Though to the real it be what a flowerIs to its mimicry, a tinted ragUnsweetened by the breath of summer's love.Joy flows alone from anuntroubledspring,Unstirred by the false whirl of giddy dreams,That send the dregs of passion through its veins.Amid that gay assemblage many wore,Perchance, a laughing vizard o'er a heartEmpty and sad; many a vacant smile,Like a sun-ray upon the winter's snowThat freezes yet beneath it. Some there wereWho flutter'd round its glitter, like a mothThat takes a petty rush-light for the sun;And few who let the honest heart appearUnveiled mid Fashion's frigid masquerade.Didst thou look deeper than the outward guise?
Man ofttimes palms an artificial lifeUpon the heart for that which is the true,Though to the real it be what a flowerIs to its mimicry, a tinted ragUnsweetened by the breath of summer's love.Joy flows alone from anuntroubledspring,Unstirred by the false whirl of giddy dreams,That send the dregs of passion through its veins.
Amid that gay assemblage many wore,Perchance, a laughing vizard o'er a heartEmpty and sad; many a vacant smile,Like a sun-ray upon the winter's snowThat freezes yet beneath it. Some there wereWho flutter'd round its glitter, like a mothThat takes a petty rush-light for the sun;And few who let the honest heart appearUnveiled mid Fashion's frigid masquerade.Didst thou look deeper than the outward guise?
Ay! some there were so lovely, that the eyeDreamt of them in its night, when they were gone;But when I search'd them, like a single flowerThe outer blossoms parted, and showed nought within.Oh! then I fled, as one whose own wild thoughtsBid him outstrip the curbless winds of heaven,And storm the bulwarks of sublime desire.Want grew within me as a famine growsWith every hour that fleets unsatisfied;But in my wanderings there rose a spot,Where man had wrought pure nature's counsel out,Nor reared a shrine to mock her loveliness;Yet this I heeded not, for there was oneWho came to me on sudden with such joyThat I stirred not, but like one weak with thirst,Let the life draught flow o'er my powerless lips.O! yet I see her, with those blessed eyesSlaying my soul with beauty; eyes so deep,That in their azure ocean of soft lightThought shrank into a fathom length; and smiles,Stealing their sweetness from a heaven of love,And joy, and immortality within,Whence all emotion, angel-like, came forth,Clad in a vesture of celestial light.Her face beamed on me like a glimpse of heavenCaught in the rapture of prophetic trance,That in all day-light thoughts, and shaded dreams,Haunts the deep soul for ever. As she went,Grace lapt its mantle o'er her, like the goldOn fleecy-bosomed clouds in sunny skies.O Spirit! she was beautiful! a thingGuileless and pure, as though her youth had pastWith Heaven's own children in the light of God,Thence come to make a paradise of earth,And breathe the transports of transcendant blissLike floral exhalations through my soul.And I—I loved her with the love of heaven,That melts down time and space, and all between,And clasps an essence in the soul's embrace;And from her being there would ever flowFull streams of holy melody, that laptEarth, air, and heaven, and all terrestrial formsWith charms bright as heaven's new-created light.And as she gazed on the blue firmament,And shrined the stars with her pure thoughts, and dreamtOf that which lay beyond; I gazed on her,And drew Elysian theories of Heaven,As though borne thither by wing'd seraphims.Oh! what is there in love that wreathes all thingsWith an unfading halo of sweet light,Making the mystery of Nature clear?
Ay! some there were so lovely, that the eyeDreamt of them in its night, when they were gone;But when I search'd them, like a single flowerThe outer blossoms parted, and showed nought within.
Oh! then I fled, as one whose own wild thoughtsBid him outstrip the curbless winds of heaven,And storm the bulwarks of sublime desire.Want grew within me as a famine growsWith every hour that fleets unsatisfied;But in my wanderings there rose a spot,Where man had wrought pure nature's counsel out,Nor reared a shrine to mock her loveliness;Yet this I heeded not, for there was oneWho came to me on sudden with such joyThat I stirred not, but like one weak with thirst,Let the life draught flow o'er my powerless lips.
O! yet I see her, with those blessed eyesSlaying my soul with beauty; eyes so deep,That in their azure ocean of soft lightThought shrank into a fathom length; and smiles,Stealing their sweetness from a heaven of love,And joy, and immortality within,Whence all emotion, angel-like, came forth,Clad in a vesture of celestial light.Her face beamed on me like a glimpse of heavenCaught in the rapture of prophetic trance,That in all day-light thoughts, and shaded dreams,Haunts the deep soul for ever. As she went,Grace lapt its mantle o'er her, like the goldOn fleecy-bosomed clouds in sunny skies.O Spirit! she was beautiful! a thingGuileless and pure, as though her youth had pastWith Heaven's own children in the light of God,Thence come to make a paradise of earth,And breathe the transports of transcendant blissLike floral exhalations through my soul.
And I—I loved her with the love of heaven,That melts down time and space, and all between,And clasps an essence in the soul's embrace;And from her being there would ever flowFull streams of holy melody, that laptEarth, air, and heaven, and all terrestrial formsWith charms bright as heaven's new-created light.And as she gazed on the blue firmament,And shrined the stars with her pure thoughts, and dreamtOf that which lay beyond; I gazed on her,And drew Elysian theories of Heaven,As though borne thither by wing'd seraphims.Oh! what is there in love that wreathes all thingsWith an unfading halo of sweet light,Making the mystery of Nature clear?
Love, like the sun, clears from the soul all cloudsThat darken understanding, and wrap earthRound with a misty curtain, through whose foldsThe lineaments of beauty glimmer forthIn undefined luxuriance. 'Tis a spellThat brings by sympathetic influenceThe soul-deep glory from the universe.All things are beautiful to those who love,Whether in mind or matter. Life becomesA pathway of soft light and radiance,Whereon the spirit glideth unto heavenAs angels up the sunshine. Thought and deedAre blessed in the framing and the act,Fashioned and temper'd with pure charity,That knits man unto man, and grants the weakExemption from the thraldom of the strong;—And things inanimate, that yet are piercedThrough with the spirit of eternal love,As with a life that circulates and glowsIn ruddy currents throughout all their frame,By gracious intuition stand revealedIn all the plenitude of Eden charms.Then Nature's language reaches to the heart,As through the modulations of a songSweet thoughts flow o'er the spirit. What was fairSeems fairer, what was vividless grows bright.
Love, like the sun, clears from the soul all cloudsThat darken understanding, and wrap earthRound with a misty curtain, through whose foldsThe lineaments of beauty glimmer forthIn undefined luxuriance. 'Tis a spellThat brings by sympathetic influenceThe soul-deep glory from the universe.All things are beautiful to those who love,Whether in mind or matter. Life becomesA pathway of soft light and radiance,Whereon the spirit glideth unto heavenAs angels up the sunshine. Thought and deedAre blessed in the framing and the act,Fashioned and temper'd with pure charity,That knits man unto man, and grants the weakExemption from the thraldom of the strong;—And things inanimate, that yet are piercedThrough with the spirit of eternal love,As with a life that circulates and glowsIn ruddy currents throughout all their frame,By gracious intuition stand revealedIn all the plenitude of Eden charms.Then Nature's language reaches to the heart,As through the modulations of a songSweet thoughts flow o'er the spirit. What was fairSeems fairer, what was vividless grows bright.
Ay! she made all things beautiful to me,Drawing, with youth's pure privilege, the stingOf guilt and wrong from life—'twas as the sunRose on a sphere seen but by night before.Ah! bitter image of a transient thing,That shineth with Promethean glory, thenSinks 'neath the shadow of Eternity!Oh Spirit! day by day I saw her fade,The life within her grew more spiritual,Triumphing in the weakness of the flesh,And in her eyes supernal brightness shone,As from the glory of approaching heaven.Dear child! that kisses could not keep awake,Or woo from the sweet love of Mother-land.She lay within these arms, and angels cameAnd whispered her away with them to Heaven,So softly, that I knew it not, but stillMurmured my heart to her. To sense she layUpon my breast, and yet she was in heaven;This but the earthly mantle she had shed.There were those silken locks that curtained her,And her sweet lips that I had kissed but now;From whence, as from a living spring of love,Trickled pure heaven streams o'er my life's dull waste.But Oh! I kissed the soft lids from her eyes,And knew my desolation, for the soulThat was their soul, as light is day's, no moreStood in their dewy portals, like a queenSwaying true-hearted multitudes. Oh heaven!'Twas wonderful to fold her thus unto me,With life's ripe bloom upon her cheeks, and graceClinging round her like a bridal robe,Yet feel that she, the verity, the self,Was floating, worlds-off, on the stream of soulsTo God. Oh mind! 'tis ever thus with thee!Thou graspest at material shadowings,Whilst that the immaterial substance of all goodFlies from thee like a vapour from the wind;So that thou hast a clod within thine hand,Life seems eternal, till the crumbling dustRuns through thy clenching fingers, and thy gageMocks thee up from the mould'ring frame of Earth.There is no mystery like Death; it comesSightless as the first breath of infant life,And goes to an unsearched Eternity—The End and the Beginning are alike.
Ay! she made all things beautiful to me,Drawing, with youth's pure privilege, the stingOf guilt and wrong from life—'twas as the sunRose on a sphere seen but by night before.Ah! bitter image of a transient thing,That shineth with Promethean glory, thenSinks 'neath the shadow of Eternity!Oh Spirit! day by day I saw her fade,The life within her grew more spiritual,Triumphing in the weakness of the flesh,And in her eyes supernal brightness shone,As from the glory of approaching heaven.Dear child! that kisses could not keep awake,Or woo from the sweet love of Mother-land.She lay within these arms, and angels cameAnd whispered her away with them to Heaven,So softly, that I knew it not, but stillMurmured my heart to her. To sense she layUpon my breast, and yet she was in heaven;This but the earthly mantle she had shed.There were those silken locks that curtained her,And her sweet lips that I had kissed but now;From whence, as from a living spring of love,Trickled pure heaven streams o'er my life's dull waste.But Oh! I kissed the soft lids from her eyes,And knew my desolation, for the soulThat was their soul, as light is day's, no moreStood in their dewy portals, like a queenSwaying true-hearted multitudes. Oh heaven!'Twas wonderful to fold her thus unto me,With life's ripe bloom upon her cheeks, and graceClinging round her like a bridal robe,Yet feel that she, the verity, the self,Was floating, worlds-off, on the stream of soulsTo God. Oh mind! 'tis ever thus with thee!Thou graspest at material shadowings,Whilst that the immaterial substance of all goodFlies from thee like a vapour from the wind;So that thou hast a clod within thine hand,Life seems eternal, till the crumbling dustRuns through thy clenching fingers, and thy gageMocks thee up from the mould'ring frame of Earth.There is no mystery like Death; it comesSightless as the first breath of infant life,And goes to an unsearched Eternity—The End and the Beginning are alike.
Death strikes upon the soul the last deep chime,That tells it Time's short hour has passed away,Eternity's undialled course begun;There is a trackless ocean round this lifeWhose tide is tremulous with unseen gales,And storms that lash it off to fury—shadesOf deep chaotic darkness ever hangAbove it, like the thunder crags of heaven,And sounds, as of the swooning of a blastThrough time-worn caverns, flap their heavy wingsOn the white foam crest of the surging waves.O man! that standest on the pinnacleOf life's abysmal heights with failing heartAnd reeling brain, gaze on that troubled gulf—It is thy pathway to the Better-Land,Which thou must traverse with a sea-bird's flight,Whose rest is on the bosom of the storm.Ay! 'tis a fearful plunge! Now think of Death—There is an angel merciful and strong,Hovering ever o'er the weary world,That foldeth in his arms the weak, whose feetTotter upon the brink of the Inane,And, like a mother, wafts them from Earth's strifeInto the bosom of eternal rest;Is he not merciful who spares so longThe guilty for repentance, and the pureTransplants in all their purity to heaven?Death harms not aught that's lovely, that poor frameIs mere corruption, which the soul makes fairBy luminous infusion, and the soulFeels not Death's breathing on its healthful bloom,But like a virgin doffs its earthly veil,And gives its fullest beauty to the light.
Death strikes upon the soul the last deep chime,That tells it Time's short hour has passed away,Eternity's undialled course begun;There is a trackless ocean round this lifeWhose tide is tremulous with unseen gales,And storms that lash it off to fury—shadesOf deep chaotic darkness ever hangAbove it, like the thunder crags of heaven,And sounds, as of the swooning of a blastThrough time-worn caverns, flap their heavy wingsOn the white foam crest of the surging waves.O man! that standest on the pinnacleOf life's abysmal heights with failing heartAnd reeling brain, gaze on that troubled gulf—It is thy pathway to the Better-Land,Which thou must traverse with a sea-bird's flight,Whose rest is on the bosom of the storm.Ay! 'tis a fearful plunge! Now think of Death—There is an angel merciful and strong,Hovering ever o'er the weary world,That foldeth in his arms the weak, whose feetTotter upon the brink of the Inane,And, like a mother, wafts them from Earth's strifeInto the bosom of eternal rest;Is he not merciful who spares so longThe guilty for repentance, and the pureTransplants in all their purity to heaven?Death harms not aught that's lovely, that poor frameIs mere corruption, which the soul makes fairBy luminous infusion, and the soulFeels not Death's breathing on its healthful bloom,But like a virgin doffs its earthly veil,And gives its fullest beauty to the light.
O Spirit! tell me, shall we meet againAs those who have loved well in Time; or dropAll memories of Earth with the sad dustThe soul shakes from it at the gate of heaven?'Twere bitter to regard her angel there,Unknown, and lost amid the myriad hostOf spirits glorified!
O Spirit! tell me, shall we meet againAs those who have loved well in Time; or dropAll memories of Earth with the sad dustThe soul shakes from it at the gate of heaven?'Twere bitter to regard her angel there,Unknown, and lost amid the myriad hostOf spirits glorified!
The soul is wroughtIn an eternal mould, which still remainsUnscathed 'mid the vicissitudes of flesh;And the same power that makes identity'Twixt man and man, being the soul within,That constitutes theSelfof every man,Bears its distinctive features when it shedsThe crysalis of frail humanity;They who have loved on Earth will love in Heaven,Through each the current flowing unto God,Thence shed again in blessing on their souls,As from clear tided springs a summer cloudGathers its dewy freight to yield again,In sunny showers upon the native earth.True Love is Earth's blest blessedness. All else,Wealth, fame, nobility, and the poor gaudsWherewith man trinkets out his little life,End with the dust that rattles on his bier;But Love, like a rich heritage, ascendsWith the freed spirit to the throne of God,There to be perfected and purifiedTo commune with the Children of the Light.Therefore love much on Earth, keeping the heartPure from the rank pollutions of the flesh,That like a mould'ring bank hangs loose aboveTo launch its filth upon each errant wave;Let thy love circle wider with all time,Like the light ripple round a pebble plunge,Wider, and wider till the swells subsideIn the calm fulness of Eternity.The love of heaven flows inonestream to God,As from a fountain'd unison of soulWherein all spirits blend inseparably;There is no isolation but in Time,For Death that units out mortalityLike minutes on a dial, now, will breakHis arrows 'mid the ruins of the Earth,Proclaimingeverlastinglife and love,The consummation of all unity.
The soul is wroughtIn an eternal mould, which still remainsUnscathed 'mid the vicissitudes of flesh;And the same power that makes identity'Twixt man and man, being the soul within,That constitutes theSelfof every man,Bears its distinctive features when it shedsThe crysalis of frail humanity;They who have loved on Earth will love in Heaven,Through each the current flowing unto God,Thence shed again in blessing on their souls,As from clear tided springs a summer cloudGathers its dewy freight to yield again,In sunny showers upon the native earth.
True Love is Earth's blest blessedness. All else,Wealth, fame, nobility, and the poor gaudsWherewith man trinkets out his little life,End with the dust that rattles on his bier;But Love, like a rich heritage, ascendsWith the freed spirit to the throne of God,There to be perfected and purifiedTo commune with the Children of the Light.Therefore love much on Earth, keeping the heartPure from the rank pollutions of the flesh,That like a mould'ring bank hangs loose aboveTo launch its filth upon each errant wave;Let thy love circle wider with all time,Like the light ripple round a pebble plunge,Wider, and wider till the swells subsideIn the calm fulness of Eternity.The love of heaven flows inonestream to God,As from a fountain'd unison of soulWherein all spirits blend inseparably;There is no isolation but in Time,For Death that units out mortalityLike minutes on a dial, now, will breakHis arrows 'mid the ruins of the Earth,Proclaimingeverlastinglife and love,The consummation of all unity.
The breath of morn is stealing o'er my browAll redolent of life, and health, and joy,As the first breeze that fans the prisoner's cheeks,And welcomes him to Liberty. The EarthIs yet in her sweet childhood innocence,Ere the dark cloud of worldly interestsObscure her taintless heavens, and the blue mist,Which is the spirit of the rising dew,Hangs o'er it like the sadness of first love,That makes youth beautiful. The lark is upAnd singing like a disembodied soulWithin the brightness of the blessed sun,Telling of naught but heaven and happiness;There is no dew upon her bosom now,For the young beams have kissed it utterly;Yet over flower, and bud, and blade there liesThe crystal tissue, trembling with soft light,As the young day moves gaily up the sky,And sheds his guerdon o'er the waiting Earth.O what a charm there is in purity,Of morn, life, love, and nature all. This scene,So clear and calm and peaceful, that it fillsThe soul with its o'erflowing blessedness,Pales 'neath the glare of noon, and man's rude lust,To scarce the semblance of its former self.But with the heart—O God! Thy richest giftIs Innocence, that like a quenchless springOf everlasting light, encircles lifeWith beauty and unfading radiance,Keeping all sense and feeling fresh and sweetAs the untainted breathing of the morn.How lovely is all nature, separateFrom man! There is no whispering of strifeOr sorrow here, naught to inform the soulOf man's deep wretchedness and sin. No lustTo justify the wretch who binds his soulIn the drear darkness of a murky cell,Scraping for gold as beasts do in the earthFor carrion, and counting life-time outBy ducats; closing house and heart alikeTo the benignant sunshine. If our heartsCould lave in Lethe's cleansing stream sometimes,Till evil vanished from its memory,And left a virgin tablet for the penOf Nature, life would be as sweet as love.What far extremes of woe and blessednessThis earth can yield! The woe create, the joyBegotten from a never failing womb;Woe! fashioned out of craft, and guile, and sin,That hungereth for prey, till, as it were,The mother eats the babe that sucks her breast;The joy! inherent and diffused like lightFrom the eternal glory of the sun,Gather'd from all things, sight, and sound, and sense,E'en from the very breeze that whispers usOf yielded sweetness and unhoarded gifts.O God! preserve my heart emancipateFrom all world feelings that must die with Time,Like things unworthy of Eternity;Sow in my spirit seed that may spring upAnd bud and increase throughout life, untilIt blossom fully in the light of heaven,Grant that the evil of the world may ne'erHarden my heart against the sweet impressOf Beauty, that beholding there, she seeNo mirror'd image of her loveliness!Methinks life were a curse if separateFrom loving of the Good and Beautiful!To gaze upon that azure dome, so blueAnd penetrate with sunshine through and through,As lover's eyes with fondness—the far hills,And sun-green meadows sloping to the streamWith tints of bosky shadows, yet not feelA motion in the spirit, like the tideOf waving woodlands rippled by a breeze;Better return to dust from which we sprang,And bid the winds of heaven scatter it!
The breath of morn is stealing o'er my browAll redolent of life, and health, and joy,As the first breeze that fans the prisoner's cheeks,And welcomes him to Liberty. The EarthIs yet in her sweet childhood innocence,Ere the dark cloud of worldly interestsObscure her taintless heavens, and the blue mist,Which is the spirit of the rising dew,Hangs o'er it like the sadness of first love,That makes youth beautiful. The lark is upAnd singing like a disembodied soulWithin the brightness of the blessed sun,Telling of naught but heaven and happiness;There is no dew upon her bosom now,For the young beams have kissed it utterly;Yet over flower, and bud, and blade there liesThe crystal tissue, trembling with soft light,As the young day moves gaily up the sky,And sheds his guerdon o'er the waiting Earth.
O what a charm there is in purity,Of morn, life, love, and nature all. This scene,So clear and calm and peaceful, that it fillsThe soul with its o'erflowing blessedness,Pales 'neath the glare of noon, and man's rude lust,To scarce the semblance of its former self.But with the heart—O God! Thy richest giftIs Innocence, that like a quenchless springOf everlasting light, encircles lifeWith beauty and unfading radiance,Keeping all sense and feeling fresh and sweetAs the untainted breathing of the morn.
How lovely is all nature, separateFrom man! There is no whispering of strifeOr sorrow here, naught to inform the soulOf man's deep wretchedness and sin. No lustTo justify the wretch who binds his soulIn the drear darkness of a murky cell,Scraping for gold as beasts do in the earthFor carrion, and counting life-time outBy ducats; closing house and heart alikeTo the benignant sunshine. If our heartsCould lave in Lethe's cleansing stream sometimes,Till evil vanished from its memory,And left a virgin tablet for the penOf Nature, life would be as sweet as love.
What far extremes of woe and blessednessThis earth can yield! The woe create, the joyBegotten from a never failing womb;Woe! fashioned out of craft, and guile, and sin,That hungereth for prey, till, as it were,The mother eats the babe that sucks her breast;The joy! inherent and diffused like lightFrom the eternal glory of the sun,Gather'd from all things, sight, and sound, and sense,E'en from the very breeze that whispers usOf yielded sweetness and unhoarded gifts.
O God! preserve my heart emancipateFrom all world feelings that must die with Time,Like things unworthy of Eternity;Sow in my spirit seed that may spring upAnd bud and increase throughout life, untilIt blossom fully in the light of heaven,Grant that the evil of the world may ne'erHarden my heart against the sweet impressOf Beauty, that beholding there, she seeNo mirror'd image of her loveliness!
Methinks life were a curse if separateFrom loving of the Good and Beautiful!To gaze upon that azure dome, so blueAnd penetrate with sunshine through and through,As lover's eyes with fondness—the far hills,And sun-green meadows sloping to the streamWith tints of bosky shadows, yet not feelA motion in the spirit, like the tideOf waving woodlands rippled by a breeze;Better return to dust from which we sprang,And bid the winds of heaven scatter it!
Love Beauty: let it be an atmosphereAbove thee and around, whence comes the breathOf life and health and gladness. Yet bewareThy love be not an ideality,That, like the smile upon a sculptur'd lip,Freezes upon the stone nor sheds abroadThe genial influence of a loving heart.There is an aim still nobler than the loveOf Beauty; to show Beauty forth inact,Andlife, that like some fertilizing streamIt glide flower-margined to Eternity.Beauty quiescent loseth half its charms,As a blue eye when sleep hath closed its lid;But in its operation, 'tis a starThat leaves a track of glory on the sky;Worst miser he who hoards up in his soulThe blessed wealth of Beauty and repelsUnbenison'd the weary at his gate.There is a way to make life glorious,And nobler than the heritage of kings,Though thy path lie along a vale in life,With mountain pride reared up on either side—To make thy march triumphant, trailing notThe colours of thy Purpose in the dust—And be received as victor into heaven.Set Beauty in thy soul like a sea-lightTo warn thee from the rocks and shoals of wrong,And guide thee surely to thy journey's end;Let her pure promptings stablish in thy heartA living spring of motive, that may flowThrough thought and action, like the veinëd lifeThrough man and all his members; not for praiseLet thy work be, nor gain, but heaven and right,And for the feeling of that sweetest sense,That from thy sowing springeth up no tareOf grief or bitterness, but goodly fruitThat nourisheth the heart, and gives it strengthTo combat manfully for life and truth;Look manhood in the face unblanchingly,With no rose-coloured veil 'twixt it and thee—With pure integrity to match the great,And humbleness to poize thee with the small;Look at its guilt and shame, as on deep woundsWherefrom a life is flowing; seek thou thenTo staunch them in thy measure; mark its wrongs,The burden of oppression and the toilThat grind the sand of life down till it runLike water through the mighty glass of Time,And let thy voice come like a trump to callThe faithful to the rescue. Find the weak,And weary, and the desolate of heart,Faint with the sorrows and the cares of life,And let no act add to their bitter cupOne drop of gall, but like a priest do thouTell them of hope and peace, and gladden themWith that blest balm, pure kindness, which transforms,With more than Magian art, the meanest actInto the brightness of the summer sun!—Doth not this quiet hour fall on thy soulLike music dropping from the spheres?
Love Beauty: let it be an atmosphereAbove thee and around, whence comes the breathOf life and health and gladness. Yet bewareThy love be not an ideality,That, like the smile upon a sculptur'd lip,Freezes upon the stone nor sheds abroadThe genial influence of a loving heart.There is an aim still nobler than the loveOf Beauty; to show Beauty forth inact,Andlife, that like some fertilizing streamIt glide flower-margined to Eternity.Beauty quiescent loseth half its charms,As a blue eye when sleep hath closed its lid;But in its operation, 'tis a starThat leaves a track of glory on the sky;Worst miser he who hoards up in his soulThe blessed wealth of Beauty and repelsUnbenison'd the weary at his gate.
There is a way to make life glorious,And nobler than the heritage of kings,Though thy path lie along a vale in life,With mountain pride reared up on either side—To make thy march triumphant, trailing notThe colours of thy Purpose in the dust—And be received as victor into heaven.Set Beauty in thy soul like a sea-lightTo warn thee from the rocks and shoals of wrong,And guide thee surely to thy journey's end;Let her pure promptings stablish in thy heartA living spring of motive, that may flowThrough thought and action, like the veinëd lifeThrough man and all his members; not for praiseLet thy work be, nor gain, but heaven and right,And for the feeling of that sweetest sense,That from thy sowing springeth up no tareOf grief or bitterness, but goodly fruitThat nourisheth the heart, and gives it strengthTo combat manfully for life and truth;Look manhood in the face unblanchingly,With no rose-coloured veil 'twixt it and thee—With pure integrity to match the great,And humbleness to poize thee with the small;Look at its guilt and shame, as on deep woundsWherefrom a life is flowing; seek thou thenTo staunch them in thy measure; mark its wrongs,The burden of oppression and the toilThat grind the sand of life down till it runLike water through the mighty glass of Time,And let thy voice come like a trump to callThe faithful to the rescue. Find the weak,And weary, and the desolate of heart,Faint with the sorrows and the cares of life,And let no act add to their bitter cupOne drop of gall, but like a priest do thouTell them of hope and peace, and gladden themWith that blest balm, pure kindness, which transforms,With more than Magian art, the meanest actInto the brightness of the summer sun!—Doth not this quiet hour fall on thy soulLike music dropping from the spheres?
Ay! soothIt is most sweet! Methinks that such a timeWere meeter far for lover's tryst than eve,When the dark night must sadden o'er their vows,And hide them from each other. Now, all thingsAre pure and beautiful as love should be,The dew of youth fresh on them, and though lifeShould darken o'er with clouds as it roll on,Still love would light them on, like the bright guideOf Israel, to the promised land of rest.'Tis beautiful, love plighted in the mornOf life, when not a shadow dims its heaven—Plighted for good or ill, as fate may rule,Enduring alike true through sun and storm,Save when the cold blast sweeps across the way,It knits them only closer heart to heart.
Ay! soothIt is most sweet! Methinks that such a timeWere meeter far for lover's tryst than eve,When the dark night must sadden o'er their vows,And hide them from each other. Now, all thingsAre pure and beautiful as love should be,The dew of youth fresh on them, and though lifeShould darken o'er with clouds as it roll on,Still love would light them on, like the bright guideOf Israel, to the promised land of rest.'Tis beautiful, love plighted in the mornOf life, when not a shadow dims its heaven—Plighted for good or ill, as fate may rule,Enduring alike true through sun and storm,Save when the cold blast sweeps across the way,It knits them only closer heart to heart.
Love is no faint exotic made to bloomIn the close summer of a glassy frame,That at the first breath of the unquelled airShrivels up like a parchment in the flame.No! let it stand upon the mountain's brow,And bid the untamed winds make sport of it;Yet though they drive it 'fore them in their might,'Twill be like the strong eagle that exultsIn the wild rapture of his headlong swoop;The strongest and the tenderest is Love!
Love is no faint exotic made to bloomIn the close summer of a glassy frame,That at the first breath of the unquelled airShrivels up like a parchment in the flame.No! let it stand upon the mountain's brow,And bid the untamed winds make sport of it;Yet though they drive it 'fore them in their might,'Twill be like the strong eagle that exultsIn the wild rapture of his headlong swoop;The strongest and the tenderest is Love!
Now as I gaze upon this cloudless sky,So soft and tranquil, mem'ry paints to meOne whose life bid as fair—that my heart saidBeholding her—"O flower! so bright and sweet,"With the pure dew of maidenhood bestrewn,"Thy life will be unfolded like the rose,"That leaf by leaf adds sweetness to the spring!"She was most beautiful! but more in this,That she moved like an angel, minist'ringTo joy and peace and charity. The weakRejoiced before her as the embodied smileOf Providence, and sadden'd when she pass'd;And yet one short, short year and she was gone,Her heart pierced through with thorns, who ne'er had borneThe semblance of a sorrow into life.Is there no armour against sorrow's sting?
Now as I gaze upon this cloudless sky,So soft and tranquil, mem'ry paints to meOne whose life bid as fair—that my heart saidBeholding her—"O flower! so bright and sweet,"With the pure dew of maidenhood bestrewn,"Thy life will be unfolded like the rose,"That leaf by leaf adds sweetness to the spring!"She was most beautiful! but more in this,That she moved like an angel, minist'ringTo joy and peace and charity. The weakRejoiced before her as the embodied smileOf Providence, and sadden'd when she pass'd;And yet one short, short year and she was gone,Her heart pierced through with thorns, who ne'er had borneThe semblance of a sorrow into life.Is there no armour against sorrow's sting?
The highway of this world is set with thorns,O'er which poor pilgrims still must journey on;There are who walk it shod with iron sense,That crushes opposition like a vice,And puts aside the ready points like twigsPressed backward in the woodlands by a child.There are who seem buoyed upward by some powerAbove the level of affliction's range,Until their term be run, and then they fallInto the bosom of the angel Death.And there are some whose tender feet are piercedEvermore deeper by the rugged path,Whose softness and whose beauty nigh inviteThe cruel spoiler to his unarmed prey,As the swift hawk high poizëd in the sky,Swoops when the dove floats past on silv'ry wings.There is a veil upon the eyes of men,That makes all things show dimly, but if rentWould work like resurrection on the mind,Bringing to life thoughts dead in doubt and error;Thus, standing on the bridge of Time, which spansThe gulf 'twixt two eternities through whichFlows ever on the tide of human life,That troubled stream would seem a sea of glass,And all its thick impurities appearClear as the outline of a floating corpse;Gaze down upon it though it sicken thee.There cometh one beneath whose ermined prideStalks the corruption of a charnel-house,Where fest'ring flesh lies in its cloth of gold,E'en yet the wonder of the gaping crowd.Upon his brow the jewelled circlet rests,His only title to nobility;But that, unto the vulgar, symbols stillThe orbit of the everlasting sun,That fills and glorifies a universe—of clay.Where is the mind that should have overtopp'd,Saul-like, the level of the multitude?Where the bold front that in the breach of wrongStemm'd the fierce current of insidious foes,Flashing Truth's falchion in the van of Time?Shame! it hath rusted in its scabbard, tillThe nerveless arm can scarce withdraw it thence.O Earth! rejoice that at his side there comesAn undimm'd light to beacon on the world;One who upholds the honour of his lineUnsullied as the glory of the stars;Whose voice rings clear above the battle strife,And shakes oppression from his iron throne;And for the purple, round his heaving breastFolds like a vesture manly Honesty.Is it not glorious the light that gildsThe hoary summits of the giant hills,Spread like the standard of eternal TruthO'er many phalanxed Ages—blazoningThe stalwart band that barrier'd from the worldThe bitter fury of Heaven's huricanes!Onward there come a thick'ning mass who drownDefects and vices in a shower of gold;Who crush report, like Rome the Sabine maid,Beneath the burden of their molten wealth,And 'neath their gilding flaunt them in the sunBrightly as though there were no dross within;So the eye sees them, but search thou the soul,And part the sterling from the counterfeit.Oh! for the sighing of the desolate,The widow and the orphan in their woe,Drown'd 'neath the clink of gold wrung from their need,Like moisture from the crushing of the grape.Oh! for the fruitless cry of misery,The Tantalus of stern reality,That feebly perisheth in Famine's grasp,Whilst plenty moulders for the lust of pride,And adds its rottenness to the hot-bedOf wantonness and subtle infamy.And yet the worker wears as fair a portAs he whose life is holy Charity,Setting his footprints on the way of lifeLike sunshine rippling o'er the summer sea.Some wear their little merit on their sleeve,Which 'neath the friction of Time's troublous waves,Grows threadbare as the coat of beggary.Some under rugged lineaments encloseTreasures of truth and goodness, that like gemsShine through the fissures of the strong Time-quake,Showing more perfect as affliction works,And sorrow rends the earthy covering.Some are there with the sight turned inwards still,Beholding but the narrow sphere of self,And trampling under foot the weak who standBetwixt them and the goal of their desire.Blessed the few who unto fellow menTurn with the fervent grasp of Brotherhood,Breasting the surges of tempestuous fate,With souls fulfilled with kindliness and Faith—Raising the ensign of prophetic HopeLike the clear rainbow on the thunder-cloud;And 'mid the darkness of impending care,Pouring the cheerful daylight of the soul!There are sweet spirits mingling with the throng,Marked out with sunshine, like the pouting wavesWhen heaven looks down in sun and shadow, heartsSo leaven'd through with grace and purity,That though sin warp and sift them at its will,Some hidden sweetness lingers yet to tellThe perfectness of Nature's handy-work.Are they not as the ministers of heaven,Liveried with beauty, and deep tenderness,Missioned in mercy to this fallen sphereProclaiming peace and blessedness above;Threading the ranks of Earth's fierce battle field,Amid the clangour of death-darting steel,Raising the wounded from their helplessness,And bearing life draughts to the sinking soul!O Mother Earth! thine arms will fondle herWhen ingrate man hath drain'd her spirit dry,Fashioned in weakness, yet in weakness strongWhere honour were the foeman, what is sheBefore the onslaught of satanic serfs?—The mirror of her purity obscured,Polluted by lust's pestilential breath—Pluck'd like a flower to while an hour away,Then cast to wither on the barren ground,Shattered and bruised beneath base passion's heel,And all the clinging tendrils of her loveTorn bleeding from the stay round which they clung.Look thou upon that stream, rough with the whirlOf crime, and woe, and wretchedness, that floatLike poisoned scum upon the driving flood,Filling the breath of life with noxious blastsThat smite humanity with pestilence.And tremble thou, though man discern it not,Ten thousand times more foul it shows to God;Then praise him for the twilight of thy sense.Yet there is much of good and fair in life,That like the glow upon the eastern sky,Blazons the glory of approaching day.
The highway of this world is set with thorns,O'er which poor pilgrims still must journey on;There are who walk it shod with iron sense,That crushes opposition like a vice,And puts aside the ready points like twigsPressed backward in the woodlands by a child.There are who seem buoyed upward by some powerAbove the level of affliction's range,Until their term be run, and then they fallInto the bosom of the angel Death.And there are some whose tender feet are piercedEvermore deeper by the rugged path,Whose softness and whose beauty nigh inviteThe cruel spoiler to his unarmed prey,As the swift hawk high poizëd in the sky,Swoops when the dove floats past on silv'ry wings.
There is a veil upon the eyes of men,That makes all things show dimly, but if rentWould work like resurrection on the mind,Bringing to life thoughts dead in doubt and error;Thus, standing on the bridge of Time, which spansThe gulf 'twixt two eternities through whichFlows ever on the tide of human life,That troubled stream would seem a sea of glass,And all its thick impurities appearClear as the outline of a floating corpse;Gaze down upon it though it sicken thee.
There cometh one beneath whose ermined prideStalks the corruption of a charnel-house,Where fest'ring flesh lies in its cloth of gold,E'en yet the wonder of the gaping crowd.Upon his brow the jewelled circlet rests,His only title to nobility;But that, unto the vulgar, symbols stillThe orbit of the everlasting sun,That fills and glorifies a universe—of clay.Where is the mind that should have overtopp'd,Saul-like, the level of the multitude?Where the bold front that in the breach of wrongStemm'd the fierce current of insidious foes,Flashing Truth's falchion in the van of Time?Shame! it hath rusted in its scabbard, tillThe nerveless arm can scarce withdraw it thence.O Earth! rejoice that at his side there comesAn undimm'd light to beacon on the world;One who upholds the honour of his lineUnsullied as the glory of the stars;Whose voice rings clear above the battle strife,And shakes oppression from his iron throne;And for the purple, round his heaving breastFolds like a vesture manly Honesty.Is it not glorious the light that gildsThe hoary summits of the giant hills,Spread like the standard of eternal TruthO'er many phalanxed Ages—blazoningThe stalwart band that barrier'd from the worldThe bitter fury of Heaven's huricanes!Onward there come a thick'ning mass who drownDefects and vices in a shower of gold;Who crush report, like Rome the Sabine maid,Beneath the burden of their molten wealth,And 'neath their gilding flaunt them in the sunBrightly as though there were no dross within;So the eye sees them, but search thou the soul,And part the sterling from the counterfeit.Oh! for the sighing of the desolate,The widow and the orphan in their woe,Drown'd 'neath the clink of gold wrung from their need,Like moisture from the crushing of the grape.Oh! for the fruitless cry of misery,The Tantalus of stern reality,That feebly perisheth in Famine's grasp,Whilst plenty moulders for the lust of pride,And adds its rottenness to the hot-bedOf wantonness and subtle infamy.And yet the worker wears as fair a portAs he whose life is holy Charity,Setting his footprints on the way of lifeLike sunshine rippling o'er the summer sea.Some wear their little merit on their sleeve,Which 'neath the friction of Time's troublous waves,Grows threadbare as the coat of beggary.Some under rugged lineaments encloseTreasures of truth and goodness, that like gemsShine through the fissures of the strong Time-quake,Showing more perfect as affliction works,And sorrow rends the earthy covering.Some are there with the sight turned inwards still,Beholding but the narrow sphere of self,And trampling under foot the weak who standBetwixt them and the goal of their desire.Blessed the few who unto fellow menTurn with the fervent grasp of Brotherhood,Breasting the surges of tempestuous fate,With souls fulfilled with kindliness and Faith—Raising the ensign of prophetic HopeLike the clear rainbow on the thunder-cloud;And 'mid the darkness of impending care,Pouring the cheerful daylight of the soul!There are sweet spirits mingling with the throng,Marked out with sunshine, like the pouting wavesWhen heaven looks down in sun and shadow, heartsSo leaven'd through with grace and purity,That though sin warp and sift them at its will,Some hidden sweetness lingers yet to tellThe perfectness of Nature's handy-work.Are they not as the ministers of heaven,Liveried with beauty, and deep tenderness,Missioned in mercy to this fallen sphereProclaiming peace and blessedness above;Threading the ranks of Earth's fierce battle field,Amid the clangour of death-darting steel,Raising the wounded from their helplessness,And bearing life draughts to the sinking soul!O Mother Earth! thine arms will fondle herWhen ingrate man hath drain'd her spirit dry,Fashioned in weakness, yet in weakness strongWhere honour were the foeman, what is sheBefore the onslaught of satanic serfs?—The mirror of her purity obscured,Polluted by lust's pestilential breath—Pluck'd like a flower to while an hour away,Then cast to wither on the barren ground,Shattered and bruised beneath base passion's heel,And all the clinging tendrils of her loveTorn bleeding from the stay round which they clung.
Look thou upon that stream, rough with the whirlOf crime, and woe, and wretchedness, that floatLike poisoned scum upon the driving flood,Filling the breath of life with noxious blastsThat smite humanity with pestilence.And tremble thou, though man discern it not,Ten thousand times more foul it shows to God;Then praise him for the twilight of thy sense.Yet there is much of good and fair in life,That like the glow upon the eastern sky,Blazons the glory of approaching day.
O! is not life then sweetest to the soulIn utter solitude, or that deep calmWhen all of Earth, its cares and interests,Are shaken from the spirit, as the mothDoffs from its wings the natal crysalisAnd wanders through the blue serene of heaven?In this pure scene the din of man would soundHarsher than discord amid melody.Here no rude tongue should whisper of the thingsPoor Earth bows down to worship—fashion, wealth,And hollow mockings gilded by a name,That makes the calf which browses on the plainTurn to a god when moulded in the gold.No thought should rise, that passing into speechMight soil the purity of new-born flowers,Fresh with the dews of morn and paradise,But like an angel singing through the skies,Wing the blue empyrean of the mind,And break in music on the thrilling sense.
O! is not life then sweetest to the soulIn utter solitude, or that deep calmWhen all of Earth, its cares and interests,Are shaken from the spirit, as the mothDoffs from its wings the natal crysalisAnd wanders through the blue serene of heaven?In this pure scene the din of man would soundHarsher than discord amid melody.Here no rude tongue should whisper of the thingsPoor Earth bows down to worship—fashion, wealth,And hollow mockings gilded by a name,That makes the calf which browses on the plainTurn to a god when moulded in the gold.No thought should rise, that passing into speechMight soil the purity of new-born flowers,Fresh with the dews of morn and paradise,But like an angel singing through the skies,Wing the blue empyrean of the mind,And break in music on the thrilling sense.
Is there no music in the gentle wordThat falls in consolation on the sad,Starting the crystal tear into the eye,Filtrate through gratitude till there remainNaught earthy in its brightness? Though the sceneBe as a plague spot on the face of earthSweet Charity can cleanse it, till it shineBright as the jewels in a monarch's crown,That not the midnight of Earth's blackest sinCan dim. All beauty emanates from soul,And all deformity. The piteous strawWhere sickness writhes in suffering and want—The cold, bleak dwelling where the winds have willTo brag o'er man's debasement, if possess'dIn fortitude and patience, with the heartClear in its honour, stedfast in its faith,Is to the eye of angels, beautiful as day;And this fair spot with all its waken'd charmsIs purgatorial torture to the wretchWhose life shrieks in him under conscience-stings.Let sunshine be within thee, and withoutSummer will dwell in everlasting bloom,Whether in light or darkness, in close cell,Or 'neath the blessed canopy of heaven.
Is there no music in the gentle wordThat falls in consolation on the sad,Starting the crystal tear into the eye,Filtrate through gratitude till there remainNaught earthy in its brightness? Though the sceneBe as a plague spot on the face of earthSweet Charity can cleanse it, till it shineBright as the jewels in a monarch's crown,That not the midnight of Earth's blackest sinCan dim. All beauty emanates from soul,And all deformity. The piteous strawWhere sickness writhes in suffering and want—The cold, bleak dwelling where the winds have willTo brag o'er man's debasement, if possess'dIn fortitude and patience, with the heartClear in its honour, stedfast in its faith,Is to the eye of angels, beautiful as day;And this fair spot with all its waken'd charmsIs purgatorial torture to the wretchWhose life shrieks in him under conscience-stings.
Let sunshine be within thee, and withoutSummer will dwell in everlasting bloom,Whether in light or darkness, in close cell,Or 'neath the blessed canopy of heaven.