Summer hath come, led on by sunny MayThe blue-eyed, round whose brow the first pure rayThat trembles from the opening gates of dawnStill seems to circle, and the mossy lawn,As they glide gently onward, ever breathesA beauty and a fragrance, which enwreathesWithin the being until every thoughtWith a strange mystery of joy is fraught.And where the hazel forms a leafy screenOf verdant matting, the cuckoo, unseen,Chaunts forth her woodnotes through the stilly air,Whose silent motions far the accents bear.And thou hast come, sweet Nightingale! once moreO'er our entrancëd spirits to outpourThy liquid warblings! 'Mid the flow'rets' scentAnd summer's gladness rises interblentThy loving welcome! Not the bird that sighsHer thrilling love-tale through the moonlit skiesOf Italy, as erst to Juliet's earFrom the pomegranate tree 'twas wafted near,Seizes the soul with ravishment more sweetThan thy soft tones, stealing unto the seatOf passion, waking echoes in the breastOf love, and purity, and quiet rest,Murmuring through the windings of the soul,Till interpenetrated is the wholeWith holy harmonies, and blissful senseOf joyance, and straightway is refted thenceAll baser feeling, and all earthly leaven,By the dear magic of that voice from heaven.Fair Priestess of the Beautiful! that bringestMissions of sweetness from above, and flingestIn a rich flood of song—now faint, yet clearAs Helicon's own murmurs to the ear,Now swelling till around our being floatsIn thrilling cadences thy bell-like notes,—The poetry of poetry, the deepMysterious essences whose wavings steepLife in the bliss of angels, and the realIn the ethereal hues of the ideal;A welcome to thee! heartfelt as the layHymn'd by the panting lark to the young day,Joyous and loving as the sunny beamThat greets the early primrose, when the dreamOf flowery revels through the noontide hoursFirst steals upon it. Such a joy is oursNow, as with falt'ring tones our spirits hailThy glad return, O sweetest Nightingale!
Summer hath come, led on by sunny MayThe blue-eyed, round whose brow the first pure rayThat trembles from the opening gates of dawnStill seems to circle, and the mossy lawn,As they glide gently onward, ever breathesA beauty and a fragrance, which enwreathesWithin the being until every thoughtWith a strange mystery of joy is fraught.And where the hazel forms a leafy screenOf verdant matting, the cuckoo, unseen,Chaunts forth her woodnotes through the stilly air,Whose silent motions far the accents bear.And thou hast come, sweet Nightingale! once moreO'er our entrancëd spirits to outpourThy liquid warblings! 'Mid the flow'rets' scentAnd summer's gladness rises interblentThy loving welcome! Not the bird that sighsHer thrilling love-tale through the moonlit skiesOf Italy, as erst to Juliet's earFrom the pomegranate tree 'twas wafted near,Seizes the soul with ravishment more sweetThan thy soft tones, stealing unto the seatOf passion, waking echoes in the breastOf love, and purity, and quiet rest,Murmuring through the windings of the soul,Till interpenetrated is the wholeWith holy harmonies, and blissful senseOf joyance, and straightway is refted thenceAll baser feeling, and all earthly leaven,By the dear magic of that voice from heaven.Fair Priestess of the Beautiful! that bringestMissions of sweetness from above, and flingestIn a rich flood of song—now faint, yet clearAs Helicon's own murmurs to the ear,Now swelling till around our being floatsIn thrilling cadences thy bell-like notes,—The poetry of poetry, the deepMysterious essences whose wavings steepLife in the bliss of angels, and the realIn the ethereal hues of the ideal;A welcome to thee! heartfelt as the layHymn'd by the panting lark to the young day,Joyous and loving as the sunny beamThat greets the early primrose, when the dreamOf flowery revels through the noontide hoursFirst steals upon it. Such a joy is oursNow, as with falt'ring tones our spirits hailThy glad return, O sweetest Nightingale!
Ever onward sweep the Nations, marching with a mighty train,Prince and peasant, youth and maiden, toiling, struggling o'er Life's plain;Turning from the land that bore them, from the loving ties of old,Still to wander, weary pilgrims, o'er the wide world after gold.Little reck they of the dangers, little reck they of the woes,Urged along by strong endeavour, heedless both of friends and foes;Gazing on the shadow moving at their sides till sun hath set,Ever whisp'ring to their spirit, "Courage! we will grasp it yet!"Over plain and over mountain, rocks their zeal cannot resist,Up the rugged heights they clamber till they perish in the mist;Down the precipital hollows blindly falling as they speed,Calling still with dying accents on their fellows to take heed;Over stream, and trackless ocean, with the storm-cloud hatching nigh,Ever waiting there to thunder at the bidding of the sky;Tossing on the angry billow, heart and soul beset with fear,Yet with longing all unshaken, onward through the blast they steer;Over marsh, and sandy desert, sinking 'neath the scorching sun,Hopeless, weary, madly thirsting, slowly dying one by one;Leaving many a bone to whiten by the wayside, and to tellBy mortality's drear tide-marks, how its surges rose and fell;Through the spring, and through the summer, when the flowers are on the lea;Through the Autumn when the blossoms fade and wither drearily;Through the chill and ghostly Winter when the year is in its shroud,And corruption preys on Nature, stooping fiercely from its cloud;Through the light and through the darkness, through the rain and through the snow,Striving onward without resting seeking it above, below,In the earth, and in the water, in the rock, and in the clay,Gathering up the sandy beaches, searching, sifting them away;Never resting, but with spirits eager, breathless to attain,Evermore they hurry forward to their purpose o'er life's plain,With their garments waxen olden, and their sandals wearing out,And the sinews growing weaker that once bore them up so stout,With the vision ever dimmer to discern the cherish'd prize,Till at length upon the highway, at each step some pilgrim dies,His glazed eyes still feebly turning e'en in death unto the goalThat yet glimmers far beyond him, the life haven of his soul.But a stalwart phalanx presseth onward still with hearts serene,Strong in faith and stedfast courage, meeting toil with dauntless mien;Working out their primal mission through the calm and through the blast,Gath'ring fitness for the Future from the Present, and the Past.Thus enduring, thus pursuing upheld by a mighty handThrough all dangers of the travel, come they to the Golden Land,Find the treasures they are seeking richly pour'd into their breast;Toil and danger ever finish'd, now they sweetly take their rest,With the light of glory shining from the Godhead on their souls,Whilst above them the broad banner of Eternity unrolls.
Ever onward sweep the Nations, marching with a mighty train,Prince and peasant, youth and maiden, toiling, struggling o'er Life's plain;
Turning from the land that bore them, from the loving ties of old,Still to wander, weary pilgrims, o'er the wide world after gold.
Little reck they of the dangers, little reck they of the woes,Urged along by strong endeavour, heedless both of friends and foes;
Gazing on the shadow moving at their sides till sun hath set,Ever whisp'ring to their spirit, "Courage! we will grasp it yet!"
Over plain and over mountain, rocks their zeal cannot resist,Up the rugged heights they clamber till they perish in the mist;
Down the precipital hollows blindly falling as they speed,Calling still with dying accents on their fellows to take heed;
Over stream, and trackless ocean, with the storm-cloud hatching nigh,Ever waiting there to thunder at the bidding of the sky;
Tossing on the angry billow, heart and soul beset with fear,Yet with longing all unshaken, onward through the blast they steer;
Over marsh, and sandy desert, sinking 'neath the scorching sun,Hopeless, weary, madly thirsting, slowly dying one by one;
Leaving many a bone to whiten by the wayside, and to tellBy mortality's drear tide-marks, how its surges rose and fell;
Through the spring, and through the summer, when the flowers are on the lea;Through the Autumn when the blossoms fade and wither drearily;
Through the chill and ghostly Winter when the year is in its shroud,And corruption preys on Nature, stooping fiercely from its cloud;
Through the light and through the darkness, through the rain and through the snow,Striving onward without resting seeking it above, below,
In the earth, and in the water, in the rock, and in the clay,Gathering up the sandy beaches, searching, sifting them away;
Never resting, but with spirits eager, breathless to attain,Evermore they hurry forward to their purpose o'er life's plain,
With their garments waxen olden, and their sandals wearing out,And the sinews growing weaker that once bore them up so stout,
With the vision ever dimmer to discern the cherish'd prize,Till at length upon the highway, at each step some pilgrim dies,
His glazed eyes still feebly turning e'en in death unto the goalThat yet glimmers far beyond him, the life haven of his soul.
But a stalwart phalanx presseth onward still with hearts serene,Strong in faith and stedfast courage, meeting toil with dauntless mien;
Working out their primal mission through the calm and through the blast,Gath'ring fitness for the Future from the Present, and the Past.
Thus enduring, thus pursuing upheld by a mighty handThrough all dangers of the travel, come they to the Golden Land,
Find the treasures they are seeking richly pour'd into their breast;Toil and danger ever finish'd, now they sweetly take their rest,
With the light of glory shining from the Godhead on their souls,Whilst above them the broad banner of Eternity unrolls.
Beautiful Spirit! Angel of the Earth!That glidest through the storm-tost world,And bearestBlessings of peace and rest unto the weak,Giddy and faint within its vortex whirled;O! fairest,Sweetest Pilot of the wavering soulThrough the wide-yawning gulfs and shoals of crime,Whence issue siren-spells that seekTo sink the wayward in their noxious slime;Emblem of Purity!That like the star of Bethlehem dost lumeThe wise of heart through this life's deepest gloomTo hope, and joy, and blessedness,Hail to thee!Thou art the Priestess of all Holiness!Standing midway betwixt the earth and heaven,Part shared of either,Mortality inwrought with purer leaven,Good sympathies, sweet thoughts, and stainless love,That like distillëd perfume float aboveTo charm the breather!O vision of soft eyes and flowing hair,Mild gentle eyes that chasten as they glance,And on their dewy brightness ever bearThe heart's warm language writ in radiance!O blessed smiles! heaven's golden sunrays shedOn life's cold stream,Renewëd summer when the old is fledLike a dream!O voice tinct with the spirit's sweetness,Last tone of heaven's clear harmoniesEre in the silence of wide space it dies,Music's completeness!O gentle laughters! rising from the crystal springOf joyance and free-hearted sympathy,Pure rills to trickle sunnilyFrom eyes and rosy lips in liquid warbling,Sweetly ye win usTo shrine the blest spirit of BeautyWithin us!O tender heart! Love's everlasting dwelling,Beautiful fountain of all generous thoughts,From whose unsealëd fulness, ever welling,Come to mankind their purest pleasure draughts;O gentle heart! Grief's only sanctuary,Safe refuge from the rude assaults of woe,Throbbing with mild compassion constantly,That never change nor withering can know;From the pure spring of virgin slumbersPeace falls upon the soul when thou art by,Lulling it sweeter than Philomel's numbers,Lapping it deep within felicity.O brightest! dearest! still there floats to theeThe incense of pure minds eternally,Thoughts sown of loveliness, that bud and bloom,And through the summer-time of after yearsShed sweet perfume,Love-imaginings that rise through tearsLike rainbows, and soft dreamsThat are the heaven-gleams,Caught from the deepOf Elysian sleep!
Beautiful Spirit! Angel of the Earth!That glidest through the storm-tost world,And bearestBlessings of peace and rest unto the weak,Giddy and faint within its vortex whirled;O! fairest,Sweetest Pilot of the wavering soulThrough the wide-yawning gulfs and shoals of crime,Whence issue siren-spells that seekTo sink the wayward in their noxious slime;Emblem of Purity!That like the star of Bethlehem dost lumeThe wise of heart through this life's deepest gloomTo hope, and joy, and blessedness,Hail to thee!Thou art the Priestess of all Holiness!Standing midway betwixt the earth and heaven,Part shared of either,Mortality inwrought with purer leaven,Good sympathies, sweet thoughts, and stainless love,That like distillëd perfume float aboveTo charm the breather!
O vision of soft eyes and flowing hair,Mild gentle eyes that chasten as they glance,And on their dewy brightness ever bearThe heart's warm language writ in radiance!O blessed smiles! heaven's golden sunrays shedOn life's cold stream,Renewëd summer when the old is fledLike a dream!O voice tinct with the spirit's sweetness,Last tone of heaven's clear harmoniesEre in the silence of wide space it dies,Music's completeness!O gentle laughters! rising from the crystal springOf joyance and free-hearted sympathy,Pure rills to trickle sunnilyFrom eyes and rosy lips in liquid warbling,Sweetly ye win usTo shrine the blest spirit of BeautyWithin us!
O tender heart! Love's everlasting dwelling,Beautiful fountain of all generous thoughts,From whose unsealëd fulness, ever welling,Come to mankind their purest pleasure draughts;O gentle heart! Grief's only sanctuary,Safe refuge from the rude assaults of woe,Throbbing with mild compassion constantly,That never change nor withering can know;From the pure spring of virgin slumbersPeace falls upon the soul when thou art by,Lulling it sweeter than Philomel's numbers,Lapping it deep within felicity.O brightest! dearest! still there floats to theeThe incense of pure minds eternally,Thoughts sown of loveliness, that bud and bloom,And through the summer-time of after yearsShed sweet perfume,Love-imaginings that rise through tearsLike rainbows, and soft dreamsThat are the heaven-gleams,Caught from the deepOf Elysian sleep!
You might think, to look upon them with their arms around each other,And the tale that he is breathing softly crimsoned on her cheek,That a sweeter spell enwound them than the love she bears a brother,And that sweeter words are spoken than the words that brothers speak.For, fair one, she loves him dearly, dearly as a woman's spiritFull of gentleness and beauty loves all pure and holy things,Just as though some blessëd angel, screened from sight, were floating near it,Fanning every tender feeling into motion with its wings.So she hears with echoed rapture hopes that in his breast are swelling,Of the glory and the honour that have sunned his poet's dream,Charmed him by their bright illusion madly from his quiet dwellingTo immerse him in life's ocean, there to lose him like a stream.Ay! look in her eyes, poor poet, kiss the tears that tremble brightlyOn their fringes till thou deem'st them her pure soul distill'd for thee,They are true ones, they are fond ones, and that vision, coming nightly,May refresh thee like a fountain rising 'mid sterility.Backward from her upturned beauty did he smooth the golden tresses,That Madonna-like fell clust'ring round the softness of her cheek;'Twas a frank one, and a fair one, with the grace that truth impressesBeaming o'er it without shadow, so he gazed but did not speak.Then he whispered, "Bright May, dear May, in the world where I am going,Going, it may be unwisely, but some magic draws me on,There to win the fame and honour with whose fire my soul is glowing,Thou shalt be my guiding angel, thou shalt be my helicon.I will paint thee in my verses, thee, so beautiful and tender,Till that world shall thrill with pleasure, and pure hearts shall cherish thee;Bright May, dear May, they will love thee, and thy gentleness shall renderEarth again a sunny Eden dedicate to Poesy.They will crown me forthybeauty, they will love me forthysweetness,They will shrine my name in glory, hear it like a household thing,They will feel the spell of beauty, think of heaven for thy meetness,Thus I'll do the poet's mission, thou an angel's ministring."So he went into the wide world with bright hopes around him playing,Youth to make his footsteps buoyant, and firm trust to nerve his heart,Fame and glory clear before him like a sun the path arraying,Witless that the golden vision of his dreams could ere depart.
You might think, to look upon them with their arms around each other,And the tale that he is breathing softly crimsoned on her cheek,That a sweeter spell enwound them than the love she bears a brother,And that sweeter words are spoken than the words that brothers speak.
For, fair one, she loves him dearly, dearly as a woman's spiritFull of gentleness and beauty loves all pure and holy things,Just as though some blessëd angel, screened from sight, were floating near it,Fanning every tender feeling into motion with its wings.
So she hears with echoed rapture hopes that in his breast are swelling,Of the glory and the honour that have sunned his poet's dream,Charmed him by their bright illusion madly from his quiet dwellingTo immerse him in life's ocean, there to lose him like a stream.
Ay! look in her eyes, poor poet, kiss the tears that tremble brightlyOn their fringes till thou deem'st them her pure soul distill'd for thee,They are true ones, they are fond ones, and that vision, coming nightly,May refresh thee like a fountain rising 'mid sterility.
Backward from her upturned beauty did he smooth the golden tresses,That Madonna-like fell clust'ring round the softness of her cheek;'Twas a frank one, and a fair one, with the grace that truth impressesBeaming o'er it without shadow, so he gazed but did not speak.
Then he whispered, "Bright May, dear May, in the world where I am going,Going, it may be unwisely, but some magic draws me on,There to win the fame and honour with whose fire my soul is glowing,Thou shalt be my guiding angel, thou shalt be my helicon.
I will paint thee in my verses, thee, so beautiful and tender,Till that world shall thrill with pleasure, and pure hearts shall cherish thee;Bright May, dear May, they will love thee, and thy gentleness shall renderEarth again a sunny Eden dedicate to Poesy.
They will crown me forthybeauty, they will love me forthysweetness,They will shrine my name in glory, hear it like a household thing,They will feel the spell of beauty, think of heaven for thy meetness,Thus I'll do the poet's mission, thou an angel's ministring."
So he went into the wide world with bright hopes around him playing,Youth to make his footsteps buoyant, and firm trust to nerve his heart,Fame and glory clear before him like a sun the path arraying,Witless that the golden vision of his dreams could ere depart.
There are thousands in the highways buffeting the waves beside them,Struggling onward without respite in pursuit of sandbuilt gain;There are thousands sinking daily, but the selfish crowd deride them,Only hurry on the swifter—there's no time to pity pain.Ah! what hope for thee, poor poet! in the race that they are running,When the jar of stormy passions makes thy temples wildly beat;Can'st thou wrestle with the torrent, can'st thou stand against their cunning,Who will crush thee without mercy, like a flower beneath their feet.Wherefore did'st thou leave thy dwelling 'mid the calm and pleasant places,Where no sorrow came to rouse thee from the heaven of thy dreams,Where the wood-birds gave thee music, and the path the wild bee tracesFor its sweetness thou could'st follow, or repose by gentle streams.O poor world! immersed in folly, O dull world! that will not hearkenTo the music of a Poet singing of the Beautiful,Close your heart against its teaching, though it be so sweet, and darkenAll the sunshine of the spirit by the coldness of your rule.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *Who would bid us draw the curtain that conceals the poet's sorrow,Who would need tohearhis anguish when they look upon his brow,—It is written there in tracings far more true than tongue could borrow,It is brimming in his glances, once so bright, so woeful now.Gaze upon him! dost thou know him? to his long-left home returning,For his step is very feeble, and his cheek is very pale,And amid it like a sunset is the hectic plague-spot burning,Ye who know no shatter'd hope-dreams, gaze upon him—there's the tale!O the holy love of woman! O the gentle love of woman!Breathing like a balmy zephyr on the fever'd brows of care,Centrate sweetness of all sweetness, only in its sorrow human,Joy without you were a phantom, grief without you were despair!See! how tenderly she leads him with her arm around him pressing,As to shield him from the rough world that had wrought him so much woe,And his eyes are filled with moisture, scarcely can he breathe his blessing,But she feels it in the throbbing of his full heart as they go.Gaze again into her kind eyes, gaze into them, weary poet,Fill thy soul with holy calmness from the fountain of her love,If there's peace for thy poor spirit in this earth they will bestow it,For she is a gentle angel sent to bless thee from above.And she said, as she bent o'er him, half in language, half in glances,For there is a hidden meaning far too deep for words to tell,"We will dwell," she said, "with nature, nourishing all gentle fancies,And the lark shall be our minstrel, and the flowers shall love us well."So he smiled upon her gently with a glance more sad than weeping,That a bitter thrill ran through her like a harp struck suddenly,And she thought upon the summer with cold shadows o'er it creeping,And she thought upon the flowers fading on the mossy lea.But she turn'd her till the paleness, and the tears that would be flowingFaded from her that they might not be the mirrors of his own;Smiling comfort on him ever, evermore as they were going,For she said "Ah! there are none to smile on him but I alone."
There are thousands in the highways buffeting the waves beside them,Struggling onward without respite in pursuit of sandbuilt gain;There are thousands sinking daily, but the selfish crowd deride them,Only hurry on the swifter—there's no time to pity pain.
Ah! what hope for thee, poor poet! in the race that they are running,When the jar of stormy passions makes thy temples wildly beat;Can'st thou wrestle with the torrent, can'st thou stand against their cunning,Who will crush thee without mercy, like a flower beneath their feet.
Wherefore did'st thou leave thy dwelling 'mid the calm and pleasant places,Where no sorrow came to rouse thee from the heaven of thy dreams,Where the wood-birds gave thee music, and the path the wild bee tracesFor its sweetness thou could'st follow, or repose by gentle streams.
O poor world! immersed in folly, O dull world! that will not hearkenTo the music of a Poet singing of the Beautiful,Close your heart against its teaching, though it be so sweet, and darkenAll the sunshine of the spirit by the coldness of your rule.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Who would bid us draw the curtain that conceals the poet's sorrow,Who would need tohearhis anguish when they look upon his brow,—It is written there in tracings far more true than tongue could borrow,It is brimming in his glances, once so bright, so woeful now.
Gaze upon him! dost thou know him? to his long-left home returning,For his step is very feeble, and his cheek is very pale,And amid it like a sunset is the hectic plague-spot burning,Ye who know no shatter'd hope-dreams, gaze upon him—there's the tale!
O the holy love of woman! O the gentle love of woman!Breathing like a balmy zephyr on the fever'd brows of care,Centrate sweetness of all sweetness, only in its sorrow human,Joy without you were a phantom, grief without you were despair!
See! how tenderly she leads him with her arm around him pressing,As to shield him from the rough world that had wrought him so much woe,And his eyes are filled with moisture, scarcely can he breathe his blessing,But she feels it in the throbbing of his full heart as they go.
Gaze again into her kind eyes, gaze into them, weary poet,Fill thy soul with holy calmness from the fountain of her love,If there's peace for thy poor spirit in this earth they will bestow it,For she is a gentle angel sent to bless thee from above.
And she said, as she bent o'er him, half in language, half in glances,For there is a hidden meaning far too deep for words to tell,"We will dwell," she said, "with nature, nourishing all gentle fancies,And the lark shall be our minstrel, and the flowers shall love us well."
So he smiled upon her gently with a glance more sad than weeping,That a bitter thrill ran through her like a harp struck suddenly,And she thought upon the summer with cold shadows o'er it creeping,And she thought upon the flowers fading on the mossy lea.
But she turn'd her till the paleness, and the tears that would be flowingFaded from her that they might not be the mirrors of his own;Smiling comfort on him ever, evermore as they were going,For she said "Ah! there are none to smile on him but I alone."
He is lying in the sunshine with the blithe birds round him singing,There are flowers beside his pillow, there are flowers beneath his feet,Summer pours her treasures round him, like a gentle maiden flingingFragrant blossoms from her bosom o'er a path to make it sweet.She is kneeling in the sunshine with the radiant glory o'er her,And his palm is on her tresses, her's are folded on her breast;He were very calm and happy, only for the love he bore her,Which was far too sweet a feeling to resign it e'en for rest."Bright May! dear May! draw still nearer, nearer, dear May! till my spiritSun itself within your brightness, as the lark doth in the day;Soon the air will be so lumined that my weakness will not bear it,So I'll gather new strength from thee to support me on my way."There are tears within your eyes, May, let me kiss them from your eyes, May,They will taste as sweet to me as do the dews upon the rose;Dear eyes how I love them! they oft tell me of the skies, May,Tell me secrets of the Blessed more than mortal spirit knows."Ah! I knew not in the old time half the sweetness that doth lingerRound the simple things of Nature which the proud heart passes by,Now I see there's not a wildflower but doth point with warning finger,To the unobservant passer, truths of immortality."Bright May, thou shalt be my beadsman, and thy golden tresses droopingRound thee shall be all the vesture that my loving soul shall seek;Thou shalt be a meet confessor for a lowly poet stoopingTo breathe forth his secret failings, and read pardon on thy cheek."Bright May! I have been a strayer from the narrow path that wandersThrough this world to lead the traveller to a glad eternity,I have been an erring madman, for the blind heart never pondersTill the fancied light it follows lead it from felicity."I have been most false and perjured, false to all a poet's duty,Even whilst my heart was boasting proudly of a poet's creed,I have loudly claimed the title of a worshipper of beauty,Yet could gaze upon a flower till I thought it but a weed."Yes! I dwelt amid the woodlands with bright streamlets singing round me,Sunny dells, moss-paven alleys, and cool shades to ramble in;All was happy, all was peaceful, yet e'en there ambition found me,Charm'd me forth into the rough world to engulph me in its din."Yes! I wearied of the woodlands, of the streams and sunny placesWhere I lay me in the summer to dream all the noontide o'er,Like the child of a sweet mother lapt within her fond embracesDrawing fitness from her beauty to lisp forth in poet's lore.But the time is drawing nigh; now, when my soul sublimed from follyShall see all things in their trueness, with no sun-veil drawn between;Know that glory is mere weakness and that aim alone is holyWhich, wrought out in life with patience, fits man for a higher scene.
He is lying in the sunshine with the blithe birds round him singing,There are flowers beside his pillow, there are flowers beneath his feet,Summer pours her treasures round him, like a gentle maiden flingingFragrant blossoms from her bosom o'er a path to make it sweet.
She is kneeling in the sunshine with the radiant glory o'er her,And his palm is on her tresses, her's are folded on her breast;He were very calm and happy, only for the love he bore her,Which was far too sweet a feeling to resign it e'en for rest.
"Bright May! dear May! draw still nearer, nearer, dear May! till my spiritSun itself within your brightness, as the lark doth in the day;Soon the air will be so lumined that my weakness will not bear it,So I'll gather new strength from thee to support me on my way.
"There are tears within your eyes, May, let me kiss them from your eyes, May,They will taste as sweet to me as do the dews upon the rose;Dear eyes how I love them! they oft tell me of the skies, May,Tell me secrets of the Blessed more than mortal spirit knows.
"Ah! I knew not in the old time half the sweetness that doth lingerRound the simple things of Nature which the proud heart passes by,Now I see there's not a wildflower but doth point with warning finger,To the unobservant passer, truths of immortality.
"Bright May, thou shalt be my beadsman, and thy golden tresses droopingRound thee shall be all the vesture that my loving soul shall seek;Thou shalt be a meet confessor for a lowly poet stoopingTo breathe forth his secret failings, and read pardon on thy cheek.
"Bright May! I have been a strayer from the narrow path that wandersThrough this world to lead the traveller to a glad eternity,I have been an erring madman, for the blind heart never pondersTill the fancied light it follows lead it from felicity.
"I have been most false and perjured, false to all a poet's duty,Even whilst my heart was boasting proudly of a poet's creed,I have loudly claimed the title of a worshipper of beauty,Yet could gaze upon a flower till I thought it but a weed.
"Yes! I dwelt amid the woodlands with bright streamlets singing round me,Sunny dells, moss-paven alleys, and cool shades to ramble in;All was happy, all was peaceful, yet e'en there ambition found me,Charm'd me forth into the rough world to engulph me in its din.
"Yes! I wearied of the woodlands, of the streams and sunny placesWhere I lay me in the summer to dream all the noontide o'er,Like the child of a sweet mother lapt within her fond embracesDrawing fitness from her beauty to lisp forth in poet's lore.
But the time is drawing nigh; now, when my soul sublimed from follyShall see all things in their trueness, with no sun-veil drawn between;Know that glory is mere weakness and that aim alone is holyWhich, wrought out in life with patience, fits man for a higher scene.
Far away in Western etherDay and Night at length have met,Like old friends that come together,And their eyes with tears are wet.In the heart, too, joy and sorrowMeet together without pain,Loving friends who, on the morrow,At the dawning, part again.'Tis the time for sweet contentment,Thoughts all dedicate to love,Soften'd down from all resentment,Chasten'd as the light above.'Tis the time to breathe a blessingForth on all things good and fair,That make life so sweet, repressingLike a charm the strokes of care.Tis the time when those who love usRise like stars in Fancy's sky,Shining steadily above us,Though afar, in seeming nigh.Sure our life is but a gloamingDeep'ning slowly unto Night,To give rest unto the roaming,To the sad, dreams of delight.Should notlife, then, be contentment,Only dedicate to love,Softened down from all resentment,Holy as the light above.
Far away in Western etherDay and Night at length have met,Like old friends that come together,And their eyes with tears are wet.
In the heart, too, joy and sorrowMeet together without pain,Loving friends who, on the morrow,At the dawning, part again.
'Tis the time for sweet contentment,Thoughts all dedicate to love,Soften'd down from all resentment,Chasten'd as the light above.
'Tis the time to breathe a blessingForth on all things good and fair,That make life so sweet, repressingLike a charm the strokes of care.
Tis the time when those who love usRise like stars in Fancy's sky,Shining steadily above us,Though afar, in seeming nigh.
Sure our life is but a gloamingDeep'ning slowly unto Night,To give rest unto the roaming,To the sad, dreams of delight.
Should notlife, then, be contentment,Only dedicate to love,Softened down from all resentment,Holy as the light above.
Many a bright and pleasant visionHath the heart in youth,Visions that the wizard FancyConjures by sweet Necromancy,Ever robed in hues Elysian,From the world of Truth;Many a bright and pleasant visionCheers the heart of youth!Just as though the curtain partedFrom the Life Unseen,And a portion of its gladness,Unalloy'd by any sadness,O'er the ripening spirit dartedLike the morning's sheen,Making us awhile pure-heartedAnd our sky serene.Many a pleasure from the realHath our manly prime,Though the mystic light is shaded,And the rosy dreams have faded;For our strengthen'd spirits see allThings matured by Time,Growing out of the idealUnto truth sublime;Blossom unto fruitage golden,Hope to certainty;All things by divine transitionKeeping pace with life's ambition,New joys springing from the oldenAs we pass them byClimbing still, by faith upholden,Onward to the sky.Many a pleasant recollectionHath the heart of Age,That life's tide hath staunchly breasted,Wrought, achieved and nobly rested,Musing with calm retrospectionTheir past pilgrimage;Many a sweet and wise reflectionHath the heart of Age;Looking forward, dreaming everOf the Better Land;Waiting for the promised glory,That shall bind their temples hoaryWith a brightness fading neverOn that holy strand,Crowning life's devout EndeavourWith a bounteous hand.
Many a bright and pleasant visionHath the heart in youth,Visions that the wizard FancyConjures by sweet Necromancy,Ever robed in hues Elysian,From the world of Truth;Many a bright and pleasant visionCheers the heart of youth!
Just as though the curtain partedFrom the Life Unseen,And a portion of its gladness,Unalloy'd by any sadness,O'er the ripening spirit dartedLike the morning's sheen,Making us awhile pure-heartedAnd our sky serene.
Many a pleasure from the realHath our manly prime,Though the mystic light is shaded,And the rosy dreams have faded;For our strengthen'd spirits see allThings matured by Time,Growing out of the idealUnto truth sublime;
Blossom unto fruitage golden,Hope to certainty;All things by divine transitionKeeping pace with life's ambition,New joys springing from the oldenAs we pass them byClimbing still, by faith upholden,Onward to the sky.
Many a pleasant recollectionHath the heart of Age,That life's tide hath staunchly breasted,Wrought, achieved and nobly rested,Musing with calm retrospectionTheir past pilgrimage;Many a sweet and wise reflectionHath the heart of Age;
Looking forward, dreaming everOf the Better Land;Waiting for the promised glory,That shall bind their temples hoaryWith a brightness fading neverOn that holy strand,Crowning life's devout EndeavourWith a bounteous hand.
Through the Earth a Spirit goethOnward still from morn till night,Silent as the Time-stream flowethOut of darkness into light.And her heart is very tender,Full of love and kindliness,Yearning evermore to renderGoodness fuller, error less.Through the Earth the spirit wendeth,And full many a little childWith light heart her course attendeth,By her gentle eyes beguiled;Turning to her fond embraces,Playing round her as she goes,With no shade on their glad facesDeeper than the budding rose.A maiden dreaming of her loverLike a star amid the night,Felt the spirit bend above her,In between her and the light;And she quivered back in terrorFrom the spirit's offered kiss;Ah! how often, thus, doth errorBackward fright our souls from bliss!Then the spirit "Ah! thou dearest,Wilt thou close thy heart from me?Through the shadow that thou fearestHeaven's own light will shine on thee."Like the streams that most refresh usIn the desert parch'd and drear,Sorrow renders love more precious,Makes the cherish'd one more dear."On—the spirit circled gently,Kindly round a Poet's heart,Gazing through the veil intentlyAfter life's diviner part;And the poet bent to meet her,For he said "The truth will beMade through Sorrow ever sweeter,Ever clearer unto me."We are blinded by the sunlightFrom the heaven'suncloudedblue,But through mist we eye the One-lightTill we read it through and through."To the beautiful the SpiritOpen'd wide her loving breast,Wooed their souls to nestle near itAnd from life's excitement rest,Whispering, "Sleep on Sorrow's bosom,Dear ones, and your souls will riseWith fresh sweetness on their blossom,Richer perfume, brighter dyes."Most shrunk from her, but some weepingYielded to her soft controul;And whilst on that bosom sleepingHeaven-dew fell upon each soul.Young and old fled from her everWaving off her proffered grace,Thwarting each divine endeavour,Trembling still before her face;And she said "Ah! ye are blinded,Seeing not the things that are,For unto the earnest-mindedSorrow is life's guiding star;"Not delusive, not unsparing,Richer fraught with good than pain,Unto life sweet blessings bearingThough she scatter them in rain."
Through the Earth a Spirit goethOnward still from morn till night,Silent as the Time-stream flowethOut of darkness into light.
And her heart is very tender,Full of love and kindliness,Yearning evermore to renderGoodness fuller, error less.
Through the Earth the spirit wendeth,And full many a little childWith light heart her course attendeth,By her gentle eyes beguiled;
Turning to her fond embraces,Playing round her as she goes,With no shade on their glad facesDeeper than the budding rose.
A maiden dreaming of her loverLike a star amid the night,Felt the spirit bend above her,In between her and the light;
And she quivered back in terrorFrom the spirit's offered kiss;Ah! how often, thus, doth errorBackward fright our souls from bliss!
Then the spirit "Ah! thou dearest,Wilt thou close thy heart from me?Through the shadow that thou fearestHeaven's own light will shine on thee.
"Like the streams that most refresh usIn the desert parch'd and drear,Sorrow renders love more precious,Makes the cherish'd one more dear."
On—the spirit circled gently,Kindly round a Poet's heart,Gazing through the veil intentlyAfter life's diviner part;
And the poet bent to meet her,For he said "The truth will beMade through Sorrow ever sweeter,Ever clearer unto me.
"We are blinded by the sunlightFrom the heaven'suncloudedblue,But through mist we eye the One-lightTill we read it through and through."
To the beautiful the SpiritOpen'd wide her loving breast,Wooed their souls to nestle near itAnd from life's excitement rest,
Whispering, "Sleep on Sorrow's bosom,Dear ones, and your souls will riseWith fresh sweetness on their blossom,Richer perfume, brighter dyes."
Most shrunk from her, but some weepingYielded to her soft controul;And whilst on that bosom sleepingHeaven-dew fell upon each soul.
Young and old fled from her everWaving off her proffered grace,Thwarting each divine endeavour,Trembling still before her face;
And she said "Ah! ye are blinded,Seeing not the things that are,For unto the earnest-mindedSorrow is life's guiding star;
"Not delusive, not unsparing,Richer fraught with good than pain,Unto life sweet blessings bearingThough she scatter them in rain."
The tide is rippling to my very feet,The mountains are before me, and around,Stretching in misty grandeur till they meetIn one dim bourne, their hoary summits crown'dWith cloudy chaplets, such as might have boundThe new-born Thunderer when Saturn fell,All wonder-stricken, from his mighty throne.The sun is shining upon wooded slopes,And distant headlands, with faint shadows thrownAmid its brightness like the shatter'd hopesOf a young noontide, and its golden lightCrests the upheaving waters till each swellIs tremulous with glory, and the sightPictures strange fancies which no tongue can tell.
There is a spell by which the panting soulShakes from its stainless pinions all the gyvesWherewith our frail mortality still strivesTo bind it downward 'neath its stern controul;When springing from the earth like the sweet larkThat wings its flight in music to the sky,Amid the spheres it wanders, where the eyeTrembles to blindness, and the last faint sparkOf Earth's far gleaming flickers and expires;Thine is the charm, dear Poesy, which setsThe cagëd spirit on its heavenward flight,And fills its being with those pure desires,And holy aspirations, which like lightShower on the world in distillations bright.
We wander on through life as pilgrims doO'er trackless deserts to a distant shrine,Weary and parch'd, and to our longing viewSprings many a false mirage of joy divine,That fades before us as we fain pursueThe empty picture which our fancy drew.O thou, my heart! seek not the empty showsAnd gilded nothings of this little Time,But let thine endless effort be to climbAbove Earth's petty vanities and woesUnto a nobler range of feelings, joys,Which no false leaven of decay alloys,But whose substantial sweetness may increase,And make thy journey pleasure, and thy slumber peace.
Sweet spirits of the Beautiful! where'er ye dwell,Whether upon the misty mountain topsWith mantling crags about ye, or in dellAnd sunny valley, by the hazel copseWherein the ring-dove nestles, or by streamsThat wander amid woodlands, with the sheenOf noontide trembling through the leafy screenDown to their mossy banks in fitful gleams,That murmur with the linnets and at e'enSigh with the plaintive nightingale, and oftMirror your bright eyes in the sparkling dew,Circle me ever with your joyous crew,Bring inspirations to me bland and soft,And sun my slumbers still with happy dreams.
We are ambitious overmuch in life,Straining at ends of hard accomplishment,And goaded onward by poor discontent,We build our little Babels up through strife,And bitterness of soul, and motions rifeWith passions that oft slay the innocent,Like Priests of Lust plunging the cruel knifeInto the victims of their wilderment.Not thus do thou, but with a patient handPlace thou thine acorn in the fertile soil,Labouring ever with unhurtful toil,And cheerful hope until the seed expand,Grow with the strength of truth, and ripening Time,And stand at last in majesty sublime.
Mountains! and huge hills! wrap your mighty formsClose with mantle of eternal cloud;Gather around ye the fierce band of storms;And let the stainless snow-drift be your shroud.Back from your rugged steeps, and caverns hoarBellow in hoarse disdain the tempest's roar;Laugh at the rolling thunder; let the flashOf its fierce lightning lumine but your scorn;Down your deep-furrow'd slopes let torrents dash,And on the winds their hollow rage be borne.Ye mighty ones! Why should ye bow your pride,And doff your venerable crowns, or dressYour wrinkled brows in smiles, or lay asideThe dread insignias of your mightiness!
Ofttimes I gaze upon thine eyes, fair child,Till sense forgets all but the beautiful,And my entranced and raptured heart is fullOf blissful visions, pure, and bland, and mildIn their o'erstealing, as the rosy sleepThat falls upon an infant, wafting itIn balmy dreams to heaven. Within the deepThe thrilling sea of their blue loveliness,By sun-reflected gleams of heaven uplit,My spirit bathes in sweet unconsciousnessOf aught material, and oft doth drinkOf beauty there, whose freshness never dies,Till, pleasure-lapt, it feels as it could sinkBeneath the waves, and enter paradise.
I traverse oft in thought the battle-plainOf my past life, 'mid many a shatter'd dreamOf pleasure, and of hope, which youth in vainBased on the shifting sands of Time's swift stream,Fond bulwarks 'gainst the strong assaults of pain;And 'mid their ruins, like an exiled manGazing on scenes where he can dwell no more,I stand and mourn their sweet enchantment o'er,Where both life's pleasures and its cares began.Earth crumbles 'neath our feet as we walk on,And leaves a gulf behind none can retrace;Its pleasures flash a moment and are gone;But if we treasure in our soullove'sgrace,Thatwill refresh and gladden all our race.