Fleetly hath past the year. The seasons cameDuly as they are wont—the gentle Spring,And the delicious Summer, and the cool,Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,And Winter, like an old and hoary man,Frosty and stiff—and so are chronicled.We have read gladness in the new green leaf,And in the first blown violets; we have drunkCool water from the rock, and in the shadeSunk to the noon-tide slumber;—we have eatThe mellow fruitage of the bending tree,And girded to our pleasant wanderingsWhen the cool wind came freshly from the hills;And when the tinting of the Autumn leavesHad faded from its glory, we have satBy the good fires of Winter, and rejoicedOver the fulness of the gathered sheaf."God hath been very good!" 'Tis He whose handMoulded the sunny hills, and hollowed outThe shelter of the valleys, and doth keepThe fountains in their secret places cool;And it is He who leadeth up the sun,And ordereth the starry influences,And tempereth the keenness of the frost—And therefore, in the plenty of the feast,And in the lifting of the cup, let HIMHave praises for the well-completed year.
Fleetly hath past the year. The seasons cameDuly as they are wont—the gentle Spring,And the delicious Summer, and the cool,Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain,And Winter, like an old and hoary man,Frosty and stiff—and so are chronicled.We have read gladness in the new green leaf,And in the first blown violets; we have drunkCool water from the rock, and in the shadeSunk to the noon-tide slumber;—we have eatThe mellow fruitage of the bending tree,And girded to our pleasant wanderingsWhen the cool wind came freshly from the hills;And when the tinting of the Autumn leavesHad faded from its glory, we have satBy the good fires of Winter, and rejoicedOver the fulness of the gathered sheaf."God hath been very good!" 'Tis He whose handMoulded the sunny hills, and hollowed outThe shelter of the valleys, and doth keepThe fountains in their secret places cool;And it is He who leadeth up the sun,And ordereth the starry influences,And tempereth the keenness of the frost—And therefore, in the plenty of the feast,And in the lifting of the cup, let HIMHave praises for the well-completed year.
Winter is come again. The sweet south westIs a forgotten wind, and the strong earthHas laid aside its mantle to be boundBy the frost fetter. There is not a soundSave of the skaiter's heel, and there is laidAn icy finger on the lip of streams,And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought.Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sendsMany sweet voices with its odors out,And Autumn rustleth its decaying robeWith a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!God made his ministry a silent one,And he has given him a foot of steelAnd an unlovely aspect, and a breathSharp to the senses—and we know that HeTempereth well, and hath a meaning hidUnder the shadow of his hand. Look up!And it shall be interpreted—Your homeHath a temptation now. There is no voiceOf waters with beguiling for your ear,And the cool forest and the meadows greenWitch not your feet away; and in the dellsThere are no violets, and upon the hillsThere are no sunny places to lie down.You must go in, and by your cheerful fireWait for the offices of love, and hearAccents of human tenderness, and feastYour eye upon the beauty of the young.It is a season for the quiet thought,And the still reckoning with thyself. The yearGives back the spirits of its dead, and timeWhispers the history of its vanished hours;And the heart, calling its affections up,Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands stillAnd settles like a fountain, and the eyeSees clearly through its depths, and noteth allThat stirred its troubled waters. It is wellThat Winter with the dying year should come!
Winter is come again. The sweet south westIs a forgotten wind, and the strong earthHas laid aside its mantle to be boundBy the frost fetter. There is not a soundSave of the skaiter's heel, and there is laidAn icy finger on the lip of streams,And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought.Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sendsMany sweet voices with its odors out,And Autumn rustleth its decaying robeWith a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!God made his ministry a silent one,And he has given him a foot of steelAnd an unlovely aspect, and a breathSharp to the senses—and we know that HeTempereth well, and hath a meaning hidUnder the shadow of his hand. Look up!And it shall be interpreted—Your homeHath a temptation now. There is no voiceOf waters with beguiling for your ear,And the cool forest and the meadows greenWitch not your feet away; and in the dellsThere are no violets, and upon the hillsThere are no sunny places to lie down.You must go in, and by your cheerful fireWait for the offices of love, and hearAccents of human tenderness, and feastYour eye upon the beauty of the young.It is a season for the quiet thought,And the still reckoning with thyself. The yearGives back the spirits of its dead, and timeWhispers the history of its vanished hours;And the heart, calling its affections up,Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands stillAnd settles like a fountain, and the eyeSees clearly through its depths, and noteth allThat stirred its troubled waters. It is wellThat Winter with the dying year should come!
BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF VENUS.
Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is sheThat those soft fringes timidly should fallBefore her, and thy spiritual browBe shadowed as her presence were a cloud?A loftier gift is thine than she can give—That queen of beauty. She may mould the browTo perfectness, and give unto the formA beautiful proportion; she may stainThe eye with a celestial blue—the cheekWith carmine of the sunset; she may breatheGrace into every motion, like the playOf the least visible tissue of a cloud;She may give all that is within her ownBright cestus—and one silent look of thine,Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.Ay, for the soul is better than its frame,The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,Or color, but the beautiful links that chainThe mind from its rare element? There liesA talisman in intellect which yieldsCelestial music, when the master handTouches it cunningly. It sleeps beneathThe outward semblance, and to common sightIs an invisible and hidden thing;But when the lip is faded, and the cheekRobbed of its daintiness, and when the formWitches the sense no more, and human loveFalters in its idolatry, this spellWill hold its strength unbroken, and go onStealing anew the affections.Marvel notThat Love leans sadly on his bended bow.He hath found out the loveliness of mind,And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill beEver—the glory of the human formIs but a perishing thing, and Love will droopWhen its brief grace hath faded; but the mindPerisheth not, and when the outward charmHath had its brief existence, it awakes,And is the lovelier that it slept so long—Like wells that by the wasting of their flowHave had their deeper fountains broken up.
Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is sheThat those soft fringes timidly should fallBefore her, and thy spiritual browBe shadowed as her presence were a cloud?A loftier gift is thine than she can give—That queen of beauty. She may mould the browTo perfectness, and give unto the formA beautiful proportion; she may stainThe eye with a celestial blue—the cheekWith carmine of the sunset; she may breatheGrace into every motion, like the playOf the least visible tissue of a cloud;She may give all that is within her ownBright cestus—and one silent look of thine,Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.
Ay, for the soul is better than its frame,The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,Or color, but the beautiful links that chainThe mind from its rare element? There liesA talisman in intellect which yieldsCelestial music, when the master handTouches it cunningly. It sleeps beneathThe outward semblance, and to common sightIs an invisible and hidden thing;But when the lip is faded, and the cheekRobbed of its daintiness, and when the formWitches the sense no more, and human loveFalters in its idolatry, this spellWill hold its strength unbroken, and go onStealing anew the affections.Marvel notThat Love leans sadly on his bended bow.He hath found out the loveliness of mind,And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill beEver—the glory of the human formIs but a perishing thing, and Love will droopWhen its brief grace hath faded; but the mindPerisheth not, and when the outward charmHath had its brief existence, it awakes,And is the lovelier that it slept so long—Like wells that by the wasting of their flowHave had their deeper fountains broken up.
Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curlsFrom his white shoulders by the winds were swept,And the clear color of his sunny cheekWas bright with motion. Through his open lipsShone visibly a delicate line of pearl,Like a white vein within a rosy shell,And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it layBeneath his lashes, like a drop of dewHid in the moss, stole out as covertlyAs starlight from the edging of a cloud.I never saw a boy so beautiful.His step was like the stooping of a bird,And his limbs melted into grace like thingsShaped by the wind of summer. He was likeA painter's fine conception—such an oneAs he would have of Ganymede, and weepUpon his pallet that he could not winThe vision to his easel. Who could paintThe young and shadowless spirit? Who could chainThe visible gladness of a heart that lives,Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light,With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's giftHas nothing that is like it. Sun and stream,And the new leaves of June, and the young larkThat flees away into the depths of heaven,Lost in his own wild music, and the breathOf springtime, and the summer eve, and noonIn the cool autumn, are like fingers sweptOver sweet-toned affections—but the joyThat enters to the spirit of a childIs deep as his young heart: his very breath,The simple sense of being, is enoughTo ravish him, and like a thrilling touchHe feels each moment of his life go by.Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joyThat like a robe is palpable, and flungOut by your every motion! delicate budOf the immortal flower that will unfoldAnd come to its maturity in heaven!I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a lightLent to the new born spirit that goes outWith the first idle wind. It is the leafFresh flung upon the river, that will danceUpon the wave that stealeth out its life,Then sink of its own heaviness. The faceOf the delightful earth will to your eyeGrow dim; the fragrance of the many flowersBe noticed not, and the beguiling voiceOf nature in her gentleness will beTo manhood's senseless ear inaudible.I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy!
Down the green slope he bounded. Raven curlsFrom his white shoulders by the winds were swept,And the clear color of his sunny cheekWas bright with motion. Through his open lipsShone visibly a delicate line of pearl,Like a white vein within a rosy shell,And his dark eye's clear brilliance, as it layBeneath his lashes, like a drop of dewHid in the moss, stole out as covertlyAs starlight from the edging of a cloud.I never saw a boy so beautiful.His step was like the stooping of a bird,And his limbs melted into grace like thingsShaped by the wind of summer. He was likeA painter's fine conception—such an oneAs he would have of Ganymede, and weepUpon his pallet that he could not winThe vision to his easel. Who could paintThe young and shadowless spirit? Who could chainThe visible gladness of a heart that lives,Like a glad fountain, in the eye of light,With an unbreathing pencil? Nature's giftHas nothing that is like it. Sun and stream,And the new leaves of June, and the young larkThat flees away into the depths of heaven,Lost in his own wild music, and the breathOf springtime, and the summer eve, and noonIn the cool autumn, are like fingers sweptOver sweet-toned affections—but the joyThat enters to the spirit of a childIs deep as his young heart: his very breath,The simple sense of being, is enoughTo ravish him, and like a thrilling touchHe feels each moment of his life go by.
Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joyThat like a robe is palpable, and flungOut by your every motion! delicate budOf the immortal flower that will unfoldAnd come to its maturity in heaven!I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a lightLent to the new born spirit that goes outWith the first idle wind. It is the leafFresh flung upon the river, that will danceUpon the wave that stealeth out its life,Then sink of its own heaviness. The faceOf the delightful earth will to your eyeGrow dim; the fragrance of the many flowersBe noticed not, and the beguiling voiceOf nature in her gentleness will beTo manhood's senseless ear inaudible.I sigh to look upon thy face, young boy!
She had been told that God made all the starsThat twinkled up in heaven, and now she stoodWatching the coming of the twilight on,As if it were a new and perfect world,And this were its first eve. How beautifulMust be the work of nature to a childIn its first fresh impression! Laura stoodBy the low window, with the silken lashOf her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouthHalf parted with the new and strange delightOf beauty that she could not comprehend,And had not seen before. The purple foldsOf the low sunset clouds, and the blue skyThat look'd so still and delicate above,Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eveStole on with its deep shadows, and she stillStood looking at the west with that half smile,As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.Presently, in the edge of the last tintOf sunset, where the blue was melted inTo the faint golden mellowness, a starStood suddenly. A laugh of wild delightBurst from her lips, and putting up her hands,Her simple thought broke forth expressively—"Father! dear Father! God has made a star!"
She had been told that God made all the starsThat twinkled up in heaven, and now she stoodWatching the coming of the twilight on,As if it were a new and perfect world,And this were its first eve. How beautifulMust be the work of nature to a childIn its first fresh impression! Laura stoodBy the low window, with the silken lashOf her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouthHalf parted with the new and strange delightOf beauty that she could not comprehend,And had not seen before. The purple foldsOf the low sunset clouds, and the blue skyThat look'd so still and delicate above,Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eveStole on with its deep shadows, and she stillStood looking at the west with that half smile,As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.Presently, in the edge of the last tintOf sunset, where the blue was melted inTo the faint golden mellowness, a starStood suddenly. A laugh of wild delightBurst from her lips, and putting up her hands,Her simple thought broke forth expressively—"Father! dear Father! God has made a star!"
The perfect world by Adam trod,Was the first temple—built by God—His fiat laid the corner stone,And heav'd its pillars, one by one.He hung its starry roof on high—The broad illimitable sky;He spread its pavement, green and bright,And curtain'd it with morning light.The mountains in their places stood—The sea—the sky—and "all was good;"And, when its first pure praises rang,The "morning stars together sang."Lord! 'tis not ours to make the seaAnd earth and sky a house for thee;But in thy sight our off'ring stands—A humbler temple, "made with hands."
The perfect world by Adam trod,Was the first temple—built by God—His fiat laid the corner stone,And heav'd its pillars, one by one.
He hung its starry roof on high—The broad illimitable sky;He spread its pavement, green and bright,And curtain'd it with morning light.
The mountains in their places stood—The sea—the sky—and "all was good;"And, when its first pure praises rang,The "morning stars together sang."
Lord! 'tis not ours to make the seaAnd earth and sky a house for thee;But in thy sight our off'ring stands—A humbler temple, "made with hands."
She stood up in the meekness of a heartResting on God, and held her fair young childUpon her bosom, with its gentle eyesFolded in sleep, as if its soul had goneTo whisper the baptismal vow in Heaven.The prayer went up devoutly, and the lipsOf the good man glowed fervently with faithThat it would be, even as he had pray'd,And the sweet child be gather'd to the foldOf Jesus. As the holy words went onHer lips mov'd silently, and tears, fast tearsStole from beneath her lashes, and uponThe forehead of the beautiful child lay softWith the baptismal water. Then I thoughtThat, to the eye of God, that mother's tearsWould be a deeper covenant, which sinAnd the temptations of the world, and deathWould leave unbroken, and that she would knowIn the clear light of heaven, how very strongThe prayer which press'd them from her heart had beenIn leading its young spirit up to God.
She stood up in the meekness of a heartResting on God, and held her fair young childUpon her bosom, with its gentle eyesFolded in sleep, as if its soul had goneTo whisper the baptismal vow in Heaven.The prayer went up devoutly, and the lipsOf the good man glowed fervently with faithThat it would be, even as he had pray'd,And the sweet child be gather'd to the foldOf Jesus. As the holy words went onHer lips mov'd silently, and tears, fast tearsStole from beneath her lashes, and uponThe forehead of the beautiful child lay softWith the baptismal water. Then I thoughtThat, to the eye of God, that mother's tearsWould be a deeper covenant, which sinAnd the temptations of the world, and deathWould leave unbroken, and that she would knowIn the clear light of heaven, how very strongThe prayer which press'd them from her heart had beenIn leading its young spirit up to God.
Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved, before the flood, the secret of Alchemy that gives gold at will.Epicurean.
Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved, before the flood, the secret of Alchemy that gives gold at will.
Epicurean.
That 'Emerald Green of the Pyramid'—Were I where it is laid,I'd ask no king for his heavy crown,As its hidden words were said.The pomp and the glitter of worldly prideShould fetter my moments not,And the natural thought of an open mind,Should govern alone my lot.Would I feast all day? revel all night?Laugh with a weary heart?Would I sleep away the breezy morn?And wake till the stars depart?Would I gain no knowledge, and search no deepFor the wisdom that sages knew?Would I run to waste with a human mind—To its noble trust untrue?Oh! knew I the depth of that 'Emerald Green,'And knew I the spell of gold,I would never poison a fresh young heartWith the taint of customs old.I would bind no wreath to my forehead freeIn whose shadow a thought would die,Nor drink from the cup of revelry,The ruin my gold would buy.But I'd break the fetters of care worn things,And be spirit and fancy free,My mind should go up where it longs to go,And the limitless wind outflee.I'd climb to the eyries of eagle menTill the stars became a scroll;And pour right on, like the even sea,In the strength of a governed soul.Ambition! Ambition! I've laughed to scornThy robe and thy gleaming sword;I would follow sooner a woman's eye,Or the spell of a gentle word;But come with the glory of human mind,And the light of the scholar's brow,And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,And alone at thy altar bow.There was one dark eye—it hath passed away!There was one deep tone—'tis not!Could I see it now—could I hear it now,Ye were all too well forgot.My heart brought up, from its chambers deep,The sum of its earthly love;But it might not—could not—buy like Heaven,And she stole to her rest above.That first deep love I have taken back,In my rayless heart to hide;With the tear it brought for a burning seal,'Twill there forever bide.I may stretch on now to a nobler ken,I may live in my thoughts of flame—The tie is broken that kept me back,And my spirit is on, for fame!But alas! I am dreaming as if I knewThe spell of the tablet green;I forgot how like to a broken reed,Is the lot on which I lean.There is nothing true of my idle dream,But the wreck of my early love;And my mind is coined for my daily bread,And how can it soar above?
That 'Emerald Green of the Pyramid'—Were I where it is laid,I'd ask no king for his heavy crown,As its hidden words were said.The pomp and the glitter of worldly prideShould fetter my moments not,And the natural thought of an open mind,Should govern alone my lot.
Would I feast all day? revel all night?Laugh with a weary heart?Would I sleep away the breezy morn?And wake till the stars depart?Would I gain no knowledge, and search no deepFor the wisdom that sages knew?Would I run to waste with a human mind—To its noble trust untrue?
Oh! knew I the depth of that 'Emerald Green,'And knew I the spell of gold,I would never poison a fresh young heartWith the taint of customs old.I would bind no wreath to my forehead freeIn whose shadow a thought would die,Nor drink from the cup of revelry,The ruin my gold would buy.
But I'd break the fetters of care worn things,And be spirit and fancy free,My mind should go up where it longs to go,And the limitless wind outflee.I'd climb to the eyries of eagle menTill the stars became a scroll;And pour right on, like the even sea,In the strength of a governed soul.
Ambition! Ambition! I've laughed to scornThy robe and thy gleaming sword;I would follow sooner a woman's eye,Or the spell of a gentle word;But come with the glory of human mind,And the light of the scholar's brow,And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness,And alone at thy altar bow.
There was one dark eye—it hath passed away!There was one deep tone—'tis not!Could I see it now—could I hear it now,Ye were all too well forgot.My heart brought up, from its chambers deep,The sum of its earthly love;But it might not—could not—buy like Heaven,And she stole to her rest above.
That first deep love I have taken back,In my rayless heart to hide;With the tear it brought for a burning seal,'Twill there forever bide.I may stretch on now to a nobler ken,I may live in my thoughts of flame—The tie is broken that kept me back,And my spirit is on, for fame!
But alas! I am dreaming as if I knewThe spell of the tablet green;I forgot how like to a broken reed,Is the lot on which I lean.There is nothing true of my idle dream,But the wreck of my early love;And my mind is coined for my daily bread,And how can it soar above?
Sogna il guerriér le schiere,Le sel ve il cacciatór;E sogna il pescatór;Le reti, e l' amo.Metastatio.
Love knoweth every form of air,And every shape of earth,And comes, unbidden, everywhere,Like thought's mysterious birth.The moonlight sea and the sunset skyAre written with Love's words,And you hear his voice unceasingly,Like song in the time of birds.He peeps into the warrior's heartFrom the tip of a stooping plume,And the serried spears, and the many menMay not deny him room.He'll come to his tent in the weary night,And be busy in his dream;And he'll float to his eye in morning lightLike a fay on a silver beam.He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,And rides on the echo back,And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,And flits in his woodland track.The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,The cloud, and the open sky—He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,Like the light of your very eye.The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,And ponders the silver sea,For Love is under the surface hid,And a spell of thought has he.He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,And speaks in the ripple low,Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,And the hook hangs bare below.He blurs the print of the scholar's book,And intrudes in the maiden's prayer.And profanes the cell of the holy man,In the shape of a lady fair.In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,In earth, and sea, and sky,In every home of human thought,Will Love be lurking nigh.
Love knoweth every form of air,And every shape of earth,And comes, unbidden, everywhere,Like thought's mysterious birth.The moonlight sea and the sunset skyAre written with Love's words,And you hear his voice unceasingly,Like song in the time of birds.
He peeps into the warrior's heartFrom the tip of a stooping plume,And the serried spears, and the many menMay not deny him room.He'll come to his tent in the weary night,And be busy in his dream;And he'll float to his eye in morning lightLike a fay on a silver beam.
He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,And rides on the echo back,And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,And flits in his woodland track.The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,The cloud, and the open sky—He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,Like the light of your very eye.
The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,And ponders the silver sea,For Love is under the surface hid,And a spell of thought has he.He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,And speaks in the ripple low,Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,And the hook hangs bare below.
He blurs the print of the scholar's book,And intrudes in the maiden's prayer.And profanes the cell of the holy man,In the shape of a lady fair.In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,In earth, and sea, and sky,In every home of human thought,Will Love be lurking nigh.
The evening star will twinkle presently.The last small bird is silent, and the beeHas gone into his hive, and the shut flowersAre bending as if sleeping on the stem,And all sweet living things are slumberingIn the deep hush of nature's resting time.The faded West looks deep, as if its blueWere searchable, and even as I look,The twilight hath stole over it, and madeIts liquid eye apparent, and aboveTo the far-stretching zenith, and around,As if they waited on her like a queen,Have stole out the innumerable starsTo twinkle like intelligence in heaven.Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel?Fit for the young affections to come outAnd bathe in like an element! How wellThe night is made for tenderness—so stillThat the low whisper, scarcely audible,Is heard like music, and so deeply pureThat the fond thought is chastened as it springsAnd on the lip made holy. I have wonThy heart, my gentle girl! but it hath beenWhen that soft eye was on me, and the loveI told beneath the evening influenceShall be as constant as its gentle star.
The evening star will twinkle presently.The last small bird is silent, and the beeHas gone into his hive, and the shut flowersAre bending as if sleeping on the stem,And all sweet living things are slumberingIn the deep hush of nature's resting time.The faded West looks deep, as if its blueWere searchable, and even as I look,The twilight hath stole over it, and madeIts liquid eye apparent, and aboveTo the far-stretching zenith, and around,As if they waited on her like a queen,Have stole out the innumerable starsTo twinkle like intelligence in heaven.Is it not beautiful, my fair Adel?Fit for the young affections to come outAnd bathe in like an element! How wellThe night is made for tenderness—so stillThat the low whisper, scarcely audible,Is heard like music, and so deeply pureThat the fond thought is chastened as it springsAnd on the lip made holy. I have wonThy heart, my gentle girl! but it hath beenWhen that soft eye was on me, and the loveI told beneath the evening influenceShall be as constant as its gentle star.
I will throw by my book. The wearinessOf too much study presses on my brain,And thought's close fetter binds upon my browLike a distraction, and I must give o'er.Morning hath seen me here, and noon, and eve;And midnight with its deep and solemn hushHas look'd upon my labors, and the dawn,With its sweet voices, and its tempting breathHas driven me to rest—and I can bearThe burden of such weariness no more.I have foregone society, and fledFrom a sweet sister's fondness, and from allA home's alluring blandishments, and nowWhen I am thirsting for them, and my heartWould leap at the approaches of their kindAnd gentle offices, they are not here,And I must feel that I am all alone.Oh, for the fame of this forgetful worldHow much we suffer! Were itallfor this—Were nothing but the empty praise of menThe guerdon of this sedentary toil—Were this world's perishable honorsall—I'd bound from its confinement as a hartLeaps from its hunters—but I know, that whenMy name shall be forgotten, and my frameRests from its labors, I shall find aboveA work for the capacities I win,And, as I discipline my spirit here,My lyre shall have a nobler sweep in Heaven.
I will throw by my book. The wearinessOf too much study presses on my brain,And thought's close fetter binds upon my browLike a distraction, and I must give o'er.Morning hath seen me here, and noon, and eve;And midnight with its deep and solemn hushHas look'd upon my labors, and the dawn,With its sweet voices, and its tempting breathHas driven me to rest—and I can bearThe burden of such weariness no more.I have foregone society, and fledFrom a sweet sister's fondness, and from allA home's alluring blandishments, and nowWhen I am thirsting for them, and my heartWould leap at the approaches of their kindAnd gentle offices, they are not here,And I must feel that I am all alone.Oh, for the fame of this forgetful worldHow much we suffer! Were itallfor this—Were nothing but the empty praise of menThe guerdon of this sedentary toil—Were this world's perishable honorsall—I'd bound from its confinement as a hartLeaps from its hunters—but I know, that whenMy name shall be forgotten, and my frameRests from its labors, I shall find aboveA work for the capacities I win,And, as I discipline my spirit here,My lyre shall have a nobler sweep in Heaven.
It was a mountain stream that with the leapOf its impatient waters had worn outA channel in the rock, and wash'd awayThe earth that had upheld the tall old trees,Till it was darken'd with the shadowy archOf the o'er-leaning branches. Here and thereIt loiter'd in a broad and limpid poolThat circled round demurely, and anonSprung violently over where the rockFell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on,Till they were broken by the hanging moss,As anger with a gentle word grows calm.In spring-time, when the snows were coming down,And in the flooding of the Autumn rains,No foot might enter there—but in the hotAnd thirsty summer, when the fountains slept,You could go its channel in the shade,To the far sources, with a brow as coolAs in the grotto of the anchorite.Here when an idle student have I come,And in a hollow of the rock lain downAnd mus'd until the eventide, or readSome fine old Poet till my nook becameA haunt of faery, or the busy flowOf water to my spell-bewilder'd earSeem'd like the din of some gay tournament.Pleasant have been such hours, and tho' the wiseHave said that I was indolent, and theyWho taught me have reprov'd me that I play'dThe truant in the leafy month of June,I deem it true philosophy in himWhose spirit must be temper'd of the world,To loiter with these wayside comforters.
It was a mountain stream that with the leapOf its impatient waters had worn outA channel in the rock, and wash'd awayThe earth that had upheld the tall old trees,Till it was darken'd with the shadowy archOf the o'er-leaning branches. Here and thereIt loiter'd in a broad and limpid poolThat circled round demurely, and anonSprung violently over where the rockFell suddenly, and bore its bubbles on,Till they were broken by the hanging moss,As anger with a gentle word grows calm.In spring-time, when the snows were coming down,And in the flooding of the Autumn rains,No foot might enter there—but in the hotAnd thirsty summer, when the fountains slept,You could go its channel in the shade,To the far sources, with a brow as coolAs in the grotto of the anchorite.Here when an idle student have I come,And in a hollow of the rock lain downAnd mus'd until the eventide, or readSome fine old Poet till my nook becameA haunt of faery, or the busy flowOf water to my spell-bewilder'd earSeem'd like the din of some gay tournament.Pleasant have been such hours, and tho' the wiseHave said that I was indolent, and theyWho taught me have reprov'd me that I play'dThe truant in the leafy month of June,I deem it true philosophy in himWhose spirit must be temper'd of the world,To loiter with these wayside comforters.
'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,And light lay soft on the deserted roomFrom alabaster vases, and a scentOf orange leaves, and sweet verbena cameThrough the unshutter'd window on the air,And the rich pictures with their dark old tintsHung like a twilight landscape, and all thingsSeem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,The dark eyed, spiritual IsabelWas leaning on her harp, and I had staidTo whisper what I could not when the crowdHung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,And with the fervor of a lip unusedTo the cool breath of reason, told my love.There was no answer, and I took the handThat rested on the strings, and pressed a kissUpon it unforbidden—and againBesought her, that this silent evidenceThat I was not indifferent to her heart,Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke,And she withdrew them gently, and upraisedHer forehead from its resting place, and lookedEarnestly on me—She had been asleep!
'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,And light lay soft on the deserted roomFrom alabaster vases, and a scentOf orange leaves, and sweet verbena cameThrough the unshutter'd window on the air,And the rich pictures with their dark old tintsHung like a twilight landscape, and all thingsSeem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,The dark eyed, spiritual IsabelWas leaning on her harp, and I had staidTo whisper what I could not when the crowdHung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,And with the fervor of a lip unusedTo the cool breath of reason, told my love.There was no answer, and I took the handThat rested on the strings, and pressed a kissUpon it unforbidden—and againBesought her, that this silent evidenceThat I was not indifferent to her heart,Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke,And she withdrew them gently, and upraisedHer forehead from its resting place, and lookedEarnestly on me—She had been asleep!
They said that I was strange. I could not bearConfinement, and I lov'd to feel the windBlowing upon my forehead, and when mornCame like an inspiration from the East,And the cool earth, awaking like a starIn a new element, sent out its voice,And tempted me with music, and the breathOf a delicious perfume, and the dyeOf the rich forests and the pastures green,To come out and be glad—I would not stayTo bind my gushing spirit with a book.Fourteen bright summers—and my heart had grownImpatient in its loneliness, and yearn'dFor something that was like itself, to love.She came—the stately Isabel—as proudAnd beautiful, and gentle as my dream;And with my wealth of feeling, lov'd I her.Older by years, and wiser of the world,She was in thought my equal, and we rang'dThe pleasant wood together, and sat downImpassion'd with the same delicious sweepOf water, and I pour'd into her earMy passion and my hoarded thoughts like one,Till I forgot that there was any worldBut Isabel and nature. She was pleas'dAnd flatter'd with my wild and earnest love,And suffer'd my delirious words to burnUpon my lip unchided. It was newTo be so worshipped like a deityBy a pure heart from nature, and she gaveHer tenderness its way, and when I kiss'dHer fingers till I thought I was in Heaven,She gaz'd upon me silently, and wept.I have seen eighteen summers—and the childOf stately Isabel hath learn'd to comeAnd win me from my sadness. I have school'dMy feelings to affection for that child,And I can see his father fondle him,And give him to his mother with a kissUpon her holy forehead—and be calm!
They said that I was strange. I could not bearConfinement, and I lov'd to feel the windBlowing upon my forehead, and when mornCame like an inspiration from the East,And the cool earth, awaking like a starIn a new element, sent out its voice,And tempted me with music, and the breathOf a delicious perfume, and the dyeOf the rich forests and the pastures green,To come out and be glad—I would not stayTo bind my gushing spirit with a book.
Fourteen bright summers—and my heart had grownImpatient in its loneliness, and yearn'dFor something that was like itself, to love.She came—the stately Isabel—as proudAnd beautiful, and gentle as my dream;And with my wealth of feeling, lov'd I her.Older by years, and wiser of the world,She was in thought my equal, and we rang'dThe pleasant wood together, and sat downImpassion'd with the same delicious sweepOf water, and I pour'd into her earMy passion and my hoarded thoughts like one,Till I forgot that there was any worldBut Isabel and nature. She was pleas'dAnd flatter'd with my wild and earnest love,And suffer'd my delirious words to burnUpon my lip unchided. It was newTo be so worshipped like a deityBy a pure heart from nature, and she gaveHer tenderness its way, and when I kiss'dHer fingers till I thought I was in Heaven,She gaz'd upon me silently, and wept.
I have seen eighteen summers—and the childOf stately Isabel hath learn'd to comeAnd win me from my sadness. I have school'dMy feelings to affection for that child,And I can see his father fondle him,And give him to his mother with a kissUpon her holy forehead—and be calm!
It was a shady nook that I had foundDeep in the greenwood. A delicious streamRan softly by it on a bed of grass,And to the border leant a sloping bankOf moss as delicate as Tempe e'erSpread for the sleep of Io. OverheadThe spreading larch was woven with the fir,And as the summer wind stole listlessly,And dallied with the tree tops, they would partAnd let in sprinklings of the sunny light,Studding the moss like silver; and againReturning to their places, there would comeA murmur from the touched and stirring leaves,That like a far-off instrument, beguiledYour mood into the idleness of sleep.Here did I win thee, Viola! We came—Thou knowest how carelessly—and never thoughtLove lived in such a wilderness; and thou—I had a cousin's kindness for thy lip,And in the meshes of thy chesnut hairI loved to hide my fingers—that was all!And when I saw thy figure on the grass,And thy straw bonnet flung aside, I thoughtA fairy would be pretty, painted soUpon a ground of green—but that was all!And when thou playfully wouldst bathe thy foot,And the clear water of the stream ran offAnd left the white skin polished, why, I thoughtIt looked like ivory—but that was all!And when thou wouldst be serious, and IWas serious too, and thy mere fairy's handLay carelessly in mine, and just for thoughtI mused upon thy innocence and gaz'dUpon the pure transparence of thy brow—I pressed thy fingers half unconsciously,And fell in love. Wasthatall, Viola?
It was a shady nook that I had foundDeep in the greenwood. A delicious streamRan softly by it on a bed of grass,And to the border leant a sloping bankOf moss as delicate as Tempe e'erSpread for the sleep of Io. OverheadThe spreading larch was woven with the fir,And as the summer wind stole listlessly,And dallied with the tree tops, they would partAnd let in sprinklings of the sunny light,Studding the moss like silver; and againReturning to their places, there would comeA murmur from the touched and stirring leaves,That like a far-off instrument, beguiledYour mood into the idleness of sleep.
Here did I win thee, Viola! We came—Thou knowest how carelessly—and never thoughtLove lived in such a wilderness; and thou—I had a cousin's kindness for thy lip,And in the meshes of thy chesnut hairI loved to hide my fingers—that was all!And when I saw thy figure on the grass,And thy straw bonnet flung aside, I thoughtA fairy would be pretty, painted soUpon a ground of green—but that was all!
And when thou playfully wouldst bathe thy foot,And the clear water of the stream ran offAnd left the white skin polished, why, I thoughtIt looked like ivory—but that was all!And when thou wouldst be serious, and IWas serious too, and thy mere fairy's handLay carelessly in mine, and just for thoughtI mused upon thy innocence and gaz'dUpon the pure transparence of thy brow—I pressed thy fingers half unconsciously,And fell in love. Wasthatall, Viola?
I had a passion when I was a childFor a most pleasant idleness. In June,When the thick masses of the leaves were stirr'dWith a just audible murmur, and the streamsFainted in their cool places to a lowUnnotic'd tinkle, and the reapers hungTheir sickles in the trees and went to sleep,Then might you find me in an antique chairCushion'd with cunning luxury, which stoodIn the old study corner, by a nookCrowded with volumes of the old romance;And there, the long and quiet summer day,Lay I with half clos'd eyelids, turning o'erLeaf after leaf, until the twilight blurr'dTheir singular and time-stain'd characters.'Twas a forgetful lore, and it is blentWith dreams that in my fitful slumber came,And is remember'd faintly. But to-dayWith the strange waywardness of human thought,A story has come back to me which IHad long forgotten, and I tell it nowBecause it hath a savour that I findBut seldom in the temper of the world.Angelo turn'd away. He was a poorUnhonor'd minstrel, and he might not breatheLove to the daughter of an Earl. She rais'dProudly her beautiful head, and shook awayFrom her clear temples the luxuriant hair,And told him it would ever please her wellTo listen to his minstrelsy, but loveWas for a loftier lip—and then the tearStole to her flashing eye, for as she spokeThere rose up a remembrance of his keen,Unstooping spirit, and his noble heartGiven her like a sacrifice, and she heldHer hand for him to kiss, and said, "Farewell!Think of me, Angelo!" and so pass'd on.The color to his forehead mounted high,And his thin lip curl'd haughtily, and thenAs if his mood had chang'd, he bow'd his headLow on his bosom, and remain'd awhileLost in his bitter thoughts—and then againHe lifted to its height his slender form,And his moist eye grew clear, and his hand pass'dRapidly o'er his instrument while thusHe gave his spirit voice:—It did not need that alter'd look,Nor that uplifted brow—I had not ask'd thy haughty love,Were I as proud as now.My love was like a beating heart—Unbidden and unstayed;And had I known but half its power,It had not been betray'd.I did not seek thy titled hand;I thought not of thy name;I only granted utteranceTo one wild thought of flame.I did not dream thou couldst be mine,Or I a thought to thee—I only knew my lip must letSome burning thought go free.I lov'd thee for thy high born grace,Thy deep and lustrous eye,For the sweet meaning of thy brow,And for thy bearing high;I lov'd thee for thy stainless truth,Thy thirst for higher things;For all that to our common lotA better temper brings—And are they not all thine? still thine?Is not thy heart as true?Holds not thy step its noble grace—Thy cheek its dainty hue?And have I not an ear to hear—A cloudless eye to see—And a thirst for beautiful human thought,That first was stirr'd with thee?Then why should I turn from thee now?Why should not I love on—Dreaming of thee by night, by day,As I have ever done?My service shall be still as leal,My love as quenchless burnIt shames me of my selfish thoughtThat dream'd of a return!He married her! Perhaps it spoils the tale—But she had listen'd to his song, unseen,And kept it in her heart, and, by and by,When Angelo did service for his king,And was prefer'd to honor, she betray'dHer secret in some delicate way that IDo not remember, and so ends the tale.
I had a passion when I was a childFor a most pleasant idleness. In June,When the thick masses of the leaves were stirr'dWith a just audible murmur, and the streamsFainted in their cool places to a lowUnnotic'd tinkle, and the reapers hungTheir sickles in the trees and went to sleep,Then might you find me in an antique chairCushion'd with cunning luxury, which stoodIn the old study corner, by a nookCrowded with volumes of the old romance;And there, the long and quiet summer day,Lay I with half clos'd eyelids, turning o'erLeaf after leaf, until the twilight blurr'dTheir singular and time-stain'd characters.'Twas a forgetful lore, and it is blentWith dreams that in my fitful slumber came,And is remember'd faintly. But to-dayWith the strange waywardness of human thought,A story has come back to me which IHad long forgotten, and I tell it nowBecause it hath a savour that I findBut seldom in the temper of the world.
Angelo turn'd away. He was a poorUnhonor'd minstrel, and he might not breatheLove to the daughter of an Earl. She rais'dProudly her beautiful head, and shook awayFrom her clear temples the luxuriant hair,And told him it would ever please her wellTo listen to his minstrelsy, but loveWas for a loftier lip—and then the tearStole to her flashing eye, for as she spokeThere rose up a remembrance of his keen,Unstooping spirit, and his noble heartGiven her like a sacrifice, and she heldHer hand for him to kiss, and said, "Farewell!Think of me, Angelo!" and so pass'd on.
The color to his forehead mounted high,And his thin lip curl'd haughtily, and thenAs if his mood had chang'd, he bow'd his headLow on his bosom, and remain'd awhileLost in his bitter thoughts—and then againHe lifted to its height his slender form,And his moist eye grew clear, and his hand pass'dRapidly o'er his instrument while thusHe gave his spirit voice:—
It did not need that alter'd look,Nor that uplifted brow—I had not ask'd thy haughty love,Were I as proud as now.My love was like a beating heart—Unbidden and unstayed;And had I known but half its power,It had not been betray'd.
I did not seek thy titled hand;I thought not of thy name;I only granted utteranceTo one wild thought of flame.I did not dream thou couldst be mine,Or I a thought to thee—I only knew my lip must letSome burning thought go free.
I lov'd thee for thy high born grace,Thy deep and lustrous eye,For the sweet meaning of thy brow,And for thy bearing high;I lov'd thee for thy stainless truth,Thy thirst for higher things;For all that to our common lotA better temper brings—
And are they not all thine? still thine?Is not thy heart as true?Holds not thy step its noble grace—Thy cheek its dainty hue?And have I not an ear to hear—A cloudless eye to see—And a thirst for beautiful human thought,That first was stirr'd with thee?
Then why should I turn from thee now?Why should not I love on—Dreaming of thee by night, by day,As I have ever done?My service shall be still as leal,My love as quenchless burnIt shames me of my selfish thoughtThat dream'd of a return!
He married her! Perhaps it spoils the tale—But she had listen'd to his song, unseen,And kept it in her heart, and, by and by,When Angelo did service for his king,And was prefer'd to honor, she betray'dHer secret in some delicate way that IDo not remember, and so ends the tale.