Innocent dreams be thine! The silver nightIs a fit curtain for thy lovely sleep.The stars keep watch above thee, and the moonSits like a brooding spirit up in Heaven,Ruling the night's deep influences, and lifeHath a hushed pulse, and the suspended leavesSleep with their whisperings as if the dewWere a soft finger on the lip of sound.Innocent dreams be thine! thy heart sends upIts thoughts of purity like pearly bellsRising in crystal fountains, and the sinThat thou hast seen by day, will, like a shade,Pass from thy memory, as if the pureHad an unconscious ministry by night.Midnight—and now for music! Would I wereA sound that I might steal upon thy dreams,And, like the breathing of my flute, distilSweetly upon thy senses. Softly, boy!Breathe the low cadences as if the wordsFainted upon thy lip—I would not breakHer slumber quite—but only, as she dreams,Witch the lull'd sense till she believes she hearsCelestial melody:—
Innocent dreams be thine! The silver nightIs a fit curtain for thy lovely sleep.The stars keep watch above thee, and the moonSits like a brooding spirit up in Heaven,Ruling the night's deep influences, and lifeHath a hushed pulse, and the suspended leavesSleep with their whisperings as if the dewWere a soft finger on the lip of sound.Innocent dreams be thine! thy heart sends upIts thoughts of purity like pearly bellsRising in crystal fountains, and the sinThat thou hast seen by day, will, like a shade,Pass from thy memory, as if the pureHad an unconscious ministry by night.
Midnight—and now for music! Would I wereA sound that I might steal upon thy dreams,And, like the breathing of my flute, distilSweetly upon thy senses. Softly, boy!Breathe the low cadences as if the wordsFainted upon thy lip—I would not breakHer slumber quite—but only, as she dreams,Witch the lull'd sense till she believes she hearsCelestial melody:—
"Sleep, like a lover, woo thee,Isabel!And golden dreams come to thee,Like a spellBy some sweet angel drawn!Noiseless hands shall seal thy slumber,Setting stars its moments number,So, sleep thou on!The night above thee broodeth,Hushed and deep;But no dark thought intrudethOn the sleepWhich folds thy senses now.Gentle spirits float around thee,Gentle rest hath softly bound thee,For pure art thou!And now thy spirit fleethOn rare wings,And fancy's vision seethHoly thingsIn its high atmosphere.Music strange thy sense unsealeth,And a voice to thee revealethWhat angels hear.Thou'lt wake when morning breaketh,Pure and calm;As one who mourns, awakethWhen the balmOf peace hath on him fell.Purer thoughts shall stir within thee,Softer cords to virtue win thee—Farewell! Farewell!"
"Sleep, like a lover, woo thee,Isabel!And golden dreams come to thee,Like a spellBy some sweet angel drawn!Noiseless hands shall seal thy slumber,Setting stars its moments number,So, sleep thou on!
The night above thee broodeth,Hushed and deep;But no dark thought intrudethOn the sleepWhich folds thy senses now.Gentle spirits float around thee,Gentle rest hath softly bound thee,For pure art thou!
And now thy spirit fleethOn rare wings,And fancy's vision seethHoly thingsIn its high atmosphere.Music strange thy sense unsealeth,And a voice to thee revealethWhat angels hear.
Thou'lt wake when morning breaketh,Pure and calm;As one who mourns, awakethWhen the balmOf peace hath on him fell.Purer thoughts shall stir within thee,Softer cords to virtue win thee—Farewell! Farewell!"
Claudio. Know you any Hero?Hero. None my lord!As You Like it.
Gentle and modest Hero! I can seeHer delicate figure, and her soft blue eye,Like a warm vision—lovely as she stood,Veiled in the presence of young Claudio.Modesty bows her head, and that young heartThat would endure all suffering for the loveIt hideth, is as tremulous as the leafForsaken of the Summer. She hath flungHer all upon the venture of her vow,And in her trust leans meekly, like a flowerBy the still river tempted from its stem,And on its bosom floating.Once againI see her, and she standeth in her pride,With her soft eye enkindled, and her lipCurled with its sweet resentment, like a lineOf lifeless coral. She hath heard the voiceThat was her music utter it, and stillTo her affection faithful, she hath turnedAnd questioned in her innocent unbelief,"Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide?"—How did they look upon that open brow,And not read purity? Alas for truth!It hath so many counterfeits. The words,That to a child were written legibly,Are by the wise mistaken, and when lightHath made the brow transparent, and the faceIs like an angel's—virtue is so fair—They read it like an over-blotted leaf,And break the heart that wrote it.
Gentle and modest Hero! I can seeHer delicate figure, and her soft blue eye,Like a warm vision—lovely as she stood,Veiled in the presence of young Claudio.Modesty bows her head, and that young heartThat would endure all suffering for the loveIt hideth, is as tremulous as the leafForsaken of the Summer. She hath flungHer all upon the venture of her vow,And in her trust leans meekly, like a flowerBy the still river tempted from its stem,And on its bosom floating.Once againI see her, and she standeth in her pride,With her soft eye enkindled, and her lipCurled with its sweet resentment, like a lineOf lifeless coral. She hath heard the voiceThat was her music utter it, and stillTo her affection faithful, she hath turnedAnd questioned in her innocent unbelief,"Is my lord well, that he should speak so wide?"—How did they look upon that open brow,And not read purity? Alas for truth!It hath so many counterfeits. The words,That to a child were written legibly,Are by the wise mistaken, and when lightHath made the brow transparent, and the faceIs like an angel's—virtue is so fair—They read it like an over-blotted leaf,And break the heart that wrote it.
A violet by a mossy stone,Half hidden from the eye,Fair as a star, when only one,Is shining in the sky.Wordsworth
A violet by a mossy stone,Half hidden from the eye,Fair as a star, when only one,Is shining in the sky.Wordsworth
I have found violets. April hath come on,And the cool winds feel softer, and the rainFalls in the beaded drops of summer time.You may hear birds at morning, and at eveThe tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing inHis beautiful bright neck, and from the hills,A murmur like the hoarseness of the seaTells the release of waters, and the earthSends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leavesAre lifted by the grass—and so I knowThat Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heardThe dropping of the velvet foot of Spring.Smell of my violets! I found them whereThe liquid South stole o'er them, on a bankThat lean'd to running water. There's to meA daintiness about these early flowersThat touches me like poetry. They blowWith such a simple loveliness amongThe common herbs of pasture, and breathe outTheir lives so unobtrusively, like heartsWhose beatings are too gentle for the world.I love to go in the capricious daysOf April and hunt violets; when the rainIs in the blue cups trembling, and they nodSo gracefully to the kisses of the wind.It may be deem'd unmanly, but the wiseRead nature like the manuscript of heavenAnd call the flowers its poetry. Go out!Ye spirits of habitual unrest,And read it when the "fever of the world"Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if lifeHath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will beLike a beguiling music to its flow,And you will no more wonder that I loveTo hunt for violets in the April time.
I have found violets. April hath come on,And the cool winds feel softer, and the rainFalls in the beaded drops of summer time.You may hear birds at morning, and at eveThe tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing inHis beautiful bright neck, and from the hills,A murmur like the hoarseness of the seaTells the release of waters, and the earthSends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leavesAre lifted by the grass—and so I knowThat Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heardThe dropping of the velvet foot of Spring.Smell of my violets! I found them whereThe liquid South stole o'er them, on a bankThat lean'd to running water. There's to meA daintiness about these early flowersThat touches me like poetry. They blowWith such a simple loveliness amongThe common herbs of pasture, and breathe outTheir lives so unobtrusively, like heartsWhose beatings are too gentle for the world.I love to go in the capricious daysOf April and hunt violets; when the rainIs in the blue cups trembling, and they nodSo gracefully to the kisses of the wind.It may be deem'd unmanly, but the wiseRead nature like the manuscript of heavenAnd call the flowers its poetry. Go out!Ye spirits of habitual unrest,And read it when the "fever of the world"Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if lifeHath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will beLike a beguiling music to its flow,And you will no more wonder that I loveTo hunt for violets in the April time.
Pass thou on! for the vow is saidThat is never broken;The hand of blessing hath, trembling, laidOn snowy forehead and simple braid,And the word is spokenBy lips that never their words betray'd.Pass thou on! for thy human allIs richly given,And the voice that claim'd its holy thrallMust be sweeter for life than music's fall,And, this side Heaven,Thy lip may never that trust recal.Pass thou on! yet many an eyeWill droop and glisten;And the hushing heart in vain will tryTo still its pulse as thy step goes byAnd we "vainly listenFor thy voice of witching melody."Pass thou on! yet a sister's toneIn its sweetness lingers,Like some twin echo sent back alone,Or the bird's soft note when its mate hath flown,And a sister's fingersWill again o'er the thrilling harp be thrown.And our eyes will rest on their foreheads fair,And our hearts awakenWhenever we come where their voices are—But oh, we shall think how musical were,Ere of thee forsaken,The mingled voices we listed there.Pass on! there is not of our blessings oneThat may not perish—Like visiting angels whose errand is done,They are never at rest till their home is won,And we may not cherishThe beautiful gift ofthylight—Pass on!
Pass thou on! for the vow is saidThat is never broken;The hand of blessing hath, trembling, laidOn snowy forehead and simple braid,And the word is spokenBy lips that never their words betray'd.
Pass thou on! for thy human allIs richly given,And the voice that claim'd its holy thrallMust be sweeter for life than music's fall,And, this side Heaven,Thy lip may never that trust recal.
Pass thou on! yet many an eyeWill droop and glisten;And the hushing heart in vain will tryTo still its pulse as thy step goes byAnd we "vainly listenFor thy voice of witching melody."
Pass thou on! yet a sister's toneIn its sweetness lingers,Like some twin echo sent back alone,Or the bird's soft note when its mate hath flown,And a sister's fingersWill again o'er the thrilling harp be thrown.
And our eyes will rest on their foreheads fair,And our hearts awakenWhenever we come where their voices are—But oh, we shall think how musical were,Ere of thee forsaken,The mingled voices we listed there.
Pass on! there is not of our blessings oneThat may not perish—Like visiting angels whose errand is done,They are never at rest till their home is won,And we may not cherishThe beautiful gift ofthylight—Pass on!
I'm twenty-two—I'm twenty-two—They gaily give me joy,As if I should be glad to hearThat I was less a boy.They do not know how carelesslyTheir words have given pain,To one whose heart would leap to beA happy boy again.I had a light and careless heartWhen this brief year began,And then I pray'd that I might beA grave and perfect man.The world was like a blessed dreamOf joyous coming years—I did not know its manlinessWas but to wake in tears.A change has on my spirit come,I am forever sad;The light has all departed nowMy early feelings had;I used to love the morning grey,The twilight's quiet deep,But now like shadows on the sea,Upon my thoughts they creep.And love was like a holy star,When this brief year was young,And my whole worship of the skyOn one sweet ray was flung;But worldly things have come between,And shut it from my sight,And though the star shines purely yet,I mourn its hidden light.And fame! I bent to it the knee,And bow'd to it my brow,And it is like a coal uponMy living spirit now—But when I pray'd for burning fireTo touch the soul I bow'd,I did not know the lightning flashWould come in such a cloud.Ye give me joy! Is it becauseAnother year has fled?—That I am farther from my youth,And nearer to the dead?Is it because my cares have come?—My happy boyhood o'er?—Because the visions I have lov'dWill visit me no more?Oh, tell me not that ye are glad!I cannot smile it back;I've found no flower, and seen no lightOn manhood's weary track.My love is deep—ambition deep—And heart and mindwillon—But love is fainting by the way,And fame consumes ere won.
I'm twenty-two—I'm twenty-two—They gaily give me joy,As if I should be glad to hearThat I was less a boy.They do not know how carelesslyTheir words have given pain,To one whose heart would leap to beA happy boy again.
I had a light and careless heartWhen this brief year began,And then I pray'd that I might beA grave and perfect man.The world was like a blessed dreamOf joyous coming years—I did not know its manlinessWas but to wake in tears.
A change has on my spirit come,I am forever sad;The light has all departed nowMy early feelings had;I used to love the morning grey,The twilight's quiet deep,But now like shadows on the sea,Upon my thoughts they creep.
And love was like a holy star,When this brief year was young,And my whole worship of the skyOn one sweet ray was flung;But worldly things have come between,And shut it from my sight,And though the star shines purely yet,I mourn its hidden light.
And fame! I bent to it the knee,And bow'd to it my brow,And it is like a coal uponMy living spirit now—But when I pray'd for burning fireTo touch the soul I bow'd,I did not know the lightning flashWould come in such a cloud.
Ye give me joy! Is it becauseAnother year has fled?—That I am farther from my youth,And nearer to the dead?Is it because my cares have come?—My happy boyhood o'er?—Because the visions I have lov'dWill visit me no more?
Oh, tell me not that ye are glad!I cannot smile it back;I've found no flower, and seen no lightOn manhood's weary track.My love is deep—ambition deep—And heart and mindwillon—But love is fainting by the way,And fame consumes ere won.
BY FISHER.
I love to look on a scene like this,Of wild and careless play,And persuade myself that I am not oldAnd my locks are not yet gray;For it stirs the blood in old man's heart,And makes his pulses fly,To catch the thrill of a happy voice,And the light of a pleasant eye.I have walked the world for fourscore years,And they say that I am old;That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,And my years are well nigh told.It is very true—it is very true—I'm old, and 'I bide my time'—But my heart will leap at a scene like this,And I half renew my prime.Play on! play on! I am with you there,In the midst of your merry ring;I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,And the rush of the breathless swing.I hide with you in the fragrant hay,And I whoop the smothered call,And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,And I care not for the fall.I am willing to die when my time shall come,And I shall be glad to go;For the world, at best, is a weary place,And my pulse is getting low;But the grave is dark, and the heart will failIn treading its gloomy way;And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,To see the young so gay.
I love to look on a scene like this,Of wild and careless play,And persuade myself that I am not oldAnd my locks are not yet gray;For it stirs the blood in old man's heart,And makes his pulses fly,To catch the thrill of a happy voice,And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walked the world for fourscore years,And they say that I am old;That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,And my years are well nigh told.It is very true—it is very true—I'm old, and 'I bide my time'—But my heart will leap at a scene like this,And I half renew my prime.
Play on! play on! I am with you there,In the midst of your merry ring;I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,And the rush of the breathless swing.I hide with you in the fragrant hay,And I whoop the smothered call,And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,And I care not for the fall.
I am willing to die when my time shall come,And I shall be glad to go;For the world, at best, is a weary place,And my pulse is getting low;But the grave is dark, and the heart will failIn treading its gloomy way;And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,To see the young so gay.
Sleep on! Sleep on! beguilingThe hours with happy rest.Sleep!—by that dreamy smiling,I know that thou art blest.Thy mother over thee hath leantTo guard thee from annoy,And the angel of the innocentWas in that dream, my boy!The tinting of the summer roseIs on that pillowed cheek,And the quietness of summer thoughtHas made thy forehead meek.And yet that little ample brow,And arching lip, are fraughtWith pledges of high manliness,And promises of thought.Thy polished limbs are rounded outAs is the Autumn fruit,And full and reedy is the voiceThat slumber hath made mute.And, looking on thy perfect form—Hearing thy pleasant tone—I almost weep for joy, my son,To know thee for my own.Sleep on! thine eye seems looking thro'The half transparent lid,As if its free and radiant glanceImpatiently were hid;But ever as I kneel to pray,And in my fulness weep,I thank the Giver of my childFor that pure gift of sleep—I half believe they take thee, then,Back to a better world again.And so, sleep on! If thou hast wornAn angel's shining wing,The watch that I have loved to keepHath been a blessed thing.And if thy spirit hath been here,With spotless thoughts alone—A mother's silent ministryIs still a holy one;And I will pray that there may beA shining wing in wait for thee.
Sleep on! Sleep on! beguilingThe hours with happy rest.Sleep!—by that dreamy smiling,I know that thou art blest.Thy mother over thee hath leantTo guard thee from annoy,And the angel of the innocentWas in that dream, my boy!
The tinting of the summer roseIs on that pillowed cheek,And the quietness of summer thoughtHas made thy forehead meek.And yet that little ample brow,And arching lip, are fraughtWith pledges of high manliness,And promises of thought.
Thy polished limbs are rounded outAs is the Autumn fruit,And full and reedy is the voiceThat slumber hath made mute.And, looking on thy perfect form—Hearing thy pleasant tone—I almost weep for joy, my son,To know thee for my own.
Sleep on! thine eye seems looking thro'The half transparent lid,As if its free and radiant glanceImpatiently were hid;But ever as I kneel to pray,And in my fulness weep,I thank the Giver of my childFor that pure gift of sleep—I half believe they take thee, then,Back to a better world again.
And so, sleep on! If thou hast wornAn angel's shining wing,The watch that I have loved to keepHath been a blessed thing.And if thy spirit hath been here,With spotless thoughts alone—A mother's silent ministryIs still a holy one;And I will pray that there may beA shining wing in wait for thee.
The frozen ground looks gray. 'Twill shut the snowOut from its bosom, and the flakes will fallSoftly and lie upon it. The hushed flowOf the ice-covered waters, and the callOf the cold driver to his oxen slow,And the complaining of the gust, are allThat I can hear of music—would that IWith the green summer like a leaf might die?So will a man grow gray, and on his headThe snow of years lie visibly, and soWill come a frost when his green years have fled,And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow,And his deep voice be shaken—would that IIn the green summer of my youth might die!
The frozen ground looks gray. 'Twill shut the snowOut from its bosom, and the flakes will fallSoftly and lie upon it. The hushed flowOf the ice-covered waters, and the callOf the cold driver to his oxen slow,And the complaining of the gust, are allThat I can hear of music—would that IWith the green summer like a leaf might die?So will a man grow gray, and on his headThe snow of years lie visibly, and soWill come a frost when his green years have fled,And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow,And his deep voice be shaken—would that IIn the green summer of my youth might die!
Storm had been on the hills. The day had wornAs if a sleep upon the hours had crept;And the dark clouds that gather'd at the mornIn dull, impenetrable masses slept,And the wept leaves hung droopingly, and allWas like the mournful aspect of a pall.Suddenly on the horizon's edge, a blueAnd delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,And, as it wider and intenser grew,The darkness removed silently away,And, with the splendor of a God, broke throughThe perfect glory of departing day—So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er,Will light upon the dying Christian pour.
Storm had been on the hills. The day had wornAs if a sleep upon the hours had crept;And the dark clouds that gather'd at the mornIn dull, impenetrable masses slept,And the wept leaves hung droopingly, and allWas like the mournful aspect of a pall.Suddenly on the horizon's edge, a blueAnd delicate line, as of a pencil, lay,And, as it wider and intenser grew,The darkness removed silently away,And, with the splendor of a God, broke throughThe perfect glory of departing day—So, when his stormy pilgrimage is o'er,Will light upon the dying Christian pour.
Elegance floats about thee like a dress,Melting the airy motion of thy formInto one swaying grace, and loveliness,Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm,Is lurking in the chesnut of thy tress,Enriching it, as moonlight after stormMingles dark shadows into gentleness.A beauty that bewilders like a spellReigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy browSo pure in vein'd transparency doth tellHow spiritually beautiful art thou—A temple where angelic love might dwell.Life in thy presence were a thing to keep,Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep.
Elegance floats about thee like a dress,Melting the airy motion of thy formInto one swaying grace, and loveliness,Like a rich tint that makes a picture warm,Is lurking in the chesnut of thy tress,Enriching it, as moonlight after stormMingles dark shadows into gentleness.A beauty that bewilders like a spellReigns in thine eye's clear hazel, and thy browSo pure in vein'd transparency doth tellHow spiritually beautiful art thou—A temple where angelic love might dwell.Life in thy presence were a thing to keep,Like a gay dreamer clinging to his sleep.
Beautiful robin! with thy feathers redContrasting sweetly with the soft green tree,Making thy little flights as thou art ledBy things that tempt a simple one like thee—I would that thou couldst warble me to tearsAs lightly as the birds of other years.Idly to lie beneath an April sun,Pressing the perfume from the tender grass;To watch a joyous rivulet leap onWith the clear tinkle of a music glass,And as I saw the early robin pass,To hear him thro' his little compass run—Hath been a joy that I shall no more knowBefore I to my better portion go.
Beautiful robin! with thy feathers redContrasting sweetly with the soft green tree,Making thy little flights as thou art ledBy things that tempt a simple one like thee—I would that thou couldst warble me to tearsAs lightly as the birds of other years.Idly to lie beneath an April sun,Pressing the perfume from the tender grass;To watch a joyous rivulet leap onWith the clear tinkle of a music glass,And as I saw the early robin pass,To hear him thro' his little compass run—Hath been a joy that I shall no more knowBefore I to my better portion go.
Exquisite Laura! with thy pouting lip,And the arch smile that makes me constant so—Tempting me still like a dull bee to sipThe flower I should have left so long ago—Beautiful Laura! who art just so fairThat I can think thee lovely when alone,And still art not so wonderfully rareThat I could never find a prettier one—Spirited Laura! laughing, weeping, cryingIn the same breath, and gravest with the gay—So wild, that Cupid ever shoots thee flying,And knows his archery is thrown away—Inconstant as I am, I cannot yetBreak thy sweet fetter, exquisite coquette!
Exquisite Laura! with thy pouting lip,And the arch smile that makes me constant so—Tempting me still like a dull bee to sipThe flower I should have left so long ago—Beautiful Laura! who art just so fairThat I can think thee lovely when alone,And still art not so wonderfully rareThat I could never find a prettier one—Spirited Laura! laughing, weeping, cryingIn the same breath, and gravest with the gay—So wild, that Cupid ever shoots thee flying,And knows his archery is thrown away—Inconstant as I am, I cannot yetBreak thy sweet fetter, exquisite coquette!
There was a beautiful spirit in her air,As of a fay at revel. Hidden springs,Too delicate for knowledge, should be there,Moving her gently like invisible wings;And then her lip out-blushing the red fruitThat bursts with ripeness in the Autumn time,And the arch eye you would not swear was mute,And the clear cheek, as of a purer clime,And the low tone, soft as a pleasant fluteSent over water with the vesper chime;And then her forehead with its loose, dark curl,And the bewildering smile that made her mouthLike a torn rose-leaf moistened of the South—She has an angel's gifts—the radiant girl!
There was a beautiful spirit in her air,As of a fay at revel. Hidden springs,Too delicate for knowledge, should be there,Moving her gently like invisible wings;And then her lip out-blushing the red fruitThat bursts with ripeness in the Autumn time,And the arch eye you would not swear was mute,And the clear cheek, as of a purer clime,And the low tone, soft as a pleasant fluteSent over water with the vesper chime;And then her forehead with its loose, dark curl,And the bewildering smile that made her mouthLike a torn rose-leaf moistened of the South—She has an angel's gifts—the radiant girl!
It is not the fear of deathThat damps my brow;It is not for another breathI ask thee now;I can die with a lip unstirr'dAnd a quiet heart—Let but this prayer be heardEre I depart.I can give up my mother's look—My sister's kiss;I can think of love—yet brookA death like this!I can give up the young fameI burn'd to win—All—but the spotless nameI glory in!Thine is the power to give,Thine to deny,Joy for the hour I live—Calmness to die.By all the brave should cherish,By my dying breath,I ask that I may perishWith a soldier's death!
It is not the fear of deathThat damps my brow;It is not for another breathI ask thee now;I can die with a lip unstirr'dAnd a quiet heart—Let but this prayer be heardEre I depart.
I can give up my mother's look—My sister's kiss;I can think of love—yet brookA death like this!I can give up the young fameI burn'd to win—All—but the spotless nameI glory in!
Thine is the power to give,Thine to deny,Joy for the hour I live—Calmness to die.By all the brave should cherish,By my dying breath,I ask that I may perishWith a soldier's death!
I used to love a radiant girl—Her lips were like a rose leaf torn;Her heart was as free as a floating curl,Or a breeze at morn;Her step as light as a Peri's daughter,And her eye as soft as gliding water.Witching thoughts like things half hidLurk'd beneath her silken lashes,And a modest droop of the veined lidOft hid their flashes—But to me the charm was more completeAs the blush stole up its fringe to meet.Paint me love as a honey bee!Rosy mouths are things to sip;Nothing was ever so sweet to meAs Marion's lip—Till I learned that a deeper magic liesIn kissing the lids of her closed eyes.Her sweet brow I seldom touch,Save to part her raven hair;Her bright cheek I gaze on much,Her white hand is fair;But none of these—I've tried them all—Is like kissing her eyes as the lashes fall.
I used to love a radiant girl—Her lips were like a rose leaf torn;Her heart was as free as a floating curl,Or a breeze at morn;Her step as light as a Peri's daughter,And her eye as soft as gliding water.
Witching thoughts like things half hidLurk'd beneath her silken lashes,And a modest droop of the veined lidOft hid their flashes—But to me the charm was more completeAs the blush stole up its fringe to meet.
Paint me love as a honey bee!Rosy mouths are things to sip;Nothing was ever so sweet to meAs Marion's lip—Till I learned that a deeper magic liesIn kissing the lids of her closed eyes.
Her sweet brow I seldom touch,Save to part her raven hair;Her bright cheek I gaze on much,Her white hand is fair;But none of these—I've tried them all—Is like kissing her eyes as the lashes fall.
Alone! alone! How drear it isAlways to be alone!In such a depth of wilderness,The only thinking one!The waters in their path rejoice,The trees together sleep—But I have not one silver voiceUpon my ear to creep!The sun upon the silent hillsHis mesh of beauty weaves,There's music in the laughing rillsAnd in the whispering leaves.The red deer like the breezes flyTo meet the bounding roe,But I have not a human sighTo cheer me as I go.I've hated men—I hate them now—But, since they are not here,I thirst for the familiar brow—Thirst for the stealing tear.And I should love to see the one,And feel the other creep,And then again I'd be aloneAmid the forest deep.I thought that I should love my hound,And hear my cracking gunTill I forgot the thrilling soundOf voices—one by one.I thought that in the leafy hushOf nature, they would die;But, as the hindered waters rush,Resisted feelings flyI'm weary of my lonely hutAnd of its blasted tree,The very lake is like my lot,So silent constantly.I've lived amid the forest gloomUntil I almost fear—When will the thrilling voices comeMy spirit thirsts to hear?
Alone! alone! How drear it isAlways to be alone!In such a depth of wilderness,The only thinking one!The waters in their path rejoice,The trees together sleep—But I have not one silver voiceUpon my ear to creep!
The sun upon the silent hillsHis mesh of beauty weaves,There's music in the laughing rillsAnd in the whispering leaves.The red deer like the breezes flyTo meet the bounding roe,But I have not a human sighTo cheer me as I go.
I've hated men—I hate them now—But, since they are not here,I thirst for the familiar brow—Thirst for the stealing tear.And I should love to see the one,And feel the other creep,And then again I'd be aloneAmid the forest deep.
I thought that I should love my hound,And hear my cracking gunTill I forgot the thrilling soundOf voices—one by one.I thought that in the leafy hushOf nature, they would die;But, as the hindered waters rush,Resisted feelings fly
I'm weary of my lonely hutAnd of its blasted tree,The very lake is like my lot,So silent constantly.I've lived amid the forest gloomUntil I almost fear—When will the thrilling voices comeMy spirit thirsts to hear?
'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.Her presence, like the shadow of a wingThat is just given to the upward sky,Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,And for her step we listen, and the eyeLooks for her wonted coming with a strange,Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feelThat she will no more come—that from her cheekThe delicate flush has faded, and the lightDead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip,That was so exquisitely pure, the dewOf the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov'd,Is left among the living? Who hath walk'dThe world with such a winning loveliness,And on its bright, brief journey, gather'd upSuch treasures of affection? She was lov'dOnly as idols are. She was the prideOf her familiar sphere—the daily joyOf all who on her gracefulness might gaze,And, in the light and music of her way,Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,While looking upon beauty such as hers,That it would ever perish! It is likeThe melting of a star into the skyWhile you are gazing on it, or a dreamIn its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.
'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.Her presence, like the shadow of a wingThat is just given to the upward sky,Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,And for her step we listen, and the eyeLooks for her wonted coming with a strange,Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feelThat she will no more come—that from her cheekThe delicate flush has faded, and the lightDead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip,That was so exquisitely pure, the dewOf the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov'd,Is left among the living? Who hath walk'dThe world with such a winning loveliness,And on its bright, brief journey, gather'd upSuch treasures of affection? She was lov'dOnly as idols are. She was the prideOf her familiar sphere—the daily joyOf all who on her gracefulness might gaze,And, in the light and music of her way,Have a companion's portion. Who could feel,While looking upon beauty such as hers,That it would ever perish! It is likeThe melting of a star into the skyWhile you are gazing on it, or a dreamIn its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.
She was not very beautiful, if it be beauty's testTo match a classic model when perfectly at rest;And she did not look bewitchingly, if witchery it be,To have a forehead and a lip transparent as the sea.The fashion of her gracefulness was not a follow'd rule,And her effervescent sprightliness was never learnt at school;And her words were all peculiar, like the fairy's who 'spoke pearls;'And her tone was ever sweetest midst the cadences of girls.Said I she was not beautiful? Her eyes upon your sightBroke with the lambent purity of planetary light,And an intellectual beauty, like a light within a vase,Touched every line with glory of her animated face.Her mind with sweets was laden, like a morning breath in June,And her thoughts awoke in harmony, like dreamings of a tune,And you heard her words like voices that o'er the waters creep,Or like a serenader's lute that mingles with your sleep.She had an earnest intellect—a perfect thirst of mind,And a heart by elevated thoughts and poetry refin'd,And she saw a subtle tint or shade with every careless look,And the hidden links of nature were familiar as a book.She's made of those rare elements that now and then appear,As if remov'd by accident unto a lesser sphere,Forever reaching up, and on, to life's sublimer things,As if they had been used to track the universe with wings.
She was not very beautiful, if it be beauty's testTo match a classic model when perfectly at rest;And she did not look bewitchingly, if witchery it be,To have a forehead and a lip transparent as the sea.
The fashion of her gracefulness was not a follow'd rule,And her effervescent sprightliness was never learnt at school;And her words were all peculiar, like the fairy's who 'spoke pearls;'And her tone was ever sweetest midst the cadences of girls.
Said I she was not beautiful? Her eyes upon your sightBroke with the lambent purity of planetary light,And an intellectual beauty, like a light within a vase,Touched every line with glory of her animated face.
Her mind with sweets was laden, like a morning breath in June,And her thoughts awoke in harmony, like dreamings of a tune,And you heard her words like voices that o'er the waters creep,Or like a serenader's lute that mingles with your sleep.
She had an earnest intellect—a perfect thirst of mind,And a heart by elevated thoughts and poetry refin'd,And she saw a subtle tint or shade with every careless look,And the hidden links of nature were familiar as a book.
She's made of those rare elements that now and then appear,As if remov'd by accident unto a lesser sphere,Forever reaching up, and on, to life's sublimer things,As if they had been used to track the universe with wings.
Oh the merry May has pleasant hours,And dreamily they glide,As if they floated like the leavesUpon a silver tide.The trees are full of crimson buds,And the woods are full of birds,And the waters flow to musicLike a tune with pleasant words.The verdure of the meadow-landIs creeping to the hills,The sweet, blue-bosom'd violetsAre blowing by the rills;The lilac has a load of balmFor every wind that stirs,And the larch stands green and beautifulAmid the sombre firs.There's perfume upon every wind—Music in every tree—Dews for the moisture-loving flowers—Sweets for the sucking bee;The sick come forth for the healing South,The young are gathering flowers;And life is a tale of poetry,That is told by golden hours.If 'tis not a true philosophy,That the spirit when set freeStill lingers about its olden home,In the flower and the tree,It is very strange that our pulses thrillAt the tint of a voiceless thing,And our hearts yearn so with tendernessIn the beautiful time of Spring.
Oh the merry May has pleasant hours,And dreamily they glide,As if they floated like the leavesUpon a silver tide.The trees are full of crimson buds,And the woods are full of birds,And the waters flow to musicLike a tune with pleasant words.
The verdure of the meadow-landIs creeping to the hills,The sweet, blue-bosom'd violetsAre blowing by the rills;The lilac has a load of balmFor every wind that stirs,And the larch stands green and beautifulAmid the sombre firs.
There's perfume upon every wind—Music in every tree—Dews for the moisture-loving flowers—Sweets for the sucking bee;The sick come forth for the healing South,The young are gathering flowers;And life is a tale of poetry,That is told by golden hours.
If 'tis not a true philosophy,That the spirit when set freeStill lingers about its olden home,In the flower and the tree,It is very strange that our pulses thrillAt the tint of a voiceless thing,And our hearts yearn so with tendernessIn the beautiful time of Spring.
'Tis well—'tis well—that clustering shadeIs on thy forehead sweetly laid;And that light curl that slumbers byMakes deeper yet thy depth of eye;And that white rose that decks thy hairJust wins the eye to linger there,Yet makes it not to note the lessThe beauty of that raven tress.Thy coral necklace?—ear-rings too?Nay—nay—not them—no darker hueThan thy white bosom be to-nightOn that fair neck the bar of light,Or hide the veins that faintly glowAnd wander in its living snow.What!—yet another? can it beThat neck needs ornament to thee?—Yet not thy jewels!—they are bright,But that dark eye has softer light,And tho' each gem had been a star,Thy simple self were lovelier far—Yet stay!—that string of matchless pearl?Nay—wear it—wear it—radiant girl!For ocean's best of pure and whiteShould only be thy foil to-night.Aye, turn thee round! 'tis lovely all—Thou'lt have no peer at that gay ball!And that proud toss!—it makes thee smileTo see how deep is thine own wile;And that slow look that seems to strayAs each sweet feature made it stay—And that small finger, lightly laidOn dimpled cheek and glossy braid,As if to know that all they seemIs really there, and not a dream—I wish I knew the gentle thoughtBy all this living beauty wrought!I wish I knew if that sweet brow,That neck on which thou gazest now—If thy rich lip and brilliant face—Thy perfect figure's breezy grace—If these are half the spell to theeThat will, this night, bewilder me!
'Tis well—'tis well—that clustering shadeIs on thy forehead sweetly laid;And that light curl that slumbers byMakes deeper yet thy depth of eye;And that white rose that decks thy hairJust wins the eye to linger there,Yet makes it not to note the lessThe beauty of that raven tress.
Thy coral necklace?—ear-rings too?Nay—nay—not them—no darker hueThan thy white bosom be to-nightOn that fair neck the bar of light,Or hide the veins that faintly glowAnd wander in its living snow.
What!—yet another? can it beThat neck needs ornament to thee?—Yet not thy jewels!—they are bright,But that dark eye has softer light,And tho' each gem had been a star,Thy simple self were lovelier far—Yet stay!—that string of matchless pearl?Nay—wear it—wear it—radiant girl!For ocean's best of pure and whiteShould only be thy foil to-night.
Aye, turn thee round! 'tis lovely all—Thou'lt have no peer at that gay ball!And that proud toss!—it makes thee smileTo see how deep is thine own wile;And that slow look that seems to strayAs each sweet feature made it stay—And that small finger, lightly laidOn dimpled cheek and glossy braid,As if to know that all they seemIs really there, and not a dream—I wish I knew the gentle thoughtBy all this living beauty wrought!I wish I knew if that sweet brow,That neck on which thou gazest now—If thy rich lip and brilliant face—Thy perfect figure's breezy grace—If these are half the spell to theeThat will, this night, bewilder me!
All that thou art, I thrillinglyAnd sensibly do feel;For my eye doth see, and my ear doth hear,And my heart is not of steel;I meet thee in the festal hall—I turn thee in the dance—And I wait, as would a worshipper,The giving of thy glance.Thy beauty is as undeniedAs the beauty of a star;And thy heart beats just as equally,Whate'er thy praises are;And so long without a parallelThy loveliness hath shone,That, follow'd like the tided moon,Thou mov'st as calmly on.Thy worth I, for myself, have seen—I know that thou art leal;Leal to a woman's gentleness,And thine own spirit's weal;Thy thoughts are deeper than a dream,And holier than gay;And thy mind is a harp of gentle strings,Where angel fingers play.I know all this—I feel all this—And my heart believes it true;And my fancy hath often borne me on,As a lover's fancies do;And I have a heart, that is strong and deep,And would love with its human all,And it waits for a fetter that's sweet to wear,And would bound to a silken thrall.But it loves not thee.—It would sooner bindIts thoughts to the open sky;It would worship as soon a familiar star,That is bright to every eye.'Twere to love the wind that is sweet to all—The wave of the beautiful sea—'Twere to hope for all the light in Heaven,To hope for the love of thee.But wert thou lowly—yet leal as now;Rich but in thine own mind;Humble—in all but the queenly brow;And to thine own glory blind—Were the world to prove but a faithless thing,And worshippers leave thy shrine—My love were, then, but a gift for thee,And my strong deep heart were thine.
All that thou art, I thrillinglyAnd sensibly do feel;For my eye doth see, and my ear doth hear,And my heart is not of steel;I meet thee in the festal hall—I turn thee in the dance—And I wait, as would a worshipper,The giving of thy glance.
Thy beauty is as undeniedAs the beauty of a star;And thy heart beats just as equally,Whate'er thy praises are;And so long without a parallelThy loveliness hath shone,That, follow'd like the tided moon,Thou mov'st as calmly on.
Thy worth I, for myself, have seen—I know that thou art leal;Leal to a woman's gentleness,And thine own spirit's weal;Thy thoughts are deeper than a dream,And holier than gay;And thy mind is a harp of gentle strings,Where angel fingers play.
I know all this—I feel all this—And my heart believes it true;And my fancy hath often borne me on,As a lover's fancies do;And I have a heart, that is strong and deep,And would love with its human all,And it waits for a fetter that's sweet to wear,And would bound to a silken thrall.
But it loves not thee.—It would sooner bindIts thoughts to the open sky;It would worship as soon a familiar star,That is bright to every eye.'Twere to love the wind that is sweet to all—The wave of the beautiful sea—'Twere to hope for all the light in Heaven,To hope for the love of thee.
But wert thou lowly—yet leal as now;Rich but in thine own mind;Humble—in all but the queenly brow;And to thine own glory blind—Were the world to prove but a faithless thing,And worshippers leave thy shrine—My love were, then, but a gift for thee,And my strong deep heart were thine.