Scene I. A peak of the Alps. Werner alone. Time, morning.Werner.How gloriously beautiful is earth!In these her quiet, unfrequented haunts,To which, except the timid chamois' foot,Or venturous hunter's, or the eagle's wing,Naught from beneath ascends. As yet the sunBut darts his earliest rays of golden lightUpon the summits of the tallest peaks,Which robed in clouds and capped with glittering ice,Soar proudly up, and beam and blaze aloft,As if they would claim kindred with the stars!And they may claim such kindred, for there isWithin, around, and over them, the sameSupreme, eternal, all-creating spiritWhich glows and burns in every beaming orbThat circles in immeasurable space!Far as the eye can trace the mountain's crestOn either hand, a gorgeous, varied massOf glowing, cloud-formed ranges are at rest,Reflecting back in every hue and tint,Purple and crimson, orange and bright gold,The sunny smile with which Morn hails the world.Beneath me all is quiet yet and calm,For the dim shadow of the silent nightStill rests upon the valley, still the flockSleeps undisturbed within the guarded fold,The lark yet slumbers in her lowly nest,The dew hangs heavy upon leaf and blade,The gray mist still o'erveils the unruffled lake,And all is tranquil as an infant's sleep;Tranquil around me, but not so within,For in my breast a thousand restless thoughtsConflict in wild, chaotical confusion.Thoughts of long bygone years, and things that wereBut are no more, and thoughts that sternly striveTo grapple with the mysteries I lateHave looked upon; for I, since yesternight,Have traversed the wide sea of space that rollsBetween the shores of this and other worlds;Have gazed upon and scanned those worlds, or shadesThat wear the lineaments of such; have seenThe damned in their own place, and marked the deep,Terrific retribution Error bringsTo such as are her votaries in life.And now I feel how baseless was my hopeThat Peace, the solitary boon I crave,Might spring from knowledge. Tis a fatal tree,Which ever hath borne bitter fruit, since first'Twas set in Paradise. But I must seekThe cottage of some honest mountaineer,Who may afford me nurture and repose,For I am weary, both in mind and frame.[Exit.Scene II. A chamber in the cottage of Manuel. Albert asleep.Rebecca standing by his couch.Rebecca.My boy! my beautiful, my dearest hope!The garner where my trust of future joyIs treasured. Heaven bless thee! May thy life,If it seem good to Him who gave it, beBlest to the fulness of a mother's prayer![She stoops to kiss him, and continues.How well his sleep portrays a quiet mind,The embodied image of a sunny day,A day without a cloud, whose only voicesArise from sighing airs, and whispering leaves,And tell-tale brooks that of their banks beseechA gift, a wreath of their sweet flowers, wherewithTo soothe the angry Geni of the deep!And free, glad birds that flit from bough to bough,And ring their songs of love in the clear air,Till heaven is filled with gushing melody,And the all-glowing horizon becomesA thing of life, whose breath is sweetest music![Kisses him again, and continues.His brow to me is as a spotless page,Whereon is traced the story of my firstAnd only love, the bright and holy dreamThat stole into my bosom, when besideThe crystal stream that threads a neighbouring vale,I and his father watched our fathers' flocks,And he would lay aside his shepherd's pipe,And in low words, far sweeter than its music,Talk of the sun and stars and gentle moon,The earth and all its loveliness, the treesAnd shrubs and flowers; how these were all pervadedAnd quickened by the spirit of deep love;Till, by the frequent blush that tinged my cheek,The light that would break from my downcast eyes,And the quick beat of my too happy heart,Emboldened, he poured out his own pure passion,On my enchanted ear! Since then my lifeHas had no eras,—days, and months, and years,Have all gone by uncounted, in the full,Deep, fervent, soul-sufficing happiness,Of all I prayed for, panted for, obtained!But I must rouse him, it is time his flockShould leave the fold, and—[The boy starts and murmurs in his sleep.Down by yonder stream,Where the green willows cluster thickest, thereThey dwell. 'Tis scarce so far as I could castA pebble from my sling. Seek it, and theyWill minister to thee what thou mayest need.[He awakes, and recognising his mother, exclaims—Ah, mother! I have dreamed so strange a dream,So strange, and yet so palpable, that IBelieved it a reality. MethoughtAs closely followed by my bleating flock,I climbed the rugged mountain side where springOur greenest pastures, singing as I went,I met a lonely wanderer in my way,Of brow so pale, and eye so darkly sad,That my own heart, to sadness little used,Grew heavy at the sight; and he seemed wornAnd very weary, not so much with toilAs by some hidden, inward strife of soul,Which even then seemed raging in his breast.He stayed to question me where he might findThe cottage of some honest mountaineer,Where he might crave the boons of rest and food,—And mindful of the lesson taught by thee,To give the hungry bread, the weary rest,I pointed him to where our cottage stands,Assuring him that thou and my sweet sister,—Fair as aught earthly, and as pure as fair,—Would entertain him as a welcome guest:And so we parted.Rebecca.Thou didst well to mindThe lesson I so often have repeated.It is our first of duties to give aidTo those who beg for succour at our hands;For we ourselves, whatever we possess,Are but the stewards of the bounteous LordWho giveth to his creatures all good gifts.But it is time that thou shouldst seek the hills,So take thy crook and pipe and hie away.[Exeunt.Scene III. The side of a mountain. Werner descending.Enter a shepherd boy, followed by his flock, singing.I.When the Morning starts up from her couch on the deep,Where through the dim night hours, she pillows her sleep,I start from my slumbers, and hie me awayWhere the white torrent dashes its feathery spray,—I quaff the fresh stream as it bursts from the hill,—I pluck the fresh flowers that spring by the rill,—I watch the gray clouds as they curl round the peakThat rises high over them, barren and bleak;And I think how the worldling who courts fortune's smile,In his heart, like that peak, may be lonely the while;And then my own heart sings aloud in its joy,That Heaven has made me a free shepherd boy!II.When the horn of the hunter resounds from on high,Where the tall giant ice-cliffs ire piled to the sky,Where, shunning the verdure of valleys and dells,The brave eagle builds, and the shy chamois dwells,—I list to its gay tones, as by me they float,And I echo them merrily back, note for note;With the wild bird a song full as gladsome I sing,I crown me with flowers, and sit a crowned king,—My flock are my subjects, my dog my vizier,And my sceptre—a mild one—the crook that I bear;No wants to perplex me, no cares to annoy,I live an unenvying, free shepherdboy!Werner (meets and addresses him).Thou'rt merry, lad.Albert.Ay, I have cause to be so.(Aside.)It is the wanderer of my last night's dream,The same pale brow, and darkly mournful eye,And weary gait, and melancholy voice,—If he seeks friendly guidance, food, or shelter,He shall not want them long.Werner.So thou hast causeFor merriment,—then thou perchance hast wealth,Broad, fruitful lands, and tenements, and allWhich wealth confers.Albert.Nay, I have none of these,And yet have more than all which thou hast named.I have a father, whose unsullied nameNo tongue has ever spoken with reproach,A mother, whose idea is with meA holy thing, and a dear sister, whoIs fair as pure, and pure as is the snowUpon the summit of the tallest peakOf these my native mountains. I have health,And strength, and food, and raiment, and employ,And should I not then have a joyous heart?Werner.Yea, verily thou shouldst.Albert.And there is yet,Among the blessings Heaven has given to me,One which I have not named to thee; it isAn humble home, whose hospitable doorWas never closed against the wayfarer,—If thou hast need of aught which it affords,Seek it, my mother and my sister willDelight to minister unto thy wants.There where the wide-armed willows cluster thickestUpon the green banks of yon crystal stream,Our cottage stands. The path to it is shortAnd easily traversed,—so, now, farewell.Werner.Stay yet a moment. That which thou hast proffered,Is what I sought. Thou hast a noble heart,One fit to fill the bosom of a king,—I fain would give thee guerdon,—here is gold.Albert.Keep it for those who covet it. If everThou meet'st with one, bowed down by suffering,Who calls on thee for pity and relief,Then if thou heed'st his prayer for my sake,I shall be well repaid. Again, farewell.{Exeunt.Scene IV. After a lapse of time. A rustic arbour near thecottage of Manuel. Enter Rose and Werner.Rose.Nay, let my silent blushes plead with theeThat thou wilt be as silent.Werner.Rather letMy ardent love, which will not be repressed,Plead with thee for acceptance of my suit;For I do love thee with such passionate love,That life itself, if weighed against that love,Were scarce a feather in the scale.Rose.Alas!I'm but a simple shepherd's simple child,Unused to courtly speeches, and they sayThat in the world thy name and rank are high,And that when such as thou do proffer loveAnd faith to lowly maidens, 'tis a jest,—And that when they have won our honest love,They cast it from them with unpitying hands,As idly as they would a withered flower.Werner.Nay, maiden, let me tell thee of the past,Let me lay bare my heart beneath thy gaze,And thou wilt pity if thou canst not love.I loved in youth with love as fond and deepAs ever made the heart of man its slave,But, ere my hopes could ripen to fruition,Death came and made my worshipped one his prize;And though my peace departed when she died,Yet I was proud, and would not bond to sorrow,But with calm brow and eye, and smiling lip,I mingled with the giddy thoughtless world,Seeking from out its varied realms to wringSome recompense for that which I had lost.Wealth, fame, and power, I sought for and obtained,Yet found them only gilded mockeries.The paths of hidden knowledge I essayed,And trod their mazy windings till they ledMy footsteps—whither I may not disclose,—But all availed me nothing, still my heartAched with the dreary void lost love had made,Ached ever till that void was filled by thee!Since first fate led me to your kindly door,Three times the moon with full-orbed light hath shone,Thrice thirty times, with song of merry birdsAnd breath of fragrance, Morn has blest the earthAnd all its dwellers with her radiant presence;Thrice thirty times, with star-bound brow, dim NightHath kept her tearful watch above the earth;And every time the full-orb'd moon hath shone,And every time the merry Morn hath smiled,And every time dim Night with star-bound browAbove the earth hath kept her tearful watch,My heart has added to its store of love,Its pure, deep, fervent, passionate love for thee!By all my hopes of heaven, my words are true.Dost thou not pity now?Rose.Ay, more! My heart,And its full treasury of maiden love,Never before surrendered to another,I pledge to thee, as thine, for evermore![Exeunt.An Aerial Chorus.Seek the dell and seek the bower,Pluck the bud and pluck the flower,Search for buds of sweetest breath,Search for flowers of brightest hue;Fit to weave the bridal wreath,Of a maid so fair and true.She has bowed the haughty heart,Won the stubborn will from guile,With no aid of other artThan the sweet spell of her smile!Seek the dell and seek the bower,Pluck the bud and pluck the flower,Search for buds of sweetest breath,Search for flowers of brightest hue;Fit to weave the bridal wreath,Of a maid so fair and true![Exeunt.
Note to the Misanthrope
"Then seek we, for the maiden's pillow, Far beyond the Atlantic's billow, Love's apple,—and when we have found it, Draw the magic circles round it."
Considering the Mandrake, many fabulous notions were entertained by the ancients; and they never attempted to extract it from the earth, without the previous performance of such ceremonies as they considered efficacious in preventing the numerous accidents, dangers, and diseases, to which they believed the person exposed who was daring enough to undertake its extraction. The usual manner of obtaining it was this:—When found, three times a circle was drawn around it with the point of a naked sword, and a dog was then attached to it and beaten, until by his struggles it was disengaged from the earth.
It was supposed to be useful in producing dreams, philters, charms &c.; and also to possess the faculties of exciting love, and increasing population.
The Emperor Adrian, in a letter to Calexines, writes that he is drinking the juice of the Mandrake to render him amorous: hence it was called Love-apple.
It grows in Italy, Spain, and the Levant.
A Beautiful Little Girl.Fair as some sea-child, in her coral bower,Decked with the rare, rich treasures of the deep;Mild as the spirit of the dream whose powerBears back the infant's soul to heaven, in sleepBrightens the hues of summer's first-born flowerPure as the tears repentant mourners weepO'er deeds to which the siren, Sin, beguiled,—Art thou, sweet, smiling, bright-eyed cherub child.Thy presence is a spell of holiness,From which unhallowed thoughts shrink blushing back,—Thy smile is a warm light that shines to bless,As beams the beacon o'er the wanderer's track,—Thy voice is music, at whose sounds DistressUnbinds her writhing victim from the rackOf misery, and charmed by what she hears,Forgets her woes, and smiles upon her tears.And when I look upon thee, bearing nowThe promise of such loveliness, I askIf time will blight, that promise; if thy brow,So sunny now, will learn to wear the maskOf hollow smiles, or cold deceit, whilst thouArt learning in thy soul the bitter taskTime teaches to all bosoms, when the glowOf hope is o'er—but this I may not know.My path will not be near to thine through life,—Kind ones will guard and fondly shelter thee;Me bitterness awaits, and care and strife,And all that sorrow has of agony;My future, as my past was, will be rifeWith heartaches, and the pangs that "pass not by;"Each hour shall give thee some new pleasure; years,Long years can bring me only toil 'and tears.'Tis meet that it should be so,—I have madeA wreck of my own happiness, and castAcross my heart, in youth, the dull, deep shadeThat wrinkled age flings over all at lastBut let it go,—I have too long delayedThe remedy, and what is past is past;—And could I live those vanished moments o'er,My heart would wander as it strayed before.I know not how it is,—my heart is stern,And little giv'n to thoughts of tenderness;Yet looking on thy young brow it will yearn,And in my bosom's innermost recess,Thoughts that have slumbered long awake and burnWith a wild strength which nothing can repress!Be still, worn heart, be still; does not the coldAnd heavy clay—clod mingle with her mould?Yes, 'tis that in thy soft check's tender bloom,Thy black eyes' brightness, in each graceful move,I trace the lineaments of one to whomMy soul was wedded in an early love,—'Twas in my boyhood; but the insatiate tombClaimed her fair form, and for the realms aboveHer spirit fled the earth; oh! how I weptThat mine should in its bondage still be kept.I mind the hour I stood beside the clayI had so loved in life—it still was fair,Surpassing fair, in death; and as she layWith the thick tresses of her long dark hairGathered above the brow whence feeling's rayHad fled, because death's shadow darkened there,Her more than earthly beauty made her seemThe incarnation of some pure bright dream.I stood and gazed: the pale grave sheet was woundAbout the form from which life's spark was fled,For ever fled,—wet eyes were weeping round,And voices full of sorrow mourned the dead;I could not weep; a sadness more profoundThan that from which those heart-drops, tears, are shed,Was in my soul,—for then the icy spellOf desolation freezing o'er me fell.And from that hour I have been alone,Alone when crowds were round me. May thy fateBe coloured with a brighter hue, and strownWith flowers where mine is thorns;—where mine is hate,And strife, and bitter discord, may thine ownBe love, and hope, and peace—for these createThe sunshine of existence; may their lightBeam ever round thee, warm, and glad, and bright.
It is in sooth a lovely tress,Still curled in many a ring,As glossy as the plumes that dressThe raven's jetty wing.And the broad and soul-illumined brow,Above whose arch it grew,Was like the stainless mountain snow,In its purity of hue.I mind the time 'twas given to me,The night, the hour, the spot;And the eye that pleaded silently,"Forget the giver not."Oh! myriads of stars, on high,Were smiling sweetly fair,But none was lovely as the eyeThat shone beside me there!Above our heads an ancient oakIts strong, wide arms held out,And from its roots a fountain broke,With a tiny laughing shout;And the fairy people of the wildWere bending to their rest,As trustingly as sleeps the childUpon its mother's breast.Soft, silvery cloudlets, pure and white,Along the sky were hung,As if the spirits of the nightTheir mantles there had flung;And then the night-breeze pensivelySighed from its unseen throne,And far o'er field, and flower, and tree,A hallowed light came down.But in our breasts was springing upA something lovelier far,Than field, or tree, or flow'ret's cup,Or sun, or moon, or star!We heeded not the fountain near,Its song of gladness singing,For in our hearts a fount more dear,And pure, and sweet, was springing.And she was one whom fortune's smileHad gladdened from her birth,Yet her high spirit knew no guile,No blot nor stain of earth;And I was but a friendless boy,And yet her heart was mine;I knew it, and the thought was joy,A joy all, all divine!From out a braided mass she tookThis single lock of jet,And gave it with that pleading lookWhich, said, "Do not forget."Forget! as soon the waves that rollThe ocean's caves above,May tell their secrets, as the soulForget its earliest love.It has been with me now for years,Long years of care and strife,And shall be with me till time wearsAway my web of life.And when death's keen, resistless dart,Shall bid its sorrows cease,This tress shall rest upon my heart,Its talisman of peace.
"'Twas little she thought that I stood breathless by her sidelistening to the song she sang as she sat by the sea's edge,pondering so deeply, upon me too perhaps, that the white foamglimmered on her brow unheeded."Onagh, The Pale Child of the Brehon King.She stood beside the wide wild sea,The winds howled hoarse and high,And dark clouds, drifting drearily,Swept o'er the starless sky.Her breast was white as mountain snow,Her locks hung loose and free,The foam that glimmered on her brow,Was scarce so pale as she.She sang a mournful song of love,Of trusting love betrayed;Ah, why did he who won her, proveSo faithless to the maid?"Why pines my heart so wearily,Why heaves my aching breast,And why is sleep so far from me,When others are at rest?"Thou, truant wanderer o'er the deep,The cause of all my cares;For thee at night I wake and weep,When none may mark my tears."I seek the festive hall no more,Its mirth no more I crave;My heart is lonely as the shore,And restless as the wave."My soul has struggled to forgetIts sleepless, fatal flame;I know thy vows were false, and yetMy love is still the same."Still o'er the dream I nursed too well,My bursting heart will yearn;For ever with me must it dwell,—Oh, wanderer, return!"A white sail fluttered in the wind,A light bark skimmed the sea,—It came like hope across the mind,As swift and silently.The shell-strewn beach that edged the main,A manly footstep pressed;The wanderer had returned again,—The maiden's heart was blessed!
"Come, sit thee by my side once more,'Tis long since thus we' met;And though our dream of love is o'er,Its sweetness lingers yet.Its transient day has long been past,Its flame has ceased to burn,—But Memory holds its spirit fast,Safe in her sacred urn."I will not chide thy wanderings,Nor ask why thou couldst fleeA heart whose deep affection's springsPoured forth such love for thee!We may not curb the restless mind,Nor teach the wayward heartTo love against its will, nor bindIt with the chains of art."I would but tell thee how, in tearsAnd bitterness, my soulHas yearned with dreams, through long, long, years,Which it could not control.And how the thought that clingeth to,And twineth round the past,For ever in my heart shall glow,And be save one my last."They say thou hast another's love,—Well, cherish it, but thouIts lack of strength and depth wilt prove,Should sorrow cloud thy brow.Though she may own a statelier form,A fairer cheek than mine,Her heart cannot so well and warm,Respond each throb of thine."Her words were gentle, but their toneWas sad as sorrow's sigh,—A tear-drop trembled in his ownAs he sought her downcast eye.A chord was struck within his breastThat long untouched had lain,Old memories started from their rest,—The maid was loved again.Stanzas.On! there are hours of sadness, when the soul,Torn from its every stay, and crushed beneathIts many griefs, and spurning faith's control,Pants with an earnest longing for the deathWhich would for ever close its dark career,With the pale shroud and the remorseless bier;When the harsh, sterile nothingness of life,First breaks upon the hope-deluded breast,And the heart sickens with the bootless strifeThat wrings its chords, and longs to be at rest;Ev'n if the blow that frees it from distress,Should strike it into utter nothingness.Ah, nothingness! The thought at times will come,The mind will wrestle with the mysteryThat clouds its being! from its clay-made home,Its dwelling of a moment, it will fleeInto the far depths of the vast UNKNOWN,In its vain searchings for th' eternal throneOf that Omnipotence which gave it birth,And, giving it a nature which might suitA seraph, bound its destiny to earth!And a few years, in which to eat the fruitOf life's strange tree, so bitter at its core,Then death, the quiet grave, sleep, and—what more?Whence came we? whither go we? All is stillAnd voiceless in the past! A veil is drawnAcross the future! by life's mystic rillWe sit and ponder, watching for the dawnOf some yet unconceived, far-reaching thought,By which our nature's secret shall be taught!Why sorrow is our element—why sinIs native in us—by what curse we bearAn ever aching, crushing void withinOur secret souls! and why the little shareOf happiness that mingles with our fate,Is of such fleeting, transitory date 1Our loves! our hopes! what are they? fruits which turnTo ashes on our lips! illusive lightsThat cast a moment's brightness while they burn,Then die, and leave a darkness which affrightsOur spirits with its thrice redoubled gloom,Making the sky a pall—the earth a tomb!And yet these are the all of life for which'Tis worth the wearing of its chain to know,Wealth, fame, and power are but toys! the rich,The high and mighty, with the base and low,Alike before the reaper Death must fall,—So be it! in the grave is rest for all.Stanzas.When the leaf is on the tree,And the bird is in the bower,And the butterfly and bee,Bear its treasures from the flower;When the fields put on the sheen,That to young-eyed Spring belongs;When the groves and forests green,Echo with a thousand songs;When wild Beauty wanders forth,Giving, with no stinted care,All her loveliness to earth,All her sweetness to the air:Then the heart, with gladness stirred,Mindful of its griefs no more,Mounts and carols, like a birdWhen the pearly shower is o'er!But the summer's sunny hours,As we count them, pass away;And its fairest fruits and flowers,Are but food for stern decay.Then with wailings, deep and loud,Like the sea's in its unrest,Winter spreads his icy shroud,O'er the bare earth's frozen breast.Thus the spirit's early gladness,Sorrow chills or time removes;And the soul, in tears and sadness,Mourns its perished joys and loves.Hope will lose its trusting boldness,One by one its beams depart,And Despair, with icy, coldness,Winds its mantle round the heart.
Press close your lips,And bow your heads to earth, for Death is here!Mark ye not how across that eye so clear,Steals his eclipse?A moment more,And the quick throbbings of her heart shall cease,Her pain-wrung spirit will obtain release,And all be o'er!Hush! Seal ye upYour gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shakenHer earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath takenGrief's bitter cup.Ye know the deadAre they who rest secure from care and strife,—That they who walk the thorny way of life,Have tears to shed.Ye know her pray'r,Was for the quiet of the tomb's deep rest,—Love's sepulchre lay cold within her breast,Could peace dwell there?A tale soon told,Is of her life the story; she had loved,And he who won her heart to love, had provedHeartless and cold.Lay her to rest,Where shines and falls the summer's sun and dew;For these should shine and fall where lies so trueAnd fond a breast!A full releaseFrom every pang is given to the dead,—So on the stone ye place above her head,Write only "Peace."*When Spring comes back,With music on her lips,—joy in her eye,—Her sunny banner streaming through the sky,—Flow'rs in her track—Then come ye here,And musing from the busy world apart,Drop on the turf that wraps her mouldering heart,Sweet Pity's tear.
* The most touchingly beautiful epitaph I have ever read, was written in that one word, "Peace." It seemed like the last sigh of a departing spirit, over the clay which it was about to abandon for ever.
"Whenever, amid bow'rs of myrtle,Love, summer-tressed and vernal-eyed,At morn or eve is seen to wander,A dark-haired girl is at his side."De La Hogue.One morn, just as day in the far east was breaking,Young Love, who all night had been roving about,A charming siesta was quietly taking,His strength, by his rambles, completely worn out.Round his brow a wreath, woven of every flowerThat springs from the hillside, or valley, was bound;In his hand was a rose he had stol'n from some bower,While his bow and his quiver lay near on the ground.Wild Fancy just came from her kingdom of dreams,The breath of the opening day to enjoy,And to catch the warm kiss of its first golden beamsOn her cheek, caught a glimpse of the slumbering boy!With a light, noiseless step she drew near to the sleeper,And gazed till her snowy-breast heaved a soft sigh;Then she bade sleep's dull god bring a sounder and deeperAnd heavier trance for Love's beautiful eye.Then back to her shadowy kingdom she flow,And called up the bright mystic forms she has there;And filling an urn from a fountain of dew,She bade them all straight to Love's couch-side repair.They came, and stood round, as her hand, o'er his pillow,From a chalice of pearl, poured its magical stream:While his red rosy lips, that now sighed like a billowAt play with the breeze, told how sweet was his dream.He dreamed that he sat on a shining throne, wroughtOf the purest of gold that the earth could supply,While a trio of beautiful maids, who each broughtA gift for his shrine, in succession past by.First Fame, with the step and the glance of a queen,Came up, and before him bent down her proud knee,And held up a garland, whereon played the sheenOf the beams which insure immortality!Next Wealth, the stern mistress of men, for whose smileThey toil like the galley slave,—brought in her handThe fair gems of many an ocean isle,And the diamonds of many a far off land.And Beauty came too, with her blue, laughing eye,Her fair flowing locks, and her soft rosy cheek,And red lips, whose sweet smile told silentlyThe tale which they seemed ashamed to speak.'Neath the shade of a palm branch a fourth one stood by,With locks like in hue to the tresses of Night,With a pale, pensive brow, and a dark dreamy eye,Where the soul of sweet softness lay gleaming in light!It was Fancy: Love gazed, and his eager eye shoneWith a lustre of feeling, deep, fervent, and sweet;And he thought it were better to give up his throneFor a place, on his knees, at the coy maiden's feet.And from that bright hour, through calm and through storm,Through the sunlight of summer, and winter's dark reign,These twain have been bound by ties, tender and warm,Which ne'er through all time shall be severed again.And ever where Love weaves his fond witchery,Will Fancy the aid of her brightness bestow,And give the loved object, whatever it be,A purer, a dearer, a heavenlier glow!
'Tis not in youth, when life is new, when but to live is sweet,When Pleasure strews her starlike flow'rs beneath our careless feet,When Hope, that has not been deferred, first waves its golden wings,And crowds the distant future with a thousand lovely things;—When if a transient grief o'ershades the spirit for a while,The momentary tear that falls is followed by a smile;Or if a pensive mood, at times, across the bosom steals,It scarcely sighs, so gentle is the pensiveness it feelsIt is not then the, restless soul will seek for one with whomTo share whatever lot it bears, its gladness or its gloom,—Some trusting, tried, and gentle heart, some true and faithful breast,Whereon its pinions it may fold, and claim a place of rest.But oh! when comes the icy chill that freezes o'er the heart,When, one by one, the joys we shared, the hopes we held, depart;When friends, like autumn's withered leaves, have fallen by our side,And life, so pleasant once, becomes a desert wild and wide;—As for her olive branch the dove swept o'er the sullen wave,That rolled above the olden world—its death-robe and its grave!—So will the spirit search the earth for some kind, gentle one,With it to share her destiny, and make it all her own!
Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church.At night, in visions, when my soul drew nearThe shadowy confines of the spirit land,Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear,Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand;And forms of light, too, more divinely fairThan Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn,On wings that made sweet music in the air,Have round me, in those hours of bliss, been borne,And, filled with joy unutterable, IHave deemed myself a born child of the sky.And often, too, at sunset's magic hour,When musing by some solitary stream,While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r,And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream:Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth,Have whispered words which I may not repeat,—But Thought or Fancy ne'er have given birthTo form and voice like thine,—so fair and sweet!Nor have I found them when my spirit's flightHad borne me to the far shores of delight.Above the murmurs of an hundred lips,They rose, those silvery tones of praise and pray'r,Soft as the light breeze, when Aurora tripsThe earth, and, lighting up the darkened air,Carols her greetings to the waking flow'rs!They fell upon my heart like summer rainUpon the thirsting fields,—and earlier hours,When I too breathed th' adoring pray'r and strain,Came back once more; the present was beguiledOf half its gloom, and my worn spirit smiled.Pray, lady, that the sad, soul-searing blight,Which comes upon us when we tread the waysOf sin, may not be suffered to alightOn thy pure spirit in its youthful days;Or like the fruitage of the Dead Sea shore,Tho' outward bloom and freshness thou may'st be,Stern bitterness and death will gnaw thy core,And thou wilt be a heart-scathed thing like me,Bearing the weight of many years, ere thouHast lost youth's rosy cheek and lineless brow.
IMPROMPTU,On The Reception Of A Letter.I would love to have thee near me,But when I think how drearIs each hope that used to cheer me,I cease to wish thee here.I know that thou, wouldst not shrink fromThe storms that burst on me,But the bitter chalice I drink from,I will not pass to thee.I would share the world with thee, were itWith all its pleasures mine,But the sorrows which I inherit,I never will make thine!
"Glenara, Glenara, now read me my dream."Campbell.Father, I have dreamed a dream,When the rosy morning hourPoured its light on field and stream,Kindling nature with its pow'r;—O'er the meadow's dewy breast,I had chased a butterfly,Tempted by its gaudy vest,Still my vain pursuit to ply,—Till my limbs were weary grown,With the distance I had strayed,Then to rest I laid me down,Where a beech tree cast its shade,Soon a heaviness came o'er me,And a deep sleep sealed my eyes;And a vision past before me,Full of changing phantasies.First I stood beside a bower,Green as summer bow'r could be;Vine and fruit, and leaf and flower,Mixed to weave its canopy.And within reclined a form,As embodied moonlight fair,With a soft cheek, fresh and warm,Deep blue eye and sunny hair.By her side a goblet stood,Such as bacchanalians brim;High the rich grape's crimson blood,Sparkled o'er its gilded rim.As I gazed, she bowed her head,With a gay and graceful move,And in words of music said,"Drink, and learn the lore of love!"Next I stood beside a mountain,Of majestic form and height;Cliff and crag, and glen and fountain,Mingled to make up its might.On its lofty brow were growingFlowers never chilled by gloom,For the sky above them glowing,Dyed them with a deathless bloom.And I saw the crystal dome,Wondrous in its majesty,Where earth's great ones find a home,When their spirits are set free.By its portals, I espiedOne who kept the courts within;High he waved a wreath and cried,"Come up hither,—strive and win!"Then my vision changed again:In a fairy-coloured shell,O'er the wide sea's pathless plain,I was speeding, fast and well.Suddenly, beneath its prow,Parted were the azure waves,And I saw where, far below,Yawn the vast deep's secret caves.Where the Syren sings her song,To old Ocean's sons and daughters;And the mermaids dance along,To the music of the waters.Where the coral forest o'er,Storm or tempest ne'er is drivenAnd the gems that strew its floor,Sparkle like the stars in heaven.Treasures, such as never eyeOf the earth has looked upon,Gold and pearls of many a dye,There in rich profusion shone.And a voice came to my ear,Saying, in a stern, cold tone,Such as chills the heart with fear,"Seize and make the prize thine own."Then across a clouded wild,Lone and drear and desolate,Where no cheerful cottage smiled,I pursued the steps of fate.Ever bearing in my breast,Thoughts almost to madness wrought;Ever, ever seeking rest,Never finding what I Sought—Till I gave my wanderings o'er,By a black and icy stream,—Deep I plunged and knew no more:—Father, read me now my dream.The old man bowed his head,And pressed his thin hand to his withered brow,As if he struggled with some rising thoughtWhich should have kept its place in memory's urnTill he had cast the shadow from his soul,Which for a while had bound it in a spellBorn of the bygone years,—then thus he spoke:Now listen, boy, and I will show to theeThe import of thy vision,—I will tellThee what its scenes and shapes of mysteryForeshadow of the future,—for full wellI know the wizard lore, whose witcheryBinds e'en the time to come in its wild spell!And from approaching years a knowledge wringsOf what they bear upon their viewless wings.Along life's weary way of pain and care,From earliest infancy to eldest age,Forms, viewless as the soft-breathed summer air,Attend man's footsteps in his pilgrimage;And if his destiny be dark or fair,If Pleasure gilds, or Sorrow blots the pageWhereon is traced his history, still his earWill ever catch their warning voices near.And they—those guardian ones, who, while thy sleepHung o'er thee like a curtain, came aroundAnd fanned thee till thy slumber grew more deep,—Flung o'er thy rest, so perfect and profound,A dream whose mem'ry thou shouldst ever keepBound to thy spirit, for altho' it wound,Thy young heart now, perchance, in after years,'Twill save thee much of toil, and many tears.It was a dream of life: of boyhood's strongAnd soul-consuming yearnings after love!His eager search to find, amid the throng,Some heart to give him thought for thought—to moveAnd mingle with his own, as twines the songFrom Beauty's lyre and lips! to know and proveThe dearest joy to care-cursed mortals given,The one with least of earth, and most of heavenOf manhood's ceaseless strivings after fame,—The veriest phantom of all phantasies—For which he wields the sword, or lights the flameWhose red glare mocks a nation's agonies,—Or by his star-outwatching taper, pliesHis pen or pencil, to gain—what? a name,A passing sound—an echo—a mere breath,Which he, vain fool, dreams mightier than death!And of a later period, when the soulForsakes its high resolves and wild desires,When stern Ambition can no more control,And Love has shrouded o'er its smothered fires;When Expectation ceases to console,And Hope, the last kind comforter, expires;And Avarice, monster of the gilded vest,Creeps in and occupies the vacant breast.And then the last sad scene: The sick heart, soreAnd fainting from its wounds—the palsied limb—The brow whose death-sweat peeps from every pore—The eye with its long, weary watch grown dim—The withered, wan cheek, that shall bloom no more—The last dregs dripping slowly from the brimOf life's drained cup,—behind all gloom, beforeA deep, dark gulf—we plunge, and all is o'er!