The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: Alexander SmithRelease date: March 10, 2013 [eBook #42301]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by Judith Wirawan, David Clarke, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: PoemsAuthor: Alexander SmithRelease date: March 10, 2013 [eBook #42301]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: E-text prepared by Judith Wirawan, David Clarke, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

Title: Poems

Author: Alexander Smith

Release date: March 10, 2013 [eBook #42301]Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: E-text prepared by Judith Wirawan, David Clarke, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems, by Alexander Smith

E-text prepared by Judith Wirawan, David Clarke,and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net)

LONDON:DAVID BOGUE, FLEET STREET.

MDCCCLIV.

LONDON:Printed byG. Barclay, Castle St. Leicester Sq.

PageA LIFE-DRAMA9AN EVENING AT HOME213LADY BARBARA229TO ——236SONNETS239

Walter,Reading from a paper on which he has been writing.

As a wild maiden, with love-drinking eyes,Sees in sweet dreams a beaming Youth of Glory,And wakes to weep, and ever after, sighsFor that bright vision till her hair is hoary;Ev'n so, alas! is my life's-passion story.For Poesy my heart and pulses beat,For Poesy my blood runs red and fleet,As Aaron's serpent the Egyptians' swallow'd,One passion eats the rest. My soul is follow'dBy strong ambition to out-roll a lay,Whose melody will haunt the world for aye,Charming it onward on its golden way.[Tears the paper and paces the room with disordered steps.Oh, that my heart were quiet as a graveAsleep in moonlight!For, as a torrid sunset boils with goldUp to the zenith, fierce within my soulA passion burns from basement to the cope.Poesy! Poesy! I'd give to thee,As passionately, my rich-laden years,My bubble pleasures, and my awful joys,As Hero gave her trembling sighs to findDelicious death on wet Leander's lip.Bare, bald, and tawdry, as a fingered moth,Is my poor life, but with one smile thou canstClothe me with kingdoms. Wilt thou smile on me?Wilt bid me die for thee? O fair and cold!As well may some wild maiden waste her loveUpon the calm front of a marble Jove.I cannot draw regard of thy great eyes.I love thee, Poesy! Thou art a rock,I, a weak wave, would break on thee and die.There is a deadlier pang than that which beadsWith chilly death-drops the o'er-tortured brow,When one has a big heart and feeble hands,—A heart to hew his name out upon timeAs on a rock, then in immortalnessTo stand on time as on a pedestal;When hearts beat to this tune, and hands are weak,We find our aspirations quenched in tears,The tears of impotence, and self-contemptThat loathsome weed, up-springing in the heart,Like nightshade 'mong the ruins of a shrine;I am so cursed, and wear within my soulA pang as fierce as Dives' drowsed with wine,Lipping his leman in luxurious dreams;Waked by a fiend in hell!——'T is not for me, ye Heavens! 't is not for meTo fling a Poem, like a comet, out,Far-splendouring the sleepy realms of night.I cannot give men glimpses so divine,As when, upon a racking night, the windDraws the pale curtains of the vapoury clouds,And shows those wonderful, mysterious voids,Throbbing with stars like pulses.—Naught for meBut to creep quietly into my grave;Or calm and tame the swelling of my heartWith this foul lie, painted as sweet as truth.That "great and small, weakness and strength, are naught,That each thing being equal in its sphere,The May-night glow-worm with its emerald lamp,Is worthy as the mighty moon that drownsContinents in her white and silent light."This—this were easy to believe, were IThe planet that doth nightly wash the earth'sFair sides with moonlight; not the shining worm.But as I am—beaten, and foiled, and shamed,The arrow of my soul which I have shotTo bring down Fame, dissolved like shaft of mist—This painted falsehood, this most damned lie,Freezes me like a fiendish human face,With all its features gathered in a sneer.Oh, let me rend this breathing tent of flesh;Uncoop the soul—fool, fool, 't were still the same,'T is the deep soul that's touch'd,itbears the wound;And memory doth stick in 't like a knife,Keeping it wide for ever.[A long pause.I am fainTo feed upon the beauty of the moon![Opens the casement.Sorrowful moon! seeming so drowned in woe,A queen, whom some grand battle-day has leftUnkingdomed and a widow, while the stars,Thy handmaidens, are standing back in awe,Gazing in silence on thy mighty grief!All men have loved thee for thy beauty, moon!Adam has turned from Eve's fair face to thine,And drunk thy beauty with his serene eyes.Anthony once, when seated with his queen,Worth all the East, a moment gazed at thee:She struck him on the cheek with jealous hand,And chiding said,—"Now, by my Egypt's gods,That pale and squeamish beauty of the nightHas had thine eyes too long; thine eyes are mine!Alack! there's sorrow in my Anthony's face!Dost think of Rome? I'll make thee, with a kiss,Richer than Cæsar! Come, I'll crown thy lips."[Another pause.How tenderly the moon doth fill the night!Not like the passion that doth fill my soul;It burns within me like an Indian sun.A star is trembling on the horizon's verge,That star shall grow and broaden on the night,Until it hangs divine and beautifulIn the proud zenith—Might I so broaden on the skies of fame!O Fame! Fame! Fame! next grandest word to God!I seek the look of Fame! Poor fool—so triesSome lonely wanderer 'mong the desert sandsBy shouts to gain the notice of the Sphynx,Staring right on with calm eternal eyes.

A Forest.Waltersleeping beneath a tree.

EnterLadywith a fawn.

LADY.

Halt! Flora, halt! This raceHas danced my ringlets all about my brows,And brought my cheeks to bloom. Here will I restAnd weave a garland for thy dappled neck.[Weaves flowers.I look, sweet Flora, in thine innocent eyes,And see in them a meaning and a gleeFitting this universal summer joy:Each leaf upon the trees doth shake with joy,With joy the white clouds navigate the blue,And, on his painted wings, the butterfly,Most splendid masker in this carnival,Floats through the air in joy! Better for man,Were he and Nature more familiar friends!His part is worst that touches this base world.Although the ocean's inmost heart be pure,Yet the salt fringe that daily licks the shoreIs gross with sand. On, my sweet Flora, on![Rises and approachesWalter.Ha! what is this? A bright and wander'd youth,Thick in the light of his own beauty, sleepsLike young Apollo, in his golden curls!At the oak-roots I've seen full many a flower,But never one so fair. A lovely youth,With dainty cheeks and ringlets like a girl,And slumber-parted lips 'twere sweet to kiss!Ye envious lids! I fain would see his eyes!Jewels so richly cased as those of hisMust be a sight. So, here's a well-worn book,From which he drinks such joy as doth a paleAnd dim-eyed worker who escapes, in Spring,The thousand-streeted and smoke-smothered town,And treads awhile the breezy hills of health.[Ladyopens the book, a slip of paper falls out; she reads.The fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,The churlish thistles, scented briers,The wind-swept blue-bells on the sunny braes,Down to the central fires,Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea,Filling all the abysses dimOf lornest space, in whose deeps regallySuns and their bright broods swim.This mighty sea of Love with wondrous tides,Is sternly just to sun and grain;'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides,—'Tis in my blood and brain.All things have something more than barren use;There is a scent upon the brier,A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,Cold morns are fringed with fire;The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breathed flowers;In music dies poor human speech,And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,When Love is born in each.Life is transfigured in the soft and tenderLight of Love, as a volume dunOf rolling smoke becomes a wreathèd splendourIn the declining sun.Driven from cities by his restless moods,In incense-glooms and secret nooks,A miser o'er his gold—the lover broodsO'er vague words, earnest looks.Oft is he startled on the sweetest lip;Across his midnight sea of mindA Thought comes streaming, like a blazing shipUpon a mighty wind,A Terror and a Glory! Shocked with light,His boundless being glares aghast;Then slowly settles down the wonted night,All desolate and vast.Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,Sweet tears, the clouds lean down and give.This world is very lovely. O my God,I thank Thee that I live!Ringed with his flaming guards of many kinds,The proud Sun stoops his golden head,Grey Eve sobs crazed with grief; to her the windsShriek out, "The Day is dead."I gave this beggar Day no alms, this NightHas seen nor work accomplished, planned,Yet this poor Day shall soon in memory's lightA summer rainbow stand!There is no evil in this present strife;From th' shivering Seal's low moans,Up through the shining tiers and ranks of life,To stars upon their thrones,The seeming ills are Loves in dim disguise;Dark moral knots, that pose the seer,Ifweare lovers, in our wider eyesShall hang, like dew-drops, clear.Ye are my menials, ye thick-crowding years!Ha! yet with a triumphant shoutMy spirit shall take captive all the spheres,And wring their riches out.God! what a glorious future gleams on me;With nobler senses, nobler peers,I'll wing me through Creation like a bee,And taste the gleaming spheres!While some are trembling o'er the poison-cup,While some grow lean with care, some weep,In this luxurious faith I'll wrap me up,As in a robe, and sleep.Oh, 'tis a sleeping Poet! and his verseSings like the syren-isles. An opulent SoulDropt in my path like a great cup of gold,All rich and rough with stories of the gods!Methinks all poets should be gentle, fair,And ever young, and ever beautiful:I'd have all Poets to be like to this,—Gold-haired and rosy-lipped, to sing of Love.Love! Love! Old song that Poet ever chanteth,Of which the listening world is never weary.Soul is a moon, Love is its loveliest phase.Alas! to me this Love will never comeTill summer days shall visit dark December.Woe's me! 'tis very sad, but 'tis my doomTo hide a ghastly grief within my heart,And then to coin my lying cheek to smiles,Sure, smiles become a victim garlanded!Hist! he awakes——

The fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,The churlish thistles, scented briers,The wind-swept blue-bells on the sunny braes,Down to the central fires,

Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea,Filling all the abysses dimOf lornest space, in whose deeps regallySuns and their bright broods swim.

This mighty sea of Love with wondrous tides,Is sternly just to sun and grain;'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides,—'Tis in my blood and brain.

All things have something more than barren use;There is a scent upon the brier,A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,Cold morns are fringed with fire;

The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breathed flowers;In music dies poor human speech,And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,When Love is born in each.

Life is transfigured in the soft and tenderLight of Love, as a volume dunOf rolling smoke becomes a wreathèd splendourIn the declining sun.

Driven from cities by his restless moods,In incense-glooms and secret nooks,A miser o'er his gold—the lover broodsO'er vague words, earnest looks.

Oft is he startled on the sweetest lip;Across his midnight sea of mindA Thought comes streaming, like a blazing shipUpon a mighty wind,

A Terror and a Glory! Shocked with light,His boundless being glares aghast;Then slowly settles down the wonted night,All desolate and vast.

Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,Sweet tears, the clouds lean down and give.This world is very lovely. O my God,I thank Thee that I live!

Ringed with his flaming guards of many kinds,The proud Sun stoops his golden head,Grey Eve sobs crazed with grief; to her the windsShriek out, "The Day is dead."

I gave this beggar Day no alms, this NightHas seen nor work accomplished, planned,Yet this poor Day shall soon in memory's lightA summer rainbow stand!

There is no evil in this present strife;From th' shivering Seal's low moans,Up through the shining tiers and ranks of life,To stars upon their thrones,

The seeming ills are Loves in dim disguise;Dark moral knots, that pose the seer,Ifweare lovers, in our wider eyesShall hang, like dew-drops, clear.

Ye are my menials, ye thick-crowding years!Ha! yet with a triumphant shoutMy spirit shall take captive all the spheres,And wring their riches out.

God! what a glorious future gleams on me;With nobler senses, nobler peers,I'll wing me through Creation like a bee,And taste the gleaming spheres!

While some are trembling o'er the poison-cup,While some grow lean with care, some weep,In this luxurious faith I'll wrap me up,As in a robe, and sleep.

Oh, 'tis a sleeping Poet! and his verseSings like the syren-isles. An opulent SoulDropt in my path like a great cup of gold,All rich and rough with stories of the gods!Methinks all poets should be gentle, fair,And ever young, and ever beautiful:I'd have all Poets to be like to this,—Gold-haired and rosy-lipped, to sing of Love.Love! Love! Old song that Poet ever chanteth,Of which the listening world is never weary.Soul is a moon, Love is its loveliest phase.Alas! to me this Love will never comeTill summer days shall visit dark December.Woe's me! 'tis very sad, but 'tis my doomTo hide a ghastly grief within my heart,And then to coin my lying cheek to smiles,Sure, smiles become a victim garlanded!Hist! he awakes——

WALTER (awakening).

Fair lady, in my dreamMethought I was a weak and lonely bird,In search of summer, wander'd on the sea,Toiling through mists, drenched by the arrowy rain,Struck by the heartless winds: at last, methoughtI came upon an isle in whose sweet airI dried my feathers, smoothed my ruffled breast,And skimmed delight from off the waving woods.Thy coming, lady, reads this dream of mine:I am the swallow, thou the summer land.

LADY.

Sweet, sweet is flattery to mortal ears,And, if I drink thy praise too greedily,My fault I'll match with grosser instances.Do not the royal souls that van the worldHunger for praises? Does not the hero burnTo blow his triumphs in the trumpet's mouth?And do not poets' brows throb feverousTill they are cooled with laurels? Therefore, sir,If such dote more on praise than all the wealthOf precious-wombèd earth and pearlèd mains,Blame not the cheeks of simple maidenhood.Fair sir, I am the empress of this wood!The courtier oaks bow in proud homages,And shake down o'er my path their golden leaves.Queen am I of this green and summer realm.This wood I've entered oft when all in sheenThe princely Morning walks o'er diamond dews,And still have lingered, till the vain young NightTrembles o'er her own beauty in the sea.

WALTER.

And as thou passest some mid-forest glade,The simple woodman stands amazed, as ifAn angel flashed by on his gorgeous wings.

LADY.

I am thine empress. Who and what art thou?Art thou Sir Bookworm? Haunter of old tomes,Sitting the silent term of stars to watchYour own thought passing into beauty, likeAn earnest mother watching the first smileDawning upon her sleeping infant's face,Until she cannot see it for her tears?And when the lark, the laureate of the sun,Doth climb the east, eager to celebrateHis monarch's crowning, goeth pale to bed,—Art thou such denizen of book-world, pray?

WALTER.

Books written when the soul is at spring-tide,When it is laden like a groaning skyBefore a thunder-storm, are power and gladness,And majesty and beauty. They seize the readerAs tempests seize a ship, and bear him onWith a wild joy. Some books are drenchèd sands,On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,Like a wrecked argosy. What power in books!They mingle gloom and splendour, as I've oft,In thund'rous sunsets, seen the thunder-pilesSeamed with dull fire and fiercest glory-rents.They awe me to my knees, as if I stoodIn presence of a king. They give me tears;Such glorious tears as Eve's fair daughters shed,When first they clasped a Son of God, all brightWith burning plumes and splendours of the sky,In zoning heaven of their milky arms.How few read books aright! Most souls are shutBy sense from grandeur, as a man who snores,Night-capped and wrapt in blankets to the nose,Is shut in from the night, which, like a sea,Breaketh for ever on a strand of stars.Lady, in book-world have I ever dwelt,This book has domed my being like a sky.

LADY.

And who was its creator?

WALTER.

He was oneWho could not help it, for it was his natureTo blossom into song, as 'tis a tree'sTo leaf itself in April.

LADY.

Did he love?

WALTER.

Ay; and he suffered.—His was not that loveThat comes on men with their beards. His soul was rich;And this his book unveils it, as the nightHer panting wealth of stars. The world was cold,And he went down like a lone ship at sea;And now the fame that scorned him while he livedWaits on him like a menial.——When the dark dumb EarthLay on her back and watched the shining stars,A Soul from its warm body shuddered outTo the dim air and trembled with the cold;Through the waste air it passed as swift and still,As a dream passes through the lands of sleep,Till at the very gates of spirit-world'Twas asked by a most worn and earnest shapeThat seemed to tremble on the coming word,About an orphan Poem, and if yetA Name was heard on earth.

LADY.

'Tis very sad,And doth remind me of an old, low strain,I used to sing in lap of summers dead,When I was but a child, and when we playedLike April sunbeams 'mong the meadow-flowers;Or romped i' the dews with weak complaining lambs;Or sat in circles on the primrose knolls,Striving with eager and palm-shaded eyes,'Mid shouts and silver laughs, who first should catchThe lark, a singing speck, go up the blue.I'll sing it to thee; 'tis a song of One—(An image slept within his soul's caress,Like a sweet thought within a Poet's heartEre it is born in joy and golden words)—Of One whose naked soul stood clad in love,Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire.I'll sing it to thee.[Ladysings.In winter when the dismal rainCame down in slanting lines,And Wind, that grand old harper, smoteHis thunder-harp of pines,A Poet sat in his antique room,His lamp the valley kinged,'Neath dry crusts of dead tongues he foundTruth, fresh and golden-winged.When violets came and woods were green,And larks did skyward dart,A Love alit and white did sit,Like an angel on his heart.From his heart he unclasped his loveAmid the trembling trees,And sent it to the Lady BlancheOn wingèd poesies.The Lady Blanche was saintly fair,Nor proud, but meek her look;In her hazel eyes her thoughts lay clearAs pebbles in a brook.Her father's veins ran noble blood,His hall rose 'mid the trees;Like a sunbeam she came and went'Mong the white cottages.The peasants thanked her with their tears,When food and clothes were given,—"This is a joy," the Lady said,"Saints cannot taste in Heaven!"They met—the Poet told his love,His hopes, despairs, his pains,—The Lady with her calm eyes mockedThe tumult in his veins.He passed away—a fierce song leaptFrom cloud of his despair,As lightning, like a bright, wild beast,Leaps from its thunder-lair.He poured his frenzy forth in song,—Bright heir of tears and praises!Now resteth that unquiet heartBeneath the quiet daisies.The world is old,—Oh! very old,—The wild winds weep and rave;The world is old, and grey, and cold,Let it drop into its grave!Our ears, Sir Bookworm, hunger forthysong.

In winter when the dismal rainCame down in slanting lines,And Wind, that grand old harper, smoteHis thunder-harp of pines,

A Poet sat in his antique room,His lamp the valley kinged,'Neath dry crusts of dead tongues he foundTruth, fresh and golden-winged.

When violets came and woods were green,And larks did skyward dart,A Love alit and white did sit,Like an angel on his heart.

From his heart he unclasped his loveAmid the trembling trees,And sent it to the Lady BlancheOn wingèd poesies.

The Lady Blanche was saintly fair,Nor proud, but meek her look;In her hazel eyes her thoughts lay clearAs pebbles in a brook.

Her father's veins ran noble blood,His hall rose 'mid the trees;Like a sunbeam she came and went'Mong the white cottages.

The peasants thanked her with their tears,When food and clothes were given,—"This is a joy," the Lady said,"Saints cannot taste in Heaven!"

They met—the Poet told his love,His hopes, despairs, his pains,—The Lady with her calm eyes mockedThe tumult in his veins.

He passed away—a fierce song leaptFrom cloud of his despair,As lightning, like a bright, wild beast,Leaps from its thunder-lair.

He poured his frenzy forth in song,—Bright heir of tears and praises!Now resteth that unquiet heartBeneath the quiet daisies.

The world is old,—Oh! very old,—The wild winds weep and rave;The world is old, and grey, and cold,Let it drop into its grave!

Our ears, Sir Bookworm, hunger forthysong.

WALTER.

I have a strain of a departed bard;One who was born too late into this world.A mighty day was past, and he saw noughtBut ebbing sunset and the rising stars,—Still o'er him rose those melancholy stars!Unknown his childhood, save that he was born'Mong woodland waters full of silver breaks;That he grew up 'mong primroses moon-paleIn the hearts of purple hills; that he o'er ranGreen meadows golden in the level sun,A bright-haired child; and that, when these he leftTo dwell within a monstrous city's heart,The trees were gazing up into the sky,Their bare arms stretched in prayer for the snows.When first we met, his book was six months old,And eagerly his name was buzzed abroad;Praises fell thick on him. Men said, "This DawnWill widen to a clear and boundless Day;And when it ripens to a sumptuous westWith a great sunset 'twill be closed and crowned."Lady! he was as far 'bove common menAs a sun-steed, wild-eyed and meteor-maned,Neighing the reeling stars, is 'bove a hackWith sluggish veins of mud. More tremulousThan the soft star that in the azure eastTrembles with pity o'er bright bleeding day,Was his frail soul; I dwelt with him for years;I was to him but Labrador to Ind;His pearls were plentier than my pebble-stones.He was the sun, I was that squab—the earth,And basked me in his light until he drewFlowers from my barren sides. Oh! he was rich,And I rejoiced upon his shore of pearls,A weak enamoured sea. Once did he say,"My Friend! a Poet must ere long arise,And with a regal song sun-crown this age,As a saint's head is with a halo crown'd;—One, who shall hallow Poetry to GodAnd to its own high use, for Poetry isThe grandest chariot wherein king-thoughts ride;—One, who shall fervent grasp the sword of songAs a stern swordsman grasps his keenest blade,To find the quickest passage to the heart.A mighty Poet whom this age shall chooseTo be its spokesman to all coming times.In the ripe full-blown season of his soul,He shall go forward in his spirit's strength,And grapple with the questions of all time,And wring from them their meanings. As King SaulCalled up the buried prophet from his graveTo speak his doom, so shall this Poet-kingCall up the dead Past from its awful graveTo tell him of our future. As the airDoth sphere the world, so shall his heart of love—Loving mankind, not peoples. As the lakeReflects the flower, tree, rook, and bending heaven,Shall he reflect our great humanity;And as the young Spring breathes with living breathOn a dead branch, till it sprouts fragrantlyGreen leaves and sunny flowers, shall he breathe lifeThrough every theme he touch, making all BeautyAnd Poetry for ever like the stars."His words set me on fire; I cried aloud,"Gods! what a portion to forerun this Soul!"He grasped my hand,—I looked upon his face,—A thought struck all the blood into his cheeks,Like a strong buffet. His great flashing eyesBurned on mine own. He said, "A grim old king,Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayedTo joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds,Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day;But in the sunset he was ebbing fast,Ringed by his weeping lords. His left hand heldHis white steed, to the belly splashed with blood,That seemed to mourn him with its drooping head;His right, his broken brand; and in his earHis old victorious banners flap the winds.He called his faithful herald to his side,—'Go! tell the dead I come!' With a proud smile,The warrior with a stab let out his soul,Which fled and shrieked through all the other world,'Ye dead! My master comes!' And there was pauseTill the great shade should enter. Like that herald,Walter, I'd rush across this waiting worldAnd cry, 'Hecomes!'" Lady, wilt hear the song?[Sings.In the street, the tide of being, how it surges, how it rolls!God! what base ignoble faces, God! what bodies wanting souls,'Mid this stream of human being, banked by houses tall and grim,Pale I stand this shining morrow with a pant for woodlands dim,To hear the soft and whispering rain, feel the dewy cool of leaves,Watch the lightnings dart like swallows round the brooding thunder-eaves,To lose the sense of whirling streets, 'mong breezy crests of hills,Skies of larks, and hazy landscapes, with fine threads of silver rills,—Stand with forehead bathed in sunset on a mountain's summer crown,And look up and watch the shadow of the great night coming down,One great life in my myriad veins, in leaves, in flowers, in cloudy cars,Blowing, underfoot, in clover; beating, overhead, in stars!Once I saw a blissful harvest-moon, but not through forest-leaves;'Twas not whitening o'er a country, costly with the pilèd sheaves;Rose not o'er the am'rous ocean, trembling round his happy isles;It came circling large and queenly o'er yon roof of smoky tiles,And I saw it with such feeling, joy in blood, in heart, in brain,I would give to call the affluence of that moment back again,Europe, with her cities, rivers, hills of prey, sheep-sprinkled downs,—Ay, a hundred sheaves of sceptres! Ay, a planet's gathered crowns!For with that resplendent harvest-moon, my inmost thoughts were sharedBy a bright and shining maiden, hazel-eyed and golden-haired;One blest hour we sat together in a lone and silent place,O'er us, starry tears were trembling on the mighty midnight's face.Gradual crept my arm around her, 'gainst my shoulder came her head,And I could but draw her closer, whilst I tremulously said,—"Passion as it runs grows purer, loses every tinge of clay,As from Dawn all red and turbid flows the white transparent Day,And in mingled lives of lovers, the array of human illsBreaks their gentle course to music, as the stones break summer rills.""You should give the world," she murmured, "such delicious thoughts as these.""They are fit to line portmanteaus;" "Nay," she whispered, "Memories."And thereat she looked upon me with a smile so full of grace,All my blood was in a moment glowing in my ardent face!Half-blind, I looked up to the host of palpitating stars,'Gainst my sides my heart was leaping, like a lion 'gainst his bars,For a thought was born within me, and I said within my mind,"I will risk all in this moment, I will either lose or find.""Dost thou love me?" then I whispered; for a minute after this,I sat and trembled in great blackness—On my lips I felt a kiss;—Than a roseleaf's touch 'twas lighter,—on her face her hands she prest,And a heaven of tears and blushes was deep buried in my breast.I could makeherfaith,mypassion, a wide mark for scorn and sneers,I could laugh a hollow laughter but for these hot bursting tears;In the strong hand of my frenzy, laws and statutes snapt like reeds,And furious as a wounded bull I tore at all the creeds;I rushed into the desert, where I stood with hopeless eyes,Glaring on vast desolations, barren sands, and empty skies!Soon a trembling naked figure, to the earth my face was bowed,For the curse of God gloomed o'er me like a bursting thunder-cloud.Rolled away that fearful darkness, pass'd my weakness, pass'd my grief,Washed with bitter tears I sat full in the sunshine of belief.Weary eyes are looking eastward, whence the golden sun upsprings,Cry the young and fervid spirits, clad with ardour as with wings,"Life and Soul make wretched jangling, they should mingle to one SireAs the lovely voices mingle in a holy temple choir.O! those souls of ours, my brothers! prisoned now in mortal bars,Have been riched by growth and travel, by the round of all the stars.Soul, alas! is unregarded; Brothers! it is closely shut:All unknown as royal Alfred in the Saxon neatherd's hut,In the Dark house of the Body, cooking victuals, lighting fires,Swelters on the starry stranger, to our nature's base desires.From its lips is 't any marvel that no revelations come?We have wronged it; we do wrong it—'tis majestically dumb!God! our souls are aproned waiters! God! our souls are hired slaves:Let us hide from Life, my Brothers! let us hide us in our graves.O! why stain our holy childhoods? Why sell all for drinks and meats?Why degrade, like those old mansions, standing in our pauper streets,Lodgingsonceof kings and nobles, silken stirs and trumpet's din,Now, where crouch 'mong rags and fever, shapes of squalor and of sin?"Like a mist this wail surrounds me; Brothers, hush; the Lord Christ's handsEv'n now are stretched in blessing o'er the sea and o'er the lands.Sit not like a mourner, Brother! by the grave of that dear Past,Throw the Present! 'tis thy servant only when 'tis overcast,—Give battle to the leaguèd world, if thou'rt worthy, truly brave,Thou shalt make the hardest circumstance a helper or a slave,As when thunder wraps the setting sun, he struggles, glows with ire,Rifts the gloom with golden furrows, with a hundred bursts of fire,Melts the black and thund'rous masses to a sphere of rosy light,Then on edge of glowing heaven smiles in triumph on the night.Lo! the song of Earth—a maniac's on a black and dreary road—Rises up, and swells, and grandeurs, to the loud triumphal ode—Earth casts off a slough of darkness, an eclipse of hell and sin,In each cycle of her being, as an adder casts her skin;Lo! I see long blissful ages, when these mammon days are done,Stretching like a golden ev'ning forward to the setting sun.He sat one winter 'neath a linden treeIn my bare orchard: "See, my friend," he said,"The stars among the branches hang like fruit,So, hopes were thick within me. When I'm goneThe world will like a valuator sitUpon my soul, and say, 'I was a cloudThat caught its glory from a sunken sun,And gradual burn'd into its native grey.'"On an October eve, 'twas his last wishTo see again the mists and golden woods;Upon his death-bed he was lifted up,The slumb'rous sun within the lazy westWith their last gladness filled his dying eyes.No sooner was he hence than critic-wormsWere swarming on the body of his fame,And thus they judged the dead: "This Poet wasAn April tree whose vermeil-loaded boughsPromised to Autumn apples juiced and red,But never came to fruit." "He is to usBut a rich odour,—a faint music-swell.""Poet he was not in the larger sense;He could write pearls, but he could never writeA Poem round and perfect as a star.""Politic i' faith. His most judicious actWas dying when he did; the next five yearsHad fingered all the fine dust from his wings,And left him poor as we. He died—'twas shrewd!And came with all his youth and unblown hopesOn the world's heart, and touched it into tears."

In the street, the tide of being, how it surges, how it rolls!God! what base ignoble faces, God! what bodies wanting souls,'Mid this stream of human being, banked by houses tall and grim,Pale I stand this shining morrow with a pant for woodlands dim,To hear the soft and whispering rain, feel the dewy cool of leaves,Watch the lightnings dart like swallows round the brooding thunder-eaves,To lose the sense of whirling streets, 'mong breezy crests of hills,Skies of larks, and hazy landscapes, with fine threads of silver rills,—Stand with forehead bathed in sunset on a mountain's summer crown,And look up and watch the shadow of the great night coming down,One great life in my myriad veins, in leaves, in flowers, in cloudy cars,Blowing, underfoot, in clover; beating, overhead, in stars!Once I saw a blissful harvest-moon, but not through forest-leaves;'Twas not whitening o'er a country, costly with the pilèd sheaves;Rose not o'er the am'rous ocean, trembling round his happy isles;It came circling large and queenly o'er yon roof of smoky tiles,And I saw it with such feeling, joy in blood, in heart, in brain,I would give to call the affluence of that moment back again,Europe, with her cities, rivers, hills of prey, sheep-sprinkled downs,—Ay, a hundred sheaves of sceptres! Ay, a planet's gathered crowns!For with that resplendent harvest-moon, my inmost thoughts were sharedBy a bright and shining maiden, hazel-eyed and golden-haired;One blest hour we sat together in a lone and silent place,O'er us, starry tears were trembling on the mighty midnight's face.Gradual crept my arm around her, 'gainst my shoulder came her head,And I could but draw her closer, whilst I tremulously said,—"Passion as it runs grows purer, loses every tinge of clay,As from Dawn all red and turbid flows the white transparent Day,And in mingled lives of lovers, the array of human illsBreaks their gentle course to music, as the stones break summer rills.""You should give the world," she murmured, "such delicious thoughts as these.""They are fit to line portmanteaus;" "Nay," she whispered, "Memories."And thereat she looked upon me with a smile so full of grace,All my blood was in a moment glowing in my ardent face!Half-blind, I looked up to the host of palpitating stars,'Gainst my sides my heart was leaping, like a lion 'gainst his bars,For a thought was born within me, and I said within my mind,"I will risk all in this moment, I will either lose or find.""Dost thou love me?" then I whispered; for a minute after this,I sat and trembled in great blackness—On my lips I felt a kiss;—Than a roseleaf's touch 'twas lighter,—on her face her hands she prest,And a heaven of tears and blushes was deep buried in my breast.I could makeherfaith,mypassion, a wide mark for scorn and sneers,I could laugh a hollow laughter but for these hot bursting tears;In the strong hand of my frenzy, laws and statutes snapt like reeds,And furious as a wounded bull I tore at all the creeds;I rushed into the desert, where I stood with hopeless eyes,Glaring on vast desolations, barren sands, and empty skies!Soon a trembling naked figure, to the earth my face was bowed,For the curse of God gloomed o'er me like a bursting thunder-cloud.Rolled away that fearful darkness, pass'd my weakness, pass'd my grief,Washed with bitter tears I sat full in the sunshine of belief.Weary eyes are looking eastward, whence the golden sun upsprings,Cry the young and fervid spirits, clad with ardour as with wings,"Life and Soul make wretched jangling, they should mingle to one SireAs the lovely voices mingle in a holy temple choir.O! those souls of ours, my brothers! prisoned now in mortal bars,Have been riched by growth and travel, by the round of all the stars.Soul, alas! is unregarded; Brothers! it is closely shut:All unknown as royal Alfred in the Saxon neatherd's hut,In the Dark house of the Body, cooking victuals, lighting fires,Swelters on the starry stranger, to our nature's base desires.From its lips is 't any marvel that no revelations come?We have wronged it; we do wrong it—'tis majestically dumb!God! our souls are aproned waiters! God! our souls are hired slaves:Let us hide from Life, my Brothers! let us hide us in our graves.O! why stain our holy childhoods? Why sell all for drinks and meats?Why degrade, like those old mansions, standing in our pauper streets,Lodgingsonceof kings and nobles, silken stirs and trumpet's din,Now, where crouch 'mong rags and fever, shapes of squalor and of sin?"Like a mist this wail surrounds me; Brothers, hush; the Lord Christ's handsEv'n now are stretched in blessing o'er the sea and o'er the lands.Sit not like a mourner, Brother! by the grave of that dear Past,Throw the Present! 'tis thy servant only when 'tis overcast,—Give battle to the leaguèd world, if thou'rt worthy, truly brave,Thou shalt make the hardest circumstance a helper or a slave,As when thunder wraps the setting sun, he struggles, glows with ire,Rifts the gloom with golden furrows, with a hundred bursts of fire,Melts the black and thund'rous masses to a sphere of rosy light,Then on edge of glowing heaven smiles in triumph on the night.Lo! the song of Earth—a maniac's on a black and dreary road—Rises up, and swells, and grandeurs, to the loud triumphal ode—Earth casts off a slough of darkness, an eclipse of hell and sin,In each cycle of her being, as an adder casts her skin;Lo! I see long blissful ages, when these mammon days are done,Stretching like a golden ev'ning forward to the setting sun.

He sat one winter 'neath a linden treeIn my bare orchard: "See, my friend," he said,"The stars among the branches hang like fruit,So, hopes were thick within me. When I'm goneThe world will like a valuator sitUpon my soul, and say, 'I was a cloudThat caught its glory from a sunken sun,And gradual burn'd into its native grey.'"On an October eve, 'twas his last wishTo see again the mists and golden woods;Upon his death-bed he was lifted up,The slumb'rous sun within the lazy westWith their last gladness filled his dying eyes.No sooner was he hence than critic-wormsWere swarming on the body of his fame,And thus they judged the dead: "This Poet wasAn April tree whose vermeil-loaded boughsPromised to Autumn apples juiced and red,But never came to fruit." "He is to usBut a rich odour,—a faint music-swell.""Poet he was not in the larger sense;He could write pearls, but he could never writeA Poem round and perfect as a star.""Politic i' faith. His most judicious actWas dying when he did; the next five yearsHad fingered all the fine dust from his wings,And left him poor as we. He died—'twas shrewd!And came with all his youth and unblown hopesOn the world's heart, and touched it into tears."

LADY.

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