Thou little star, that in the purple cloudsHang’st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed;First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds,’Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and dead:As through my tears my soul looks up to thee,Loathing the heavy chains that bind it here,There comes a fearful thought that miseryPerhaps is found, even in thy distant sphere.Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin,The heritage of death, disease, decay,A wilderness, like that we wander in,Where all things fairest, soonest pass away?And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world,Round which life’s sweetest buds fall witherëd,Where hope’s bright wings in the dark earth lie furled,And living hearts are mouldering with the dead?Perchance they do not die, that dwell in thee,Perchance theirs is a darker doom than ours;Unchanging woe, and endless misery,And mourning that hath neither days nor hours.Horrible dream!—Oh dark and dismal path,Where I now weeping walk, I will not leave thee;Earth has one boon for all her children—death:Open thy arms, oh mother! and receive me!Take off the bitter burthen from the slave,Give me my birthright! give—the grave, the grave!
Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soilOf life, which I am doomed to till full sore,Spring’st like a noisome weed! I do not toilFor thee, and yet thou still com’st dark’ning o’erMy plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade.Thou nightshade of the soul, beneath whose boughsAll fair and gentle buds hang withering!Why hast thou wreathed thyself around my brows,Casting from thence the blossoms of my spring,Breathing on youth’s sweet roses till they fade?Alas! thou art an evil weed of woe,Watered with tears and watched with sleepless care,Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare;And yet men covet thee—ah, wherefore do they so!
I hear a voice low in the sunset woods;Listen, it says: “Decay, decay, decay!”I hear it in the murmuring of the floods,And the wind sighs it as it flies away.Autumn is come; seest thou not in the skies,The stormy light of his fierce lurid eyes?Autumn is come; his brazen feet have trod,Withering and scorching, o’er the mossy sod.The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreathShrivel in his hot grasp; his burning breathDries the sweet water-springs that in the shadeWandering along, delicious music made.A flood of glory hangs upon the world,Summer’s bright wings shining ere they are furled.
Is it a sin to wish that I may meet theeIn that dim world whither our spirits stray,When sleep and darkness follow life and day?Is it a sin, that there my voice should greet theeWith all that love that I must die concealing?Will my tear-laden eyes sin in revealingThe agony that preys upon my soul?Is’t not enough through the long, loathsome day,To hold each look, and word, in stern control?May I not wish the staring sunlight gone,Day and its thousand torturing moments done,And prying sights and sounds of men away?Oh, still and silent Night! when all things sleep,Locked in thy swarthy breast my secret keep:Come, with thy vision’d hopes and blessings now!I dream the only happiness I know.
Written at four o’clock in the morning, after a ball.
Oh, modest maiden morn! why dost thou blush,Who thus betimes art walking in the sky?’Tis I, whose cheek bears pleasure’s sleepless flush,Who shame to meet thy gray, cloud-lidded eye,Shadowy, yet clear: from the bright eastern door,Where the sun’s shafts lie bound with thongs of fire,Along the heaven’s amber-pavëd floor,The glad hours move, hymning their early choir.O, fair and fragrant morn! upon my browPress thy fresh lips, shake from thy dropping hairCold showers of balmy dew on me, and ereDay’s chariot-wheels upon th’ horizon glow,Wrap me within thy sober cloak of gray,And bear me to thy twilight bowers away.
I’ll tell thee why this weary world meseemethBut as the visions light of one who dreameth,Which pass like clouds, leaving no trace behind;Why this strange life, so full of sin and folly,In me awakeneth no melancholy,Nor leaveth shade, or sadness, on my mind.’Tis not that with an undiscerning eyeI see the pageant wild go dancing by,Mistaking that which falsest is, for true;’Tis not that pleasure hath entwined me,’Tis not that sorrow hath enshrined me;I bear no badge of roses or of rue,But in the inmost chambers of my soulThere is another world, a blessed home,O’er which no living power holdeth control,Anigh to which ill things do never come.There shineth the glad sunlight of clear thought,With hope, and faith, holding communion high,Over a fragrant land with flowers wrought,Where gush the living springs of poesy;There speak the voices that I love to hear,There smile the glances that I love to see,There live the forms of those my soul holds dear,For ever, in that secret world, with me.They who have walked with me along life’s way,And sever’d been by Fortune’s adverse tide,Who ne’er again, through Time’s uncertain day,In weal or woe, may wander by my side;These all dwell here: nor these, whom life aloneDivideth from me, but the dead, the dead;Those weary ones who to their rest are gone,Whose footprints from the earth have vanishëd;Here dwell they all: and here, within this world,Like light within a summer sun cloud furled,My spirit dwells. Therefore, this evil life,With all its gilded snares, and fair deceivings,Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings,Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife.O thou! who readest, of thy courtesy,Whoe’er thou art, I wish the same to thee!
I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall,The fairies’ palace beside the stream;Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fallThrough their tresses dark, with a mellow gleam.
I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn,When the young moon hangs on the brow of night,Nor see the morning, at early dawn,Shake the fading stars from her robes of light.
I shall fly no more on my fiery steed,O’er the springing sward,—through the twilight wood;Nor reign my courser, and check my speed,By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood.
At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more’Neath the oak’s broad shade, in the leafy dell:The sun is set,—the day is o’er,—The summer is past;—farewell!—farewell!
Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light,The burning rays that mine pour into ye,Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark, as night—Oh, lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me?Oh, lips! whereon mine own so often dwell,Hath love’s warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spellTo waken sense in ye?—oh, misery!—Oh, breathless lips! can ye not speak to me?Thou soulless mimicry of life! my tearsFall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain;I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears,Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain.Oh, thou dull image! wilt thou not replyTo my fond prayers and wild idolatry?
There’s not a fibre in my trembling frameThat does not vibrate when thy step draws near,There’s not a pulse that throbs not when I hearThy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name.When thou art with me, every sense seems dull,And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee;My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame,And my bewildered spirit seems to swimIn eddying whirls of passion, dizzily.When thou art gone, there creeps into my heartA cold and bitter consciousness of pain:The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart,And I sit dreaming o’er and o’er againThy greeting clasp, thy parting look, and tone;And suddenly I wake—and am alone.
Come where the white waves dance along the shoreOf some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas;Whose golden sands by mortal foot beforeWere never printed,—where the fragrant breeze,That never swept o’er land or flood that manCould call his own, th’ unearthly breeze shall fanOur mingled tresses with its odorous sighs;Where the eternal heaven’s blue, sunny eyesDid ne’er look down on human shapes of earth,Or aught of mortal mould and death-doomed birth:Come there with me; and when we are aloneIn that enchanted desert, where the toneOf earthly voice, or language, yet did ne’erWith its strange music startle the still air,When clasped in thy upholding arms I stand,Upon that bright world’s coral-cradled strand,When I can hide my face upon thy breast,While thy heart answers mine together pressed,Then fold me closer, bend thy head above me,Listen—and I will tell thee how I love thee.
Oh, sunny Love!Crowned with fresh flowering May,Breath like the Indian clove,Eyes like the dawn of day;Oh, sunny Love!
Oh, fatal Love!Thy robe wreath is nightshade all,With gloomy cypress wove,Thy kiss is bitter gall,Oh, fatal Love!
Never, oh never more! shall I beholdThy form so fair,Or loosen from its braids the rippling goldOf thy long hair.
Never, oh never more! shall I be blestBy thy voice low,Or kiss, while thou art sleeping on my breast,Thy marble brow.
Never, oh never more! shall I inhaleThy fragrant sighs,Or gaze, with fainting soul, upon the veilOf thy bright eyes.
Oh child! who to this evil world art come,Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee,Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home!Welcome to all the woe this life awards thee!
Upon thy forehead yet the badge of sinHath worn no trace; thou look’st as though from heaven,But pain, and guilt, and misery lie within;Poor exile! from thy happy birth-land driven.
Thine eyes are sealed by the soft hand of sleep,And like unruffled waves thy slumber seems;The time’s at hand when thou must wake to weep,Or sleeping, walk a restless world of dreams.
How oft, as day by day life’s burthen liesHeavier and darker on thy fainting soul,Wilt thou towards heaven turn thy weary eyes,And long in bitterness to reach the goal!
How oft wilt thou, upon Time’s flinty road,Gaze at thy far off early days, in vain;Weeping, how oft wilt thou cast down thy load,And curse and pray, then take it up again!
How many times shall the fiend Hope, extendHer poisonous chalice to thy thirsty lips!How oft shall Love its withering sunshine lend,To leave thee only a more dark eclipse!
How oft shall Sorrow strain thee in her grasp,—How oft shall Sin laugh at thine overthrow—How oft shall Doubt, Despair, and Anguish claspTheir knotted arms around thine aching brow!
Oh, living soul, hail to thy narrow cage!Spirit of light, hail to thy gloomy cave!Welcome to longing youth, to loathing age,Welcome, immortal! welcome to the grave!
Life wanes, and the bright sunlight of our youthSets o’er the mountain-tops, where once Hope stood.Oh, Innocence! oh, Trustfulness! oh, Truth!Where are ye all, white-handed sisterhood,Who with me on my way did walk along,Singing sweet scraps of that immortal songThat’s hymn’d in Heaven, but hath no echo here?Are ye departing, fellows bright and clear,Of the young spirit, when it first alightsUpon this earth of darkness and dismay?Farewell! fair children of th’ eternal day,Blossoms of that far land where fall no blights,Sweet kindred of my exiled soul, farewell!Here I must wander, here ye may not dwell;Back to your home beyond the founts of lightI see ye fly, and I am wrapt in night!
Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cellAnswer me! answer me! oh, let me hearThy voice, and know that thou indeed art near!That from the bonds in which thou’rt forced to dwellThou hast not broken free, thou art not fled,Thou hast not pined away, thou art not dead.Speak to me through thy prison bars; my lifeWith all things round, is one eternal strife,’Mid whose wild din I pause to hear thy voice;Speak to me, look on me, thou born of light!That I may know thou’rt with me, and rejoice.Shall not this weary warfare pass away?Shall there not come a better, brighter day?Shall not thy chain and mine be broken quite,And thou to heaven spring,With thine immortal wing,And I, still following,With steps that do not tire,Reach my desire,And to thy worship bringSome worthy offering?Oh! let but these dark days be once gone by,And thou, unwilling captive, that dost strain,With tiptoe longing, vainly, towards the sky,O’er the whole kingdom of my life shalt reign.But, while I’m doomed beneath the yoke to bow,Of sordid toiling in these caverns drear,Oh, look upon me sometimes with thy browOf shining brightness; sometimes let me hearThy blessed voice, singing the songs of Heaven,Whence thou and I, together have been driven;Give me assurance that thou still art nigh,Lest I sink down beneath my load, and die!
The waterfall is calling meWith its merry gleesome flow,And the green boughs are beckoning me,To where the wild flowers grow:
I may not go, I may not go,To where the sunny waters flow,To where the wild wood flowers blow;I must stay hereIn prison drear,Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on,Would God that thou wert done!
The busy mill-wheel round and roundGoes turning, with its reckless sound,And o’er the dam the wafers flowInto the foaming stream below,And deep and dark away they glide,To meet the broad, bright river’s tide;And all the wayThey murmuring say:“Oh, child! why art thou far away?Come back into the sun, and strayUpon our mossy side!”
I may not go, I may not go,To where the gold-green waters run,All shining in the summer sun,And leap from off the dam belowInto a whirl of boiling snow,Laughing and shouting as they go;I must stay hereIn prison drear,Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on,Would God that thou wert done!
The soft spring wind goes passing by,Into the forests wide and cool;The clouds go trooping through the sky,To look down on some glassy pool;The sunshine makes the world rejoice,And all of them, with gentle voice,Call me away,With them to stay,The blessed, livelong summer’s day.
I may not go, I may not go,Where the sweet breathing spring winds blow,Nor where the silver clouds go by,Across the holy, deep blue sky,Nor where the sunshine, warm and bright,Comes down like a still shower of light;I must stay hereIn prison drear,Oh, heavy life, wear on, wear on,Would God that thou wert done!
Oh, that I were a thing with wings!A bird, that in a May-hedge sings!A lonely heather bell that swingsUpon some wild hill-side;Or even a silly, senseless stone,With dark, green, starry moss o’ergrown,Round which the waters glide.
My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side,When once they turn away, thouPleasant Water,Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide,Will shine the eyes of the White Island’s daughter.But often in my dreams, when I am goneBeyond the sea that parts thy home and mine,Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine,And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on.And when the burden of existence liesUpon my soul, darkly and heavily,I’ll clasp my hands over my weary eyes,ThouPleasant Water, and thy clear waves see.Bright be thy course for ever and for ever,Child of pure mountain springs, and mountain snow;And as thou wanderest on to meet the riverOh, still in light and music mayst thou flow!I never shall come back to thee again,When once my sail is shadowed on the main,Nor ever shall I hear thy laughing voiceAs on their rippling way thy waves rejoice,Nor ever see the dark green cedar throwIts gloomy shade o’er the clear depths below,Never, from stony rifts of granite graySparkling like diamond rocks in the sun’s ray,Shall I look down on thee, thou pleasant stream,Beneath whose crystal folds the gold sands gleam;Wherefore, farewell! but whensoe’er againThe wintry spell melts from the earth and air;And the young Spring comes dancing through thy glen,With fragrant, flowery breath, and sunny hair;When through the snow the scarlet berries gleam,Like jewels strewn upon thy banks, fair stream,My spirit shall through many a summer’s dayReturn, among thy peaceful woods to stray.
Good night, love!May Heaven’s brightest stars watch over thee!Good angels spread their wings, and cover thee,And through the night,So dark and still,Spirits of lightCharm thee from ill!My heart is hovering round thy dwelling-place,Good night, dear love! God bless thee with his grace!
Good night, love!Soft lullabies the night-wind sing to thee!And on its wings sweet odours bring to thee!And in thy dreamingMay all things dear,With gentle seeming,Come smiling near!My knees are bowed, my hands are clasped in prayer—Good night, dear love! God keep thee in his care!
Mother, mother! my heart is wild,Hold me upon your bosom dear,Do not frown on your own poor child,Death is darkly drawing near.
Mother, mother! the bitter shameEats into my very soul;And longing love, like a wrapping flame,Burns me away without control.
Mother, mother! upon my browThe clammy death-sweats coldly rise;How dim and strange your features growThrough the hot mist that veils my eyes!
Mother, mother! sing me the songThey sing on sunny August eves,The rustling barley-fields along,Binding up the ripe, red sheaves.
Mother, mother! I do not hearYour voice—but his,—oh, guard me well!His breathing makes me faint with fear,His clasping arms are round me still.
Mother, mother! unbind my vest,Upon my heart lies his first token:Now lay me in my narrow nest,Your withered blossom, crushed and broken.
You say you’re glad I write—oh, say not so!My fount of song, dear friend, ’s a bitter well;And when the numbers freely from it flow,’Tis that my heart, and eyes, o’erflow as well.
Castalia, fam’d of yore,—the spring divine,Apollo’s smile upon its current wears:Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine,To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears.
The hours are past, love,Oh, fled they not too fast, love!Those happy hours, when down the mountain side,We saw the rosy mists of morning glide,And, hand in hand, went forth upon our way,Full of young life and hope, to meet the day.
The hours are past, love,Oh, fled they not too fast, love!Those sunny hours, when from the mid-day heat,We sought the waterfall with loitering feet,And o’er the rocks that lock the gleaming pool,Crept down into its depths, so dark and cool.
The hours are past, love,Oh, fled they not too fast, love!Those solemn hours, when through the violet sky,Alike without a cloud, without a ray,The round red autumn moon came glowingly,While o’er the leaden waves our boat made way.
The hours are past, love,Oh, fled they not too fast, love!Those blessed hours, when the bright day was past,And in the world we seemed to wake alone,When heart to heart beat throbbingly, and fast,And love was melting our two souls in one.
Better trust all, and be deceived,And weep that trust, and that deceiving;Than doubt one heart, that if believed,Had blessed one’s life with true believing.
Oh, in this mocking world, too fastThe doubting fiend o’ertakes our youth!Better be cheated to the last,Than loose the blessed hope of truth.
Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed,Those we let fall over the silent dead?Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom,Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb?Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave,Round which the slender, sunny, grass-blades wave?Who are ye calling back to tread againThis weary walk of life? towards whom, in vain,Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised;The young, the loved, the honoured, and the praised?Come hither;—look upon the faded cheekOf that still woman, who with eyelids meekVeils her most mournful eyes;—upon her browSometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow,When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly tear,But patience oftener sits palely there.Beauty has left her—hope and joy have longFled from her heart, yet she is young, isyoung;Has many years, as human tongues would tell,Upon the face of this blank earth to dwell.Looks she not sad? ’tis but a tale of old,Told o’er and o’er, and ever to be told,The hourly story of our every day,Which when men hear, they sigh and turn away;A tale too trite almost to find an ear,A woe too common to deserve a tear.She is the daughter of a distant land;—Her kindred are far off;—her maiden hand,Sought for by many, was obtained by oneWho owned a different birthland from her own.But what reck’d she of that? as low she kneltBreathing her marriage vows, her fond heart felt,“For thee, I give up country, home, and friends;Thy love for each, for all, shall make amends;”And was she loved?—perishing by her sideThe children of her bosom drooped and died;The bitter life they drew from her cold breastFlicker’d and failed; she laid them down to rest,Two pale young blossoms in their early sleep,And weeping said, “They have not lived to weep.”And weeps she yet? no, to her weary eyesThe bliss of tears, her frozen heart denies;Complaint, or sigh, breathes not upon her lips,Her life is one dark, fatal, deep eclipse.Leadherto the green grave where ye have laidThe creature that ye mourn;—let it be said,“Here love, and youth, and beauty, are at rest!”She only sadly murmurs, “Blest!—most blest!”And turns from gazing, lest her miseryShould make her sin, and pray to Heaven to die.
Oh! for the temperate airs that blowUpon that darling of the sea,Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow,For three days hold supremacy;But ever-varying skies contendThe blessings of all climes to lend,To make that tiny, wave-rocked isle,In never-fading beauty smile.England, oh England! for the breezeThat slowly stirs thy forest-trees!Thy ferny brooks, thy mossy fountains,Thy beechen woods, thy heathery mountains,Thy lawny uplands, where the shadowOf many a giant oak is sleeping;The tangled copse, the sunny meadow,Through which the summer rills run weeping.Oh, land of flowers! while sinking hereBeneath the dog-star of the West,The music of the waves I hearThat cradle thee upon their breast.Fresh o’er thy rippling corn-fields flyThe wild-winged breezes of the sea,While from thy smiling, summer sky,The ripening sun looks tenderly.And thou—to whom through all this heatMy parboiled thoughts will fondly turn,Oh! in what “shady blest retreat”Art thou ensconced, while here I burn?Across the lawn, in the deep glade,Where hand in hand we oft have strayed,Or communed sweetly, side by side,Hear’st thou the chiming ocean tide,As gently on the pebbly beachIt lays its head, then ebbs away,Or round the rocks, with nearer reach,Throws up a cloud of silvery spray?Or to the firry woods, that shedTheir spicy odours to the sun,Goest thou with meditative tread,Thinking of all things that are doneBeneath the sky?—a great, big thought,Of which I know you’re very fond.For me, my mind is solely wroughtTo this one wish:—O! in a pondWould I were over head and ears!(Of acoldducking I’ve no fears)Or any where, where I am not;For, bless the heat! it is too hot!
Blame not my tears, love: to you has been givenThe brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows;The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from Heaven,And shines from your heart, on this life and its woes.
Blame not my tears, love: on you her best treasureKind nature has lavish’d, oh, long be it yours!For how barren soe’er be the path you now measure,The future still woos you with hands full of flowers.
Oh, ne’er be that gift, love, withdrawn from thy keeping!The jewel of life, its strong spirit, its wings;If thou ever must weep, may it shine through thy weeping,As the sun his warm rays through a spring shower flings.
But blame not my tears, love: to me ’twas denied;And when fate to my lips gave this life’s mingled cup,She had filled to the brim, from the dark bitter tide,And forgotten to pour in the only sweet drop.
Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening worldEvening comes down, the wings of fire are furled,On which the day soared to the sunny west:The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest,Looking upon the never-resting earth;All things in heaven wait on the solemn birthOf night, but where has fled the happy dreamThat at this hour, last night, our life did seem?Where are the mountains with their tangled hair,The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair?Where are the shadows of the solemn hills,And the fresh music of the summer rills?Where are the wood-paths, winding, long and steep,And the great, glorious river, broad and deep,And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet,And the wild torrent’s snowy, leaping feet,The rustling, rocking boughs, the running streams,—Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but dreams?And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone,That from the mountain-side came dancing down?The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes,The happy hearts, the human paradise,The youth, the love, the life that revelled here,—Are they too gone?—Upon Time’s shadowy bier,The pale, cold hours of joys now past, are laid,Perhaps, not soon from memory’s gaze to fade,But never to be reckoned o’er again,In all life’s future store of bliss and pain.From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart,Youth flies—love dies—and from the joyous heartHope’s gushing fountain ebbs too soon away,Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day,When from the barren waste of after life,The weariness, the worldliness, the strife,The soul looks o’er the desert of its wayTo the green gardens of its early day:The paradise, for which we vainly mourn,The heaven, to which our ling’ring eyes still turn,To which our footsteps never shall return.
Pass thy hand through my hair, lore;One little year ago,In a curtain bright and rare, love,It fell golden o’er my brow.But the gold has passed away, love,And the drooping curls are thin,And cold threads of wintry gray, love,Glitter their folds within:How should this be, in one short year?It is not age—can it be care?
Fasten thine eyes on mine, love;One little year ago,Midsummer’s sunny shine, love,Had not a warmer glow.But the light is there no more, love,Save in melancholy gleams,Like wan moonlight wand’ring o’er, love,Dim lands in troubled dreams:How should this be, in one short year?It is not age—can it be care?
Lay thy cheek to my cheek, love,One little year agoIt was ripe, and round, and sleek, love,As the autumn peaches grow.But the rosy hue has fled, love,Save a flush that goes and comes,Like a flow’r born from the dead, love,And blooming over tombs:How should this be, in one short year?It is not age—can it be care?
What was thine errand here?Thy beauty was more exquisite than aughtThat from this marred earthTakes its imperfect birth;It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caughtFrom some far higher sphere,And though an angel now, thou still must bearThe lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.
What was thine errand here?Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind,With earthly creatures coarse,Held not discourse,But with fine spirits, of some purer kind,Dwelt in communion dear;And sure they speak to thee that language now,Which thou wert wont to speak to us below.
What was thine errand here?To adorn anguish, and ennoble death,And make infirmityA patient victory,And crown life’s baseness with a glorious wreath,That fades not on thy bier,But fits, immortal soul! thy triumph still,In that bright world where thou art gone to dwell.
Thou who within thyself dost not beholdRuins as great as these, though not as old,Can’st scarce through life have travelled many a year,Or lack’st the spirit of a pilgrim here.Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride;Love, its warm hearth-stones; Hope, its prospects wide;Life’s fortress in thee, held these one, and all,And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall.
Life is before ye—and while now ye standEager to spring upon the promised land,Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trodBut few light steps, upon a flowery sod;Round ye are youth’s green bowers, and to your eyesTh’ horizon’s line joins earth with the bright skies;Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy,Friendship unwavering, love without alloy,Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won,Like angels, beckon ye to venture on.And if o’er the bright scene some shadows rise,Far off they seem, at hand the sunshine lies;The distant clouds, which of ye pause to fear?Shall not a brightness gild them when more near?Dismay and doubt ye know not, for the powerOf youth is strong within ye at this hour,And the great mortal conflict seems to yeNot so much strife as certain victory—A glory ending in eternity.Life is before ye—oh! if ye could lookInto the secrets of that sealëd book,Strong as ye are in youth, and hope, and faith,Ye should sink down, and falter, “Give us death!”Could the dread Sphinx’s lips but once disclose,And utter but a whisper of the woesWhich must o’ertake ye, in your lifelong doom,Well might ye cry, “Our cradle be our tomb!”Could ye foresee your spirit’s broken wings,Earth’s brightest triumphs what despisëd things,Friendship how feeble, love how fierce a flame,Your joy half sorrow, half your glory shame,Hollowness, weariness, and, worst of all,Self-scorn that pities not its own deep fall,Fast gathering darkness, and fast waning light,—Oh could ye see it all, ye might, ye mightCower in the dust, unequal to the strife,And die, but in beholding what is life.
Life is before ye—from the fated roadYe cannot turn: then take ye up your load.Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way,Ye must go o’er it, meet ye what ye may.Gird up your souls within ye to the deed,Angels, and fellow-spirits, bid ye speed!What though the brightness dim, the pleasure fade,The glory wane,—oh! not of these is madeThe awful life that to your trust is given.Children of God! inheritors of heaven!Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy,Ye were ordained to do, not to enjoy,To suffer, which is nobler than to dare;A sacred burthen is this life ye bear,Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly,Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,But onward, upward, till the goal ye win;God guard ye, and God guide ye on your way,Young pilgrim warriors who set forth to-day!
I am alone—oh be thou near to me,Great God! from whom the meanest are not far.Not in presumption of the daring spirit,Striving to find the secrets of itself,Make I my weeping prayer; in the deep wantOf utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee;If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship,Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee.I have no fellow, Father! of my kind;None that be kindred, none companion to me,And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood,Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me,Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot.Around me grow the trees, each by the other;Innumerable leaves, each like the other,Whisper and breathe, and live and move together.Around me spring the flowers; each rosy cupHath sisters, leaning their fair cheeks against it.The birds fly all above me; not alone,But coupled in free fellowship, or musteringA joyous band, weeping in companiesThe wide blue fields between the clouds;—the cloudsTroop in society, each on the otherShedding, like sympathy, reflected light.The waves, a multitude, together runTo the great breast of the receiving sea:Nothing but hath its kind, its company,Oh God! save I alone! then, let me come,Good Father! to thy feet, when even as now,Tears, that no human hand is near to wipe,O’erbrim my eyes, oh wipe them, thou, my Father!When in my heart the stores of its affections,Piled up unused, locked fast, are like to burstThe fleshly casket, that may not contain them,Let me come nigh to thee;—accept thou them,Dear Father!—Fount of Love! Compassionate God!When in my spirit burns the fire, the power,That have made men utter the words of angels,And none are near to bid me speak and live:Hearken, oh Father! Maker of my spirit!God of my soul, to thee I will outpourThe hymns resounding through my troubled mind,The sighs and sorrows of my lonely heart,The tears, and weeping, of my weary eyes:Be thou my fellow, glorious, gracious God!And fit me for such fellowship with thee!
What shall I do with all the days and hoursThat must be counted ere I see thy face?How shall I charm the interval that lowersBetween this time and that sweet time of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,Weary with longing?—shall I flee awayInto past days, and with some fond pretenceCheat myself to forget the present day?
Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sinOf casting from me God’s great gift of time;Shall I these mists of memory locked within,Leave, and forget, life’s purposes sublime?
Oh! how, or by what means, may I contriveTo bring the hour that brings thee back more near?How may I teach my drooping hope to liveUntil that blessed time, and thou art here?
I’ll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay holdOf all good aims, and consecrate to thee,In worthy deeds, each moment that is toldWhile thou, beloved one! art far from me.
For thee I will arouse my thoughts to tryAll heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;For thy dear sake I will walk patientlyThrough these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.
I will this dreary blank of absence makeA noble task time, and will therein striveTo follow excellence, and to o’ertakeMore good than I have won, since yet I live.
So may this doomed time build up in meA thousand graces which shall thus be thine;So may my love and longing hallowed be,And thy dear thought an influence divine.
When the bright sun back on his yearly roadComes towards us, his great glory seems to me,As from the sky he pours it all abroad,A golden herald, my beloved, of thee.
When from the south the gentle winds do blow,Calling the flowers that sleep beneath the earth,It sounds like sweetest music, that doth goBefore thy coming, full of love and mirth.
When one by one the violets appear,Opening their purple vests so modestly,To greet the virgin daughter of the year,Each seems a fragrant prophecy of thee.
For with the spring thou shalt return again;Therefore the wind, the flower, and clear sunshine,A double worship from my heart obtain,A love and welcome not their own, but thine.
Struggle not with thy life!—the heavy doomResist not, it will bow thee like a slave:Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tombThou shalt go crushed, and ground, though ne’er so brave.
Complain not of thy life!—for what art thouMore than thy fellows, that thou should’st not weep?Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow,And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.
Marvel not at thy life!—patience shall seeThe perfect work of wisdom to her given;Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery,And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.
What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowersAll the sad night, when he is far away?What recks he, how they mourn, through those dark hours,Till back again he leads the smiling day?
As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye,And blesses from its lowly seat, the god,In his great glory he goes through the sky,And recks not of the blessing from the sod.
And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate!That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee?That thy departing, leaves me desolate,That thy returning, brings back life to me?
I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe,That for thy sake daily disturbs my life;I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so,That all the love I can, is woe, and strife.
I blame not thee, that I may ne’er impartThe tempest, and the death, and the despair,That words, and looks, of thine make in my heart,And turn by turn, riot and stagnate there.
Oh! I have found my sin’s sharp scourge in thee,For loving thee, as one should love but Heaven;Therefore, oh, thou beloved! I blame not thee,But by my anguish hope to be forgiven.
The fountain of my life, which flowed so free,The plenteous waves, which brimming gushed along,Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song,Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee:How should they not? from the shrunk, narrow bed,Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed awayLight, life, and motion, and along its wayThe dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread,—Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblestDisturb the wells whence that sad stream takes birth,The swollen waters once again gush forth,Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest.
From rocky hills, where climbs the vine;Where on his waves the wandering RhineSees imaged ruins, towns and towers,Bare mountain scalps, green forest bowers;From that broad land of poetry,Wild legend, noble history,This token many a day bore I,To lay it at your feet, dear Y---.
Little the stupid bowl will tellOf all that on its way befell,Since from old Frankfort’s free domain,Where smiling vineyards skirt the main,It took its way; what sunsets redTheir splendours o’er the mountains shed,How the blue Taunus’ distant heightLike hills of fire gave back the light,And how, on river, rock, and sky,The sun declined so tenderly,That o’er the scene white moonlight fell,Ere we had bid the day farewell.From Maintz, where many a warrior priestWas wont of yore to fight and feast,The broad stream bore us down its tide,Till where upon its steeper side,Grim Ehrenfels, with turrets brown,On Hatto’s wave-worn tower looks down.Here did we rest,—my dearest Y---,This bowl could all as well as I,Describe that scene, when in the deep,Still, middle night, all wrapped in sleep,The hamlet lone, the dark blue sky,The eddying river sweeping by,Lay ’neath the clear unclouded lightOf the full moon: broad, brimming, bright,The glorious flood went rolling byIts world of waves, while silentlyThe shaggy hills on either side,Watched like huge giants by the tide.From where the savage bishop’s towerObstructs the flood, a sullen roarBroke on the stillness of the night,And the rough waters, yeasty white,Foamed round that whirlpool dread and deep,Where still thy voice is heard to weep,Gisela! maiden most unblest,Thou Jephtha’s daughter of the West!Who shall recall the shadowy trainThat, in the magic light, my brainConjured upon the glassy wave,From castle, convent, crag and cave?Down swept the Lord of Allemain,Broad-browed, deep-chested Charlemagne,And his fair child, who tottering boreHer lover o’er the treacherous floorOf new-fallen snow, that her small feetAlone might print that tell-tale sheet,Nor other trace show the stern guard,The nightly path of Eginhard.What waving plumes and banners passed,With trumpet clang and bugle blast,And on the night-wind faintly borne,Strains from that mighty hunting-horn,Which through these woods, in other days,Startled the echoes of the chase.On trooped the vision; lord and dame,On fiery steed and palfrey tame,Pilgrims, with palms and cockle-shells,And motley fools, with cap and bells,Princes and Counties Palatine,Who ruled and revelled on the Rhine,Abbot and monk, with many a torch,Came winding from each convent porch;And holy maids from Nonnenwerth,In the pale moonlight all came forth;Thy love, Roland, among the rest,Her meek hands folded on her breast,Her sad eyes turned to heaven, where thouOnce more shalt hear love’s early vow,—That vow, which led thee home againFrom Roncevalles’ bloody plain,—That vow, that ne’er again was spokenTill death the nun’s drear oath had broken.Down from each crumbling castle poured,Of ruthless robber-knights, the horde,Sweeping with clang and clamour by,Like storm-cloud rattling through the sky:Pageant so glorious ne’er, I ween,On lonely river bank was seen.
So passed that night: but with the dayThe vision melted all away;And wrapped in sullen mist and rain,The river bore us on again,With heavy hearts and tearful eyes,That answered well the weeping skiesOf autumn, which now hung o’er allThe scene their leaden, dropping pall,Beneath whose dark gray veils, once moreWe hailed our native Albion’s shore,Our pilgrimage of pleasure o’er.
Good night! from music’s softest spellGo to thy dreams: and in thy slumbers,Fairies, with magic harp and shell,Sing o’er to thee thy own sweet numbers.
Good night! from Hope’s intense desireGo to thy dreams: and may to-morrow,Love with the sun returning, fireThese evening mists of doubt and sorrow.
Good night! from hours of weary wakingI’ll to my dreams: still in my sleepTo feel the spirit’s restless aching,And ev’n with eyelids closed, to weep.
Say thou not sadly, “never,” and “no more,”But from thy lips banish those falsest words;While life remains that which was thine beforeAgain may be thine; in Time’s storehouse lieDays, hours, and moments, that have unknown hoardsOf joy, as well as sorrow: passing by,Smiles, come with tears; therefore with hopeful eyeLook thou on dear things, though they turn away,For thou and they, perchance, some future dayShall meet again, and the gone bliss return;For its departure then make thou no mourn,But with stout heart bid what thou lov’st farewell;That which the past hath given the future gives as well.
Though thou return unto the former things,Fields, woods, and gardens, where thy feet have strayedIn other days, and not a bough, branch, bladeOf tree, or meadow, but the same appearsAs when thou lovedst them in former years,They shall notseemthe same; the spirit bringsChange from the inward, though the outward beE’en as it was, when thou didst weep to seeIt last, and spak’st that prophecy of pain,“Farewell! I shall not look on ye again!”And so thou never didst—no, though e’en nowThine eyes behold all they so loved of yore,TheThouthat did behold them then, no moreLives in this world, it is another Thou.
Like one who walketh in a plenteous land,By flowing waters, under shady trees,Through sunny meadows, where the summer beesFeed in the thyme and clover; on each handFair gardens lying, where of fruit and flowerThe bounteous season hath poured out its dower:Where saffron skies roof in the earth with light,And birds sing thankfully towards Heaven, while heWith a sad heart walks through this jubilee,Beholding how beyond this happy land,Stretches a thirsty desert of gray sand,Where all the air is one thick, leaden blight,Where all things dwarf and dwindle,—so walk I,Through my rich, present life, to what beyond doth lie.
Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turnO’er joys that God hath for a season lent,Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent,Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn.There lies no desert in the land of life,For e’en that tract that barrenest doth seem,Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teemWith heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.Haply no more, music, and mirth and love,And glorious things of old and younger art,Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;But when these bright companions all depart,Lay thou thy head upon the ample breastOf Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.
But to be still! oh, but to cease awhileThe panting breath and hurrying steps of life,The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strifeOf hourly being; the sharp biting fileOf action, fretting on the tightened chainOf rough existence; all that is not pain,But utter weariness; oh! to be freeBut for a while from conscious entity!To shut the banging doors and windows wide,Of restless sense, and let the soul abideDarkly and stilly, for a little space,Gathering its strength up to pursue the race;Oh, Heavens! to rest a moment, but to restFrom this quick, gasping life, were to be blest!
Art thou already weary of the way?Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o’er:Get up, and lift thy burthen: lo, beforeThy feet the road goes stretching far away.If thou already faint, who hast but comeThrough half thy pilgrimage, with fellows gay,Love, youth, and hope, under the rosy bloomAnd temperate airs, of early breaking day;Look yonder, how the heavens stoop and gloom,There cease the trees to shade, the flowers to spring,And the angels leave thee; what wilt thou becomeThrough yon drear stretch of dismal wandering,Lonely and dark? I shall take courage, friend,For comes not every step more near the end?
London:StewartandMurray, Old Bailey.