Plaint

DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark;What then? ’Tis day!We sleep no more; the cock crows—hark!To arms! away!They come! they come! the knell is rungOf us or them;Wide o’er their march the pomp is flungOf gold and gem.What collar’d hound of lawless sway,To famine dear—What pensioned slave of Attila,Leads in the rear?Come they from Scythian wilds afar,Our blood to spill?Wear they the livery of the Czar?They do his will.Nor tassell’d silk, nor epaulet,Nor plume, nor torse—No splendour gilds, all sternly met,Our foot and horse.But, dark and still, we inly glow,Condensed in ire!Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall knowOur gloom is fire.In vain your pomp, ye evil powers,Insults the land;Wrongs, vengeance, and the Cause are ours,And God’s right hand!Madmen! they trample into snakesThe wormy clod!Like fire, beneath their feet awakesThe sword of God!Behind, before, above, below,They rouse the brave;Where’er they go, they make a foe,Or find a grave.

588.

DARK, deep, and cold the current flowsUnto the sea where no wind blows,Seeking the land which no one knows.O’er its sad gloom still comes and goesThe mingled wail of friends and foes,Borne to the land which no one knows.Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goesWith millions, from a world of woes,Unto the land which no one knows?Though myriads go with him who goes,Alone he goes where no wind blows,Unto the land which no one knows.For all must go where no wind blows,And none can go for him who goes;None, none return whence no one knows.Yet why should he who shrieking goesWith millions, from a world of woes,Reunion seek with it or those?Alone with God, where no wind blows,And Death, his shadow—doom’d, he goes.That God is there the shadow shows.O shoreless Deep, where no wind blows!And thou, O Land which no one knows!That God is All, His shadow shows.

DARK, deep, and cold the current flowsUnto the sea where no wind blows,Seeking the land which no one knows.

O’er its sad gloom still comes and goesThe mingled wail of friends and foes,Borne to the land which no one knows.

Why shrieks for help yon wretch, who goesWith millions, from a world of woes,Unto the land which no one knows?

Though myriads go with him who goes,Alone he goes where no wind blows,Unto the land which no one knows.

For all must go where no wind blows,And none can go for him who goes;None, none return whence no one knows.

Yet why should he who shrieking goesWith millions, from a world of woes,Reunion seek with it or those?

Alone with God, where no wind blows,And Death, his shadow—doom’d, he goes.That God is there the shadow shows.

O shoreless Deep, where no wind blows!And thou, O Land which no one knows!That God is All, His shadow shows.

1784-1843

589.

THE sun rises bright in France,And fair sets he;But he has tint the blythe blink he hadIn my ain countree.O, it’s nae my ain ruinThat saddens aye my e’e,But the dear Marie I left behin’Wi’ sweet bairnies three.

THE sun rises bright in France,And fair sets he;But he has tint the blythe blink he hadIn my ain countree.

O, it’s nae my ain ruinThat saddens aye my e’e,But the dear Marie I left behin’Wi’ sweet bairnies three.

589.tint] lost.

MY lanely hearth burn’d bonnie,And smiled my ain Marie;I’ve left a’ my heart behin’In my ain countree.The bud comes back to summer,And the blossom to the bee;But I’ll win back, O never,To my ain countree.O, I am leal to high Heaven,Where soon I hope to be,An’ there I’ll meet ye a’ soonFrae my ain countree!

MY lanely hearth burn’d bonnie,And smiled my ain Marie;I’ve left a’ my heart behin’In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer,And the blossom to the bee;But I’ll win back, O never,To my ain countree.

O, I am leal to high Heaven,Where soon I hope to be,An’ there I’ll meet ye a’ soonFrae my ain countree!

590.

HAME, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!When the flower is i’ the bud and the leaf is on the tree,The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree;Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!The green leaf o’ loyaltie’s beginning for to fa’,The bonnie White Rose it is withering an’ a’;But I’ll water ’t wi’ the blude of usurping tyrannie,An’ green it will graw in my ain countree.O, there’s nocht now frae ruin my country can save,But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open the grave;That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltieMay rise again an’ fight for their ain countree.The great now are gane, a’ wha ventured to save,The new grass is springing on the tap o’ their grave;But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e’e,‘I’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.’Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

HAME, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

When the flower is i’ the bud and the leaf is on the tree,The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countree;Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

The green leaf o’ loyaltie’s beginning for to fa’,The bonnie White Rose it is withering an’ a’;But I’ll water ’t wi’ the blude of usurping tyrannie,An’ green it will graw in my ain countree.

O, there’s nocht now frae ruin my country can save,But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open the grave;That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltieMay rise again an’ fight for their ain countree.

The great now are gane, a’ wha ventured to save,The new grass is springing on the tap o’ their grave;But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e’e,‘I’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.’

Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be—O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

591.

GONE were but the winter cold,And gone were but the snow,I could sleep in the wild woodsWhere primroses blow.Cold’s the snow at my head,And cold at my feet;And the finger of death’s at my e’en,Closing them to sleep.Let none tell my fatherOr my mother so dear,—I’ll meet them both in heavenAt the spring of the year.

GONE were but the winter cold,And gone were but the snow,I could sleep in the wild woodsWhere primroses blow.

Cold’s the snow at my head,And cold at my feet;And the finger of death’s at my e’en,Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my fatherOr my mother so dear,—I’ll meet them both in heavenAt the spring of the year.

1784-1859

592.

JENNY kiss’d me when we met,Jumping from the chair she sat in;Time, you thief, who love to getSweets into your list, put that in!Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,Say I’m growing old, but add,Jenny kiss’d me.

1785-1866

593.

IPLAY’d with you ’mid cowslips blowing,When I was six and you were four;When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,Were pleasures soon to please no more.Through groves and meads, o’er grass and heather,With little playmates, to and fro,We wander’d hand in hand together;But that was sixty years ago.You grew a lovely roseate maiden,And still our early love was strong;Still with no care our days were laden,They glided joyously along;And I did love you very dearly,How dearly words want power to show,I thought your heart was touch’d as nearly;But that was fifty years ago.Then other lovers came around you,Your beauty grew from year to year,And many a splendid circle found youThe centre of its glittering sphere.I saw you then, first vows forsaking,On rank and wealth your hand bestow;O, then I thought my heart was breaking!—But that was forty years ago.And I lived on, to wed another:No cause she gave me to repine;And when I heard you were a mother,I did not wish the children mine.My own young flock, in fair progression,Made up a pleasant Christmas row:My joy in them was past expression;But that was thirty years ago.You grew a matron plump and comely,You dwelt in fashion’s brightest blaze;My earthly lot was far more homely;But I too had my festal days.No merrier eyes have ever glisten’dAround the hearth-stone’s wintry glow,Than when my youngest child was christen’d;But that was twenty years ago.Time pass’d. My eldest girl was married,And I am now a grandsire gray;One pet of four years old I’ve carriedAmong the wild-flower’d meads to play.In our old fields of childish pleasure,Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,She fills her basket’s ample measure;And that is not ten years ago.But though first love’s impassion’d blindnessHas pass’d away in colder light,I still have thought of you with kindness,And shall do, till our last good-night.The ever-rolling silent hoursWill bring a time we shall not know,When our young days of gathering flowersWill be an hundred years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden,And still our early love was strong;Still with no care our days were laden,They glided joyously along;And I did love you very dearly,How dearly words want power to show,I thought your heart was touch’d as nearly;But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you,Your beauty grew from year to year,And many a splendid circle found youThe centre of its glittering sphere.I saw you then, first vows forsaking,On rank and wealth your hand bestow;O, then I thought my heart was breaking!—But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another:No cause she gave me to repine;And when I heard you were a mother,I did not wish the children mine.My own young flock, in fair progression,Made up a pleasant Christmas row:My joy in them was past expression;But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely,You dwelt in fashion’s brightest blaze;My earthly lot was far more homely;But I too had my festal days.No merrier eyes have ever glisten’dAround the hearth-stone’s wintry glow,Than when my youngest child was christen’d;But that was twenty years ago.

Time pass’d. My eldest girl was married,And I am now a grandsire gray;One pet of four years old I’ve carriedAmong the wild-flower’d meads to play.In our old fields of childish pleasure,Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,She fills her basket’s ample measure;And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love’s impassion’d blindnessHas pass’d away in colder light,I still have thought of you with kindness,And shall do, till our last good-night.The ever-rolling silent hoursWill bring a time we shall not know,When our young days of gathering flowersWill be an hundred years ago.

594.

IDUG, beneath the cypress shade,What well might seem an elfin’s grave;And every pledge in earth I laid,That erst thy false affection gave.I press’d them down the sod beneath;I placed one mossy stone above;And twined the rose’s fading wreathAround the sepulchre of love.Frail as thy love, the flowers were deadEre yet the evening sun was set:But years shall see the cypress spread,Immutable as my regret.

IDUG, beneath the cypress shade,What well might seem an elfin’s grave;And every pledge in earth I laid,That erst thy false affection gave.

I press’d them down the sod beneath;I placed one mossy stone above;And twined the rose’s fading wreathAround the sepulchre of love.

Frail as thy love, the flowers were deadEre yet the evening sun was set:But years shall see the cypress spread,Immutable as my regret.

595.

SEAMEN three! What men be ye?Gotham’s three wise men we be.Whither in your bowl so free?To rake the moon from out the sea.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine.—And your ballast is old wine.Who art thou, so fast adrift?I am he they call Old Care.Here on board we will thee lift.No: I may not enter there.Wherefore so? ’Tis Jove’s decree,In a bowl Care may not be.—In a bowl Care may not be.Fear ye not the waves that roll?No: in charmèd bowl we swim.What the charm that floats the bowl?Water may not pass the brim.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine.—And your ballast is old wine.

Who art thou, so fast adrift?I am he they call Old Care.Here on board we will thee lift.No: I may not enter there.Wherefore so? ’Tis Jove’s decree,In a bowl Care may not be.—In a bowl Care may not be.

Fear ye not the waves that roll?No: in charmèd bowl we swim.What the charm that floats the bowl?Water may not pass the brim.The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.And our ballast is old wine.—And your ballast is old wine.

1787-1854

596.

COME not in terrors clad, to claimAn unresisting prey:Come like an evening shadow, Death!So stealthily, so silently!And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath;Then willingly, O willingly,With thee I’ll go away!What need to clutch with iron graspWhat gentlest touch may take?What need with aspect dark to scare,So awfully, so terribly,The weary soul would hardly care,Call’d quietly, call’d tenderly,From thy dread power to break?’Tis not as when thou markest outThe young, the blest, the gay,The loved, the loving—they who dreamSo happily, so hopefully;Then harsh thy kindest call may seem,And shrinkingly, reluctantly,The summon’d may obey.But I have drunk enough of life—The cup assign’d to meDash’d with a little sweet at best,So scantily, so scantily—To know full well that all the restMore bitterly, more bitterly,Drugg’d to the last will be.And I may live to pain some heartThat kindly cares for me:To pain, but not to bless. O Death!Come quietly—come lovingly—And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath;Then willingly, O willingly,I’ll go away with thee!

What need to clutch with iron graspWhat gentlest touch may take?What need with aspect dark to scare,So awfully, so terribly,The weary soul would hardly care,Call’d quietly, call’d tenderly,From thy dread power to break?

’Tis not as when thou markest outThe young, the blest, the gay,The loved, the loving—they who dreamSo happily, so hopefully;Then harsh thy kindest call may seem,And shrinkingly, reluctantly,The summon’d may obey.

But I have drunk enough of life—The cup assign’d to meDash’d with a little sweet at best,So scantily, so scantily—To know full well that all the restMore bitterly, more bitterly,Drugg’d to the last will be.

And I may live to pain some heartThat kindly cares for me:To pain, but not to bless. O Death!Come quietly—come lovingly—And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath;Then willingly, O willingly,I’ll go away with thee!

1788-1824

597.

WHEN we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-heartedTo sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this.The dew of the morningSunk chill on my brow—It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame;I hear thy name spoken,And share in its shame.They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o’er me—Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew thee,Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee,Too deeply to tell.In secret we met—In silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?With silence and tears.

WHEN we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-heartedTo sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this.

The dew of the morningSunk chill on my brow—It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame;I hear thy name spoken,And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o’er me—Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew thee,Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee,Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—In silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?With silence and tears.

598.

THERE be none of Beauty’s daughtersWith a magic like thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmèd ocean’s pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull’d winds seem dreaming:And the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o’er the deep;Whose breast is gently heaving,As an infant’s asleep:So the spirit bows before thee,To listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.

And the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o’er the deep;Whose breast is gently heaving,As an infant’s asleep:So the spirit bows before thee,To listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.

599.

SO, we’ll go no more a-rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we’ll go no more a-rovingBy the light of the moon.

SO, we’ll go no more a-rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we’ll go no more a-rovingBy the light of the moon.

600.

SHE walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow’d to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair’d the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o’er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!

One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair’d the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o’er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!

601.

THE isles of Greece! the isles of GreeceWhere burning Sappho loved and sung,Where grew the arts of war and peace,Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung!Eternal summer gilds them yet,But all, except their sun, is set.The Scian and the Teian muse,The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,Have found the fame your shores refuse:Their place of birth alone is muteTo sounds which echo further westThan your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And musing there an hour alone,I dream’d that Greece might still be free;For standing on the Persians’ grave,I could not deem myself a slave.A king sate on the rocky browWhich looks o’er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations;—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And when the sun set, where were they?And where are they? and where art thou,My country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now—The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?’Tis something in the dearth of fame,Though link’d among a fetter’d race,To feel at least a patriot’s shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.Mustwebut weep o’er days more blest?Mustwebut blush?—Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrent’s fall,And answer, ‘Let one living head,But one, arise,—we come, we come!’’Tis but the living who are dumb.In vain—in vain: strike other chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal!You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?Of two such lessons, why forgetThe nobler and the manlier one?You have the letters Cadmus gave—Think ye he meant them for a slave?Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!We will not think of themes like these!It made Anacreon’s song divine:He served—but served Polycrates—A tyrant; but our masters thenWere still, at least, our countrymen.The tyrant of the ChersoneseWas freedom’s best and bravest friend;Thattyrant was Miltiades!O that the present hour would lendAnother despot of the kind!Such chains as his were sure to bind.Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!On Suli’s rock, and Parga’s shore,Exists the remnant of a lineSuch as the Doric mothers bore;And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,The Heracleidan blood might own.Trust not for freedom to the Franks—They have a king who buys and sells;In native swords and native ranksThe only hope of courage dwells:But Turkish force and Latin fraudWould break your shield, however broad.Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine;But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,Where nothing, save the waves and I,May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

The Scian and the Teian muse,The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute,Have found the fame your shores refuse:Their place of birth alone is muteTo sounds which echo further westThan your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’

The mountains look on Marathon—And Marathon looks on the sea;And musing there an hour alone,I dream’d that Greece might still be free;For standing on the Persians’ grave,I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky browWhich looks o’er sea-born Salamis;And ships, by thousands, lay below,And men in nations;—all were his!He counted them at break of day—And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou,My country? On thy voiceless shoreThe heroic lay is tuneless now—The heroic bosom beats no more!And must thy lyre, so long divine,Degenerate into hands like mine?

’Tis something in the dearth of fame,Though link’d among a fetter’d race,To feel at least a patriot’s shame,Even as I sing, suffuse my face;For what is left the poet here?For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.

Mustwebut weep o’er days more blest?Mustwebut blush?—Our fathers bled.Earth! render back from out thy breastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three,To make a new Thermopylæ!

What, silent still? and silent all?Ah! no;—the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrent’s fall,And answer, ‘Let one living head,But one, arise,—we come, we come!’’Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain—in vain: strike other chords;Fill high the cup with Samian wine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call—How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?Of two such lessons, why forgetThe nobler and the manlier one?You have the letters Cadmus gave—Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!We will not think of themes like these!It made Anacreon’s song divine:He served—but served Polycrates—A tyrant; but our masters thenWere still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the ChersoneseWas freedom’s best and bravest friend;Thattyrant was Miltiades!O that the present hour would lendAnother despot of the kind!Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!On Suli’s rock, and Parga’s shore,Exists the remnant of a lineSuch as the Doric mothers bore;And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks—They have a king who buys and sells;In native swords and native ranksThe only hope of courage dwells:But Turkish force and Latin fraudWould break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!Our virgins dance beneath the shade—I see their glorious black eyes shine;But gazing on each glowing maid,My own the burning tear-drop laves,To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep,Where nothing, save the waves and I,May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;There, swan-like, let me sing and die:A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

1788-1846

602.

ALL holy influences dwell withinThe breast of Childhood: instincts fresh from GodInspire it, ere the heart beneath the rodOf grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin.How mighty was that fervour which could winIts way to infant souls!—and was the sodOf Palestine by infant Croises trod?Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin,In all their touching beauty to redeem?And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre?Alas! the lovely pageant as a dreamFaded! They sank not through ignoble fear;They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream,In sands, in fens, they died—no mother near!

1791-1823

603.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO’er the grave where our hero we buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeam’s misty lightAnd the lanthorn dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his restWith his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought, as we hollow’d his narrow bedAnd smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,And we far away on the billow!Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him—But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shotO’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning,By the struggling moonbeam’s misty lightAnd the lanthorn dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;But he lay like a warrior taking his restWith his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,And we spoke not a word of sorrow;But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow’d his narrow bedAnd smoothed down his lonely pillow,That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone,And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him—But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep onIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was doneWhen the clock struck the hour for retiring;And we heard the distant and random gunThat the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,From the field of his fame fresh and gory;We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,But we left him alone with his glory.

604.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,I might not weep for thee;But I forgot, when by thy side,That thou couldst mortal be:It never through my mind had pastThe time would e’er be o’er,And I on thee should look my last,And thou shouldst smile no more!And still upon that face I look,And think ’twill smile again;And still the thought I will not brook,That I must look in vain.But when I speak—thou dost not sayWhat thou ne’er left’st unsaid;And now I feel, as well I may,Sweet Mary, thou art dead!If thou wouldst stay, e’en as thou art,All cold and all serene—I still might press thy silent heart,And where thy smiles have been.While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have,Thou seemest still mine own;But there—I lay thee in thy grave,And I am now alone!I do not think, where’er thou art,Thou hast forgotten me;And I, perhaps, may soothe this heartIn thinking too of thee:Yet there was round thee such a dawnOf light ne’er seen before,As fancy never could have drawn,And never can restore!

And still upon that face I look,And think ’twill smile again;And still the thought I will not brook,That I must look in vain.But when I speak—thou dost not sayWhat thou ne’er left’st unsaid;And now I feel, as well I may,Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e’en as thou art,All cold and all serene—I still might press thy silent heart,And where thy smiles have been.While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have,Thou seemest still mine own;But there—I lay thee in thy grave,And I am now alone!

I do not think, where’er thou art,Thou hast forgotten me;And I, perhaps, may soothe this heartIn thinking too of thee:Yet there was round thee such a dawnOf light ne’er seen before,As fancy never could have drawn,And never can restore!

1792-1822

605.

FROM the forests and highlandsWe come, we come;From the river-girt islands,Where loud waves are dumb,Listening to my sweet pipings.The wind in the reeds and the rushes,The bees on the bells of thyme,The birds on the myrtle bushes,The cicale above in the lime,And the lizards below in the grass,Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,Listening to my sweet pipings.Liquid Peneus was flowing,And all dark Tempe layIn Pelion’s shadow, outgrowingThe light of the dying day,Speeded by my sweet pipings.The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,To the edge of the moist river-lawns,And the brink of the dewy caves,And all that did then attend and follow,Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,With envy of my sweet pipings.I sang of the dancing stars,I sang of the dædal earth,And of heaven, and the giant wars,And love, and death, and birth.And then I changed my pipings—Singing how down the vale of MænalusI pursued a maiden, and clasp’d a reed:Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.All wept—as I think both ye now would,If envy or age had not frozen your blood—At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,And all dark Tempe layIn Pelion’s shadow, outgrowingThe light of the dying day,Speeded by my sweet pipings.The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns,And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,To the edge of the moist river-lawns,And the brink of the dewy caves,And all that did then attend and follow,Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,I sang of the dædal earth,And of heaven, and the giant wars,And love, and death, and birth.And then I changed my pipings—Singing how down the vale of MænalusI pursued a maiden, and clasp’d a reed:Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.All wept—as I think both ye now would,If envy or age had not frozen your blood—At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

606.

BEST and brightest, come away!Fairer far than this fair Day,Which, like thee to those in sorrow,Comes to bid a sweet good-morrowTo the rough Year just awakeIn its cradle on the brake.The brightest hour of unborn Spring,Through the winter wandering,Found, it seems, the halcyon MornTo hoar February born.Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,It kiss’d the forehead of the Earth;And smiled upon the silent sea;And bade the frozen streams be free;And waked to music all their fountains;And breathed upon the frozen mountains;And like a prophetess of MayStrew’d flowers upon the barren way,Making the wintry world appearLike one on whom thou smilest, dear.Away, away, from men and towns,To the wild wood and the downs—To the silent wildernessWhere the soul need not repressIts music lest it should not findAn echo in another’s mind,While the touch of Nature’s artHarmonizes heart to heart.I leave this notice on my doorFor each accustomed visitor:—‘I am gone into the fieldsTo take what this sweet hour yields.Reflection, you may come to-morrow;Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.You with the unpaid bill, Despair,—You tiresome verse-reciter, Care,—I will pay you in the grave,—Death will listen to your stave.Expectation too, be off!To-day is for itself enough.Hope, in pity, mock not WoeWith smiles, nor follow where I go;Long having lived on your sweet food,At length I find one moment’s goodAfter long pain: with all your love,This you never told me of.’Radiant Sister of the Day,Awake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains;And the pools where winter rainsImage all their roof of leaves;Where the pine its garland weavesOf sapless green and ivy dunRound stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures be,And the sandhills of the sea;When the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets,And wind-flowers, and violetsWhich yet join not scent to hue,Crown the pale year weak and new;When the night is left behindIn the deep east, dun and blind,And the blue noon is over us,And the multitudinousBillows murmur at our feetWhere the earth and ocean meet,And all things seem only oneIn the universal sun.

Away, away, from men and towns,To the wild wood and the downs—To the silent wildernessWhere the soul need not repressIts music lest it should not findAn echo in another’s mind,While the touch of Nature’s artHarmonizes heart to heart.I leave this notice on my doorFor each accustomed visitor:—‘I am gone into the fieldsTo take what this sweet hour yields.Reflection, you may come to-morrow;Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.You with the unpaid bill, Despair,—You tiresome verse-reciter, Care,—I will pay you in the grave,—Death will listen to your stave.Expectation too, be off!To-day is for itself enough.Hope, in pity, mock not WoeWith smiles, nor follow where I go;Long having lived on your sweet food,At length I find one moment’s goodAfter long pain: with all your love,This you never told me of.’

Radiant Sister of the Day,Awake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains;And the pools where winter rainsImage all their roof of leaves;Where the pine its garland weavesOf sapless green and ivy dunRound stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures be,And the sandhills of the sea;When the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets,And wind-flowers, and violetsWhich yet join not scent to hue,Crown the pale year weak and new;When the night is left behindIn the deep east, dun and blind,And the blue noon is over us,And the multitudinousBillows murmur at our feetWhere the earth and ocean meet,And all things seem only oneIn the universal sun.

607.

THE world’s great age begins anew,The golden years return,The earth doth like a snake renewHer winter weeds outworn:Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleamLike wrecks of a dissolving dream.A brighter Hellas rears its mountainsFrom waves serener far;A new Peneus rolls his fountainsAgainst the morning star;Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleepYoung Cyclads on a sunnier deep.A loftier Argo cleaves the main,Fraught with a later prize;Another Orpheus sings again,And loves, and weeps, and dies;A new Ulysses leaves once moreCalypso for his native shore.O write no more the tale of Troy,If earth Death’s scroll must be—Nor mix with Laian rage the joyWhich dawns upon the free,Although a subtler Sphinx renewRiddles of death Thebes never knew.Another Athens shall arise,And to remoter timeBequeath, like sunset to the skies,The splendour of its prime;And leave, if naught so bright may live,All earth can take or Heaven can give.Saturn and Love their long reposeShall burst, more bright and goodThan all who fell, than One who rose,Than many unsubdued:Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,But votive tears and symbol flowers.O cease! must hate and death return?Cease! must men kill and die?Cease! drain not to its dregs the urnOf bitter prophecy!The world is weary of the past—O might it die or rest at last!

THE world’s great age begins anew,The golden years return,The earth doth like a snake renewHer winter weeds outworn:Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleamLike wrecks of a dissolving dream.

A brighter Hellas rears its mountainsFrom waves serener far;A new Peneus rolls his fountainsAgainst the morning star;Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleepYoung Cyclads on a sunnier deep.

A loftier Argo cleaves the main,Fraught with a later prize;Another Orpheus sings again,And loves, and weeps, and dies;A new Ulysses leaves once moreCalypso for his native shore.

O write no more the tale of Troy,If earth Death’s scroll must be—Nor mix with Laian rage the joyWhich dawns upon the free,Although a subtler Sphinx renewRiddles of death Thebes never knew.

Another Athens shall arise,And to remoter timeBequeath, like sunset to the skies,The splendour of its prime;And leave, if naught so bright may live,All earth can take or Heaven can give.

Saturn and Love their long reposeShall burst, more bright and goodThan all who fell, than One who rose,Than many unsubdued:Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,But votive tears and symbol flowers.

O cease! must hate and death return?Cease! must men kill and die?Cease! drain not to its dregs the urnOf bitter prophecy!The world is weary of the past—O might it die or rest at last!

608.

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