OMY Dark Rosaleen,Do not sigh, do not weep!The priests are on the ocean green,They march along the deep.There’s wine from the royal Pope,Upon the ocean green;And Spanish ale shall give you hope,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,Shall give you health, and help, and hope,My Dark Rosaleen!Over hills, and thro’ dales,Have I roam’d for your sake;All yesterday I sail’d with sailsOn river and on lake.The Erne, at its highest flood,I dash’d across unseen,For there was lightning in my blood,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!O, there was lightning in my blood,Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood.My Dark Rosaleen!All day long, in unrest,To and fro, do I move.The very soul within my breastIs wasted for you, love!The heart in my bosom faintsTo think of you, my Queen,My life of life, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!To hear your sweet and sad complaints,My life, my love, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!Woe and pain, pain and woe,Are my lot, night and noon,To see your bright face clouded so,Like to the mournful moon.But yet will I rear your throneAgain in golden sheen;’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!’Tis you shall have the golden throne,’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!Over dews, over sands,Will I fly, for your weal:Your holy delicate white handsShall girdle me with steel.At home, in your emerald bowers,From morning’s dawn till e’en,You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!You’ll think of me through daylight hours,My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!I could scale the blue air,I could plough the high hills,O, I could kneel all night in prayer,To heal your many ills!And one beamy smile from youWould float like light betweenMy toils and me, my own, my true,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!Would give me life and soul anew,A second life, a soul anew,My Dark Rosaleen!O, the Erne shall run red,With redundance of blood,The earth shall rock beneath our tread,And flames wrap hill and wood,And gun-peal and slogan-cryWake many a glen serene,Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!The Judgement Hour must first be nigh,Ere you can fade, ere you can die,My Dark Rosaleen!
OMY Dark Rosaleen,Do not sigh, do not weep!The priests are on the ocean green,They march along the deep.There’s wine from the royal Pope,Upon the ocean green;And Spanish ale shall give you hope,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,Shall give you health, and help, and hope,My Dark Rosaleen!Over hills, and thro’ dales,Have I roam’d for your sake;All yesterday I sail’d with sailsOn river and on lake.The Erne, at its highest flood,I dash’d across unseen,For there was lightning in my blood,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!O, there was lightning in my blood,Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood.My Dark Rosaleen!All day long, in unrest,To and fro, do I move.The very soul within my breastIs wasted for you, love!The heart in my bosom faintsTo think of you, my Queen,My life of life, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!To hear your sweet and sad complaints,My life, my love, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!Woe and pain, pain and woe,Are my lot, night and noon,To see your bright face clouded so,Like to the mournful moon.But yet will I rear your throneAgain in golden sheen;’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!’Tis you shall have the golden throne,’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!Over dews, over sands,Will I fly, for your weal:Your holy delicate white handsShall girdle me with steel.At home, in your emerald bowers,From morning’s dawn till e’en,You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!You’ll think of me through daylight hours,My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!I could scale the blue air,I could plough the high hills,O, I could kneel all night in prayer,To heal your many ills!And one beamy smile from youWould float like light betweenMy toils and me, my own, my true,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!Would give me life and soul anew,A second life, a soul anew,My Dark Rosaleen!O, the Erne shall run red,With redundance of blood,The earth shall rock beneath our tread,And flames wrap hill and wood,And gun-peal and slogan-cryWake many a glen serene,Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!The Judgement Hour must first be nigh,Ere you can fade, ere you can die,My Dark Rosaleen!
OMY Dark Rosaleen,Do not sigh, do not weep!The priests are on the ocean green,They march along the deep.There’s wine from the royal Pope,Upon the ocean green;And Spanish ale shall give you hope,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,Shall give you health, and help, and hope,My Dark Rosaleen!
Over hills, and thro’ dales,Have I roam’d for your sake;All yesterday I sail’d with sailsOn river and on lake.The Erne, at its highest flood,I dash’d across unseen,For there was lightning in my blood,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!O, there was lightning in my blood,Red lightning lighten’d thro’ my blood.My Dark Rosaleen!
All day long, in unrest,To and fro, do I move.The very soul within my breastIs wasted for you, love!The heart in my bosom faintsTo think of you, my Queen,My life of life, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!To hear your sweet and sad complaints,My life, my love, my saint of saints,My Dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,Are my lot, night and noon,To see your bright face clouded so,Like to the mournful moon.But yet will I rear your throneAgain in golden sheen;’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!’Tis you shall have the golden throne,’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,My Dark Rosaleen!
Over dews, over sands,Will I fly, for your weal:Your holy delicate white handsShall girdle me with steel.At home, in your emerald bowers,From morning’s dawn till e’en,You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!You’ll think of me through daylight hours,My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,My Dark Rosaleen!
I could scale the blue air,I could plough the high hills,O, I could kneel all night in prayer,To heal your many ills!And one beamy smile from youWould float like light betweenMy toils and me, my own, my true,My Dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!Would give me life and soul anew,A second life, a soul anew,My Dark Rosaleen!
O, the Erne shall run red,With redundance of blood,The earth shall rock beneath our tread,And flames wrap hill and wood,And gun-peal and slogan-cryWake many a glen serene,Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,My Dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!The Judgement Hour must first be nigh,Ere you can fade, ere you can die,My Dark Rosaleen!
665.
ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river,That sweeps along to the mighty sea;God will inspire me while I deliverMy soul of thee!Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whiteningAmid the last homes of youth and eld,That once there was one whose veins ran lightningNo eye beheld.Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,No star of all heaven sends to light ourPath to the tomb.Roll on, my song, and to after agesTell how, disdaining all earth can give,He would have taught men, from wisdom’s pages,The way to live.And tell how trampled, derided, hated,And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,He fled for shelter to God, who matedHis soul with song.—With song which alway, sublime or vapid,Flow’d like a rill in the morning beam,Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid—A mountain stream.Tell how this Nameless, condemn’d for years longTo herd with demons from hell beneath,Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, longFor even death.Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,Betray’d in friendship, befool’d in love,With spirit shipwreck’d, and young hopes blasted,He still, still strove;Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others(And some whose hands should have wrought for him,If children live not for sires and mothers),His mind grew dim;And he fell far through that pit abysmal,The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,And pawn’d his soul for the devil’s dismalStock of returns.But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,And shapes and signs of the final wrath,When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,Stood on his path.And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,He bides in calmness the silent morrow,That no ray lights.And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoaryAt thirty-nine, from despair and woe,He lives, enduring what future storyWill never know.Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!He too, had tears for all souls in trouble,Here and in hell.
ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river,That sweeps along to the mighty sea;God will inspire me while I deliverMy soul of thee!Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whiteningAmid the last homes of youth and eld,That once there was one whose veins ran lightningNo eye beheld.Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,No star of all heaven sends to light ourPath to the tomb.Roll on, my song, and to after agesTell how, disdaining all earth can give,He would have taught men, from wisdom’s pages,The way to live.And tell how trampled, derided, hated,And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,He fled for shelter to God, who matedHis soul with song.—With song which alway, sublime or vapid,Flow’d like a rill in the morning beam,Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid—A mountain stream.Tell how this Nameless, condemn’d for years longTo herd with demons from hell beneath,Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, longFor even death.Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,Betray’d in friendship, befool’d in love,With spirit shipwreck’d, and young hopes blasted,He still, still strove;Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others(And some whose hands should have wrought for him,If children live not for sires and mothers),His mind grew dim;And he fell far through that pit abysmal,The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,And pawn’d his soul for the devil’s dismalStock of returns.But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,And shapes and signs of the final wrath,When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,Stood on his path.And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,He bides in calmness the silent morrow,That no ray lights.And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoaryAt thirty-nine, from despair and woe,He lives, enduring what future storyWill never know.Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!He too, had tears for all souls in trouble,Here and in hell.
ROLL forth, my song, like the rushing river,That sweeps along to the mighty sea;God will inspire me while I deliverMy soul of thee!
Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whiteningAmid the last homes of youth and eld,That once there was one whose veins ran lightningNo eye beheld.
Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,How shone for him, through his griefs and gloom,No star of all heaven sends to light ourPath to the tomb.
Roll on, my song, and to after agesTell how, disdaining all earth can give,He would have taught men, from wisdom’s pages,The way to live.
And tell how trampled, derided, hated,And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,He fled for shelter to God, who matedHis soul with song.
—With song which alway, sublime or vapid,Flow’d like a rill in the morning beam,Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid—A mountain stream.
Tell how this Nameless, condemn’d for years longTo herd with demons from hell beneath,Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, longFor even death.
Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,Betray’d in friendship, befool’d in love,With spirit shipwreck’d, and young hopes blasted,He still, still strove;
Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others(And some whose hands should have wrought for him,If children live not for sires and mothers),His mind grew dim;
And he fell far through that pit abysmal,The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns,And pawn’d his soul for the devil’s dismalStock of returns.
But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,And shapes and signs of the final wrath,When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,Stood on his path.
And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,He bides in calmness the silent morrow,That no ray lights.
And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoaryAt thirty-nine, from despair and woe,He lives, enduring what future storyWill never know.
Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,Deep in your bosoms: there let him dwell!He too, had tears for all souls in trouble,Here and in hell.
1803-1849
666.
IF thou wilt ease thine heartOf love and all its smart,Then sleep, dear, sleep;And not a sorrowHang any tear on your eyelashes;Lie still and deep,Sad soul, until the sea-wave washesThe rim of the sun to-morrow,In eastern sky.But wilt thou cure thine heartOf love and all its smart,Then die, dear, die;’Tis deeper, sweeter,Than on a rose-bank to lie dreamingWith folded eye;And there alone, amid the beamingOf Love’s stars, thou’lt meet herIn eastern sky.
IF thou wilt ease thine heartOf love and all its smart,Then sleep, dear, sleep;And not a sorrowHang any tear on your eyelashes;Lie still and deep,Sad soul, until the sea-wave washesThe rim of the sun to-morrow,In eastern sky.But wilt thou cure thine heartOf love and all its smart,Then die, dear, die;’Tis deeper, sweeter,Than on a rose-bank to lie dreamingWith folded eye;And there alone, amid the beamingOf Love’s stars, thou’lt meet herIn eastern sky.
IF thou wilt ease thine heartOf love and all its smart,Then sleep, dear, sleep;And not a sorrowHang any tear on your eyelashes;Lie still and deep,Sad soul, until the sea-wave washesThe rim of the sun to-morrow,In eastern sky.
But wilt thou cure thine heartOf love and all its smart,Then die, dear, die;’Tis deeper, sweeter,Than on a rose-bank to lie dreamingWith folded eye;And there alone, amid the beamingOf Love’s stars, thou’lt meet herIn eastern sky.
667.
IF there were dreams to sell,What would you buy?Some cost a passing bell;Some a light sigh,That shakes from Life’s fresh crownOnly a rose-leaf down.If there were dreams to sell,Merry and sad to tell,And the crier rang the bell,What would you buy?A cottage lone and still,With bowers nigh,Shadowy, my woes to still,Until I die.Such pearl from Life’s fresh crownFain would I shake me down.Were dreams to have at will,This would best heal my ill,This would I buy.
IF there were dreams to sell,What would you buy?Some cost a passing bell;Some a light sigh,That shakes from Life’s fresh crownOnly a rose-leaf down.If there were dreams to sell,Merry and sad to tell,And the crier rang the bell,What would you buy?A cottage lone and still,With bowers nigh,Shadowy, my woes to still,Until I die.Such pearl from Life’s fresh crownFain would I shake me down.Were dreams to have at will,This would best heal my ill,This would I buy.
IF there were dreams to sell,What would you buy?Some cost a passing bell;Some a light sigh,That shakes from Life’s fresh crownOnly a rose-leaf down.If there were dreams to sell,Merry and sad to tell,And the crier rang the bell,What would you buy?
A cottage lone and still,With bowers nigh,Shadowy, my woes to still,Until I die.Such pearl from Life’s fresh crownFain would I shake me down.Were dreams to have at will,This would best heal my ill,This would I buy.
668.
HOW many times do I love thee, dear?Tell me how many thoughts there beIn the atmosphereOf a new-fall’n year,Whose white and sable hours appearThe latest flake of Eternity:So many times do I love thee, dear.How many times do I love again?Tell me how many beads there areIn a silver chainOf evening rain,Unravell’d from the tumbling main,And threading the eye of a yellow star:So many times do I love again.
HOW many times do I love thee, dear?Tell me how many thoughts there beIn the atmosphereOf a new-fall’n year,Whose white and sable hours appearThe latest flake of Eternity:So many times do I love thee, dear.How many times do I love again?Tell me how many beads there areIn a silver chainOf evening rain,Unravell’d from the tumbling main,And threading the eye of a yellow star:So many times do I love again.
HOW many times do I love thee, dear?Tell me how many thoughts there beIn the atmosphereOf a new-fall’n year,Whose white and sable hours appearThe latest flake of Eternity:So many times do I love thee, dear.
How many times do I love again?Tell me how many beads there areIn a silver chainOf evening rain,Unravell’d from the tumbling main,And threading the eye of a yellow star:So many times do I love again.
1803-1882
669.
GIVE all to love;Obey thy heart;Friends, kindred, days,Estate, good fame,Plans, credit, and the Muse—Nothing refuse.’Tis a brave master;Let it have scope:Follow it utterly,Hope beyond hope:High and more highIt dives into noon,With wing unspent,Untold intent;But it is a god,Knows its own path,And the outlets of the sky.It was never for the mean;It requireth courage stout,Souls above doubt,Valour unbending:Such ’twill reward;—They shall returnMore than they were,And ever ascending.Leave all for love;Yet, hear me, yet,One word more thy heart behoved,One pulse more of firm endeavour—Keep thee to-day,To-morrow, for ever,Free as an ArabOf thy beloved.Cling with life to the maid;But when the surprise,First vague shadow of surmise,Flits across her bosom young,Of a joy apart from thee,Free be she, fancy-free;Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem,Nor the palest rose she flungFrom her summer diadem.Though thou loved her as thyself,As a self of purer clay;Though her parting dims the day,Stealing grace from all alive;Heartily know,When half-gods goThe gods arrive.
GIVE all to love;Obey thy heart;Friends, kindred, days,Estate, good fame,Plans, credit, and the Muse—Nothing refuse.’Tis a brave master;Let it have scope:Follow it utterly,Hope beyond hope:High and more highIt dives into noon,With wing unspent,Untold intent;But it is a god,Knows its own path,And the outlets of the sky.It was never for the mean;It requireth courage stout,Souls above doubt,Valour unbending:Such ’twill reward;—They shall returnMore than they were,And ever ascending.Leave all for love;Yet, hear me, yet,One word more thy heart behoved,One pulse more of firm endeavour—Keep thee to-day,To-morrow, for ever,Free as an ArabOf thy beloved.Cling with life to the maid;But when the surprise,First vague shadow of surmise,Flits across her bosom young,Of a joy apart from thee,Free be she, fancy-free;Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem,Nor the palest rose she flungFrom her summer diadem.Though thou loved her as thyself,As a self of purer clay;Though her parting dims the day,Stealing grace from all alive;Heartily know,When half-gods goThe gods arrive.
GIVE all to love;Obey thy heart;Friends, kindred, days,Estate, good fame,Plans, credit, and the Muse—Nothing refuse.
’Tis a brave master;Let it have scope:Follow it utterly,Hope beyond hope:High and more highIt dives into noon,With wing unspent,Untold intent;But it is a god,Knows its own path,And the outlets of the sky.
It was never for the mean;It requireth courage stout,Souls above doubt,Valour unbending:Such ’twill reward;—They shall returnMore than they were,And ever ascending.
Leave all for love;Yet, hear me, yet,One word more thy heart behoved,One pulse more of firm endeavour—Keep thee to-day,To-morrow, for ever,Free as an ArabOf thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;But when the surprise,First vague shadow of surmise,Flits across her bosom young,Of a joy apart from thee,Free be she, fancy-free;Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem,Nor the palest rose she flungFrom her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself,As a self of purer clay;Though her parting dims the day,Stealing grace from all alive;Heartily know,When half-gods goThe gods arrive.
670.
IT fell in the ancient periodsWhich the brooding soul surveys,Or ever the wild Time coin’d itselfInto calendar months and days.This was the lapse of Uriel,Which in Paradise befell.Once, among the Pleiads walking,Sayd overheard the young gods talking;And the treason, too long pent,To his ears was evident.The young deities discuss’dLaws of form, and metre just,Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,What subsisteth, and what seems.One, with low tones that decide,And doubt and reverend use defied,With a look that solved the sphere,And stirr’d the devils everywhere,Gave his sentiment divineAgainst the being of a line.‘Line in nature is not found;Unit and universe are round;In vain produced, all rays return;Evil will bless, and ice will burn.’As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,A shudder ran around the sky;The stern old war-gods shook their heads;The seraphs frown’d from myrtle-beds;Seem’d to the holy festivalThe rash word boded ill to all;The balance-beam of Fate was bent;The bounds of good and ill were rent;Strong Hades could not keep his own,But all slid to confusion.A sad self-knowledge withering fellOn the beauty of Uriel;In heaven once eminent, the godWithdrew that hour into his cloud;Whether doom’d to long gyrationIn the sea of generation,Or by knowledge grown too brightTo hit the nerve of feebler sight.Straightway a forgetting windStole over the celestial kind,And their lips the secret kept,If in ashes the fire-seed slept.But, now and then, truth-speaking thingsShamed the angels’ veiling wings;And, shrilling from the solar course,Or from fruit of chemic force,Procession of a soul in matter,Or the speeding change of water,Or out of the good of evil born,Came Uriel’s voice of cherub scorn,And a blush tinged the upper sky,And the gods shook, they knew not why.
IT fell in the ancient periodsWhich the brooding soul surveys,Or ever the wild Time coin’d itselfInto calendar months and days.This was the lapse of Uriel,Which in Paradise befell.Once, among the Pleiads walking,Sayd overheard the young gods talking;And the treason, too long pent,To his ears was evident.The young deities discuss’dLaws of form, and metre just,Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,What subsisteth, and what seems.One, with low tones that decide,And doubt and reverend use defied,With a look that solved the sphere,And stirr’d the devils everywhere,Gave his sentiment divineAgainst the being of a line.‘Line in nature is not found;Unit and universe are round;In vain produced, all rays return;Evil will bless, and ice will burn.’As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,A shudder ran around the sky;The stern old war-gods shook their heads;The seraphs frown’d from myrtle-beds;Seem’d to the holy festivalThe rash word boded ill to all;The balance-beam of Fate was bent;The bounds of good and ill were rent;Strong Hades could not keep his own,But all slid to confusion.A sad self-knowledge withering fellOn the beauty of Uriel;In heaven once eminent, the godWithdrew that hour into his cloud;Whether doom’d to long gyrationIn the sea of generation,Or by knowledge grown too brightTo hit the nerve of feebler sight.Straightway a forgetting windStole over the celestial kind,And their lips the secret kept,If in ashes the fire-seed slept.But, now and then, truth-speaking thingsShamed the angels’ veiling wings;And, shrilling from the solar course,Or from fruit of chemic force,Procession of a soul in matter,Or the speeding change of water,Or out of the good of evil born,Came Uriel’s voice of cherub scorn,And a blush tinged the upper sky,And the gods shook, they knew not why.
IT fell in the ancient periodsWhich the brooding soul surveys,Or ever the wild Time coin’d itselfInto calendar months and days.
This was the lapse of Uriel,Which in Paradise befell.Once, among the Pleiads walking,Sayd overheard the young gods talking;And the treason, too long pent,To his ears was evident.The young deities discuss’dLaws of form, and metre just,Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,What subsisteth, and what seems.One, with low tones that decide,And doubt and reverend use defied,With a look that solved the sphere,And stirr’d the devils everywhere,Gave his sentiment divineAgainst the being of a line.‘Line in nature is not found;Unit and universe are round;In vain produced, all rays return;Evil will bless, and ice will burn.’As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,A shudder ran around the sky;The stern old war-gods shook their heads;The seraphs frown’d from myrtle-beds;Seem’d to the holy festivalThe rash word boded ill to all;The balance-beam of Fate was bent;The bounds of good and ill were rent;Strong Hades could not keep his own,But all slid to confusion.
A sad self-knowledge withering fellOn the beauty of Uriel;In heaven once eminent, the godWithdrew that hour into his cloud;Whether doom’d to long gyrationIn the sea of generation,Or by knowledge grown too brightTo hit the nerve of feebler sight.Straightway a forgetting windStole over the celestial kind,And their lips the secret kept,If in ashes the fire-seed slept.But, now and then, truth-speaking thingsShamed the angels’ veiling wings;And, shrilling from the solar course,Or from fruit of chemic force,Procession of a soul in matter,Or the speeding change of water,Or out of the good of evil born,Came Uriel’s voice of cherub scorn,And a blush tinged the upper sky,And the gods shook, they knew not why.
671.
BRING me wine, but wine which never grewIn the belly of the grape,Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching throughUnder the Andes to the Cape,Suffer’d no savour of the earth to ’scape.Let its grapes the morn saluteFrom a nocturnal root,Which feels the acrid juiceOf Styx and Erebus;And turns the woe of Night,By its own craft, to a more rich delight.We buy ashes for bread;We buy diluted wine;Give me of the true,Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl’dAmong the silver hills of heavenDraw everlasting dew;Wine of wine,Blood of the world,Form of forms, and mould of statures,That I intoxicated,And by the draught assimilated,May float at pleasure through all natures;The bird-language rightly spell,And that which roses say so well:Wine that is shedLike the torrents of the sunUp the horizon walls,Or like the Atlantic streams, which runWhen the South Sea calls.Water and bread,Food which needs no transmuting,Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,Wine which is already man,Food which teach and reason can.Wine which Music is,—Music and wine are one,—That I, drinking this,Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;Kings unborn shall walk with me;And the poor grass shall plot and planWhat it will do when it is man.Quicken’d so, will I unlockEvery crypt of every rock.I thank the joyful juiceFor all I know;Winds of rememberingOf the ancient being blow,And seeming-solid walls of useOpen and flow.Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;Retrieve the loss of me and mine!Vine for vine be antidote,And the grape requite the lote!Haste to cure the old despair;Reason in Nature’s lotus drench’d—The memory of ages quench’d—Give them again to shine;Let wine repair what this undid;And where the infection slid,A dazzling memory revive;Refresh the faded tints,Recut the agèd prints,And write my old adventures with the penWhich on the first day drew,Upon the tablets blue,The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
BRING me wine, but wine which never grewIn the belly of the grape,Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching throughUnder the Andes to the Cape,Suffer’d no savour of the earth to ’scape.Let its grapes the morn saluteFrom a nocturnal root,Which feels the acrid juiceOf Styx and Erebus;And turns the woe of Night,By its own craft, to a more rich delight.We buy ashes for bread;We buy diluted wine;Give me of the true,Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl’dAmong the silver hills of heavenDraw everlasting dew;Wine of wine,Blood of the world,Form of forms, and mould of statures,That I intoxicated,And by the draught assimilated,May float at pleasure through all natures;The bird-language rightly spell,And that which roses say so well:Wine that is shedLike the torrents of the sunUp the horizon walls,Or like the Atlantic streams, which runWhen the South Sea calls.Water and bread,Food which needs no transmuting,Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,Wine which is already man,Food which teach and reason can.Wine which Music is,—Music and wine are one,—That I, drinking this,Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;Kings unborn shall walk with me;And the poor grass shall plot and planWhat it will do when it is man.Quicken’d so, will I unlockEvery crypt of every rock.I thank the joyful juiceFor all I know;Winds of rememberingOf the ancient being blow,And seeming-solid walls of useOpen and flow.Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;Retrieve the loss of me and mine!Vine for vine be antidote,And the grape requite the lote!Haste to cure the old despair;Reason in Nature’s lotus drench’d—The memory of ages quench’d—Give them again to shine;Let wine repair what this undid;And where the infection slid,A dazzling memory revive;Refresh the faded tints,Recut the agèd prints,And write my old adventures with the penWhich on the first day drew,Upon the tablets blue,The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
BRING me wine, but wine which never grewIn the belly of the grape,Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching throughUnder the Andes to the Cape,Suffer’d no savour of the earth to ’scape.
Let its grapes the morn saluteFrom a nocturnal root,Which feels the acrid juiceOf Styx and Erebus;And turns the woe of Night,By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;We buy diluted wine;Give me of the true,Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl’dAmong the silver hills of heavenDraw everlasting dew;Wine of wine,Blood of the world,Form of forms, and mould of statures,That I intoxicated,And by the draught assimilated,May float at pleasure through all natures;The bird-language rightly spell,And that which roses say so well:
Wine that is shedLike the torrents of the sunUp the horizon walls,Or like the Atlantic streams, which runWhen the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,Food which needs no transmuting,Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,Wine which is already man,Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,—Music and wine are one,—That I, drinking this,Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;Kings unborn shall walk with me;And the poor grass shall plot and planWhat it will do when it is man.Quicken’d so, will I unlockEvery crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juiceFor all I know;Winds of rememberingOf the ancient being blow,And seeming-solid walls of useOpen and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;Retrieve the loss of me and mine!Vine for vine be antidote,And the grape requite the lote!Haste to cure the old despair;Reason in Nature’s lotus drench’d—The memory of ages quench’d—Give them again to shine;Let wine repair what this undid;And where the infection slid,A dazzling memory revive;Refresh the faded tints,Recut the agèd prints,And write my old adventures with the penWhich on the first day drew,Upon the tablets blue,The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
672.
IF the red slayer think he slays,Or if the slain think he is slain,They know not well the subtle waysI keep, and pass, and turn again.Far or forgot to me is near;Shadow and sunlight are the same;The vanish’d gods to me appear;And one to me are shame and fame.They reckon ill who leave me out;When me they fly, I am the wings;I am the doubter and the doubt,And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.The strong gods pine for my abode,And pine in vain the sacred Seven;But thou, meek lover of the good!Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
IF the red slayer think he slays,Or if the slain think he is slain,They know not well the subtle waysI keep, and pass, and turn again.Far or forgot to me is near;Shadow and sunlight are the same;The vanish’d gods to me appear;And one to me are shame and fame.They reckon ill who leave me out;When me they fly, I am the wings;I am the doubter and the doubt,And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.The strong gods pine for my abode,And pine in vain the sacred Seven;But thou, meek lover of the good!Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
IF the red slayer think he slays,Or if the slain think he is slain,They know not well the subtle waysI keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;Shadow and sunlight are the same;The vanish’d gods to me appear;And one to me are shame and fame.
They reckon ill who leave me out;When me they fly, I am the wings;I am the doubter and the doubt,And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.
The strong gods pine for my abode,And pine in vain the sacred Seven;But thou, meek lover of the good!Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
1803-1884
673.
A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE
ABOVE yon sombre swell of landThou see’st the dawn’s grave orange hue,With one pale streak like yellow sand,And over that a vein of blue.The air is cold above the woods;All silent is the earth and sky,Except with his own lonely moodsThe blackbird holds a colloquy.Over the broad hill creeps a beam,Like hope that gilds a good man’s brow;And now ascends the nostril-streamOf stalwart horses come to plough.Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mindYour labour is for future hours:Advance—spare not—nor look behind—Plough deep and straight with all your powers!
ABOVE yon sombre swell of landThou see’st the dawn’s grave orange hue,With one pale streak like yellow sand,And over that a vein of blue.The air is cold above the woods;All silent is the earth and sky,Except with his own lonely moodsThe blackbird holds a colloquy.Over the broad hill creeps a beam,Like hope that gilds a good man’s brow;And now ascends the nostril-streamOf stalwart horses come to plough.Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mindYour labour is for future hours:Advance—spare not—nor look behind—Plough deep and straight with all your powers!
ABOVE yon sombre swell of landThou see’st the dawn’s grave orange hue,With one pale streak like yellow sand,And over that a vein of blue.
The air is cold above the woods;All silent is the earth and sky,Except with his own lonely moodsThe blackbird holds a colloquy.
Over the broad hill creeps a beam,Like hope that gilds a good man’s brow;And now ascends the nostril-streamOf stalwart horses come to plough.
Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mindYour labour is for future hours:Advance—spare not—nor look behind—Plough deep and straight with all your powers!
1804-1875
674.
WAES-hael for knight and dame!O merry be their dole!Drink-hael! in Jesu’s nameWe fill the tawny bowl;But cover down the curving crest,Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast.Waes-hael! yet lift no lid:Drain ye the reeds for wine.Drink-hael! the milk was hidThat soothed that Babe divine;Hush’d, as this hollow channel flows,He drew the balsam from the rose.Waes-hael! thus glow’d the breastWhere a God yearn’d to cling;Drink-hael! so Jesu press’dLife from its mystic spring;Then hush and bend in reverent signAnd breathe the thrilling reeds for wine.Waes-hael! in shadowy sceneLo! Christmas children we:Drink-hael! behold we leanAt a far Mother’s knee;To dream that thus her bosom smiled,And learn the lip of Bethlehem’s Child.
WAES-hael for knight and dame!O merry be their dole!Drink-hael! in Jesu’s nameWe fill the tawny bowl;But cover down the curving crest,Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast.Waes-hael! yet lift no lid:Drain ye the reeds for wine.Drink-hael! the milk was hidThat soothed that Babe divine;Hush’d, as this hollow channel flows,He drew the balsam from the rose.Waes-hael! thus glow’d the breastWhere a God yearn’d to cling;Drink-hael! so Jesu press’dLife from its mystic spring;Then hush and bend in reverent signAnd breathe the thrilling reeds for wine.Waes-hael! in shadowy sceneLo! Christmas children we:Drink-hael! behold we leanAt a far Mother’s knee;To dream that thus her bosom smiled,And learn the lip of Bethlehem’s Child.
WAES-hael for knight and dame!O merry be their dole!Drink-hael! in Jesu’s nameWe fill the tawny bowl;But cover down the curving crest,Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast.
Waes-hael! yet lift no lid:Drain ye the reeds for wine.Drink-hael! the milk was hidThat soothed that Babe divine;Hush’d, as this hollow channel flows,He drew the balsam from the rose.
Waes-hael! thus glow’d the breastWhere a God yearn’d to cling;Drink-hael! so Jesu press’dLife from its mystic spring;Then hush and bend in reverent signAnd breathe the thrilling reeds for wine.
Waes-hael! in shadowy sceneLo! Christmas children we:Drink-hael! behold we leanAt a far Mother’s knee;To dream that thus her bosom smiled,And learn the lip of Bethlehem’s Child.
675.
WE see them not—we cannot hearThe music of their wing—Yet know we that they sojourn near,The Angels of the spring!They glide along this lovely groundWhen the first violet grows;Their graceful hands have just unboundThe zone of yonder rose.I gather it for thy dear breast,From stain and shadow free:That which an Angel’s touch hath blestIs meet, my love, for thee!
WE see them not—we cannot hearThe music of their wing—Yet know we that they sojourn near,The Angels of the spring!They glide along this lovely groundWhen the first violet grows;Their graceful hands have just unboundThe zone of yonder rose.I gather it for thy dear breast,From stain and shadow free:That which an Angel’s touch hath blestIs meet, my love, for thee!
WE see them not—we cannot hearThe music of their wing—Yet know we that they sojourn near,The Angels of the spring!
They glide along this lovely groundWhen the first violet grows;Their graceful hands have just unboundThe zone of yonder rose.
I gather it for thy dear breast,From stain and shadow free:That which an Angel’s touch hath blestIs meet, my love, for thee!
1805-1875
676.
OFOR the mighty wakening that arousedThe old-time Prophets to their missions high;And to blind Homer’s inward sunlike eyeShow’d the heart’s universe where he carousedRadiantly; the Fishers poor unhoused,And sent them forth to preach divinity;And made our Milton his great dark defy,To the light of one immortal theme espoused!But half asleep are those now most awake;And save calm-thoughted Wordsworth, we have noneWho for eternity put time at stake,And hold a constant course as doth the sun:We yield but drops that no deep thirstings slake;And feebly cease ere we have well begun.
OFOR the mighty wakening that arousedThe old-time Prophets to their missions high;And to blind Homer’s inward sunlike eyeShow’d the heart’s universe where he carousedRadiantly; the Fishers poor unhoused,And sent them forth to preach divinity;And made our Milton his great dark defy,To the light of one immortal theme espoused!But half asleep are those now most awake;And save calm-thoughted Wordsworth, we have noneWho for eternity put time at stake,And hold a constant course as doth the sun:We yield but drops that no deep thirstings slake;And feebly cease ere we have well begun.
OFOR the mighty wakening that arousedThe old-time Prophets to their missions high;And to blind Homer’s inward sunlike eyeShow’d the heart’s universe where he carousedRadiantly; the Fishers poor unhoused,And sent them forth to preach divinity;And made our Milton his great dark defy,To the light of one immortal theme espoused!But half asleep are those now most awake;And save calm-thoughted Wordsworth, we have noneWho for eternity put time at stake,And hold a constant course as doth the sun:We yield but drops that no deep thirstings slake;And feebly cease ere we have well begun.
1805-1866
677.
WITH deep affection,And recollection,I often think ofThose Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would,In the days of childhood,Fling around my cradleTheir magic spells.On this I ponderWhere’er I wander,And thus grow fonder,Sweet Cork, of thee;With thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.I’ve heard bells chimingFull many a clime in,Tolling sublime inCathedral shrine,While at a glib rateBrass tongues would vibrate—But all their musicSpoke naught like thine;For memory, dwellingOn each proud swellingOf the belfry knellingIts bold notes free,Made the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.I’ve heard bells tollingOld Adrian’s Mole in,Their thunder rollingFrom the Vatican,And cymbals gloriousSwinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turretsOf Notre Dame;But thy sounds were sweeterThan the dome of PeterFlings o’er the Tiber,Pealing solemnly—O, the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.There’s a bell in Moscow,While on tower and kiosk O!In Saint SophiaThe Turkman gets,And loud in airCalls men to prayerFrom the tapering summitsOf tall minarets.Such empty phantomI freely grant them;But there’s an anthemMore dear to me,—’Tis the bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.
WITH deep affection,And recollection,I often think ofThose Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would,In the days of childhood,Fling around my cradleTheir magic spells.On this I ponderWhere’er I wander,And thus grow fonder,Sweet Cork, of thee;With thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.I’ve heard bells chimingFull many a clime in,Tolling sublime inCathedral shrine,While at a glib rateBrass tongues would vibrate—But all their musicSpoke naught like thine;For memory, dwellingOn each proud swellingOf the belfry knellingIts bold notes free,Made the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.I’ve heard bells tollingOld Adrian’s Mole in,Their thunder rollingFrom the Vatican,And cymbals gloriousSwinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turretsOf Notre Dame;But thy sounds were sweeterThan the dome of PeterFlings o’er the Tiber,Pealing solemnly—O, the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.There’s a bell in Moscow,While on tower and kiosk O!In Saint SophiaThe Turkman gets,And loud in airCalls men to prayerFrom the tapering summitsOf tall minarets.Such empty phantomI freely grant them;But there’s an anthemMore dear to me,—’Tis the bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.
WITH deep affection,And recollection,I often think ofThose Shandon bells,Whose sounds so wild would,In the days of childhood,Fling around my cradleTheir magic spells.On this I ponderWhere’er I wander,And thus grow fonder,Sweet Cork, of thee;With thy bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.
I’ve heard bells chimingFull many a clime in,Tolling sublime inCathedral shrine,While at a glib rateBrass tongues would vibrate—But all their musicSpoke naught like thine;For memory, dwellingOn each proud swellingOf the belfry knellingIts bold notes free,Made the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.
I’ve heard bells tollingOld Adrian’s Mole in,Their thunder rollingFrom the Vatican,And cymbals gloriousSwinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turretsOf Notre Dame;But thy sounds were sweeterThan the dome of PeterFlings o’er the Tiber,Pealing solemnly—O, the bells of ShandonSound far more grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.
There’s a bell in Moscow,While on tower and kiosk O!In Saint SophiaThe Turkman gets,And loud in airCalls men to prayerFrom the tapering summitsOf tall minarets.Such empty phantomI freely grant them;But there’s an anthemMore dear to me,—’Tis the bells of Shandon,That sound so grand onThe pleasant watersOf the River Lee.
1806-1861
678.
ILEFT thee last, a child at heart,A woman scarce in years:I come to thee, a solemn corpseWhich neither feels nor fears.I have no breath to use in sighs;They laid the dead-weights on mine eyesTo seal them safe from tears.Look on me with thine own calm look:I meet it calm as thou.No look of thine can change this smile,Or break thy sinful vow:I tell thee that my poor scorn’d heartIs of thine earth—thine earth—a part:It cannot vex thee now.I have pray’d for thee with bursting sobWhen passion’s course was free;I have pray’d for thee with silent lipsIn the anguish none could see;They whisper’d oft, ‘She sleepeth soft’—But I only pray’d for thee.Go to! I pray for thee no more:The corpse’s tongue is still;Its folded fingers point to heaven,But point there stiff and chill:No farther wrong, no farther woeHath licence from the sin belowIts tranquil heart to thrill.I charge thee, by the living’s prayer,And the dead’s silentness,To wring from out thy soul a cryWhich God shall hear and bless!Lest Heaven’s own palm droop in my hand,And pale among the saints I stand,A saint companionless.
ILEFT thee last, a child at heart,A woman scarce in years:I come to thee, a solemn corpseWhich neither feels nor fears.I have no breath to use in sighs;They laid the dead-weights on mine eyesTo seal them safe from tears.Look on me with thine own calm look:I meet it calm as thou.No look of thine can change this smile,Or break thy sinful vow:I tell thee that my poor scorn’d heartIs of thine earth—thine earth—a part:It cannot vex thee now.I have pray’d for thee with bursting sobWhen passion’s course was free;I have pray’d for thee with silent lipsIn the anguish none could see;They whisper’d oft, ‘She sleepeth soft’—But I only pray’d for thee.Go to! I pray for thee no more:The corpse’s tongue is still;Its folded fingers point to heaven,But point there stiff and chill:No farther wrong, no farther woeHath licence from the sin belowIts tranquil heart to thrill.I charge thee, by the living’s prayer,And the dead’s silentness,To wring from out thy soul a cryWhich God shall hear and bless!Lest Heaven’s own palm droop in my hand,And pale among the saints I stand,A saint companionless.
ILEFT thee last, a child at heart,A woman scarce in years:I come to thee, a solemn corpseWhich neither feels nor fears.I have no breath to use in sighs;They laid the dead-weights on mine eyesTo seal them safe from tears.
Look on me with thine own calm look:I meet it calm as thou.No look of thine can change this smile,Or break thy sinful vow:I tell thee that my poor scorn’d heartIs of thine earth—thine earth—a part:It cannot vex thee now.
I have pray’d for thee with bursting sobWhen passion’s course was free;I have pray’d for thee with silent lipsIn the anguish none could see;They whisper’d oft, ‘She sleepeth soft’—But I only pray’d for thee.
Go to! I pray for thee no more:The corpse’s tongue is still;Its folded fingers point to heaven,But point there stiff and chill:No farther wrong, no farther woeHath licence from the sin belowIts tranquil heart to thrill.
I charge thee, by the living’s prayer,And the dead’s silentness,To wring from out thy soul a cryWhich God shall hear and bless!Lest Heaven’s own palm droop in my hand,And pale among the saints I stand,A saint companionless.
679.
IMIND me in the days departed,How often underneath the sunWith childish bounds I used to runTo a garden long deserted.The beds and walks were vanish’d quite;And wheresoe’er had struck the spade,The greenest grasses Nature laid,To sanctify her right.I call’d the place my wilderness,For no one enter’d there but I.The sheep look’d in, the grass to espy,And pass’d it ne’ertheless.The trees were interwoven wild,And spread their boughs enough aboutTo keep both sheep and shepherd out,But not a happy child.Adventurous joy it was for me;I crept beneath the boughs, and foundA circle smooth of mossy groundBeneath a poplar-tree.Old garden rose-trees hedged it in;Bedropt with roses waxen-white,Well satisfied with dew and light,And careless to be seen.Long years ago, it might befall,When all the garden flowers were trim,The grave old gardener prided himOn these the most of all.Some Lady, stately overmuch,Here moving with a silken noise,Has blush’d beside them at the voiceThat liken’d her to such.Or these, to make a diadem,She often may have pluck’d and twined;Half-smiling as it came to mind,That few would look atthem.O, little thought that Lady proud,A child would watch her fair white rose,When buried lay her whiter brows,And silk was changed for shroud!—Nor thought that gardener (full of scornsFor men unlearn’d and simple phrase)A child would bring it all its praise,By creeping through the thorns!To me upon my low moss seat,Though never a dream the roses sentOf science or love’s compliment,I ween they smelt as sweet.It did not move my grief to seeThe trace of human step departed:Because the garden was deserted,The blither place for me!Friends, blame me not! a narrow kenHath childhood ’twixt the sun and sward;We draw the moral afterward—We feel the gladness then.And gladdest hours for me did glideIn silence at the rose-tree wall:A thrush made gladness musicalUpon the other side.Nor he nor I did e’er inclineTo peck or pluck the blossoms white:—How should I know but that they mightLead lives as glad as mine?To make my hermit-home complete,I brought clear water from the springPraised in its own low murmuring,And cresses glossy wet.And so, I thought, my likeness grew(Without the melancholy tale)To ‘gentle hermit of the dale,’And Angelina too.For oft I read within my nookSuch minstrel stories; till the breezeMade sounds poetic in the trees,And then I shut the book.If I shut this wherein I write,I hear no more the wind athwartThose trees, nor feel that childish heartDelighting in delight.My childhood from my life is parted,My footstep from the moss which drewIts fairy circle round: anewThe garden is deserted.Another thrush may there rehearseThe madrigals which sweetest are;No more for me!—myself afarDo sing a sadder verse.Ah me! ah me! when erst I layIn that child’s-nest so greenly wrought,I laugh’d unto myself and thought,‘The time will pass away.’And still I laugh’d, and did not fearBut that, whene’er was pass’d awayThe childish time, some happier playMy womanhood would cheer.I knew the time would pass away;And yet, beside the rose-tree wall,Dear God, how seldom, if at all,Did I look up to pray!The time is past: and now that growsThe cypress high among the trees,And I behold white sepulchresAs well as the white rose,—When wiser, meeker thoughts are given,And I have learnt to lift my face,Reminded how earth’s greenest placeThe colour draws from heaven,—It something saith for earthly pain,But more for heavenly promise free,That I who was, would shrink to beThat happy child again.
IMIND me in the days departed,How often underneath the sunWith childish bounds I used to runTo a garden long deserted.The beds and walks were vanish’d quite;And wheresoe’er had struck the spade,The greenest grasses Nature laid,To sanctify her right.I call’d the place my wilderness,For no one enter’d there but I.The sheep look’d in, the grass to espy,And pass’d it ne’ertheless.The trees were interwoven wild,And spread their boughs enough aboutTo keep both sheep and shepherd out,But not a happy child.Adventurous joy it was for me;I crept beneath the boughs, and foundA circle smooth of mossy groundBeneath a poplar-tree.Old garden rose-trees hedged it in;Bedropt with roses waxen-white,Well satisfied with dew and light,And careless to be seen.Long years ago, it might befall,When all the garden flowers were trim,The grave old gardener prided himOn these the most of all.Some Lady, stately overmuch,Here moving with a silken noise,Has blush’d beside them at the voiceThat liken’d her to such.Or these, to make a diadem,She often may have pluck’d and twined;Half-smiling as it came to mind,That few would look atthem.O, little thought that Lady proud,A child would watch her fair white rose,When buried lay her whiter brows,And silk was changed for shroud!—Nor thought that gardener (full of scornsFor men unlearn’d and simple phrase)A child would bring it all its praise,By creeping through the thorns!To me upon my low moss seat,Though never a dream the roses sentOf science or love’s compliment,I ween they smelt as sweet.It did not move my grief to seeThe trace of human step departed:Because the garden was deserted,The blither place for me!Friends, blame me not! a narrow kenHath childhood ’twixt the sun and sward;We draw the moral afterward—We feel the gladness then.And gladdest hours for me did glideIn silence at the rose-tree wall:A thrush made gladness musicalUpon the other side.Nor he nor I did e’er inclineTo peck or pluck the blossoms white:—How should I know but that they mightLead lives as glad as mine?To make my hermit-home complete,I brought clear water from the springPraised in its own low murmuring,And cresses glossy wet.And so, I thought, my likeness grew(Without the melancholy tale)To ‘gentle hermit of the dale,’And Angelina too.For oft I read within my nookSuch minstrel stories; till the breezeMade sounds poetic in the trees,And then I shut the book.If I shut this wherein I write,I hear no more the wind athwartThose trees, nor feel that childish heartDelighting in delight.My childhood from my life is parted,My footstep from the moss which drewIts fairy circle round: anewThe garden is deserted.Another thrush may there rehearseThe madrigals which sweetest are;No more for me!—myself afarDo sing a sadder verse.Ah me! ah me! when erst I layIn that child’s-nest so greenly wrought,I laugh’d unto myself and thought,‘The time will pass away.’And still I laugh’d, and did not fearBut that, whene’er was pass’d awayThe childish time, some happier playMy womanhood would cheer.I knew the time would pass away;And yet, beside the rose-tree wall,Dear God, how seldom, if at all,Did I look up to pray!The time is past: and now that growsThe cypress high among the trees,And I behold white sepulchresAs well as the white rose,—When wiser, meeker thoughts are given,And I have learnt to lift my face,Reminded how earth’s greenest placeThe colour draws from heaven,—It something saith for earthly pain,But more for heavenly promise free,That I who was, would shrink to beThat happy child again.
IMIND me in the days departed,How often underneath the sunWith childish bounds I used to runTo a garden long deserted.
The beds and walks were vanish’d quite;And wheresoe’er had struck the spade,The greenest grasses Nature laid,To sanctify her right.
I call’d the place my wilderness,For no one enter’d there but I.The sheep look’d in, the grass to espy,And pass’d it ne’ertheless.
The trees were interwoven wild,And spread their boughs enough aboutTo keep both sheep and shepherd out,But not a happy child.
Adventurous joy it was for me;I crept beneath the boughs, and foundA circle smooth of mossy groundBeneath a poplar-tree.
Old garden rose-trees hedged it in;Bedropt with roses waxen-white,Well satisfied with dew and light,And careless to be seen.
Long years ago, it might befall,When all the garden flowers were trim,The grave old gardener prided himOn these the most of all.
Some Lady, stately overmuch,Here moving with a silken noise,Has blush’d beside them at the voiceThat liken’d her to such.
Or these, to make a diadem,She often may have pluck’d and twined;Half-smiling as it came to mind,That few would look atthem.
O, little thought that Lady proud,A child would watch her fair white rose,When buried lay her whiter brows,And silk was changed for shroud!—
Nor thought that gardener (full of scornsFor men unlearn’d and simple phrase)A child would bring it all its praise,By creeping through the thorns!
To me upon my low moss seat,Though never a dream the roses sentOf science or love’s compliment,I ween they smelt as sweet.
It did not move my grief to seeThe trace of human step departed:Because the garden was deserted,The blither place for me!
Friends, blame me not! a narrow kenHath childhood ’twixt the sun and sward;We draw the moral afterward—We feel the gladness then.
And gladdest hours for me did glideIn silence at the rose-tree wall:A thrush made gladness musicalUpon the other side.
Nor he nor I did e’er inclineTo peck or pluck the blossoms white:—How should I know but that they mightLead lives as glad as mine?
To make my hermit-home complete,I brought clear water from the springPraised in its own low murmuring,And cresses glossy wet.
And so, I thought, my likeness grew(Without the melancholy tale)To ‘gentle hermit of the dale,’And Angelina too.
For oft I read within my nookSuch minstrel stories; till the breezeMade sounds poetic in the trees,And then I shut the book.
If I shut this wherein I write,I hear no more the wind athwartThose trees, nor feel that childish heartDelighting in delight.
My childhood from my life is parted,My footstep from the moss which drewIts fairy circle round: anewThe garden is deserted.
Another thrush may there rehearseThe madrigals which sweetest are;No more for me!—myself afarDo sing a sadder verse.
Ah me! ah me! when erst I layIn that child’s-nest so greenly wrought,I laugh’d unto myself and thought,‘The time will pass away.’
And still I laugh’d, and did not fearBut that, whene’er was pass’d awayThe childish time, some happier playMy womanhood would cheer.
I knew the time would pass away;And yet, beside the rose-tree wall,Dear God, how seldom, if at all,Did I look up to pray!
The time is past: and now that growsThe cypress high among the trees,And I behold white sepulchresAs well as the white rose,—
When wiser, meeker thoughts are given,And I have learnt to lift my face,Reminded how earth’s greenest placeThe colour draws from heaven,—
It something saith for earthly pain,But more for heavenly promise free,That I who was, would shrink to beThat happy child again.
680.
ALL are not taken; there are left behindLiving Belovèds, tender looks to bringAnd make the daylight still a happy thing,And tender voices, to make soft the wind:But if it were not so—if I could findNo love in all this world for comforting,Nor any path but hollowly did ringWhere ‘dust to dust’ the love from life disjoin’d,And if, before those sepulchres unmovingI stood alone (as some forsaken lambGoes bleating up the moors in weary dearth)Crying ‘Where are ye, O my loved and loving?’—I know a voice would sound, ‘Daughter, I AM.Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?’
ALL are not taken; there are left behindLiving Belovèds, tender looks to bringAnd make the daylight still a happy thing,And tender voices, to make soft the wind:But if it were not so—if I could findNo love in all this world for comforting,Nor any path but hollowly did ringWhere ‘dust to dust’ the love from life disjoin’d,And if, before those sepulchres unmovingI stood alone (as some forsaken lambGoes bleating up the moors in weary dearth)Crying ‘Where are ye, O my loved and loving?’—I know a voice would sound, ‘Daughter, I AM.Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?’
ALL are not taken; there are left behindLiving Belovèds, tender looks to bringAnd make the daylight still a happy thing,And tender voices, to make soft the wind:But if it were not so—if I could findNo love in all this world for comforting,Nor any path but hollowly did ringWhere ‘dust to dust’ the love from life disjoin’d,And if, before those sepulchres unmovingI stood alone (as some forsaken lambGoes bleating up the moors in weary dearth)Crying ‘Where are ye, O my loved and loving?’—I know a voice would sound, ‘Daughter, I AM.Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?’
681.