Work without Hope

ON the wide level of a mountain’s head(I knew not where, but ’twas some faery place),Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,Two lovely children run an endless race,A sister and a brother!This far outstripp’d the other;Yet ever runs she with reverted face,And looks and listens for the boy behind:For he, alas! is blind!O’er rough and smooth with even step he pass’d,And knows not whether he be first or last.

554.

ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—And Winter, slumbering in the open air,Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!With lips unbrighten’d, wreathless brow, I stroll:And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,And Hope without an object cannot live.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!With lips unbrighten’d, wreathless brow, I stroll:And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,And Hope without an object cannot live.

555.

ASUNNY shaft did I behold,From sky to earth it slanted:And poised therein a bird so bold—Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll’dWithin that shaft of sunny mist;His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,All else of amethyst!And thus he sang: ‘Adieu! adieu!Love’s dreams prove seldom true.The blossoms, they make no delay:The sparking dew-drops will not stay.Sweet month of May,We must away;Far, far away!To-day! to-day!’

ASUNNY shaft did I behold,From sky to earth it slanted:And poised therein a bird so bold—Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!

He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll’dWithin that shaft of sunny mist;His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,All else of amethyst!

And thus he sang: ‘Adieu! adieu!Love’s dreams prove seldom true.The blossoms, they make no delay:The sparking dew-drops will not stay.Sweet month of May,We must away;Far, far away!To-day! to-day!’

1774-1843

556.

MY days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where’er these casual eyes are cast,The mighty minds of old:My never-failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.With them I take delight in wealAnd seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been bedew’dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.My thoughts are with the Dead; with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn,Partake their hopes and fears;And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.My hopes are with the Dead; anonMy place with them will be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all Futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.

MY days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where’er these casual eyes are cast,The mighty minds of old:My never-failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in wealAnd seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been bedew’dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn,Partake their hopes and fears;And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anonMy place with them will be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all Futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.

1775-1864

557.

ILOVED him not; and yet now he is gone,I feel I am alone.I check’d him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,Alas! I would not check.For reasons not to love him once I sought,And wearied all my thoughtTo vex myself and him; I now would giveMy love, could he but liveWho lately lived for me, and when he found’Twas vain, in holy groundHe hid his face amid the shades of death.I waste for him my breathWho wasted his for me; but mine returns,And this lorn bosom burnsWith stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,And waking me to weepTears that had melted his soft heart: for yearsWept he as bitter tears.‘Merciful God!’ such was his latest prayer,‘These may she never share!’Quieter is his breath, his breast more coldThan daisies in the mould,Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,His name and life’s brief date.Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er you be,And, O, pray too for me!

558.

AH, what avails the sceptred race!Ah, what the form divine!What every virtue, every grace!Rose Aylmer, all were thine.Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyesMay weep, but never see,A night of memories and sighsI consecrate to thee.

AH, what avails the sceptred race!Ah, what the form divine!What every virtue, every grace!Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyesMay weep, but never see,A night of memories and sighsI consecrate to thee.

559.

FROM you, Ianthe, little troubles passLike little ripples down a sunny river;Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever.

560.

TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow,If not quite dim, yet rather so;Yet yours from others they shall know,Twenty years hence.Twenty years hence, though it may hapThat I be call’d to take a napIn a cool cell where thunder-clapWas never heard,There breathe but o’er my arch of grassA not too sadly sigh’d ‘Alas!’And I shall catch, ere you can pass,That wingèd word.

TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow,If not quite dim, yet rather so;Yet yours from others they shall know,Twenty years hence.

Twenty years hence, though it may hapThat I be call’d to take a napIn a cool cell where thunder-clapWas never heard,

There breathe but o’er my arch of grassA not too sadly sigh’d ‘Alas!’And I shall catch, ere you can pass,That wingèd word.

561.

PAST ruin’d Ilion Helen lives,Alcestis rises from the shades;Verse calls them forth; ’tis verse that givesImmortal youth to mortal maids.Soon shall Oblivion’s deepening veilHide all the peopled hills you see,The gay, the proud, while lovers hailThese many summers you and me.

PAST ruin’d Ilion Helen lives,Alcestis rises from the shades;Verse calls them forth; ’tis verse that givesImmortal youth to mortal maids.

Soon shall Oblivion’s deepening veilHide all the peopled hills you see,The gay, the proud, while lovers hailThese many summers you and me.

562.

PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speakFour not exempt from pride some future day.Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek,Over my open volume you will say,‘This man loved me’—then rise and trip away.

563.

WHY, why repine, my pensive friend,At pleasures slipp’d away?Some the stern Fates will never lend,And all refuse to stay.I see the rainbow in the sky,The dew upon the grass;I see them, and I ask not whyThey glimmer or they pass.With folded arms I linger notTo call them back; ’twere vain:In this, or in some other spot,I know they’ll shine again.

WHY, why repine, my pensive friend,At pleasures slipp’d away?Some the stern Fates will never lend,And all refuse to stay.

I see the rainbow in the sky,The dew upon the grass;I see them, and I ask not whyThey glimmer or they pass.

With folded arms I linger notTo call them back; ’twere vain:In this, or in some other spot,I know they’ll shine again.

564.

MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel;My fingers ache, my lips are dry:O, if you felt the pain I feel!But O, who ever felt as I?No longer could I doubt him true—All other men may use deceit;He always said my eyes were blue,And often swore my lips were sweet.

MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel;My fingers ache, my lips are dry:O, if you felt the pain I feel!But O, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true—All other men may use deceit;He always said my eyes were blue,And often swore my lips were sweet.

565.

MILD is the parting year, and sweetThe odour of the falling spray;Life passes on more rudely fleet,And balmless is its closing day.I wait its close, I court its gloom,But mourn that never must there fallOr on my breast or on my tombThe tear that would have soothed it all.

MILD is the parting year, and sweetThe odour of the falling spray;Life passes on more rudely fleet,And balmless is its closing day.

I wait its close, I court its gloom,But mourn that never must there fallOr on my breast or on my tombThe tear that would have soothed it all.

566.

REMAIN, ah not in youth alone!—Tho’ youth, where you are, long will stay—But when my summer days are gone,And my autumnal haste away.‘Can I be always by your side?’No; but the hours you can, you must,Nor rise at Death’s approaching stride,Nor go when dust is gone to dust.

567.

HERE, ever since you went abroad,If there be change, no change I see:I only walk our wonted road,The road is only walk’d by me.Yes; I forgot; a change there is—Was it ofthatyou bade me tell?I catch at times, at times I missThe sight, the tone, I know so well.Only two months since you stood here?Two shortest months? Then tell me whyVoices are harsher than they were,And tears are longer ere they dry.

HERE, ever since you went abroad,If there be change, no change I see:I only walk our wonted road,The road is only walk’d by me.

Yes; I forgot; a change there is—Was it ofthatyou bade me tell?I catch at times, at times I missThe sight, the tone, I know so well.

Only two months since you stood here?Two shortest months? Then tell me whyVoices are harsher than they were,And tears are longer ere they dry.

568.

IN Clementina’s artless mienLucilla asks me what I see,And are the roses of sixteenEnough for me?Lucilla asks, if that be all,Have I not cull’d as sweet before:Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fallI still deplore.I now behold another scene,Where Pleasure beams with Heaven’s own light,More pure, more constant, more serene,And not less bright.Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,And Modesty who, when she goes,Is gone for ever.

IN Clementina’s artless mienLucilla asks me what I see,And are the roses of sixteenEnough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all,Have I not cull’d as sweet before:Ah yes, Lucilla! and their fallI still deplore.

I now behold another scene,Where Pleasure beams with Heaven’s own light,More pure, more constant, more serene,And not less bright.

Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,And Modesty who, when she goes,Is gone for ever.

569.

‘DO you remember me? or are you proud?’Lightly advancing thro’ her star-trimm’d crowd,Ianthe said, and look’d into my eyes.‘Ayes, ayesto both: for MemoryWhere you but once have been must ever be,And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.’

570.

TELL me not what too well I knowAbout the bard of Sirmio.Yes, in Thalia’s sonSuch stains there are—as when a GraceSprinkles another’s laughing faceWith nectar, and runs on.

571.

STAND close around, ye Stygian set,With Dirce in one boat convey’d!Or Charon, seeing, may forgetThat he is old and she a shade.

572.

AN ancient chestnut’s blossoms threwTheir heavy odour over two:Leucippe, it is said, was one;The other, then, was Alciphron.‘Come, come! why should we stand beneathThis hollow tree’s unwholesome breath?’Said Alciphron, ‘here’s not a bladeOf grass or moss, and scanty shade.Come; it is just the hour to roveIn the lone dingle shepherds love;There, straight and tall, the hazel twigDivides the crookèd rock-held fig,O’er the blue pebbles where the rillIn winter runs and may run still.Come then, while fresh and calm the air,And while the shepherds are not there.’

Leucippe.But I would rather go when theySit round about and sing and play.Then why so hurry me? for youLike play and song, and shepherds too.Alciphron.I like the shepherds very well,And song and play, as you can tell.But there is play, I sadly fear,And song I would not have you hear.Leucippe.What can it be? What can it be?Alciphron.To you may none of them repeatThe play that you have play’d with me,The song that made your bosom beat.Leucippe.Don’t keep your arm about my waist.Alciphron.Might you not stumble?Leucippe.Well then, do.But why are we in all this haste?Alciphron.To sing.Leucippe.Alas! and not play too?

573.

YEARS, many parti-colour’d years,Some have crept on, and some have flownSince first before me fell those tearsI never could see fall alone.Years, not so many, are to come,Years not so varied, when from youOne more will fall: when, carried home,I see it not, nor hear Adieu.

YEARS, many parti-colour’d years,Some have crept on, and some have flownSince first before me fell those tearsI never could see fall alone.

Years, not so many, are to come,Years not so varied, when from youOne more will fall: when, carried home,I see it not, nor hear Adieu.

574.

THERE is a mountain and a wood between us,Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen usMorning and noon and eventide repass.Between us now the mountain and the woodSeem standing darker than last year they stood,And say we must not cross—alas! alas!

575.

THE leaves are falling; so am I;The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;So have I too.Scarcely on any bough is heardJoyous, or even unjoyous, birdThe whole wood through.Winter may come: he brings but nigherHis circle (yearly narrowing) to the fireWhere old friends meet.Let him; now heaven is overcast,And spring and summer both are past,And all things sweet.

THE leaves are falling; so am I;The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;So have I too.Scarcely on any bough is heardJoyous, or even unjoyous, birdThe whole wood through.

Winter may come: he brings but nigherHis circle (yearly narrowing) to the fireWhere old friends meet.Let him; now heaven is overcast,And spring and summer both are past,And all things sweet.

576.

ISTROVE with none, for none was worth my strife.Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:I warm’d both hands before the fire of life;It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

1775-1834

577.

IHAVE had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I loved a Love once, fairest among women:Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,Earth seem’d a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,Why wert not thou born in my father’s dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces—How some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

IHAVE had playmates, I have had companions,In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a Love once, fairest among women:Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,Earth seem’d a desert I was bound to traverse,Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,Why wert not thou born in my father’s dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces—

How some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed—All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

578.

WHEN maidens such as Hester dieTheir place ye may not well supply,Though ye among a thousand tryWith vain endeavour.A month or more hath she been dead,Yet cannot I by force be ledTo think upon the wormy bedAnd her together.A springy motion in her gait,A rising step, did indicateOf pride and joy no common rate,That flush’d her spirit:I know not by what name besideI shall it call: if ’twas not pride,It was a joy to that allied,She did inherit.Her parents held the Quaker rule,Which doth the human feeling cool;But she was train’d in Nature’s school;Nature had blest her.A waking eye, a prying mind;A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;A hawk’s keen sight ye cannot blind;Ye could not Hester.My sprightly neighbour! gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore,Shall we not meet, as heretofore,Some summer morning—When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet forewarning?

WHEN maidens such as Hester dieTheir place ye may not well supply,Though ye among a thousand tryWith vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,Yet cannot I by force be ledTo think upon the wormy bedAnd her together.

A springy motion in her gait,A rising step, did indicateOf pride and joy no common rate,That flush’d her spirit:

I know not by what name besideI shall it call: if ’twas not pride,It was a joy to that allied,She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,Which doth the human feeling cool;But she was train’d in Nature’s school;Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind;A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;A hawk’s keen sight ye cannot blind;Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour! gone beforeTo that unknown and silent shore,Shall we not meet, as heretofore,Some summer morning—

When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day,A bliss that would not go away,A sweet forewarning?

579.

ISAW where in the shroud did lurkA curious frame of Nature’s work;A floweret crush’d in the bud,A nameless piece of Babyhood,Was in her cradle-coffin lying;Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:So soon to exchange the imprisoning wombFor darker closets of the tomb!She did but ope an eye, and putA clear beam forth, then straight up shutFor the long dark: ne’er more to seeThrough glasses of mortality.Riddle of destiny, who can showWhat thy short visit meant, or knowWhat thy errand here below?Shall we say that Nature blindCheck’d her hand, and changed her mind,Just when she had exactly wroughtA finish’d pattern without fault?Could she flag, or could she tire,Or lack’d she the Promethean fire(With her nine moons’ long workings sicken’d)That should thy little limbs have quicken’d?Limbs so firm, they seem’d to assureLife of health, and days mature:Woman’s self in miniature!Limbs so fair, they might supply(Themselves now but cold imagery)The sculptor to make Beauty by.Or did the stern-eyed Fate descryThat babe or mother, one must die;So in mercy left the stockAnd cut the branch; to save the shockOf young years widow’d, and the painWhen single state comes back againTo the lone man who, reft of wife,Thenceforward drags a maimèd life?The economy of Heaven is dark,And wisest clerks have miss’d the mark,Why human buds, like this, should fall,More brief than fly ephemeralThat has his day; while shrivell’d cronesStiffen with age to stocks and stones;And crabbèd use the conscience searsIn sinners of an hundred years.Mother’s prattle, mother’s kiss,Baby fond, thou ne’er wilt miss:Rites, which custom does impose,Silver bells, and baby clothes;Coral redder than those lipsWhich pale death did late eclipse;Music framed for infants’ glee,Whistle never tuned for thee;Though thou want’st not, thou shalt have them,Loving hearts were they which gave them.Let not one be missing; nurse,See them laid upon the hearseOf infant slain by doom perverse.Why should kings and nobles havePictured trophies to their grave,And we, churls, to thee denyThy pretty toys with thee to lie—A more harmless vanity?

1774-1844

580.

YE Mariners of EnglandThat guard our native seas!Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch againTo match another foe;And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow!While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave—For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow!While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o’er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below,As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow!When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger’s troubled night departAnd the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow!When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.

The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave—For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fellYour manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow!While the battle rages loud and longAnd the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o’er the mountain-waves,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below,As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow!When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn;Till danger’s troubled night departAnd the star of peace return.Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow!When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.

581.

Of Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.Like leviathans afloatLay their bulwarks on the brine,While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime:As they drifted on their pathThere was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between:‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried, when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shattered sail,Or in conflagration paleLight the gloom.Out spoke the victor thenAs he hail’d them o’er the wave:‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:—So peace instead of death let us bringBut yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England’s feet,And make submission meetTo our King.’...Now joy, old England, raise!For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities' blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light!And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleepFull many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!

Like leviathans afloatLay their bulwarks on the brine,While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime:As they drifted on their pathThere was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.

But the might of England flush'dTo anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rush'dO'er the deadly space between:‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried, when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.

Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shattered sail,Or in conflagration paleLight the gloom.

Out spoke the victor thenAs he hail’d them o’er the wave:‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:—

So peace instead of death let us bringBut yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England’s feet,And make submission meetTo our King.’...

Now joy, old England, raise!For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities' blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light!And yet amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleepFull many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!

1779-1852

582.

THE young May moon is beaming, love,The glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love;How sweet to roveThrough Morna’s grove,When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,’Tis never too late for delight, my dear;And the best of all waysTo lengthen our daysIs to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!Now all the world is sleeping, love,But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,And I, whose starMore glorious farIs the eye from that casement peeping, love.Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear,Or in watching the flightOf bodies of lightHe might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,And I, whose starMore glorious farIs the eye from that casement peeping, love.Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear,Or in watching the flightOf bodies of lightHe might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

583.

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer’d my way,Till hope seem’d to bud from each thorn that round me lay;The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn’d,Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn’d:Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,And bless’d even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.Thy rival was honour’d, while thou wert wrong’d and scorn’d;Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn’d;She woo’d me to temples, whilst thou lay’st hid in caves;Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather beThan wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail—Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look’d less pale!They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains:O, foul is the slander!—no chain could that soul subdue—Where shineth thy spirit, there Liberty shineth too!

Thy rival was honour’d, while thou wert wrong’d and scorn’d;Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn’d;She woo’d me to temples, whilst thou lay’st hid in caves;Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather beThan wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail—Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look’d less pale!They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains:O, foul is the slander!—no chain could that soul subdue—Where shineth thy spirit, there Liberty shineth too!

584.

OFT, in the stilly night,Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood’s years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimm’d and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus, in the stilly night,Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.When I remember allThe friends, so link’d together,I’ve seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus, in the stilly night,Ere slumber’s chain has bound me.Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.

When I remember allThe friends, so link’d together,I’ve seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus, in the stilly night,Ere slumber’s chain has bound me.Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.

585.

AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I flyTo the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of airTo revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky.Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear,When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear;And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,I think, O my love! ’tis thy voice from the Kingdom of SoulsFaintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear,When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear;And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,I think, O my love! ’tis thy voice from the Kingdom of SoulsFaintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

1781-1829

586.

MAY! queen of blossoms,And fulfilling flowers,With what pretty musicShall we charm the hours?Wilt thou have pipe and reed,Blown in the open mead?Or to the lute give heedIn the green bowers?Thou hast no need of us,Or pipe or wire;Thou hast the golden beeRipen’d with fire;And many thousand moreSongsters, that thee adore,Filling earth’s grassy floorWith new desire.Thou hast thy mighty herds,Tame and free-livers;Doubt not, thy music tooIn the deep rivers;And the whole plumy flightWarbling the day and night—Up at the gates of light,See, the lark quivers!

MAY! queen of blossoms,And fulfilling flowers,With what pretty musicShall we charm the hours?Wilt thou have pipe and reed,Blown in the open mead?Or to the lute give heedIn the green bowers?

Thou hast no need of us,Or pipe or wire;Thou hast the golden beeRipen’d with fire;And many thousand moreSongsters, that thee adore,Filling earth’s grassy floorWith new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,Tame and free-livers;Doubt not, thy music tooIn the deep rivers;And the whole plumy flightWarbling the day and night—Up at the gates of light,See, the lark quivers!

1781-1849

587.

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