THE HEART.
ADDRESSED TO MISS ——.
“A lady asks the Minstrel’s rhyme.”The Minstrel hears—for his the primeWhen words are sweet as sweet bells’ chime,If Beauty calls;And Love keeps sentry for the time,In Faery halls.And Love peeps o’er the Minstrel’s shoulder—Love makes the Minstrel’s spirit bolder—And Love sighs that he is not older—Else he, apart,Would weave a wreath of flowers, and fold herInto his heart.And Love is in his hey-day dress,And Love has many a soft caress;And laughing cheek, and glossy tress,And dimpled hand,Glance in the Minstrel’s eye, and blessHis dreaming land.And softly swells, and sweet accordsThe melody that earth affords—Glee, life, the melody of birds,And things that comeInto the heart, like childhood’s words,Nestling at home.Then should the Minstrel mark the tone—The look, the tongue would half disown—The heart, when its disguise is thrownFreely away—And chant his sweetest fytte, and ownHis lady’s sway.Soft was the melody it gave—Soft, as a wind-dissevered wave—Soft, as the melody the braveHear, soothing, deep,When in the patriot’s earth-wept grave,They sink to sleep.Yet softer far than each, and all—Than note of bird in forest hall—Than angel hymns when patriots fall,Now be the lay;For Lovemustanswer Beauty’s call,And we obey.And yet, the theme—the heart! strange thing,And worthy of a nobler string!Varied as is a zephyr’s wingThe lyre should be,That sings as ever lyre should sing,O, heart! of thee.Thine are the thoughts that bring and bless,Thine are the feelings that distress,Thine are the passions that oppressAnd wake our fears,Man’s curse, and yet man’s happiness—Man’s joys and tears.And wonderful thy power that flingsO’er all, its moods and colorings,Turns joy to gloom—gives grief the wingsOf Fays that, free,Revel about the forest springs,Or haunted tree.The light—when morn and music come,The bird—within its forest home,The house-bee with its rolling drum,Aye! and each flower,And winds, and woods, and waters dumb—These by thy power,Become distinct and separate images,Link’d to the mind by closest ties—A treasure-house where gather’d liesFood for long years,When after life the spirit triesWith toils and tears.And thus, insensibly, we feelA soothing passion o’er us steal,Binding for aye, for “wo and weal”Our souls to Nature,Till, like a mirror, they revealHer ev’ry feature.And then, when comes adversity,And loves grow cold, and friendships die,And aches the heart, and clouds thy eye,Shadows of pain—The mind can on itself rely,And live again.And thus—above earth’s petty things,Its gorgeous gauds, and glitterings,Its camps, and courts, and crowds, and kings,Castle and hall—The mind can ruffle its proud wingsAnd scout them all.Grandeur and greatness—what are they!Playthings for fools: the king to day,To morrow, is a lump of clay;And yet, elate,We worry through Life’s little way—To rot in state.And what is fame? Ask him who liesWhere cool Cephissus winding hies;Ask him who shook Rome’s destinies—Shatter’d her state!There’s not a dungeon wretch that dies,But is as great.What’s the world’s pride! What ithathbeen—A thing that’s groveling and unclean—A spur to lust—a cloak of sin—Seemingly fair;Yet when the damp grave locks us in,Howmeanwe are.What’s the world’s love! An empty boon,Witness it, Bard of “Bonny doon.”Witness it, He with “Sandal shoon,”And Abbotsford—A light burnt to its socket, soonA quip—a word.And then, as seeks the wounded birdThe deepest shades to moan unheard,The heart turns from each friendly word,And comfort flies—Feels the full curse of “hope deferred,”Despairs, and dies.And such the heart’s bad passions. LetIts greener laurels flourish yet—,Hope, friendship, ne’er let earth forgetHow sweet they are;For the poor heart’s not desolateWhen love is there.Love—tis earth’s holiest principle!From every thing we catch its spell!But more, from the sweet thoughts that dwellIn woman’s breast—Friendship and faith immutableBy her possess’d.Then, lady! be it all thy care,To be as wise as thou art fair;Be wary—think each smile a snare—Shun pleasure’s lure;Farewell! thouhastthe Minstrel’s prayer—Be good—be pure.
“A lady asks the Minstrel’s rhyme.”The Minstrel hears—for his the primeWhen words are sweet as sweet bells’ chime,If Beauty calls;And Love keeps sentry for the time,In Faery halls.And Love peeps o’er the Minstrel’s shoulder—Love makes the Minstrel’s spirit bolder—And Love sighs that he is not older—Else he, apart,Would weave a wreath of flowers, and fold herInto his heart.And Love is in his hey-day dress,And Love has many a soft caress;And laughing cheek, and glossy tress,And dimpled hand,Glance in the Minstrel’s eye, and blessHis dreaming land.And softly swells, and sweet accordsThe melody that earth affords—Glee, life, the melody of birds,And things that comeInto the heart, like childhood’s words,Nestling at home.Then should the Minstrel mark the tone—The look, the tongue would half disown—The heart, when its disguise is thrownFreely away—And chant his sweetest fytte, and ownHis lady’s sway.Soft was the melody it gave—Soft, as a wind-dissevered wave—Soft, as the melody the braveHear, soothing, deep,When in the patriot’s earth-wept grave,They sink to sleep.Yet softer far than each, and all—Than note of bird in forest hall—Than angel hymns when patriots fall,Now be the lay;For Lovemustanswer Beauty’s call,And we obey.And yet, the theme—the heart! strange thing,And worthy of a nobler string!Varied as is a zephyr’s wingThe lyre should be,That sings as ever lyre should sing,O, heart! of thee.Thine are the thoughts that bring and bless,Thine are the feelings that distress,Thine are the passions that oppressAnd wake our fears,Man’s curse, and yet man’s happiness—Man’s joys and tears.And wonderful thy power that flingsO’er all, its moods and colorings,Turns joy to gloom—gives grief the wingsOf Fays that, free,Revel about the forest springs,Or haunted tree.The light—when morn and music come,The bird—within its forest home,The house-bee with its rolling drum,Aye! and each flower,And winds, and woods, and waters dumb—These by thy power,Become distinct and separate images,Link’d to the mind by closest ties—A treasure-house where gather’d liesFood for long years,When after life the spirit triesWith toils and tears.And thus, insensibly, we feelA soothing passion o’er us steal,Binding for aye, for “wo and weal”Our souls to Nature,Till, like a mirror, they revealHer ev’ry feature.And then, when comes adversity,And loves grow cold, and friendships die,And aches the heart, and clouds thy eye,Shadows of pain—The mind can on itself rely,And live again.And thus—above earth’s petty things,Its gorgeous gauds, and glitterings,Its camps, and courts, and crowds, and kings,Castle and hall—The mind can ruffle its proud wingsAnd scout them all.Grandeur and greatness—what are they!Playthings for fools: the king to day,To morrow, is a lump of clay;And yet, elate,We worry through Life’s little way—To rot in state.And what is fame? Ask him who liesWhere cool Cephissus winding hies;Ask him who shook Rome’s destinies—Shatter’d her state!There’s not a dungeon wretch that dies,But is as great.What’s the world’s pride! What ithathbeen—A thing that’s groveling and unclean—A spur to lust—a cloak of sin—Seemingly fair;Yet when the damp grave locks us in,Howmeanwe are.What’s the world’s love! An empty boon,Witness it, Bard of “Bonny doon.”Witness it, He with “Sandal shoon,”And Abbotsford—A light burnt to its socket, soonA quip—a word.And then, as seeks the wounded birdThe deepest shades to moan unheard,The heart turns from each friendly word,And comfort flies—Feels the full curse of “hope deferred,”Despairs, and dies.And such the heart’s bad passions. LetIts greener laurels flourish yet—,Hope, friendship, ne’er let earth forgetHow sweet they are;For the poor heart’s not desolateWhen love is there.Love—tis earth’s holiest principle!From every thing we catch its spell!But more, from the sweet thoughts that dwellIn woman’s breast—Friendship and faith immutableBy her possess’d.Then, lady! be it all thy care,To be as wise as thou art fair;Be wary—think each smile a snare—Shun pleasure’s lure;Farewell! thouhastthe Minstrel’s prayer—Be good—be pure.
“A lady asks the Minstrel’s rhyme.”The Minstrel hears—for his the primeWhen words are sweet as sweet bells’ chime,If Beauty calls;And Love keeps sentry for the time,In Faery halls.
“A lady asks the Minstrel’s rhyme.”
The Minstrel hears—for his the prime
When words are sweet as sweet bells’ chime,
If Beauty calls;
And Love keeps sentry for the time,
In Faery halls.
And Love peeps o’er the Minstrel’s shoulder—Love makes the Minstrel’s spirit bolder—And Love sighs that he is not older—Else he, apart,Would weave a wreath of flowers, and fold herInto his heart.
And Love peeps o’er the Minstrel’s shoulder—
Love makes the Minstrel’s spirit bolder—
And Love sighs that he is not older—
Else he, apart,
Would weave a wreath of flowers, and fold her
Into his heart.
And Love is in his hey-day dress,And Love has many a soft caress;And laughing cheek, and glossy tress,And dimpled hand,Glance in the Minstrel’s eye, and blessHis dreaming land.
And Love is in his hey-day dress,
And Love has many a soft caress;
And laughing cheek, and glossy tress,
And dimpled hand,
Glance in the Minstrel’s eye, and bless
His dreaming land.
And softly swells, and sweet accordsThe melody that earth affords—Glee, life, the melody of birds,And things that comeInto the heart, like childhood’s words,Nestling at home.
And softly swells, and sweet accords
The melody that earth affords—
Glee, life, the melody of birds,
And things that come
Into the heart, like childhood’s words,
Nestling at home.
Then should the Minstrel mark the tone—The look, the tongue would half disown—The heart, when its disguise is thrownFreely away—And chant his sweetest fytte, and ownHis lady’s sway.
Then should the Minstrel mark the tone—
The look, the tongue would half disown—
The heart, when its disguise is thrown
Freely away—
And chant his sweetest fytte, and own
His lady’s sway.
Soft was the melody it gave—Soft, as a wind-dissevered wave—Soft, as the melody the braveHear, soothing, deep,When in the patriot’s earth-wept grave,They sink to sleep.
Soft was the melody it gave—
Soft, as a wind-dissevered wave—
Soft, as the melody the brave
Hear, soothing, deep,
When in the patriot’s earth-wept grave,
They sink to sleep.
Yet softer far than each, and all—Than note of bird in forest hall—Than angel hymns when patriots fall,Now be the lay;For Lovemustanswer Beauty’s call,And we obey.
Yet softer far than each, and all—
Than note of bird in forest hall—
Than angel hymns when patriots fall,
Now be the lay;
For Lovemustanswer Beauty’s call,
And we obey.
And yet, the theme—the heart! strange thing,And worthy of a nobler string!Varied as is a zephyr’s wingThe lyre should be,That sings as ever lyre should sing,O, heart! of thee.
And yet, the theme—the heart! strange thing,
And worthy of a nobler string!
Varied as is a zephyr’s wing
The lyre should be,
That sings as ever lyre should sing,
O, heart! of thee.
Thine are the thoughts that bring and bless,Thine are the feelings that distress,Thine are the passions that oppressAnd wake our fears,Man’s curse, and yet man’s happiness—Man’s joys and tears.
Thine are the thoughts that bring and bless,
Thine are the feelings that distress,
Thine are the passions that oppress
And wake our fears,
Man’s curse, and yet man’s happiness—
Man’s joys and tears.
And wonderful thy power that flingsO’er all, its moods and colorings,Turns joy to gloom—gives grief the wingsOf Fays that, free,Revel about the forest springs,Or haunted tree.
And wonderful thy power that flings
O’er all, its moods and colorings,
Turns joy to gloom—gives grief the wings
Of Fays that, free,
Revel about the forest springs,
Or haunted tree.
The light—when morn and music come,The bird—within its forest home,The house-bee with its rolling drum,Aye! and each flower,And winds, and woods, and waters dumb—These by thy power,
The light—when morn and music come,
The bird—within its forest home,
The house-bee with its rolling drum,
Aye! and each flower,
And winds, and woods, and waters dumb—
These by thy power,
Become distinct and separate images,Link’d to the mind by closest ties—A treasure-house where gather’d liesFood for long years,When after life the spirit triesWith toils and tears.
Become distinct and separate images,
Link’d to the mind by closest ties—
A treasure-house where gather’d lies
Food for long years,
When after life the spirit tries
With toils and tears.
And thus, insensibly, we feelA soothing passion o’er us steal,Binding for aye, for “wo and weal”Our souls to Nature,Till, like a mirror, they revealHer ev’ry feature.
And thus, insensibly, we feel
A soothing passion o’er us steal,
Binding for aye, for “wo and weal”
Our souls to Nature,
Till, like a mirror, they reveal
Her ev’ry feature.
And then, when comes adversity,And loves grow cold, and friendships die,And aches the heart, and clouds thy eye,Shadows of pain—The mind can on itself rely,And live again.
And then, when comes adversity,
And loves grow cold, and friendships die,
And aches the heart, and clouds thy eye,
Shadows of pain—
The mind can on itself rely,
And live again.
And thus—above earth’s petty things,Its gorgeous gauds, and glitterings,Its camps, and courts, and crowds, and kings,Castle and hall—The mind can ruffle its proud wingsAnd scout them all.
And thus—above earth’s petty things,
Its gorgeous gauds, and glitterings,
Its camps, and courts, and crowds, and kings,
Castle and hall—
The mind can ruffle its proud wings
And scout them all.
Grandeur and greatness—what are they!Playthings for fools: the king to day,To morrow, is a lump of clay;And yet, elate,We worry through Life’s little way—To rot in state.
Grandeur and greatness—what are they!
Playthings for fools: the king to day,
To morrow, is a lump of clay;
And yet, elate,
We worry through Life’s little way—
To rot in state.
And what is fame? Ask him who liesWhere cool Cephissus winding hies;Ask him who shook Rome’s destinies—Shatter’d her state!There’s not a dungeon wretch that dies,But is as great.
And what is fame? Ask him who lies
Where cool Cephissus winding hies;
Ask him who shook Rome’s destinies—
Shatter’d her state!
There’s not a dungeon wretch that dies,
But is as great.
What’s the world’s pride! What ithathbeen—A thing that’s groveling and unclean—A spur to lust—a cloak of sin—Seemingly fair;Yet when the damp grave locks us in,Howmeanwe are.
What’s the world’s pride! What ithathbeen—
A thing that’s groveling and unclean—
A spur to lust—a cloak of sin—
Seemingly fair;
Yet when the damp grave locks us in,
Howmeanwe are.
What’s the world’s love! An empty boon,Witness it, Bard of “Bonny doon.”Witness it, He with “Sandal shoon,”And Abbotsford—A light burnt to its socket, soonA quip—a word.
What’s the world’s love! An empty boon,
Witness it, Bard of “Bonny doon.”
Witness it, He with “Sandal shoon,”
And Abbotsford—
A light burnt to its socket, soon
A quip—a word.
And then, as seeks the wounded birdThe deepest shades to moan unheard,The heart turns from each friendly word,And comfort flies—Feels the full curse of “hope deferred,”Despairs, and dies.
And then, as seeks the wounded bird
The deepest shades to moan unheard,
The heart turns from each friendly word,
And comfort flies—
Feels the full curse of “hope deferred,”
Despairs, and dies.
And such the heart’s bad passions. LetIts greener laurels flourish yet—,Hope, friendship, ne’er let earth forgetHow sweet they are;For the poor heart’s not desolateWhen love is there.
And such the heart’s bad passions. Let
Its greener laurels flourish yet—,
Hope, friendship, ne’er let earth forget
How sweet they are;
For the poor heart’s not desolate
When love is there.
Love—tis earth’s holiest principle!From every thing we catch its spell!But more, from the sweet thoughts that dwellIn woman’s breast—Friendship and faith immutableBy her possess’d.
Love—tis earth’s holiest principle!
From every thing we catch its spell!
But more, from the sweet thoughts that dwell
In woman’s breast—
Friendship and faith immutable
By her possess’d.
Then, lady! be it all thy care,To be as wise as thou art fair;Be wary—think each smile a snare—Shun pleasure’s lure;Farewell! thouhastthe Minstrel’s prayer—Be good—be pure.
Then, lady! be it all thy care,
To be as wise as thou art fair;
Be wary—think each smile a snare—
Shun pleasure’s lure;
Farewell! thouhastthe Minstrel’s prayer—
Be good—be pure.