Poems

SONNET

To a Lady who wrote under my likeness as Juliet, “Lieti giorni e felice.”

 
Whence should they come, lady! those happy days
That thy fair hand and gentle heart invoke
Upon my head?  Alas! such do not rise
On any, of the many, who with sighs
Bear through this journey-land of wo, life’s yoke.
The light of such lives not in thine own lays;
Such were not hers, that girl, so fond, so fair,
Beneath whose image thou hast traced thy pray’r.
Evil, and few, upon this darksome earth,
Must be the days of all of mortal birth;
Then why not mine?  Sweet lady! wish again,
Not more of joy to me, but less of pain;
Calm slumber, when life’s troubled hours are past,
And with thy friendship cheer them while they last.
 

TO MY GUARDIAN ANGEL

 
Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne above
Hast left, to wander through this dismal earth
With me, poor child of sin!—Angel of love!
Whose guardian wings hung o’er me from my birth,
And who still walk’st unwearied by my side,
How oft, oh thou compassionate! must thou mourn
Over the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride,
That thy pure eyes behold!  Yet not aside
From thy sad task dost thou in anger turn;
But patiently, thou hast but gazed and sighed,
And followed still, striving with the divine
Powers of thy soul for mastery over mine;
And though all line of human hope be past,
Still fondly watching, hoping, to the last.
 

SONNET

Suggested by Sir Thomas Lawrence observing that we never dream of ourselves younger than we are.

 
Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams,
May we return to that sweet land of youth,
That home of hope, of innocence, and truth,
Which as we farther roam but fairer seems.
In that dim shadowy world, where the soul strays
When she has laid her mortal charge to rest,
We oft behold far future hours and days,
But ne’er live o’er the past, the happiest,
How oft will fancy’s wild imaginings
Bear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen!
But ah! not e’en unfettered fancy’s wings
Can lead us back to aught that we have been,
Or waft us to that smiling, sunny shore,
Which e’en in slumber we may tread no more.
 

SONNET

 
Whene’er I recollect the happy time
When you and I held converse dear together,
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year’s prime;
Your memory lives for ever in my mind
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od’rous lime and silver hawthorn twined,
And many a noonday woodland wandering.
There’s not a thought of you, but brings along
Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky;
’Tis wafted on the blackbird’s sunset song,
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody.
And as I date it still, our love arose
’Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.
 

TO THE SPRING

 
Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;
Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide
Our mortal year along Time’s rapid tide.
Spirit of life! the old decrepid earth
Has heard thy voice, and at a wondrous birth,
Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb,
A thousand germs of light and beauty come.
Thy breath is on the waters, and they leap
From their bright winter-woven fetters free;
Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep,
And greet thee with a gush of melody.
The air is full of music, wild and sweet,
Made by the joyous waving of the trees,
Wherein a thousand winged minstrels meet,
And by the work-song of the early bees,
In the white blossoms fondly murmuring,
And founts, that in the blessed sunshine sing;
Hail to thee! maiden, with the bright blue eyes!
And showery robe, all steeped in starry dew;
Hail to thee! as thou ridest through the skies,
Upon thy rainbow car of various hue.
 

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

 
How passing sad!  Listen, it sings again!
   Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs,
The livelong day dost chaunt that wond’rous strain
   Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows
Out of the clouds to hear thee?  Who shall say,
Thou lone one! that thy melody is gay,
Let him come listen now to that one note,
   That thou art pouring o’er and o’er again
Through the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat,
   With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain,
I prithee cease thy song! for from my heart
Thou hast made memory’s bitter waters start,
   And filled my weary eyes with the soul’s rain.
 

SONNET

 
Lady, whom my beloved loves so well!
   When on his clasping arm thy head reclineth,
When on thy lips his ardent kisses dwell,
   And the bright flood of burning light, that shineth
In his dark eyes, is poured into thine;
   When thou shalt lie enfolded to his heart,
In all the trusting helplessness of love;
   If in such joy sorrow can find a part,
   Oh, give one sigh unto a doom like mine!
Which I would have thee pity, but not prove.
One cold, calm, careless, wintry look, that fell
   Haply by chance on me, is all that he
E’er gave my love; round that, my wild thoughts dwell
   In one eternal pang of memory.
 

TO –

 
When the dawn
O’er hill and dale
Throws her bright veil,
Oh, think of me!
When the rain
With starry showers
Fills all the flowers,
   Oh, think of me!
When the wind
Sweeps along,
Loud and strong,
   Oh, think of me!
When the laugh
With silver sound
Goes echoing round,
   Oh, think of me!
When the night
With solemn eyes
Looks from the skies,
   Oh, think of me!
When the air
Still as death
Holds its breath,
   Oh, think of me!
When the earth
Sleeping sound
Swings round and round,
   Oh, think of me!
When thy soul
O’er life’s dark sea
Looks gloomily,
   Oh, think of me!
 

WOMAN’S LOVE

 
A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,
   Full of eternal constancy and faith,
And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs
   Truth’s holy voice, with ev’ry balmy breath;
So journeys she along life’s crowded way,
   Keeping her soul’s sweet counsel from all sight;
Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray,
   Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or bright:
For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay
   Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her heart
   Knows well in suffering how to bear its part.
Patiently lives she through each dreary day,
   Looking with little hope unto the morrow;
   And still she walketh hand in hand with sorrow.
 

TO MRS. –

 
I never shall forget thee—’tis a word
   Thou oft must hear, for surely there be none
   On whom thy wond’rous eyes have ever shone
But for a moment, or who e’er have heard
Thy voice’s deep impassioned melody,
   Can lose the memory of that look or tone.
But, not as these, do I say unto thee,
   I never shall forget thee:—in thine eyes,
Whose light, like sunshine, makes the world rejoice,
   A stream of sad and solemn splendour lies;
And there is sorrow in thy gentle voice.
Thou art not like the scenes in which I found thee,
Thou art not like the beings that surround thee;
   To me, thou art a dream of hope and fear;
Yet why of fear?—oh sure! the Power that lent
Such gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent;
Still watches one whom it has deigned to bless
With such a dower of grace and loveliness;
   Over the dangerous waves ’twill surely steer
The richly freighted bark, through storm and blast,
And guide it safely to the port at last.
Such is my prayer; ’tis warm as ever fell
From off my lips: accept it, and farewell!
And though in this strange world where first I met thee;
We meet no more—I never shall forget thee.
 

AN ENTREATY

 
Once more, once more into the sunny fields
   Oh, let me stray!
And drink the joy that young existence yields
   In a bright, cloudless day.
 
 
Once more let me behold the summer sky,
   With its blue eyes,
And join the wild wind’s voice of melody,
   As far and free it flies.
 
 
Once more, once more, oh let me stand and hear
   The gushing spring,
As its bright drops fall starlike, fast and clear,
   And in the sunshine sing.
 
 
Once more, oh let me list the soft sweet breeze
   At evening mourn:
Let me, oh let me say farewell to these,
   And to my task I gaily will return.
 
 
Oh, lovely earth! oh, blessed smiling sky!
   Oh, music of the wood, the wave, the wind!
I do but linger till my ear and eye
   Have traced ye on the tablets of my mind—
 
 
And then, fare ye well!
Bright hill and bosky dell,
Clear spring and haunted well,
Night-blowing flowers pale,
Smooth lawn and lonely vale,
Sleeping lakes and sparkling fountains,
Shadowy woods and sheltering mountains,
Flowery land and sunny sky,
And echo sweet, my playmate shy;
   Fare ye well!—fare ye well!
 

LINES FOR MUSIC

 
Loud wind, strong wind, where art thou blowing?
      Into the air, the viewless air,
      To be lost there:
   There am I blowing.
 
 
Clear wave, swift wave, where art thou flowing?
      Unto the sea, the boundless sea,
      To be whelm’d there:
   There am I flowing.
 
 
Young life, swift life, where art thou going?
      Down to the grave, the loathsome grave,
      To moulder there:
   There am I going.
 

TO –

 
When the glad sun looks smiling from the sky,
   Upon each shadowy glen and woody height,
And that you tread those well known paths where I
   Have stray’d with you,—do not forget me quite.
 
 
When the warm hearth throws its bright glow around,
   On many a smiling cheek, and glance of light,
And the gay laugh wakes with its joyous sound
   The soul of mirth,—do not forget me quite.
 
 
You will not miss me; for with you remain
   Hearts fond and warm, and spirits young and bright,
’Tis but one word—“farewell;” and all again
   Will seem the same,—yet don’t forget me quite.
 

THE PARTING

 
’Twas a fit hour for parting,
   For athwart the leaden sky
The heavy clouds came gathering
   And sailing gloomily:
The earth was drunk with heaven’s tears,
   And each moaning autumn breeze
Shook the burthen of its weeping
   Off the overladen trees.
The waterfall rushed swollen down,
   In the gloaming, still and gray;
With a foam-wreath on the angry brow
   Of each wave that flashed away.
My tears were mingling with the rain,
   That fell so cold and fast,
And my spirit felt thy low deep sigh
   Through the wild and roaring blast.
The beauty of the summer woods
   Lay rustling round our feet,
And all fair things had passed away—
   ’Twas an hour for parting meet.
 

SONG

 
When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes,
   That have seen the last sunset of hope pass away,
On some bright orb that seems, through the still sapphire skies,
   In beauty and splendour to roll on its way:
 
 
Oh, remember this earth, if beheld from afar,
   Appears wrapt in a halo as soft, and as bright,
As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star,
   Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night.
 
 
And at this very midnight, perhaps some poor heart,
   That is aching, or breaking, in that distant sphere;
Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart
   From its own dismal home, to a happier one here.
 

TO A STAR

 
Thou little star, that in the purple clouds
   Hang’st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed;
First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds,
   ’Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and dead:
As through my tears my soul looks up to thee,
   Loathing the heavy chains that bind it here,
There comes a fearful thought that misery
   Perhaps is found, even in thy distant sphere.
Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin,
   The heritage of death, disease, decay,
A wilderness, like that we wander in,
   Where all things fairest, soonest pass away?
And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world,
   Round which life’s sweetest buds fall witherëd,
Where hope’s bright wings in the dark earth lie furled,
   And living hearts are mouldering with the dead?
Perchance they do not die, that dwell in thee,
   Perchance theirs is a darker doom than ours;
Unchanging woe, and endless misery,
   And mourning that hath neither days nor hours.
Horrible dream!—Oh dark and dismal path,
   Where I now weeping walk, I will not leave thee;
Earth has one boon for all her children—death:
   Open thy arms, oh mother! and receive me!
Take off the bitter burthen from the slave,
   Give me my birthright! give—the grave, the grave!
 

SONNET

 
Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil
   Of life, which I am doomed to till full sore,
Spring’st like a noisome weed!  I do not toil
   For thee, and yet thou still com’st dark’ning o’er
      My plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade.
Thou nightshade of the soul, beneath whose boughs
   All fair and gentle buds hang withering!
Why hast thou wreathed thyself around my brows,
   Casting from thence the blossoms of my spring,
      Breathing on youth’s sweet roses till they fade?
Alas! thou art an evil weed of woe,
   Watered with tears and watched with sleepless care,
   Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare;
And yet men covet thee—ah, wherefore do they so!