Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,
And not divine the crescent on thy brows!
Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild moon,
Behind those chestnut boughs,
Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;
I will be grateful for that simple boon,
In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet,
And bless thy dainty face whene’er we meet.
In nights far gone, ay, far away and dead,
Before Care-fretted with a lidless eye,
I was thy wooer on my little bed,
Letting the early hours of rest go by,
To see thee flood the heaven with milky light,
And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept;
For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams,
Thou wert the fairies' armorer, that kept
Their burnished helms, and crowns, and corselets bright,
Their spears and glittering mails;
And ever thou didst spill in winding streams
Sparkles and midnight gleams,
For fishes to new gloss their argent scales!
Why sighs?-why creeping tears?-why claspéd hands?
Is it to count the boy's expended dower?
That fairies since have broke their gifted wands?
That young Delight, like any o'erblown flower,
Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground?
Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour,
Thou art a sadder dial to old Time
Than ever I have found
On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tower,
Mottoed with stern and melancholy rhyme.
Why should I grieve for this?-O, I must yearn,
Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory,
Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn,
Richly embossed with childhood's revelry,
With leaves and clustered fruits, and flowers eterne,(Eternal to the world, though not to me,)
Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be,
The deathless wreath, and undecayed festoon,
When I am hearsed within,
Less than the pallid primrose to the moon,
That now she watches through a vapor thin.
So let it be :- Before I lived to sigh,
Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,
Beautiful orb! and so, whene'er I lie
Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.
Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills,
And blessed thy fair face, O mother mild!
Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run,
Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond,
And blend their plighted shadows into one:
Still smile at even on the bedded child,
And close his eyelids with thy silver wand!
WELCOME, dear heart, and a most kind good-morrow;
The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine:-
Flowers I have none to give thee, but I borrow
Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine,
Here are red roses, gathered at thy cheeks,-
The white were all too happy to look white:
For love the rose, for faith the lily speaks:
It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright!
Dost love sweet hyacinth? Its scented leaf
Curls manifold, all love's delights blow double:
Tis said this floweret is inscribed with grief, -
But let that hint of a forgotten trouble.
I plucked the primrose at night's dewy noon;
Like Hope, it showed its blossoms in the night;
'Twas like Endymion, watching for the moon!
And here are sunflowers, amorous of light!
These golden buttercups are April's seal,
The daisy stars her constellations be:
These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel,
Therefore I pluck no daisies but for thee!
Here's daisies for the morn, primrose for gloom,
Pansies and roses for the noontide hours;
A wight once made a dial of their bloom,—
So may thy life be measured out by flowers!
THE dead are in their silent graves,
And the dew is cold above,
And the living weep and sigh
Over dust that once was love.
Once I only wept the dead,
But now the living cause my pain;
How couldst thou steal me from my tears,
To leave me to my tears again?
My mother rests beneath the sod, -
Her rest is calm and very deep:
I wished that she could see our loves,
But now I gladden in her sleep.
Last night unbound my raven locks,
The morning saw them turned to gray,
Once they were black and well beloved,
But thou art changed, and so are they!
To gaze upon and think of me,
Was ta'en with smiles, but this was torn In sorrow that I send to thee.
THE Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gathered up gold,
And now he is dying;-
Old age, begin sighing!
The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping;
But some that have sowed
Have no riches for reaping;
Poor wretch, fall a weeping!
The year's in the wane,
There is nothing adorning,
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning;
Cold winter gives warning.
The rivers run chill,
The red sun is sinking,
And I am grown old,
And life is fast shrinking;
Here's enow for sad thinking!
COME, let us set our careful breasts,
Like Philomel, against the thorn,
To aggravate the inward grief,
That makes her accents so forlorn;
The world has many cruel points,
Whereby our bosoms have been torn,
And there are dainty themes of grief,
In sadness to outlast the morn,
True honor's dearth, affection's death,
Neglectful pride and cankering scorn,
With all the piteous tales that tears
Have watered since the world was born.
The world! - it is a wilderness,
Where tears are hung on every tree;
For thus my gloomy fantasy
Makes all things weep with me!
Come let us sit and watch the sky,
And fancy clouds where no clouds be;
Grief is enough to blot the eye,
And make heaven black with misery.
Why should birds sing such merry notes,
Unless they were more blest than we?
No sorrow ever chokes their throats,
Except sweet nightingale; for she
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