And would not fear, at my coming then, Hush every voice in the homes of men? Would not bright eyes in my presence quail ? Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale ? No gift be mine that aside would turn The human love for whose founts I yearn!
Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of those Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose? Wear this rich gem! it is charmed to show When a change comes over affection's glow. Look on its flushing or fading hue, And learn if the trusted be false or true!
Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, Though my heart's wealth be but poured on dust! Let not a doubt in my soul have place, To dim the light of a loved one's face; Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile- That glory would pass could I look on guile!
Say then what boon of my power shall be Favoured of spirits! poured forth on thee? Thou scornest the treasures of wave and mine, Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine, Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest- Answer me! how may I grace it best?
Oh! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen, But a human heart where my own may lean! A friend, one tender and faithful friend, Whose thoughts' free current with mine may blend, And leaving not either on earth alone, Bid the bright calm close of our lives be one!
"Oh! mes Amis, rappelez vous quelqefois mes vers; mon ame y est empreinte."-Corinne.
WHEN will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?
When the last red light, the farewell of day, From the rock and the river is passing away, When the air with a deepening hush is fraught, And the heart grows burdened with tender thought; Then let it be!
When will ye think of me, kind friends? When will ye think of me?— When the rose of the rich midsummer time Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime; When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread;
BRIDE! upon thy marriage-day, When thy gems in rich array Made the glistening mirror seem As a star-reflecting stream. When the clustering pearls lay fair 'Midst thy braids of sunny air,
And the white veil o'er thee streaming, Like a silvery halo gleaming, Mellowed all that pomp and light Into something meekly bright; Did the fluttering of thy breath Speak of joy or wo beneath? And the hue that went and came O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame, Flowed that crimson from th' unrest, Or the gladness of thy breast? -Who shall tell us ?-from thy bower, Brightly didst thou pass that hour; With the many-glancing oar, And the cheer along the shore, And the wealth of summer flowers On thy fair head cast in showers, And the breath of song and flute, And the clarion's glad salute, Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride! Mirth and music, sun and sky, Welcomed thee triumphantly!
From love's wane-a death in life
Yet, perchance, a chastening thought, In some deeper spirit wrought, Whispering, as untold it blent With the sounds of merriment,— "From the home of childhood's glee From the days of laughter free, From the love of many years, Thou art gone to cares and fears! To another path and guide, To a bosom yet untried!
Bright one! oh! there well may be Trembling 'midst our joy for thee." Bride! when through the stately fane, Circled with thy nuptial train, 'Midst the banners hung on high By thy warrior-ancestry, 'Midst those mighty fathers dead, In soft beauty thou wast led; When before the shrine thy form Quivered to some bosom storm, When, like harp-strings with a sigh Breaking in mid-harmony, On thy lip the murmurs low Died with love's unfinished vow; When, like scattered rose-leaves, fled From thy cheek each tint of red, And the light forsook thine eye, And thy head sank heavily; Was that drooping but th' excess Of thy spirit's blessedness?
Or did some deep feeling's might. Folded in thy heart from sight, With a sudden tempest shower, Earthward bear thy life's young flower? -Who shall tell us?-on thy tongue Silence, and for ever, hung! Never to thy lip and cheek
Rushed again the crimson streak Never to thine eye returned
That which there had beamed and burned! With the secret none might know, With thy rapture or thy wo, With thy marriage-robe and wreath, Thou wert fled, young bride of death! Que, one lightning moment there Struck down triumph to despair, Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust, Into darkness-terror-dust!
There were sounds of weeping o'er thee, Bride! as forth thy kindred bore thee, Shrouded in thy gleaming veil, Deaf to that wild funeral-wail. Yet perchance a chastening thought, In some deeper spirit wrought, Whispering, while the stern sad knell On the air's bright stillness fell; -"From the power of chill and change Souls to sever and estrange;
But to watch-a mortal strife: From the secret fevers known
To the burning heart alone, Thou art fled-afar, away-
Where these blights no more have sway! Bright one! oh! there well may be Comfort 'midst our tears for thee!"
A long war disturbed your mind- Here your perfect peace is signed, "T is now full tide 'twixt night and day, End your moan, and come away! Webster-Duchess of Malfy.
THERE were faint sounds of weeping;-fear and gloom
And midnight vigil in a stately room Of Lusignan's old halls:-rich odours there Filled the proud chamber as with Indian air, And soft light fell, from lamps of silver thrown, On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone Over a gorgeous couch:-there emeralds gleamed, And deeper crimson from the ruby streamed Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set, Hiding from sunshine.-Many a carcanet Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain, And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death, Hung drooping solemnly;--for there one lay Passing from all Earth's glories fast away, Amidst those queenly treasures: They had been Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands, And for his sake, upon their orient sheen She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands Had pressed them to her languid heart once more, Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er- Love's last vain clinging unto life; and now- A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow, Her eye was fixed, her spirit seemed removed, Though not from Earth, from all it knew or loved, Far, far away! her handmaids watched around, In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound A might, a mystery; and the quivering light Of wind-swayed lamps, made spectral in their sight The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair, Gleaming along the walls with braided hair, Long in the dust grown dim; and she, too, saw, But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe, Those pictured shapes!-a bright, yet solemn train,
Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain, Clothed in diviner hues; while on her ear Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear,
Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight sky; And thus it seemed, in that low thrilling tone, Th' ancestral shadows called away their own. Come, come, come!
Long thy fainting soul hath yearned For the step that ne'er returned; Long thine anxious ear hath listened, And thy watchful eye hath glistened With the hope, whose parting strife Shook the flower-leaves from thy life- Now the heavy day is done, Home awaits thee, wearied one! Come, come, come!
From the quenchless thoughts that burn In the sealed heart's lonely urn; From the coil of memory's chain Wound about the throbbing brain, From the veins of sorrow deep, Winding through the world of sleep; From the haunted halls and bowers, Thronged with ghosts of happier hours! Come, come, come!
On our dim and distant shore Aching love is felt no more! We have loved with earth's excess- Past is now that weariness!
We have wept, that weep not now— Calm is each once beating brow! We have known the dreamer's woes- All is now one bright repose!
Come, come, come!
Weary heart that long hast bled, Languid spirit, drooping head, Restless memory, vain regret, Pining love whose light is set, Come away!-'t is hushed 't is well! Where by shadowy founts we dwell, All the fever-thirst is stilled, All the air with peace is filled,- Come, come, come!
And with her spirit rapt in that wild lay, She passed, as twilight melts to night, away!
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall, What kingly vision shall obey my call?
The deep grave knows it well!
"Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors? shall they pass
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass With triumph's long array!
Speak! and those dwellers of the marble urn Robed for the feast of victory shall return As on their proudest day.
"Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song?— O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng Shall waft a solemn gleam!
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, Under the foliage of green laurel boughs, But silent as a dream."
"Not these, O mighty master!-Though their lays
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise, Hallowed for evermore! And not the buried conquerors! Let them sleep And let the flowery earth her Sabbaths keep In joy, from shore to shore!
"But, if the narrow house may so be moved, Call the bright shadows of the most beloved, Back from their couch of rest! That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled With peace, if human love hath ever stilled The yearning human breast."
"Away, fond youth!-An idle quest is thine; These have no trophy, no memorial shrine; I know not of their place! 'Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and
Have passed, and left no trace.
"Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, And the wild sounds of melancholy rills,
Their covering turf may bloom;
But ne'er hath Fame made relics of its flowers,- Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, Or poet hailed their tomb."
"Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell! Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell
That which I pine to know!
"THE Dead! the glorious Dead!-And shall they I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep, rise? Records of joy and wo."*
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright
Thou ask'st a fearful spell!
*Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for 1830.
Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carrière bien peu de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie, d'une femme aimée et d'une mère heureuse.
DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven! Thou, to whom its fires are given, Joyously thy car hath rolled Where the conquerors passed of old; And the festal sun that shone, O'er three* hundred triumphs gone, Makes thy day of glory bright, With a shower of golden light. Now thou tread'st th' ascending road, Freedom's foot so proudly trode; While, from tombs of heroes borne, From the dust of empire shorn, Flowers upon thy graceful head, Chaplets of all hues are shed, In a soft and rosy rain, Touched with many a gemlike stain. Thou hast gained the summit now Music hails thee from below;— Music, whose rich notes might stir Ashes of the sepulchre; Shaking with victorious notes All the bright air as it floats. Well may woman's heart beat high Unto that proud harmony! Now afar it rolls-it dies- And thy voice is heard to rise With a low and lovely tone In its thrilling power alone; And thy lyre's deep silvery string, Touched as by a breeze's wing, Murmurs tremblingly at first, Ere the tide of rapture burst.
All the spirit of thy sky Now hath lit thy large dark eye, And thy cheek a flush hath caught From the joy of kindled thought; And the burning words of song From thy lips flow fast and strong, With a rushing stream's delight In the freedom of its might. Radiant daughter of the sun! Now thy living wreath is won.
Crowned of Rome!-Oh! art thou not Happy in that glorious lot?— Happier, happier far than thou, With the laurel on thy brow,
She that makes the humblest hearth Lovely but to one on earth!
The trebly hundred triumphs.-Byron.
Oh! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life Making a truth and beauty of its own.
Wordsworth. Birth has gladdened it: Death has sanctified it. Guesses at Truth.
No dower of storied song is thine, O desolate abode!
Forth from thy gates no glittering line Of lance and spear hath flowed. Banners of knighthood have not flung Proud drapery o'er thy walls, Nor bugle notes to battle rung Through thy resounding halls.
Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here By courtly hands been dressed, For Princes, from the chase of deer, Under green leaves to rest: Only some rose, yet lingering bright Beside thy casements lone, Tells where the spirit of delight
Hath dwelt, and now is gone.
Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword, And sovereign beauty's lot,
House of quenched light and silent board! For me thou needest not.
It is enough to know that here,
Where thoughtfully I stand, Sorrow and love, and hope and fear, Have linked one kindred band.
Thou bindest me with mighty spells! -A solemnizing breath,
A presence all around thee dwells, Of human life and death.
I need but pluck yon garden flower From where the wild weeds rise,
To wake, with strange and sudden power, A thousand sympathies.
Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth Deserted now by all!
Voices at eve here met in mirth
Which eve may ne'er recall. Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, And childhood's laughing glee,
And song and prayer, have all been known, Hearth of the dead! to thee.
Thou hast heard blessings fondly poured Upon the infant head,
As if in every fervent word
The living soul were shed; Thou hast seen partings, such as bear
The bloom from life away- Alas! for love in changeful air,
Where nought beloved can stay!
Here, by the restless bed of pain,
The vigil hath been kept, Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, Burst forth on eyes that wept : Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom,
The breathless influence, shed Through the dim dwelling, from the room Wherein reposed the dead.
The seat left void, the missing face,
Have here been marked and mourned, And time hath filled the vacant place,
And gladness hath returned; Till from the narrowing household chain The links dropped one by one! And homewards hither, o'er the main, Came the spring-birds alone.
Is there not cause, then-cause for thought, Fixed eye and lingering tread,
Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, Even lowliest hearts have bled? Where, in its ever-haunting thirst
For draughts of purer day,
Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst The clouds that wrapt its way?
Holy to human nature seems
The long-forsaken spot; To deep affections, tender dreams, Hopes of a brighter lot! Therefore in silent reverence here,
Hearth of the dead! I stand,
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear, Have linked one household band.
A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined Our hopes of immortality.-Byron.
SPEAK low!-the place is holy to the breath Of awful harmonies, of whispered prayer; Tread lightly!-for the sanctity of death Broods with a voiceless influence on the air: Stern, yet serene!-a reconciling spell, Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. Leave me to linger silently awhile!
-Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:
Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense-mists their sainted pageant- ry:-
Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour.
But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound; Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have poured
Their anguish forth, are with me and around;— I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, Known to these altars of a thousand years.
Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse! That here hast bowed with ashes on thy head; And thou still battling with the tempest's force- Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has bled-
Speak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair?
No voice, no breath!-of conflicts past, no trace! -Does not this hush give answer to my quest? Surely the dread religion of the place
By every grief hath made its might confest! -Oh! that within my heart I could but keep Holy to Heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!
And storm, and darkness! ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength!-Byron.
I COME to thee, O Earth!
With all my gifts!—for every flower sweet dew, In bell and urn, and chalice, to renew The glory of its birth.
Not one which glimmering lies Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, But, through its veins of beauty, so receives A spirit of fresh dyes.
I come with every star; Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track, Give me but the moss, the reed, the lily back, Mirrors of worlds afar.
I come with peace;-I shed Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.
On my own heart I lay The weary babe; and sealing with a breath Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath The shadowing lids to play.
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