Chapter 4
Beautiful robin! with thy feathers red Contrasting sweetly with the soft green tree, Making thy little flights as thou art led By things that tempt a simple one like thee-- I would that thou couldst warble me to tears As lightly as the birds of other years. Idly to lie beneath an April sun, Pressing the perfume from the tender grass; To watch a joyous rivulet leap on With the clear tinkle of a music glass, And as I saw the early robin pass, To hear him thro' his little compass run-- Hath been a joy that I shall no more know Before I to my better portion go.
SONNET.
Exquisite Laura! with thy pouting lip, And the arch smile that makes me constant so-- Tempting me still like a dull bee to sip The flower I should have left so long ago-- Beautiful Laura! who art just so fair That I can think thee lovely when alone, And still art not so wonderfully rare That I could never find a prettier one-- Spirited Laura! laughing, weeping, crying In the same breath, and gravest with the gay-- So wild, that Cupid ever shoots thee flying, And knows his archery is thrown away-- Inconstant as I am, I cannot yet Break thy sweet fetter, exquisite coquette!
SONNET.
There was a beautiful spirit in her air, As of a fay at revel. Hidden springs, Too delicate for knowledge, should be there, Moving her gently like invisible wings; And then her lip out-blushing the red fruit That bursts with ripeness in the Autumn time, And the arch eye you would not swear was mute, And the clear cheek, as of a purer clime, And the low tone, soft as a pleasant flute Sent over water with the vesper chime; And then her forehead with its loose, dark curl, And the bewildering smile that made her mouth Like a torn rose-leaf moistened of the South-- She has an angel's gifts--the radiant girl!
ANDRE'S REQUEST.
It is not the fear of death That damps my brow; It is not for another breath I ask thee now; I can die with a lip unstirr'd And a quiet heart-- Let but this prayer be heard Ere I depart.
I can give up my mother's look-- My sister's kiss; I can think of love--yet brook A death like this! I can give up the young fame I burn'd to win-- All--but the spotless name I glory in!
Thine is the power to give, Thine to deny, Joy for the hour I live-- Calmness to die. By all the brave should cherish, By my dying breath, I ask that I may perish With a soldier's death!
DISCRIMINATION.
I used to love a radiant girl-- Her lips were like a rose leaf torn; Her heart was as free as a floating curl, Or a breeze at morn; Her step as light as a Peri's daughter, And her eye as soft as gliding water.
Witching thoughts like things half hid Lurk'd beneath her silken lashes, And a modest droop of the veined lid Oft hid their flashes-- But to me the charm was more complete As the blush stole up its fringe to meet.
Paint me love as a honey bee! Rosy mouths are things to sip; Nothing was ever so sweet to me As Marion's lip-- Till I learned that a deeper magic lies In kissing the lids of her closed eyes.
Her sweet brow I seldom touch, Save to part her raven hair; Her bright cheek I gaze on much, Her white hand is fair; But none of these--I've tried them all-- Is like kissing her eyes as the lashes fall.
THE SOLITARY.
Alone! alone! How drear it is Always to be alone! In such a depth of wilderness, The only thinking one! The waters in their path rejoice, The trees together sleep-- But I have not one silver voice Upon my ear to creep!
The sun upon the silent hills His mesh of beauty weaves, There's music in the laughing rills And in the whispering leaves. The red deer like the breezes fly To meet the bounding roe, But I have not a human sigh To cheer me as I go.
I've hated men--I hate them now-- But, since they are not here, I thirst for the familiar brow-- Thirst for the stealing tear. And I should love to see the one, And feel the other creep, And then again I'd be alone Amid the forest deep.
I thought that I should love my hound, And hear my cracking gun Till I forgot the thrilling sound Of voices--one by one. I thought that in the leafy hush Of nature, they would die; But, as the hindered waters rush, Resisted feelings fly
I'm weary of my lonely hut And of its blasted tree, The very lake is like my lot, So silent constantly. I've lived amid the forest gloom Until I almost fear-- When will the thrilling voices come My spirit thirsts to hear?
ON THE DEATH OF MISS FANNY V. APTHORP.
'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead. Her presence, like the shadow of a wing That is just given to the upward sky, Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice, And for her step we listen, and the eye Looks for her wonted coming with a strange, Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel That she will no more come--that from her cheek The delicate flush has faded, and the light Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip, That was so exquisitely pure, the dew Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov'd, Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd The world with such a winning loveliness, And on its bright, brief journey, gather'd up Such treasures of affection? She was lov'd Only as idols are. She was the pride Of her familiar sphere--the daily joy Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze, And, in the light and music of her way, Have a companion's portion. Who could feel, While looking upon beauty such as hers, That it would ever perish! It is like The melting of a star into the sky While you are gazing on it, or a dream In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.
A PORTRAIT.
She was not very beautiful, if it be beauty's test To match a classic model when perfectly at rest; And she did not look bewitchingly, if witchery it be, To have a forehead and a lip transparent as the sea.
The fashion of her gracefulness was not a follow'd rule, And her effervescent sprightliness was never learnt at school; And her words were all peculiar, like the fairy's who 'spoke pearls;' And her tone was ever sweetest midst the cadences of girls.
Said I she was not beautiful? Her eyes upon your sight Broke with the lambent purity of planetary light, And an intellectual beauty, like a light within a vase, Touched every line with glory of her animated face.
Her mind with sweets was laden, like a morning breath in June, And her thoughts awoke in harmony, like dreamings of a tune, And you heard her words like voices that o'er the waters creep, Or like a serenader's lute that mingles with your sleep.
She had an earnest intellect--a perfect thirst of mind, And a heart by elevated thoughts and poetry refin'd, And she saw a subtle tint or shade with every careless look, And the hidden links of nature were familiar as a book.
She's made of those rare elements that now and then appear, As if remov'd by accident unto a lesser sphere, Forever reaching up, and on, to life's sublimer things, As if they had been used to track the universe with wings.
MAY.
Oh the merry May has pleasant hours, And dreamily they glide, As if they floated like the leaves Upon a silver tide. The trees are full of crimson buds, And the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow to music Like a tune with pleasant words.
The verdure of the meadow-land Is creeping to the hills, The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets Are blowing by the rills; The lilac has a load of balm For every wind that stirs, And the larch stands green and beautiful Amid the sombre firs.
There's perfume upon every wind-- Music in every tree-- Dews for the moisture-loving flowers-- Sweets for the sucking bee; The sick come forth for the healing South, The young are gathering flowers; And life is a tale of poetry, That is told by golden hours.
If 'tis not a true philosophy, That the spirit when set free Still lingers about its olden home, In the flower and the tree, It is very strange that our pulses thrill At the tint of a voiceless thing, And our hearts yearn so with tenderness In the beautiful time of Spring.
ON SEEING THROUGH A DISTANT WINDOW A BELLE COMPLETING HER TOILET FOR A BALL.
'Tis well--'tis well--that clustering shade Is on thy forehead sweetly laid; And that light curl that slumbers by Makes deeper yet thy depth of eye; And that white rose that decks thy hair Just wins the eye to linger there, Yet makes it not to note the less The beauty of that raven tress.
Thy coral necklace?--ear-rings too? Nay--nay--not them--no darker hue Than thy white bosom be to-night On that fair neck the bar of light, Or hide the veins that faintly glow And wander in its living snow.
What!--yet another? can it be That neck needs ornament to thee?-- Yet not thy jewels!--they are bright, But that dark eye has softer light, And tho' each gem had been a star, Thy simple self were lovelier far-- Yet stay!--that string of matchless pearl? Nay--wear it--wear it--radiant girl! For ocean's best of pure and white Should only be thy foil to-night.
Aye, turn thee round! 'tis lovely all-- Thou'lt have no peer at that gay ball! And that proud toss!--it makes thee smile To see how deep is thine own wile; And that slow look that seems to stray As each sweet feature made it stay-- And that small finger, lightly laid On dimpled cheek and glossy braid, As if to know that all they seem Is really there, and not a dream-- I wish I knew the gentle thought By all this living beauty wrought! I wish I knew if that sweet brow, That neck on which thou gazest now-- If thy rich lip and brilliant face-- Thy perfect figure's breezy grace-- If these are half the spell to thee That will, this night, bewilder me!
TO A BELLE.
All that thou art, I thrillingly And sensibly do feel; For my eye doth see, and my ear doth hear, And my heart is not of steel; I meet thee in the festal hall-- I turn thee in the dance-- And I wait, as would a worshipper, The giving of thy glance.
Thy beauty is as undenied As the beauty of a star; And thy heart beats just as equally, Whate'er thy praises are; And so long without a parallel Thy loveliness hath shone, That, follow'd like the tided moon, Thou mov'st as calmly on.
Thy worth I, for myself, have seen-- I know that thou art leal; Leal to a woman's gentleness, And thine own spirit's weal; Thy thoughts are deeper than a dream, And holier than gay; And thy mind is a harp of gentle strings, Where angel fingers play.
I know all this--I feel all this-- And my heart believes it true; And my fancy hath often borne me on, As a lover's fancies do; And I have a heart, that is strong and deep, And would love with its human all, And it waits for a fetter that's sweet to wear, And would bound to a silken thrall.
But it loves not thee.--It would sooner bind Its thoughts to the open sky; It would worship as soon a familiar star, That is bright to every eye. 'Twere to love the wind that is sweet to all-- The wave of the beautiful sea-- 'Twere to hope for all the light in Heaven, To hope for the love of thee.
But wert thou lowly--yet leal as now; Rich but in thine own mind; Humble--in all but the queenly brow; And to thine own glory blind-- Were the world to prove but a faithless thing, And worshippers leave thy shrine-- My love were, then, but a gift for thee, And my strong deep heart were thine.
A PORTRAIT.
She's beautiful! Her raven curls Have broken hearts in envious girls-- And then they sleep in contrast so, Like raven feathers upon snow, And bathe her neck--and shade the bright Dark eye from which they catch the light, As if their graceful loops were made To keep that glorious eye in shade, And holier make its tranquil spell, Like waters in a shaded well.
I cannot rhyme about that eye-- I've match'd it with a midnight sky-- I've said 'twas deep, and dark, and wild, Expressive, liquid, witching, mild-- But the jewell'd star, and the living air Have nothing in them half so fair.
She's noble--noble--one to keep Embalm'd for dreams of fever'd sleep-- An eye for nature--taste refin'd, Perception swift, and ballanc'd mind,-- And more than all, a gift of thought To such a spirit-fineness wrought, That on my ear her language fell, As if each word dissolv'd a spell.
Yet I half hate her. She has all That would ensure an angel's fall-- But there's a cool collected look, As if her pulses beat by book-- A measure'd tone, a cold reply, A management of voice and eye, A calm, possess'd, authentic air, That leaves a doubt of softness there, 'Till--look and worship as I may-- My fever'd thoughts will pass away.
And when she lifts her fringing lashes, And her dark eye like star-light flashes-- And when she plays her quiet wile Of that calm look, and measur'd smile, I go away like one who's heard In some fine scene the prompter's word, And make a vow to break her chain, And keep it--till we meet again.
ERRATA.--16th page, 10th line from top, "as _if_ it were" for "as it were." Same page 11th line from top "incense" for "insense." 46th page, 11th line from the bottom, "go its channel" for "go _up_ its channel." Page 60, 2nd line, "As you like it," for "Much ado about Nothing." In the table of Contents "A Portrait," page 90, is omitted.
Transcriber's notes
Original spelling retain'd.
Errata not corrected. The Table of Contents is also missing a reference to Sonnet. Winter Page 72.
Typographical errors corrected. Page 86 to night corrected to to-night.
End of Project Gutenberg's Fugitive Poetry, by Nathaniel Parker Willis