Chapter 4

Oh! for the temperate airs that blow Upon that darling of the sea, Where neither sunshine, rain, nor snow, For three days hold supremacy; But ever-varying skies contend The blessings of all climes to lend, To make that tiny, wave-rocked isle, In never-fading beauty smile. England, oh England! for the breeze That slowly stirs thy forest-trees! Thy ferny brooks, thy mossy fountains, Thy beechen woods, thy heathery mountains, Thy lawny uplands, where the shadow Of many a giant oak is sleeping; The tangled copse, the sunny meadow, Through which the summer rills run weeping. Oh, land of flowers! while sinking here Beneath the dog-star of the West, The music of the waves I hear That cradle thee upon their breast. Fresh o'er thy rippling corn-fields fly The wild-winged breezes of the sea, While from thy smiling, summer sky, The ripening sun looks tenderly. And thou--to whom through all this heat My parboiled thoughts will fondly turn, Oh! in what "shady blest retreat" Art thou ensconced, while here I burn? Across the lawn, in the deep glade, Where hand in hand we oft have strayed, Or communed sweetly, side by side, Hear'st thou the chiming ocean tide, As gently on the pebbly beach It lays its head, then ebbs away, Or round the rocks, with nearer reach, Throws up a cloud of silvery spray? Or to the firry woods, that shed Their spicy odours to the sun, Goest thou with meditative tread, Thinking of all things that are done Beneath the sky?--a great, big thought, Of which I know you're very fond. For me, my mind is solely wrought To this one wish:--O! in a pond Would I were over head and ears! (Of a _cold_ ducking I've no fears) Or any where, where I am not; For, bless the heat! it is too hot!

AN APOLOGY.

Blame not my tears, love: to you has been given The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows; The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from Heaven, And shines from your heart, on this life and its woes.

Blame not my tears, love: on you her best treasure Kind nature has lavish'd, oh, long be it yours! For how barren soe'er be the path you now measure, The future still woos you with hands full of flowers.

Oh, ne'er be that gift, love, withdrawn from thy keeping! The jewel of life, its strong spirit, its wings; If thou ever must weep, may it shine through thy weeping, As the sun his warm rays through a spring shower flings.

But blame not my tears, love: to me 'twas denied; And when fate to my lips gave this life's mingled cup, She had filled to the brim, from the dark bitter tide, And forgotten to pour in the only sweet drop.

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY AT WEST POINT.

Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled, On which the day soared to the sunny west: The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest, Looking upon the never-resting earth; All things in heaven wait on the solemn birth Of night, but where has fled the happy dream That at this hour, last night, our life did seem? Where are the mountains with their tangled hair, The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair? Where are the shadows of the solemn hills, And the fresh music of the summer rills? Where are the wood-paths, winding, long and steep, And the great, glorious river, broad and deep, And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet, And the wild torrent's snowy, leaping feet, The rustling, rocking boughs, the running streams,-- Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but dreams? And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone, That from the mountain-side came dancing down? The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes, The happy hearts, the human paradise, The youth, the love, the life that revelled here,-- Are they too gone?--Upon Time's shadowy bier, The pale, cold hours of joys now past, are laid, Perhaps, not soon from memory's gaze to fade, But never to be reckoned o'er again, In all life's future store of bliss and pain. From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart, Youth flies--love dies--and from the joyous heart Hope's gushing fountain ebbs too soon away, Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day, When from the barren waste of after life, The weariness, the worldliness, the strife, The soul looks o'er the desert of its way To the green gardens of its early day: The paradise, for which we vainly mourn, The heaven, to which our ling'ring eyes still turn, To which our footsteps never shall return.

SONG.

Pass thy hand through my hair, lore; One little year ago, In a curtain bright and rare, love, It fell golden o'er my brow. But the gold has passed away, love, And the drooping curls are thin, And cold threads of wintry gray, love, Glitter their folds within: How should this be, in one short year? It is not age--can it be care?

Fasten thine eyes on mine, love; One little year ago, Midsummer's sunny shine, love, Had not a warmer glow. But the light is there no more, love, Save in melancholy gleams, Like wan moonlight wand'ring o'er, love, Dim lands in troubled dreams: How should this be, in one short year? It is not age--can it be care?

Lay thy cheek to my cheek, love, One little year ago It was ripe, and round, and sleek, love, As the autumn peaches grow. But the rosy hue has fled, love, Save a flush that goes and comes, Like a flow'r born from the dead, love, And blooming over tombs: How should this be, in one short year? It is not age--can it be care?

TO MRS. DULANEY.

What was thine errand here? Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught That from this marred earth Takes its imperfect birth; It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caught From some far higher sphere, And though an angel now, thou still must bear The lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.

What was thine errand here? Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind, With earthly creatures coarse, Held not discourse, But with fine spirits, of some purer kind, Dwelt in communion dear; And sure they speak to thee that language now, Which thou wert wont to speak to us below.

What was thine errand here? To adorn anguish, and ennoble death, And make infirmity A patient victory, And crown life's baseness with a glorious wreath, That fades not on thy bier, But fits, immortal soul! thy triumph still, In that bright world where thou art gone to dwell.

IMPROMPTU, Written among the ruins of the Sonnenberg.

Thou who within thyself dost not behold Ruins as great as these, though not as old, Can'st scarce through life have travelled many a year, Or lack'st the spirit of a pilgrim here. Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride; Love, its warm hearth-stones; Hope, its prospects wide; Life's fortress in thee, held these one, and all, And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall.

LINES, Addressed to the Young Gentlemen leaving the Academy at Lenox, Massachusetts.

Life is before ye--and while now ye stand Eager to spring upon the promised land, Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trod But few light steps, upon a flowery sod; Round ye are youth's green bowers, and to your eyes Th' horizon's line joins earth with the bright skies; Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy, Friendship unwavering, love without alloy, Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won, Like angels, beckon ye to venture on. And if o'er the bright scene some shadows rise, Far off they seem, at hand the sunshine lies; The distant clouds, which of ye pause to fear? Shall not a brightness gild them when more near? Dismay and doubt ye know not, for the power Of youth is strong within ye at this hour, And the great mortal conflict seems to ye Not so much strife as certain victory-- A glory ending in eternity. Life is before ye--oh! if ye could look Into the secrets of that sealed book, Strong as ye are in youth, and hope, and faith, Ye should sink down, and falter, "Give us death!" Could the dread Sphinx's lips but once disclose, And utter but a whisper of the woes Which must o'ertake ye, in your lifelong doom, Well might ye cry, "Our cradle be our tomb!" Could ye foresee your spirit's broken wings, Earth's brightest triumphs what despised things, Friendship how feeble, love how fierce a flame, Your joy half sorrow, half your glory shame, Hollowness, weariness, and, worst of all, Self-scorn that pities not its own deep fall, Fast gathering darkness, and fast waning light,-- Oh could ye see it all, ye might, ye might Cower in the dust, unequal to the strife, And die, but in beholding what is life.

Life is before ye--from the fated road Ye cannot turn: then take ye up your load. Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way, Ye must go o'er it, meet ye what ye may. Gird up your souls within ye to the deed, Angels, and fellow-spirits, bid ye speed! What though the brightness dim, the pleasure fade, The glory wane,--oh! not of these is made The awful life that to your trust is given. Children of God! inheritors of heaven! Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy, Ye were ordained to do, not to enjoy, To suffer, which is nobler than to dare; A sacred burthen is this life ye bear, Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly; Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, But onward, upward, till the goal ye win; God guard ye, and God guide ye on your way, Young pilgrim warriors who set forth to-day!

THE PRAYER OF A LONELY HEART.

I am alone--oh be thou near to me, Great God! from whom the meanest are not far. Not in presumption of the daring spirit, Striving to find the secrets of itself, Make I my weeping prayer; in the deep want Of utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee; If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship, Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee. I have no fellow, Father! of my kind; None that be kindred, none companion to me, And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood, Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me, Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot. Around me grow the trees, each by the other; Innumerable leaves, each like the other, Whisper and breathe, and live and move together. Around me spring the flowers; each rosy cup Hath sisters, leaning their fair cheeks against it. The birds fly all above me; not alone, But coupled in free fellowship, or mustering A joyous band, weeping in companies The wide blue fields between the clouds;--the clouds Troop in society, each on the other Shedding, like sympathy, reflected light. The waves, a multitude, together run To the great breast of the receiving sea: Nothing but hath its kind, its company, Oh God! save I alone! then, let me come, Good Father! to thy feet, when even as now, Tears, that no human hand is near to wipe, O'erbrim my eyes, oh wipe them, thou, my Father! When in my heart the stores of its affections, Piled up unused, locked fast, are like to burst The fleshly casket, that may not contain them, Let me come nigh to thee;--accept thou them, Dear Father!--Fount of Love! Compassionate God! When in my spirit burns the fire, the power, That have made men utter the words of angels, And none are near to bid me speak and live: Hearken, oh Father! Maker of my spirit! God of my soul, to thee I will outpour The hymns resounding through my troubled mind, The sighs and sorrows of my lonely heart, The tears, and weeping, of my weary eyes: Be thou my fellow, glorious, gracious God! And fit me for such fellowship with thee!

ABSENCE.

What shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, Weary with longing?--shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of casting from me God's great gift of time; Shall I these mists of memory locked within, Leave, and forget, life's purposes sublime?

Oh! how, or by what means, may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds, each moment that is told While thou, beloved one! art far from me.

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task time, and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won, since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine.

RETURN.

When the bright sun back on his yearly road Comes towards us, his great glory seems to me, As from the sky he pours it all abroad, A golden herald, my beloved, of thee.

When from the south the gentle winds do blow, Calling the flowers that sleep beneath the earth, It sounds like sweetest music, that doth go Before thy coming, full of love and mirth.

When one by one the violets appear, Opening their purple vests so modestly, To greet the virgin daughter of the year, Each seems a fragrant prophecy of thee.

For with the spring thou shalt return again; Therefore the wind, the flower, and clear sunshine, A double worship from my heart obtain, A love and welcome not their own, but thine.

LINES, Written in London.

Struggle not with thy life!--the heavy doom Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave: Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb Thou shalt go crushed, and ground, though ne'er so brave.

Complain not of thy life!--for what art thou More than thy fellows, that thou should'st not weep? Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow, And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.

Marvel not at thy life!--patience shall see The perfect work of wisdom to her given; Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery, And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

TO ---

What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers All the sad night, when he is far away? What recks he, how they mourn, through those dark hours, Till back again he leads the smiling day?

As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye, And blesses from its lowly seat, the god, In his great glory he goes through the sky, And recks not of the blessing from the sod.

And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate! That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee? That thy departing, leaves me desolate, That thy returning, brings back life to me?

I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe, That for thy sake daily disturbs my life; I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so, That all the love I can, is woe, and strife.

I blame not thee, that I may ne'er impart The tempest, and the death, and the despair, That words, and looks, of thine make in my heart, And turn by turn, riot and stagnate there.

Oh! I have found my sin's sharp scourge in thee, For loving thee, as one should love but Heaven; Therefore, oh, thou beloved! I blame not thee, But by my anguish hope to be forgiven.

TO ---

The fountain of my life, which flowed so free, The plenteous waves, which brimming gushed along, Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song, Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee: How should they not? from the shrunk, narrow bed, Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed away Light, life, and motion, and along its way The dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread,-- Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblest Disturb the wells whence that sad stream takes birth, The swollen waters once again gush forth, Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest.

EPISTLE FROM THE RHINE. To Y---, with a bowl of Bohemian glass.

From rocky hills, where climbs the vine; Where on his waves the wandering Rhine Sees imaged ruins, towns and towers, Bare mountain scalps, green forest bowers; From that broad land of poetry, Wild legend, noble history, This token many a day bore I, To lay it at your feet, dear Y---.

Little the stupid bowl will tell Of all that on its way befell, Since from old Frankfort's free domain, Where smiling vineyards skirt the main, It took its way; what sunsets red Their splendours o'er the mountains shed, How the blue Taunus' distant height Like hills of fire gave back the light, And how, on river, rock, and sky, The sun declined so tenderly, That o'er the scene white moonlight fell, Ere we had bid the day farewell. From Maintz, where many a warrior priest Was wont of yore to fight and feast, The broad stream bore us down its tide, Till where upon its steeper side, Grim Ehrenfels, with turrets brown, On Hatto's wave-worn tower looks down. Here did we rest,--my dearest Y---, This bowl could all as well as I, Describe that scene, when in the deep, Still, middle night, all wrapped in sleep, The hamlet lone, the dark blue sky, The eddying river sweeping by, Lay 'neath the clear unclouded light Of the full moon: broad, brimming, bright, The glorious flood went rolling by Its world of waves, while silently The shaggy hills on either side, Watched like huge giants by the tide. From where the savage bishop's tower Obstructs the flood, a sullen roar Broke on the stillness of the night, And the rough waters, yeasty white, Foamed round that whirlpool dread and deep, Where still thy voice is heard to weep, Gisela! maiden most unblest, Thou Jephtha's daughter of the West! Who shall recall the shadowy train That, in the magic light, my brain Conjured upon the glassy wave, From castle, convent, crag and cave? Down swept the Lord of Allemain, Broad-browed, deep-chested Charlemagne, And his fair child, who tottering bore Her lover o'er the treacherous floor Of new-fallen snow, that her small feet Alone might print that tell-tale sheet, Nor other trace show the stern guard, The nightly path of Eginhard. What waving plumes and banners passed, With trumpet clang and bugle blast, And on the night-wind faintly borne, Strains from that mighty hunting-horn, Which through these woods, in other days, Startled the echoes of the chase. On trooped the vision; lord and dame, On fiery steed and palfrey tame, Pilgrims, with palms and cockle-shells, And motley fools, with cap and bells, Princes and Counties Palatine, Who ruled and revelled on the Rhine, Abbot and monk, with many a torch, Came winding from each convent porch; And holy maids from Nonnenwerth, In the pale moonlight all came forth; Thy love, Roland, among the rest, Her meek hands folded on her breast, Her sad eyes turned to heaven, where thou Once more shalt hear love's early vow,-- That vow, which led thee home again From Roncevalles' bloody plain,-- That vow, that ne'er again was spoken Till death the nun's drear oath had broken. Down from each crumbling castle poured, Of ruthless robber-knights, the horde, Sweeping with clang and clamour by, Like storm-cloud rattling through the sky: Pageant so glorious ne'er, I ween, On lonely river bank was seen.

So passed that night: but with the day The vision melted all away; And wrapped in sullen mist and rain, The river bore us on again, With heavy hearts and tearful eyes, That answered well the weeping skies Of autumn, which now hung o'er all The scene their leaden, dropping pall, Beneath whose dark gray veils, once more We hailed our native Albion's shore, Our pilgrimage of pleasure o'er.

LINES FOR MUSIC.

Good night! from music's softest spell Go to thy dreams: and in thy slumbers, Fairies, with magic harp and shell, Sing o'er to thee thy own sweet numbers.

Good night! from Hope's intense desire Go to thy dreams: and may to-morrow, Love with the sun returning, fire These evening mists of doubt and sorrow.

Good night! from hours of weary waking I'll to my dreams: still in my sleep To feel the spirit's restless aching, And ev'n with eyelids closed, to weep.

SONNET.

Say thou not sadly, "never," and "no more," But from thy lips banish those falsest words; While life remains that which was thine before Again may be thine; in Time's storehouse lie Days, hours, and moments, that have unknown hoards Of joy, as well as sorrow: passing by, Smiles, come with tears; therefore with hopeful eye Look thou on dear things, though they turn away, For thou and they, perchance, some future day Shall meet again, and the gone bliss return; For its departure then make thou no mourn, But with stout heart bid what thou lov'st farewell; That which the past hath given the future gives as well.

SONNET.

Though thou return unto the former things, Fields, woods, and gardens, where thy feet have strayed In other days, and not a bough, branch, blade Of tree, or meadow, but the same appears As when thou lovedst them in former years, They shall not _seem_ the same; the spirit brings Change from the inward, though the outward be E'en as it was, when thou didst weep to see It last, and spak'st that prophecy of pain, "Farewell! I shall not look on ye again!" And so thou never didst--no, though e'en now Thine eyes behold all they so loved of yore, The _Thou_ that did behold them then, no more Lives in this world, it is another Thou.

SONNET.

Like one who walketh in a plenteous land, By flowing waters, under shady trees, Through sunny meadows, where the summer bees Feed in the thyme and clover; on each hand Fair gardens lying, where of fruit and flower The bounteous season hath poured out its dower: Where saffron skies roof in the earth with light, And birds sing thankfully towards Heaven, while he With a sad heart walks through this jubilee, Beholding how beyond this happy land, Stretches a thirsty desert of gray sand, Where all the air is one thick, leaden blight, Where all things dwarf and dwindle,--so walk I, Through my rich, present life, to what beyond doth lie.

SONNET.

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn O'er joys that God hath for a season lent, Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent, Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn. There lies no desert in the land of life, For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem, Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife. Haply no more, music, and mirth and love, And glorious things of old and younger art, Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast; But when these bright companions all depart, Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.

SONNET.

But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile The panting breath and hurrying steps of life, The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife Of hourly being; the sharp biting file Of action, fretting on the tightened chain Of rough existence; all that is not pain, But utter weariness; oh! to be free But for a while from conscious entity! To shut the banging doors and windows wide, Of restless sense, and let the soul abide Darkly and stilly, for a little space, Gathering its strength up to pursue the race; Oh, Heavens! to rest a moment, but to rest From this quick, gasping life, were to be blest!

SONNET.