The Death-Wake

HER, A STATUE

Her life is in the marble! yet a fallOf sleep lies on the heart's fair arsenal,Like new shower'd snow. You hear no whisper throughThose love-divided lips; no pearly dewTrembles on her pale orbs, that seem to beBent on a dream of immortality!She sleeps: her life is sleep, – a holy rest!Like that of wing-borne cloud, that, in the westLaves his aërial image, till afarThe sunlight leaves him, melting into star.Did Phidias from her brow the veil remove,Uncurtaining the peerless queen of love?The fluent stone in marble waves recoil'd,Touch'd by his hand, and left the wondrous child,A Venus of the foam! How softly fairThe dove-like passion on the sacred airFloats round her, nesting in her wreathed hair,That tells, though shadeless, of its auburn hue,Bathed in a hoar of diamond-dropping dew!How beautiful! – Was this not one of eld,That Chaos on his boundless bosom held,Till Earth came forward in a rush of storm,Closing his ribs upon her wingless form?How beautiful! – The very lips do speakOf love, and bid us worship: the pale cheekSeems blushing through the marble – through the snow!And the undrap'ried bosom feels a flowOf fever on its brightness; every veinAt the blue pulse swells softly, like a chainOf gentle hills. I would not fling a wreathOf jewels on that brow, to flash beneathThose queenly tresses; for itself is moreThan sea-born pearl of some Elysian shore!Such, with a heart like woman! I would castLife at her foot, and, as she glided past,Would bid her trample on the slavish thing —Tell her, I'd rather feel me witheringUnder her step, than be unknown for aye:And, when her pride had crush'd me, she might seeA love-wing'd spirit glide in glory byStriking the tent of its mortality!

TO A STORM-STAID BIRD

Trembler! a month is past, and thouWert singing on the thorn,And shaking dew-drops from the boughIn the golden haze of morn!My heart was just as thou, as light —As loving of the breeze,That kiss'd thee in its elfin flight,Through the green acacia trees.And now the winter snow-flakes lieAll on thy widow'd wing;Trembler! methinks I hear thee sighFor the silver days of spring.But shake thy plume – the world is freeBefore thee – warbler, fly!Blest by a sunbeam and by me,Bird of my heart! good-bye!

THE WOLF-DROVE

No night-star in the welkin blue! no moonshade round the treesThat grew down to the sea-swept foot of the ancient Pyrenees!The cold gray mantle of the mist, along the shoulders castOf those wild mountains, to and fro, hung waving in the blast.A snow-crown rising on their brows, in royalty they stood,As if they vice-reign'd on a throne of winter solitude;Those hills that rose far upward, till in majesty they bentTheir world's great eye-orb on her own immortal lineament!The howl, the long deep howl was heard, the rushing like a waveOf the wolf train from their forest haunt, in some old mountain cave;Like a sea-wave, when the wind is horsed behind its foamy crest,And it lifts upon the shell-built shore, its azure-spotted breast.They came with war-whoop, following each other, like a thread,Through the long labyrinth of trees, in sunless archway spread;Their gnarled trunks in shadowy lines rose dimly, few by few,Mail'd in their mossy armouring, – a pathless avenue!In sooth, there was a shepherd girl by her aged father's side;He gazed upon her deep dark eyes, in glory and in pride;The mother's soul was living there, – the image full and wild,Of one he loved – of one no more, was beaming in her child.And she was at her father's side, her raven tresses feltUpon his care-worn cheek, as gay and joyfully she knelt,Kissing the old man's tears away, by the embers burning faint,While she sung the holy aves, and a vesper to her saint."Now bar the breezy lattice, love! – but hist! how fares the night?Methought I heard the wolf abroad. Heaven help! I heard aright —My mantle! – By the Mother Saint! our flock is in the fold?How think you, love? wake up the hound, I ween the wolf is bold.""Stay, stay; 'tis past!" "I hear it still; to rest, I pray, to rest.""Nay, father! hold; thou must not go;" and silently she press'dThe old man's arm, and bade him stay, for love of Heaven and her:His danger was too wild a thought, for so fond a girl to bear.He kiss'd her, and they parted then; but, through the lattice low,She gazed amid the vine-twigs pale, all cradled to and fro;The holy whisper of the wind stole lightly by the eaves, —A sad dirge, sighing to the fall of the winter-blighted leaves.He comes not! 'Tis a dreadful thing to hear them as they rave,The savage wolf-train howling, like the near burst of a wave.She thought it was a father's cry she heard – a father's cry!And she flung her from the cottage door, in startled agony.Good Virgin save thee, gentle girl! they are no knightly trainThat mark thee for their sinless prey – thou wilt not smile again;The blood is streaming on thy cheek; the heart it ceases slow;A father gazes on his child – God help a father's woe!

HYMN TO ORION

Orion! old Orion! who dost waitWarder at heaven's star-studded gate,On a throne where worlds might meetAt thy silver sandal'd feet,All invisible to thee,Gazing through immensity;For thy crowned head is higherThan the ramparts of earth-searching fire,And the comet his blooded banner, thereFlings back upon the waveless air.Old Orion! holy handsHave knit thy everlasting bands,Belted by the King of kings,Under thy azure-sheathed wings,With a zone of living light,Such as bound the Apostate might,When from highest tower of heaven,His vaunting shape was wrathly drivenTo its wane, woe-wall'd abode,Rended from the eye of God!Dost thou, in thy vigils, hailArcturus on his chariot pale,Leading his sons – a fiery flight —Over the hollow hill of night?Or tellest of their watches long,To the sleepless, nameless throng,Shoaling in a wond'rous gleam,Like channel through the azure streamOf life reflected, as it flows,In one broad ocean of repose,Gushing from thy lips, Orion!To the holy walls of Zion?