Poems

WRITTEN ON CRAMOND BEACH

Farewell, old playmate! on thy sandy shoreMy lingering feet will leave their print no more;To thy loved side I never may return.I pray thee, old companion, make due mournFor the wild spirit who so oft has stoodGazing in love and wonder on thy flood.The form is now departing far away,That half in anger oft, and half in play,Thou hast pursued with thy white showers of foam.Thy waters daily will besiege the homeI loved among the rocks; but there will beNo laughing cry, to hail thy victory,Such as was wont to greet thee, when I fled,With hurried footsteps, and averted head,Like fallen monarch, from my venturous stand,Chased by thy billows far along the sand.And when at eventide thy warm waves drinkThe amber clouds that in their bosom sink;When sober twilight over thee has spreadHer purple pall, when the glad day is deadMy voice no more will mingle with the dirgeThat rose in mighty moaning from thy surge,Filling with awful harmony the air,When thy vast soul and mine were joined in prayer.

SONNET

Away, away! bear me away, away,Into the boundless void, thou mighty wind!That rushest on thy midnight way,And leav’st this weary world, far, far behind!Away, away! bear me away, away,To the wide strandless deep,Ye headlong waters! whose mad eddies leapFrom the pollution of your bed of clay!Away, away, bear me away, away,Into the fountains of eternal light,Ye rosy clouds! that to my longing sightSeem melting in the sun’s devouring ray!Away, away! oh, for some mighty blast,To sweep this loathsome life into the past!

FRAGMENT

It was the harvest time: the broad, bright moonWas at her full, and shone upon the fieldsWhere we had toiled the livelong day, to pileIn golden sheaves the earth’s abundant treasure.The harvest task had given place to songAnd merry dance; and these in turn were chasedBy legends strange, and wild, unearthly talesOf elves, and gnomes, and fairy sprites, that hauntThe woods and caves; where they do sleep all day,And then come forth i’ the witching hour of night,To dance by moonlight on the green thick sward.The speaker was an aged villager,In whom his oft-told tale awoke no fears,Such as he filled his gaping listeners with.Nor ever was there break in his discourse,Save when with gray eyes lifted to the moon,He conjured from the past strange instancesOf kidnapp’d infants, from their cradles snatch’d,And changed for elvish sprites; of blights, and blains,Sent on the cattle by the vengeful fairies;Of blasted crops, maim’d limbs, and unsound minds,All plagues inflicted by these angered sprites.Then would he pause, and wash his story downWith long-drawn draughts of amber ale; while allThe rest came crowding under the wide oak tree,Piling the corn sheaves closer round the ring,Whispering and shaking, laughing too, with fear;And ever, if an acorn bobb’d from the boughs,Or grasshopper from out the stubble chirrupp’d,Blessing themselves from Robin Goodfellow!

SONNET

Oft let me wander hand in hand with Thought,In woodland paths, and lone sequester’d shades,What time the sunny banks and mossy glades,With dewy wreaths of early violets wrought,Into the air their fragrant incense fling,To greet the triumph of the youthful Spring.Lo, where she comes! ’scaped from the icy lairOf hoary Winter; wanton, free, and fair!Now smile the heavens again upon the earth,Bright hill, and bosky dell, resound with mirth,And voices, full of laughter and wild glee,Shout through the air pregnant with harmony;And wake poor sobbing Echo, who repliesWith sleepy voice, that softly, slowly dies.

SONNET

I would I knew the lady of thy heart!She whom thou lov’st perchance, as I love thee,—She unto whom thy thoughts and wishes flee;Those thoughts, in which, alas! I bear no part.Oh, I have sat and sighed, thinking how fair,How passing beautiful, thy love must be;Of mind how high, of modesty how rare;And then I’ve wept, I’ve wept in agony!Oh, that I might but once behold those eyes,That to thy enamour’d gaze alone seem fair;Once hear that voice, whose music still repliesTo the fond vows thy passionate accents swear:Oh, that I might but know the truth and die,Nor live in this long dream of misery!

A PROMISE

   By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flowThrough thy sequester’d dell unto the sea,   At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:      Not troubling the still fount with drops of woe,As when I last took leave of it and thee,But gazing up at thee with tranquil brow,And eyes full of life’s early happiness,Of strength, of hope, of joy, and tenderness.Beneath the shadowy tree, where thou and IWere wont to sit, studying the harmonyOf gentle Shakspeare, and of Milton high,At sunny noon I will be heard by thee;Not sobbing forth each oft-repeated sound,As when I last faultered them o’er to thee,But uttering them in the air around,With youth’s clear laughing voice of melody.On the wild shore of the eternal deep,Where we have stray’d so oft, and stood so longWatching the mighty waters conquering sweep,And listening to their loud triumphant song,At sunny noon, dearest! I’ll be with thee:Not as when last I linger’d on the strand,Tracing our names on the inconstant sand;But in each bright thing that around shall be:My voice shall call thee from the ocean’s breast,Thou’lt see my hair in its bright, showery crest,   In its dark, rocky depths, thou’lt see my eyes,My form, shall be the light cloud in the skies,   My spirit shall be with thee, warm and bright,      And flood thee o’er with love, and life, and light.

A PROMISE

In the dark, lonely night,When sleep and silence keep their watch o’er men;False love! in thy despite,I will be with thee then.When in the world of dreams thy spirit strays,Seeking, in vain, the peace it finds not here,Thou shalt be led back to thine early daysOf life and love, and I will meet thee there.I’ll come to thee, with the bright, sunny brow,That was Hope’s throne before I met with thee;And then I’ll show thee how ’tis furrowed nowBy the untimely age of misery.I’ll speak to thee, in the fond, joyous tone,That wooed thee still with love’s impassioned spell;And then I’ll teach thee how I’ve learnt to moan,Since last upon thine ear its accents fell.I’ll come to thee in all youth’s brightest power,As on the day thy faith to mine was plighted,And then I’ll tell thee weary hour by hour,How that spring’s early promise has been blighted.I’ll tell thee of the long, long, dreary years,That have passed o’er me hopeless, objectless;My loathsome days, my nights of burning tears,My wild despair, my utter loneliness,My heart-sick dreams upon my feverish bed,My fearful longing to be with the dead;—In the dark lonely night,When sleep and silence keep their watch o’er men;False love! in thy despite,We two shall meet again!

SONNET

Spirit of all sweet sounds! who in mid airSittest enthroned, vouchsafe to hear my prayer!Let all those instruments of music sweet,That in great nature’s hymn bear burthen meet,Sing round this mossy pillow, where my headFrom the bright noontide sky is sheltered.Thou southern wind! wave, wave thy od’rous wings;O’er your smooth channels gush, ye crystal springs!Ye laughing elves! that through the rustling cornRun chattering; thou tawny-coated bee,Who at thy honey-work sing’st drowsily;And ye, oh ye! who greet the dewy morn,And fragrant eventide, with melody,Ye wild wood minstrels, sing my lullaby!

TO –

I would I might be with thee, when the yearBegins to wane, and that thou walk’st aloneUpon the rocky strand, whilst loud and clear,The autumn wind sings, from his cloudy throne,Wild requiems for the summer that is gone.Or when, in sad and contemplative mood,Thy feet explore the leafy-paven wood:I would my soul might reason then with thine,Upon those themes most solemn and most strange,Which every falling leaf and fading flower,Whisper unto us with a voice divine;Filling the brief space of one mortal hour,With fearful thoughts of death, decay, and change,And the high mystery of that after birth,That comes to us, as well as to the earth.

SONNET

By jasper founts, whose falling waters makeEternal music to the silent hours;Or ’neath the gloom of solemn cypress bowers,Through whose dark screen no prying sunbeams break:How oft I dream I see thee wandering,With thy majestic mien, and thoughtful eyes,And lips, whereon all holy counsel lies,And shining tresses of soft rippling gold,Like to some shape beheld in days of oldBy seer or prophet, when, as poets sing,The gods had not forsaken yet the earth,But loved to haunt each shady dell and grove;When ev’ry breeze was the soft breath of love,When the blue air rang with sweet sounds of mirth,And this dark world seemed fair as at its birth.

THE VISION OF LIFE

   Death and I,   On a hill so high,Stood side by side:   And we saw below,   Running to and fro,All things that be in the world so wide.   Ten thousand cries   From the gulf did rise,With a wild discordant sound;   Laughter and wailing,   Prayer and railing,As the ball spun round and round.   And over all   Hung a floating pallOf dark and gory veils:   ’Tis the blood of years,   And the sighs and tears,Which this noisome marsh exhales.   All this did seem   Like a fearful dream,Till Death cried with a joyful cry:   “Look down! look down!   It is all mine own,Here comes life’s pageant by!”Like to a masque in ancient revelries,With mingling sound of thousand harmonies,Soft lute and viol, trumpet-blast and gong,They came along, and still they came along!Thousands, and tens of thousands, all that e’erPeopled the earth, or ploughed th’ unfathomed deep,All that now breathe the universal air,And all that in the womb of Time yet sleep.Before this mighty host a woman came,With hurried feet, and oft-averted head;      With accursed light      Her eyes were bright,And with inviting hand them on she beckoned.Her followed close, with wild acclaim,Her servants three: Lust, with his eye of fire,And burning lips, that tremble with desire,Pale sunken cheek:—and as he staggered by,The trumpet-blast was hush’d, and there aroseA melting strain of such soft melody,As breath’d into the soul love’s ecstacies and woes.Loudly again the trumpet smote the air,The double drum did roll, and to the skyBay’d War’s bloodhounds, the deep artillery;      And Glory,      With feet all gory,   And dazzling eyes, rushed by,Waving a flashing sword and laurel wreath,The pang, and the inheritance of death.He pass’d like lightning—then ceased every soundOf war triumphant, and of love’s sweet song,And all was silent—Creeping slow along,With eager eyes, that wandered round and round,Wild, haggard mien, and meagre, wasted frame,Bow’d to the earth, pale, starving Av’rice came:Clutching with palsied hands his golden god,And tottering in the path the others trod.      These, one by one,      Came and were gone:And after them followed the ceaseless streamOf worshippers, who, with mad shout and scream,Unhallow’d toil, and more unhallow’d mirth,Follow their mistress, Pleasure, through the earth.Death’s eyeless sockets glared upon them all,And many in the train were seen to fall,Livid and cold, beneath his empty gaze;But not for this was stay’d the mighty throng,Nor ceased the warlike clang, or wanton lays,But still they rush’d—along—along—along!

SONNET

To a Lady who wrote under my likeness as Juliet, “Lieti giorni e felice.”

Whence should they come, lady! those happy daysThat thy fair hand and gentle heart invokeUpon my head?  Alas! such do not riseOn any, of the many, who with sighsBear through this journey-land of wo, life’s yoke.The light of such lives not in thine own lays;Such were not hers, that girl, so fond, so fair,Beneath whose image thou hast traced thy pray’r.Evil, and few, upon this darksome earth,Must be the days of all of mortal birth;Then why not mine?  Sweet lady! wish again,Not more of joy to me, but less of pain;Calm slumber, when life’s troubled hours are past,And with thy friendship cheer them while they last.

TO MY GUARDIAN ANGEL

Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne aboveHast left, to wander through this dismal earthWith me, poor child of sin!—Angel of love!Whose guardian wings hung o’er me from my birth,And who still walk’st unwearied by my side,How oft, oh thou compassionate! must thou mournOver the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride,That thy pure eyes behold!  Yet not asideFrom thy sad task dost thou in anger turn;But patiently, thou hast but gazed and sighed,And followed still, striving with the divinePowers of thy soul for mastery over mine;And though all line of human hope be past,Still fondly watching, hoping, to the last.

SONNET

Suggested by Sir Thomas Lawrence observing that we never dream of ourselves younger than we are.

Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams,May we return to that sweet land of youth,That home of hope, of innocence, and truth,Which as we farther roam but fairer seems.In that dim shadowy world, where the soul straysWhen she has laid her mortal charge to rest,We oft behold far future hours and days,But ne’er live o’er the past, the happiest,How oft will fancy’s wild imaginingsBear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen!But ah! not e’en unfettered fancy’s wingsCan lead us back to aught that we have been,Or waft us to that smiling, sunny shore,Which e’en in slumber we may tread no more.

SONNET

Whene’er I recollect the happy timeWhen you and I held converse dear together,There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,Of early blossoms, and the fresh year’s prime;Your memory lives for ever in my mindWith all the fragrant beauties of the spring,With od’rous lime and silver hawthorn twined,And many a noonday woodland wandering.There’s not a thought of you, but brings alongSome sunny dream of river, field, and sky;’Tis wafted on the blackbird’s sunset song,Or some wild snatch of ancient melody.And as I date it still, our love arose’Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.

TO THE SPRING

Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;Youngest and fairest of the four, who guideOur mortal year along Time’s rapid tide.Spirit of life! the old decrepid earthHas heard thy voice, and at a wondrous birth,Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb,A thousand germs of light and beauty come.Thy breath is on the waters, and they leapFrom their bright winter-woven fetters free;Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep,And greet thee with a gush of melody.The air is full of music, wild and sweet,Made by the joyous waving of the trees,Wherein a thousand winged minstrels meet,And by the work-song of the early bees,In the white blossoms fondly murmuring,And founts, that in the blessed sunshine sing;Hail to thee! maiden, with the bright blue eyes!And showery robe, all steeped in starry dew;Hail to thee! as thou ridest through the skies,Upon thy rainbow car of various hue.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

How passing sad!  Listen, it sings again!   Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs,The livelong day dost chaunt that wond’rous strain   Making wan Dian stoop her silver browsOut of the clouds to hear thee?  Who shall say,Thou lone one! that thy melody is gay,Let him come listen now to that one note,   That thou art pouring o’er and o’er againThrough the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat,   With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain,I prithee cease thy song! for from my heartThou hast made memory’s bitter waters start,   And filled my weary eyes with the soul’s rain.

SONNET

Lady, whom my beloved loves so well!   When on his clasping arm thy head reclineth,When on thy lips his ardent kisses dwell,   And the bright flood of burning light, that shinethIn his dark eyes, is poured into thine;   When thou shalt lie enfolded to his heart,In all the trusting helplessness of love;   If in such joy sorrow can find a part,   Oh, give one sigh unto a doom like mine!Which I would have thee pity, but not prove.One cold, calm, careless, wintry look, that fell   Haply by chance on me, is all that heE’er gave my love; round that, my wild thoughts dwell   In one eternal pang of memory.

TO –

When the dawnO’er hill and daleThrows her bright veil,Oh, think of me!When the rainWith starry showersFills all the flowers,   Oh, think of me!When the windSweeps along,Loud and strong,   Oh, think of me!When the laughWith silver soundGoes echoing round,   Oh, think of me!When the nightWith solemn eyesLooks from the skies,   Oh, think of me!When the airStill as deathHolds its breath,   Oh, think of me!When the earthSleeping soundSwings round and round,   Oh, think of me!When thy soulO’er life’s dark seaLooks gloomily,   Oh, think of me!

WOMAN’S LOVE

A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,   Full of eternal constancy and faith,And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs   Truth’s holy voice, with ev’ry balmy breath;So journeys she along life’s crowded way,   Keeping her soul’s sweet counsel from all sight;Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray,   Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or bright:For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay   Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her heart   Knows well in suffering how to bear its part.Patiently lives she through each dreary day,   Looking with little hope unto the morrow;   And still she walketh hand in hand with sorrow.

TO MRS. –

I never shall forget thee—’tis a word   Thou oft must hear, for surely there be none   On whom thy wond’rous eyes have ever shoneBut for a moment, or who e’er have heardThy voice’s deep impassioned melody,   Can lose the memory of that look or tone.But, not as these, do I say unto thee,   I never shall forget thee:—in thine eyes,Whose light, like sunshine, makes the world rejoice,   A stream of sad and solemn splendour lies;And there is sorrow in thy gentle voice.Thou art not like the scenes in which I found thee,Thou art not like the beings that surround thee;   To me, thou art a dream of hope and fear;Yet why of fear?—oh sure! the Power that lentSuch gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent;Still watches one whom it has deigned to blessWith such a dower of grace and loveliness;   Over the dangerous waves ’twill surely steerThe richly freighted bark, through storm and blast,And guide it safely to the port at last.Such is my prayer; ’tis warm as ever fellFrom off my lips: accept it, and farewell!And though in this strange world where first I met thee;We meet no more—I never shall forget thee.

AN ENTREATY

Once more, once more into the sunny fields   Oh, let me stray!And drink the joy that young existence yields   In a bright, cloudless day.Once more let me behold the summer sky,   With its blue eyes,And join the wild wind’s voice of melody,   As far and free it flies.Once more, once more, oh let me stand and hear   The gushing spring,As its bright drops fall starlike, fast and clear,   And in the sunshine sing.Once more, oh let me list the soft sweet breeze   At evening mourn:Let me, oh let me say farewell to these,   And to my task I gaily will return.Oh, lovely earth! oh, blessed smiling sky!   Oh, music of the wood, the wave, the wind!I do but linger till my ear and eye   Have traced ye on the tablets of my mind—And then, fare ye well!Bright hill and bosky dell,Clear spring and haunted well,Night-blowing flowers pale,Smooth lawn and lonely vale,Sleeping lakes and sparkling fountains,Shadowy woods and sheltering mountains,Flowery land and sunny sky,And echo sweet, my playmate shy;   Fare ye well!—fare ye well!

LINES FOR MUSIC

Loud wind, strong wind, where art thou blowing?      Into the air, the viewless air,      To be lost there:   There am I blowing.Clear wave, swift wave, where art thou flowing?      Unto the sea, the boundless sea,      To be whelm’d there:   There am I flowing.Young life, swift life, where art thou going?      Down to the grave, the loathsome grave,      To moulder there:   There am I going.

TO –

When the glad sun looks smiling from the sky,   Upon each shadowy glen and woody height,And that you tread those well known paths where I   Have stray’d with you,—do not forget me quite.When the warm hearth throws its bright glow around,   On many a smiling cheek, and glance of light,And the gay laugh wakes with its joyous sound   The soul of mirth,—do not forget me quite.You will not miss me; for with you remain   Hearts fond and warm, and spirits young and bright,’Tis but one word—“farewell;” and all again   Will seem the same,—yet don’t forget me quite.

THE PARTING

’Twas a fit hour for parting,   For athwart the leaden skyThe heavy clouds came gathering   And sailing gloomily:The earth was drunk with heaven’s tears,   And each moaning autumn breezeShook the burthen of its weeping   Off the overladen trees.The waterfall rushed swollen down,   In the gloaming, still and gray;With a foam-wreath on the angry brow   Of each wave that flashed away.My tears were mingling with the rain,   That fell so cold and fast,And my spirit felt thy low deep sigh   Through the wild and roaring blast.The beauty of the summer woods   Lay rustling round our feet,And all fair things had passed away—   ’Twas an hour for parting meet.

SONG

When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes,   That have seen the last sunset of hope pass away,On some bright orb that seems, through the still sapphire skies,   In beauty and splendour to roll on its way:Oh, remember this earth, if beheld from afar,   Appears wrapt in a halo as soft, and as bright,As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star,   Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night.And at this very midnight, perhaps some poor heart,   That is aching, or breaking, in that distant sphere;Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart   From its own dismal home, to a happier one here.

TO A STAR

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds   Hang’st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed;First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds,   ’Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and dead:As through my tears my soul looks up to thee,   Loathing the heavy chains that bind it here,There comes a fearful thought that misery   Perhaps is found, even in thy distant sphere.Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin,   The heritage of death, disease, decay,A wilderness, like that we wander in,   Where all things fairest, soonest pass away?And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world,   Round which life’s sweetest buds fall witherëd,Where hope’s bright wings in the dark earth lie furled,   And living hearts are mouldering with the dead?Perchance they do not die, that dwell in thee,   Perchance theirs is a darker doom than ours;Unchanging woe, and endless misery,   And mourning that hath neither days nor hours.Horrible dream!—Oh dark and dismal path,   Where I now weeping walk, I will not leave thee;Earth has one boon for all her children—death:   Open thy arms, oh mother! and receive me!Take off the bitter burthen from the slave,   Give me my birthright! give—the grave, the grave!

SONNET

Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil   Of life, which I am doomed to till full sore,Spring’st like a noisome weed!  I do not toil   For thee, and yet thou still com’st dark’ning o’er      My plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade.Thou nightshade of the soul, beneath whose boughs   All fair and gentle buds hang withering!Why hast thou wreathed thyself around my brows,   Casting from thence the blossoms of my spring,      Breathing on youth’s sweet roses till they fade?Alas! thou art an evil weed of woe,   Watered with tears and watched with sleepless care,   Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare;And yet men covet thee—ah, wherefore do they so!

SONNET

I hear a voice low in the sunset woods;   Listen, it says: “Decay, decay, decay!”I hear it in the murmuring of the floods,   And the wind sighs it as it flies away.Autumn is come; seest thou not in the skies,The stormy light of his fierce lurid eyes?Autumn is come; his brazen feet have trod,Withering and scorching, o’er the mossy sod.The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreathShrivel in his hot grasp; his burning breathDries the sweet water-springs that in the shadeWandering along, delicious music made.A flood of glory hangs upon the world,Summer’s bright wings shining ere they are furled.

TO –

Is it a sin to wish that I may meet thee   In that dim world whither our spirits stray,   When sleep and darkness follow life and day?Is it a sin, that there my voice should greet thee   With all that love that I must die concealing?   Will my tear-laden eyes sin in revealingThe agony that preys upon my soul?Is’t not enough through the long, loathsome day,To hold each look, and word, in stern control?   May I not wish the staring sunlight gone,   Day and its thousand torturing moments done,And prying sights and sounds of men away?   Oh, still and silent Night! when all things sleep,   Locked in thy swarthy breast my secret keep:   Come, with thy vision’d hopes and blessings now!   I dream the only happiness I know.