Chapter XLIX: Part II (12)

Then, then, the canvass o’er,
With hurried hand I pour
The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul!
Kindling to fiery life
Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife--
Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll!

Wake, rise! the reed may bend,
The shivering leaf descend,
The forest branch give way before your might;
But I, your strong compeer,
Call, summon, wait you here--
Answer, my spirit!--answer, storm and night!

THE TWO VOICES.

Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain,
Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain
Meet in the sky:
“Thou art gone hence!” one sang; “our light is flown,
Our beautiful, that seem’d too much our own
Ever to die!

“Thou art gone hence!--our joyous hills among
Never again to pour thy soul in song,
When spring-flowers rise!
Never the friend’s familiar step to meet
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet
Of thy glad eyes.”

“Thou art gone home, gone _home_!” then, high and clear,
Warbled that other Voice. “Thou hast no tear
Again to shed;
Never to fold the robe o’er secret pain;
Never, weigh’d down by memory’s clouds, again
To bow thy head.

“Thou art gone home! O early crown’d and blest!
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest
With aught below?
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay,
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away--
Thrice bless’d to go!”

Yet sigh’d again that breeze-like Voice of grief--
“Thou art gone hence! Alas, that aught so brief
So loved should be!
Thou takest our summer hence!--the flower, the tone,
The music of our being, all in one,
Depart with thee!

“Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled!
Canst _thou_ be of the dead, the awful dead--
The dark unknown?
Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall,
Never again to light up hearth or hall,
Thy smile is gone!”

“Home, _home_!” once more the exulting Voice arose:
“Thou art gone home!--from that divine repose
Never to roam!
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain,
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again--
Thou art gone home!

“By the bright waters now thy lot is cast--
Joy for thee, happy friend! thy bark hath past
The rough sea’s foam!
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still’d,
Home! home!--thy peace is won, thy heart is fill’d:
Thou art gone home!”

THE PARTING SHIP.

“A glittering ship, that hath the plain
Of ocean for her own domain.” Wordsworth.

Go, in thy glory, o’er the ancient sea,
Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell;
Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be,
Fare thee well, bark! farewell!

Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft,
The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song;
Who now of storms hath dream or memory left?
And yet the deep is strong!

But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles
Of summer tremble on the water’s breast!
Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles,
In lone, wild beauty drest.

To thee a welcome breathing o’er the tide,
The genii groves of Araby shall pour;
Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side,
On the old Indian shore.

Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie
O’er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furl’d,
And its leaves whisper, as the winds sweep by,
Tales of the elder world.

Oft shall the burning stars of southern skies,
On the mid-ocean see thee chain’d in sleep,
A lonely home for human thoughts and ties,
Between the heavens and deep.

Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renown’d,
By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes way;
Strange creatures of the abyss that none may sound,
In thy broad wake shall play.

From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear,
Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark;--
Blessings go with thee on thy lone career!
Hail, and farewell, thou bark!

A long farewell! Thou wilt not bring us back
All whom thou bearest far from home and hearth:
Many are thine, whose steps no more shall track
Their own sweet native earth!

Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain’s shade,
Where through the foliage Indian suns look bright;
Some in the snows of wintry regions laid,
By the cold northern light.

And some, far down below the sounding wave.
Still shall they lie, though tempests o’er them sweep;
Never may flower be strewn above their grave,
Never may sister weep!

And thou, the billow’s queen--even thy proud form
On our glad sight no more perchance may swell;
Yet God alike is in the calm and storm--
Fare thee well, bark! farewell!

THE LAST TREE OF THE FOREST.

Whisper, thou Tree, thou lonely Tree,
One, where a thousand stood!
Well might proud tales be told by thee,
Last of the solemn wood!

Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs,
With leaves yet darkly green?
Stillness is round, and noontide glows--
Tell us what thou hast seen.

“I have seen the forest-shadows lie
Where men now reap the corn;
I have seen the kingly chase rush by
Through the deep glades at morn.

“With the glance of many a gallant spear,
And the wave of many a plume,
And the bounding of a hundred deer,
It has lit the woodland’s gloom.

“I have seen the knight and his train ride past,
With his banner borne on high;
O’er all my leaves there was brightness cast
From his gleaming panoply.

“The pilgrim at my feet hath laid
His palm-branch midst the flowers,
And told his beads, and meekly pray’d,
Kneeling, at vesper hours.

“And the merry men of wild and glen,
In the green array they wore,
Have feasted here, with the red wine’s cheer,
And the hunter’s song of yore.

“And the minstrel, resting in my shade,
Hath made the forest ring
With the lordly tales of the high Crusade,
Once loved by chief and king.

“But now the noble forms are gone
That walk’d the earth of old;
The soft wind has a mournful tone,
The sunny light looks cold.

“There is no glory left us now
Like the glory with the dead;
I would that, where they slumber low,
My latest leaves were shed!”

O thou dark tree, thou lonely tree,
That mournest for the past!
A peasant’s home in thy shades I see,
Embower’d from ever blast.

A lovely and a mirthful sound
Of laughter meets mine ear;
For the poor man’s children sport around
On the turf, with naught to fear.

And roses lend that cabin’s wall
A happy summer-glow:
And the open door stands free to all,
For it recks not of a foe.

And the village bells are on the breeze
That stirs thy leaf, dark tree!
How can I mourn, midst things like these,
For the stormy past, with thee?

THE STREAMS.

“The power, the beauty, and the majesty,
That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms and watery depths; all those have vanish’d!
They live no longer in the faith of heaven,
But still the heart doth need a language!”

Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

Ye have been holy, O founts and floods!
Ye of the ancient and solemn woods,
Ye that are born of the valleys deep,
With the water-flowers on your breast asleep,
And ye that gush from the sounding caves--
Hallow’d have been your waves.

Hallow’d by man, in his dreams of old,
Unto beings not of this mortal mould--
Viewless and deathless, and wondrous powers,
Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours,
And sought with its fancied sound to still
The heart earth could not fill.

Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone,
O’er your sweet waters, ye streams! were thrown
Thousands of gifts to the sunny sea
Have ye swept along, in your wanderings free,
And thrill’d to the murmur of many a vow--
Where all is silent now!

Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been
So link’d in love to your margins green;
That still, though ruin’d, your early shrines
In beauty gleam through the southern vines,
And the ivied chapels of colder skies
On your wild banks arise.

For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth
Are those, bright streams! where your springs have birth;
Whether their cavern’d murmur fills,
With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills,
Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow
Is heard midst the hamlets low.

Or whether ye gladden the desert sands
With a joyous music to pilgrim bands,
And a flash from under some ancient rock,
Where a shepherd king might have watch’d his flock,
Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads,
And a green acacia spreads.

Or whether, in bright old lands renown’d,
The laurels thrill to your first-born sound,
And the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine,
Sweeps with the breeze o’er your gleaming line,
And the tall reeds whisper to your waves,
Beside heroic graves.

Voices and lights of the lonely place!
By the freshest fern your path we trace;
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss,
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss;
By the rainbow-glancing of insect wings,
In a thousand mazy rings.

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers
Are all your own through the summer hours;
There the proud stag his fair image knows,
Traced on your glass beneath alder-boughs;
And the halcyon’s breast, like the skies array’d,
Gleams through the willow shade.

But the wild sweet tales that with elves and fays
Peopled your banks in the olden days,
And the memory left by departed love
To your antique founts in glen and grove,
And the glory born of the poet’s dreams--
_These_ are your charms, bright streams!

Now is the time of your flowery rites
Gone by with its dances and young delights:
From your marble urns ye have burst away,
From your chapel-cells to the laughing day;
Low lie your altars with moss o’ergrown,
And the woods again are lone.

Yet holy still be your living springs,
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things!
Holy, to converse with nature’s lore,
That gives the worn spirit its youth once more,
And to silent thoughts of the love divine,
Making the heart a shrine!

THE VOICE OF THE WIND.

“There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit.”

Gray’s “Letters.”

Oh! many a voice is thine, thou Wind! full many a voice is thine!
From every scene thy wing o’ersweeps thou bear’st a sound and sign;
A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all thine own,
And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind! that gives the answering tone.

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shiver’d helmets lie,
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a clarion in the sky;
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums,--
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader comes.

Thou hast been o’er solitary seas, and from their wastes brought
back
Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of thy track--
The chime of low, soft, southern waves on some green palmy shore,
The hollow roll of distant surge, the gather’d billows’ roar.

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou mighty rushing Wind!
And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell combined;
The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden things and free,
Of the dim, old, sounding wilderness, have lent their soul to thee.

Thou art come from cities lighted up for the conqueror passing by,
Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of haughty revelry;
The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in the hall,
The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and fall.

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, from ancient minsters
vast,
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy lonely wing hath
pass’d;
Thou hast caught the anthem’s billowy swell, the stately dirge’s
tone,
For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to his place of
slumber gone.

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young days flew,
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the kind,
the true;
Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed and fled--
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the dead!
Are all these notes in _thee_, wild wind? these many notes in
_thee_?
Far in our own unfathom’d souls their fount must surely be;
Yes! buried, but unsleeping, _there_ thought watches, memory lies,
From whose deep urn the tones are pour’d through all earth’s
harmonies.

THE VIGIL OF ARMS.[380]

A sounding step was heard by night
In a church where the mighty slept,
As a mail-clad youth, till morning’s light,
Midst the tombs his vigil kept.
He walk’d in dreams of power and fame,
He lifted a proud bright eye,
For the hours were few that withheld his name
From the roll of chivalry.

Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone,
With a free and stately tread;
And the floor gave back a muffled tone
From the couches of the dead:
The silent many that round him lay,
The crown’d and helm’d that were,
The haughty chiefs of the war array--
Each in his sepulchre!

But no dim warning of time or fate
That youth’s flush’d hopes could chill;
He moved through the trophies of buried state
With each proud pulse throbbing still.
He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung,
A swell of the trumpet’s breath;
He look’d to the banners on high that hung,
And not to the dust beneath.

And a royal masque of splendour seem’d
Before him to unfold;
Through the solemn arches on it stream’d,
With many a gleam of gold:
There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame,
Glittering athwart the gloom;
And he follow’d, till his bold step came
To his warrior-father’s tomb.

But there the still and shadowy might
Of the monumental stone,
And the holy sleep of the soft lamp’s light
That over its quiet shone,
And the image of that sire, who died
In his noonday of renown--
_These_ had a power unto which the pride
Of fiery life bow’d down.

And a spirit from his early years
Came back o’er his thoughts to move,
Till his eye was fill’d with memory’s tears,
And his heart with childhood’s love!
And he look’d, with a change in his softening glance,
To the armour o’er the grave--
For there they hung, the shield and lance,
And the gauntlet of the brave.

And the sword of many a field was there,
With its cross for the hour of need,
When the knight’s bold war-cry hath sunk in prayer,
And the spear is a broken reed!
--Hush! did a breeze through the armour sigh?
Did the folds of the banner shake?
Not so!--from the tomb’s dark mystery
There seem’d a voice to break!

He had heard that voice bid clarions blow,
He had caught its last blessing’s breath--
’Twas the same--but its awful sweetness now
Had an under-tone of death!
And it said--“The sword hath conquer’d kings,
And the spear through realms hath pass’d;
But the cross, alone, of all these things,
Might aid me at the last.”

[380] The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity of keeping watch, the night before his inauguration, in a church, and completely armed. This was called “the Vigil of Arms.”

THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY.

Heart! that didst press forward still,[381]
Where the trumpet’s note rang shrill,
Where the knightly swords were crossing,
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing,
Leader of the charging spear,
Fiery heart!--and liest thou _here_?
May this narrow spot inurn
Aught that so could beat and burn?
Heart! that lovedst the clarion’s blast,
Silent is thy place at last;
Silent--save when early bird
Sings where once the mass was heard;
Silent--save when breeze’s moan
Comes through flowers or fretted stone;
And the wild-rose waves around thee,
And the long dark grass hath bound thee,
--Sleep’st thou, as the swain might sleep,
In his nameless valley deep?

No! brave heart! though cold and lone,
Kingly power is yet thine own!
Feel I not thy spirit brood
O’er the whispering solitude?
Lo! at one high thought of thee,
Fast they rise, the bold, the free,
Sweeping past thy lowly bed,
With a mute, yet stately tread.
Shedding their pale armour’s light
Forth upon the breathless night,
Bending every warlike plume
In the prayer o’er saintly tomb.

Is the noble Douglas nigh,
Arm’d to follow thee, or die?
Now, true heart! as thou wert wont
Pass thou to the peril’s front!
Where the banner-spear is gleaming,
And the battle’s red wine streaming,
Till the Paynim quail before thee,
Till the cross wave proudly o’er thee.
--Dreams! the falling of a leaf
Wins me from their splendours brief;
Dreams, yet bright ones! scorn them not,
Thou that seek’st the holy spot;
Nor, amidst its lone domain,
Call the faith in relics vain!

[381] “Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and Douglas will follow thee or die!”--with these words Douglas threw from him the heart of Bruce into mid-battle against the Moors of Spain.

NATURE’S FAREWELL.

“The beautiful is vanish’d, and returns not.”

Coleridge’s “Wallenstein.”

A youth rode forth from his childhood’s home,
Through the crowded paths of the world to roam;
And the green leaves whisper’d, as he pass’d,
“Wherefore, thou dreamer! away so fast?

“Knew’st thou with what thou art parting here,
Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear;
Thy heart’s light laughter, thy sunny hours,
Thou hast left in our shades with the spring’s wild flowers.

“Under the arch by our mingling made,
Thou and thy brother have gaily play’d;
Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore,
But as ye _have_ met there--oh! never more!”

On rode the youth--and the boughs among,
Thus the free birds o’er his pathway sung:
“Wherefore so fast unto life away?
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay!

“Thou may’st come to the summer woods again,
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain;
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell--
A change must pass o’er thee. Farewell, farewell!”

On rode the youth--and the founts and streams
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams:
“We have been thy playmates through many a day,
Wherefore thus leave us?--oh! yet delay!

“Listen but once to the sound of our mirth!
For thee ’tis a melody passing from earth;
Never again wilt thou find in its flow
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow.

“Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood’s glee,
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free;
Passion and sorrow its depths will have stirr’d,
And the singing of waters be vainly heard.

“Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part--
What should it do for a burning heart?
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill,
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still.

“Farewell!--when thou comest again to thine own,
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone;
Mournfully true is the tale we tell--
Yet on, fiery dreamer! farewell, farewell!”

And a something of gloom on his spirit weigh’d
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade;
But he knew not, till may a bright spell broke,
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke!

THE BEINGS OF THE MIND.

“The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray,
And more beloved existence; that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage.”
Byron.

Come to me with your triumphs and your woes,
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought!
I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs,
In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought;
Midst the glad music of the spring alone,
And sorrowful for visions that are gone!

Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard,
Ye, by those masters of the soul endow’d
With life, and love, and many a burning word,
That bursts from grief like lightning from a cloud,
And smites the heart, till all its chords reply,
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by.

Come to me! visit my dim haunt!--the sound
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath;
The stock-dove’s note above; and all around,
The poesy that with the violet’s breath
Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams,
Mingling, like music, with the soul’s deep dreams.

Friends, friends!--for such to my lone heart ye are--
Unchanging ones! from whose immortal eyes
The glory melts not as a waning star,
And the sweet kindness never, never dies;
Bright children of the bard! o’er this green dell
Pass once again, and light it with your spell!

Imogen! fair Fidele! meekly blending,
In patient grief, “a smiling with a sigh;”[382]
And thou, Cordelia! faithful daughter, tending
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky;
Thou of the soft low voice!--thou art not gone!
Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone.

And come to me!--sing me thy willow-strain,
Sweet Desdemona! with the sad surprise
In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain,
Undimm’d, unquenchable affection lies;
Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn,
As a frail hyacinth by showers o’erborne.

And thou, too, fair Ophelia! flowers are here,
That well might win thy footstep to the spot--
Pale cowslips, meet for maiden’s early bier,
And pansies for sad thoughts,[383]--but needed not!
Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light
In that wild eye still tremulously bright.

And Juliet, vision of the south! enshrining
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong;
The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining,
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song,
Thou, making death deep joy!--but _could’st_ thou die?
No!--thy young love hath immortality!

From earth’s bright faces fades the light of morn,
From earth’s glad voices drops the joyous tone;
But ye, the children of the soul, were born
Deathless, and for undying love alone;
And, O ye beautiful! ’tis well, how well,
In the soul’s world, with you, where change is not, to dwell!

[382]

“Nobly he yokes
A smiling with a sigh.”--Cymbeline.

[383]

“Here’s pansies for you--that’s for thoughts.” Hamlet.

THE LYRE’S LAMENT.

“A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its melancholy music to the wind--but no human being was to be seen.”

Salathiel.

A deep-toned lyre hung murmuring
To the wild wind of the sea;
“O melancholy wind,” it sigh’d,
“What would thy breath with me?

“Thou canst not wake the spirit
That in me slumbering lies,
Thou strikest not forth th’ electric fire
Of buried melodies.

“Wind of the dark sea-waters!
Thou dost but sweep my strings
Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.

“But the spell--the gift--the lightning--
Within my frame conceal’d,
Must I moulder on the rock away
With their triumphs unreveal’d?

“I have power, high power, for freedom
To wake the burning soul!
I have sounds that through the ancient hills
Like a torrent’s voice might roll.

“I have pealing notes of victory
That might welcome kings from war;
I have rich, deep tones to send the wail
For a hero’s death afar.

“I have chords to lift the pæan
From the temple to the sky,
Full as the forest-unisons
When sweeping winds are high.

“And love--for love’s lone sorrow
I have accents that might swell
Through the summer air with the rose’s breath,
Or the violet’s faint farewell:

“Soft--spiritual--mournful--
Sighs in each note enshrined--
But who shall call that sweetness forth?
_Thou_ can’st not, ocean-wind!

“I pass without my glory,
Forgotten I decay--
Where is the touch to give me life?
--Wild, fitful wind, away!”

So sigh’d the broken music
That in gladness had no part--
How like art thou, neglected Lyre!
To many a human heart!

TASSO’S CORONATION.[384]

A crown of victory! a triumphal song!
Oh! call some friend, upon whose pitying heart
The weary one may calmly sink to rest;
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch,
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony!

A trumpet’s note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky,
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory;
There is crowding to the Capitol, the imperial streets along,
For again a conqueror must be crown’d--a kingly child of song:

Yet his chariot lingers,
Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,
Midst the joy of Rome.

A thousand, thousand laurel boughs are waving wide and far,
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car;
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowers,
To scatter o’er his path of fame bright hues in gem-like showers.

Peace! Within his chamber
Low the mighty lies--
With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow,
And a wandering in his eyes.

Sing, sing for him, the lord of song--for him, whose rushing strain
In mastery o’er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o’er the main!
Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever there to dwell,
As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple’s holiest cell.

Yes! for him, the victor,
Sing--but low, sing low!
A soft, sad _miserere_ chant
For a soul about to go!

The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o’er his way,
Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day;
Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cæsars’ past renown--
Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown!

Shut the proud, bright sunshine
From the fading sight!
There needs no ray by the bed of death,
Save the holy taper’s light.

The wreath is twined--the way is strewn--the lordly train are met--
The streets are hung with coronals--why stays the minstrel yet?
Shout! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief--
Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief!

Silence! forth we bring him,
In his last array;
From love and grief the freed, the flown--
Way for the bier!--make way!

[384] Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his coronation in the Capitol.

THE BETTER LAND.

“I hear thee speak of the better land,
Thou call’st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?”
--“Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?”
--“Not there, not there, my child!”

“Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o’er sands of gold?--
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?--
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?”
--“Not there, not there, my child!

“Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair--
Sorrow and death may not enter there:
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!”

THE WOUNDED EAGLE.

Eagle! this is not thy sphere!
Warrior-bird! what seek’st thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain’s brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet’s bed
Lay’st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou, that hold’st the blast in scorn,
Thou, that wear’st the wings of morn!

Eagle! wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride of place hath won!
And the mountain lark is there,
And sweet sound hath fill’d the air;
Hast thou left that realm on high?
--Oh! it can be but to die!

Eagle! eagle! thou hast bow’d
From thine empire o’er the cloud!
Thou, that hadst etherial birth,
Thou hast stoop’d too near the earth,
And the hunter’s shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee!
--Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?

Wert thou weary of thy throne?
Was thy sky’s dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o’er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
--Woe for gifted souls and high!
Is not such _their_ destiny?

SADNESS AND MIRTH.

“Nay, these wild fits of uncurb’d laughter
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind,
As it has lower’d of late, so keenly cast,
Unsuited seem, and strange.
Oh, nothing strange!
Did’st thou ne’er see the swallow’s veering breast,
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud,
In the sunn’d glimpses of a troubled day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?
Or boatman’s oar, as vivid lightning, flash
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit’s path,
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
O gentle friend!
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad,
And may be so to-morrow!” Joanna Baillie.

Ye met at the stately feasts of old,
Where the bright wine foam’d over sculptured gold;
Sadness and Mirth! ye were mingled there
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air;
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high,
Ye mix’d in the gorgeous revelry.

For there hung o’er those banquets of yore a gloom,
A thought and a shadow of the tomb;
It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone,
To the rose a colouring not its own,
To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power--
Sadness and Mirth! ye had each your dower!

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by,
With the Roman eagles through the sky!
I know that even then, in his hour of pride,
The soul of the mighty within him died;
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still,
Which the music of victory might never fill!

Thou wert there, O Mirth! swelling on the shout,
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out;
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine--
All the rich voices in air were thine,
The incense, the sunshine--but, Sadness, _thy_ part,
Deepest of all, was the victor’s heart!

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear;
Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier!
As the gleam from a sea-bird’s white wing shed
Crosses the storm in its path of dread;
As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky--
Sadness and Mirth! so ye come and fly!

Ye meet in the poet’s haunted breast,
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest!
When the breath of the violet is out in spring,
When the woods with the wakening of music ring,
O’er his dreamy spirit your currents pass,
Like shadow and sunlight o’er mountain grass.

When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth?
Bright stream and dark one! Oh, never on earth!
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near,
While death and love walk the same dim sphere,
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep,
While the heart of man is a soundless deep!

But there smiles a land, O ye troubled pair!
Where ye have no part in the summer air:
Far from the breathings of changeful skies,
Over the seas and the graves it lies;
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done,
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun!

THE NIGHTINGALE’S DEATH-SONG.

“Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen,
Die mit seelenvollen melodie
Dich entzuckten in des Lenzes Tagen?
--Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie.” Schiller.

Mournfully, sing mournfully,
And die away, my heart!
The rose, the glorious rose is gone,
And I, too, will depart.

The skies have lost their splendour,
The waters changed their tone,
And, wherefore, in the faded world,
Should music linger on?

Where is the golden sunshine,
And where the flower-cup’s glow?
And where the joy of the dancing leaves,
And the fountain’s laughing flow?

A voice, in every whisper
Of the wave, the bough, the air,
Comes asking for the beautiful,
And moaning, “Where, oh! where?”

Tell of the brightness parted,
Thou bee, thou lamb at play!
Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth!
--Are ye, too, pass’d away?

Mournfully, sing mournfully!
The royal rose is gone:
Melt from the woods, my spirit! melt
In one deep farewell tone!

Not so!--swell forth triumphantly
The full, rich, fervent strain!
Hence with young love and life I go,
In the summer’s joyous train.

With sunshine, with sweet odour,
With every precious thing,
Upon the last warm southern breeze
My soul its flight shall wing.

Alone I shall not linger,
When the days of hope are past,
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf,
To wait the rushing blast.

Triumphantly, triumphantly!
Sing to the woods, I go!
For me, perchance, in other lands,
The glorious rose may blow.

The sky’s transparent azure,
And the greensward’s violet breath,
And the dance of light leaves in the wind,
May there know naught of death.

No more, no more sing mournfully!
Swell high, then break, my heart!
With love, the spirit of the woods,
With summer I depart!

THE DIVER.

“They learn in suffering what they teach in song.”--Shelley.

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow,
Thou hast fought with eddying waves;--
Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low,
Thou searcher of ocean’s caves!

Thou hast look’d on the gleaming wealth of old,
And wrecks where the brave have striven:
The deep is a strong and a fearful hold,
But thou its bar hast riven!

A wild and weary life is thine--
A wasting task and lone,
Though treasure-grots for thee may shine,
To all besides unknown!

A weary life! but a swift decay
Soon, soon shall set thee free;
Thou’rt passing fast from thy toils away,
Thou wrestler with the sea!

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,
Well are the death-signs read--
Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek,
Ere hope and power be fled!

And bright in beauty’s coronal
That glistening gem shall be;
A star to all in the festive hall--
But who will think on _thee_?

None!--as it gleams from the queen-like head,
Not one midst throngs will say,
“A life hath been, like a raindrop, shed
For that pale, quivering ray!”

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought!
--And are not those like thee,
Who win for earth the gems of thought?
O wrestler with the sea!

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,
Gathering the jewels far below
From many a buried urn:

Wringing from lava-veins the fire,
That o’er bright words is pour’d;
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre
A spirit in each chord.

But, oh! the price of bitter tears
Paid for the lonely power
That throws at last, o’er desert years,
A darkly glorious dower!

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread,
So radiant thoughts are strew’d;
--The soul whence those high gifts are shed
May faint in solitude!

And who will think, when the strain is sung
Till a thousand hearts are stirr’d,
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung,
Have gush’d with every word?

None, none!--his treasures live like thine,
_He_ strives and dies like thee;
--Thou, that hast been to the pearl’s dark shrine,
O wrestler with the sea!

THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS.

“Les poetes, dont l’imagination tient la puissance d’aimer et de souffrir, ne sont-ils pas les bannis d’une autre region?” Madame de Stael--“De L’Allemagne.”

No tears for thee!--though light be from us gone
With thy soul’s radiance, bright, yet restless one!
No tears for thee!
They that have loved an exile, must not mourn
To see him parting for his native bourne
O’er the dark sea.

All the high music of thy spirit here
Breathed but the language of another sphere,
Unecho’d round;
And strange, though sweet, as midst our weeping skies
Some half-remember’d strain of Paradise
Might sadly sound.

Hast thou been answer’d?--thou, that from the night,
And from the voices of the tempest’s might,
And from the past,
Wert seeking still some oracle’s reply,
To pour the secrets of man’s destiny
Forth on the blast!

Hast thou been answer’d?--thou, that through the gloom,
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb,
A cry didst send,
So passionate and deep?--to pierce, to move,
To win back token of unburied love
From buried friend!

And hast thou found where living waters burst?
Thou that didst pine amidst us in the thirst
Of fever-dreams!
Are the true fountains thine for evermore?
O lured so long by shining mists that wore
The light of streams!

Speak! is it well with thee? We call, as _thou_,
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow,
Wert wont to call
On the departed! Art thou bless’d and free?
--Alas! the lips earth covers, even to _thee_
Were silent all!

Yet shall our hope rise fann’d by quenchless faith,
As a flame, foster’d by some warm wind’s breath,
In light upsprings:
Freed soul of song! yes, thou hast found the sought;
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought,
On morning’s wings.

And we will dream it is _thy_ joy we hear,
When life’s young music, ringing far and clear,
O’erflows the sky.
No tears for _thee_! the lingering gloom is ours--
Thou art for converse with all glorious powers,
Never to die!

TRIUMPHANT MUSIC.

“Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti
Risvegliate in vano ’l cor che non puo liberarsi.”

Wherefore and whither bear’st thou up my spirit,
On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill?
It hath no crown of victory to inherit--
Be still, triumphant harmony! be still!

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling
Into rich floods of joy. It is but pain
To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling,
To sink so fast, so heavily again!

No sounds for earth? Yes, to young chieftain dying
On his own battle-field, at set of sun,
With his freed country’s banner o’er him flying,
Well mightst thou speak of fame’s high guerdon won.

No sounds for earth? Yes, for the martyr, leading
Unto victorious death serenely on;
For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding,
Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone.

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating
Against life’s narrow bound, in conflict vain!
For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous greeting,
Thou wakest lone thirst--be hush’d, exulting strain!

Be hush’d, or breathe of grief!--of exile yearnings
Under the willows of the stranger-shore;
Breathe of the soul’s untold and restless burnings
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more.

Breathe of deep love--a lonely vigil keeping
Through the night-hours, o’er wasted wealth to pine;
Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves, heaping
In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine.

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing
From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky;
Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th’ undying--
Of joy no more--bewildering harmony!

SECOND-SIGHT.

“Ne’er err’d the prophet-heart that grief inspired,
Though joy’s illusions mock their votarist.”--Maturin.

A mournful gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!
A murmur of the soul which blends
With the flow of song and wine.

An eye that through the triumph’s hour
Beholds the coming woe,
And dwells upon the faded flower
Midst the rich summer’s glow.

Ye smile to view fair faces bloom
Where the father’s board is spread;
I see the stillness and the gloom
Of a home whence all are fled.

I see the wither’d garlands lie
Forsaken on the earth,
While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly
Through the ringing hall of mirth.

I see the blood-red future stain
On the warrior’s gorgeous crest;
And the bier amidst the bridal train
When they come with roses drest.

I hear the still small moan of time
Through the ivy branches made,
Where the palace, in its glory’s prime,
With the sunshine stands array’d.

The thunder of the seas I hear,
The shriek along the wave,
When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer
Salute the parting brave.

With every breeze a spirit sends
To me some warning sign,--
A mournful gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!

O prophet-heart! thy grief, thy power,
To all deep souls belong--
The shadow in the sunny hour,
The wail in the mirthful song.

Their sight is all too sadly clear--
For them a veil is riven;
Their piercing thoughts repose not here,
Their home is but in heaven.

THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND.

“Thy path is not as mine;--where thou art blest
My spirit would but wither; mine own grief
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing,
Than all thy happiness.”

Hath the summer’s breath on the south-wind borne,
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn?
Hath it lured thee, bird! from their sounding caves
To the river shores where the osier waves?

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell,
Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a cell?
Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer’s tread,
And the heath like a royal robe is spread?

Thou hast done well, O thou bright sea-bird!
There is joy where the song of the lark is heard,
With the dancing of waters through copse and dell,
And the bee’s low tune in the fox-glove’s bell.

Thou hast done well: oh! the seas are lone,
And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone;
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells,
Fitfully breathed through its anthem swells.

The proud bird rose as the words were said--
The rush of his pinion swept o’er my head,
And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain,
Spoke him a child of the haughty main.

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean’s breast,
To his throne of pride on the billow’s crest.
Oh! who shall say to a spirit free--
“_There_ lies the pathway of bliss for thee?”

THE SLEEPER.

Oh! lightly, lightly tread!
A holy thing is sleep,
On the worn spirit shed,
And eyes that wake to weep.

A holy thing from heaven,
A gracious dewy cloud,
A covering mantle given
The weary to enshroud.

Oh! lightly, lightly tread!
Revere the pale still brow,
The meekly drooping head,
The long hair’s willowy flow.

Ye know not what ye do,
That call the slumberer back
From the world unseen by you
Unto life’s dim, faded track.

Her soul is far away,
In her childhood’s land perchance,
Where her young sisters play,
Where shines her mother’s glance.

Some old sweet native sound
Her spirit haply weaves;
A harmony profound
Of woods with all their leaves;

A murmur of the sea,
A laughing tone of streams:--
Long may her sojourn be
In the music-land of dreams!

Each voice of love is there,
Each gleam of beauty fled,
Each lost one still more fair--
Oh! lightly, lightly tread!

THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL.

O dim, forsaken mirror!
How many a stately throng
Hath o’er thee gleam’d, in vanish’d hours
Of the wine-cup and the song!

The song hath left no echo;
The bright wine hath been quaff’d;
And hush’d is every silvery voice
That lightly here hath laugh’d.

O mirror--lonely mirror!
Thou of the silent hall!
Thou hast been flush’d with beauty’s bloom--
Is this, too, vanish’d all?

It is, with the scatter’d garlands
Of triumphs long ago,
With the melodies of buried lyres,
With the faded rainbow’s glow.

And for all the gorgeous pageants--
For the glance of gem and plume,
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath,
And vase of rich perfume--

Now, dim, forsaken mirror!
Thou givest but faintly back
The quiet stars, and the sailing moon,
On her solitary track.

And thus with man’s proud spirit
Thou tellest me ’twill be,
When the forms and hues of this world fade
From his memory, as from thee:

And his heart’s long-troubled waters
At last in stillness lie,
Reflecting but the images
Of the solemn world on high.

TO THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD BARTON, THE QUAKER POET.

Happy thou art, the child of one
Who in each lowly flower,
Each leaf that glances to the sun,
Or trembles with the shower;

In each soft shadow of the sky,
Or sparkle of the stream,
Will guide thy kindling spirit’s eye
To trace the Love Supreme.

So shall deep quiet fill thy breast,
A joy in wood and wild;
And e’en for this I call thee blest,
The gentle poet’s child!

THE STAR OF THE MINE.

From the deep chambers of a mine,
With heavy gloom o’erspread,
I saw a star at noontide shine
Serenely o’er my head.

I had not seen it midst the glow
Of the rich upper day;
But in that shadowy world below,
How my heart bless’d its ray!

And still, the farther from my sight
Torches and lamps were borne,
The purer, lovelier, seem’d the light
That wore its beams unshorn.

Oh! what is like that heavenly spark?
--A friend’s kind, steadfast eye;
Where, brightest when the world grows dark,
Hope, cheer, and comfort lie!

WASHINGTON’S STATUE.

SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA.

Yes! rear thy guardian hero’s form
On thy proud soil, thou western world!
A watcher through each sign of storm,
O’er freedom’s flag unfurl’d.

There, as before a shrine, to bow,
Bid thy true sons their children lead:
The language of that noble brow
For all things good shall plead.

The spirit rear’d in patriot fight,
The virtue born of home and hearth,
There calmly throned, a holy light
Shall pour o’er chainless earth.

And let that work of England’s hand,
Sent through the blast and surge’s roar,
So girt with tranquil glory stand
For ages on thy shore!

Such, through all time, the greetings be,
That with the Atlantic billow sweep!
Telling the mighty and the free
Of brothers o’er the deep.

A THOUGHT OF HOME AT SEA.

WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.

’Tis lone on the waters
When eve’s mournful bell
Sends forth to the sunset
A note of farewell;

When, borne with the shadows
And winds as they sweep,
There comes a fond memory
Of home o’er the deep;

When the wing of the sea-bird
Is turn’d to her nest,
And the thought of the sailor
To all he loves best!

’Tis lone on the waters--
That hour hath a spell
To bring back sweet voices,
With words of farewell!

TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER-IN-LAW.

We miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing,
And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough,
And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing
Soft as thy smile: thou shouldst be with us now.

With _us_? We wrong thee by the earthly thought:
Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art,
Well might the glories of this world seem naught
To the one promise given the pure in heart.

Yet wert thou blest e’en here--oh! ever blest
In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith!
The silent joy that still o’erflow’d thy breast
Needed but guarding from all change, by death.

So is it seal’d to peace! On thy clear brow
Never was care one fleeting shade to cast;
And thy calm days in brightness were to flow
A holy stream, untroubled to the last.

Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love
A wealth of records, and sweet “feelings given,”
From sorrow’s heart the faintness to remove
By whispers breathing “less of earth than heaven.”[385]

Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom
Thy step the path of joyous duty trode,
Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb,
Where chasten’d thought may offer praise to God.

[385] Alluding to the lines she herself quoted but an hour before her death:--

“Some feelings are to mortals given
With less of earth in them than heaven.”

TO AN ORPHAN.

Thou hast been rear’d too tenderly,
Beloved too well and long,
Watch’d by too many a gentle eye:
Now look on life--be strong!

Too quiet seem’d thy joys for change,
Too holy and too deep;
Bright clouds, through summer skies that range
Seem ofttimes thus to sleep,--

To sleep in silvery stillness bound,
As things that ne’er may melt;
Yet gaze again--no trace is found
To show thee where they dwelt.

This world hath no more love to give
Like that which thou hast known;
Yet the heart breaks not--we survive
Our treasures--and bear on.

But oh! too beautiful and blest
Thy home of youth hath been!
Where shall thy wing, poor bird! find rest,
Shut out from that sweet scene?

Kind voices from departed years
Must haunt thee many a day;
Looks that will smite the source of tears
Across thy soul must play.

Friends--now the alter’d or the dead,
And music that is gone,
A gladness o’er thy dreams will shed,
And thou shalt wake--alone.

Alone! it is in that deep word
That all thy sorrow lies;
How is the heart to courage stirr’d
By smiles from kindred eyes!

And are these lost?--and have I said
To aught like _thee_--be strong?
--So bid the willow lift its head,
And brave the tempest’s wrong!

Thou reed! o’er which the storm hath pass’d--
Thou shaken with the wind!
On one, _one_ friend thy weakness cast--
There is but One to bind!

HYMN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER.

Father! that in the olive-shade,
When the dark hour came on,
Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid,
Strengthen thy Son;

Oh! by the anguish of that night,
Send us down bless’d relief;
Or to the chasten’d, let thy might
Hallow this grief!

And Thou, that when the starry sky
Saw the dread strife begun,
Didst teach adoring faith to cry,
“Thy will be done;”

By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all
That e’er have mourn’d, the chief--
Thou Saviour! if the stroke _must_ fall,
Hallow this grief!

WHERE IS THE SEA?

SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.

[A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied--“_The sea--where is it?_”]

Where is the sea?--I languish here--
Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks in fleet career,
And flags, and breezes free?

I miss that voice of waves which first
Awoke my childhood’s glee;
The measured chime--the thundering burst--
Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! rich your myrtle’s breath may rise,
Soft, soft your winds may be;
Yet my sick heart within me dies--
Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd’s mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree;
The echoes of my soul are mute,
--Where is my own blue sea?

[All this time, her imagination was at work more busily than ever; new thoughts and fresh fancies seemed to spring up “as willows by the water-courses:” and the facility with which her lyrics were poured forth, approached, in many instances, to actual improvisation. When confined to her bed, and unable to use a pen, she would often employ the services of those about her, to write down what she had composed. “Felicia has just sent for me,” wrote her amanuensis on one of these occasions, “with pencil and paper, to put down a little song, (‘Where is the Sea?’) which, she said, had come to her like a strain of music, whilst lying in the twilight under the infliction of a blister; and as I really think ‘a scrap’ (as our late eccentric visitor would call it) composed under such circumstances, is, to use the words of Coleridge, a ‘psychological curiosity,’ I cannot resist copying it for you. It was suggested by a story she somewhere read lately, of a Greek islander, carried off to the Vale of Tempe, and pining amidst all its beauties for the sight and sound of his native sea.”--_Memoir_, p. 134.]

TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.

How is it that before mine eyes,
While gazing on thy mien,
All my past years of life arise,
As in a mirror seen?
What spell within thee hath been shrined
To image back my own deep mind?

Even as a song of other times
Can trouble memory’s springs;
Even as a sound of vesper-chimes
Can wake departed things;
Even as a scent of vernal flowers
Hath records fraught with vanish’d hours,--

Such power is thine! They come, the dead,
From the grave’s bondage free,
And smiling back the changed are led
To look in love on thee;
And voices that are music flown
Speak to me in the heart’s full tone:

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress--
The thoughts of happier years--
And a vain gush of tenderness
O’erflows in child-like tears;
A passion which I may not stay,
A sudden fount that must have way.

But thou, the while--oh! almost strange,
Mine imaged self! it seems
That on _thy_ brow of peace no change
Reflects my own swift dreams;
Almost I marvel not to trace
Those lights and shadows in _thy_ face.

To see _thee_ calm, while powers thus deep--
Affection, Memory, Grief--
Pass o’er my soul as winds that sweep
O’er a frail aspen leaf!
Oh, that the quiet of thine eye
Might sink there when the storm goes by!

Yet look thou still serenely on,
And if sweet friends there be
That when my song and soul are gone
Shall seek my form in thee,--
Tell them of one for whom ’twas best
To flee away and be at rest!