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ENGLISH SONGS, 
 
 OTHER SMALL POEMS. 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL 
 
 h^) 
 
 BOSTON : 
 WILLIAM D. TICKNOR & COMPANY. 
 
 M DCCC XHV. 
 
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 ■^',^- 
 
 
 boston: 
 
 thurston, torry and co., printers, 
 
 18 Devonshire Street. 
 
" Barry Cornwall, with the exception of Cole- 
 ridge, is the most genuine poet of love, who has, 
 for a long period, appeared among us. There is 
 an intense and passionate beauty, a depth of af- 
 fection, in his little dramatic poems, which appear 
 even in the affectionate triflings of his gentle 
 characters. He illustrates that holiest of human 
 emotions, which, while it will twine itself with 
 the frailest twig, or dally with the most evanes- 
 cent shadow of creation, wasting its excess of 
 kindliness on all a]:oyn^it,.is yet able to ' look on 
 tempests and be never shaken.' Love is gently 
 omnipotent in his poems ; accident and death it- 
 self are but passing clouds, which scarcely vex 
 and which cannot harm it. The lover seems to 
 breathe out his life in the arms of his mistress, 
 as calmly as the infant sinks into its softest slum- 
 ber. The fair blossoms of his genius, though 
 light and trembling at the breeze, spring from a 
 wide, and deep, and robust stock, which will 
 sustain far taller branches without being ex- 
 hausted." 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 England is singularly barren of Song-writers. There 
 is no English writer of any rank, in my recollection, whose 
 songs form the distinguishing feature of his poetry. The 
 little lyrics which are scattered, like stars, over the surface 
 of our old dramas, are sometimes minute, trifling, and unde- 
 fined in their object ; but they are often eminently fine, ^— in 
 fact, the finest things of the kind which our language pos- 
 sesses. There is more inspiration, more air and lyrical 
 quality about them, than in songs of ten times their preten- 
 sions. And this, perhaps, arises from the dramatic faculty 
 of the writers ; who, being accustomed, in other things, to 
 shape their verse, so as to suit the characters and different 
 purposes of the drama, naturally extend this care to the 
 fashion of the songs themselves. In cases where a WTiter 
 speaks in his own person, he expends all his egotism upon 
 his lyrics ; and requires that a critic should be near to cur- 
 tail his misdeeds. When he writes as a dramatist, he is, 
 or ought to be, the critic himself. He is not, so to speak, at 
 all implicated in what is going forward in the poem ; but deals 
 out the dialogue, like an indifferent by-stander, seeking only 
 
VI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to adjust it to the necessities of the actors. He is above the 
 struggle and turmoil of the battle below, and 
 
 ' Sees, ad from a tower, the end of all.' 
 
 It is, in fact, this power of forgetting himself, and of im- 
 agining and fashioning characters different from his own, 
 which constitutes the dramatic quality. A man who can set 
 aside his own idiosyncracy, is half a dramatist. 
 
 It may be thought paradoxical to assert that the songs 
 which occur in dramas are more natural than those which 
 proceed from the author in person : yet such is generally 
 the case. If, indeed, a poet wrote purely and seasonably 
 only, — that is to say, if his poetry sprung always from the 
 passion or humor of the moment, the fact might be other- 
 wise. But it may easily be seen, that many rhymes are 
 produced out of season ; and are often nothing more than 
 the result of ingenuity taxed to the uttermost ; or otherwise, 
 are simply the indiscretions of ' gentlemen at ease,' who 
 have nothing, or nothing better to do. Now Poetry is not 
 to be thus constrained ; nor is it ever the offspring of ennui 
 or languor. It demands not only the ' faculty divine,' (so 
 called,) but also, that it should be left to its own impulses. 
 The intellectual faculties are, in no one, always in a state 
 of tension, or capable of projecting those thoughts which, 
 in happier moments, are cast forth with perfect ease, — and 
 which, when thrown out by the Imagination or the Fancy, 
 constitute the charm, and indeed form the essence of poetry. 
 
 Much of what I have said applies to verse in general ; 
 but it applies more especially to songs and small pieces of 
 verse — those nugcB canor<x. — which, at the time that they 
 plead their ' want of pretension,' take due care, but too 
 often, to justify their professed defects. When a writer 
 commences a poem of serious length, he throws all his 
 
INTRODUCTION. Vll 
 
 strength into it : he selects the happiest hour ; he condenses, 
 and amends, and rejects ; and, in short, does his best to 
 produce something good. But in a song, or ' a trifle in 
 verse,' he feels no responsibility. Efe professes nothing, 
 and, unfortunately, does little more. 
 
 It may be said that a song is necessarily a trifling matter ; 
 but, if good, it is a trifle, of at least a different sort. And 
 to make even a trifle perfect or agreeable, should satisfy a 
 moderate ambition. It demands some talent. Where po- 
 etry is concerned, it requires even more : for it requires that 
 this talent should be of a peculiar order, and should be ex- 
 erted at a happy time. I am by no means forward to 
 imagine that these tv^ro requisites have at any time concurred 
 in my case. But I hope that I have, in a few instances, so 
 far succeeded, as to allure other writers, (having more lei- 
 sure than I possess) to direct their powers to this species of 
 verse. It has been too much disdained. Poets have in 
 general preferred exhibiting their tediousness in long com- 
 positions, and have neglected the song. But the brevity, 
 which is the ' soul ' of song, as well as of wit, is not neces- 
 sarily allied to insignificance. The battle-songs of Mr. 
 Campbell are a triumphant proof of the contrary. So also 
 are many of the songs and ballads of Sir Walter Scott, Mr. 
 Moore, Mr. Lockhart, Mr. Hogg, my friend Allan Cunning- 
 ham, and, finally, the charming songs of Burns. To 
 my thinking, the seniiment in some of Burns's songs is as 
 fine and as true as anything in Shakspeare himself. I do 
 not speak of his imagination, or of his general power, (both 
 which in the Scottish poet are immeasurably inferior), but 
 of the mere sentiment or feeling — that fine natural elo- 
 quence which a warm heart taught him, and which he poured 
 out so profusely in song. There is an earnestness and di- 
 
Vlll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 rectness of purpose in Burns, which, if attended to, would, 
 I think, strengthen the poetry of the present day. As an. 
 instance of his going at once to the sentiment, without any 
 parade of words, or preUminary flourish, one may refer to 
 the lines — 
 
 ' Although tJwu maun never be Tnine, 
 
 Although even hope is denied, 
 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 
 
 Than aught in the world beside, — Jessy ! ' 
 
 in which the sentiment is exquisitely tender and beautiful. 
 We do not, I think, deal thus fairly with our thoughts at 
 present. We accumulate multitudes of words around them ; 
 as though the idea were unable to support itself. Our ver- 
 biage is the Corinthian capital, which has succeeded the 
 finer Ionic. One might almost suspect that ' the School- 
 master,' who is everywhere abroad, has generated rather a 
 facility of spreading common thoughts, than a power of 
 originating new ones. At all events, the verbiage, which I 
 have alluded to, is a manifestation of weakness rather than 
 of strength, and indicates, (if one may judge from analo- 
 gies,) a declension, at least as much as a refinement in taste. 
 Feeling this — and feeling also that I myself am far from 
 exempted from this defect ■ — I have occasionally introduced 
 some poems in this volume, which are bald enough in ex- 
 pression ; and which, in fact, have little beyond the mere 
 sentiment to recommend them. But this ought to be suffi- 
 cient. If it be not sufficient in my case, (for it is so, fre- 
 quently, in Mr. Wordsworth's poems,) I can plead nothing 
 beyond a good intention ; and must throw myself on the 
 charity of the reader. 
 
 It cannot be very flattering to our self-love, to observe, 
 that all the song-writers, except Mr. Moore, (and — I ought 
 
INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 to have added, Dibdin,) are Scottish poets. In our songs, 
 however, we differ — not only in merit, but frequently also 
 in character, from the songs which have proceeded from 
 Scotland. The latter approach more nearly to the ballad, 
 which comprises a story. A song- — (adopting the English 
 model as the fit one), may be considered as the expression 
 of a sentiment, varying according to the humor of the poet. 
 It should be fitted for music ; and, in fact, should become 
 better for the accompaniment of music ; otherwise it can 
 scarcely be deemed, essentially, a song. 
 
 The character of Poetry has always fluctuated with the 
 times ; and Songs, as well as the epic poem and the drama, 
 have partaken of each successive change. In early ages, 
 they were spontaneous and necessarily rude productions : in 
 refined times they became artificial. Neither of these two 
 periods are, I apprehend, the most favorable to poetry. 
 The mind of the poet requires to be somewhat cultivated 
 and enlarged by reading ; but it should not be perplexed by 
 too many critical distinctions, nor weakened by excessive 
 refinement. The age of poetry precedes that of criticism ; 
 as the act precedes the law, which is made to control it. It 
 is then, — in the youth and first manhood of literature, that 
 all imaginative writings are the best. If they exhibit not 
 the fastidiousness and superfluous accuracy of later ages, 
 (which, in many cases, is little better than the ' ridiculous 
 excess,') they make amends for such deficiencies by the 
 freshness and beauty, — the originality and undaunted vigor 
 of their images. In effect, it is a species of paradox in 
 criticism, to insist upon minute and mathematical niceties, 
 in things which deal mainly with the passions. 
 
 In our country, (and I believe in most others) the ballad 
 preceded the song. The achievements of the warrior were 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 reflected in the magnifying verse of the minstrel. There 
 scarcely ever was an age so dark, or a people so barbarous, 
 as not to have possessed bards who sang the praises of their 
 heroes. These tvvo seem, in fact, to have been almost 
 necessary to each other ; and to have gone, hand in hand, 
 together, illustrating the soul and sinews of the times. The 
 soldier would have lacked one strong incentive, had a min- 
 strel been found wanting to shout forth his deeds ; and, 
 without a hero, the minstrel himself would have had little 
 or no subject for his song. For all the subtleties of thought, 
 which writers in more advanced ages pour out so profusely, 
 are beyond the range of an uneducated poet. He knows, 
 and sings only, what he sees and hears. The sheep and 
 their pastures, — the struggles and bloody feuds of his pro- 
 vince, form the staple of his verse. His heroes are renowned 
 like the racer, for blood, and bone, and sinew. All else is 
 beyond his limit, — beyond his power. It is the educated 
 poet only who subdues abstract ideas to the purposes of his 
 verse, and lets loose his Imagination into daring and subtle 
 speculations. There is no one, with w^hose works I am ac- 
 quainted, who falsifies this position ; saving perhaps Shak- 
 speare, — who is an exception to all things ! 
 
 The ballad-writers of our country were men of great 
 talent ; but they did not go beyond their age. They roared 
 out Bacchanalian songs, over sack and the ' blood-red wine : ' 
 they bruited about the deeds of their favorite heroes, till the 
 heroism of the verse bore the same proportion to the origi- 
 nal actions that vapor does to water. In return for this, — 
 they were paid — in bed and board ; in wine, and mead, and 
 broadcloth ; and in huge quantities of praise ! Occasionally, 
 indeed, M^hen some rich and puissant baron was transformed 
 into a god, or liis dame or daughter were exhibited in flat- 
 
INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 tering- comparison with the foam-born Venus, by the false 
 glamour of poetry, the minstrel became master of a jewel 
 or an ounce of gold. Subsequently to all this, our ballad- 
 makers and players wandered about to fairs and revels. 
 Private beneficence was often found wanting ; (perhaps it 
 was sometimes taxed too heavily ; ) and the men who had 
 wares for all tastes, wisely left the individual for the multi- 
 tude. And hence began the patronage of ' the Public' 
 
 The competition for public favor, however, was not lono- 
 confined to professed minstrels. The arts of reading and 
 writing opened a new prospect of ambition to our noble an- 
 cestors. The spirit of chivalry, which had previously man- 
 ifested itself in hard blows alone, sought opportunities for 
 exhibiting its gentler qualities in song. Love, Devotion, 
 Constancy, Generosity, and the various other Virtues, (which 
 do not consist merely in the muscles, or spring from the 
 sheer insensibility of the animal man,) found historians. 
 Surrey, Wyatt, Sidney, Raleigh, and a host of others, form 
 part of this early class of poets. Their style and gallantry 
 (with such small gradual change as is always occurring in 
 literature), remained till the death of Charles the First. 
 Upon that occasion the belles lettres, as well as monarchy, 
 were overturned for a time ; but returned, — the former in 
 a new guise and thoroughly degenerated, — with the 
 courtiers of his son. From that period, till the time of 
 Thomson and Collins, (for I refer Milton to the earlier pe- 
 riod,") all our songs, and most of our poems, were evidently 
 written by the celebrated " Lady of Quality," * I recollect 
 
 *Drydea and Pope, and a few others, form of course illustrious exceptions 
 to this censure. 
 
 * * * Since the foregoing Introiluction was written, I Jiave 
 
 submitted it to the perusal of a friend, whose opinion I respect ; and he tells 
 
XU INTRODUCTION. 
 
 scarcely a single English song of high character, which has 
 been ten years before the public. And yet, Burns and other 
 Scottish poets have, for almost half a century, been scat- 
 tering among us the seeds of a better taste. Let us hope, 
 that in an agreeable (although not very important) depart- 
 ment of literature, we are destined to some improvement. 
 
 For the following poems, (about one-third of which may 
 be called Songs), I do not insist very strongly on the admi- 
 ration of the reader. They are intended somewhat in the 
 shape of a farewell offering, from a person who has met 
 with much kindness from the Public, and is neither able — 
 nor inclined — to forget it. 
 
 me that I have not done justice to the song-writers who have flourished since 
 the Restoration. Perhaps I have relied too much on my old impressions, 
 instead of examining the facts again. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 The Sea . . . 
 
 The Home of the Absentee . 
 
 Indian Love 
 
 King Death 
 
 Past times 
 
 A Serenade 
 
 To my Lyre 
 
 The Onset : — A Battle Song 
 
 Song for Twilight 
 
 The Hunter's Song 
 
 The Recall 
 
 The Exile's Farewell 
 
 On a Mother and Child, sleeping 
 
 The Sea-King 
 
 The Wild Cherry-Tree . 
 
 The Common Lot 
 
 The Little Voice 
 
 A Bacchanalian Song 
 
 Dark-eyed Beauty of the South . 
 
 The Poet's Song to his wife 
 
 She was not fair nor full of Grace 
 
 A Song for the Seasons 
 
 The Quadroon 
 
 The Bloodhound 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 5 
 
 10 
 11 
 12 
 13 
 14 
 15 
 16 
 17 
 18 
 19 
 20 
 21 
 22 
 23 
 24 
 25 
 
XIV CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Is my Lover on the Sea ? .... 
 
 . 26 
 
 The Misletoe ...... 
 
 . 27 
 
 Constancy ...... 
 
 23 
 
 The Nights ....... 
 
 . 29 
 
 To a Nightingale at mid-day .... 
 
 . 30 
 
 The Stormy Petrel ..... 
 
 . 31 
 
 Earth and Air ...... 
 
 . 32 
 
 Song of the Soldier to his Sword .... 
 
 . 33 
 
 The Happy Hours ..... 
 
 . 34 
 
 Hurrah for merry England ..... 
 
 . 35 
 
 Why doth the Bottle stand ? . . . . 
 
 . 36 
 
 Count Balthazar ...... 
 
 . 37 
 
 When Friends look dark and cold 
 
 . 39 
 
 The Night is closing round, Mother 
 
 . 40 
 
 Peace ! What do Tears avail ? . . . . 
 
 . 41 
 
 The Wood Thrush 
 
 . 42 
 
 Midnight Rhymes ..... 
 
 . 43 
 
 A Love Song ...... 
 
 . 44 
 
 The Stranger ...... 
 
 . 45 
 
 Song in praise of Spring. ..... 
 
 . 46 
 
 The Night before the Bridal .... 
 
 . 47 
 
 A deep and a mighty Shadow .... 
 
 . 48 
 
 Belshazzar ...... 
 
 . 49 
 
 The Heart-Broken ...... 
 
 . 50 
 
 A Phantasy ...... 
 
 . 51 
 
 Life 
 
 . 52 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 
 The Return of the Admiral .... 
 
 55 
 
 Home . . . 
 
 . 58 
 
 The Vintage Song ..... 
 
 . 59 
 
 The Evening Star ...... 
 
 60 
 
 The Weaver's Song ..... 
 
 61 
 
 Sleep on ...... . 
 
 62 
 
 Love and Mirth ...... 
 
 63 
 
 Song over a Child . . ... 
 
 64 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XV 
 
 The Landsman's Song 
 
 Perdita 
 
 Love, the Poet, pretty One 
 
 Lucy 
 
 The Wooing Sang 
 
 Hennione 
 
 The Owl . 
 
 IMarian 
 
 The Humber Ferry 
 
 A Repose 
 
 The Lake has burst 
 
 Sing, Maiden, sing ! . 
 
 Maureen 
 
 Unequal love 
 
 Wine .... 
 
 Sing ! Who mingles with my Lays ? 
 
 I love my Love because he loves me 
 
 Talk not to me of Love 
 
 Miriam .... 
 
 Babylon 
 
 Her large dark luminous Eyes are on 
 
 The Remonstrance 
 
 Kill the Love that winds around thee 
 
 What say the clouds on the hill and plain? 
 
 A Dilemma 
 
 The Beggar's Song 
 
 To Sophie 
 
 Build up a column to Bolivar 
 
 The Farewell of the Soldier 
 
 The Night Shade 
 
 True Love 
 
 The Song of the Outcast 
 
 To a Flower 
 
 Forbidden Love 
 
 A Bridal Dirge 
 
 The Convict's Farewell 
 
 The Rhine - 
 
XVI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Sweet Friend, where sleeps thy Song? 
 
 The Hirlas Horn 
 
 Come ! Let us go to the Land 
 
 The Leveller 
 
 The Secret of singing 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . 106 
 . 107 
 . 108 
 . 109 
 . 110 
 
 PART THE THIRD. 
 
 The Fight of Ravenna 
 
 The Fire Fly 
 
 The Blood Horse 
 
 Hidden Thoughts 
 
 An Epistle to Charles Lamb 
 
 Sit down, sad Soul 
 
 A Chamber Scene 
 
 Courage 
 
 The Fisherman 
 
 The Pauper's Jubilee, 
 
 The Falcon 
 
 The Past . 
 
 Song of Wood-Nymphs 
 
 The Song of a Felon's wife 
 
 To the Singer Pasta 
 
 Fuller's Bird 
 
 The Sea, — in calm . 
 
 A Hymn of Evil Spirits . 
 
 Softly woo away her Breath 
 
 A thought on a Rivulet . 
 
 I loved her when she looked from 
 
 A storm 
 
 Parents' Love . 
 
 Vain Regret 
 
 The Violet 
 
 Beauty 
 
 Sybilla 
 
 A Midsummer Fancy 
 
 113 
 122 
 123 
 124 
 125 
 129 
 130 
 131 
 132 
 133 
 13G 
 137 
 139 
 140 
 141 
 143 
 144 
 145 
 146 
 147 
 148 
 149 
 151 
 152 
 153 
 154 
 155 
 156 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XVll 
 
 Past and Present 
 
 Wilt thou go ? . 
 
 On some human Bones found on a Headland, 
 Panama 
 
 Tis better we laugh than weep . 
 
 An Irish Song 
 
 A Drinking Song . 
 
 River of the Morn 
 
 Song should breathe 
 
 Song for our Father Land 
 
 Thou hast Love within thine Eyes 
 
 To the Snow-drop 
 
 Wilt thou love me ? 
 
 In Commemoration of Haydn 
 
 On the Portrait of a Child 
 
 Inscriptions. — More GrcBCum 
 • Napoleon . 
 
 Golden-tressed Adelaide 
 
 Love Flying 
 
 AIDreamer's Song 
 
 A Poet's Thought 
 
 To a Lady attiring herself 
 
 Wilt thou remember me ? 
 
 I go and she doth miss me not 
 
 A parting Song 
 
 I die for thy sweet Love 
 
 What use is all the Love I bear thee ? 
 
 A Farewell .... 
 
 She sate by the River Springs 
 
 A Reproach - . . . 
 
 A Conceit .... 
 
 A Night^Song 
 
 To Adelaide 
 
 A Prayer in Sickness . 
 
 To a Voyager 
 
 His Love is hidden 
 
 Song — From a Play 
 
 in the 
 
XVlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Sister, I cannot read to-day 
 
 Sea-shore Stanzas 
 
 On the death of a Child 
 
 To a Poetess . 
 
 A Petition to Time 
 
 A Question and Reply . 
 
 Wishes 
 
 An Epitaph 
 
 PAGE 
 
 187 
 188 
 189 
 190 
 191 
 191 
 192 
 192 
 
 Dramatic Fragments 
 
 193 
 
8 0NGS, &c 
 
ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC. 
 
 *^* The Writer of the following Poems has, for some years past, 
 abandoned verse-writing ; for graver, and (to him) more important 
 occupations. He has, however, — influenced by motives with which 
 he need not trouble the reader, — allowed some of the MSS. re- 
 maining in his portfolio to be printed. The time is not very favor- 
 able to productions of this sort ; but — ' Le Printemps reviendra ! l 
 the days for relishing poetry can never be utterly at an end. We may 
 as well hope to extinguish the Imagination and the Fancy themselves, 
 as to put a final stop to the love which poetry (their offspring) 
 has so long excited. When ' the spring shall return,' the Author hopes 
 that a few of these verses will find favor with the public ; upon 
 whose kindness and courtesy he throws himself, as a writer of verse, 
 for — he believes — the last time ! 
 
 It is proper to state that several of the following Songs, which have 
 obtained considerable popularity, are indebted for it mainly, if not 
 solely, to the music of the Chevalier Sigismond Neukomm ; — 
 a composer of the very first order. 
 
SONGS 
 
 PART THE FIRST 
 
 I. — THE SEA. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NECKOMM. 
 
 The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 
 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! 
 
 Without a mark, without a bound. 
 
 It runneth the earth's wide regions round; 
 
 It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies 
 
 Or like a cradled creature lies. 
 
 I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! 
 I am where I would ever be ; 
 With the blue above, and the blue below. 
 And silence whereso'er I go; 
 If a storm should come and awake the deep, 
 What matter ] / shall ride and sleep. 
 1 
 
SONGS. 
 
 I love, oh ! how I love to ride 
 On the fierce foaming bursting tide, 
 When every mad wave drowns the moon, 
 Or whistles aloft his tempest tune. 
 And tells how goeth the world below, 
 And why the Sou'-west blasts do blow. 
 
 I never was on the dull tame shore. 
 But I loved the great sea more and more. 
 And backwards flew to her billowy breast, 
 Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; 
 And a mother she loas, and is to me ; 
 For I was born on the open sea ! 
 
 The waves were white, and red the morn, 
 In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
 And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 
 And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
 And never was heard such an outcry wild 
 As welcomed to life the ocean-child ! 
 
 I've lived since then, in calm and strife. 
 Full fifty summers a sailor's life. 
 With wealth to spend and a power to range, 
 But never have sought, nor sighed for change ; 
 And Death, whenever he comes to me. 
 Shall come on the wild unbounded sea ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 II. — THE HOME OF THE ABSENTEE. 
 
 The weed mourns on the castle wall, 
 The grass lies on the chamber floor, 
 And on the hearth, and in the hall. 
 Where merry music danced of yore ! 
 And the blood-red wine no longer 
 Runs, — (how it used to run !) 
 And the shadows within, grown stronger. 
 Look black on the mid-day sun ! 
 
 All is gone ; save a Voice 
 
 That never did yet rejoice : 
 
 ' Tis sweet and loiv ; 'tis sad and lone ; 
 
 And it biddeth us love the thing that's jlown. 
 
 The Gardens feed no fruits nor flowers. 
 But childless seem, and in decay ; 
 The traitor clock forsakes the hours, 
 And points to times — oh, far away ! 
 And the steed no longer neigheth, 
 
 Nor paws the startled ground ; 
 And the dun hound no longer bayeth ; 
 But death is in all around ! 
 
 All is gone ; save a Voice 
 
 That never did yet rejoice : 
 
 ' Tis sweet and low ; 'tis sad and lone ; 
 
 And it biddeth us love the thing that's Jlown. 
 
The Lord of all the lone domain, 
 An undeserving master flies, 
 And leaves a land where he might reign, 
 For alien hearts and stranger skies : 
 And the peasant disdains the story, 
 
 He loved to recount of yore ; 
 And the Name, that was once a glory, 
 Is heard in the land no more ! 
 
 All is gone ; save a Voice 
 
 That never did yet rejoice : 
 
 ' Tis siveet and low ; His sad and lone ; 
 
 And it biddetk us love the thing thafs flown. 
 
 III. — INDIAN LOVE. 
 
 Tell me not that thou dost love me. 
 Though it thrill me with delight : 
 
 Thou art, like the stars, above me ; 
 I — the lowly earth at night. 
 
 Hast thou (thou from kings descended) 
 Loved the Indian cottage-born ; 
 
 And shall she, whom Love befriended, 
 Darken all thy hopeful morn? 
 
 Go, — and, for thy fathers' glory. 
 Wed the blood that's pure and free : 
 
 'Tis enough to gild my story 
 That I once was loved by thee ! 
 
SONGS. 
 IV. — KING DEATH. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC ]pY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 King Death was a rare old fellow ! 
 
 He sate where no sun could shine ; 
 And he lifted his hand so yellow, 
 
 And poured out his coal-black wine. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the coal-black Wine ! 
 
 There came to him many a Maiden, 
 
 Whose eyes had forgot to shine ; 
 And Widows, with grief o'erladen, 
 
 For a draught of his sleepy wine. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the coal-black Wine ! 
 
 The Scholar left all his learning; 
 
 The Poet his fancied woes ; 
 And the Beauty her bloom returning, 
 
 Like life to the fading rose. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the coal-black Wine ! 
 
 All came to the royal old fellow, 
 
 Who laugh'd till his eyes dropped brine, 
 As he gave them his hand so yellow, 
 
 And pledged them in Death's black wine. 
 Hurrah — Hurrah ! 
 Hurrah ! for the coal-black Wine ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 v. — PAST TIMES. 
 
 Old Acquaintance, shall the nights 
 You and I once talked together, 
 Be forgot like common things, — 
 Like some dreary night that brings 
 Nought, save foul weather ? 
 
 We were young, when you and I 
 
 Talked of golden things together, — 
 Of love and rhyme, of books and men : 
 Ah ! our hearts were buoyant then 
 As the wild-goose feather ! 
 
 Twenty years have fled, we know. 
 
 Bringing care and changing weather ; 
 But hath th' heart no backward flights. 
 That we again may see those nights. 
 And laugh together? 
 
 Jove's eagle, soaring to the sun. 
 
 Renews the past year's mouldering feather 
 Ah, why not you and I, then, soar 
 From age to youth, — and dream once more 
 
 Long nights together ? 
 
SONGS. 
 
 VI. — A SERENADE. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Awake ! — The starry midnight Hour 
 Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight : 
 
 In its own sweetness sleeps the flower ; 
 And the doves lie hushed in deep delight ! 
 
 Awake ! Awake ! 
 
 Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake! 
 
 Awake ! — Soft dews will soon arise 
 From daisied mead, and thorny brake ; 
 
 Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, 
 And like the tender morning break ! 
 
 Awake ! Awake ! 
 
 Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake ! 
 
 Awake ! — Within the musk-rose bower 
 I watch, pale flower of love, for thee : 
 
 Ah, come, and shew the starry Hour 
 
 What wealth of love thou hid'st from me ! 
 
 Aivake ! Awake ! 
 
 Shew all thy love, for Love's sweet sake ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 Awake! — Ne'er heed, though listening Night 
 
 Steal music from thy silver voice : 
 Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright, 
 
 And bid the world and me rejoice ! 
 
 Awake ! Awake ! 
 
 She comes, — at last, for Lovers sweet sake ! 
 
 VII. — TO MY LYRE. 
 
 Sleep, — sleep, my Lyre ! 
 
 Untouch' d, — unsought, — unstrung ! 
 
 No one now will e'er enquire 
 
 If poet to thee ever sung ; 
 
 Nor if his spirit clung 
 
 To thy witching wire ! — 
 
 Bid thy soul of music sleep, 
 
 As winds lie on the charmed deep. 
 
 When the mistress Moon doth chide 
 
 The tempest, or the murmuring tide ! 
 
 'Tis well to be a thing forgot ! 
 
 Oblivion is a happy lot ! 
 
 'Tis well that neither Love, nor Woe, 
 
 Nor sad sweet thoughts of ' long ago,' 
 
 Should 'waken again thy self-consuming fire ! 
 
 Therefore, therefore, — sleep, my Lyre! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 VIIL— THE ONSET. A BATTLE SONG. 
 
 Sound an alarum ! The foe is come ! 
 
 I hear the tramp, — the neigh, — the hum. 
 
 The cry, and the blow of his daring drum — 
 
 Huzzah ! 
 Sound ! The blast of our trumpet blown 
 Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone. 
 What ! shall we shake at a foe unknown ? 
 
 Huzzah ! — Huzzah ! 
 
 Have we not sinews as strong as they ? 
 Have we not hearts that ne'er gave way? 
 Have we not God on our side to-day ? 
 
 Huzzah ! 
 Look ! They are staggered on yon black heath 
 Steady awhile, and hold your breath ! 
 Now is your time, men, — Down like Death ! 
 
 Huzzah ! — Huzzah ! 
 
 Stand by each other, and front your foes ! 
 Fight, whilst a drop of the red blood flows ! 
 Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose ! 
 
 Huzzah ! 
 Sound ! Bid your terrible trumpets bray I 
 Blow, till their brazen throats give way I 
 Sound to the battle ! Sound, I say ! 
 Huzzah ! — Huzzah ! 
 
10 SONGS. 
 
 IX. — SONG FOR TWILIGHT. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Hide me, O twilight Air ! 
 
 Hide me, from thought, from care, 
 
 From all things, foul or fair, 
 
 Until to-morrow ! 
 To-night I strive no more ; 
 No more my soul shall soar : 
 Come, Sleep, and shut the door 
 
 'Gainst Pain and Sorrow ! 
 
 If I must see through dreams. 
 Be mine Elysian gleams, 
 Be mine by morning streams 
 
 To watch and wander ! 
 So may my spirit cast 
 (Serpent-like) off the past, 
 And my free soul at last 
 
 Have leave to ponder ! 
 
 And should' st thou 'scape control, 
 Ponder on love, sweet Soul, 
 On joy, — the end — the goal 
 
 Of all endeavor ! 
 But if earth's pains will rise, 
 (As damps will seek the skies,) 
 Then, Night, seal thou mine eyes, 
 
 In sleep, for ever ! 
 
SONGS. 11 
 
 X. — THE HUNTER'S SONG. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Rise ! Sleep no more ! 'Tis a noble morn : 
 The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn : 
 And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound, 
 Under the steaming steaming ground. 
 Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by. 
 And leave us alone in the clear gray sky ! 
 Our horses are ready and steady — So, ho ! 
 I'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow. 
 
 HarTcj hark ! — Who calleth the maiden Morn 
 From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn ? 
 
 The horn, — the horn ! 
 The merry sweet ring of the hunter's horn. 
 
 Now, — thorough the copse, where the fox is found. 
 And over the stream, at a mighty bound. 
 And over the high lands, and over the low. 
 O'er furrows, o'er meadows the hunters go ! 
 Away ! — as a hawk flies full at its prey. 
 So flieth the hunter, away, — away ! 
 From the burst at the cover till set of sun, 
 When the red fox dies and — the day is done ! 
 
 Hark, hark ! — What sound on the wind is borne ? 
 
 ' Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn. 
 The horn, — the horn ! 
 
 The merry bold voice of the hunter's horn. 
 
12 SONGS. 
 
 Sound ! Sound the horn ! To the hunter good 
 What's the gulley deep or the roaring flood? 
 Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, 
 At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. 
 Oh! — what delight can a mortal lack, 
 When he once is firm on his horse's back, 
 With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong. 
 And the blast of the horn for his morning song? 
 
 Hark, hark ! — Now, home ! and dream till morn. 
 Of the hold sweet sound of the hunter's horn ! 
 
 The horn, — the horn ! 
 Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn ! 
 
 XL — THE RECALL. 
 
 Come again ! Come again ! 
 
 Sunshine cometh after rain. 
 
 As a lamp fed newly burneth. 
 
 Pleasure, who doth fly, returneth, 
 
 Scattering every cloud of pain. 
 
 As the year, which dies in showers, 
 
 Riseth in a world of flowers. 
 
 Called by many a vernal strain, 
 
 Come thou, — for whom tears were falling, 
 
 And a thousand tongues are calling ! 
 
 Come again, O come again ! 
 
 Like the sunshine after rain ! 
 
SONGS. 13 
 
 XII. — THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUK0MJ4. 
 
 Farewell Old England's shores ! 
 
 Farewell her rugged men ! 
 Now, sailors, strain your oars ! 
 
 I ne'er will look again. 
 I've lived — I've sought — I've seen — 
 
 Oh, things I love too well, 
 Upon those shores of green : 
 
 So, England ! long farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 I go, — what matter where ? 
 
 The Exile, when he flies. 
 Thinks not of othei^ air, — 
 
 Dreams not of alieri skies : 
 He seeks but to depart 
 
 From the land he loves too well, — 
 From thoughts that smite his heart : 
 
 So, England ! long farewell I 
 
 Fareivell ! 
 
 O'er lands and the lonely main, 
 
 A lonelier man, I roam. 
 To seek some balm for pain, — 
 
 Perhaps to find a home : 
 
14 SONGS. 
 
 I go, — but Time nor tide, 
 
 Nor all that tongue may tell, 
 Shall e'er from thee divide 
 
 My heart, — and so, farewell I 
 
 Old England, fare thee well! 
 
 XIII. — ON A MOTHER AND CHILD SLEEPING. 
 
 Night gaze, but send no sound ! 
 
 Fond heart, thy fondness keep ! 
 Nurse Silence, wrap them round! 
 
 Breathe low ; — they sleep, they sleep ! 
 
 No wind ! no murmuring showers ! 
 
 No music, soft and deep ! 
 No thoughts, nor dreams of flowers ! 
 
 All hence ; — they sleep, they sleep ! 
 
 Time's step is all unheard : 
 
 Heaven's stars bright silence keep : 
 No breath, no sigh, no word ! 
 
 All's still ; — they sleep, they sleep ! 
 
 O Life ! O Night ! O Time ! 
 
 Thus ever round them creep ! 
 From pain, from hate, from crime. 
 
 E'er guard them, gentle Sleep ! 
 
SONGS. 15 
 
 XIV. — THE SEA-KING. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Come sing, Come sing, of the great Sea-King, 
 
 And the fame that now hangs o'er him, 
 Who once did sweep o'er the vanquish'd deep, 
 
 And drove the world before him ! 
 His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone, 
 
 And the sea was his park of pleasure. 
 Where he scattered in fear the human deer, 
 And rested — when he had leisure ! 
 
 Come, — shout and sing 
 
 Of the great Sea-King, 
 And ride in the track he rode in ! 
 He sits at the head 
 Of the mighty dead, 
 On the red right-hand of Odin ! 
 
 He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth, 
 
 And soared on his victor pinions. 
 And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee. 
 
 When they look on their blue dominions. 
 His whole earth life was a conquering strife, 
 
 And he lived till his beard grew hoary, 
 And he died at last, by his blood-red mast, 
 
 And now — he is lost in glory ! 
 
 So, — shout and sing, Sfc. 
 
16 SONGS. 
 
 XV. — THE WILD CHERRY TREE. 
 
 Oh, — there never was yet so fair a thing, 
 
 By racing river or bubbling spring. 
 
 Nothing that ever so gaily grew 
 
 Up from the ground when the skies were blue, 
 
 Nothing so brave — nothing so free 
 
 As thou — my wild wild Cherry-tree ! 
 
 Jove I how it danced in the gusty breeze ! 
 Jove ! how it frolicked amongst the trees ! 
 Dashing the pride of the poplar down. 
 Stripping the thorn of his hoary crown ! 
 Oak or ash — what matter to thee 1 
 'Twas the same to my wild wild Cherry-tree. 
 
 Never at rest, like one that's young 
 Abroad to the winds its arms it flung, 
 Shaking its bright and crowned head. 
 Whilst I stole up for its berries red — 
 Beautiful berries ! beautiful tree ! 
 Hurrah ! for the wild wild Cherry-tree ! 
 
 Back I fly to the days gone by. 
 
 And I see thy branches against the sky, 
 
 I see on the grass thy blossoms shed, 
 
 I see (nay I taste) thy berries red. 
 
 And I shout — like the tempest loud and free. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the wild wild Cherry-tree ! 
 
17 
 
 XVI. — THE COMMON LOT. 
 
 Mourn not thy daughter fadmg ! 
 
 It is the common lot, 
 That those we love should come and go, 
 And leave us in this world of woe : 
 
 So, murmur not ! 
 
 » 
 
 Her life was short, but fair, 
 
 Unsullied by a blot ; 
 And now she sinks to dreamless rest, — 
 (A dove, who makes the earth her nest;) 
 
 So, murmur not ! 
 
 No pangs, nor passionate grief, 
 
 Nor anger raging hot, 
 No ills shall ever harm her more ; 
 She goes unto the silent shore, 
 
 Where pain is not. 
 
 Weep' St thou that none should mourn 
 
 For thee, and thy sad lot ? 
 Peace, peace ! and know that few e'er grieve 
 When Death, the tyrant, doth unweave 
 
 Life's little knot. 
 2 
 
18 SONGS. 
 
 E'en tliou scarce wept must fade ! 
 
 It is the common lot, 
 To link our hearts to things that fly, 
 To love without return, — and die, 
 
 And be — forgot ! 
 
 XVII. — THE LITTLE VOICE. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Once there was a little Voice, 
 Merry as the month of May, 
 
 That did cry ^Rejoice ! Rejoice ! ' 
 Now — 'tis flown away! 
 
 Sweet it was, and very clear, 
 Chasing every thought of pain : 
 
 Summer ! shall I ever hear 
 Such a voice again ? 
 
 I have pondered all night long. 
 Listening for as soft a sound ; 
 
 But so sweet and clear a song, 
 Never have I found ! 
 
 I would give a mine of gold, 
 Could I hear that little Voice, -- 
 
 Could I, as in days of old, 
 At a sou,nd rejoice ! 
 
SONGS. 19 
 
 XVIII. — A BACCHANALIAN SONG. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS. 
 
 Sing ! — Who sings 
 To her who weareth a hundred rings 1 
 Ah, who is this lady fine? 
 The Vine, boys, the Vine ! 
 The mother of mighty Wine. 
 A roamer is she 
 O'er wall and tree, 
 And sometimes very good company. 
 
 Drink ! — Who drinks 
 To her who blusheth and never thinks ? 
 Ah, who is this maid of thine? 
 The Grape, boys, the Grape ! 
 O, never let her escape 
 Until she be turned to Wine ! 
 For better is she. 
 Than vine can be, 
 And very very good company ! 
 
 Dream ! — Who dreams 
 
 Of the God who governs a thousand streams ? 
 Ah, who is this Spirit fine ? 
 'Tis Wine, boys, 'tis Wine ! 
 God Bacchus, a friend of mine. 
 O better is he 
 Than grape or tree, 
 And the best of all good company ! 
 
20 SONGS. 
 
 XIX. — DARK-EYED BEAUTY OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 Dark-eyed beauty of the South ! 
 
 Mistress of the rosy mouth ! 
 Doth thy heart desert its duty ? 
 Doth thy blood belie thy beauty ? 
 Art thou false, and art thou cold ? 
 Art thou sworn to wed for gold ? 
 
 On thy forehead sitteth pride, 
 Crowned with scorn and falcon-eyed ; 
 But beneath, methinks, thou twinest 
 Silken smiles that seem divinest. 
 Can such smiles be false and cold ? 
 Canst thou — wilt thou wed for gold ? 
 
 We, who dwell on Northern earth, 
 Fill the frozen air with mirth, — 
 Soar upon the wings of laughter, 
 (Though we droop the moment after :) 
 But, through all our regions cold, 
 None will sell their hearts for gold. 
 
SONGS. 21 
 
 XX. — THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BT THt CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 How many Summers, love, 
 
 Have I been thine 1 
 How many days, thou dove, 
 
 Hast thou been mine ? 
 Time, like the winged wind 
 
 When't bends the flowers. 
 Hath left no mark behind. 
 
 To count the hours ! 
 
 Some weight of thought, though loth. 
 
 On thee he leaves ; 
 Some lines of care round both 
 
 Perhaps he weaves ; 
 Some fears, — a soft regret 
 
 For joys scarce known ; 
 Sweet looks we half forget; — 
 
 All else is flown ! 
 
 Ah ! — With what thankless heart 
 
 I mourn and sing ! 
 Look, where our children start. 
 
 Like sudden Spring ! 
 With tongues all sweet and low. 
 
 Like a pleasant rhyme, 
 They tell how much I owe 
 
 To thee and Time ! 
 
22 SONGS. 
 
 XXI. — SHE WAS NOT FAIR NOR FULL OF GRACE. 
 
 She was not fair, nor full of grace, 
 
 No crowned with thought or aught beside ; 
 Nor wealth had she, of mind or face, 
 
 To win our love, or raise our pride : 
 No lover's thought her cheek did touch ; 
 
 No poet's dream was 'round her thrown ; 
 And yet we miss her — ah, too much, 
 
 Now — she hath flown ! 
 
 We miss her when the morning calls, 
 
 As one that mingled in our mirth ; 
 We miss her when the evening falls, — 
 
 A trifle wanted on the earth ! 
 Some fancy small or subtle thought 
 
 Is checked 'ere to its blossom grown ; 
 Some chain is broken that we wrought, 
 
 Now — she hath flown ! 
 
 No solid good, nor hope defined. 
 
 Is marred now she hath sunk in night ; 
 And yet the strong immortal Mind 
 
 Is stopped in its triumphant flight ! 
 Perhaps some grain lost to its sphere 
 
 Might cast the great Sun from his throne ; 
 For all we know is — ' She was here,* 
 
 And — ' She hath flown ! ' 
 
SONGS. 
 
 23 
 
 XXIL — A SONG FOR THE SEASONSL 
 
 When the merry lark doth gild 
 
 With his song the summer hours, 
 And their nests the swallows build 
 
 In the roofs and tops of towers, 
 And the golden broom-flower burns 
 
 All about the waste. 
 And the maiden May returns 
 
 With a pretty haste — 
 
 Then, Jiow merry are the times ! 
 
 The Summer times ! the Spring times ! 
 
 Noio, from off the ashy stone 
 
 The chilly midnight cricket crieth, 
 And all merry birds are flown, 
 
 And our dream of pleasure dieth ; 
 Now the once blue laughing sky 
 
 Saddens into gray. 
 And the frozen rivers sigh. 
 
 Pining all away 1 
 
 Noic, hoio solemn are the times ! 
 
 The Winter times ! the Night times ! 
 
 Yet, be merry : all around 
 
 Is through one vast change resolving : 
 Even Night, who lately frowned, 
 
 Is in paler dawn dissolving : 
 
24 
 
 Earth will burst her fetters strange, 
 
 And in spring grow free : 
 All things in the world will change, 
 Save — my love for thee ! 
 
 Sing then, hopeful are all times ! 
 Winter, Summer, Spring times ! 
 
 XXIIL — THE QUADROON. 
 
 Say they that all beauty lies 
 In the paler maiden's hue 1 
 Say they that all softness flies. 
 Save from eyes of April blue? 
 Arise thou, like a night in June, 
 Beautiful duadroon ! 
 
 Come, — all dark and bright, as skies 
 With the tender starlight hung ! 
 Loose the Love from out thine eyes ! 
 Loose the Angel from thy tongue ! 
 Let them hear Heaven's own sweet tune, 
 Beautiful Quadroon ! 
 
 Tell them — Beauty (born above) 
 From no shade nor hue doth fly : 
 All she asks is Mind, is Love, 
 And both upon thine aspect lie, — 
 Like the light upon the moon. 
 Beautiful duadroon ! 
 
SONGS. 25 
 
 XXIV. — THE BLOODHOUND. 
 
 * SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor ! 
 
 Old friend, — we must wander the world once more ! 
 
 For no one now liveth to welcome us back : 
 
 So, come ! — let us speed on our fated track. 
 
 What matter the region, — what matter the weather, 
 
 So you and I travel, till death, together? 
 
 And in death? — why, e'en there I may still be found 
 
 By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound. 
 
 We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea, 
 
 And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be ; 
 
 Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo ; 
 
 (How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue !) 
 
 No joy did divide us ; no peril could part 
 
 The man from his friend of the noble heart ; 
 
 Ay, his friend; for where — where shall there ever be 
 
 found 
 A friend like his resolute fond bloodhound ? 
 
 What, Herod, old hound ! dost remember the day 
 When I fronted the wolves, like a stag at bay ? 
 When downwards they galloped to where we stood. 
 Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood ? 
 Dost remember their bowlings? their horrible speed? 
 God, God ! how I prayed for a friend in need ! 
 And — he came ! Ah ! 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found 
 That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound. 
 
26 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound 
 
 Must for ever be lost in the worthless ground : 
 
 Yet, ' Courage ' — ' Fidelity ' — ' Love ' — (they say) 
 
 Bear Man, as on wings, to his skies away. 
 
 Well, Herod, — go tell them whatever may be 
 
 I'll hope I may ever be found by thee. 
 
 If in sleep, — in sleep ; if with skies around, 
 
 May'st thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound ! 
 
 XXV. — IS MY LOVER ON THE SEA. 
 
 Is my lover on the sea, 
 
 Sailing East, or sailing West? 
 Mighty Ocean, gentle be, 
 
 Rock him into rest I 
 
 Let no angry wind arise, 
 
 Nor a wave with whitened crest 
 All be gentle as his eyes 
 
 When he is caressed ! 
 
 Bear him (as the breeze above 
 Bears the bird unto its nest,) 
 
 Here, — unto his home of love, 
 And there bid him rest ! 
 
27 
 
 XXVI.— THE MISLETOE. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 When winter nights grow long, 
 And winds without blow cold, 
 We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire, 
 
 And listen to stories old ! 
 And we try to look grav,e, (as maids should be,) 
 When the men bring in boughs of the Laurel-tree. 
 O, the Laurel, the evergreen tree ! 
 The Poets have laurels, — and why not we ? 
 
 How pleasant, when night falls down, 
 
 And hides the wintry sun, 
 To see them come in to the blazing fire, 
 
 And know that their work is done ; 
 Whilst many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme, 
 Green branches of Holly for Christmas time ! 
 O the Holly, the bright green Holly, 
 It tells (like a tongue) that the times arc jolly ! 
 
 Sometimes — (in our grave house, 
 
 Observe, this happeneth not;) 
 But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs 
 
 And the holly are all forgot ! 
 
28 SONGS. 
 
 And then ! what then ? why, the men laugh low, 
 And hang up a branch of — the Misletoe ! 
 
 Oh, brave is the Lawel ! and hrave is the Holly ! 
 
 But the Misletoe banisheth melancholy ! 
 
 Ah, nobody Icnows, nor ever shall hnoio 
 
 What is done — under the Misletoe ! 
 
 XXVII. — CONSTANCY. 
 
 I WOULD I were the bold March-wind, 
 The merry boisterous bold March-wind, 
 Who in the violet's tender eyes. 
 Casts a kiss, — and forwards flies ! 
 
 Yet, — no ! No slight to thee ! 
 
 O Constancy ! O Constancy ! 
 
 I would I were the soft West-wind, 
 The wandering sighing soft West-wind, 
 Who fondles 'round the hyacinth bells, 
 Then takes wing, — as story tells ! 
 
 Yet, — no ! No slight to thee ! 
 
 O Constancy! O Constancy ! 
 
 No; rather will I be the breeze. 
 That blows strait on in Indian seas ; 
 Or scents, which, in the rose's heart. 
 Live and love, — and ne'er depart! 
 
 Love, — Love, — for aye to thee ! 
 
 O Constancy! O Constancy! 
 
SONGS. 29 
 
 XXVIH. — THE NIGHTS. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Oh ! The Summer Night 
 
 Has a smile of light, 
 And she sits on a sapphire throne ; 
 
 Whilst the sweet Winds load her 
 
 With garlands of odor, 
 From the bud to the rose o'er-blown ! 
 
 But the Autumn Night 
 
 Has a piercing sight. 
 And a step both strong and free ; 
 
 And a voice for wonder, 
 
 Like the wrath of the Thunder, 
 When he shouts to the stormy sea ! 
 
 And the Winter Night 
 
 Is all cold and white. 
 And she singeth a song of pain ; 
 
 Till the wild bee hummeth. 
 
 And warm Spring cometh, 
 When she dies in a dream of rain ! 
 
 Oh, the Night, the Night ! 
 'Tis a lovely si-'it. 
 Whatever the clime or time ] 
 For sorrow then soareth, 
 And the lover out-poureth 
 His soul in a star-bright rhyme. 
 
30 SONGS. 
 
 It bringeth sleep 
 
 To the forests deep, 
 The forest bird to its nest ; 
 
 To Care bright hours, 
 
 And dreams of flowers. 
 And that bahn to the weary, — Rest ! 
 
 XXIX. — TO A NIGHTINGALE, AT MID-DAY. 
 
 Thy voice is sweet, — is sad, — is clear. 
 And yet, methinks, 't should flow unseen, 
 
 Like hidden rivers that we hear 
 Singing amongst the forests green. 
 
 Delay, delay ! till downy Eve m 
 
 Into her twilight woods hath flown : 
 Too soon, musician, dost thou grieve ; 
 
 Love bloometh best (like thought) — alone. 
 
 Cease, cease awhile ! Thy holy strain 
 
 Should be amongst the silence born ; 
 Thy heart may then unfold its pain, 
 
 Leaning upon its bridal thorn. 
 
 The insect noise, the human folly 
 
 Disturb thy grave thoughts with their din ; 
 
 Then, cease awhile, bird Melancholy, 
 
 And when the fond Night hears, — begin ! 
 
SONGS. 31 
 
 XXX.— THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 A THOUSAND miles from land are we, 
 
 Tossing about on the roaring sea ; 
 
 From billow to bounding billow cast, 
 
 Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast : 
 
 The sails are scattered abroad, like weeds, 
 
 The strong masts shake, like quivering reeds. 
 
 The mighty cables, and iron chains. 
 
 The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, 
 
 They strain and they crack, and hearts like stone 
 
 Their natural hard proud strength disown. 
 
 Up and down ! Up and down ! 
 
 From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, 
 
 And amidst the flashing and feathery foam 
 
 The Stormy Petrel finds a home, — 
 
 A home, if such a place may be, 
 
 For her who lives on the wide wide sea, 
 
 On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, 
 
 And only seeketh her rocky lair 
 
 To warm her young, and to teach them spring 
 
 At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing ! 
 
 O'er the Deep ! O'er the Deep ! 
 
 Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep, 
 
 Outflying the blast and the driving rain, 
 
 The Petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; 
 
32 SONGS. 
 
 For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
 Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard ! 
 Ah! thus does the prophet, of good or ill, 
 Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still : 
 Yet he ne'er faulters : — So Petrel ! spring 
 Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing ! 
 
 XXXI. — EARTH AND AIR. 
 
 How bountiful, how wonderful 
 
 Thou art, sweet Air ! 
 And yet, albeit thine odors lie 
 On every gust that mocks the eye, 
 We pass thy gentle blessings by 
 
 Without a care ! 
 
 How bountiful, how wonderful 
 
 Thou art, sweet Earth ! 
 Thy seasons, changing with the sun, — 
 Thy beauty out of darkness won ! 
 And yet, whose tongue (when all is done) 
 
 Will tell thy worth? 
 
 The poet's! — He alone doth still 
 
 Uphold all worth ! 
 Then, love the poet ; — love his themes, 
 His thoughts, half-hid in golden dreams, 
 Which make thrice fair the songs and streams 
 
 Of Air and Earth. 
 
SONGS. 33 
 
 XXXII.— SONG OF THE SOLDIER TO HIS SWORD. 
 
 My Sword ! My friend ! My noble friend ! 
 
 Champion fearless ! -Servant true ! 
 
 Whom my fathers without end 
 
 In their thousand battles drew, — 
 
 Come ! 
 
 Let me bare thee to the light ! 
 
 Let me clutch thee in my hand ! 
 
 Oh ! how keen, how blue, how bright. 
 
 Is my noble, noble brand ! 
 
 Thou wast plucked from some base mine, — 
 
 Born 'midst stone and stubborn clay : 
 
 Ah ! who dreamt that aught divine 
 
 In that rugged aspect lay? 
 
 Come ! 
 
 Once we called and thou didst come 
 
 Strait from out thy sleep didst start, 
 
 And the trump and stormy drum 
 
 Woke at once thy iron heart ! 
 
 Thou wast like the lightning, driven 
 
 By the tempest's strength at speed ! 
 
 Brazen shields and armor riven 
 
 Told what thou Couldst do, at need. 
 
 Come ! 
 
 Hark ! again the trumpets bray ! 
 
 Hark ! where rolls the stormy drum ! 
 
 / am here to lead the way : 
 
 Servant of my fathers, — Come ! 
 
 3 \ . 
 
34 
 
 XXXIII. — THE HAPPY HOURS. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 O, the Hours ! the happy Hours ! 
 When there shone the light of Love, 
 And all the sky was blue above, 
 And the earth was full of flowers ! 
 
 Whi/ should Time and Toil 
 
 The worth and heanty spoil 
 
 Of such happy Hours 1 
 
 O, the Hours ! the spring-time Hours ! 
 When the Soul doth forwards bend 
 And dream the sweet world hath no end, 
 Neither spot, nor shade, nor showers ! 
 Can we ne\r resume 
 The love, the light, the bloom 
 Of those vernal Hours ? 
 
 Ever do the year's bright Hours 
 Come, with laughing April, round, 
 And with her walk the grassy ground, 
 When she calleth forth the flowers : 
 
 But no neio springs bear 
 To us thoughts half so fair 
 As the bye-gone Hours ! 
 
SONGS. 35 
 
 XXXIV.— HURRAH FOR MERRY ENGLAND. 
 
 Hurrah, for the Land of England ! 
 
 Firm-set in the subject sea ; 
 Where the women are fair, 
 And the men (like air) 
 
 Are all lovers of liberty ! 
 
 Hurrah ! for merry England ! 
 
 Long life, without strife, for England ! 
 
 Hurrah, for the Spirit of England ! 
 The merry, the true, the free ; 
 Who stretcheth his hand, 
 With a king's command, 
 
 All over the circling sea ! 
 
 Hurrah ! for merry England ! 
 
 Long life, icithout strife, for England! 
 
 Let tyrants rush forth on the nations, 
 
 And strive to chain down the free ; 
 But do Thou stand fast, 
 From the first to the last. 
 
 For " The Right," — wheresoever it be ! 
 O merry, O merry England! 
 Long life to the Spirit of England! 
 
 Hurrah, for William of England ! 
 
 Our friend, — as a King should be ; 
 Who casteth aside, 
 Man's useless pride. 
 
 And leans on his people free ! 
 
 Hurrah ! for the King of England ! 
 The boast of merry England! 
 
36 SONGS. 
 
 Her King is the boast of England ; 
 
 Her guards are her ships at sea; 
 But her beauty lies 
 In her women's eyes, 
 
 And her strength in her People free ! 
 So, Three cheers for merry England! 
 For the King and the free Men of England! 
 Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! 
 
 XXXV. — WHY DOTH THE BOTTLE STAND ? 
 
 Why doth the bottle stand, boys 1 
 Let the glass run silent round ! 
 Wine should go. 
 As the blood doth flow, 
 Its course, without pause or sound. 
 
 Scorn not Wine ! — Truth divine 
 And Courage dwell with nohle Wine. 
 Send round the bottle quick, boys ! 
 No reason ask nor pause I 
 Wine should run, 
 Like a circling sun, 
 By its own unquestioned laws. 
 Scorn not Wine ! S^c, 
 Fill to the beaded brims, boys. 
 Let each glass, like a king, be crown'd ! 
 Drink — " Joy, and Wealth, 
 And a mighty Health, 
 To ourselves and the world around ! " 
 Scorn not Wine ! S^c, 
 
SONGS. 37 
 
 XXXVI. — COUNT BALTHAZAR. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 ' A famous man is Robin Hood ; 
 But ' each land ' hath a thief as good ; 
 Then let us chaunt a passing stave 
 In honor of the Hero brave ! " 
 
 Wordsworth's Rob Roy. 
 
 Count Balthazar reigns in his strong stone tower, 
 
 Girt round by his iron men ; 
 And his strength, like the terrible Tempest's power. 
 
 Sweeps through each Alpine glen ! 
 
 A hunter he is, though a monarch grim 
 
 He seems on his mountain throne ; 
 But he hunts not the stag, nor the ermine slim, 
 
 Nor the wolf, nor the eagle lone. 
 
 He breedeth no cattle, he traineth no vine, 
 He hath nought that is bought or sold : 
 
 Yet his cellars are bursting with brave brio;ht wine, 
 And his coffers are crammed with gold. 
 
 Whenever he lacketh or kine or corn 
 
 He calls to his armed band ; 
 And they hunt through the valleys, from night till morn, 
 
 And beg for him, — sword in hand ! 
 
38 SONGS. 
 
 So he drinks and he revels, till daylight gleams : 
 
 But — nothing is free from pain ! 
 For a Demon e'er watches his blood-red dreams, 
 
 (Whose laughter is deep 
 
 As the depths of sleep,) 
 
 And scares him to life again ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 So Balthazar lives, and so must he die, 
 
 How^ever the seasons roll : 
 The visions of guilt must haunt his eye, 
 
 And the dread of the damn'd, his soul ! 
 
 He arose, like a pillar of fire, whose head 
 
 Is borne up by the raving blast : 
 He will sink, (like the fire), deserted, — dead, 
 
 And be trodden in dust, at last ! 
 
 So, — Down with the tower, the old stone tower ! 
 
 And, down with the iron men ! 
 Let's summon our hearts, and unfetter our power, 
 
 And cleanse out the robbers' den ! 
 
 Where lieth their strength? In a vague false fame. 
 
 Where based? On our fear alone. 
 Then let us build a phantom, and forge us a name. 
 
 In a foundery of our own ! 
 
SONGS. 39 
 
 XXXVII. — WHEN FRIENDS LOOK DARK AND COLD. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS. 
 
 When friends look dark and cold, 
 
 And maids neither laugh nor sigh, 
 And your enemy proffers his gold. 
 Be sure there is danger nigh, 
 
 O, then 'tis time to look forward y 
 And back, like the hunted hare ; 
 And, to watch, as the little bird ivatches, 
 JVhen the falcon is in the air. 
 
 When the trader is scant of words. 
 
 And your neighbor is rough or shy, 
 And your banker recalls his hoards. 
 
 Be sure there is danger nigh, 
 
 O, then 'tis time to look forward , ^c. 
 
 Whenever a change is wrought, 
 
 And you know not the reason why. 
 In your own or an old friend's thought, 
 
 Be sure there is evil nigh. 
 
 O, then 'tis time to look forward, Sfc. 
 
40 SONGS. 
 
 XXXVIII. — THE NIGHT IS CLOSING ROUND, MOTHER. 
 
 I 
 
 The night is closing round, Mother ! 
 
 The shadows are thick and deep ! 
 All round me they cling, like an iron ring, 
 
 And I cannot — cannot sleep ! 
 
 Ah, Heaven ! — thy hand, thy hand. Mother ! 
 
 Let me lie on thy nursing breast ! 
 They have smitten my brain with a piercing pain 
 
 But 'tis gone ! — and I now shall rest. 
 
 I could sleep a long long sleep, Mother ! 
 
 So, seek me a calm cool bed : 
 You may lay me low, in the virgin snow. 
 
 With a moss-bank for my head. 
 
 I would lie in the wild wild woods. Mother ! 
 
 Where nought but the birds are known ; 
 Where nothing is seen, but the branches green. 
 
 And flow'rs on the greensward strewn. 
 
 No lovers there witch the air. Mother ! 
 
 Nor mock at the holy sky : 
 One may live and be gay, like a summer day^ 
 
 And at last, like the Summer, — die '. 
 
SONGS. 41 
 
 XXXIX. — PEACE I WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL? 
 
 Peace ! what do tears avail 1 
 She lies all dumb and pale, 
 
 And from her eye 
 The spirit of lovely life is fading, — 
 
 And she must die ! 
 Why looks the lover wroth ? the friend upbraiding ? 
 
 Reply, reply ! 
 
 Hath she not dwelt too long 
 'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong ? 
 
 Then, why not die ? 
 Why suffer again her doom of sorrow. 
 
 And hopeless lie ? 
 Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow ? 
 
 Reply, reply ! 
 
 Death ! Take her to thine arms, 
 In all her stainless charms. 
 
 And with her fly 
 To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness. 
 
 The Angels lie ! 
 Wilt bear her there, O Death ! in all her whiteness ? 
 
 Reply, reply ! 
 
42 SONGS. 
 
 XL.— THE WOOD-THRUSH. 
 
 Whither hath the Wood-thrush flown, 
 From our greenwood bowers ? 
 
 Wherefore builds he not again, 
 Where the white-thorn flowers ? 
 
 Bid him come ! for on his wings, 
 The sunny year he bringeth ; 
 
 And the heart unlocks its springs, 
 Wheresoe'er he singeth. 
 
 Lover-like the creature waits. 
 And when Morning soareth, 
 
 All his little soul of song 
 
 Tow'rd the dawn he poureth. 
 
 Sweet one, why art thou not heard 
 Noio, where woods are stillest? 
 
 Oh, come back ! and bring with thee, 
 — Whatsoe'er thou wiliest ; — 
 
 Laughing thoughts, — delightful songs. 
 Dreams of azure hours, — 
 
 Something, — nothing ; — all we ask 
 Is to see thee ours ! 
 
 'Tis enough that thou should' st sing 
 For thy own pure pleasure ! 
 
 'Tis enough that thou hast once 
 Sweetened human leisure ! 
 
SONGS. 43 
 
 XLI. — MIDNIGFIT RHYMES. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis merry when stars are bright 
 
 To sing, as you pace along, 
 Of the things that are dreamt by night, 
 
 To the motion of some old song : 
 For the fancy of mortals teems, 
 Whether they wake or sleep, 
 With figures, that shine like dreams, 
 Then — die in the darkness deep ! 
 
 Oh! merry are Christmas times, 
 And merry the belfry chimes ; 
 But the merriest things 
 That a man e'er sings, 
 Are his Midnight Rhymes. 
 'Tis night when the usurers feel 
 
 That their money is thrice repaid ; 
 'Tis night when adorers kneel, 
 
 By scores, to the sleeping maid ; 
 'Tis night when the author deems 
 
 That his critics are all at bay. 
 And the gamester regains in dreams 
 The gold that he lost by day. 
 
 Oh ! merry are Christmas times, S^c. 
 At night, both the sick and the lame 
 
 Abandon their world of care ; 
 And the creature that droops with shame 
 
 Forgetteth her old despair ! 
 The boy on the raging deep 
 
 Laughs loud that the skies are clear ; 
 
44 SONGS. 
 
 And the murderer turns, in sleep, 
 
 And dreams that a pardon's near ! 
 
 Oh ! merry are Christmas times, Sfc. 
 At night, all wrongs are right. 
 
 And all perils of life grow smooth ; 
 Then why cometh the fierce day-light. 
 
 When fancy is bright as truth '\ 
 All hearts, 'tween the earth and the moon, 
 
 Recover their hopes again : 
 Ah, — 'tis pity so sweet a tune 
 
 Should ever be jarred by pain ! 
 
 Yet, — merry are Christmas times, S^c. 
 
 XLII. — A LOVE SONG. 
 
 Give me but thy heart, though cold ; 
 
 I ask no more ! 
 Give to others gems and gold ; 
 
 But leave me poor. 
 Give to whom thou wilt thy smiles ; 
 Cast o'er others all thy wiles ; 
 But let thy tears flow fast and free, 
 For me, with me ! 
 
 Giv'st thou but one look, sweet heart? 
 A word, — no more ? 
 It is Music's sweetest part. 
 
 When lips run o'er ! 
 'Tis a part I fain would learn. 
 So pr'ythee, here thy lessons turn. 
 And teach me, to the close. 
 All Love's pleasures, — all its woes ! 
 
45 
 
 XLIir. — THE STRANGER. 
 
 A Stranger came to a rich man's door, 
 
 And smiled on his mighty feast ; 
 And away his brightest child he bore, 
 
 And laid her toward the East. 
 
 He came next spring, with a smile as gay, 
 
 (At the time the East wind blows,) 
 And another bright creature he led away. 
 
 With a cheek like a burning rose. 
 
 And he came once more, when the spring was blue, 
 
 And whispered the last to rest. 
 And bore her away, — yet nobody knew 
 
 The name of the fearful guest ! 
 
 Next year, there was none but the rich manleft, — 
 
 Left alone in his pride and pain. 
 Who called on the .Stranger, like one bereft, 
 
 And sought through the land, — in vain ! 
 
 He came not : he never was heard nor seen 
 
 Again ; (so the story saith :) 
 But, wherever his terrible smile had been, 
 
 Men shuddered, and talked of — Death ! 
 
46 SONGS. 
 
 XLIV. — SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. 
 
 When the wind blows 
 
 In the sweet rose-tree, 
 And the cow lows 
 
 On the fragrant lea, 
 And the stream flows 
 
 All bright and free, 
 
 'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me ; 
 'Tis not for any one here, I trow : 
 
 The gentle wind bloweth. 
 
 The happy cow loweth. 
 
 The merry stream floweth. 
 For all below ! 
 
 O the Spring ! the hountifid Spring ! 
 She shineth and smileth on every thing. 
 
 Where come the sheep ? 
 
 To the rich man's moor. 
 Where cometh sleep ? 
 
 To the bed that's poor. 
 Peasants must weep. 
 
 And kings endure ; 
 
 That is a fate that none can cure : 
 Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow : 
 
 She brings the bright hours. 
 
 She weaves the sweet flowers, 
 
 She dresseth her bowers. 
 For all below ! — O the Spring, Sfc. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 XL v.— THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BRIDAL. 
 
 Now, what shady wreath wilt wear, 
 Maiden, — Maiden ? 
 Bid them bind the veil with care, 
 'Round the sunshine of thy hair ! 
 Let thy brow be free from scorn ; 
 Let thine eye have gentle light, 
 On the gentle marriage morn ; 
 And so — Good Night ! 
 
 It is now the youth of May, 
 Maiden, — Maiden ! 
 Choose thou, then, at blush of day, 
 Buds and blossoms, not too gay ; 
 And, behind their veiling sweets, 
 Bashful be, 'midst all their light, 
 When the tender lover greets ; 
 And so — Good Night! 
 
 Soon To-morrow will be here. 
 Maiden, — Maiden! 
 Then, — as hopes aye mix with fears, 
 Mix thou smiles with pearled tears ; 
 So shall he who loves thee feel 
 Thrice his first sweet pure delight, 
 And nearer to thy bosom steal ; 
 And so — Good Night ! 
 
 47 
 
48 SONGS. 
 
 XLVI. — A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW. 
 
 A DEEP and a mighty shadow 
 
 Across my heart is thrown, 
 Like a cloud on a summer meadow, 
 
 Where the Thunder-wind hath blown ! 
 The wild-rose, Fancy, dieth, 
 
 The sweet bird. Memory, flieth, 
 And leaveth me alone, — 
 
 Alone with my hopeless Sorrow : 
 
 No other mate I know ! 
 I strive to awake To-morrow ; 
 
 But the dull words will not flow ! 
 I pray, — but my prayers are driven 
 Aside, by the angry Heaven, 
 
 And weigh me down with woe ! 
 
 I call on the Past, to lend me 
 Its songs, to soothe my pain : 
 
 I bid the dim Future send me 
 A light from its eyes, — in vain ! 
 
 Nought comes ; but a shrill cry starteth 
 
 From Hope, as she fast departeth ; — 
 ** I go, and come not again ! " 
 
SONGS. 49 
 
 XLVII. — BELSHAZZ AR. 
 
 Belshazzar is King ! Belshazzar is Lord ! 
 
 And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board : 
 
 Fruits glisten, flow'rs blossom, meats steam, and a flood 
 
 Of the wine that man loveth runs redder than blood : 
 
 Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth, 
 
 And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth ; 
 
 And the crowds all shout, 
 
 Till the vast roofs ring, — 
 " All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king ! " 
 
 " Bring forth," cries the Monarch, " the vessels of gold, 
 Which my father tore down from the temples of old ; — 
 Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trumpets are 
 
 blown, 
 To the Gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone : 
 Bring forth !" — and before him the vessels all shine. 
 And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine ; 
 
 Whilst the trumpets bray. 
 
 And the cymbals ring, ■> — 
 " Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king !" 
 
 Noiv what Cometh — look, look ! — without menace, or 
 
 call? 
 Who writes, with the Lightning's bright hand, on the 
 
 wall ? 
 What pierceth the king, like the point of a dart? 
 What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart ? 
 4 
 
50 SONGS. 
 
 *' Chaldeans ! Magicians ! the letters expound ! " 
 They are read, — and Belshazzar is dead on the ground ! 
 
 Hark ! — The Persian is come 
 
 On a conqueror's wing ; 
 And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king ! 
 
 XLVIII. — THE HEART-BROKEN. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Gentle Mother, do not weave 
 Garlands for my forehead pale ! 
 
 Unto hearts that e'er must grieve, 
 What do crowns avail ? 
 
 Tell me not of bridal flowers ! 
 
 What are they when life is past? 
 Tell me not of happy hours, 
 
 When they flee so fast ! 
 
 Bind thy cypress round my heart ! 
 
 Hide me in the mortal pall ! 
 Shew them, when all hopes depart, 
 
 What sad things befall ! 
 
 I am — dead, a statue, left 
 Poinding perils out unknown, 
 
 Shorn of life, and love-bereft. 
 All my youth o'erthrown ! 
 All o'erthrown ! 
 
SONGS. 51 
 
 XLIX. — A PHANTASY. 
 
 Feed her with the leaves of Love, — 
 (Love, the rose, that blossoms here) ! 
 Music, gently 'round her move ! 
 Bind her to the cypress near ! 
 Weave her round and round. 
 With skeins of silken sound ! 
 'Tis a little stricken deer, 
 Who doth from the hunter fly. 
 And comes here to droop, — to die, 
 Ignorant of her wound ! 
 
 Soothe her with sad stories, 
 
 O poet, till she sleep ! 
 
 Dreams, come forth with all your glories I 
 
 Night, breathe soft and deep ! 
 
 Music, round her creep ! 
 
 If she steal away to weep, •> 
 
 Seek her out, — and, when you find her. 
 
 Gentle, gentlest Music, wind her 
 
 Round and round, 
 
 Round and round. 
 
 With your bands of softest sound ; — 
 
 Such as we, at night-fall, hear . 
 
 In the wizard forest near, 
 
 When the charmed Maiden sings 
 
 At the hidden springs ! 
 
52 SONGS. 
 
 L. — LIFE. 
 
 We are born; we laugh; we weep; 
 
 We love ; we droop ; we die ! 
 Ah ! wherefore do we laugh, or weep? 
 
 Why do we live, or die 1 
 Who knows that secret deep ? 
 
 Alas, not I ! 
 
 Why doth the violet spring 
 
 Unseen by human eye ? 
 Why do the radiant seasons bring 
 
 Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
 Why do our fond hearts cling 
 
 To things that die ? 
 
 We toil, — through pain and wrong ; 
 
 We fight, — and fly ; 
 We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 
 
 Stone-dead we lie. 
 O life ! is all thy song 
 
 "Endure and — die?" 
 
 END OF PART THE FIRST. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 PART THE SECOND, 
 
SONGS 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 LI. — THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL. 
 
 How gallantly, how merrily 
 
 We ride along the sea ! 
 The morning is all sunshine, 
 
 The wind is blowing free : 
 The billows are all sparkling, 
 
 And bounding in the light, 
 Like creatures in whose sunny veins 
 
 The blood is running bright. 
 
 All nature knows our triumph : 
 Strange birds about us sweep ; 
 
 Strange things come up to look at us, 
 The masters of the deep : 
 
S6 SONGS. 
 
 In our wake, like any servant, 
 Follows even the bold shark — 
 
 Oh, proud must be our Admiral 
 Of such a bonny barque ! 
 
 Proud, proud, must be our Admiral, 
 
 (Though he is pale to day,) 
 Of twice five hundred iron men, 
 
 Who all his nod obey ; 
 Who've fought for him, and conquered, 
 
 Who've won, with sweat and gore, 
 Nobility ! which he shall have 
 
 Whene'er he touch the shore. 
 Oh ! would I were our Admiral, 
 
 To order, with a word, — 
 To lose a dozen drops of blood. 
 
 And strait rise up a lord ! 
 I'd shout e'en to yon' shark, there. 
 
 Who follows in our lee, 
 " Some day, I'll make thee carry me, 
 
 Like lightning through the sea." 
 
 — The Admiral grew paler. 
 
 And paler as we flew : 
 Still talked he to his officers. 
 
 And smiled upon his crew ; 
 And he looked up at the heavens, 
 
 And he looked down on the sea. 
 
SONGS. 57 
 
 And at last he spied the creature, 
 
 That kept following in our lee. 
 He shook — 'twas but an instant — 
 
 For speedily the pride 
 Ran crimson to his heart, 
 
 Till all chances he defied : 
 It threw boldness on his forehead ; 
 
 Gave firmness to his breath ; 
 And he stood like some grim warrior 
 
 New risen up from death. 
 
 That night, a horrid whisper 
 
 Fell on us where we lay ; 
 And we knew our old fine Admiral 
 
 Was changing into clay; 
 And we heard the wash of waters, 
 
 Though nothing could we see, 
 And a whistle and a plunge 
 
 Among the billows in our lee ! 
 'Till dawn we watched the body 
 
 In its dead and ghastly sleep. 
 And next evening at sunset. 
 
 It was slung into the deep ! 
 And never, from that moment, — 
 
 Save one shudder through the sea, 
 Saw we (or heard) the shark 
 
 That had followed in our lee ! 
 
58 SONGS. 
 
 LII.-HOME. (A DUET.) 
 
 He. Dost thou love wandering ? Whither would'st thou go ? 
 Dream'st thou, sweet daughter, of a land more fair ? 
 Dost thou not love these aye-blue streams that flow ? 
 These spicy forests ? and this golden air ? 
 
 jS^e. O, yes, I love the woods, and streams, so gay ; 
 And, more than all, O father, I love thee ; 
 Yet would I fain be wandering — far away, 
 Where such things never were, nor e'er shall be. 
 
 He. Speak, mine own daughter with the sunbright locks! 
 
 To what pale banished region would'st thou roam ? 
 She. O father, let us find our frozen rocks ! 
 
 Let's seek that country of all countries, — Home ! 
 
 He. See'st thou these orange flowers ? this palm that rears 
 Its head up tow'rds Heaven's blue and cloudless 
 dome? 
 
 She. I dream, I dream; mine eyes are hid in tears: 
 My heart is wandering round our ancient home. 
 
 He. Why, then, we'll go. Farewell, ye tender skies, 
 Who sheltered us, when we were forced to roam ! 
 
 She. On, on! Let's pass the swallow as he flies ! 
 
 Farewell, kind land ! Now, father, now, — for Home ! 
 
59 
 
 LIII.— THE VINTAGE SONG. 
 
 O, THE merry vintage-time ! 
 The merry, matchless vintage-time ? 
 What can vie 
 Beneath the sky 
 With the merry merry vintage-time ? 
 What, though summer birds have fled, 
 
 Singing to some other clime ; 
 We have tongues that music shed 
 Still, and a song for vintage-time ! 
 
 Come ! — O^er the hills the moon is glancing ! 
 Now^s the time for dancings dancing! 
 Now^s the time, Now^s the time, 
 The merry merry vintage-time ! 
 
 Now's the happy vintage-time. 
 The happy honor' d vintage-time ! 
 
 E'en great Earth 
 
 Doth mix in mirth 
 With us, her sons, at vintage-time. 
 Not a storm doth vex her brow. 
 
 Flooding rain, nor frosty rime ; 
 But the sunny Autumn now 
 
 Laugheth out — " 'Tis vintage-time." — Come S^c. 
 
 Praise, then, all the vintage-time. 
 Children of the vintage-time ! 
 
 Girls and boys 
 
 Who know the joys 
 Of the merry fruitful vintage-time ! 
 
60 SONGS. 
 
 Leave to Spring the love-sweet flowers ; 
 
 Winter still its song and rhyme ; 
 Summer all her balmy hours ; 
 
 Still we've our dance at vintage-time ! — ComCj S^c. 
 
 LIV.— THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 8ET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 The Evening Star, the lover's star, 
 The beautiful star comes hither ! 
 
 He steereth his barque 
 
 Through the azure dark, 
 And brings us the bright blue weather, — Love I 
 
 The beautiful bright blue weather. 
 
 The birds lie dumb, when the night stars come. 
 And silence broods o'er the covers : 
 
 But a voice now wakes 
 
 In the thorny brakes, 
 And singeth a song for lovers, — Love ! 
 
 A sad sweet song for lovers ! 
 
 It singeth a song, of grief and wrong, 
 A passionate song for others ; 
 
 Yet its own sweet pain 
 
 Can never be vain, 
 If it 'wakeneth love in others' — Love ! 
 
 It 'wakeneth love in others. 
 
SONGS. 61 
 
 LV. — THE WEAVER'S SONG. 
 
 Weave, brothers, weave ! — Swiftly throw 
 
 The shuttle athwart the loom. 
 And shew us how brightly your flowers grow, 
 
 That have beauty but no perfume ! 
 Come, shew us the rose, with a hundred dyes, 
 
 The lily, that hath no spot ; 
 The violet, deep as your true love's eyes, 
 And the little forget-me-not ! 
 
 Sing, — sing, brothers ! weave and sing ! 
 
 ' Tis good both to sing and to weave : 
 ' Tis better to ivork than live idle : 
 ' Tis better to sing than grieve. 
 
 Weave, brothers, weave ! — Weave, and bid 
 
 The colors of sunset glow ! 
 Let grace in each gliding thread be hid ! 
 
 Let beauty about ye blow ! 
 Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine. 
 
 And your hands both firm and sure, 
 And Time nor chance shall your work untwine : 
 
 But all, — like a truth, — endure! 
 
 So, — sing, brothers, S^c. 
 
 Weave, brothers, weave ! — Toil is ours ; 
 But toil is the lot of men : 
 
62 SONGS. 
 
 One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers, 
 
 One soweth the seed again ! 
 There is not a creature, from England's king, 
 
 To the peasant that delves the soil, 
 That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring, 
 
 If he have not his share of toil ! 
 So, — sing, brothers, Sfc, 
 
 LVI. — SLEEP ON. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Sleep on I The world is vain ; 
 All grief, and sin, and pain : 
 If there be a dream of joy. 
 It comes in slumber, pretty boy ! 
 
 So, sweet Sleep ! 
 
 Hang upon his eyelids deep ; 
 
 Shew him all that cannot be. 
 
 Ere thou dost flee ! 
 
 Sleep on ! Let no bad truth 
 Fall yet upon his youth : 
 Let him see no thing unkind, 
 But live a little longer blind ! 
 
 O sweet Sleep ! 
 
 Hang upon his eyelids deep ; 
 
 Shew him Love, without his wings, 
 
 And all fair things ! 
 
SONGS. 63 
 
 LVll. — LOVE AND MIRTH. 
 
 What song doth the cricket sing? 
 What news doth the swallow bring? 
 What doth laughing boyhood tell? 
 What calls out the marriage bell ? 
 
 WJiat say all 1 — hove and Mirth ! 
 
 In the air, and in the earth : 
 
 Very very soft and merry 
 
 Is the natural song of Earth. 
 
 Mark the Morn, when first she springs 
 Upwards on her golden wings ; 
 Hark, to the soaring soaring lark ! 
 And the echoing forests, — hark ! 
 
 What say they ? Love and Mirth, S^c. 
 
 With the leaves the apples wrestle ; 
 In the grass the daisies nestle ; 
 And the sun smiles on the wall ; — 
 Tell us, what's the cause of all ? 
 
 Mirth and Love ; Love and Mirth, 8^c. 
 
 Is it Mirth? Then why will man 
 
 Spoil the sweet song all he can? 
 
 Bid him, rather, aye rejoice, 
 
 With a kind and a merry voice ! 
 
 ^id him sing ' Love and Mirth !' 
 To the air^ and to the earthy S^c. 
 
64 SONGS. 
 
 LVIIL— SONG OVER A CHILD. 
 
 Dream, Baby, dream ! 
 
 The stars are glowing. 
 Hear'st thou the stream? 
 
 'Tis softly flowing. 
 All gently glide the Hours : 
 Above, no tempest lowers : 
 Below, are fragrant flowers 
 In silence growing. 
 
 Sleep, Baby, sleep, 
 'Till dawn to-morrow I 
 
 Why should'st thou weep, 
 Who know'st not sorrow ? 
 
 Too soon come pains and fears ; 
 
 Too soon a cause for tears : 
 
 So from thy future years 
 No sadness borrow ! 
 
 Dream, Baby, dream ! 
 
 Thine eyelids quiver. 
 Know'st thou the theme 
 
 Of yon soft river ? 
 It saith " Be calm, Be sure. 
 Unfailing, gentle, pure ; 
 So shall thy life endure, 
 
 Like mine, for ever ! " 
 
SONGS. 65 
 
 LIX. — THE LANDSMAN'S SONG. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Oh ! who would be bound to the barren Sea, 
 
 If he could dwell on Land, — 
 Where his step is ever both firm and free, 
 
 Where flowers arise, 
 
 Like sweet girls' eyes, 
 
 And rivulets sing 
 
 Like birds in spring? — 
 For me, — I will take my stand 
 
 On Land, on Land ! 
 For ever and ever on solid Land ! 
 
 I've sailed on the riotous roaring Sea, 
 
 With an undaunted band : 
 Yet my village home more pleaseth me, 
 
 With its valley gay 
 
 Where maidens stray, 
 
 And its grassy mead 
 
 Where the white flocks feed ; — 
 And so, — I will take my stand 
 
 On Land, on Land ! 
 For ever and ever on solid Land ! 
 
 Some swear they could die on the salt salt Sea ! 
 
 (But have they been loved on Land?) 
 Some rave of the Ocean in drunken glee, — 
 Of the music born 
 On a gusty morn, 
 5 
 
66 SONGS. 
 
 When the tempest is waking, 
 And billows are breaking, 
 And lightning flashing, 
 And the thick rain dashing, 
 And the winds and the thunders 
 Shout forth the sea- wonders ! 
 — Such things may give joy 
 To a dreaming boy ; — 
 
 But for me, — I will take my stand 
 On Land, on Land ! 
 
 For ever and ever on solid Land ! 
 
 LX. — PERDLTA. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY SIGNOR VERINIi 
 
 The nest of the dove is rifled ; 
 
 Alas ! alas ! 
 The dream of delight is stifled ; 
 
 And all that was 
 Of beauty and hope is broken ; 
 
 But words will flee. 
 Though truest were ever spoken : - 
 
 Alas, for me 1 
 His love was as fragrant ever, 
 
 As flowers to bees ; 
 His voice like the mournful river ; 
 
 But streams will freeze ! 
 Ah! where can I fly, deceived? 
 
 Ah ! where, where rest ? 
 I am sick, like the dove bereaved, 
 
 And have no nest ! 
 
SONGS. 67 
 
 LXL — LOVE THE POET, PRETTY ONE! 
 
 Love the poet, pretty one ! 
 
 He unfoldeth knowledge fair, — 
 Lessons of the earth and sun. 
 
 And of azure air. 
 
 He can teach thee how to reap 
 Music from the golden lyre : 
 
 He can shew thee how to steep 
 All thy thoughts in fire. 
 
 Heed not, though at times he seem 
 Dark and still, and cold as clay : 
 
 He is shadowed by his Dream ! 
 But 'twill pass away. 
 
 Then — bright fancies will he weave, 
 Caught from air and heaven above ; 
 
 Some will teach thee how to grieve ; 
 Others, how — to love ! 
 
 How from sweet to sweet to rove — 
 How all evil things to shun : 
 
 Should I not then whisper — * Love — 
 Love the jjoet, pretty one ' ? 
 
68 SONGS. 
 
 LXIL — LUCY. 
 
 Lucy is a golden girl ; 
 
 But a man — a man should woo her ! 
 They who seek her shrink aback, 
 
 When they should, like storms, pursue her. 
 
 All her smiles are hid in light ; 
 
 All her hair is lost in splendor ; 
 But she hath the eyes of Night, 
 
 And a heart that's over-tender. 
 
 Yet, — the foolish suitors fly, 
 
 (Is't excess of dread or duty?) 
 From the starlight of her eye. 
 
 Leaving to neglect her beauty ! 
 
 Men by fifty seasons taught. 
 
 Leave her to a young beginner, 
 Who, without a second thought. 
 
 Whispers, wooes, and straight must win her. 
 
 Lucy is a golden girl ! 
 
 Toast her in a goblet brimming ! 
 May the man that wins her wear 
 
 On his heart the Rose of Women ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 LXIIL — THE WOOING SONG. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NET'KOMM. 
 
 O PLEASANT is the fisher's life, 
 
 By the waters streaming ; 
 And pleasant is the poet's life, 
 
 Ever, ever dreaming : 
 And pleasant is the hunter's life. 
 
 O'er the meadows riding : 
 And pleasant is the sailor's life. 
 
 On the seas abiding ! 
 
 JBwf , oh ! the merry life is wooing, is wooing ; 
 Never overtaking, and always pursuing ! 
 
 The hunter, when the chase is done, 
 
 Laugheth loud and drinketh ; 
 The poet, at the set of sun, 
 
 Sigheth deep, and thinketh : 
 The sailor, tho' from sea withdrawn, 
 
 Dreams he's half seas over. 
 The fisher dreameth of the dawn, 
 
 But, what dreams the lover 1 
 
 He dreams that the merry life is wooing, is wooing 
 Never overtaking, and ahvays pursuing ! 
 
 Some think that life is very long, 
 And murmur at the measure ; 
 
70 SONGS. 
 
 Some think it is a syren song — 
 
 A short, false, fleeting pleasure : 
 Some sigh it out in gloomy shades, 
 
 Thinking nought, nor doing ; 
 But we'll ne'er think it gloomy, Maids ! 
 Whilst there's time for wooing. 
 
 JPor, sure, the merry life is wooing, is loooing 
 Never overtaking, and always pursuing ! 
 
 LXIV. — HERMIOIME. 
 
 Thou hast beauty bright and fair, 
 
 Manner noble, aspect free. 
 Eyes that are untouched by care : 
 
 What then do we ask from thee ? 
 Hermione, Hermione 1 
 
 Thou hast reason quick and strong, 
 Wit that envious men admire, 
 
 And a voice, itself a song ! 
 
 What then can we still desire ? 
 Hermione, Hermione ? 
 
 Something thou dost want, O queen ! 
 
 (As the gold doth ask alloy,) 
 Tears, — amidst thy laughter seen. 
 Pity, — mingling with thy joy. 
 
 This is all we ash from thee, 
 Hermione, Hermione ! 
 
SONGS. 71 
 
 LXV.— THE OWL. 
 
 In the hollow tree, in the old grey tower, 
 
 The spectral Owl doth dwell ; 
 Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, 
 
 But at dusk, — he's abroad and well ! 
 Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; 
 
 All mock him outright, by day : 
 But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, 
 
 The boldest will shrink away ! 
 
 O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, 
 Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl! 
 
 And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, 
 
 And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; 
 And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, 
 
 She awaiteth her ghastly groom ? 
 Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, 
 
 As she waits in her tree so still ; 
 But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, 
 
 She hoots out her welcome shrill ! 
 
 O — ivhen the moon shines, and dogs do howl ! 
 Then, then is the joy of the Horned Owl! 
 
 Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight! 
 
 The Owl hath his share of good : 
 If a prisoner he be in the broad day-light, 
 
 He is Lord in the dark green-wood ! 
 
7)i SONGS. 
 
 Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate, 
 
 They are each unto each a pride ; 
 Thrice fonder perhaps, since a strange dark fate 
 Hath rent them from all beside ! 
 
 So, lohen the nightfalls, and dogs do howl, 
 . Sing, Ho ! for the reign of the Horned Owl ! 
 We know not alway 
 Who are kings hy day, 
 But the King of the night is the bold brown Owl! 
 
 LXVI —MARIAN. 
 
 Spirit of the summer breeze ! 
 Wherefore sleep' st thou in the trees'? 
 Come, and kiss the maiden rose, 
 That on Marian's bosom blows ! 
 
 Come, and fawn about her hair ! 
 
 Kiss the fringes of her eyes ! 
 Ask her why she looks so fair, 
 
 When she heedeth not my sighs ? 
 
 Tell her, murmuring summer air, 
 That her beauty's all untrue ; 
 
 Tell her, she should not seem fair. 
 Unless she be gentle too ! 
 
SONGS. 73 
 
 LXVII. — THE HUMBER FERRY. 
 
 Boatman, hither ! Furl your sail ! 
 
 Row us o'er the Humber ferry ! 
 Furl it close ! The blustering gale 
 
 Seems as he would fain be merry. 
 Pleasant is he, when in fun 
 
 He blows about the bud or berry ; 
 But his mirth we fain would shun. 
 
 Out upon the Humber ferry ! 
 
 Now, bold fisher, shall we go 
 
 With thee, o'er the Humber river 1 
 Hear'st thou how the blast doth blow? 
 
 See'st thou how thy sail doth shiver? 
 Wilt thou dare (dismayed by nought) 
 
 Wind and wave, thou bold sea-liver ? 
 And shall toe, whom Love hath taught, 
 
 Tremble at the rolling river ? 
 
 Row us forth ! Uufurl thy sail ! 
 
 What care we for tempests blowing ? 
 Let us kiss the blustering gale ! 
 
 Let us breast the waters flowing ! 
 Though the North rush cold and loud, 
 
 Love shall warm and make us merry ; 
 Though the waves all weave a shroud, 
 
 We will dare the Humber ferry ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 LXVIIl. — A REPOSE. 
 
 She sleeps amongst her pillows soft, 
 
 (A dove, now wearied with her flight), 
 And all around, and all aloft. 
 
 Hang flutes and folds of virgin white : 
 Her hair out-darkens the dark night. 
 
 Her glance out-shines the starry sky ; 
 But now her locks are hidden quite, 
 
 And closed is her fringed eye ! 
 
 She sleepeth : wherefore doth she start ? 
 
 She sigheth : doth she feel no pain ? 
 None, none! the Dream is near her heart; 
 
 The Spirit of sleep is in her brain. 
 He Cometh down like golden rain. 
 
 Without a wish, without a sound ; 
 He cheers the sleeper (ne'er in vain,) 
 
 Like May, when earth is winter-bound. 
 
 All day within some cave he lies. 
 
 Dethroned from his nightly sway, — 
 Far fading when the dawning skies 
 
 Our souls with wakening thoughts array. 
 Two Spirits of might doth man obey; 
 
 By each he's wrought, from each he learns 
 The one is Lord of life by day; 
 
 The other when starry Night returns. 
 
75 
 
 LXIX. — THE LAKE HAS BURST. 
 
 The lake has burst ! The lake has burst ! 
 Down through the chasms the wild waves flee : 
 
 They gallop along 
 
 With a roaring song, 
 Away to the eager awaiting sea ! 
 
 Down through the vallies, and over the rocks, 
 And over the forests the flood runs free ; 
 
 And wherever it dashes, 
 
 The oaks and the ashes 
 Shrink, drop, and are borne to the hungry sea ! 
 
 The cottage of reeds and the tower of stone, 
 Both shaken to ruin, at last agree ; 
 
 And the slave and his master 
 
 In one wide disaster 
 Are hurried like weeds to the scornful sea ! 
 
 The sea-beast he tosseth his foaming mane ; 
 He bellows aloud to the misty sky, 
 
 And the sleep-buried Thunder 
 
 Awakens in wonder, 
 And the Lightning opens her piercing eye ! 
 
 There is death above, there is death around, 
 There is death whersoever the waters be, 
 
 There is nothing now doing 
 
 But terror and ruin. 
 On earth, and in air, and the stormy sea ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 LXX. — SING, MAIDEN, SING! 
 
 Sing, Maiden, sing ! 
 
 Mouths were made for singing ; 
 Listen, — Songs thou'lt hear 
 
 Through the wide world ringing 
 Songs from all the birds, 
 
 Songs from winds and showers, , 
 Songs from seas and streams. 
 
 Even from sweet flowers. 
 
 Hear'st thou the rain, 
 
 How it gently falleth ? 
 Hearest thou the bird. 
 
 Who from forest calleth? 
 Hearest thou the bee 
 
 O'er the sunflower ringing ? 
 Tell us, Maiden, now — 
 
 Should'st thou not be singing? 
 
 Hear'st thou the breeze 
 
 Round the rose-bud sighing ? 
 And the small sweet rose 
 
 Love to love replying ? 
 So shouldst thou reply, 
 
 To the prayer we're bringing : 
 So that bud, thy mouth. 
 
 Should burst forth in singing ! 
 
SONGS. 77 
 
 LXXI. — MAUREEN. 
 
 The cottage is here, as of old I remember ; 
 
 The pathway is worn, as it ever hath been : 
 On the turf-piled hearth there still lives a bright ember ; 
 But, — where is Maureen? 
 
 The same pleasant prospect still shineth before me, — 
 
 The river — the mountain — the valley of green, 
 And Heaven itself (a bright blessing!) is o'er me! 
 But, — where is Maureen ? 
 
 Lost ! Lost ! — Like a dream that hath come and departed, 
 
 (Ah, why are the loved and lost ever seen?) 
 She hath fallen, — hath flown, with a lover false-hearted ; 
 So, mourn for Maureen ! 
 
 And She, who so loved her, is slain (the poor mother,) 
 
 Struck dead in a day, by a shadow unseen ! 
 And the home we now loved, is the home of another. 
 And — lost is Maureen ! 
 
 Sweet Shannon ! a moment by thee let me ponder ; 
 
 A moment look back at the things that have been ; 
 Then, away to the world where the ruined ones wander. 
 To look for Maureen ! 
 
78 SONGS. 
 
 LXXII. — UNEQUAL LOVE. 
 
 "Wailing for his daemon lover." 
 
 Wilt not eat with me, my bride? 
 
 Wilt not drink my amorous wines ? 
 Dainty meats are by thy side : 
 
 Mark how bright the Rhenish shines ! 
 
 Come, he kind ! What ills betide thee ? 
 Is not he thou lov'st beside thee ? 
 
 Wherefore sigh'st thou, maiden mine? 
 
 Must thou to the forest haste ? 
 
 Nothing have I, meats nor wine, 
 
 That thy fairy lips may taste ? 
 
 SjpeaJc, love ! must I vainly woo thee ? 
 /, — who gave my heart unto thee ? 
 
 Dark one, thou hast bid me press 
 
 Human love upon thy lips : 
 
 But thou yield' St a cold caress, 
 
 And thy love is in eclipse ! 
 
 Cold and dim whilst I am burning ! 
 In Love, is there no returning ? 
 
 I have loved thee, sought, — pursued, — 
 
 Won thee from thy charmed springs. 
 O, that I, instead, had wooed 
 
 The humblest girl that laughs and sings ! 
 From the dust thy beauty won me ; 
 But, siceet Love ! — He hath undone me ! 
 
SONGS. 79 
 
 LXXIIL— WINE. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC KY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 I LOVE Wine ! Bold bright Wine ! 
 
 That maketh the Spirit both dance and shine ! 
 
 Others may care 
 
 For w ater fare ; 
 But give me — Wine ! 
 
 Ancient Wine ! Brave old Wine ! 
 How it around the heart doth twine ! 
 
 Poets may love 
 
 The stirs above ; 
 But / love — Wine ! 
 
 Nought but Wine ! Noble Wine, 
 Strong, and sound, and old, and fine. 
 
 What can scare 
 
 The devil Despair, 
 Like brave bright wine ? 
 
 O brave Wine ! Rare old Wine ! 
 Once thou wast deemed a God divine ! 
 
 Bad are the rhymes, 
 
 And bad the times. 
 That scorn old Wine ! 
 
 So, brave Wine ! Dear old Wine ! 
 Morning, Noon, and Night I'm thine ! 
 
 Whatever may be, 
 
 I'll stand by thee. 
 Immortal Wine ! 
 
80 SONGS. 
 
 LXXIV. — SING! WHO MINGLES WITH MY LAYS? 
 
 Sing ! Who mingles with my lays? 
 Maiden of the primrose days ! 
 Sing with me, and I will shew 
 All that thou in spring should' st know, 
 All the names of all the flowers. 
 What to do with primrose hours ! 
 
 Sing ! who mingles with my song ? 
 Soldier in the battle strong ! 
 Sing, and thee I'll music teach, 
 Such as thunders on the beach, 
 When the waves run mad and white, 
 Like a warrior in the fight ! 
 
 Sing ! who loves the music tender ? 
 Widow, who hath no defender ! — 
 Orphan ! — Scholar ! — Mother wild, 
 Who hast loved (and lost) a child! 
 Maiden, dreaming of to-morrow ! 
 Let us sing and banish sorrow ! 
 Come ! — Sweet music hath a smart, 
 And a balm for every heart ! 
 
SONGS. 81 
 
 LXXV. — I LOVE MY LOVE, BECAUSE HE LOVES ME. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Man, man loves his steed, 
 
 For its blood or its breed, 
 For its odor the rose, for its honey the bee, 
 
 His own haughty beauty 
 
 From pride or from duty ; 
 But I love my love, because — he loves me. 
 
 Oh, my love has an eye, 
 
 Like a star in the sky. 
 And breath like the sweets from the hawthorn tree ; 
 
 And his heart is a treasure, 
 
 Whose worth is past measure ; 
 And yet he hath given all — all to me ! 
 
 It crowns me with light 
 
 In the dead of the night. 
 It brightens my journey by land and sea; 
 
 And thus, while I wander, 
 
 I sigh and grow fonder, 
 For my love ever grows with his love for me. 
 
 Why didst thou depart. 
 
 Thou sweet bird of my heart ? 
 Oh, come back to my bosom, and never flee : 
 
 I never will grieve thee, 
 
 I'll never deceive thee. 
 But love thee for ever, as — thou lov'st mci, 
 6 
 
82 SONGS. 
 
 LXXVI. — TALK NOT TO ME OF LOVE. 
 
 Talk not to me of love ! 
 
 The deer that dies 
 Knows more of love than I, 
 
 Who seek the skies. 
 Strive not to bind my soul 
 
 With chains of clay I 
 I scorn thy poor control ; 
 
 Away, — Away ! 
 
 Now wherefore dost thou weave 
 
 Thy falsehoods strange ? 
 Sad words may make me grieve, 
 
 But never change. 
 A snake sleeps in thine eye ; 
 
 It stirs thine heart : 
 Why dost thou vainly sigh? 
 
 Depart, — Depart ! 
 
 Thy dreams, when Fortune flew, 
 
 Did elsewhere range : 
 But love is always true, 
 
 And knows no change. 
 More firm in want, in strife. 
 
 Ay, firm through crime. 
 He looketh down on life, 
 
 The star of Time ! 
 
SONGS. 83 
 
 LXXVII MIRIAM. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 (Recitative.) 
 Darkness and God's great wrath for many an age 
 Have lain on Israel ! O what nights of woe ! 
 What dreams of long and lonely banishment ! 
 Spring Cometh round, and Summer sweet returneth 
 Still to our father's land; — But where are We? 
 Still Siloa murmurs ; but we hear her not ! 
 Still the rose opens, and the lilies pale 
 Are born beneath the sun : but we have lost 
 All suns, all seasons, — music, — fragrance, — flowers! 
 
 Peace, — Darkness hath her share of good, like day : 
 
 Sleep and the world of dreams belong to her ; 
 
 And, in our long dark exile, ice have stars 
 
 That light us onwards, and their beauty shed 
 
 Alone upon the sons of Israel ! 
 
 Look, — where one shines ; — 'tis — Miriam ! Judah's 
 
 child. 
 Her pride, — her glory ! Statelier than the palm. 
 Swift as the roe, dowered with love, — she comes ! 
 And thus I celebrate her grace in song ! 
 
 (Air.) 
 Oh, fairer than the fairest of the flowers ! 
 Oh, sweeter than the bud when it blows 1 
 
84 SONGS. 
 
 Oh, brighter than the summer when it showers 
 Its riches on the red red rose ! 
 
 Come, — Shew us that the color of the shy 
 Still lives in the Hebretv's eye, 
 
 Miriajii ! 
 
 Oh, shew us there is truth in thy story ; 
 
 That thy country is worthy of her fame ! 
 Reappear, — like the shadow of her glory ! 
 Reappear, — like the Spirit of her name! 
 
 Come, — Shew us all the starriness that lies 
 In the night of the Hebrew^ s eyes, 
 
 Miriam ! 
 
 Look ! Look ! where a Spirit, like the lightning, 
 
 Comes flashing from her dark deep gaze ! 
 Is the tempest e'er more terrible or blighting, in 
 The strength of its storm-bright days ? 
 
 Quick ! — Shew us all the terror that may lie 
 In the flash of a Hehreio^s eye, 
 
 Miriam ! 
 Our pride, our glory, — Miriam ! 
 
 1 
 
SONGS. 85 
 
 LXXVIII. — BABYLON. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY MR. H. PHILLIPS. 
 
 (Recitative.) 
 Pause in this desert ! Here, men say, of old 
 Belshazzar reigned, and drank from cups of gold; 
 Here, to his hideous idols, bowed the slave, 
 And here — God struck him dead ! 
 
 Where lies his grave ? 
 'Tis lost ! — His brazen gates ? his soaring towers. 
 From whose dark tops men watched the starry hours ? 
 All to the dust gone down ! The desert bare 
 Scarce yields an echo when we question " Where? " 
 The lonely herdsman seeks in vain the spot ; 
 And the black wandering Arab knows it not. 
 No brick, nor fragment lingereth now, to tell 
 Where Babylon (mighty city!) rose — and fell! 
 
 {Air.) 
 O City, vast and old ! 
 
 Where, where is thy grandeur fled? 
 The stream that around thee rolled, 
 Still rolls in its ancient bed ! 
 
 But where, oh, where art Thou gone? 
 Oh, Babylon I Oh, Babylon! 
 
 The Giant, when he dies. 
 
 Still leaveth his bones behind, 
 
SONGS. 
 
 To shrink in the winter skies, 
 And whiten beneath the wind ! 
 
 But ivliere, oh, where art Thou gone 1 
 Oh, Babylon ! Oh, Babylon ! 
 
 Thou liv'st ! — for thy name still glows, 
 
 A light in the desert skies ; 
 As the fame of the hero grows 
 
 Thrice trebled because he dies ! 
 
 Oh, Babylon ! Oh, Babylon ! 
 
 LXXIX. — HER LARGE DARK LUMINOUS EYES ARE ON ME. 
 
 Her large dark luminous eyes are on me ! 
 
 I cannot fly — I cannot move ! 
 The beauty that in boyhood won me 
 
 Wins me still, — to look and love ! 
 
 The tongue that wound its music 'round me, 
 And might have charmed aside all pain. 
 
 Again all bare and weak hath found me, 
 And stings me, to the heart, again ! 
 
 O Beauty, who my soul subdueth ! 
 
 What mean the lightnings of thine eye ? 
 Why is it that thy scorn pursueth 
 
 My love, - — yet leaves it not to die ? 
 
 Sweet Music, cease ! Bright Eyes, all beaming 
 With light that makes me mad, — ah, close ! 
 
 Give back my colder calmer dreaming ! 
 Give back my dull dark old repose ! 
 
SONGS. 87 
 
 LXXX. — THE REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 Thou'lt take me with thee, my love, my love? 
 Wherever thou'rt forced by fate to move? 
 Over the land, or over the sea? — 
 Thou know'st 'tis the same delight to me. 
 What say'st thou, dear? 
 Thy bride is here. 
 All ready to live and die with thee. 
 
 Her heart icas in the song ; 
 
 It murmured in the measure ; 
 
 It touched the music, all along, 
 
 With a grave sioeet pleasure. 
 
 Thou wilt not leave me behind, behind. 
 To the malice of fortune, harsh and blind ? 
 I'll follow thy call, as a bird would flee. 
 And sing or be mute as thou biddest me. 
 What say'st thou, dear, 
 To my fond, fond fear ? 
 Thou can^st not banish thy love from thee ! 
 
 Her heart loas in the song ; 
 It murmured in the measure ; 
 It touched the music, all along, 
 With a grave sweet pleasure. 
 
 What say'st thou, my soldier, my love, my pride ? 
 Thy answer ? What, was I not horn thy bride ? 
 From my cradle e'er cherished for love and thee. 
 And dar'st thou now banish or bid me flee? 
 
88 SONGS. 
 
 Smil'st thou at my fear ? 
 Ah, then, my dear, 
 I knoiD I may love — live — die with thee ! 
 
 Her heart was in the song ; 
 
 It murmured in the measure ; 
 
 It touched the music, all along. 
 
 With a grave sioeet pleasure. 
 
 LXXXI. — KILL THE LOVE THAT WINDS AROUND THEE. 
 
 Kill the love that winds around thee 
 
 With its snake-like death-like twine ! 
 Where's the guardian steel that bound thee? 
 
 Where are all thy gifts divine? 
 Where is wisdom ? Where is wine ? 
 
 Where's the sad dark truth of story ? 
 Where the Muse's mighty line ? 
 
 Where the fame that burned before thee ? 
 
 What is love, but life deformed 
 
 From its grand original aim ? 
 Hero into slave transformed? 
 
 Worlds lost at a single game ? 
 Whose the peril — whose the shame, 
 
 Should'st thou die in love's fond slavery? 
 Rise ! Earth's nought without its fame ! 
 
 Rise I Life's nought without its bravery ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 89 
 
 LXXXII.-WHAT SAY THE CLOUDS ON THE HILL AND PLAIN? 
 
 What say the clouds on the hill and plam? 
 
 '' We come, we go." 
 What say the springs of the dreaming brain 1 
 
 " We shrink, we flow." 
 What say the maids in their changeful hours? 
 
 " We laugh, we cry." 
 What say the budding and fading flowers ? 
 " We live, we die." 
 
 And thus all things go ranging, 
 
 From riddle to riddle changing. 
 
 From day into night, from life into death, 
 
 And no one hnoios why, my song saith. 
 
 A fable is good, and a truth is good, 
 
 And loss, and gain ; 
 And the ebb and the flood, and the black pine wood, 
 
 And the vast bare plain ; 
 To wake and to sleep, and to dream of the deep, 
 
 Are good, say I ; 
 And 'tis good to laugh and 'tis good to weep ; 
 
 But who knows why ? 
 
 Yet thus all things go ranging, S^c. 
 
 We cumber the earth for a hundred years ; 
 
 We learn, we teach ; 
 We fight amidst perils, and hopes, and fears, 
 
 Fame's rock to reach. 
 
90 SONGS. 
 
 We boast that our fellows are sages wrought 
 
 In toil and pam ; 
 Yet the common lesson by Nature taught, 
 
 Doth vex their brain ! 
 
 Oh ! all things here go ranging^ S^c. 
 
 LXXXIII.— A DILEMMA. 
 
 Which is the maiden I love best? ■ 
 
 Twenty now are buzzing round me ; 
 
 Three in their milk-white arms have wound me, 
 
 Gently, — yet I feel no rest ! 
 
 One hath showered her black locks o'er me, 
 
 Ten kneel on the ground before me, 
 
 Casting forth such beams of blue. 
 
 That I'm pierc'd — oh, through and through I '' 
 
 Bacchus! Gods! what can I do? 
 
 Which must I love best ? 
 
 Tell me — (ah, more gently take me, 
 
 Sweet one, in thy warm white arms!) 
 
 Tell me, which will ne'er forsake me 
 
 Thorough all life's ills and harms? 
 
 Is it she, whose blood's retreating 
 
 From that forehead crowned with pride ? 
 Is it she, whose pulse is beating 
 
 Full against my unarmed side ? 
 
 What do all these things betide ? 
 Strong my doubts grow, — strong, — and stronger 
 
 Quick ! give answer to my call ! 
 If ye pause a moment longer, 
 
 I shall love ye — All 1 
 
 
91 
 
 LXXXIV.-THE BEGGAR'S SONG. 
 
 I AM a merry beggar, 
 
 A beggar I was born, 
 Tossed about the wild world, 
 
 From evening till morn ; 
 A plaything of the tempest, 
 
 A brother of the night, 
 A conqueror, a conjurer, 
 
 When 'tis merry star-light ! 
 Oh ! nothing can withstand me, 
 
 Whenever I do stoop. 
 From the warm heart of the housewife, 
 
 To the chicken in the coop ; 
 From the linen of the lady. 
 
 To the larder of the knight. 
 All come when I do conjure, 
 
 In the merry star-light ! 
 I pay no tithes to parson, 
 
 Tho' I follow like his clerk ; 
 For he takes his tenths by daylight, 
 
 I take mine in the dark ; 
 I pay the king no window-tax ; 
 
 From some it may be right. 
 But all / do beneath the blue. 
 
 Is by merry star-light ! 
 I roam from lane to common. 
 
 From city unto town. 
 And I tell a merry story. 
 
 To gentleman or clown : 
 
92 
 
 Each gives me bed or victuals, 
 
 Or ale that glitters bright, 
 Or — I contrive to borrow them 
 
 By merry star-light ! 
 Oh, the tradesman he is rich, Sirs, 
 
 The farmer well to pass. 
 The soldier he's a lion, 
 
 The alderman's an ass; 
 The courtier he is subtle. Sirs, 
 
 And the scholar he is bright ; 
 But who, like me, is ever free 
 
 In the merry star-light? 
 
 LXXXV.— TO SOPHIE, 
 
 Wilt thou be a nun, Sophie? 
 
 Nothing but a nun ? 
 Is it not a better thing 
 With thy friends to laugh and sing? 
 To be loved and sought ? 
 
 To be woo'd and — won ? 
 Dost thou love the shadow, Sophie, 
 
 Better than the sun ? 
 I'm a poor lay-brother, Sophie ; 
 
 Yet, I this may say, — 
 Thou had'st better bear with love. 
 Than dwell here, a prison'd dove. 
 
 Weeping life away. 
 Oh ! — Td bear love's pangs, rather. 
 
 Fifty times a day ! 
 
93 
 
 LXXXVI. — BUILD UP A COLUMN TO BOLIVAR! 
 
 Build up a column to Bolivar ! 
 Build it under a tropic star ! 
 Build it high as his mounting fame ! 
 Crown its head with his noble name ! 
 Let the letters tell, like a light afar, 
 '' Tills is the column of Bolivar ! " 
 
 Soldier in war, in peace a man, 
 Did he not all that a hero can ? 
 Wasting his life for his country's care, 
 Laying it down with a patriot prayer, 
 Shedding his blood like the summer rain. 
 Loving the land, though he loved in vain ! 
 
 Man is a creature, good or ill. 
 Little or great, at his own strong will ; 
 And he grew good, and wise, and great, 
 Albeit he fought with a tyrant fate. 
 And showered his golden gifts on men. 
 Who paid him in basest wrongs again ! 
 
 Raise the coknnn to Bolivar ! 
 Firm in peace, and fierce in war ! 
 Shout forth his noble, noble name ! 
 Shout till his enemies die, in shame ! 
 Shout till Columbia's woods awaken, 
 Like seas by a mighty tempest shaken, — 
 
94 SONGS. 
 
 Till pity and praise, and great disdain, 
 Sound like an Indian hurricane ! 
 Shout, as ye shout in conquering war, 
 While ye build the column to Bolivar ! 
 
 LXXXVII.^THE FAREWELL OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 I LOVE thee, I love thee, 
 
 Far better than wine. 
 But the curse is above me ; 
 
 Thou'lt never be mine ! 
 
 As the blade wears the scabbard, 
 
 The billow the shore. 
 So sorrow doth fret me 
 
 For evermore. 
 
 Fair beauty, I leave thee, 
 
 To conquer my heart : 
 I'll see thee, I'll bless thee, 
 
 And then — depart. 
 
 Let me take, ere I vanish. 
 
 One look of thine eyes, — 
 One smile for remembrance, 
 
 For life soon flies ! 
 
 — And now for the fortune, 
 
 That hangeth above; 
 And to bury in battle. 
 
 My dream of love ! 
 
SONGS. 95 
 
 I 
 
 LXXXVIII. — THE NIGHT SHADE. 
 
 Tread aside from my starry bloom ! 
 I am the nurse, who feed the tomb 
 
 (The tomb, my child) 
 
 With dainties piled, 
 Until it grows strong as a tempest wild. 
 
 Trample not on a virgin flower ! 
 
 I am the maid of the midnight hour ; 
 
 I bear sweet sleep, 
 
 To those who weep. 
 And lie on their eyelids dark and deep. 
 
 Tread not thou on my snaky eyes ! 
 I am the worm that the weary prize, 
 
 The Nile's soft asp. 
 
 That they strive to grasp. 
 And one that a queen has loved to clasp ! 
 
 Pity me ! I am she, whom man. 
 
 Hath hated since ever the world began ; 
 
 I soothe his brain, 
 
 In the night of pain, 
 But at morning he waketh, — and all is vain ! 
 
96 SONGS. 
 
 LXXXIX. — TRUE LOVE. 
 
 Is't true the false poor beauty flies 
 
 From thee ? oh, 'tis well, — 'tis right ! 
 My love shall now adorn thine eyes, 
 
 With brightness like the unclouded night ! 
 The poet sheds, on herb and flower. 
 
 His fancies, till they breathe and shine, 
 And shall /, in thy drooping hour, 
 Neglect to hallow aught of thine 7 
 
 Love should flow along, 
 
 Singing like a gentle river, 
 Its saddest still its sweetest song, 
 For ever, — -for ever ! 
 
 Come to me, — dearer, fairer far. 
 
 Than when men's smiles did round thee fawn ! 
 Look on me, — as the last pale star 
 
 Looks round upon the glowing dawn ! 
 Yet, fly not ! Stay, and smile, sweet heart. 
 
 On whate'er chance may now befall ; 
 My love, though every good depart. 
 Shall make thee dear amends for all ! 
 
 True love reigns on high, 
 
 Like the constant stars, that quiver, 
 And look bright from every sky. 
 For ever, — for ever ! 
 
SONGS. 97 
 
 XC. — SONG OF THE OUTCAST. 
 
 I WAS born on a winter's morn, 
 Welcomed to life with hate and scorn, 
 Torn from a famished mother's side, 
 Who left me here, with a laugh, and — died; 
 Left me here, with the curse of life. 
 To be tossed about in the burning strife, 
 Linked to nothing, but shame and pain, 
 Echoing nothinor but man's disdain : 
 
 SO' J 
 
 O, that I might again be born. 
 
 With treble my strength of hate and scorn ! 
 
 I was born by a sudden shock, — 
 Born by the blow of a ruffian sire, 
 Given to air, as the blasted rock 
 Gives out the reddening roaring fire. 
 My sire was stone ; but my dark blood 
 Ran its round like a fiery flood, 
 Rushing through every tingling vein. 
 And flaming ever at man's disdain ; 
 Ready to give back, night or morn, 
 Hate for hate, and scorn for scorn ( 
 
 They cast me out, in my hungry need, 
 (A dog, whom none would own nor feed,) 
 Without a home, without a meal. 
 And bade me go forth — to slay and steal ! 
 7 
 
98 SONGS. 
 
 What wonder, God ! had my hands been red 
 With the blood of a host in secret shed ! 
 But no ! I fought on the free sea-wave, 
 And perilled my life for my plunder brave, 
 And never yet shrank, in nerve or breath, 
 But struck, as the pirate strikes, — to death ! 
 
 XCI. — TO A FLOW^ER. 
 
 Dawn, gentle flower, 
 
 From the morning earth ! 
 We will gaze and wonder 
 
 At thy wondrous birth ! 
 Bloom, gentle flower ! 
 
 Lover of the light. 
 Sought by wind and shower, 
 
 Fondled by the night ! 
 Fade, gentle flower ! 
 
 All thy white leaves close ; 
 Having shewn thy beauty, 
 
 Time 'tis for repose. 
 Die, gentle flower. 
 
 In the silent sun ! 
 So, — all pangs are over, 
 
 All thy tasks are done ! 
 Day hath no more glory. 
 
 Though he soars so high ; 
 Thine is all man's story. 
 
 Live J — and love, — and die ! 
 
99 
 
 XCir. — FORBIDDEN LOVE. 
 
 I LOVE thee ! — Oh, the strife, the pain, 
 
 The fiery thoughts that through me roll ! 
 I love thee ! Look, — again, again ! 
 
 O Stars ! that thou couldst read my soul. 
 I would thy bright bright eye could pierce - 
 
 The crimson folds that hide my heart. 
 Then wouldst thou find the serpent fierce, 
 
 That stings me — and will not depart! 
 
 Look love upon me, with thine eyes ! 
 
 Yet, no, — men's evil tongues are nigh : 
 Look pity, then, and with thy sighs 
 
 Waste music on me — till I die I 
 Yet, — love not! sigh not! Turn (thou must) 
 
 Thy beauty from me, sweet and kind ; 
 'Tis fit that I should burn to dust. 
 
 To death, because — I am not blind ! 
 
 I love thee, — and I live ! The Moon 
 
 Who sees me from her calm above. 
 The Wind who weaves her dim soft tune 
 
 About me, know how much I love ! 
 Nought else, save Night and the lonely Hour, 
 
 E'er heard my passion wild and strong : 
 Even thou yet deem'st not of thy power, 
 
 Unless — thou read'st aright my song! 
 
100 SONGS. 
 
 XCIII. — A BRIDAL DIRGE. 
 
 Weave no more the marriage chain I 
 
 All unmated is the lover ; 
 Death has ta'en the place of Pain ; 
 Love doth call on love in vain : 
 
 Life and years of hope are over 1 
 
 No more want of marriage bell ! 
 
 No more need of bridal favor ! 
 Where is she to wear them well ? 
 You beside the lover tell ! 
 
 Gone — with all the love he gave her ! 
 
 Paler than the stone she lies : 
 
 Colder than the winter's morning ! 
 
 Wherefore did she thus despise 
 
 (She with pity in her eyes) 
 
 Mother's care, and lover's warning? 
 
 Youth and beauty — shall they not 
 Last beyond a brief to-morrow ? 
 
 No : a prayer and then forgot ! 
 
 This the truest lover's lot ; 
 
 This the sum of human sorrow ! 
 
SONGS. 101 
 
 XCIV. — THE CONVICT'S FAREWELL. 
 
 A Boat is rowed along the sea, 
 
 Full of souls as it may be ; 
 
 Their dress is coarse, their hair is shorn, 
 
 And every squalid face forlorn 
 
 Is full of sorrow, and hate, and scorn ! 
 
 What is't? — It is the Convict Boat, 
 
 That o'er the waves is forced to float, 
 
 Bearing its wicked burden o'er 
 
 The ocean, to a distant shore : 
 
 Man scowls upon it ; but the sea 
 
 (The same with fettered as with free) 
 
 Danceth beneath it heedlessly ! 
 
 Slowly the boat is borne along ; 
 
 Yet they who row are hard and strong, 
 
 And well their oars keep time, 
 To one who sings (and clanks his chain, 
 The better thus to hide his pain,) 
 
 A bitter, banished rhyme ! 
 He sings : and all his mates in woe 
 Chaunt sullen chorus as they go ! 
 
102 SONGS. 
 
 SONG- 
 
 Row US on, a felon band, 
 
 Farther out to sea, 
 Till we lose all sight of land, 
 
 And then — we shall be free ! 
 Row us on, and loose our fetters ; 
 
 Yeo ! the boat makes way : 
 Let's say " Good bye" unto our betters. 
 
 And, hey for a brighter day ! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Row us fast f Row us fast I 
 
 Trial's o'er and sentence past : 
 
 Here's a whistle for those who tried to blind us. 
 
 And a curse cm all we leave behind us ! 
 
 Farewell, juries, — jailors, — friends, 
 
 (Traitors to the close !) 
 Here the felon's danger ends. 
 
 Farewell, bloody foes \ 
 Farewell, England ! We are quitting 
 
 Now thy dungeon doors : 
 Take our blessing, as we're flitting, — 
 
 " A curse upon thy shores ! " 
 
 Farewell, England, — honest nurse 
 Of all our wants and sins ! 
 
103 
 
 What to thee's the felon's curse? 
 
 What to thee who wins ? 
 Murder thriveth in thy cities, 
 
 Famine through thine isle : 
 One may cause a dozen ditties, 
 
 But t'other scarce a smile. 
 
 Farewell, England, — tender soil. 
 
 Where babes who leave the breast, 
 From morning into midnight toil, 
 
 That pride may be proudly drest ! 
 Where he who's right and he who swerveth 
 
 Meet at the goal the same ; 
 Where no one hath what he deserveth, 
 
 Not even in empty fame ! 
 
 So, fare thee well, our country dear ! 
 
 Our last wish, ere we go. 
 Is — May your heart be never clear 
 
 From tax, nor tithe, nor woe ! 
 May they who sow e'er reap for others, 
 
 The hundred for the one ! 
 May friends grow false, and twin-born brothers 
 
 Each hate his Mother's son ! 
 
 May pains and forms still fence the place 
 
 Where justice must be bought ! 
 So he who's poor must hide his face. 
 
 And he who thinks — his thought ! 
 
104 SONGS. 
 
 May Might o'er Right be crowned the winner, 
 
 The head still o'er the heart, 
 And the Saint be still so like the Sinner, 
 
 You'll not know them apart ! 
 
 May your traders grumble when bread is high, 
 
 And your farmers when bread is low. 
 And your pauper brats, scarce two feet high. 
 
 Learn more than your nobles know ! 
 May your sick have foggy or frosty weather. 
 
 And your convicts all short throats, 
 And your blood-covered bankers e'er hang together, 
 
 And tempt ye with one pound notes ! 
 
 And so, — with hunger in your jaws. 
 
 And peril within your breast, 
 And a bar of gold, to guard your laws, 
 
 For those who pay the best ; 
 Farewell to England's woe and weal ! 
 
 . . For our betters, so bold and blythe. 
 May they never want, when they want a meal, 
 
 A Parson to take their Tithe ! 
 
SONGS. 105 
 
 XCV. — THE RHINE. 
 
 We've sailed through banks of green, 
 
 Where the wild waves fret and quiver, 
 And we've down the Danube been, 
 
 The dark deep thundering river ! 
 We've threaded the Elbe and Rhone, 
 
 The Tyber and blood-died Seine, 
 And have watched where the blue Garonne 
 
 Goes laughing to meet the main : 
 
 But wliat is so lovely, ichat is so grand, 
 As the river that runs through Rhine-land? 
 
 On the Rhine-river were we born, 
 
 Midst its flowers and famous wines. 
 And we know that our country's morn. 
 
 With a treble-sweet aspect shines. 
 Let other lands boast their flowers. 
 
 Let other men dream wild dreams, 
 Let them hope they've a land like ours. 
 
 And a stream, like our stream of streams : 
 Yet, what is half so bright or so grand, 
 As the river that runs through Rhine-land? 
 
 Are we smit by the blinding sun, 
 
 That fell on our tender youth 1 
 Do we coward-like shrink and shun 
 
 The thought-telling touch of Truth ? 
 
106 SONGS. 
 
 On our heads be the sin, then, set ! 
 We'll bear all the shame divine : 
 But we'll never disown the debt, 
 That we owe to our noble Rhine ! 
 
 O, the Rhine ! the Rhine ! the hroad and the grand, 
 Is the river that runs through Rhine-land! 
 
 XCV[. — SWEET FRIEND, WHERE SLEEPS THY SONG? 
 
 Sweet friend! where sleeps thy song? 
 Ah, wherefore hath it lain so long 
 
 In idle slumbers? 
 duick thou, the ancient bondage break, 
 And bid its dreaming soul awake 
 
 In airy numbers ! 
 
 Bid it burst forth, like Spring, 
 When first the youthful rivers sing, — 
 
 The small bright river. 
 That runneth laughing from the earth. 
 And thinketh, in its new-born mirth, 
 
 To live for ever ! 
 
 Bid it come forth, like Spring, 
 
 When brooks and trees their music bring, 
 
 And fields their flowers ; 
 And we will hearken all, and hoard 
 Thy sweet sweet thoughts, like riches stored, 
 
 For after hours ! 
 
SONGS. 107 
 
 XCVII THE HIRLAS HORN. 
 
 Fill high, fill high the Hirlas horn, 
 
 Rimmed, with sunlight, like the morn ! 
 
 Deep, and vast, and fit to drown 
 
 All the troubles of a crown ; 
 
 Deep, and vast, and crowned with mead, 
 
 'Tis a cup for kings indeed, 
 
 Full of courage, full of worth, 
 
 Making man a god on earth ! 
 
 Warriors, Heroes, Cambrian-born, 
 Drink, — from the Hirlas horn ! 
 
 Hide with foam the golden tip ; 
 
 Make it rich for a prince's lip I 
 
 Here's to the fame of Roderick dead ! 
 
 Bards ! why do your harps not shed 
 
 Music ? Come, — a mighty draught 
 
 To dead Roderick's name be quafF'd ! 
 
 Tell us all the hero won, 
 
 All he did, from sun to sun ! 
 
 Bards, and heroes, Cambrian-born, 
 Drink, — from the Hirlas horn ! 
 
 Fill the horn to Madoc's name, 
 First in the mighty race of fame, 
 Eagle-hearted, eagle-eyed. 
 All hearts shuddered when he died ! 
 Yet, why so? for Tudor rose 
 Like a lion upon our foes ; — 
 
108 SONGS. 
 
 Like the wild storm-smitten ocean, 
 When he puts his strength in motion ! 
 Come, brave Spirits, Cambrian-born y 
 Drink, — from the Hirlas horn ! 
 
 Cambrian people — Cambrian mountains, 
 
 Back into your wizard fountains 
 
 (Where the Druid seers are dwelling) 
 
 Shout unto the crowned Llewellin ! 
 
 Patriot ! Hero ! Monarch ! Friend ! 
 
 Wreathed with virtues without end ! 
 
 First of men 'tween Earth and Sky ! 
 
 The sword and the shield of Liberty ! 
 Drijik, all Spirits, Cambrian-born, 
 Drink to the good, great crowned Llewellin ! 
 Drink, — from the Hirlas horn ! 
 
 
 XCVIir. — COME ! LET US GO TO THE LAND. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY SIGNOR VERINI. 
 
 Come, — let us go to the land 
 
 Where the violets grow ! 
 Let's go thither, hand in hand, 
 
 Over the waters, over the snow, 
 
 To the land where the sweet sweet violets blow ! 
 
 There, — in the beautiful South, 
 Where the sweet flowers lie. 
 
 Thou shalt sing, with thy sweeter mouth. 
 Under the light of the evening sky, 
 That Love never fades, though violets die ! 
 
SONGS. 109 
 
 XCIX. — THE LEVELLER. 
 
 The king he reigns on a throne of gold, 
 Fenced round by his ' power divine ; ' 
 The baron he sits in his castle old, 
 
 Drinking his ripe red wine : 
 But below, below, in his ragged coat. 
 The beggar he tuneth a hungry note 
 And the spinner is bound to his weary thread. 
 And the debtor lies down with an aching head. 
 
 So the luorld goes ! 
 
 So the stream Jloivs ! 
 
 Yet there is afelloiv, ivhom nohody hnoivSy 
 
 Who 7nakcth all free 
 
 On land and sea, 
 
 And forccth the rich like the poor tojlee! 
 
 The lady lies down in her warm white lawn, 
 
 And dreams of her pearled pride ; 
 The milkmaid sings, to the wild-eyed dawn, 
 
 Sad songs on the cold hill-side : 
 And the Saint he leaves (while he prattles of faith) 
 Good deeds to the sinner, as scandal saith. 
 And the scholar he bows to the face of brass, 
 And the wise man he worships the golden ass ! 
 So the world goes, S^c. 
 
110 SONGS. 
 
 C — THE SECRET OF SINGING. 
 
 Lady, sing no more I 
 
 Science all is vain, 
 Till the heart be touched, lady, 
 
 And give forth its pain. 
 
 'Tis a hidden lyre, 
 
 Cherished near the sun, 
 
 O'er whose witching wire, lady, 
 Faery fingers run. 
 
 Pity comes in tears, 
 From her home above, 
 
 Hope and sometimes Fears, lady 
 And the wizard, — Love I 
 
 Each doth search the heart, 
 To its inmost springs, 
 
 And when they depart, lady. 
 Then the Spirit sings ! 
 
 END OF PART THE SECOND. 
 
SONGS, &c.' 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 PART THE THIRD 
 
 CI. — THE FIGHT OF RAVENNA, 
 
 He is bound for the wars, 
 
 He is armed for the fight, 
 With lion-like sinews, 
 
 And the heart of a knight ; 
 All hidden in steel, 
 
 Like the sun in a cloud. 
 And he calls for his charger, 
 
 Who neigheth aloud ; 
 And he calls for his page. 
 
 Who comes forth like the light , 
 And they mount and ride oif. 
 
 For the Brescian fight. 
 8 
 
114 SONGS. 
 
 Count Gaston de Foix 
 
 Is the heir of Narbonne, 
 But his page is an orphan, 
 
 Known, — link'd unto none; 
 The master is young. 
 
 But as bold as the blast ; 
 The servant all tender, — 
 
 Too tender to last; 
 A bud that was born 
 
 For the summer-soft skies, 
 But, left to wild winter, 
 
 Unfoldeth, and dies ! 
 
 " Come forward, my young one, 
 
 Ride on by my side ; 
 What, child, wilt thou quell 
 
 The Castilian pride?" 
 Thus speaks the gay soldier, 
 
 His heart in his smile. 
 But his page blushes deep, — 
 
 Was it anger 1 — the while. 
 Was it anger ? Ah, no : 
 
 For the tender dark eye 
 Saith — ' Master, for thee 
 
 I will live, I will die ! ' 
 
 They speed to the field. 
 Storm-swift in their flight, 
 
SONGS. 115 
 
 And Brescia falleth, 
 
 Like fruit in a blight ; 
 Scarce a blow for a battle, 
 
 A shout for her fame ; 
 All's lost, — given up 
 
 To the sound of a name ! 
 But Ravenna hath soldiers, 
 
 Whose hearts are more bold, 
 "Whose wine is all Spanish, 
 
 Whose pay is all gold. 
 
 So he turns, with a laugh 
 
 Of contempt for his foe. 
 And now girdeth his sword, 
 
 For a weightier blow. 
 Strait forward he rideth 
 
 'Till night's in the sky, 
 When the page and the master 
 
 Together must lie. 
 Where loiters the page ? 
 
 Hal he hangeth his head, 
 And with forehead like fire 
 
 He shunneth the bed. 
 
 " Now rest thee, my weary one 
 Drown thee in sleep ! 
 
 The great sun himself 
 Lieth down in the deep > 
 
116 SONGS. 
 
 The beast on his pasture, 
 
 The bird on his bough, 
 The lord and the servant 
 
 Are slumber ers now." 
 *'I am wont," sighed the page, 
 
 *' A long watching to keep ; 
 But my lord shall lie down 
 
 While I charm him to sleep." 
 
 Soon (cased in his armor) 
 
 Down lieth the knight, 
 And the page he is tuning 
 
 His cittern aright; 
 At last through a voice 
 
 That is tender and low, 
 The melody mourns 
 
 Like a stream at its flow, — 
 Sad, gentle, uncertain. 
 
 As the life of a dream ; 
 And thus the page singeth, 
 
 With love for his theme : — 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. 
 
 There lived a lady, long ago; 
 
 Her heart was sad and dark, — ah, me ! 
 Dark with a single secret woe, 
 
 That none could ever see ! 
 
 
 
SONGS. 117 
 
 2. 
 
 She left her home, she lost her pride, 
 Forgot the jeering world, — ah, me ! 
 
 And followed a knight, and fought, and died, 
 All for the love of — chivalry ! 
 
 She died, — and M^hen in her last dull sleep, 
 She lay all pale and cold, — ah, me ! 
 
 They read of a love as wild and deep 
 As the dark deep sea ! 
 
 The song's at an end ! 
 
 But the singer, so young. 
 Still weeps at the music 
 
 That fell from his tongue : 
 His hands are enclapsed ; 
 
 His cheeks are on fire ; 
 And his black locks, unloosened, 
 
 Lie mixed with the wire : 
 But his lord — he reposes 
 
 As calm as the night, 
 Until dawn cometh forth 
 
 With her summons of light : 
 
 Then — onwards they ride 
 
 Under clouds of the vine ; 
 Now silent, now singing 
 
 Old stories divine ; 
 Now resting awhile, 
 
 Near the cool of a stream, 
 
118 SONGS. 
 
 Now wild for the battle ; 
 
 Now lost in a dream : 
 At last — they are threading 
 
 The forest of pines, 
 And Ravenna beleaguer'd 
 
 By chivalry shines 1 
 
 * * * 
 
 R avenn a ! R avenn a ! 
 
 Now ' God for the right ! ' 
 For the Gaul and the Spaniard 
 
 Are full in the fight. 
 French squadrons are charging, 
 
 Some conquer, some reel ; 
 Wild trumpets are braying 
 
 Aloud for Castile I 
 Each cannon that roareth 
 
 Bears blood on its sound, 
 And the dead and the dying 
 
 Lie thick on the ground. 
 
 Now shrieks are the music 
 
 That's borne on the gust, 
 And the groan of the war-horse 
 
 Who dies in the dust : 
 Now Spaniards are cheered 
 
 By the ' honor ' they love ; 
 Now France by the flower 
 
 That bloometh above ; 
 And, indeed, o'er the riot, 
 
 The steam, and the cloud. 
 
SONGS. 119 
 
 Still the Oriflamme floateth, — 
 The pride of the proud ! 
 
 What ho ! for king Louis ! 
 
 What ho ! for Nar bonne ! 
 Come soldiers ! 'tis Gaston 
 
 Who leadeth ye on ! 
 'Tis Gaston, your brother, 
 
 Who waveth his hand ; 
 Who fights, as ye fight. 
 
 For the vine-covered land ! 
 'Tis Gaston, — 'tis Gaston, 
 
 The last of his name, 
 Who fights for sweet France, 
 
 And will die for her fame ! 
 
 ' Come forward ! Come ' Ha ! 
 
 What is doing ? He stops ! 
 Why? why? By Saint Denis! 
 
 He staggers, — he drops ! 
 'Twas something — 'twas nothing 
 
 A shot and a sound ; 
 Yet the ever-bright hero 
 
 Lies low on the ground ! 
 He loseth his eye-sight — 
 
 He loseth his breath — 
 He smiles — Ah ! his beauty 
 
 Is darkened by death ! 
 
 No pause — not an instant — 
 For wailing or woe ! 
 
120 SONGS. 
 
 For the battle still rageth ; 
 
 Still fighteth the foe ; 
 Again roar the cannon — 
 
 Again flies the ball — 
 And the heart of the Spaniard 
 
 Spouts blood on the Gaul ! 
 Strong armor is riven, 
 
 Proud courage laid low, 
 And Frenchmen and foemen 
 
 Are dead at a blow ! 
 
 Oh, the bellowing thunders ! 
 
 The shudders — the shocks ! 
 When thousands 'gainst thousands 
 
 Come clashing like rocks ! 
 When the rain is all scarlet, 
 
 And clouds are half fire. 
 And men's sinews are snapped 
 
 Like the threads of a lyre ! 
 When each litter's a hearse, 
 
 And each bullet a knell, — 
 When each breath is a curse. 
 
 And each bosom — a hell ! 
 
 Mourn, Soldiers, — he's dead! 
 
 The last heir of Narbonne ! 
 The bravest — the best ! 
 
 But the battle is won ! 
 The Spaniards have flown 
 
 To their fosse-cover' d tent : 
 
 
SONGS. 121 
 
 And the victors are left, 
 
 To rejoice and lament ! 
 They still have proud leaders, 
 
 Still chivalry brave ; 
 But the^rs^ of their heroes 
 
 Lies dumb in the grave ! 
 They bear him in honor ; 
 
 They laurel his head ; 
 But, who meets the pale burthen. 
 
 And drops by the dead 1 
 The Page ? — no, — the Woman ! 
 
 Who followed her love. 
 And who'll follow him still 
 
 (If it mai/ be) — above ; 
 Who'll watch him, and tend him, 
 
 On earth, or in sky ; 
 Who was ready to live for him, — 
 
 Ready to die ! 
 
 ... A month has flown by. 
 
 On the wings of the year ; 
 And a train of sad maidens 
 
 Droop after a bier ; 
 No crown on the coffin — 
 
 No name on the lid — 
 Yet the flow'r of all Provence 
 
 Within it is hid ! 
 Blanche — Countess, — and heiress — 
 
 Who loved like the sun. 
 Lies, at last, by the side 
 
 Of the heir of Narbonne ! 
 
122 SONGS. 
 
 . . . Oh Courage ! dost always 
 
 Pay blood for a name 1 
 True Love ! must thou ever-more 
 
 Die for thy fame ? 
 'Twere sweet — could it be — 
 
 That the lover should dwell 
 In the bosom (a heaven !) 
 
 He loveth so well : 
 But, if not — why then, Death, 
 
 Be thou just to his worth, 
 And sweep him at once 
 
 From the scorn of the earth ! 
 
 CII. — THE FIRE-FLY. 
 
 Tell us, O Guide ! by what strange natural laws 
 This winged flower throws out, night after night, 
 Such lunar brightness? WAy, — for what grave cause 
 Is this earth-insect crown'd with heavenly light 1 
 Peace ! Rest content ! See where, by cliff* and dell. 
 Past tangled forest paths and silent river, 
 The little lustrous creature guides us well, 
 And where we fail, his small light aids us ever. 
 
 Night's shining servant ! Pretty star of earth ! 
 
 I ask not why thy lamp doth ever burn. 
 
 Perhaps it is thy very life, — thy mind ; 
 
 And thou, if robbed of that strange right of birth, 
 
 Might be no more than Man, — when Death doth turn 
 
 His beauty into darkness, cold and blind ! 
 
 W 
 
123 
 
 cm. —THE BLOOD HORSE. 
 
 Gamarra is a dainty steed, 
 
 Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 
 
 Full of fire, and full of bone. 
 
 With all his line of fathers known ; 
 
 Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. 
 
 But blown abroad by the pride within ! 
 
 His name is like a river flowing. 
 
 And his eyes like embers glowing 
 
 In the darkness of the night. 
 
 And his pace as swift as light. 
 
 Look, — how 'round his straining throat 
 
 Grace and shifting beauty float ! 
 
 Sinewy strength is on his reins. 
 
 And the red blood gallops through his veins, 
 
 Richer, redder, never ran 
 
 Through the boasting heart of man. 
 
 He can trace his lineage higher 
 
 Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — 
 
 Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 
 
 Or O'Brien's blood itself! 
 
 He, who hath no peer, — was born 
 Here, upon a red March morn : 
 But his famous fathers dead 
 Were Arabs all, and Arab bred. 
 
124 SONGS. 
 
 And the last of that great line 
 
 Trod like one of a race divine ! 
 
 And yet, — he was but friend to one, 
 
 Who fed him at the set of sun, 
 
 By some lone fountain fringed with green : 
 
 With him, a roving Bedouin, 
 
 He lived, — (none else would he obey 
 
 Through all the hot Arabian day,) — 
 
 And died untamed upon the sands 
 
 Where Balkh amidst the desert stands ! 
 
 CIV.— HIDDEN THOUGHTS. 
 
 Some joys we loudly tell ; 
 
 Some thoughts we keep apart. 
 Fenced round, and bid them dwell 
 
 In inmost heart. 
 Close in that heart (their den) 
 
 The tiger passions sleep : 
 There too, shut out from men, 
 
 Resolve lies deep. 
 There dreams repose, — so fair. 
 
 So frail, that but to sigh 
 Their names unto the air, 
 
 Would force them die. 
 These give, like violets hid, 
 
 A perfume to the mind, — 
 Give sight, as once they did, 
 
 To poet blind ! 
 
 
SONGS. 125 
 
 CV. — AN EPISTLE TO CHARLES LAMB, 
 
 ON HIS EMANCIPATION FROM CLERKSHIP 
 
 (written over a flask of sherris). 
 
 Dear Lamb, I drink to thee, — to thee 
 Married to sweet Liberty ! 
 
 What ! old friend, and art thou freed 
 
 From the bondage of the pen 1 
 
 Free from care and toil indeed 1 
 
 Free to wander amongst men 
 
 When and howsoe'er thou wilt? 
 
 All thy drops of labor spilt, 
 
 On those huge and figured pages, 
 
 Which will sleep unci asp' d for ages, 
 
 Little knowing who did wield 
 
 The quill that traversed their white field ? 
 
 Come, — another mighty health ! 
 Thou hast earn'd thy sum of wealth, — 
 Countless ease, — immortal leisure, — 
 Days and nights of boundless pleasure, 
 Checquer'd by no dream of pain, 
 Such as hangs on clerk-like brain 
 
126 SONGS. • 
 
 Like a night-mare, and doth press 
 The happy soul from happiness. 
 
 Oh ! happy thou, — whose all of time 
 
 (Day and eve, and morning prime) 
 
 Is fill'd with talk on pleasant themes, — 
 
 Or visions quaint, which come in dreams 
 
 Such as panther'd Bacchus rules. 
 
 When his rod is on " the schools," 
 
 Mixing wisdom with their wine ; — 
 
 Or, perhaps, thy wit so fine 
 
 Strayeth in some elder book. 
 
 Whereon our modern Solons look 
 
 With severe ungifted eyes. 
 
 Wondering what thou seest to prize. 
 
 Happy thou, whose skill can take 
 
 Pleasure at each turn, and slake 
 
 Thy thirst by every fountain's brink, 
 
 Where less wise men would pause to shrink : 
 
 Sometimes, 'mid stately avenues 
 
 With Cowley thou, or Marvel's muse, 
 
 Dost walk ; or Gray, by Eton towers ; 
 
 Or Pope, in Hampton's chestnut bowers ; 
 
 Or Walton, by his loved Lea stream : 
 
 Or dost thou with our Milton dream 
 
 Of £den and the Apocalypse, 
 
 And hear the words from his great lips ? 
 
 Speak, — in what grove or hazel shade, 
 For '' musing meditation made," 
 
 
SONGS. 127 
 
 Dost wander? — or on Penshurst lawn, 
 Where Sidney's fame had time to dawn 
 And die, ere yet the hate of Men 
 Could envy at his perfect pen '( 
 Or, dost thou, in some London street 
 (With voices fill'd and thronging feet,) 
 Loiter, with mien 'twixt grave and gay — 
 Or take, along some pathway sweet, 
 Thy calm suburban way ? 
 
 Happy beyond that man of Ross, 
 
 Whom mere content could ne'er engross. 
 
 Art thou, — with hope, health, "learned leisure," 
 
 Friends, books, thy thoughts, an endless pleasure I 
 
 — Yet — yet, — (for when was pleasure made 
 
 Sunshine all without a shade?) 
 
 Thou, perhaps, as now thou rovest 
 
 Through the busy scenes thou lovest, 
 
 With an Idler's careless look. 
 
 Turning some moth-pierced book, 
 
 Feel'st a sharp and sudden woe 
 
 For visions vanished long ago ! 
 
 And then, thou think'st how time has fled 
 
 Over thy unsilvered head. 
 
 Snatching many a fellow mind 
 
 Away, and leaving — what ? — behind ! 
 
 Nought, alas ! save joy and pain 
 
 Mingled ever, like a strain 
 
128 SONGS. 
 
 Of music where the discords vie 
 With the truer harmony. 
 
 So, perhaps, with thee the vein 
 Is sullied ever, — so the chain 
 Of habits and affections old, 
 Like a weight of solid gold, 
 Presseth on thy gentle breast, 
 Till sorrow rob thee of thy rest. 
 
 Ay : so't must be ! — Ev'n I, (whose lot 
 The fairy Love so long forgot,) 
 Seated beside this Sherris wine. 
 And near to books and shapes divine, 
 Which poets, and the painters past 
 Have wrought in lines that aye shall last, — 
 Ev'n I, with Shakspeare's self beside me. 
 And one whose tender talk can guide me 
 Through fears, and pains, and troublous themes, 
 Whose smile doth fall upon my dreams 
 Like sunshine on a stormy sea, — 
 Want something — when I think of thee ! 
 
129 
 
 CVI. — SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL. 
 
 Sit down, sad soul, and count 
 
 The moments flying : 
 Come, — tell the sweet amount 
 That's lost by sighing ! 
 How many smiles? — a score? 
 Then laugh, and count no more ; 
 For day is dying! 
 
 Lie down, sad soul, and sleep, 
 And no more measure 
 
 The flight of Time, nor weep 
 The loss of leisure; 
 
 But here, by this lone stream, 
 
 Lie down with us, and dream 
 Of starry treasure ! 
 
 We dream : do thou the same : 
 
 We love — for ever ; 
 We laugh ; yet few we shame, 
 
 The gentle, never. 
 Stay, then, till Sorrow dies ; 
 Then — hope and happy skies 
 Are thine for ever ! 
 9 
 
130 SONGS. 
 
 CVIL — A CHAMBER SCENE. 
 
 Tread softly through these amorous rooms ; 
 For every bough is hung with life, 
 And kisses in harmonious strife, 
 Unloose their sharp and wing'd perfumes ! 
 From Afric, and the Persian looms, 
 The carpet's silken leaves have sprung. 
 And heaven, in its blue bounty, flung 
 These starry flowers, and azure blooms. 
 
 Tread softly ! By a creature fair 
 
 The deity of love reposes. 
 
 His red lips open, like the roses 
 
 Which round his hyacinthine hair 
 
 Hang in crimson coronals; 
 
 And Passion fills the arched halls ; 
 
 And Beauty floats upon the air. 
 
 Tread softly — softly, like the foot 
 Of Winter, shod with fleecy snow. 
 Who cometh white, and cold, and mute, 
 Lest he should wake the Spring below. 
 Oh, look ! — for here lie Love and Youth, 
 Fair Spirits of the heart and mind ; 
 Alas ! that one should stray from truth ; 
 And one — be ever, ever, blind ! 
 
SONGS. 131 
 
 CVIIL — COURAGE. 
 
 Courage ! — Nothing can withstand 
 Long a wronged, undaunted land ; 
 If the hearts within her be 
 True unto themselves and thee, 
 Thou freed giant, Liberty ! 
 Oh ! no mountain-nymph art thou, 
 When the helm is on thy brow. 
 And the sword is in thy hand. 
 Fighting for thy own good land ! 
 
 Courage ! — Nothing e'er withstood 
 Freemen fighting for their good ; 
 Armed with all their father's fame. 
 They will win and wear a name, 
 That shall go to endless glory. 
 Like the Gods of old Greek story. 
 Raised to heaven and heavenly worth, 
 For the good they gave to earth. 
 
 Courage ! — There is none so poor, 
 (None of all who wrong endure), 
 None so humble, none so weak. 
 But may flush his father's cheek ; 
 And his Maiden's dear and true. 
 With the deeds that he may do. 
 
132 
 
 Be his days as dark as night, 
 He may make himself a light. 
 What ! though sunken be the sun, 
 There are stars when day is done ! 
 
 Courage ! — Who will be a slave. 
 That hath strength to dig a grave, 
 And therein his fetters hide, 
 And lay a tyrant by his side ? 
 Courage! — Hope, howe'er he fly 
 For a time, can never die ! 
 Courage, therefore, brother men ! 
 Cry " God! and to the fight again!" 
 
 CIX. — THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 SET TO MDSIC BY MR. LEE. 
 
 A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be, 
 
 Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea, 
 
 O'er the wild waters laboring, far from home, 
 
 For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam. 
 
 Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life, 
 
 And none to aid him in the stormy strife. 
 
 Companion of the sea and silent air. 
 
 The lonely fisher thus must ever fare : 
 
 Without the comfort, hope, — with scarce a friend,' 
 
 He looks through life and only sees — its end ! 
 
SONGS. 133 
 
 ex. — THE PAUPER'S JUBILEE. 
 
 Hurrah ! Who was e'er so gay, 
 
 As we merry folks to-day? 
 
 Brother Beggars, do not stare, 
 
 But toss your rags into the air. 
 
 And cry, " No work, and better fare ! " 
 
 Each man, be he saint or sinner. 
 
 Shall to-day have — Meat for Dinner ! ! ! 
 
 Yesterday, oh, Yesterday ! 
 That indeed was a bad day ; 
 Iron bread, and rascal gruel, 
 Water drink, and scanty fuel. 
 With the beadle at our backs. 
 Cursing us as we beat flax. 
 Just like twelve Old Bailey Varlets, 
 Amongst ochre-picking harlots ! 
 
 Why should we such things endure ? 
 Though we be the parish Poor, 
 This is usage bad and rough. 
 Are not age and pain enough ? 
 Lonely age, unpitied pain ? 
 With the Ban that, like a chain. 
 
134 SONGS. 
 
 To our prison bare hath bound us, 
 And the un welcomed Winter round us ? 
 
 "Why should we for ever work? 
 Do we starve beneath the Turk, 
 That, with one foot in the grave, 
 We should still toil like the slave ? 
 Seventy winters on our heads, 
 Yet we freeze on wooden beds ! 
 With one blanket for a fold. 
 That lets in the horrid cold. 
 And cramps and agues manifold ! 
 
 Yet, — sometimes we're merry people. 
 When the chimes clang in the steeple : 
 If 't be summer-time, we all 
 (Dropsied, palsied, crippled,) crawl 
 Underneath the sunny wall : 
 Up and down like worms we creep, 
 Or stand still and fall asleep. 
 With our faces in the sun. 
 Forgetting all the world has done ! 
 
 If 't be May, with hawthorn blooms 
 
 In our breasts, we sit on tombs. 
 
 And spell o'er, with eager ken, 
 
 The epitaphs of older men, 
 
 (Choosing those, for some strange reasons. 
 
 Who've weather'd ninety, — a hundred seasons,) 
 
SONGS. 
 
 135 
 
 Till forth at last we shout in chorus, 
 
 (i We've thirty good years still before us ! " 
 
 But to-day's a bonny day ! 
 
 What shall we be doing ? 
 
 What's the use of saving money, 
 
 When rivers flow with milk and honey 1 
 
 Prudence is our ruin. 
 
 What have we to do with care? 
 
 Who, to be a pauper's heir, 
 
 Would mask his false face in a smile. 
 
 Or hide his honest hate in guile? 
 
 But come, — why do we loiter here ? 
 
 Boy, go get us some small beer : 
 
 Quick ! 'twill make our blood run quicker. 
 
 And drown the devil Pain in liquor ! 
 
 March so fierce is almost past, 
 
 April will be here at last. 
 
 And May must come. 
 
 When bees do hum, 
 
 And Summer over cold victorious ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 'Tis a prospect glorious ! 
 
 3Ieat ! Small Beer ! and Warmer Weather ! 
 
 Come boys — let's be mad together! 
 
136 SONGS. 
 
 CXI. -THE FALCON. 
 
 AFTER A PAINTING BY TITIAN. 
 
 The Falcon is a noble bird, 
 And when his heart of hearts is stirred, 
 He'll seek the eagle, though he run 
 Into his chamber near the sun. 
 Never was there brute or bird, 
 Whom the woods or mountains heard. 
 That could force a fear or care 
 From him, — the Arab of the air ! 
 
 To-day he sits upon a wrist. 
 Whose purple veins a queen has kissed, 
 And on him falls a sterner eye 
 Than he can face where'er he fly. 
 Though he scale the summit cold 
 Of the Grimsel, vast and old — 
 Though he search yon sunless stream. 
 That threads the forest like a dream. 
 
 Ah, noble Soldier ! noble Bird ! 
 
 Will your names be ever heard, — 
 
 Ever seen in future story, 
 
 Crowning it with deathless glory ? 
 
 — Peace, ho ! — the master's eye is drawn 
 
 Away unto the bursting dawn ! 
 
 Arise, thou bird of birds, arise. 
 
 And seek thy quarry in the skies ! 
 
137 
 
 ,CXII. — THE PAST. 
 
 This common field, this little brook — 
 What is there hidden in these two, 
 
 That I so often on them look, 
 
 Oftener than on the heavens blue ? 
 
 No beauty lies upon the field ; 
 
 Small music doth the river yield ; 
 
 And yet I look and look again, 
 
 With something of a pleasant pain. 
 
 'Tis thirty — caii'i be thirty years, 
 
 Since last I stood upon this plank, 
 Which o'er the brook its figure rears. 
 
 And watch' d the pebbles as they sank ? 
 How white the stream ! I still remember 
 Its margin glassed by hoar December, 
 And how the sun fell on the snow : 
 Ah ! can it be so long ago 1 
 
 It Cometh back ; — So blythe, so bright. 
 
 It hurries to my eager ken, 
 As though but one short winter's night 
 
 Had darkened o'er the world since then. 
 It is the same clear dazzling scene ; — 
 Perhaps the grass is scarce as green ; 
 Perhaps the river's troubled voice 
 Doth not so plainly say — '' Rejoice." 
 
138 SONGS. 
 
 Yet Nature surely never ranges, 
 
 Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown ; 
 But, ever joyful, merely changes 
 
 The primrose for the thistle-down. 
 ' Tis we alone who, waxing old. 
 Look on her with an aspect cold, 
 Dissolve her in our burning tears. 
 Or clothe her with the mists of years ! 
 
 Then, why should not the grass be green ? 
 
 And why should not the river's song 
 Be merry, — as they both have been 
 
 When I was here an urchin strong 1 
 Ah, true — too true ! I see the sun 
 Through thirty winter years hath run, 
 For grave eyes, mirrored in the brook, 
 Usurp the urchin's laughing look ! 
 
 So be it ! I have lost, — and won ! 
 
 For, once, the past was poor to me, — 
 The future dim ; and though the sun 
 
 Shed life and strength, and I was free, 
 I felt not — knew no grateful pleasure : 
 All seemed but as the common measure : 
 But NOW — the experienced Spirit old 
 Turns all the leaden past to gold ! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 139 
 
 CXIII. — SONG OF WOOD-NYMPHS. 
 
 Come here, come here, and dwell 
 
 111 forest deep ! 
 
 Come here, come here, and tell 
 
 Why thou dost weep ! 
 
 Is it for love (sweet pain !) 
 
 That thus thou dar'st complain 
 
 Amongst our pleasant shades, our summer leaves, 
 
 Where nought else grieves ? 
 
 Come here, come here, and lie 
 
 By whispering stream ! 
 
 Here no one dares to die 
 
 For Love's sweet dream ; 
 
 But health all seek, and joy, 
 
 And shun perverse annoy, 
 
 And race along green paths till close of day. 
 
 And laugh — alway ! 
 
 Or else, through half the year, 
 
 On rushy floor, 
 
 We lie by waters clear, 
 
 While sky-larks pour 
 
 Their songs into the sun ! 
 
 And when bright day is done, 
 
 We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding corn, 
 
 And dream — till morn ! 
 
140 
 
 CXIV. — THE SONG OF A FELON'S WIFE. 
 
 The brand is on thy brow, 
 
 A dark and guilty spot ; 
 Tis ne'er to be erased ! 
 
 Tis ne'er to be forgot ! 
 
 The brand is on thy brow ! 
 
 Yet / must shade the spot : 
 For who will love thee now, 
 
 If / love thee not ? 
 
 Thy soul is dark, — is stained, — 
 From out the bright world thrown 
 
 By God and man disdained, 
 But not by mc, — thy own ! 
 
 Oh ! even the tiger slain 
 
 Hath one who ne'er doth flee, 
 
 Who soothes his dying pain ! 
 — That one am I to thee ! 
 
SONGS. 141 
 
 CXV. — TO THE SINGER PASTA. 
 
 Never till now — never till now, O, diieen 
 
 And Wonder of the enchanted world of sound ! 
 
 Never till now was such bright creature seen, 
 Startling to transport all the regions round ! 
 
 Whence com'st thou — with those eyes and that fine 
 mien, 
 Thou sweet, sweet sincrer '.' — Like an ano-el found 
 
 Mourning alone, thou seem'st (thy mates all fled) 
 
 A star 'mongst clouds, — a spirit 'midst the dead. 
 
 Melodious thoughts hang round thee ! Sorrow sings 
 Perpetual sweetness near, — divine despair ! 
 
 Thou speak'st, — and Music, with her thousand strings, 
 Gives golden answers from the haunted air ! 
 
 Thou mov'st — and round thee Grace her beauty flings ! 
 Thou look'st — and Love is born ! O, songstress rare ! 
 
 Lives there on earth a power like that which lies 
 
 In those resistless tones, — in those dark eyes ? 
 
 Oh, I have lived — how long ! — with one deep treasure, 
 One fountain of delight unlocked, unknown; 
 
 But tliou, the prophetess of my new pleasure, 
 
 Hast come at last, and struck my heart of stone; 
 
 And now outgushes, without stint or measure, 
 The endless rapture, — and in places lone 
 
142 SONGS. 
 
 I shout it to the stars and winds that flee, 
 And then I think on all I owe to thee ! 
 
 I see thee at all hours — beneath all skies — 
 In every shape thou tak'st, or passionate path : 
 
 Now art thou like some winged thing that cries 
 Over a city flaming fast to death ; 
 
 Now, in thy voice, the mad Medea dies : 
 
 Now Desdemona yields her gentle breath : — 
 
 All things thou art by turns, — from wrath to love ; 
 
 From the queen eagle to the vestal dove ! 
 
 Horror is stern and strong, and death (unmasked 
 
 In slow pale silence, or 'mid brief eclipse) ; 
 But what are they to thy sweet strength, when tasked 
 
 To its height — with all the God upon thy lips ? 
 Not even the cloudless days and riches, asked 
 
 By one who in the book of darkness dips, 
 Vies with that radiant wealth which they inherit 
 
 Who own, like thee, the Muse's deathless spirit. 
 
 Would I could crown thee as a king can crown ! 
 
 Yet, what are kingly gifts to thy fair fame, 
 Whose echoes shall all vulgar triumphs drown, — 
 
 Whose light shall darken every meaner name ? 
 The gallant courts thee for his own renown ; 
 
 Mimicking thee, he plays love's pleasant game; 
 The critic brings thee praise, which all rehearse ; 
 And I — alas 1 — I can but bring my verse ! 
 
 II 
 
SONGS. 143 
 
 CXVr. — FULLER'S BIRD. 
 
 '•' I have read of a bird, which hath a face like, and yet will prey 
 upon, a man ; who coming to the water to drink, and finding there by 
 reflection that he had killed one like himself, pineth away by de- 
 grees, and never afterwards enjoy eth itself." — Fuller's Worthies. 
 
 The wild-wing'd creature, clad in gore, 
 (His bloody human meal being o'er,) 
 
 Comes down to the water's brink : 
 'Tis the first time he there hath gazed, 
 And straight he shrinks — alarm'd — amazed, 
 
 And dares not drink. 
 
 " Have I till now," he sadly said, 
 
 " Preyed on my brother's blood, and made 
 
 His flesh my meal to-day ? " — 
 Once more he glances in the brook, 
 And once more sees his victim's look ; 
 
 Then turns away. 
 
 With such sharp pain as human hearts 
 May feel, the drooping thing departs 
 
 Unto the dark wild wood ; 
 And, where the place is thick with weeds, 
 He hideth his remorse, and feeds 
 
 No 4iiore on blood. 
 
 And in that weedy brake he lies, 
 And pines, and pines, until he dies ; 
 And, when all's o'er, 
 
144 SONGS. 
 
 What follows ? — Nought ! his brothers slake 
 Their thirst in blood in that same brake, 
 Fierce as before ! 
 
 — So fable flows ! — But would you find 
 Its moral wrought in human kind, 
 
 Its tale made worse ; 
 Turn straight to 3Ian, and in his fame 
 And forehead read " The Harpy^s " name; 
 
 But no remorse ! 
 
 ex VII. — THE SEA, — IN CALM. 
 
 Look what immortal floods the sunset pours 
 Upon us ! — Mark ! how still (as though in dreams 
 Bound) the once wild and terrible Ocean seems ! 
 How silent are the winds ! No billow roars ; 
 But all is tranquil as Elysian shores ! 
 The silver margin which aye runneth round 
 The moon-enchanted sea, hath here no sound : 
 Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors ! 
 
 What ! is the Giant of the ocean dead, 
 
 Whose strength was all unmatched beneath the sun ? 
 
 No ; he reposes ! Now his toils are done, 
 
 More quiet than the babbling brooks is he. 
 
 So mightiest powers by deepest calms are fed, 
 
 And sleep, how oft, in things that gentlest be ! 
 
SONGS. 145 
 
 CXVIII. - A HYMN OF EVIL SPIRITS. 
 
 The Moon is shining on her way, 
 
 The planets, yet undimm'd by sleep, 
 Drink light from the far-flaming day, 
 
 Who still is hid beyond the deep : 
 But here both men and Spirits weep. 
 
 And earth all mourneth unto air, 
 Because there liveth nothing fair. 
 
 Nor great, save on the azure steep. 
 
 And on that hill of Heaven, none 
 
 Of human strength or thought may climb ; 
 For there bright Anorels lie alone, 
 
 Reposing since the birth of Time. 
 They bask beneath his looks sublime ; 
 
 But nought of ease or hope is here, 
 Where sleep is linked to dreams of fear, 
 
 And error to the pains of crime. 
 
 The moon is come, — but she shall go : 
 
 The stars are in their azure nest ; 
 The jaded wind shall cease to blow; 
 
 But when shall we have hope or rest ? 
 Now some are sad, and some are bless' d; 
 
 But what to us is smile or sigh ? 
 Though Peace, the white-wing' d dove, be nigh, 
 
 It ne'er must be the Spirit's guest ! 
 10 
 
146 SONGS. 
 
 Behold ! The young and glistening Hour 
 
 Comes riding through the gate of morn. 
 And we awhile must quit our power, 
 
 And vanish from a world we scorn. 
 Look ! Flattering sin begins to dawn 
 
 From man's false lips and woman's eyes, 
 And hopes and hearts are racked and torn 
 
 In God's green earthly paradise ! 
 
 CXIX. — SOFTLY woo AWAY HER BREATH. 
 
 Softly woo away her breath, 
 
 Gentle Death ! 
 Let her leave thee with no strife, 
 
 Tender, mournful, murmuring Life ! 
 She hath seen her happy day : 
 
 She hath had her bud and blossom : 
 Now she pales and shrinks away, 
 
 Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! 
 
 She hath done her bidding here. 
 
 Angels dear ! 
 Bear her perfect soul above. 
 
 Seraph of the skies, — sweet Love ! 
 Good she was, and fair in youth. 
 
 And her mind was seen to soar, 
 And her heart was wed to truth : 
 
 Take her, then, for evermore, — 
 For ever — evermore ! 
 
SONGS. 147 
 
 CXX. — A THOUGHT ON A RIVULET. 
 
 Look at this brook, so blithe, so free ! 
 Thus hath it been, fair boy, for ever — 
 A shining, dancing, babbling river ; 
 
 And thus 'twill ever be. 
 
 T'will run, from mountain to the main. 
 With just the same sweet babbling voice 
 That now sings out, " Rejoice — rejoice ! " 
 
 Perhaps, 'twill be a chain 
 
 That will a thousand years remain — 
 
 Ay, through all times and changes last, 
 
 And link the present to the past. 
 
 Perhaps upon this self-same spot. 
 
 Hereafter, may a merry knot 
 
 (My children's children !) meet and play. 
 
 And think on 77ie, some summer day ; 
 
 And smile (perhaps through youth's brief tears, 
 
 While thinking back through wastes of years,) 
 
 And softly say — 
 
 " 'Twas here the old man used to stray, 
 
 And gaze upon the sky ; and dream 
 
 (Long, long ago!) by this same stream, 
 
 He's in his grave ! Ungentle Time 
 
 Hath dealt but harshly with his rhyme ; 
 
 But We will ne'er forget, that he 
 
 Tauoht us to love this river free " 
 
148 SONGS. 
 
 CXXr.-I LOVED HER WHEN SHE LOOKED FROM ME. 
 
 I LOVED her when she looked from me, 
 
 And hid her stifled sighs : 
 I loved her too when she did smile 
 
 With shy and downcast eyes, 
 The light within them rounding " like 
 
 The young moon in its rise." 
 
 I loved her ! — Dost thou love no more, 
 
 Now she from thee is flown, 
 To some far distant — distant shore, 
 
 Unfetter'd, and alone? 
 Peace, peace ! I know her : She will come 
 
 Again, and be mine own. 
 
 A kiss — a sigh — a little word 
 We changed, when we did part ; 
 
 No more ; yet read I in her eyes 
 The promise of her heart ; 
 
 And Hope (who from all others flies) 
 From me will ne'er depart. 
 
 So here I live — a lover lone, 
 
 Contented with my state. 
 More sure of love, if she return, 
 
 Than others are of hate : 
 And if she die ? — I too can die. 
 
 Content still with my fate. 
 
SONGS. 149 
 
 CXXIL — A STORM. 
 
 The Spirits of the mighty Sea, 
 
 To-night are 'wakened from their dreams, 
 And upwards to the tempest flee. 
 
 Baring their foreheads where the gleams 
 Of lightning run, and thunders cry, 
 Rushing and raining through the sky ! 
 
 The Spirits of the sea are waging 
 Loud war upon the peaceful Night, 
 
 And bands of tlfe black winds are raging 
 Thorough the tempest blue and bright ; 
 
 Blowing her cloudy hair to dust 
 
 With kisses, like a madman's lust ! 
 
 What Ghost now, like an Ate, walketh 
 
 Earth, — ocean, — air ? and aye with Time, 
 
 Mingled, as with a lover talketh ? 
 Methinks their colloquy sublime 
 
 Draws anger from the sky, which raves 
 
 Over the self-abandoned waves ! 
 
 Behold ! like millions mass'd in battle, 
 The trembling billows headlong go, 
 
 Lashing the barren deeps, which rattle 
 In mighty transport till they grow 
 
150 
 
 All fruitful in their rocky home, 
 And burst from frenzy into foam. 
 
 And, look ! where on the faithless billows 
 Lie women, and men, and children fair ; 
 
 Some hanging, like sleep, to their swollen pillows, 
 With helpless sinews and streaming hair, 
 
 And some who plunge in the yawning graves ! 
 
 Ah ! lives there no strength beyond the waves ? 
 
 'Tis said, the Moon can rock the Sea 
 From frenzy strange, to silence mild, — 
 
 To sleep, — to death : — But where is She^ 
 While now her storm-born giant child 
 
 Upheaves his shoulder to the skies? 
 
 Arise, sweet planet pale, — Arise ! 
 
 She cometh, — lovelier than the dawn 
 In summer, when the leaves are green. 
 
 More graceful than the alarmed fawn. 
 Over his grassy supper seen : 
 
 Bright quiet from her beauty falls, 
 
 Until — again the tempest calls ! 
 
 The supernatural Storm, — he 'waketh 
 Again, and lo ! from sheets all white, 
 
 Stands up unto the stars, and shaketh 
 Scorn on the jewell'd locks of Night. 
 
 He carries a ship on his foaming crown, 
 
 And a cry, like Hell, as he rushes down ! 
 
SONGS. 151 
 
 And so still soars from calm to storm, 
 
 The stature of the unresting Sea : — 
 So doth desire or wrath deform 
 Our else calm humanity, — 
 Until at last we sleep, 
 And never 'wake nor weep ; 
 (Hush'd to death, by some faint tune,) 
 In our grave beneath the Moon ! 
 
 CXXIIL — PARENTS' LOVE. 
 
 Young Love ! what have thy dreams above, 
 Thy hope, thy gladness, thy despair. 
 
 That with the ])ai^e7if s painful love 
 May dare compare ? 
 
 Thy hopes are like the misty cloud ; 
 
 Thy gladness like the shrinking stream ; 
 Thy loud despair all over-loud ; 
 
 Thy life — a dream ! 
 
 But deeper than the unfathomed Main, 
 The parent's voiceless love e'er lies ; 
 
 And oh! the dread, the death, the pain, 
 When all hope dies ! 
 
152 SONGS. 
 
 CXXIV. — THE VAIN REGRET. 
 
 Oh ! had I nursed, when I was young. 
 The lessons of my father's tongue, 
 (The deep laborious thoughts he drew. 
 From all he saw and others knew,) 
 I might have been — ah, me ! 
 Thrice sager than I e'er shall be. 
 
 For what saith Time ? 
 Alas! he only shews the truth 
 Of all that I was told in youth ! 
 
 The thoughts now budding in my brain, — 
 The wisdom I have bought with pain, — 
 The knowledge of life's brevity, — 
 Frail friendship, — false philosophy, 
 And all that issues out of woe, 
 Methinks, were taught me long ago ! 
 
 Then what says Time? 
 Alas ! he but brings back the truth 
 Of all I heard, (and lost!) in youth. 
 
 Truths ! — hardly learned and lately brought 
 From many a far forgotten scene ! 
 
 Had I but listened, as I ought, 
 To your voices, sage, — serene. 
 
 Oh ! what might I not have been 
 In the realms of thought ! 
 
153 
 
 CXXV. — THE VIOLET. 
 
 I LOVE all things the seasons bring, 
 All buds that start, all birds that sing, 
 
 All leaves, from white to jet ; 
 All the sweet words that summer sends, 
 When she recalls her flowery friends, 
 
 But chief — the Violet ! 
 
 I love, how much I love the rose. 
 
 On whose soft lips the South-wind blows, 
 
 In pretty amorous threat ; 
 The lily paler than the moon, 
 The odorous wondrous world of June, 
 
 Yet more — the Violet ! 
 
 She comes, the first, the fairest thing 
 That Heaven upon the earth doth fling, 
 
 Ere Winter's star has set : 
 She dwells behind her leafy screen. 
 And gives, as Angels give, unseen, 
 
 So, love — the Violet ! 
 
 What modest thoughts the Violet teaches, 
 What gracious boons the Violet preaches. 
 
 Bright maiden, ne'er forget ! 
 But learn, and love, and so depart, 
 And sing thou, with thy wiser heart, 
 
 * Long live the Violet ! ' 
 
154 
 
 CXXVI, — BEAUTY. 
 
 Painters — Poets — who can tell 
 What Beauty is — bright miracle? 
 Sometimes brown and sometimes white, 
 She shifts from darkness into light, 
 Swimming on with such fine ease. 
 That we miss her small degrees, 
 Knowing not that she hath ranged. 
 Till we find her sweetly changed. 
 
 They are poets false who say 
 
 That Beauty must be fair as day, 
 
 And that the rich red rose, 
 
 On her cheek for ever glows. 
 
 Or that the cold white lily lieth 
 
 On her breast, and never flieth. 
 
 Beauty is not so unkind, 
 
 Not so niggard, not so blind. 
 
 As yield her favor but to one, 
 
 When she may walk un confined. 
 
 Associate with the unfettered Wind 
 
 And wander with the Sun. 
 
 No ; she spreads her gifts, her grace, 
 
 O'er every color, every face. 
 
 She can laugh, and she can breathe 
 
 Freely where she will — beneath 
 
 Polar darkness, tropic star, 
 
 Impoverished Delhi, dark Bahar, 
 
 And all the regions bright and far. 
 
 Where India's sweet-voiced women are ! 
 
SONGS. 155 
 
 CXXVir. — SYBILLA. 
 
 Sybilla ! Dost thou love ? 
 
 Oh, swear ! Oh, swear ! 
 By those stedfast stars above ! 
 
 By this pure sweet air ! 
 
 By all things true, and deep, and fair ! 
 By hearts made rich with love, 
 
 Made wise by care ! 
 
 Sybilla! I love thee! 
 
 I swear, I swear, — 
 By all bright things that be ! , 
 
 By thyself, my fair ! 
 By thine eyes, and motions free ! 
 By thy sting, thou honey-bee ! 
 By thy angel thoughts that flee 
 Singing through the golden air, 
 I swear, I swear I 
 
 Sybilla I dost thou frown? 
 
 Beware, beware ! 
 If scorn thy beauty crown, 
 
 I fly, — yet where ? 
 Why are thine eyes withdrawn ? 
 Why dost thou turn, thou fawn? 
 Look on me, like the dawn 
 
 On weeping air ! 
 She smiles — Oh, Beauty bless'd 
 Take, — take me to thy breast, 
 
 And cure all care ! 
 
156 SONGS. 
 
 CXXVIIL — A MIDSUMMER FANCY. 
 
 Come hither ! Let thou and I 
 Mount on the dolphin, Pleasure, 
 And dive through the azure air ! 
 Would't not be fine — would't not be rare 
 To live in that sweet, sweet sea, the air — 
 That ocean which hath no measure, 
 
 No peril, no rocky shore, 
 (But only its airy, airy streams, 
 And its singing stars, and its orbed dreams,) 
 For ever and evermore ! 
 
 Of its wild and its changing weather 
 
 What matter — how foul or fair? 
 We will ever be found together ; 
 Ah ! then, sweet Love, what care. 
 
 Whether we haunt on the earth or air? 
 In ocean or inland stream? 
 Or are lost in some endless, endless dream ? 
 Or are bodiless made, like the tender sprite 
 Of Love, who watch'd me but yesternight. 
 With moon-flowers white on her whiter brow, 
 
 And smiled and sighed, 
 
 In her sad sweet pride, 
 As Thou, fair girl ! dost now. 
 
SONGS. 157 
 
 CXXIX. — PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 In earlier days, in happier hours, 
 
 I watched and wandered with the Sun : 
 
 I saw him when the East was red ; 
 
 I saw him when the day was dead, — 
 All his earthly journey done ! 
 Looks of love were in the West, 
 But he passed, — and took no rest ! 
 
 O'er the immeasurable blue, 
 
 Across the rain, amid the blast, 
 Onwards and onwards, like a God, 
 Through the trackless air he trod, 
 
 Scattering bounties as he passed 
 
 By the portals of the West, — 
 
 And never shut his eyes in rest ! 
 
 Oh, how — in those too happy hours — 
 How deeply then did I adore 
 
 The bright unwearied sleepless Sun, 
 And wish, just thus, my course to run — 
 From sea to sea, from shore to shore. 
 My deeds thus good, thus known, thus bright, 
 Thus undisturbed by rest or night. 
 
15S SONGS. 
 
 But now, — since I have heard and seen 
 The many cares that trouble life, 
 The evil that requiteth good, 
 The benefits not understood, 
 Unfilial, unpaternal strife, 
 The hate, the lie, the bitter jest, 
 I feel how sweet are night and rest ! 
 
 And, oh ! what morning ever look'd 
 So lovely as the quiet eve. 
 
 When low and fragrant winds arise. 
 And draw the curtains of the skies. 
 And gentle songs of summer weave ; — 
 Such as between the alders creep, 
 Now, and soothe my soul to sleep ! 
 
 CXXX. — WILT THOU GO? 
 
 Wilt thou go? Thou'lt come again? 
 Swear it, Love, by love's sweet pain ! 
 Swear it, by the stars that glisten 
 In thy brow as thou dost listen ! 
 Swear it, by the love-sick air, 
 Wandering, murmuring, here and there, 
 Seeking for some tender nest, 
 Yet, like thee, can never rest. 
 Swear ! — and I shall safer be 
 Amidst love's sweet mutiny ! 
 
soxNGs. 159 
 
 CXXXI. — ON SOME HUMAN BONES, FOUND ON A HEADLAND 
 IN THE BAY OF PANAMA. 
 
 Vague Mystery hangs on all these desert places! 
 
 The fear which hath no name, hath wrought a spell ! 
 Strength, courage, wrath — have been, and left no 
 
 traces ! 
 They came, — and fled ; — but whither ? Who can tell ? 
 
 We know but that they were, — that once (in days 
 When ocean was a bar 'twixt man and man), 
 
 Stout spirits wandered o'er these capes and bays, 
 And perished where these river waters ran. 
 
 Methinks they should have built some mighty tomb, 
 Whose granite might endure the century's rain, — 
 
 Cold winter, and the sharp night winds, that boom 
 Like Spirits in their purgatorial pain. 
 
 They left, 'tis said, their proud unburied bones 
 To whiten on this unacknowledged shore : 
 
 Yet nought beside the rocks and worn sea-stones, 
 Now answer to the great Pacific's roar ! 
 
 A mountain stands where Agamemnon died : 
 And Cheops hath derived eternal fame. 
 
 Because he made his tomb a place of pride : 
 And thus the dead Metella earned a name. 
 
 But these, — they vanished as the lightnings die 
 (Their mischiefs over) in the affrighted earth ; 
 
 And no one knoweth underneath the sky, 
 
 What heroes perished here, nor whence their birth! 
 
IGO SONGS. 
 
 CXXXIL — AN IRISH SONG. 
 
 AIR — KATHLEEN o' MORE. 
 
 He is gone to the wars, and has left me alone, 
 The poor Irish soldier, unfriended, unknown. 
 
 My husband, my Patrick, 
 The bird of my bosom, — though now he is flown ! 
 
 How I mourned for the boy ! yet I murmured the more, 
 'Cause we once were so happy in darlin' Lismore, 
 
 Poor Ellen and Patrick ! — 
 Perhaps he now thinks of poor Ellen no more ! 
 
 A cabin we had, and the cow was hard by, 
 And a slip of a garden that gladden' d the eye : 
 
 And there was our Patrick, — 
 Ne'er idle whil'st light ever lived in the sky. 
 
 We married, — too young, and it's likely too poor, 
 Yet no two were so happy in happy Lismore, 
 
 As Ellen and Patrick ; 
 Till they tempted and took him away from our door. 
 
 He said he would bring me, ere Autumn should fall, 
 A linnet or lark that should come at my call : 
 
 Alas ! the poor Patrick ! 
 He has left me a bird that is sweeter than all. 
 
 Twas born in a hovel, 'twas nourished in pain. 
 But it came in my grief, like a light on the brain, 
 
 (The child of poor Patrick,) 
 And taught me to hope for bright fortune again. 
 
 
SONGS. 161 
 
 And now, — We two wander from door unto door, 
 And, sometimes, we steal back to happy Lismore, 
 
 And ask for poor Patrick ; 
 And dream of the days when all wars will be o'er ! 
 
 CXXXIII. — 'TIS BETTER WE LAUGH THAN WEEP. 
 
 Why, why doth your music grieve 
 
 In passion so grave and deep ? 
 Ah ! sweet Musicians, believe, 
 'Tis better we laugh than weep. 
 Say^ Say, -— both grave and gay, 
 Should we not laugh, tohcne'er we may ? 
 Thro' day and night, thro' night and day ? 
 
 Life, life has its share of pain ; 
 
 Yet for ever why weep or fear 1 
 Since the Past ne'er cometh again, 
 
 And To-morrow is not yet here ? 
 
 All, all that is quite our own. 
 
 Is the minute we touch to-day. 
 And that, while we speak, is flown, 
 
 And beareth its ills away ! 
 
 So, let not your music grieve 
 
 In melodies grave nor deep ; 
 For, dear Musicians, believe, 
 
 'Tis better we laugh than weep ! 
 U 
 
162 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 CXXXIV.-A DRINKING SONG. 
 
 Drink, and fill the night with mirth! 
 
 Let us have a mighty measure, 
 Till we quite forget the earth, 
 
 And soar into the world of pleasure. 
 Drink, and let a health go round, 
 
 ('Tis the drinker's noble duty,) 
 To the eyes that shine and wound. 
 
 To the mouths that bud in beauty ! 
 
 Here's to Helen ! Why, ah ! why 
 
 Doth she fly from my pursuing ? 
 Here's to Marian, cold and shy ! 
 
 May she warm before thy wooing ! 
 Here's to Janet ! I've been e'er. 
 
 Boy and man, her staunch defender, 
 Always sworn that she was fair, 
 
 Always Jcnown that she was tender ! 
 
 Fill the deep-mouthed glasses high ! 
 
 Let them with the champaign tremble, 
 Like the loose wrack in the sky, 
 
 When the four wild winds assemble ! 
 Here's to all the love on earth, 
 
 (Love, the young man's, wise man's, treasure !^ 
 Drink, and fill your throats with mirth ! 
 
 Drink, and drown the world in pleasure ! 
 
SONGS. 163 
 
 CXXXV RIVER OF THE MORN. 
 
 River of the morn ! 
 Fast thou flow'st and bright ; 
 
 From the sundered East thou flowest, 
 Bearing down the Night : 
 
 Every cloud thy beauty drinketh ; 
 
 Darkness from thy current shrinketh ; 
 Leaving the Heavens empty quite, 
 For the conquering Light ! 
 
 O, the Thought new-born ! 
 
 Lovely 'tis, and bright : 
 
 Like some jewel of the morn, 
 
 Nursed in frozen night. 
 
 But it trembleth soon and groweth, 
 And dissolved in splendor floweth, 
 (Like the flooding dawn, that pours 
 O'er and o'er the cloudy shores,) 
 
 Till blind Ignorance wings her flight 
 
 From the conquering Light ! 
 
 O, ye Thoughts of youth, 
 
 Long since flown away ! 
 
 What ye want in truth, 
 
 Ye in love repay ! 
 
 Though in shadowy forests hidden. 
 Like the bird that's lost and chidden. 
 Back again with all your songs, 
 Ye do come and soothe our wrongs, 
 
 Till the unburthen'd heart doth soar 
 
 Wiser than before ! 
 
164 SONGS, 
 
 CXXXVI. — SONff SHOULD BREATHE. 
 
 Song should breathe of scents and flowers ; 
 
 Song should like a river flow ; 
 Song should bring back scenes and hours 
 
 That we loved, — ah, long ago ! 
 
 Song from baser thoughts should win us ; 
 
 Sonor should charm us out of woe : 
 Song should stir the heart within us. 
 
 Like a patriot's friendly blow. 
 
 Pains and pleasures, all man doeth, 
 
 War and peace, and right and wrong, — 
 
 All things that the soul subdueth 
 
 Should be vanquished, too, by Song. 
 
 Song should spur the mind to duty ; 
 
 Nerve the weak, and stir the strong : 
 Every deed of truth and beauty 
 
 Should be crowned by starry Song ! 
 
SONGS. 165 
 
 CXXX VII. — SONG FOR OUR FATHER LAND. 
 
 Hurrah ! Here's a health to the land, 
 
 Brave brothers, wherein we were born ; 
 Here's a health to the friend that we love ! 
 Here's a heart for the man that's forlorn ! 
 Let us drink unto all, 
 Who help us or lack us, 
 From the child and the poor man. 
 To Ceres and Bacchus ; 
 And to Plenty (thrice over!) not forgetting her horn ! 
 
 Here's a health to the Sun in the sky ; 
 
 To the corn, — to the fruit in the ground ; 
 To the fish, — to the brute, — to the bird ; 
 To the vine, — may it spread and abound ! 
 To good fellows and friends 
 Whom we love or who love us. 
 Far off us, or near us. 
 Below, or above us ; 
 For a friend is a gem, — wheresoever he's found ! 
 
 Here's a curse on bad times that are past ! 
 
 Were they better — but now they're no more ! 
 So, here's to all Good — may it last! 
 
 And a health to the future — thrice o'er! 
 May the hope that we look upon 
 Never deceive us ! 
 May the Spirit of good 
 Never fail us or leave us ; 
 But stand up like a friend that is true to the core ! 
 
166 SONGS. 
 
 Ambition, — oh lay it in dust ! 
 
 Revenge, — 'tis a snake : let it die ! 
 And for Pride, — let it feed on a crust, 
 Though sweet Pity look out from the sky ! 
 But Wisdom and Hope, 
 And the honest endeavor, — 
 May they smile on us noWj 
 And stand by us for ever, 
 Fast friends, wheresoever the tempest shall fly ! 
 
 CXXXVIIL — THOU HAST LOVE W^ITHIN THINE EYES. 
 
 Thou hast love within thine eyes. 
 
 Though they be as dark as night ; 
 And a pity (shewn by sighs) 
 
 Heaveth in thy bosom white : 
 
 What is all the azure light 
 Which the flaxen beauties shew, 
 
 If the scorn be sharp and bright. 
 Where the tender love should glow 1 
 
 Do I love thee? — Lady, no! 
 
 I was born for other skies. 
 Where the palmy branches grow. 
 
 And the unclouded mornings rise : 
 
 There — (when sudden evening dies) 
 I will tell of thee, before 
 
 The beauty of Dione's eyes. 
 And she shall love thee evermore ! 
 
SONGS. 167 
 
 CXXXIX. — TO THE SNOW DROP. 
 
 Pretty firstling of the year ! 
 
 Herald of the host of flowers 1 
 Hast thou left my cavern drear, 
 
 In the hope of summer hours '? 
 
 Back unto my earthern bowers! 
 Back to thy warm world below, 
 
 Till the strength of suns and showers 
 Q,uell the now relentless snow ! 
 
 Art still here ? — Alive 1 and blythe 1 
 
 Though the stormy Night hath fled, 
 And the Frost hath passed his scythe 
 
 O'er thy small unsheltered head? 
 
 Ah ! — some lie amidst the dead, 
 (Many a giant stubborn tree, — ■ 
 
 Many a plant, its spirit shed,) 
 That were better nursed than thee ! 
 
 What hath saved thee ? Thou wast not 
 'Gainst the arrowy winter furred, — 
 
 Armed in scale, — but all forgot 
 
 When the frozen winds were stirred. 
 Nature, who doth clothe the bird, 
 
 Should have hid thee in the earth, 
 Till the cuckoo's song was heard, 
 And the Spring let loose her mirth. 
 
 Nature, — deep and mystic word ! 
 Mighty mother, still unknown ! 
 
168 SONGS. 
 
 Thou didst sure the Snow-drop gird 
 With an armor all thine own ! 
 Thou, who sent'st it forth alone 
 
 To the cold and sullen season, 
 
 (Like a thought at random thrown,) 
 
 Sent it thus for some grave reason ! 
 
 If 'twere but to pierce the mind 
 
 With a single gentle thought, 
 Who shall deem thee harsh or blind ? 
 
 Who that thou hast vainly wrought? 
 
 Hoard the gentle virtue caught 
 From the Snow-drop, — reader wise ! 
 
 Good is good, wherever taught, 
 On the ground or in the skies ! 
 
 CXL. — WILT THOU LEAVE ME? 
 
 Wilt thou leave me 1 I did give 
 All my fond true heart to thee, 
 
 Dreaming thou might' st scorn it not; 
 And canst thou abandon me 1 
 
 I have loved — oh, word of love, 
 Bear me to thy star of bliss ! 
 
 Let me know if worlds above 
 Can requite the pain of this? 
 
 I have loved — oh, lover, why 
 Must I all my fondness tell ? 
 
 Do not — do not bid me die 
 
 At thy cruel word — ' Farewell ! ' 
 
SONGS. 169 
 
 CXLI.— IN COMMEMORATION OF HAYDN. 
 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Come forth, victorious Sounds, — from harp and horn, 
 From viol, and trump, and echoing instruments ! 
 
 A hundred years have flown ! A hundred years. 
 
 Of toil and strife, of joys and tears. 
 Have risen to life, and died 'midst vain laments. 
 
 Since that harmonious morn. 
 
 Whereon the Muse's mighty Son was born ! 
 
 Sound, — Immortal Music, sound ! 
 
 Bid the golden words go 'round ! 
 
 Every heart and tongue, proclaim 
 
 Haydn's power ! Haydn's fame ! 
 
 Sing, — how well he earned his glory ! 
 
 Sing, — how he shall live in story ! 
 
 Sing, — how he doth live in light; 
 Shining like a star above us. 
 Bending down to cheer and love us 
 
 Crown'd with his own divine delight ! 
 
 Sound, — Immortal Music, sound! 
 
 Bid thy golden words go 'round ! 
 
 Every grand and gentle tone. 
 Every truth he made his own ; 
 Gathering from the human mind 
 All the bloom that poets find, — 
 
170 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 Gathering, from the winds and ocean, 
 Dreams, to feed his high emotion. 
 When the Muse was past control, — 
 Gathering, from all things that roll 
 Within Time's vast and starry round, 
 The thoughts that give a Soul to sound ! 
 
 CXLII. — ON THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD. 
 
 A YEAR — an age shall fade away, 
 
 (Ages of pleasure and of pain) 
 And yet the face I see to-day 
 
 For ever shall remain, — 
 In my heart and in my brain ! 
 Not all the scalding tears of care 
 Shall wash away that vision fair ; 
 Not all the thousand thoughts that rise, 
 Not all the sights that dim mine eyes. 
 
 Shall e'er usurp the place 
 
 Of that little angel face ! 
 
 But here it shall remain 
 For ever ; and if joy or pain 
 Turn my troubled winter gaze 
 Back unto my hawthorn days, 
 There, — amongst the hoarded past, 
 I shall see it to the last ; 
 The only thing, save poet's rhyme, 
 That shall not own the touch of Time ! 
 
SONGS. 171 
 
 CXLIII. — INSCRIPTIONS. — JJfore Grmcum. 
 
 I, For a Fountain. 
 Rest ! This little Fountain runs 
 
 Thus for aye : — It never stays 
 For the look of summer suns, 
 
 Nor the cold of winter days. 
 Whosoe'er shall wander near, 
 
 When the Syrian heat is worst, 
 Let him hither come, nor fear 
 
 Lest he may not slake his thirst : 
 He will find this little river 
 Running still as bright as ever. 
 Let him drink, and onwards hie, 
 Bearing but in thought that I, 
 Erotas, bade the Naiad fall. 
 And thank the great god Pan for all ! 
 
 II. For a Temple of Esculapius. 
 IxV this high nook, built all by mortal hand, 
 An Epidaurian Temple, here I stand 
 Sacred to him who drives away disease, 
 And gives to all who seek him health and ease ! 
 I stand devoted to the God of health, — 
 To Esculapius old ; built by the wealth 
 Of grateful men, who owe to his rare skill, 
 Life, ease, and all that Fortune spares them still ! 
 
172 SONGS. 
 
 III. For a Streamlet. 
 
 Traveller, note ! Although I seem 
 
 But a little sparklmg stream, 
 
 I come from regions where the sun 
 
 Dwelleth when his toil is done — 
 
 From yon proud hills in the West. 
 
 Thence I come, and never rest, 
 
 Till (curling round the mountain's feet) 
 
 I find myself 'mid pastures sweet. 
 
 Vernal, green, and ever gay; 
 
 And then I gently slide away, 
 
 A thing of silence, — till I cast 
 
 My life into the sea at last ! 
 
 IV. For an Antique Drinking Cup. 
 
 Drink ! If thou find'st my round all filled with wine, 
 Which lifts men's creeping thoughts to dreams divine, 
 Drink, and become a God ! Anacreon old 
 Once quenched his mighty thirst from out my gold : 
 Rich was I, red, and brimming ; — but he laughed, 
 And, (tasting sparely,) drained me at a draught. 
 Bacchanal ! If thou lov'st the Teian's fame, 
 Take courage — grasp me fast — and strait do Thou 
 the same ! 
 
SONGS. 173 
 
 CXLIV. — NAPOLEON. 
 
 Hark ! the world is rent asunder : 
 
 Nations are aghast ; and kings 
 (Mingling in the common wonder) 
 Shake, like humbler things. 
 
 Oyily thou art left alone, 
 
 Napoleon ! Napoleon ! 
 
 Plague, from out her trance awaking, 
 
 Quits her ancient hot domain ; 
 And War, the stateman's fetters breakino-. 
 Shouts to thee — in vain ! 
 
 Both to thee are noiv unknown, 
 
 Napoleon I Napoleon ! 
 
 He who rode War's fiery billows 
 
 Once, and ruled their surges wild. 
 Now beneath Helena's willows 
 Sleepeth — like a child ! 
 
 All thy soaring spirit flown: 
 
 Napoleon! Napoleon! 
 
 In his grave the warrior sleepeth, 
 
 Humbly laid, and half forgot. 
 And nought, besides the willow, weepeth 
 O'er that silent spot ! 
 
 Calm it is, and all thine own ; 
 
 Napoleon ! Napoleon ! 
 
 But, — what columns teach his merit ? 
 What rich ermines wrap him round ? — 
 
174 SONGS. 
 
 None ; — His proud and plumed Spirit 
 Crowns alone the ground ! 
 
 Proud and pale, and all alone, 
 
 Lies the dead Napoleon ! 
 
 CXL v. — GOLDEN-TRESSED ADELAIDE. 
 
 A SONG FOR A CHILD. 
 SET TO MUSIC BY THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM. 
 
 Sing, I pray, a little song, 
 
 Mother dear ! 
 Neither sad nor very long : 
 It is for a little maid. 
 Golden-tressed Adelaide ! 
 Therefore let it suit a merry merry ear. 
 
 Mother dear ! 
 
 Let it be a merry strain, 
 
 Mother dear ! 
 Shunning e'en the thought of pain : 
 For our gentle child will weep, 
 If the theme be dark and deep ; 
 And We will not draw a single single tear. 
 
 Mother dear ! 
 
 Childhood should be all divine. 
 
 Mother dear ! 
 And like an endless summer shine ; 
 Gay as Edward's shouts and cries, 
 Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : 
 Therefore, bid thy song be merry : — dost thou hear. 
 
 Mother dear 1 
 
SONGS. 175 
 
 CXLVL — LOVE FLYING. 
 
 Love flies, fond wretch, across the desert air ; 
 
 Pursued by passionate thoughts and phantom fears, 
 His tender heart, though young, the home of care, 
 
 His eyes (now hidden) blind with many tears : 
 To what less hopeless region can he flee, 
 
 Sweet and gentle lole ! 
 
 Tell me, and bid me fly ; and tell me, too. 
 
 Why Love goes weeping when he looks at thee ? 
 
 Why do his eyes, like mine, forsake Heaven's blue ? 
 Why can we nothing see, 
 
 Save that one spot of earth where Thou mayst be ? 
 
 Give me one smile, sweet heart ! — for my eyes now 
 Grow dim, like Love's, with tears ; and I could fade 
 
 Beneath the beauty of thy gentle brow, 
 Into the everlasting fatal shade, 
 
 Where cold Oblivion near pale Death is laid, 
 Could I but win one tender thought from tliee^ 
 
 Sweet, — sweet lole ! 
 
176 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 CXLVIL — A DREAMER'S SONG. 
 
 I DREAM of thee at morn, 
 When all the earth is gay, 
 
 Save I, who live a life forlorn. 
 And die thro' a long decay. 
 
 I dream of thee at noon. 
 
 When the summer sun is high. 
 
 And the river sings a sleepy tune, 
 And the woods give no reply. 
 
 I dream of thee at eve, 
 
 Beneath the fading sun, 
 When even the winds begin to grieve ; 
 
 And I dream till day is done. 
 
 I dream of thee at night. 
 
 When dreams, men say, are free : 
 Alas, thou dear — too dear delight ! 
 
 When dream I not of thee 1 
 
SONGS- 177 
 
 CXLVIII. — A POET'S THOUGHT. 
 
 Tell me, what is a poet's thought? 
 
 Is it on the sudden born 1 
 Is it from the star-light caught ? 
 Is it by the tempest taught ? 
 
 Or by whispering morn ? 
 Was it cradled in the brain ? 
 
 Chained awhile, or nursed in night ? 
 Was it wrought with toil and pain 1 
 Did it bloom and fade again, 
 
 Ere it burst to light? 
 No more question of its birth : 
 
 Rather love its better part I 
 'Tis a thing of sky and earth. 
 Gathering all its golden worth 
 
 From the Poet's heart. 
 
 CXLIX. — TO A LADY ATTIRING HERSELF. 
 
 For whom — (too happy for the earth or skies ! ) 
 Dost thou adorn thee with such restless care ? 
 
 Or veil the star-light beauty of thine eyes? 
 Or bind in fatal wreaths thy golden hair ? 
 
 He dies who looks on thee,. ..as /have died, 
 
 (Love's ghost and victim) slain by thy cold pride ! 
 
 He dies, oh ! he must die — but will he wander 
 (As / have done) for ever round thy door ? 
 
 Or on thy deadly beauty dream and ponder, 
 (As I still dream) — for ever and evermore? 
 12 
 
178 SONGS. 
 
 CL. — WILT THOU REMEMBER ME? 
 
 Wilt thou remember me when I am gone, — 
 Gone to that leaden darkness, where men lie, 
 
 Shut out from friends, in chambers all of stone — 
 Waiting my summons from the awful sky ? 
 
 Think of me, sometimes, sweet ! — all cold, — all pale, 
 Beyond the power of pain, — a Spirit taken 
 By Death to regions where no hearts awaken ; 
 Where no hopes haunt us — no wild sorrows wail — 
 Where even thy love itself can then no more avail ! 
 
 CLL — I GO, AND SHE DOTH MISS ME NOT ! 
 
 I GO, — and she doth miss me not ! 
 So shall I die, and be forgot — 
 Forgot, as is some sorrow past, 
 Or cloud by fleeting sickness cast. 
 
 Death, and the all absorbing tomb, 
 Will hide me in eternal gloom ; 
 And she will live — as gay — alone. 
 As though I had been never known ! 
 
 'Tis well, perhaps, that this should be ; 
 
 'Tis, surely, well sad thoughts should flee ! 
 
 Nor would I wish — when I am hid 
 
 Underneath the coffin's lid — 
 
 That thou shouldst spoil one blooming thought for me, 
 
 Fair and for-aye-beloved lole ! 
 
SONGS. 179 
 
 ULIL — A PARTING SONG. 
 
 Wilt thou leave thy home so kmd, 
 
 For the Ocean wild ? 
 Canst thou leave me, old and blind, 
 
 Untender child? 
 
 Dost thou think the storms above thee 
 
 Will respect my son ? 
 Dost thou dream the vi^orld will love thee, 
 
 As / have done ? 
 
 Boy, through nights and years I've nursed thee, 
 
 How — thy heart should tell, 
 And (come what will,) I have not cursed thee; 
 
 And so — farewell ! 
 
 CLIII. — I DIE FOR THY SWEET LOVE. 
 
 I DIE for thy sweet love ! The ground 
 
 Not panteth so for summer rain. 
 As I for one soft look of thine ; 
 
 And yet — I sigh in vain ! 
 A hundred men are near thee now — - 
 
 Each one, perhaps, surpassing me : 
 But who doth feel a thousandth part 
 
 Of what I feel for thee ? 
 They look on thee, as men will look, 
 
 Who 'round the wild world laugh and rove ; 
 / only think how sweet 'twould be 
 
 To die for thy sweet love ! 
 
180 SONGS. 
 
 CLIV. — WHAT USE IS ALL THE LOVE I BEAR THEE ? 
 
 What use is all the love I bear thee, 
 
 Without thy sweet return ? 
 What use in Fate's cold patient lesson, 
 
 Which my soul cannot learn ? 
 
 I love thee — as, they tell in story, 
 Men love in burning climes ; 
 
 And I let loose my wild heart before thee. 
 In burning, burning rhymes ! 
 
 Were't not for this, my chafed Spirit 
 Would burst its bonds and flee ! 
 
 And Thou ? Ah, yes, thy gentle heart 
 Would still give a thought to me ! 
 
 CLV. — A FAREWELL. 
 
 Fareavell ! — Now Time must slowlier move 
 
 Than e'er since this dark world began ! 
 And thou wilt give thy heaven of love 
 
 Unto another, happier man ! 
 And then — I never more will see 
 
 Those eyes, — but hide, far off, my pain ; 
 And thou wilt have forgotten me, 
 
 Or smile thou see'st me not again. 
 Live happy, in thy happier lot ; 
 
 And I will strive, (if 't so must be,) 
 To think 'tis well to be forgot. 
 
 Since it may keep a pang from thee. 
 
SONGS. 181 
 
 CLVJ. — SHE SATE BY THE RIVER SPRINGS. 
 
 She sate by the river springs 
 
 rs. 
 
 And bound her coal-black hair ; 
 
 And she sang, as the cuckoo sings, 
 
 Alone, — in the Evening air, 
 
 With a patient smile, and a look of care, 
 
 And a cheek that was dusk, not fair : — 
 
 She sate, but her thoughts had wings, 
 
 That carried her sweet despair 
 
 Away to the azure plains. 
 
 Where Truth and the angels are : 
 
 She sang, — but she sang in vain : 
 
 Ah ! why doth she sing again ? 
 
 She mourns, like the sweet wind grieving in 
 
 The pines on an autumn night ; 
 She will fade, like the fading Evening, 
 When Hesper is blooming bright : 
 And her song ? — it must take its flight ! 
 So pretty a song 
 Must die ere long, 
 Like a too, too sharp delight ! 
 
 She 2cas — like the rose in summer ; 
 
 She is — like the lily frail; 
 Yet, they'll welcome the sweet new comer, 
 Below, in the regions pale ! 
 And the ghost will forget his pain, 
 As he roams thro' the dusk alone : 
 And We 1 — We will mourn in vain. 
 O'er the Shadow of beauty flown ! 
 
182 SONGS. 
 
 CLVII. — A REPROACH. 
 
 Look gently on me ! Thou dost move 
 (Yet why?) thine eyes away ! 
 
 Dost dream that 1 could harm thee, Love, 
 Or thy sweet soul betray ? 
 
 Know better ! Some may seek their end, 
 Through all bad deeds that be : 
 
 But / — beyond the world thy friend — 
 Can never injure thcc ! 
 
 My love, my woe, I not deny ; 
 
 And I cannot from them flee : 
 But — if thou biddest — I can die 
 
 Far — far away from thee ! 
 
 CLVIIL — A CONCEIT. 
 
 Sweet sights, sweet scents, sweet sounds. 
 
 All to my sweet Love hie : 
 Some go their viewless rounds ; 
 
 Some sail before her eye ; 
 But the sweetest — oh ! the sweetest, 
 
 Deep in her bosom lie ! 
 
 The violet comes to woo her, 
 With an eye like Heaven above ; 
 
 Nio-ht's sweet bird mourns unto her ; 
 Soft winds all round her rove ; 
 
 And tender — tenderest thoughts pursue her, 
 With a voice as sweet as love ! 
 
SONGS. 183 
 
 CLIX. — A NIGHT SONG. 
 
 'Tis Night! 'tis Night, — the Hour of hours, 
 When Love lies down with folded wings, 
 
 By Psyche in her starless bowers, 
 And down his fatal arrows flings, — 
 
 Those bowers whence not a sound is heard, 
 
 Save only from the bridal bird. 
 
 Who 'midst that utter darkness sings : 
 
 This her burthen soft and clear, — 
 
 Love is here ! Love is here ! 
 
 'Tis Night! The moon is on the stream; 
 
 Bright spells are on the soothed sea ; 
 And Hope, the child, is gone to dream, 
 
 Of pleasures which may never be ! 
 And now is haggard Care asleep ; 
 
 Now doth the widow Sorrow smile ; 
 And slaves are hushed in slumber deep, 
 
 Forgetting grief and toil awhile ! 
 
 What sight can fiery morning shew 
 
 To shame the stars or pale moonlight ? 
 What bounty can the day bestow. 
 
 Like that which falls from gentle Night? 
 
 Sweet Lady, sing I not aright ? 
 Oh ! turn and tell me — for the day 
 Is faint and fading fast away ; 
 And now comes back the Hour of hours, 
 
 When Love his lovlier mistress seeks, 
 And sighs, like winds 'mong evening flowers, 
 
 Until the maiden Silence speaks ! 
 
184 SONGS. 
 
 Fair girl, methinks — nay, hither turn 
 Those eyes, which 'mid their blushes burn — 
 Methinks, at such a time one's heart 
 Can better bear both sweet and smart, — 
 Love's look — the first — which never dieth, 
 Or Death — who comes when Beauty flieth, 
 When strength is slain, when youth is past, 
 And all, save Truth, is lost at last! 
 
 CLX. — TO ADELAIDE. 
 
 Child of my heart ! My sweet, beloved First-born ! 
 Thou dove who tidings bring' st of calmer hours ! 
 Thou rainbow who dost shine when all the showers 
 Are past, — or passing ! Rose which hath no thorn, — 
 No spot, no blemish, — pure, and unforlorn ! 
 Untouched, untainted ! O, my Flower of flowers I 
 More welcome than to bees are summer bowers, 
 To stranded seamen life-assuring morn ! 
 Welcome, — a thousand welcomes ! Care, who clings 
 'Round all, seems loosening now its serpent fold : 
 New hope springs upward ; and the bright World seems 
 Cast back into a youth of endless springs ! 
 Sweet mother, is it so ? — or grow I old 
 Bewildered in divine Elysian dreams? 
 
 November, 18Q5. 
 
SONGS. 185 
 
 CLXL — A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Send down thy winged angel, God ! 
 
 Amidst this night so wild ; 
 And bid him come where now we watch, 
 
 And breathe upon our child ! 
 
 She lies upon her pillow, pale, 
 
 And moans within her sleep, 
 Or wakeneth with a patient smile. 
 
 And striveth not to weep ! 
 
 How gentle and how good a child ' 
 
 She is, we know too well. 
 And dearer to her parents' hearts, 
 
 Than our weak words can tell. 
 
 We love — we watch throughout the night, 
 
 To aid, when need may be; 
 We hope, — and have despaired, at times ; 
 
 But now we turn to Thee ! 
 
 Send down thy sweet-souled angel, God ! 
 
 Amidst the darkness wild. 
 And bid him soothe our souls to-night, 
 
 And heal our gentle child ! 
 
18G SONGS. 
 
 CLXIL — TO A VOYAGER. 
 
 My Love is journeying o'er the sea ! 
 
 God guard her on the deep ! 
 And force the Ocean harms to flee, 
 
 And bid the tempests sleep ! 
 To-night she leaves our English strand, 
 To sail unto the Indian land ! 
 
 She goes, all ignorant of my love ! 
 
 And fit it thus should be ! 
 For why should waves or winds above 
 
 Bear hopeless sighs from me ? 
 'Tis better I should bear — in vain, 
 Than she should answer — pain for pain! 
 Bright Stars, look gently on her sleep ! 
 
 Sweet guardian Heaven, enfold her 'round 
 And quell all madness in the deep ; 
 
 And banish from the air its sound ! 
 Oh ! guard her from all ill, — all strife ; 
 And bless her through the bloom of life ! 
 
 CLXIIL — HIS LOVE IS HIDDEN. 
 
 His love is hidden, like the springs 
 
 Which lie in Earth's deep heart below ; 
 And murmur there a thousand things. 
 
 Which nought above may hear or know. 
 'Tis hid, not buried ! Without sound, 
 
 Or light or limit, night and day. 
 It (like the dark springs underground,) 
 
 Runs, ebbs not, and ne'er can decay ! 
 
187 
 
 CLXIV SONG FROM A PLAY. 
 
 Why art thou, Love! so fair, so young? 
 Why is that sad sweet music hung, 
 For ever, on thy gentle tongue? 
 
 Why art thou fond ? Why art thou fair ? 
 Why sitteth, in thy soft eye. Care? 
 Why smil'st thou in such sweet despair? 
 Youth, Beauty fade, — like summer roses: 
 Sad music sadder love discloses : 
 Dark Care in darker death reposes ! 
 All's vain ! the rough world careth not 
 For thee — for me — for our dark lot. 
 We love. Sweet, but to be forgot ! 
 
 We love, — and meet the world's sharp scorn : 
 We live, — to die some common morn, — 
 Unknown, unwept, and still forlorn ! 
 Why, dear one, why — ivhy were we born? 
 
 CLXV. — SISTER, I CANNOT READ TO-DAY. 
 
 Sister, I cannot read to-day ! 
 
 Before my eyes the letters stream ; 
 Now, — one by one, — they fade away, 
 
 Like shadows in a dream : 
 All seems a fancy, half forgot : 
 Sweet sister, do I dream or not? 
 
 I cannot work ; I cannot rest ; 
 
 I cannot sing — nor think, to day : 
 
188 
 
 The wild heart panteth in my breast, 
 
 As though 'twould break away. 
 Why — wherefore — Ah, girl ! ease my woe, 
 And tell me — lohy he tarrieth so ! 
 
 CLX VI. — SEA-SHORE STANZAS. 
 
 Methinks, I fain would lie by the lone Sea, 
 
 And hear the waters their white music weave ! 
 
 Methinks it were a pleasant thing to grieve, 
 
 So that our sorrows might companioned be, 
 
 By that strange harmony 
 
 Of winds and billows, and the living sound 
 
 Sent down from Heaven when the Thunder speaks, 
 
 Unto the listening shores and torrent creeks, 
 
 When the swoll'n Sea doth strive to burst his bound ! 
 
 Methinks, when tempests come and kiss the Ocean, 
 
 Until the vast and terrible billows wake, 
 
 I see the writhing of that curled snake. 
 
 Which men of old believed, — and my emotion 
 
 Warreth within me, till the fable reigns 
 
 God of my fancy, and my curdling veins 
 
 Do homage to that serpent old. 
 
 Which clasped the great world in its fold, 
 
 And brooded over earth, and the charmed sea, 
 
 Like endless, restless, drear Eternity ! 
 
SONGS. . 189 
 
 CLXVll. — ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 
 
 Hither come, at close of day, 
 
 And o'er this dust, sweet Mothers, pray ! 
 A little infant lies within, 
 Who never knew the name of sin, 
 
 Beloved, — bright, — and all our own ; 
 
 Like morning fair. — and sooner flown ! 
 
 No leaves or garlands wither here, 
 
 Like those in foreign lands ; 
 No marble hides our dear one's bier, 
 
 The work of alien hands : 
 The months it lived, the name it bore, 
 The silver telleth, — nothing more! 
 
 No more ; — yet Silence stalketh round 
 
 This vault so dim and deep, 
 And Death keeps watch without a sound, 
 
 Where all lie pale and sleep ; 
 But palest here and latest hid. 
 Is He — beneath this coffin lid. 
 
 How fair he was, — how vejy fair — 
 
 What dreams we pondered o'er. 
 Making his life so long and clear, 
 
 His fortune's flowing o'er ; 
 Our hopes — (that he would happy be, 
 
 When we ourselves were old,) 
 The scenes we saw, or hoped to see — 
 
 They're soon and sadly told. 
 All was a dream ! — it came and fled, 
 And left us here, amonor the dead ! 
 
190 
 
 Pray, Mothers, pray, at close of day, 
 While we, sad parents, weep alway ! 
 Pray, too, (and softly be't and long,) 
 That all your babes, now fair and strong 
 May blossom like — not like the rose. 
 For that doth fade when summer goes, — 
 ('Twas thus our pretty infant died, 
 The summer and its mother's pride!) 
 But, like some stern enduring tree, 
 That reacheth its green century, 
 May grow, may flourish, — then decay, 
 After a long, calm, happy day. 
 Made happier by good deeds to men, 
 And hopes in heaven to meet again ! 
 
 Pray ! — From the happy, prayer is due ; 
 While we — ('tis all we now can do ! ) 
 Will check our tears, and pray with you. 
 
 CLXVIII. — TO A POETESS. 
 
 Dread'st thou lest thou should' st die unknown ? 
 
 What matter ? All the strength of Fame 
 And Death have this poor power alone, — 
 
 To give thee an uncertain fame. 
 
 The critic dull and envious bard 
 Will quarrel o'er thine ashes dear ; 
 
 That past, — thy single sad reward 
 Must be some lonely lover's tear ! 
 
SONGS. 191 
 
 CLXIX. — A PETITION TO TIME. 
 
 Touch us gently, Time ! 
 
 Let us glide adown thy stream 
 Gently, — as we sometimes glide 
 
 Through a quiet dream ! 
 Humble voyagers are We, 
 Husband, wife, and children three — 
 (One is lost, — an angel, fled 
 To the azure overhead !) 
 
 Touch us gently. Time ! 
 
 We've not proud nor soaring wings : 
 Our ambition, our content 
 
 Lies in simple things. 
 Humble voyagers are We, 
 O'er Life's dim unsounded sea. 
 Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
 Touch us gently, gentle time ! 
 
 CLXX.— A QUESTION AND REPLY. 
 
 " What is there on this dark cold bank. 
 That thou so long hast sought ? 
 
 Methinks these briers and rushes dank, — 
 
 This hollow, with the wild grass rank, 
 Shew nothing worth a thought !" 
 
 " I seek what thou canst value not, 
 What thou canst never see, — 
 Soft eyes, by all but me forgot, 
 Which here — ay, on this dark cold spot, 
 Bent their last look on me ! " 
 
192 SONGS. 
 
 CLXXL — WISHES. 
 
 Sweet be her dreams, the fair, the young ! 
 
 Grace, beauty, breathe upon her ! 
 Music, haunt thou about her tongue ! 
 
 Life, fill her path with honor ! 
 
 All golden thoughts, all wealth of days, 
 Truth, Friendship, Love, surround her ! 
 
 So may she smile till life be closed. 
 And Angel hands have crowned her ! 
 
 CLXXII. — AN EPITAPH. 
 
 He died, and left the world behind ! 
 
 His once wild heart is cold ! 
 His once keen eye is quelled and blind ! 
 
 What more '? — His tale is told. 
 
 He came, and, baring his heav'n-bright thought. 
 
 He earned the base World's ban : 
 And, — having vainly lived and taught, 
 
 Gave place to a meaner man ! 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS 
 
 1 . A Murderer reproaches his employer ; — the retort. 
 
 Sir Philip. — You come o' the sudden 1 
 
 Brand. — Ay, Sir, unannounced. 
 As doth the wind, or raging waters, when 
 They burst their bonds, and on the hearths of men 
 Rush down with cries of ruin ! 
 
 Sir Philip. — You are learned : 
 What is't you want? 
 
 Brand. — Sir, the philosopher's stone, — 
 Justice; long sought ne'er found. I've kept sad watch 
 In hopes your pity would dissolve at last. 
 And flow upon us : But your heart is steel, 
 (Hard, cold, thrice-tempered in an orphan's tears,) 
 And will not melt nor bend. 
 
 Sir Philip. — Where doth this lead ? 
 
 Brand. — I'll tell you, so you've patience. — Let us turn 
 Our thoughts back thro' the crimes of thirty years, 
 13 
 
194 
 
 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 And we shall see each other as we were ; 
 
 Both young, and one imprudent. I — (let loose 
 
 By manhood from the bondage of my youth,) 
 
 Plunged into riot : You, more wise, lent out 
 
 Your wisdom to great men, who paid you back 
 
 (With something better than the courtier's coin,) 
 
 With place, and profit ; on which helps, you rose 
 
 To greatness. Then, — a sudden tempest wrecked 
 
 The vessel where your fortunes lay embayed, 
 
 And hurled you down to your ancient poverty. 
 
 — Tired of the toil of rising, and long used 
 
 To silken pleasures, you could not put on 
 
 Your youthful habits ; but, with discontent 
 
 (The villain's sword) walked thoughtful up and down, 
 
 Seeking some wretch still needier than yourself. 
 
 And came on — me! I was — ('twas my black hour !) 
 
 So closely knit to every basest grief, 
 
 So famish'd, and in such frightful beggary. 
 
 That I have quarrelled with the houseless cur. 
 
 For scraps the stomach sickens at. You saw this ; 
 
 And (though you had before refused my wants) 
 
 Proffered — I know not what : 'twas wealth — 'twas life ; 
 
 (For from my bones the lean and traitorous flesh 
 
 Had fled, and left a desperate skeleton ;) 
 
 And ready was I to do aught 'gainst earth. 
 
 Nay, 'gainst high Heaven, — if 'twere but for a meal ! 
 
 But, what's all this? You know't, as well as I. 
 
 You had a dying brother, — he a son. 
 
 Whose life eclipsed and hid you from the light : — 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 195 
 
 'Twas but a little blood, and all was over ! 
 You tempted, and — I fell. 
 
 Sir Philip. — Why, you were then 
 A murderer, ready made. What cant is this ? 
 Were you not paid? Your bones well armed with flesh ? 
 That flesh apparelled like a gentleman? 
 Dog that you are, why, — when all's fairly done, 
 The bargain consummate, the coin paid down, 
 And you still fattening at my yearly cost, — 
 Why do you come, and with your diseased tongue, 
 Howl at bright Fortune 1 Will you starve again ? 
 Shrink into bone ? Swear yourself out aloud 
 The butcher of a child? Wilt hang 1 Wilt kneel,— 
 And let the scoffing crowd scorn upon thee 1 
 What is't you ask ? What end do you propose, — 
 That thus with insolent, useless, base remorse. 
 You beard me in my house, and bid me shake 
 Your vulgar hand in bloody fellowship ? 
 
 2. A Man without Repentance. 
 I DO not grieve that I am here alone ; 
 Nor grieve I for what's done. Could I now will 
 That Time might tread his weary footsteps back, 
 And earth grow bright again, I would not hav't. 
 What use ? What end 1 My soul again would welcome 
 Her terrible choice : Again would I, undismayed, 
 Wed my dark fortune — live in ghastly dreams; 
 Rather than bear the weight of beggary. 
 The curse of hunger, — toil, contempt, and shame, 
 And die at last, — a felon j or — a slave. 
 
196 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 3. A Jew^s use for Riches. 
 
 Jew. — My Lord, I live here in perpetual fear ; 
 My only friend being gold. Five times already 
 I've bought this wintered body from the flames ; 
 As oft repeals from exile. Scorn I endure, 
 And hatred bear, from all. Were I but poor, 
 I should be trod on like the common dust, 
 Gibbetted, tortured; — I must keep my gold! 
 It is my arms, — my shield. The Christian wolves 
 Would worry me, did I not cast them down 
 The yellow bait, which bids them say "Dog, — Jew! 
 " Live, till we come to-morrow 1 " 
 
 Rod. — You could lend 
 Count Gomez on his bond — how much I know not — 
 But twenty times the weight I ask of thee. 
 
 jgjff^ — He's an Inquisitor, (doth no one hear?) 
 
 Hath power, — can help, — can crush me. When they 
 
 drag me 
 Blindfold and shaking through the horrid dark, 
 'Tis sweet, as I go down the dungeon steps. 
 And thro' the long cold silent vaulted places. 
 To think I have a friend vi^ho's judge to-night. 
 Whom gold has bought, and gold can ever buy. 
 So when I'm questioned, I reply with tears, 
 And humble prayers, and swear I've made a vow, 
 To give in Christian alms a thousand ducats. 
 And strait — my cords are loosened 1 
 
DRA3IATIC FRAGMENTS. 197 
 
 4. Consolation in Poverty. 
 
 Arm. — Why do we murmur 1 Are we poor ? What's 
 that '? 
 'Tis but to breathe the air of industry ; 
 To use sweet exercise from morn till eve, — ■ 
 Earn health, content, rude strength, and appetite ; 
 And, when Niglit draws her curtains round us, sleep 
 Through all the unbroken silence. 
 
 Man. — Thou'rt a sweet comforter. 'Tis not so bad, 
 Methinks, to toil before the eye of day. 
 
 Arm. — If there be angels watching 
 
 Man. — They shall see 
 I will dig lustily. 
 
 Arm. — They shall see, too. 
 We'll not repine, because we have no longer 
 A little leisure that we lost in dreams ! 
 
 5. The same subject. 
 
 Man. — If we had never known each other, sweet, 
 We both might have been happy. 
 
 Arm. — Think not thus. 
 It was the unerring sense of happiness 
 That led us gently to each other's arms, — 
 A prophecy more sure than hope can be ; 
 And we obeyed it. 
 
 Man. — Therefore are we here. 
 Starving, — half-dead, — despairing ! 
 
 Arm. — Loving, too : 
 Thou must not forget that. 
 
198 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 Man. — O, sweet, sweet woman! 
 Never ! The subtle word will find its road. 
 Into the deeps o' the heart. It is a vi^orm, 
 Winding its way through every obstacle, — 
 Grief, joy, dark fortune, — 'till it finds the core. 
 And there — ill luck 1 — it preys. 
 
 6. The Exultation of an Heir . 
 
 Jac. — He sleeps upon his marble pillow, now. 
 Pale as a peasant. 
 
 Giul. — Oh, a million times 
 I give thee joy. 
 
 Jac. — Ay, Giulio, I am heir 
 To lordships, mansions, forests, parks, and gems« 
 He had three mighty manors in Castile ; 
 Two broad estates in Leon ; two amidst 
 The mulberry trees of Murcia, and huge chests 
 Crammed full of ingots, dug by naked slaves 
 Who famished on coarse bread. Besides all these. 
 There bloom plantations in the East, whose fruits 
 Are pearls, and spice, and princely diamonds ; 
 And in Brazil Pactolus floods, ne'er dumb, 
 Whose waves all talk in gold ! 
 
 7. Love. 
 
 A. — The tide of love sets from me ! 
 
 B. — Tut! 't may turn. 
 
 Love's not a petty stream runs all one way ; 
 
 But like the ocean, — deep, and vast, and swayed 
 
 By Phantasy, its moon ! This hour it rolls 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 199 
 
 Inward upon a rough and barren beach ; 
 To-morrow far away. Dost thou despair 
 'Twill ever reach thee ? Oh, there's none so base, 
 But have their worshippers. Dost thou not know 
 The corse which one unmanner'd wave rejects. 
 The next will ravish? You may see it borne 
 Far out from sight of land, and there 'twill ride 
 Triumphant on the shoulders of the main ; 
 All winds and billows making music for't, 
 As thouo-h 'twere the Jove of waters ! 
 
 8. Revenge. 
 
 My Revenge 
 
 Was born in laughter ( as our highest delights 
 
 Oft' blush at first through tears) ; — but 'twill endure,— 
 
 Like oaks which, born in May, seem slight and weak, 
 
 But having a score of winters on their heads. 
 
 Grow strong and rugged ; — so doth my Revenge ! 
 
 Nought shall impoverish it. The bounteous years 
 
 Shall lend their seasons and apparel it. 
 
 And, lest its roots should e'er forsake the ground. 
 
 We'll water it well, with — blood ! 
 
 9. A Blush. 
 
 Look, look ! The summer rises in her cheeks. 
 A blush, as hot as June, comes flooding o'er 
 Her too proud paleness. Burning modesty 
 Warms all her brow, and Beauty quite abashed 
 Droops her twin stars to earthward. 
 
200 
 
 DRAMATIC FRAGMEMTS. 
 
 10. ^ Butt. 
 
 A. — Yon fellow is a fool, sir : he indeed 
 Doth not profess so much ; but 'tis his trade, — 
 His calling, to be the butt of other men. 
 
 He thrives by't. You may kick him : — but, to-morrow, 
 
 Be sure he'll borrow money ! If you cast 
 
 A jibe upon him that would shame a dog. 
 
 He'll ask what time you dine. A laugh to him 
 
 Is worth a supper ; and a blow — 'tis wealth ! 
 
 To look at these things philosophically — = — 
 
 B. — At present were misplaced: — Dost mean so 
 
 much 1 
 A. — Pardon me, sir. The air of folly best 
 Doth nourish in the cynic keenest thoughts : 
 Dwells he 'midst men of sense his spirit dies. 
 Having no food for his fierce scorn to live on. 
 
 11. Specimen of Courtiers. 
 
 A. — Didst ever see such a bundle of base weeds? 
 
 B. — Dost think there's one of all this useless tribe 
 Is worth a real ? 
 
 A. — Not one : and yet the varlets 
 Demand a lawyer's fee and brave pistoles. 
 
 Ere they will serve you. Look on him who bows ! 
 Satin-faced villain ! — for his help he asks 
 A double bribe, with twice as soft a tongue 
 As he who talks plain Spanish. 
 
 B. — Who is that ? 
 
 A. — That frothy thing?— a blank, sir : but the next, 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 201 
 
 Whose acid visage wrinkles into frowns, 
 
 Gains favor of the Duke (who dreads his jibes) 
 
 By slandering all who're honest. He perhaps 
 
 May do us some sour service. Do not dream 
 
 He's not a knave because he frowns on you ; 
 
 For that's his fashion. He will purse a bribe 
 
 As readily as he who's bathed in smiles. 
 
 They're villains both, — born, bred; even-paced rogues: 
 
 The difference lies in the manner ; nothing more. 
 
 12. Account of a Boaster. 
 
 B. — Sir, he's a fellow 
 To take the devil by the sinister horn, 
 And twirl him like a top. Some years ago, 
 He needs must fly this honest wholesome country, 
 To sniff bad air in France. 'Twas there (he swore't !) 
 He slew a regiment ; and — with his eyes — 
 Murdered a world of women ! Thence, he went 
 To Rome ; and for some threepence, did propose 
 To drink up brimming Tyber, till 'twas dry. 
 
 ^. — And did he do't ? 
 
 JB. — E'gad, sir, I can't tell you : 
 But I lean much to doubt : for, — spite o' the bet, — 
 I've heard that still the river's bed runs moist, 
 And Rome does not lack water. 
 
 13. A Bridal Couple. 
 Knit up thy spirit ! Men should go faced in brass, 
 In these high unabashed bridal times. 
 Observe thou when the virgin wife dawns forth, 
 
202 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 Like blushing morning ; — Ha ! look where she comes, 
 In sweetness like the hawthorn buds unblown ; 
 While the proud bridegroom, like the month of May, 
 Steps on 'midst flov/ers. 
 
 14. A Mature Taste. 
 
 Jac. — It is not every man prefers an apple ; 
 For some like best the crab. 'Tis thus with thee. 
 
 Rod. — Well, well ! I own I do not care for women 
 Whose kiss is like a peach. Give me a touch 
 O'the austere flavor. Too much sweet will spoil 
 The daintiest dish. That taste is immature, 
 And young, which feeds, like flies, on treacle, cousin : 
 Salt, spice, hot flavors suit the learned tongue ; 
 And such a one is mine. 
 
 15. The Schoolmaster abroad. 
 
 Caraf. — I am the bard 
 
 Man. — Peace, peace ! I know you well. 
 I've heard your verses, by the hour, sir, twanged 
 To rascal viols, through rogues' noses — pah! 
 Just at my hour of sleep. I'll have thee hanged 
 For scurvy rhymes. Thou'st spread a plague so foul, 
 So foolish, that our women learn to spell ; 
 Nay, kings decypher ; and our lords are mad 
 Until they can write nonsense. Till thou cam'st, 
 We were all pure in happy ignorance, — 
 Content, — with love, sport, wine; and thought of 
 
 nothing, 
 Save what should be for dinner. 
 
I 
 
 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 203 
 
 16. Nothing 'perfect. 
 
 Scorn not our verse, because it might soar higher. 
 What's perfect on poor earth? Is not the bird 
 At whose sweet song the forests ache with love, 
 Shorn of all beauty ? Is the bittern's cry 
 As merry as the lark's? the lark's as soft 
 As the lost cuckoo's ? Nay, the lion hath 
 His fault; and the elephant, (tho' sage as wisdom) 
 May grieve he lacks the velvet of the pard. 
 
 17. Remonstrance. 
 
 The Heavens themselves. 
 
 Which throw their shadows on the floor o' the earth, 
 
 Show, in their nature, blackness: Storms and rains 
 
 Chequer the glory of their brightest hours. 
 
 How then canst thou, who walk'st 'neath changeful 
 
 skies. 
 E'er hope for cloudless fortune? 
 
 18. The Intellect strengthened hy study. 
 
 A. — If I do this what further can I do? 
 
 B. — Why, more than ever. Every task thou dost 
 Brings strength and capability to act. 
 
 He who doth climb the difficult mountain's top, 
 Will, the next day, outstrip an idler man ! 
 Dip thy young brain in wise men's deep discourse, — 
 In books, — which though they daunt thy wit awhile, 
 Will knit thee, i' the end, with wisdom. 
 
204 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 19. Taste in Vice. 
 
 He is too hard for such sweet pleasures, sir. 
 
 None ever relish (even the raciest) vice, 
 
 'Less they've a little virtue. 'Tis the sense 
 
 Of wronff that sends the tinglincr blood abroad. 
 
 They who do ill, yet feel no preference for't. 
 
 Do it in base and tasteless ignorance. 
 
 Sin should be seen to blush through Virtue's cheeks, 
 
 Mingling the rose and lily. 
 
 20. A Rich Man. 
 
 Rich ? ask'st thou if he's rich 1 Observe me, sir ! 
 His money bags are torpid, — they're so full ! 
 Crammed, glutton-like, with lumps of spendthrift gold, 
 They swell their sides, — and sleep ! 
 
 21. Sadness avoided by the loealthy. 
 
 A. — 'What will I wear' when I do visit the Duke 1 
 Why, black, — the color of my fortunes, — black. 
 
 B. — Tush I thou should' st go all gay and bride- 
 
 groom-like ; 
 Smiling in gold. 
 
 C — The lady, sir, speaks well. 
 Men of a pampered lot care not to look 
 On aught that's mournful. They recoil from woe. 
 As sickly natures from the sight of pain. 
 They want the healthy sinewy spirit, that makes 
 Endurance pleasant like to exercise. 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 205 
 
 22. Loss of Strength. 
 When I was young, I was as hot as wrath, 
 Swift like the wind, and thoughtless. My hair fell 
 In coal-black curls upon my brawny neck, 
 And sunshine filled my eyes. My voice was clear ; 
 But stern as storms are, when they 'fright the sea! 
 Now — note — look on me ! Could'st thou think despair 
 Could so deform, and with remorseless showers 
 Wash all my strength away? I, who could once 
 Strike dead the hydra, — split the oak, — now cannot 
 Outwrestle the summer urchin in his play ! 
 
 23. Questions to one restored from Death. 
 
 Sit down beside me, — thou, who hast left so lately 
 The calm dark regions, for this fretful world, — 
 Come back to sorrow, like the unthinking bird 
 Who seeks once more its cage ! Sit down beside me ; 
 And tell me what dim dreams have fallen on thee, 
 And what blank aspects and unbodied things 
 Thou met'st, in thy pale march ! Didst thou not see 
 The — Dead ? Methinks, I saw them once ! Some were 
 
 there 
 By their own serpent passions stung to death ; — 
 Some whom too little love, or too much care. 
 Made white as winter ; — pining skeletons. 
 Whom hunger turned to stone ; — mad parents, — oh I 
 Who watched, for aye, some little corse — in vain ; 
 A ghastly brotherhood, who hung together. 
 Knit firm by misery and some common wrong ! 
 
206 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 24. Tlie Grave. 
 
 'Tis fenced all round with fears, like triple brass : 
 Rocks of despair stand round it : Seas of woe 
 Shut out that region from the sunny world ; 
 And diabolic Ghosts, (whose care it is, 
 And penalty, to keep that silent land 
 Untroubled until Doom,) like ghastly giants. 
 Stand armed beside rebellious bones, and scare 
 The restless back to slumber. 
 
 25. Knowledge. 
 
 A. — What's knowledge ? 
 
 B. — Sorrow, — sorrow : little else. 
 
 All the black units which make up the amount 
 Of human life (sad sum of deeds and thoughts!) 
 Together joined, form knowledge. The great marks, 
 Which guide us onwards thro' tempestuous seas, 
 Are beacons, currents, rocks. The sunny places 
 Teach nothing, save that now and then we sink 
 By trusting what looks fair. The gibbet there 
 Blurts out a lesson ; and the clamorous blast, 
 That shakes you rattling felon in his chains, 
 Screams forth a dismal moral. 
 
 26. A Poor Man. 
 Had I been born a stone, I might have been 
 Free from that curse — a heart : but I bear in me 
 A throbbing devil, who will never sleep. 
 I am possessed! Care, Care, — the cruel pain 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 207 
 
 Which children bring upon the parents' soul, 
 
 Eats into mine, corrodes, and cankers it. 
 
 You laugh — ^ I do not starve ' — not yet, not yet : 
 
 But wait to-morrow ! Famine will be here. 
 
 In the mean time, we've still grim Care (whose tooth 
 
 Is like the tyger's, — sharp,) lest dreams should fall, 
 
 And shadow us with sweet forgetfulness. 
 
 27. A constant Soldier. 
 Ay, still he loves 
 The lion-tressed Bellona, like a bride ; 
 Woos her with blows ; and when his limbs all sweat 
 With struggling through the iron ranks of war, 
 Down doth he tumble on the tired ground. 
 Wipes his red forehead ; cries ' How brave is this ! ' 
 And dreams all night of bloody victory ! 
 
 28. The Heathen Deities. 
 Their Gods ! What were their Gods ? 
 There's Mars, — all bloody-haired; and Hercules, 
 Whose soul was in his sinews ; Pluto, blacker 
 Than his own hell ; Vulcan, who shook his horns 
 At every limp he took ! Great Bacchus rode 
 Upon a barrel ; and in a cockle-shell 
 Neptune kept state. Then, Mercury, — was a thief; 
 Juno — a shrew ; Pallas a prude, at best ; 
 And Venus v/alked the clouds in search of lovers ! 
 Only great Jove, the lord and thunderer, 
 Sate in the circle of his starry power. 
 And frowned ' I will ! ' to all. 
 
208 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 29. Might and Right. 
 
 Rod, — The lawful Right 1 The ' lawful ! ' What ig 
 that? 
 But I will tell thee. Might is Right ; and when . 
 'Tis written in red letters, ' This is law ! ' 
 Then might is law, and law is wise and right. 
 Who doubts ? We'll hang him by the statute, — strait ! 
 S'death, there's no use in strength of limbs or brain, 
 If they help not who owns them. When you catch 
 A trout, who has the right, and who the law? 
 Why, 1/ou, — who are the strong. If he could rise, 
 And shake his tail against your lawful right. 
 He'd say — " All this is 'gainst our marine laws! 
 " You rascals on dry land invade our realms, 
 " By wrong, and by no law. You send abroad 
 '' No proclamations ; prove no injuries ; 
 " Quote no good reasons ; no specific code ; 
 " But strait, when you desire some trout to eat, 
 '' You pounce upon us with your hell-barb'd hooks, 
 " And treat us worse than were we Africans. 
 "We'll not endure 't! " 
 
 Count. — Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Rod. — 'R'^-' Count! Right! 
 You ^'' >id answer — (' Might is Right ') — laugh 
 
 ^ remonstrance, and have, sans remorse, 
 
 The breaker grill'd for supper. 
 
 (,-30. Unions dangerous. 
 F. — His .t is duller than a priest's discourse j 
 And she seems coldly honest. 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 209 
 
 Gin. — True ! what then ? 
 What seemeth nitre near the cannon's mouth? 
 Cold, cold. What the charr'd wood? Why, dull as 
 
 death. 
 Yet, — married to each other, they will flame 
 Damnation through a land, and make it Hell. 
 
 31. Death stationary. 
 Should we look on him now, he would be young ; 
 Paler than stone, perhaps, — but young as when 
 No twice two hundred years had wintered him. 
 Life 'tis alone grows old : Immortal Death 
 Takes no step nearer to the goal of Time : 
 One cold brief tread, a sigh, and then to sleep : 
 Magic ne'er moves him further ! 
 32. Hatred. 
 There hath risen betwixt us 
 An immortality of hate. Old Time 
 Shall sink to dotage and forget himself, 
 And Pity cling unto an usurer's heart. 
 Ere he and I grow friends. 
 
 33. A Lover''s Likeness. 
 Her walk is like the wind ; her smile more sweet 
 Than sunshine, when it gilds the buds "^ay. 
 Rare words she has, and merry, like the i 
 And songs, — which were too sweet, but that . • ^ 
 
 They droop and sadden like the pining flute ; 
 And then her eyes, (soft planets,) lose their light 
 In bashful rain, o'er which her cloudy -lir 
 Hangs, like the night, protecting. 
 14 
 
210 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 34. Another. 
 
 The blessings of the skies all wait about her ; 
 Health, Grace, inimitable Beauty, wreathed 
 Round every motion : — On her lip, the rose 
 Has left its sweetness, (for what bee to kiss 1) 
 And from the darkening Heaven of her eyes, 
 A starry Spirit looks out : — Can it be Love 1 
 
 35. Music. 
 
 Now Music feedeth on the silent air, — 
 Like Ocean, who upon the moonlight shores 
 Of lone Siggeum, steals with murmuring noise, 
 Devouring the bright sands and purple slopes 
 Of Greece, and so retires : — But Music leaves 
 Her soul upon the silence, and our hearts 
 Hear, and for ever hoard those golden sounds. 
 And reproduce them sweet in after hours. 
 
 36. Tlie Town. 
 
 The Town ! what is there in the Town, to lure 
 Our household dreams away from the fresh flowers 1 
 Is not the Town a monster 1 ravenous ? 
 Fierce? hydra-headed? fed by peasants' strength? 
 Deck'd out with plunder of the fields ? along 
 Whose limbs of stone and marble arteries, 
 Innumerous emmets crawl, till they sink down 
 Dead with excess of feasting ? 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 211 
 
 37. Specimen of a Cavalier. 
 Her father leaned, from tli' first, to Cromwell's side, 
 And was a rank and stern republican : 
 But mine was a Cavalier, — one of those Spirits 
 Born in all ages for the help of thrones ; 
 A careless fellow, somewhat poor in virtue. 
 Whose blazing honor lit a stormy life. 
 That spent its latest puff in loyalty. 
 He followed the first Charles, and fought at Worcester ; 
 Faced death and danger ; saw his master die ; 
 And after sought his son. He was the life 
 O'the banished court; laugh'd, danced, and played 
 
 o'the cittern ; 
 And, when he died, left me a handsome sword ; 
 Two suits of silk, a sentence for the king, 
 (In my behalf) ; and then set out on his journey, 
 To make good friends with Heaven's courtiers. 
 
 38. A Publican and his Customers. 
 We publicans, sir, ever live on the edge 
 Of other secrets. 'Tis our stock in trade. 
 To know what's doing in our neighbor's house, 
 And deal't out with our liquor. Some few rogues 
 With sun-scorched cheeks come here, 'tis true, for 
 
 nought 
 But to calm their stomachs with plain provender : 
 But choice Spirits love to mingle with their wine 
 Novelties, — scandals! Rather than be dumb. 
 They'll gossip of themselves. There's Justice Bolster 
 Discharcres him of all his wealth of words 
 
212 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 Here, sir, — in this poor room ! There's not a case 
 Of note, but he's its master. From the thoughts 
 Of ministers to actions at the assize, — 
 From a scaped murderer to a vagrant cat. 
 Nought can escape. Oh, sir, he is a jewel ; 
 And doth absorb my beer like summer sand ; 
 
 39. A new Petruchio. 
 
 Do I not know 
 That gentle blood (press't down howe'er you will,) 
 Will mount and make the world look gravely at it. 
 Dost deem that aught can hide in beggar rags 
 A heart so bold as mine ? Have I not seen 
 The sea come tumbling on our heads, and laughed ? 
 The lightnings on the line singe ships to ashes? 
 Heard the wolves howling on my track ? and felt 
 That cannibals clustered round my hiding-place? 
 Have I not stood on Etna, when she shot 
 Her fiery rivers 'gainst the affrighted clouds ? 
 And dream' St thou aught of common danger now 
 Shall daunt me from my way ? 
 
 40. Death. 
 A. — Who, save Man, 
 E'er reckons on to-morrow? or dreads death? 
 
 B. — Death ! what is Death, — at whose pale picture 
 men 
 Shake, and the blood grows cold ? Is he one thing ? 
 Dream? Substance? Shadow? or is Death more vague, — 
 Made up of many fears, which band together 
 And overthrow the soul ? — Give me reply ! 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS, 213 
 
 Is Death so terrible ? Why, we do know 
 Philosophy, Religion, Fame, Revenge, 
 Despair, Ambition, Shame, all conquer it. 
 The Soldier who doth face it every day, — 
 The feathered Savage, and the Sailor, tossing 
 All night upon the loose uncertain deep, 
 Laugh it to scorn. The fish, the bird, the brute, 
 (Though each doth apprehend the sense of pain,) 
 Never dread death. It is a weakness bred 
 Only in man. Methinks, if we built up 
 Our proud distinction, sole supremacy, 
 Upon so slight foundation as our fears, 
 Our fame may totter. 
 
 41. Night Thoughts. 
 
 'Tis night, — still night ! The murmuring world lies still! 
 All things which are lie still and whisper not : 
 The owl, the bat, the clock which strikes the hour, 
 And summons forgetful man to think of Heaven, 
 The midnight cricket on the ashy hearth. 
 Are quiet, — dumb ! Hope, Fear, lie drown'd in dreams ; 
 And Conscience, calmer than a baby's breath. 
 Murders the heart no more. Who goes 1 'Tis nought, — 
 Save the bird Echo, who comes back to me. 
 Afraid o'the silence. Love ! art thou asleep ? 
 Rose o'the night, on whom the soft dew lies — 
 Here come I, Sweet, mocking the nightingale. 
 To sing of endless love, passionate pain, 
 And wishes that know no rest! 
 
214 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 42. Mute Sorrow the most powerful. 
 
 Let not thy tale tell but of stormy sorrows ! 
 
 She — who was late a maid, but now doth lie 
 
 In Hymen's bosom, like a rose grown pale, 
 
 A sad sweet wedded wife — why is she left 
 
 Out of the story ? Are good deeds, — great griefs. 
 
 That live, but ne'er complain — nought? What are tears ? 
 
 Remorse, — deceit, — at best weak water-drops, 
 
 Which wash out the bloom of sorrow. 
 
 43. Flowers. 
 
 We have left, behind us. 
 The riches of the meadows, — and now come 
 To visit the virgin Primrose where she dwells, 
 'Midst harebells and the wild-wood hyacinths. 
 'Tis here she keeps her court. Dost see yon bank 
 The sun is kissing? Near, — go near ! for there, 
 ('Neath those broad leaves, amidst yon straggling 
 
 grasses,) 
 Immaculate odors from the violet 
 Spring up for ever ! Like sweet thoughts that come 
 Winged from the maiden fancy, and fly off 
 In music to the skies, and there are lost, 
 These ever-steaming odors seek the sun. 
 And fade in the light he scatters. 
 
 44. A Lover^s Irresolution. 
 
 My heart is mad : — why not my brain? Oh witch ! 
 That flaming Hymen now would quench his torch, 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 215 
 
 Or Hate, betwixt thy fool and thee, would set 
 
 Double divorce for ever ! Shall I go ? 
 
 I cannot quit her : but — like men who mock 
 
 The voice of thunder, tarry until — I die! 
 
 Shall I not go? — I will not; though the tongues 
 
 Of chiding virtue rail me strait to stone. 
 
 Here will I stand, — a statue, fixed and firm, 
 
 Before the fiery altar of my love. 
 
 Both worshipper and martyr, 
 
 45. Useless Fear. 
 
 O. — There is a gloomy prophet at my ear : 
 He whispers, — sad and low. 
 
 F. — Tush ! Shake him off. 
 The shadow that each ill sends forward, ever 
 Is larger than the ill. When that the thing 
 You dread comes near, and you can measure it, 
 Then ruffle up thy Courage, — till it stands 
 'Tween thee and danger, like a champion ! 
 Wait, till the peril come ; then boldly look at't. 
 
 46. A transient Thought. 
 Sometimes a dark Thought crossed 
 My fancy, like the sullen bat that flies 
 Athwart the melancholy moon at eve. 
 
 47. Reproof to one who has no ear. 
 
 L. — I SEE small difference 
 'Tween one sound and its next. All seem a-kin 
 And run on the same feet, ever. 
 
216 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 I. — Peace ! Thou want'st 
 One heavenly sense, and speak'st in ignorance. 
 Seest thou no differing shadows, which divide 
 The rose and poppy 1 'Tis the same with sounds. 
 There's not a minute in the round of time, 
 But's hinged with different music. In that small space, 
 Between the thought and its swift utterance, — 
 Ere silence buds to sound, — the angels listening 
 Hear infinite varieties of song ! 
 And they who turn the lightning-rapid spheres. 
 Have flown an evening's journey ! 
 
 48. Grief, fantastical. 
 
 Nothing can vie with Sorrow in excess. 
 Hope's gay, and fear is strange, and Joy grows wild; 
 Yet each hath shews of reason : Grief alone 
 Amidst her pomp is high fantastical. 
 
 49. Dreams. 
 
 A. — Dream is the Soul of Sleep ; and, when it strays 
 From its dark caverns in the inmost brain, 
 Then Sleep is dead : — But it returns, and then 
 The corpse awakens, — lives, — is born again, — 
 
 B. — Then dream must be some God — 
 
 A. — I'faith, I know not. 
 'Tis a strange fellow in a night-cap, sir, 
 And at times a very wild somnambulist. 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 217 
 
 50. Age double-sighted. 
 
 Let no one judge the worth of life, save he 
 
 Whose head is white with time. The youthful Spirit, 
 
 Set on the edge o'the world, hath but one sight, 
 
 And looks for beauty in the years to come. 
 
 But Age, like double-fronted Janus, looks 
 
 All ways, and ponders wisely on the past. 
 
 51. Philosophers human. 
 
 You brag, methinks, somewhat too much of late, 
 Of your lamp-lit philosophy. One bite 
 Of a mad cat — (no more than kills a tailor,) 
 Will put an end to't, and your dreams together. 
 
 52. Kings. 
 . . . Methinks, 
 
 There's something lonely in the state of kings ! 
 None dare come near them. As the eagle poised 
 Upon his sightless throne in upper air, 
 Scares gentler birds away, so kings (cut off 
 From human kindred, by the curse of power,) 
 Are shunned and live alone. Who dare come near 
 The region of a king ? There is a wall 
 (Invisible indeed, yet strong and high,) 
 Which fences kings from close approach of men. 
 They live respected — oh, that cheat ' respect ! ' 
 As if the homage which abases others 
 Could comfort him that has't. Alone, — alone ! 
 Prisoned in ermine and a velvet chair, — 
 Shut out from hope, (the height being all attained,) 
 Yet touched by terrors, — what can soothe a king? 
 
'^{^ DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS^ 
 
 53. Revenge. 
 
 Let loose your strength, blasts of the burning zone! 
 Join all, and scorch him with a blistering plague ! 
 Rain damps upon his bones ! Scald all his brain, 
 Till he go mad. — Stay, — stop ! — I'll have him bound 
 Fast to a frozen nook, till piercing winds 
 Stiffen his heart to ice. He shall endure 
 The terrible extremes of cold and fire. 
 For he himself was ever pitiless. 
 
 54. Picture of a Hypochondriac. 
 
 There sits he, with his arms across his heart, 
 And melancholy eye-lids like the Dawn, 
 When She (the sun being yet unseen) doth gaze 
 Coldly upon the wet and frozen flowers. 
 
 55. Infirmity lies in the mind. 
 
 We do what we desire. 'Tis not the sinews 
 Fail when we falter, but the infirm thought. 
 Thus the bald Roman, who trod down the world, 
 Unto his shuddering pilot cried, — " What fear? 
 Thou carricst CcDsar ! " — Dare, — and it is done ! 
 
 56. An ancient Pile. 
 
 Look straight before you. Thus, — as now you see it 
 Yon pile hath stood, in all its stony strength, 
 Through centuries forgotten. Ruinous Time, 
 The outrageous Thunder, and all wasting storms 
 Have striven to drag it down ; yet still it stands, 
 Enduring like a Truth, — from age to age. 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 219 
 
 57 The Exaggeration of Grief, 
 
 A. — And is this all a fiction? 
 
 B. — Ay, 'tis thus 
 
 Men shadow out the truth when they are sad. 
 They say but ill, who tell us that Grief speaks 
 In household phrases. Friend, she is a queen, 
 Pale Tragedy by name, who sears our brain, 
 Until it fashions forth fantastic shapes, — 
 Unnatural to the eye which hath no tears. 
 But seen through those, are true like other things 
 Which misty distance veils and magnifies. 
 
 58. A Princesses Dishonor. 
 
 She was a princess, — but she fell ; and now 
 Her shame goes blushing through a line of kings ! 
 
 59. A Desperate Man. 
 
 You walk by day : 
 I with the negro, Night I — When all is dark, 
 The sick moon absent, and the stars all hid, 
 We curse together, — curse all shades of men. 
 Like brothers in one great calamity. 
 Am I not shorn of beams ? Is not my fate 
 Black? starless? sunless? When warm airs come down 
 From Heaven, what know I of the flowery times? 
 What of abundant harvest hours ? — nought, nought ! 
 I'm cold ; I'm hard. The wolf, who has no mate, 
 And scarce a meal, and 's forced to howl all night 
 
220 
 
 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 His hunger to Siberian snows, doth live 
 In a world too bleak for pity : — So do I. 
 J am a wolf, — who prowl all night for prey, 
 Desperate, remorseless ! 
 
 60. Suitable Music. 
 
 A. — Thou lov'dst this light and dancing music once. 
 
 B. — That was when earth was quiet ; now 'tis mad, 
 Light music fits light times : — But, when wild Ocean 
 Goes bellowing to the moon, or flings her hair, 
 All white with wrath, upon the moaning sands, — 
 When winds come muttering, and the thickening Night 
 Grows solemn with alarm, as from its den 
 Some Earthquake, dragon-eyed, lifting its head, 
 Looks reddening on us from the inner world, — 
 Then love I mighty music ! 
 
 61. A Tender Voice. 
 
 Her voice is soft; not shrill and like the lark's, 
 But tenderer, — graver, — almost hoarse at times ; 
 As though the earnestness of love prevailed, 
 And quelled all shriller music. 
 
 62. A Fancy. 
 I've sometimes thought that I could shoot me down 
 Unto the muddy bottoms of the sea. 
 And hold my breath there, — 'till, midst stones and 
 
 shells. 
 And jewels yet unborn, and riches sleeping, 
 I tore up Fortune by her golden hair. 
 And grew a God on earth. 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 221 
 
 63. A young man's opinion of age. 
 
 Bid me not trust her hoary parent's smile ! 
 
 I cannot ; for I read foul falsehoods there. 
 
 Oh, Guzman ! Pity never wore gray hairs ; 
 
 But died in 'ts youth ! — Trust not a furrowed brow : 
 
 For Time digs pits where hate and cunning sleep ; 
 
 And sixty winter winds can ne'er pass by, 
 
 And leave the heart still warm. Age is a grave ; 
 
 Where Kindness, and quell'd Passion, and mute Love, 
 
 Lie, hand in hand, cold, — dead, — perhaps forgotten ! 
 
 64. A Sceptic in Virtue. 
 
 Our blood will bear no lesson. All men know 
 That Job was patient — that adulterous sin 
 Writes Hell upon our foreheads — that thieves' necks 
 Are forfeit to the grave and frowning Law : 
 Yet who is chaste, unless his veins be cold ? 
 Who calm, if tempted 'I Who that wants, is honest ? 
 Who lives, from mitred Pope to ragged monk, 
 That's virtuous all for virtue ? Tush, not one. 
 The cold and passionate are the same in this. 
 Sometimes a lure more potent bids man swerve 
 From the first sin, and turn to darker thougfhts : 
 Sometimes he doth delay the accomplishment, — 
 But that's for weightier pleasure ; or he's driven 
 Back, by pale fear or cunning policy; 
 But ne'er bribed by poor virtue. 
 
222 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 65. Slander of Women. 
 
 Gild. — They say the devil Snake did tempt the 
 Woman ! 
 But — ha, ha ! — who — who tempted him to tempt ? 
 Give me good answer there ! Why, 'tivas — the Woman! 
 The Fiend had somewhat which did stir his blood, 
 (If blood he had,) some sting — some appetite. 
 The love of evil 1 Well, — what caused the love ? 
 W^hat was't that first begot the insane touch, 
 Which crept amidst his bright and rancorous scales ? 
 What sight? or sound ? or dream? 'Twas 57«e — the 
 
 Woman ! 
 Still doth she act the serpent with our hearts : 
 Still doth she twine her 'round our hopes ; and kill, 
 With venomous looks and words, as sharp as death, 
 All the world's pleasure ! 
 
 Jac. — They are constant to us — 
 
 Giul. — They are as constant to their changing blood, 
 As the wild billow to the mounting moon ! 
 No further. They come on, sioelling with ruin. 
 And overtake the quiet soul of man. 
 
 66. No love to he despised, 
 lol. — I LAUGH at thy base verse. 
 
 Jal. That is not well. 
 
 You should have mercy on my desperate pain. 
 Disdain'st thou ? Well, — so be it ! I will love 
 Through all misfortune ; even through thy disdain. 
 I've striven — for years — against this frightful woe, 
 Though thou didst never know't. The lonely Night 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 223 
 
 Has seen me wander midst her silent hours, 
 
 Darker than they, with my too great despair ; 
 
 And the poor rhymes, which thou dost scorn so much, 
 
 Were dug out of my heart ! — ay, forced, at times, 
 
 Through burning, blinding tears ! Dost thou despise 
 
 A love like this 1 A lady should not scorn 
 
 One soul that loves her, howe'er lowly it be. 
 
 Love is an oifering of the whole heart, Madam, 
 
 A sacrifice of all that poor life hath ; 
 
 And he who gives his ' all,' — whate'er that be. 
 
 Gives greatly, — and deserveth no one's scorn ! 
 
 67. A Lover of Sentiment. 
 
 Gild. — She's proud; but she's a woman, and shall be 
 Thine own — dost hear ? — thine own! 
 
 Jac. — Estremaduran ! 
 If noiv thou mock'st me, thou had'st better pull 
 The burning sky upon thee ! 
 
 Giul. — Listen to me. 
 She's not (proud as she seems) all arrogance. 
 I know that she at times will sigh, — and weep ; 
 Tangle blue love-knots ; and sing out, by night, 
 The painfullest ditties — ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 Jac. — Great lady ! 
 Canst thou be sad ? — then I forgive thee all ! 
 
 Giul. — Immedicable fool I Sickness can't cure thee. 
 
 Jac. — Oh, Giulio, Giulio ! While a sand is falling, 
 We turn from hate to pity. I, who late 
 Abhorr'd the crimsoning pride upon her cheek, 
 Now read in it a different history. 
 
224 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 Urge me no more. I love her ; but — by Love ! 
 
 I would not harm her, for the wildest joy 
 
 When even herself — her beautiful self! — could give me. 
 
 68. A Protege. 
 
 A. — I HAVE a worm, a little petted thing, 
 Which I rear up. I see't not ; yet I know 
 'Tis ashy like the adder, and has fangs. 
 Seldom it sleeps, and then it dreams of food ; 
 So knaws for ever. I have fed this worm. 
 With mine own heart, like the fond pelican. 
 
 B. — Smother it Count : 'tis a mis-shapen child, 
 Which may beget new monsters. 
 
 A. — I will let 
 My heart's stream out upon it, some loud night, 
 When winds grow clamorous, and rough nature knits 
 Our resolution up to deeds of daring. 
 
 69. T%e General Law. 
 
 All things which live and are, love quiet hours. 
 Sometimes, indeed, the waves caught up by storms, 
 Kiss Heaven and murmur, but they straight retire. 
 Sometimes, the red and busy Earthquake lifts 
 His head above the hills and looks on us. 
 Sometimes a star drops. Sometimes Heaven itself 
 Grows dark, and loses its celestial blue. 
 But calm returneth. Thus doth man (made fit 
 To league with Fortune in her varying moods) 
 Rise on the wings of fear, or grow love-mad, 
 Yet sinks at last to earth, and dreams in quiet. 
 
DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 225 
 
 70. A Bold Man. 
 Fear? 
 I know not Fear. It is a ghost that haunts 
 The timid heart. 'Tis a dream, which waking men 
 Should scorn, and put aside. A girl — a child — 
 A thing that tvas a man, — (but now is grown 
 A shaking palsy, winter-white with age) — 
 These may bow down to Fear : but I am — man ! 
 The image of the Gods who know not fear, — 
 Far from the cradle, farther from the grave ! 
 
 71. A Brother 
 
 When the Sun walks upon the blue sea-waters, 
 Smiling the shadows from yon purple hills, 
 We pace this shore, — I and my brother here. 
 Good Gerald. We arise with the shrill lark. 
 And both unbind our brows from sullen dreams ; 
 And then doth my dear Brother, who hath worn 
 His cheek all palid with perpetual thought, 
 Enrich me with sweet words ; and oft a smile 
 Will stray amidst his lessons, as he marks 
 New wonder paint my cheek, or fondly reads. 
 Upon the burning page of my black eyes. 
 The truth reflected which he casts on me : — 
 For he is like the Sun — giving me light ; 
 Pouring into the caves of my young brain, 
 Knowledge from his bright fountains ! Thus it is 
 I drink in the starry truth. Science and Art, 
 And Learning pale, all crown my thoughts with flowers; 
 15 
 
226 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 And Music waiteth on me, sad and sweet ; 
 And great Imagination, for my sake, 
 Lets loose her dreams, and bids her wonders flow 
 By me, — until I talk in poetry ! 
 
 72. An E'pitajih. 
 Mark, when he died, his tombs, his epitaphs ! 
 Men did not pluck the ostrich for his sake ; 
 Nor dye 't in sable. No black steeds were there, 
 Caparisoned in woe ; no hired crowds ; 
 No hearse, wherein the crumbling clay (imprisoned 
 Like ammunition in a tumbril) rolled 
 Rattling along the street, and silenced grief; 
 No arch whereon the bloody laurel hung ; 
 No stone ; no gilded verse ; — poor common shows ! 
 But tears, and tearful words, and sighs as deep 
 As sorrow is — these were his epitaphs ! 
 Thus, — (fitly graced,) he lieth now, inurned 
 In hearts that loved him, on whose tender sides 
 Are graved his many virtues. When they perish, — 
 He's lost ! — and so't should be. The poet's name 
 And hero's — on the brazen book of Time, 
 Are writ in sunbeams, by Fame's loving hand ; 
 But none record the household virtues there. 
 These better sleep (when all dear friends are fled) 
 In endless and serene oblivion ! 
 
 73. Wc love one dijferenl from ourselves. 
 Gild. — I HUNGER for her, and am all athirst ! 
 Her scorn afl"ronts me, and doth make me mad. 
 
t 
 
 I 
 
 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 227 
 
 Mine eyes — these eyes, are wet with heavy drops ! 
 Would' st think me such a fool ? 
 
 Ferd. — If she disdain thee, 
 Love, and be quiet, coz. 
 
 6^mZ. — How? What? Be still? 
 Dost think I am a wild beast tamed by wrongs ? 
 If one, I am the hyaena ! — for he sheds tears, 
 And bites the while he's howling : — but, I'm quiet ! 
 
 Ferd. — I thought thou loved'st a rose-cheek'd girl, 
 and merry, 
 A laugher of sixteen summers ; such there are : 
 But she is paler than a primrose morning, 
 When Winter weds with Spring ! 
 
 Giul — 'Tis all the better. 
 It is my nature to abhor in others. 
 That lightness which doth please me in myself 
 I love not mine own parallel. The old Giants, 
 Who stood as tall as trees, lov'd little women, 
 Or there's no truth in fable. Thus do I : 
 I love a sober face, a modest eye, 
 A step demure, a mien as grave as virtue. 
 
 74. Satisfaction in a Blow. 
 
 Giul. — You say, ' we'll have no blood.' Then let 
 us wash 
 His throat with poison. I know rogues who deal in 
 Black aconite, and such like lazy drinks ; 
 But one sells a quicker juice, whereof a drop 
 Will kill — in a breath — a giant ! 
 
^s. 
 
 228 DRAMATIC FRAGMENTS. 
 
 JF^erd. — That is good. 
 
 Giul. — Yet steel is surer : and a blow (while't sends 
 Life through our limbs, like a swift race), doth calm 
 The turbulent spirits, and gives time for vengeance. 
 I hate to see the brute I hate fall dead 
 Without a struggle. Let's kill him like men, 
 And stand up freshened from the exercise ! 
 
 75. A Lady drowned. 
 
 Is she dead?... 
 Why so shall I be, — ere these Autumn blasts 
 Have blown on the beard of Winter. Is she dead? 
 Ay, she is dead, — quite dead ! The wild Sea kissed 
 
 her 
 With 'ts cold white lips, and then — put her to sleep : 
 Sh' has a sand pillow, and a water sheet. 
 And never turns her head or knows 'tis morning ! 
 
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