THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES ^Aji/n ir^^^^.A-<^/^ — /^/A A HANDFU OF FLOWERS AND AYEEDS, IN PROSE AND VERSE, FROM A VERY OLD PORTFOLIO. BY THE AUTHOR OF THK FALSE STEP AND THE SISTERS.' ' Let us leave those to flutter like sparrows who cauuot soar as eagles." St. Ambrose. LONDON: LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. 1870. LONDON : W. MOSS, PRINTER, 6, RAQtJET COURT, FLEET STREET. PEEFACE A2ro DEDICATION. TO MY SISTER: Had you not given your approval to this " Handful of Flowers and Weeds," I should never have had the courage to publish them. Your opinion was, no doubt, strongly seconded by my o^vn self-love. A better feel- ing, I hope, leads me to Dedicate the little A^olume to you, my beloved Sister, and to all who, like you, may think it worthy of perusal — their name will not, I think, be Legion. CONTENTS. SCENES FEOM HISTORY PAGE THE RANSOM 1 DREAM or GALILEO 15 LIVING POETS — (1821) 24 I MARKED^ BEDEWED WITH TEARS S2 SHE SAID, " I ^T;LL not LOVE ! " 33 A FAREWELL TO MY HARP 34 DRAMATIC SKETCH 36 LINES WRITTEN AT FRASCATI 40 TO THE NEW YEAR 41 THE VOICE 42, LINES ON MY LAST VISIT TOT"^^"^^** . , , 44 TO MRS. G**'^ ON HER BIRTHDAY 46 ON RECEIVING A ROSE FROM BERRY HILL ... 47 SONG — (hermilie) 4S BLACK EYES AND BLUE EYES 49 l'elegie de marie 51 SONG SING TO ME, &C 52 LET ME REST 53 SONG TO GERMAN AIR 53 IE THOU ART HAPPY 54 HYMN 55 ON READING "THE GOLDEN VIOLET " .... 56 THE chief's LAMENT 58 SONG—" TO UNA " 60 VI CONTENTS. PAGE OF HOPE, &C 61 OH ! WRONG HER NOT . 62 I SAW HER ONCE 64 STANZAS 65 WILD FLOWERS 66 ANNIE 67 SONNETS 68 TO MY SISTER 79 WORDS 80 TRANSLATION OF LINES FROM THE ITALIAN . . 81 ON SEEING THE MUMBIY OP A POET 82 DEATH OF L. E. L 83 ON SEEING THE BUST OF BABY B 84 LINES INTENDED FOR MUSIC 85 THE QUESTION 86 TRANSLATIONS FROM GUARINI 87 LOVE 88 ANSWER TO LOVE , ■ . 89 EUDORA 91 CHARADE 94 THE mother's LAMENT 95 TO THE YELLOW ESCHOLZIA 100 THE WISH 101 IMPROMPTU 101 TWO maniac's- songs 102 LINES, UNDER HAPPY FEELINGS 105 TO MY LONG-LOVED MRS. A 106 FRAGMENT TO MRS. HEMANS 107 DESULTORY THOUGHTS, &C 108 THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD 117 LINES, AFTER HEARING BEAUTIFUL MUSIC . . .119 FRAGMENT, DITTO 120 CONTENTS. vii PAGE ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE FOR A PERIODICAL . 121 SONG, FROM SONNET OF PETRARCH 123 CtFRTAIN LECTURES 125 PHILEMON AND BAUCIS 127 ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF MRS. R. G. . .132 MARY (suggested BY PETRARCH) 133 VALERIE (the BLIND GIRL TO HER LOVER) . .135 LINES WRITTEN IN MELANCHOLY 13S LINES TO A DEAR YOUNG FRIEND 140 CAROLINE 142 WHAT THE MUSIC OF THE WAVES SAID . . . 143 SCENES FROM HISTORY. THE RANSOM, IN FOUR SCENES. SCENE I. Camiola. Now speed tliee, Time ! or, let me sleep away The weary days Orlando must be absent^ And let my sleep give dreams ! bright glorious dreams Of him and Fame. Yet no ! not of his fame. For of renown I reck not, though Tiis deeds Will, well I know, deserve it. See I would His looks, his smile, to judge therefrom his thoughts. Ev^n now, how well I can imagine him On his proud charger, his brow so noble Wreathed with a victor^s crown ; his heralds A grateful people^s shouts. How can I bear it ? Smile will he on me, though he well will know That I shall weep with ecstacy. Soft tears Are woman^s friends, and when too much of joy Comes to a heart, as yet unused to bear it, B 3 SCENES FEOM HISTORY, Dim the sight, and save the soul from sinking. — rrom this point can my eyes descry him first. \_S/ie approac/ies a window. But hold ! there is, or else my sight tells false, A vessel even now. A broken mast I can discern, and remnant of a sail. A wail too mingles with the wind — What may it mean ? BiANCA {entering). My most dear mistress ! Camiola. Speak — on the instant speak ! BlANCA. Disastrous news, dear lady, comes from Naples. Camiola. Tell on, I do command thee. BlANCA. The Sicilian fleet that left the harbour Only yester morn, though fairer vessels Ne^er did quit the shores, nor men more valiant Camiola. My God ! Oh maiden, hast thou not a tongue To make a sad tale brief ? Go on — ^go on ! BlANCA. I scarcely can for sorrow. Fatal ^twas For Sicily the day those ships were mann\l ; THE RANSOM. 3 For they have fought^ and they have all been conquered. One, only one, in wretched, piteous plight Returns to tell the talc. Camiola. Is all now told ? Oh ! canst thou not reveal If he is slain ? and how it came to pass ? Or if the deep sea hides him ? BlANCA. The sea hides many victims, that but now Breathed, spoke, and felt as we do. Nor alone Consigned, I fear, to its most hungry jaws Were they whom Death had struck ; the wounded, too. While warm and breatliing (so ^tis said) were sunk To grow cold there ! Camiola. And he, the Prmce Orlando ? What his fate ? Death, the great leveller, all state overthrows. Yet teaches what hath substance doth not kill The valiant as the coward. Could he die. The great commander, of such matchless valour. As dies the soldier of the multitude ? Yet, if he is dead, wherefore shoidd I ask ? BlANCA. Lady ! the Prince Orlando^worthy he To be a monarches brother ! — as a lion Stood 'gainst the enemy Camiola. He would — he woidd ! B 'I 4 SCENES FROM HISTORY. BlANCA. But^ at length, by numbers overpowered. He was led off a prisoner. Camiola. And lives he ? Enough — enough ! [Camiola y^//^ on her knees. SCENE n. The Duke Milazzo and Camiola. Camiola. And the king you say, my lord, forgetful Of the respect due to a monarches truth. Deaf to the pleadmgs of a brother's love. Doth quite refuse the ransom ? Milazzo. And doth not even qualify refusal By promise or suggestion. Threaten he does- Naples shall sore repent (he says) the day It fought 'gainst Sicily. Never will he pay Into the treasury of hated foe The sum I mentioned — fifty thousand crowns. Camiola. And yet 'tis little for the Hberty Of a dear brother. Were he mine, methinks I should not huge]-, but Avith windswift speed THE RANSOM. XJubar his dungeon's door, and set liim free. Shame on the monarch's heart of avarice ! Shame on the people, who wonkl leave to pine, In darkness and in fetters, one who fougiit So oft, so valiantly, so well for them ! My lord Milazzo, you were on. e, I know. My father's dearest friend, and have to me, I've sometimes deemed, most generously transferred A portion of the friendship felt for him. Milazzo. Not to have done so were impossible. Your virtues first, and next your father's name. Camiola. Such friendship, lord, doth both bless and honor. And in this hour is needed. None but thou. Or one who had a father's feeling for me. Could perform my mission. What though I'm rich ! Riches did ne'er disarm the slanderer's tongue. And youth must aye be careful. I \\ ould give. And give with gladness, to my last ducat. In the present cause. But, there must n6t rest A breath of censure on my father's child. Milazzo. You speak enigmas. Censure never yet Has named Camiola. What wouldst thou do ? Camiola. And hast not thou divined ? J\len's minds are slow, A woman's had foreknown in half the time. My lord ! I've fixed to ransom Prince Orlando. 6 SCENES FROM HISTOllY. MiLAZZO. I could not be thy friend and let tliee do it ; ■'TIS more than half thou hast ; ^twould leave thee poor. Camiola. But not so poor as now. Half did'st thou say ? Take all if needful. Is not that enough ? Palerrao^s every door shall see me beg To swell the sum. My lord^ Fm fixed to do it. Be my firm friend in this ; do not oppose me. MiLAZZO. So young, so fair^ so rich, more good than all. Thus to throw off the trammels of thy sex And to the world reveal that thou dost love ; For nought but love could be so generous. Unknowing, too, if he doth honor thee ! Camiola. My lord, he doth, he doth ! His last words were That he did love me. I have not yet replied To those dear words, but now in act I speak. Go to him, my dear lord, release him strait ; But take with thee this paper from my hand For him to sign, as we had been betrothed. The world will then not dare condemn the deed. We were in heart and truth pledged to each other ; And I but waited his most blest return To speak, for he had said he loved. Haste, haste. My good lord, haste ! Bring with thee my Orlando THE RANSOM. SCENE III. BiANCA and Milazzo. MiLAZZO. My good Biaiica^ how fares tliy mistress now ? BlANCA. My lord^ I have this instant quitted her; She sits the image of tranquillity — A lily m the moonlight blossoming Is not more pale — but yet she sheds no tear. Her brow contracts at times^ as in deep thought. Else do I see no change. East in her hands She holds the treaty signed by Orlando. And a few minutes since she read aloud The words his treachery had traced beneath. " Generous Camiola ! " and then she made This comment, " He should have said unwise.''^ But, my lord, she comes. [MiLAZZO advances to w.eet her, and takes both her hands in his. MiLAZZO. Why this is well ! Right proud I am to see This noble bearing. It is worthy thee ! I had expected tears, and loud complaint. And execrations of man^s treachery. Yet thou, with woman^s weakness, loving on. 8 scenes from history. Camiola. My lord ! if this were mere iucoustaucy, Perhaps I might — but it is black and base. Earth's lowest creature were debased by it — And I thought him the highest. Yes, the highest ! No name in history's brightest page enrolled Seemed a meet parallel for his. Not one So brave, so great, as he appeared to me. MiLAZZO. Unworthy that thy tongue should mention him ! Camiola. In prison, the counnon air denied him. He hears my plan in darkness, and approves, Swears that he loves me, calls me generous. Blesses my name — (this is your own report) — Eeleased, instead of flying to me here "Where I had long and fondly waited for liim, He goes to others, and to them relates How he has mocked me ! Scoffs at what he wrote. For that he loved me not ! Wherefore say so ? Why not, while yet within his dungeon walls Eefuse to sign ? I had still released liim. And still adored hun. Honor had been his ! But basely thus to welcome liberty. Is to condemn liimseK to be despised. MiLAZZO. The ransom's not yet paid ; and if thou wilt I will return to Naples, state the case, And ev'n refuse the payment. the ransom. 9 Camiola. Believ^st thou then 'tis money I regret ? Oh^ my dear lord^ were I the poorest wretch That treads this earth, I should not once repine Might I but think, ev'n though unblessed by Hope, That quite unworthily I had not loved. But^but — folly and madness as it was — He was the brother of a king ! — I deemed His mind right royal. Beauteous to behold, I fondly imaged him with soul as fair. Freely would I have given my life to save. As T gave wealth to fi'ee him. MiLAZZO. Would that thou hadst not ! Would that he had pined in gnawing fetters His worthless life away ! Camiola. No, no, no, no ! He hves — is free — and I am glad to know. Dear as Fve bought the lesson, lohat he is. My dearest lord, is it not better thus Than to live on deceived ? Not long ago I thought that man a god ! I was a slave To him in every thought, and word, and act. Oh ! the awful hour when first I thought I loved, First felt, first knew my soul no longer mine, But given to him for ever and for ever ! Till then, I scarcely knew I had affections. And no suspicion had of all their power. They blossomed sweetly, but too suddenly. Like flowers 'neath northern skies, that throw away 10 SCENES FROM HISTORY. Their snowy covering too soon, too rapidly — Tliey bask in sunshine but to be consumed. MiLAZZO. . Say rather, blighted, lady. Camiola. 'Tis the same thing, Milazzo ! MiLAZZO. I would not have thee, noble lady, give Such triumph, to so ignoble a foe. Thy story known, all Sicily would arm To make him do thee justice. Camiola {after a pause). Thou sayest well. The State tribunal cannot weU refuse This case a hearing. Dearest, kindest friend, Into thy hands I put this precious yn\i — Orlando^s contract witnessing his shame. His name is to 't. You see he calls himself The Prince of Arragon. Bring it me again And let me know, ere long, if wise men''s heads Can guess a woman^s meaning. [MiLAZzo goes out. He spoke but now of justice — is there then Eedress for injured love ? Oh ! if there were, Why, love would ne^er be wounded, hearts would break Even with the thought of seeking it. Now Wounds for the surface meant, sink to the core Because there^s no redress. Inconstancy ! Thou art indeed a curse, if thou canst lead THE RANSOM. 11 A right mind thus astray. But ^tis not so ; Inconstancy alone I could have braved. He might have loved another with full heart And no complaint from me. -"Tis not man^s fate To love where he doth choose, nor woman's either ! 'Twere foolishness to quarrel with him there ! But grateful, generous, considerate. Though but in outward show, he might have been. Instead of this, he hath derided me. Swears, though I love him, that he knows me not. And loudly laughs and talks of woman's weakness. Weakness it is indeed to be deceived ! How doth my heart self-questioned stand condemned ! By what false seemings did he blind my eyes ? Where was my judgment slumbering when I loved So base a thing as he ? SCENE IV. Scene — T/te space hcfore the Cathedral of Palermo. Orlando with a haughty hearing and as^^ect enters, accompanied hy a splendid retimie. Camiola closely veiled, followed by Milazzo and numerotis friends, advances op])osite to him, but tvithont raising her eyes. Orlando. By the State's command, I beheve thine too, Lady ! I am here. 12 SCENES FROM HISTORY. MiLAZZO. Not, I hope, by more egregious outrage To insult where thou shouklst honor, or deny That lawfully, and with thine own consent. Thou wert betrothed to this deserving lady. Orlando. The State decrees that I should marry her ; More than obedience is not mine to give. More, even the State can neither ask nor have. Of thy permission can I even doubt ? \He offers to take Camiola^s hand. Camiola ly gesture forlkls him to approach her.] Camiola. Do not come near me, I had not meant to speak, Did not again or mean or wish to see thee ! But thy ill-timed words compel me to explain. Ladies of Sicily ! to you I speak. Though as" a bride you see me here attired I am not come to wed. Wished I to be Allied to perfidy, to treachery. To all that's basest, all that's most ungrateful, Then would I marry now the Prince Orlando ! Ladies ! he sought my love. I feel disgraced To say he won it. Let him now deny My words, if they're not truth. Betrothed we were On his part, that I so might ransom him ! That within dungeon walls he pines not now Is act of mine. Oh ! 'tis a painful thing To speak of what we've done for those we've loved. But it is needful. You have heard him speak. The Prince comes here by his own base confession THE HANSOM. 13 To do me justice by the Staters award ! {Cries of "Shame, shame!") And I to make liim known and then renounce him. [Ajjplause.) Orlando. Lady ! I do crave forgiveness ! Camiola. And I do grant it ! 'Tis an easy thing To pardon where we utterly despise. Never more canst thou deceive another As thou didst me, with virtuous seeming. A stain is on thy shiekl blacker than night. — And now, Milazzo, let my chosen friends Come nigh, to have my last adieux. Milazzo. One is now near who begs alone for time To make liis deep love known. Camiola, He was thy earliest friend. Camiola. What ! thy Son ! My favourite Adorni. Milazzo, I have ne'er forgot my childhood's hours, Nor yet, my dear Adorni, thy young kindness ; Ever wert thou at hand to save or serve. Adorni. Camiola, I loved thee then as now Adoringly, but then, 'twas without hope. Not oidy wert thou the most beauteous flower 14 SCENES FROM HISTORY, Our Sicily could boast, and loved by all, Thy dower made thee sought. My youtliful love Amid the crowds that worshipped, knew not how To make its wishes known. I fled, and now. Now, only supplicate delay. A week, A day, Camiola, is all I ask To make my story known, and prove to thee That there is such a good upon this earth As faitlifulness. Camiola. I know it, kind Adorni. Were all men treacherous earth would scarce be earth. But a far worse abode than pictured Hell. Bad passions are true demons. For thy love. My childhood^s friend ! I thank thee fervently. There is too deep a furrow in my mind For me to meet it as it should be met. Think not from this, that I do sorrow, now — Oh no ! Its tide hath passed — but there's a track Upon my heart, where once its waters were That will not be effaced. The cataract That tears the mountain's side may cease to flow But leaves its record there ! Give me thy hand ! Let it now lead me to the altar's foot. There will I breathe my prayer for peace to Heaven, And there, by holy vows, renounce the world. [Adoeni leads Camiola towards the Cathedral, and the curtain falls ?\ 15 THE DREAM OF GALILEO. (FKOM THE GERMAJf OP ENGEL). Galileo^ who, hj his science has made himself so deservedly immortal, lived at one time at Arcetri, in the Florentine States. There he enjoyed a peaceable and renowned old age. Although deprived of the blessing of sight, he still had intense enjoyment in the pleasures of spring, partly from the return of the nightingale and odour-breathing flowers, and partly from its vivid associations ■ndth foregone joys. Once, in the early part of the last year of his valuable life, he suffered himself to be led into the fields in the neighbourhood of Arcetri by Viviani, his youngest and most devoted pupil. He expressed a fear that he was going too far for his strength, and playfully asked his guide not to take him beyond the Florentine territory. " Thou knowest," he said, " the promise I was obliged to make to the Holy Inquisition.^' Viviani set him down on a small elevation of ground, and as he here rested, surrounded by herbs and flowers, and, as it were, in a cloud of odour, he recalled tlie ardent desire for liberty which had once seized him in Rome, at the approach of spring, and the wish came over him at that moment to pour out tlie last drop of bitterness remain- 16 SCENES FROM HISTORY. ing in his soul on the heads of his cruel persecutors. But he quickly checked the inclination, and reproved himself iu these words : " The spirit of Copernicus might be angry." Viviani, who had never heard of the di-eam to which Galileo here alluded, requested an explanation of these words. But the venerable man, for whose disordered nerves the evening air was too cold and damp, wished to be led back before he gave it. After a brief delay he said : "Thou knowest, Yiviani, how hard my fate was in Eome, and how long my deliverance was delayed. When I found that even the powerful intercession of my protector, the IMedici, and even that dreadful recan- tation to which I let myself down, had no effect ; then threw I myself on my couch, full of the bitterest reflec- tions on my fate, and full, too of inward revolt against Providence. I then addressed myself in these words : ' So far as thou canst remember,^ I exclaimed, ' how blameless has thy life been ! With how much labour hast thou in the zeal of thy vocation, wandered through the errors of a false wisdom, in order to seek the light wliich thou couldst not find ! How earnestly hast thou Set all the powers of thy soul to discover the truth, and to trample under foot the powerful and thorny preju- dices wliich obstructed thy path ! How often hast thou denied thyself the food thou wert in want of, and turned thy lips from the beaker thou couldst have wished to empty, in order not to be sluggish in the labom- of the spirit ! Hovv many hours hast thou taken from thy sleep in order to dedicate them to wisdom ! How often, when all around thee lay in careless repose, and were strengthening themselves for new voluptuousness, hast xHE DREAM OF GALILEO. ' 17 tliou trembled witli cold while contemplating the heavens — or, in gloomy cloud-covered nights watched and worked by the faint ghmmer of the lamp, in order to enhghten mankind and amiounce the honour of the Godhead ! Wretch ! and what is now the reward of thy labour ? and, what has been thy gain, for all thy glorification of the Creator and thy enlightenment of mankind ? Merely this, that grief over thy fate should dry up the moisture of thy eyes — that they, the truest helps of the soul, should daily become less useful to thee ; for those tears which thou canst not restrain will soon extinguish for ever their feeble lio'lit/ " Thus spake I to myself, Viviani, and then I cast a glance full of envy on my persecutors. 'These un- worthy people,^ I said ' who envelope their siUiiiess in mysterious formulas, and their limbs in honourable garments ! In the vile repose of sluggislmess, they promulgate human inventions as the holy sentences of God ! They strike furiously to the earth the wise who hold the torch of truth in their hands, lest it should disturb them in their voluptuous slumber. Unworthy creatures that they are — only active for their own pleasures ! — they are the ruin of the world ! Yet, how do they in their sumptuous palaces laugh at grief like mine ! In Avhat a state of continued intoxication do they enjoy life ! How devoutly do the people whom they cheat, of whose herds they take the fat, and of whose grapes they take the juice (in order to prepare feasts for themselves), fall before them ! And tliou, unhappy one! thou, who livedst only to God and thy vocation — thou, who hast never suffered impure thoughts to dwell in thy soul, but hast alone for truth, the purest and lioliest of passions— thou, one of tlic High 18 SCENES FROM HISTOllY. Priests of God, who his wonders in the world-system, his wonders in the worm revealed — must thou miss the only thing for which thou languishest? that which is given alike to the beasts of the tield, and the birds of the air — freedom ? Alas ! what eye watches over the fate of man? What just impartial hand distributes the blessings of life? to the unworthy everything is permitted to succeed, from the worthy everything is taken away/ " I groaned aloud, Viviani, until I slept. Immediately it appeared to me, a venerable old man stepped to my couch. He seemed to contemplate me with pleasure, and ia. the meantime my eyes rested in astonishment on his thoughtful forehead. 'Galileo,' he said at last, 'what thou sufferest now, thou sufferest for the sake of truth which I taught thee. And the same superstition which persecutes thee, would have pursued me, had Death not removed me to this eternal freedom.'' 'Thou art Copernicus!' I exclaimed, and before he could answer me I had clasped him in my arms. Oh! Viviani, the affinities of blood which nature makes are sweet, but sweeter far is the affinity of souls ! How much dearer than even the bands of brotherly love are the bands of truth ! With what blessed anticipations of the enlarged sphere of activity, for the exalted faculties of the soul, of the free communication of aU the treasures of knowledge, do we hasten to the friend who walks by the side of Wisdom ! ' Behold ' said the old man, after repeated embraces, ' I have resumed the covering that formerly enclosed me, and I v.-ill be to thee now, at this present time, what I shall be to thee hereafter — thy guide. Eor there, where the unfettered spirit continues to work without cessation, rest is only THE DREAM OF GALILEO. 19 a cTiange of labour. The researches we ourselves make in the depth of the Godhead, are only interrupted by the instruction we give to the latest comers from earth. And I, Galileo, will one day lead thy soul to the knowledge of the eternal.' "Copernicus then led me to a low-sunken cloud, and we took our flight together through the immeasurable heavens. I saw the moon, Viviani, with her mountains and her valleys. I saw the stars of the Miky Way, of the Pleiades, and of Orion. I saw the spots on the Sun, and the Moons of Jupiter. All that I had before seen here below with all the aids of science, I saw better there with unassisted vision. I wandered tlirough the Heavens in ecstacies among my own discoveries, as, on earth, a friend to humanity may wander among his own good deeds. Every well-occujjied Ji07ir here lecomes there fndt fill in blessedness; a blessedness wliich he who steps into that world without knowledge can, I think, scarcely be supposed to feel ; therefore never will I, Viviani, not even in this trembling old age, cease to seek after Truth. Who seeks her here, to him Joy is bom there — from every confii-med fact, from every anni- hilated doubt, from every revealed mystery, from every uprooted error. See ! I felt all tliis in that moment of delight ; but I only remember that I did feel it ! For my soul, overcome with rapture, lost each individual blessedness in the sea of her enjoyment. "Wlule I thus looked and wondered, and lost myself in the grandeur of Him whose abnighty wisdom created, and whose eternal love sustains and preserves, all things, the conversation of my guide raised my thoughts to still higher ideas. 'The limits of thy senses,' he said, 'are not the limits of the universe. Althougli a mul- 20 SCENES FROM HISTORY. titude of suns from unimaginable distances are visible to tliee, thousands and thousands more^, imperceptible to thy vision^ shine in endless aether, and every sun as well as each surrounding sphere is with feeling beings and thinking souls inhabited. Wherever orbits are possible, there roll worlds, and wherever beings can exist in happiness, there do beings live. In the im- mensity of infinity, not a space remains in which the bountiful Creator has not created life or the materials for life; and through this countless variety of created things there reigns, even to the smallest atom, unbroken order. From heaven to heaven, from sun to sun, and from earth to earth, eternal laws preserve all in rapturous harmony. To the immortal Wise Man, in the eternity of all eternities, the subjects of consideration and the sources of his blessedness are inexhaustible. But why should I speak of these things to thee now, Galileo ? For this blessedness does not encircle and imbue the spirit while chained to its sluggish eartlily companion, that throws it back to dust when scarcely beginning to rise, and checks all further progress.' " ' It may not,' exclaimed I, ' form a true conception of this blessedness in its full and heavenly acceptation, but, certainly, Copernicus, it is acquainted with its nature. For, what joy can equal that Avhich wisdom gives even in this earthly life ! Wliat intense delight does the spirit already feel, even while enclosed in mortal limbs, when it begins to see clearly — to see through the uncertain twilight of new ideas, a gracious splendour widening and widening befoie hun, until at last, the full light of knowledge rises and reveals to his delighted senses, regions of endless beauty ! Eecall to thy mind, Copernicus — thou, who thyself did penetrate so THE DREAM OF GALILEO. 21 far into the secrets of God ! who didst unfold to us a part of the plan of liis creation ! — recall the moment; in which the brave thought of revealing this plan first occurred to thee^ and how joyfully thou didst call into action all thy faculties to conceive it, to produce it, and to arrange it. Eecall, as all lay there complete, in glorious harmony, with what intoxicated love, thou didst glance at the beautiful work of thy spirit, and how vividly thou then didst feel thy likeness to the Eternal, on whom thou wcrt able to meditate. O yes ! my guide, even here below, wisdom is beautiful, and rich in heavenly joy ! Were it not so, why should we so tranquilly behold from her lap all the vanities of life ?' " The cloud which had borne us along, sank, back to earth and let itself down, as it seemed to me, on one of the hills near Rome. The capital of the world lay before us. Full of deep contempt, I stretched out my hand from my height, and said, ' They think themselves great — the proud dwellers in these palaces ! — ^because their limbs are clothed in purple, and the gold and silver on their tables ofler whatever is most precious from India and from Europe. But, as the eagle looks down upon the silkworm, so do the wise look down on such idiots ; for, they know nothing beyond the leaf to which they are attached, and on which they feed, while the wise man who is free, steps on his height and overlooks the world, or ascends on the wings of contemplation and wanders among the stars.'' "As I so spoke, Viviani, the brow of my guide became clouded with solemn earnestness. His brotherly arm sank down from my shoulder, and liis eye shot a threateninu- "-lance into niv innermost soul. 'Un- & worthy one,' he exclaimed, 'is it for tliis thou hast 22 SCENES FROM HISTORY. already experienced on earth the joys of heaven? that thy name has been made glorious among the wise of all nations ! that the faculties of thy soul, free and mighty in the knowledge of the truth, have been perfected, to continue active through an eternity ! And now, that God decrees thee to suffer persecution — now that thy heart should adorn itself with virtue, as thy mind is ornamented with knowledge — thou makest thy wisdom a merit of thy o\ati — every trace, every remembrance of benefits is effaced, and thy soul sets itself against God!^ "Here I awoke from my dream, Viviani, and found myself cast down from the gloriousness of the Infinite to the desolation of my prison. Marvel not that I shed a flood of tears. Then raising my eyes, amid the shades of night, I said : ' God, full of love ! has the Nothing which through Thee became Something pre- sumed to blame thy ways? Has the dust, to wliich Thou gavest a soul, spoken of thy gift as if it were on account of his o'hti merits ? Has the unworthy being whom Thou hast nourished in thy bosom and in thy heart, to whom Thou gavest so many drops out of thy own cup, alike forgotten his own unwortliiness and thy grace? Strike his eyes with blindness — let him never again hear the voice of friendship — ^let him grow old in prison ! — with a willing mind will he endure his fate, happy in the remembrance of his enjoyed blessings, and contented in the expectation of those to come hereafter.' " My whole soul was thrown out, Viviani, in this prayer. But the Heavenly Father, who created me to so much blessedness, remembered not the murmuring of my discontent, and oidy listened to the resignation THE DREAM OF GALILEO. 23 inspired by my gratitude. For see, I am living in freedom here in Ai'cetri, and this very day, under the guidance of my pupil and my friend, I am enjoying the flowers of spring/^ He felt for the hand of liis scholar, in order gratefully to press it, but Viviaui possessed himself of liis, and raised it respectfully to his lips. 2i< LIVING POETS— (IN 1821) Eke winter yield liis iron cliam, Or summer suns with smiles again Revive the earth and glad the eye, I fain would wreathe from wrecks of thought, In different hours from Nature caught, And resting in my memory, A fairer garland for my bower Than spring could give, though every flower Were culled beneath those southern skies Where Nature's favorite blossoms rise In rich luxuriance, fair as free. Tor oh ! this wreath of mine shall be Selected from the bright parterre Of Britain's living poets. — There Each flower we love shall find a name. And, losing all its earthly hues, Be dedicate to Fame ! And first, the rose, the garden queen, Man's favorite flower — 'love's emblem, sues Her name with Moore's to blend ; And none who know his verse, I ween. Will think it wrong to list her plea. Tor who, so tenderly as he LIVING POETS. 25 Hatli sung her own, or lier lover^s praise ? But if I amorous descant make On all or even half the lays I love so truly, they would take At least ten years to be recorded. And I might die ; or my Muse's fire Amid the crash of worlds expire Before due titles were awarded ; My garland uncompleted l}ang, Its colours fled, its fragrance dying. Fame weeping o'er my work suspended ! So now, that it may soon be ended, Instead of formal invocation To Apollo or Hippocrene, To Flora, on my bended knee, rU make a gentle supplication. My prayer is breathed — I need not word it. The goddess comes, a proof she heard it. Oh, how unlike our mortal fair ! She does not scorn exactitude ; But swiftly, tlirough the realms of air. Descends, and ^nns my gratitude. Her car is one all-perfect gem. More pure than Indian mine e'er gave To grace a monarch's diadem. As clear and beauteous as the wave. That scarcely seen itself, betrays The golden sands o'er which it strays ; Whose silent course is only known For wealth and beauties not its own. Still glittering with Parnassian dew. \Vithin are flowers of everv hue, 26 LIVING POETS. Mingled with bouglis of nobler growth. Plucked from Olympus, by the hand Of that fail' maid who, nothing loth, Now graceful bows to my command. Our articles are soon agreed. And by the Goddess 'tis decreed. That since each earthly poet's fame Is known to her, I need but name His forte or style, and she will send An emblem with my wreath to blend. And first I ask for a mind of power. Whose verse like mountain torrent flows, A fitting symbol, and she throws For Byron's type a passion-flower — Byron, whose words of music dart Their magic radiance through the heart ; But, traitor-like, the scars reveal, And mock the wounds they never heal. I place it by my lovely rose. Where, by the contrast each bestows. They both grow dearer ; for the strain Of love and joy, that " lightly floats" — Sinks deeper when, by sadder notes. The soul is roused to a sense of pain. " But what, ! Flora, can you find To image fitly Southey's mind ? Tlie laureate bard, who writes so much, Whose proKx fruitfulness is such. He pours out ode and epic numbers. As hotbeds bring forth cucumbers. Yet gently probes the human heart. With something more than a poet's art. LIVING POETS. 27 And from its secret sanctities llemoves the close-wove veil that lies, Impervious to all other eyes. " Oh ! Southey's emblem best may be A branch of the sacred Banian tree. Whose outstretched arms, on Ganges' shore. But sink to earth to rise again. And give to man a holy fane Wlierein to worship and adore ! " " There, take it," Elora said ; " I see In taste and judgment we agree, So, to save time and spare your breath, ril make the choice, and for your wreath AYill throw successive flowrets do-woi, To suit a great or small renown. " Tliis purple heath-flower, I throw To show the Ettrick Shepherd's worth — Its bright and amaranthine glow Adorns the land that gave him birth — A birth beneath the mountain snow. But, like the fame his lays have won. Fades not beneath the summer sun. " For Scott, the bard of chivalry. Of love, of war, of rivalry, I blend the lily with the vine. And join thereto the trumpet-flower ; But though I wish the wreaths you twine To mark a critic's praise or blame. These will not, for they cannot name Scott's pathos, purity and power. 28 . LIVING POETS. " These rose-buds^ Campbell, are for tliee, Best types of Hope's delightful feeling, — Their deep, yet scarce-seen tints revealing All that the future flowers "will be. Yet death and quick decay concealing, As they would live immortally ! Yes, like thy own enthusiast strain, Creating visions free from pain. Except, indeed, to minstrel's gaze ; And on liis sight 'twill sometimes raise Dark clouds of fear that ne'er again. For him can sound a bui"st of praise. Pansies I give in Cornwall's stead ; For, was it not Ophelia said, Pansies were thoughts ? Could I then find A truer type of Cornwall's mind ? " I tliink the fair Ophelia, too. Gave rosemary for memory — To one alone this plant is due, A bard whose name can never die ; For, on the shrine that makes us blest When gone-by years no censures bear, Rogers' immortally will rest. Hung by liis own sweet music there. " But I must hasten, though there are So many still, whose works declare They would be praised as well as named ; But, by their lays their worth's proclaimed In better terms — so Keats may be A branch of the weeping fountain-tree LIVING POETS. 29 Culled in Canary. This briglit palm, Brought from an isle in the Indian Sea, I give to Wilson — and the balm To Bernard Barton. Hunt shall be The plant reversed 'cleped ' London Pride/ Eead ' Pride o' London ' — and Til give Upas for Shelly, but allied With violets — these alone will live, I ween, and ^vith their fragrance smother The undue influence of the other. " My flowers are gone, and none remain. Alas ! for bards of equal note ; Not one for Wordsworth's rural strain, Or Crabbe, the jDastoral antidote. " Not e'en the fragment of a tree Reserved for Milman or for Leigh, Coleridge, or Croly, therefore, they And many others highly prized We e'en must leave to be baptized On some less inauspicious day. Nor shall it be alone for men — On Hemans, Holford, Baillie, then Pit name and mention we'll bestow. If fitting can be found, to show That woman's genius sometimes can Refute the pride of haughty man, Who thinks the laurel ought to be His own peculiar property. He need not fear — few woiiicu claim A leaflet from tlie hand of Pame ; 30 LIVING POETS. Butj fairly earned, oil ! let it wave Aroimd their brow and o'er tlieir grave. He need not fear — while better praise Than ever sprang from deathless bays Awaits the sister, friend, and wife Wlio sanctify domestic life. Nor need he fear — while beauty's lure Proves the best lime-twig to secure His changeful heart — and fairy smiles • From roseate cheeks and laughing eyes Porm truer talismanic wiles. To bring the wanderer back who flies, Than even angel eloquence. And all the artillery of sighs. If breathed by ugliness and sense. " From this at leisure you may weave A moral, for I now must leave Earthly poetics — re-ascend My empty car, and thither wend My truant steps, where all the fountains In verse-inspiring gambols play. Where trees breathe couplets, and the mountains Stand ' cloud-capped ' with poetry ; Where, too, whole hecatombs of rhyme Consume beneath the hand of Time ; Un-phoenix like, whose ashes yield No light the parents' name to sliield From Lethe's wave — the fatal breath So feared in life they meet in death. And sink unwept. But now farewell ! A word so oft the passing knell LIVIXG POETS. 31 To all the better joys we know, Or prelude to unjaelditig woe, I cannot utter without pain, E^en though I hope to come again." And Plora 's gone ! Oli, who can see A fabled vision fade away Nor sigh to lose it ? Who can be Unmindful of its fairy sway, Nor feel in everv chan":e of thoucjht The loss of all the life it brought ? As flowers before the midnight wind. Soon sinks the music of the mind. Oh ! what may mark its altered tone ? Not the mute harp whose notes are dead. Nor withering rose whose bloom hath fled. Nor desert sands whose waves are gone. For the wave will come to the lonely shore Again and again as heretofore ; And the silent harp will still prolong To Memory^s ear the soul of song. Or ^neath a loved touch wake attain : And the withering rose deprived of bloom. Faded and fallen, will still retain In death its rich perfume. Doth, then, no image rest for thee, Immortal mind, when once unstrung ? Or may the towering eaglet be Thy record, if, when upward sprung A floating cloud, absorb the ray Of glorious light that lured it on. Then leaves it, 'mid the pathless way Unaided and alone ! 3-> SONG. I MAEKEDj bedewed with tears, an opening rose, Fair as a star. That in the heavens glows. When the car Of Dian, faintest Kght bestows ! I said, " VTiiy weepest thou, fair flower ? Fit art thou, dear one ! for a lady's bower And in her bridal hour ! Too beautiful thou art for tears to rest, Ev'n for an instant on thy snowy breast." And the fair rose replied, in gentle toue, " Of creatures here That weep, Tm not alone, And a tear None bom of earth need e'er disown. IMourn thou not for me, but still let me weeji. For when my heart I thus in sorrow steep Its sighs, its sufferings sleep — And uncomplaining of one sorro-n- given, I yield my soul in fragrance bnck to Heaven." 33 SHE SAID, "I AVILL NOT LOVE!" (INTENDED FOR MUSIC). As if a word could woe remove, Her heart in its unrest, ^Yhen lo\ing most, vet most distrest. Exclaimed, "\ will not love \" As if the web could be unwove Wliere Fate hath held the woof — As though such web were not time-proof. She said, "I will not love V Too much I've borne, too much Fve strove, Too much Tve had of pain ; Let others be deceived again, But I, "I will not love!" Yet oh I remark — you can't disprove The tmth I have to tell ; No hearts there are that love so well As those that " will not love \" 34 A FAREWELL TO MY HARP. " We're doomed to part, my Harp and I, And each must yield to destiny." Like the niglit-breeze that comes o'er summer flowers, Thy strains have been to me in lonely hours ; Heralds of hope — soft soothers of despair, Eapture to sense — oblivion to care. But now we part, and I, from other strings Must draw forgetfulness of secret stings. And thou, unmindful of the hands that strike, "Wilt give to other hearts, to all alike. Those joys of sadness, that bewitching tone Once sweet and sacred to my griefs alone. Oh ! would that I, where'er I roam, could gain Like thee, an audience to a soul-breathed strain ! Give out the music of the mind within. Nor have each discord registered as sin. Win from the world's great mart a voice to heal. An ear to listen, and a heart to feel ; A voice that would not every sorrow blame. As though from wickedness or vice it came ; An ear that would not gladly turn away. Or seem to listen, when in fact astray ; A heart, though blessed itseK, alive to feel What not of blest another's could reveal ; Yet I, like thee, my harp, umnoved the while By frown, or keen critique, or caustic smile — A FAREWELL TO MY HARP. 35 Like thee, unmindful of the who or where, The hands that touch thee, or the ears that hear ; Like thee, 'mid joy and reveby unblest. Like thee, not useless, but like thee, at rest ! But, my poor harp, if e'er we meet again, I shall but have to tell fresh tales of pain. I feel a prophet, while I say it must Be thus with me, though Hope would wliisper " Trust.'' Fears of a selfish world are now, to me Wliat dews of dungeon vaults would be to thee ; Thy strings, once like the fibres of my heart. Untuned, unequal to their former part. Thou wouldst be nothing. Gone-by lays would seem The baseless fabrics of some lying dream. And thou wouldst feel (if feel thou couldst) the pain Of memory on thee as an iron chain ; And thy free spirit, by its ceaseless brave. Subdued, prostrated, changed into a slave. Oh ! thought of pain ! the everlasting soul Subjected to the fierce but weak control Of tliread-like sorrows ! Supreme Almighty mind ! Touch them with flame — let them no longer bind ! As morning clouds, by thy empjTcan ray. Let them be scattered, and a purer day Shine on my mental vision, that my mind Long with this " rearward darkness" — all but blind. May now, and to the end, undazzled see Ti'uth, beauty, peace and love enthroned with Thee ! Turn, as it oft to mundane things before Has turned, with ardour — delve for brighter ore And in the crucible of thought refine All that it brings, till heart and soul are Thine. 36 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. Lorenzo enters, speahing to Ugo, a youthful page, who follows him timidly, and in tears. Lorenzo. Thou weepest, Ugo. Is it^ tlien, a grief To leave a home where poverty abides^ And dwell in palaces ? A home, where Care Hath found a resting-place^ and Want a nook To pine in ! Why, boy, thy grateful mother Spoke of thy coming hither as a boon. Ugo. Perchance to her it is. Lorenzo. And not to thee ? Ugo. Oh ! pardon, good and gracious lord, these tears. 'Tis the first time I ever left the side Of my dear mother — ever left the home Which you so faithfully describe, but which To me was as a paradise. My hand There culled life's choicest floAvers — my hqart had love. My eyes were free from tears. But now, I feel As if my sorrows ne'er could have an end. \lle weeps (fresh. A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 37 Lorenzo {moved, but toitli energy). Thy sorrows ! thine, — they are the summer dew, Wliich are dispersed ere noon, by tlie bright sun — As the dark drops of dungeon walls are mine, Waiting the north wind Death to make them colder, Ugo. Have you, the Lord Lorenzo, sorrow known ? The owner of a palace ! Why, I thought Nothing but bliss came near you. My dear lord. We both have been deceived by outward show ; My happy home to you, seemed misery. Yours to me, seemed happiness complete. • Lorenzo. Error, all error ! From the mountain's base We see all objects greater than they are. While from its summit, men and all tilings else Diminish into specks. Boy, this applies To station, be content with thine. Ugo. I am. At least I fain would be so, gracious lord — But Lorenzo. Thy mother's farewell lingers in thine car. And hath a ceaseless echo in thy heart ; The grief is natural and beseems thy years. But, Boy, youth hath no sorrow, or hath none That seems as such, to those who know how deep. How bitter are the draughts of after-life. Mark well my words, I do not say of age. 38 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. For, if tliey came not till tlie sluggish blood Had slower movement, till no pulses tlirobbed Ev'n to affection's hope, and the fine nerve Had ceased to tremble at a shadowed grief Which nothing but itseK forefelt or saw, (Just as the aspen bends before the breeze Where all beside is still) who could complain ? All this, would be the natural course of things. The full ear bending to the sickle's stroke. The rosy apple stooping to be plucked. Ugo. And are there, then, worse sorrows, greater griefs Than those, which falling on the palsied frame Elicit tears and sympathy from all ? — Is there yet deeper woe, than that which comes O'er the young heart, like blight on summer flowers. Checking all promise, eating to its core, And making Heaven's gifts, the precious sun, Pui-e air, the gentle rain and dew all vain — No bloom, no glory, even to be hoped for ? Oh ! my good lord ! let me at least believe That worse than this awaits nor me nor others. Lorenzo. Let thee believe it ! — why, thou must and wdlt Till life hath done its office, and by facts Taught thy young heart what now it startles from. 'Tis a poor privilege, but be it tliine. To think thy sorrows greater than they are ; But yet, forget not, there are greater still. . For thy owm sake forget not — ^thus perchance The edge of after-sorrows thou mayst blunt. a dramatic sketch. 39 Ugo. Oh ! I cannot ! — years, that to the heart Bring such fierce fuel as you have talked of, Bring too a quenching power ! Age rarely grieves, Eather doth it forget of youthful woe The nature and intensity. Lorenzo. Most true. High wisdom, cureless apathy. Shelter old age from suffering. This I said, Or deemed I said but now, a moment since. Boy, Ksten ! the pang, the deathlike struggle With the soul, occurs when thick misfortunes Fall like a torrent on our middle life ; On that ripened hour when our energies Rise highest, and the hearths founts are deepest ; When the fair flow'rs that garlanded our youth Have fallen to the earth and withered there — And from our own experience we learn That what hath been, can never be again ! Boy, I repeat, as yet, thou hast no sorrow ! 40 LINES (WRITTEN AT FRASOATI, 1844). At Frascati a Peie Dieu is shown, which belonged to the late Princess Borghese. It was the gift of a friend, and on it were embroidered these words, " C'est mon plaisir/^ Oh words of sweet remembrance ^broidered here By friendsliip's hand for one to Heaven dear, Dwell ever in my heart, and be to me As living fragrance in my memory ! Tluice happy they, who can sincerely say. My pleasure is, God, to pray to Thee ! Thy name, sweet lady, though I knew thee not. Brings back a fi'iendship ne'er to be forgot. Memory of one who, ■with the righteous trod. And who, like thee, found pleasure in her God. 41 TO THE NEW YEAR Hark ! let all noises cease, All, save the wind's low sighing — Near, and around be unbroken peace For the dear old year is dying o \ He gave both hope and fear, Shared grief and mirth with all ; Then grudge not a sigh to the dying old year "VVliom no power can e'er recall ! How Phcenix-like he dies ! See, from his ashes springing, A shadowy form that in darkness lies, And we know not what he's bringing. Wliatever it may be. Of gladness or of sorrow. We'll welcome give, with souls brave and free. And bid him a blithe good-morrow. Then hail to thee, New Year ! In shadows dark now Ijang, We bid thee hail, with a clarion clear. While the dear old year is dying. 42 THE VOICE. I DREAMED — thank Heaven, 'twas but a dream! — That I last night was standing near thee. I spoke of love, but thou didst seem Neither to heed nor hear me. I gazed upon thy glorious brow, The glance for long encountered thine ; But colder than the mountain snow It nothing said to mine. Then anguish came — imagined woe In waking dreams or those of sleep Is sharp and deep, as sufferers know. Who e'er have waked to weep. I wept — but soon a voice I heard (From my own heart it seemed to roll) That softly uttered many a word As it would fain console. Still, all the words that met my ear. Like sharp and poisoned poniards fell, That voice said, " Love him not — for ne'er Will love his bosom swell." THE VOICE. And more, yet with consummate art Revealed that voice in gentle tone, " Thou think'st him good ; but ah ! his heart Is hard as Parian stone." And I beheved — and now, awake. Dark fears within my bosom teem — And vaiidy still I strive to break The thraldom of that dream. Sometunes I to the truth would turn And ask, if thou insensate art ? And quick recoil, lest I should learn Aught that would grieve my heart. Oh no ! if day is changed to night. And I am flung from height of bliss. Let not to me one holy light Eeveal the drear abyss. Let me not know that I could give My heart away to apathy ; In doubt, in silence, let me live. In ignorance let me die ! 43 44 LINES WRITTEN ON MY LAST VISIT TO T ***** *, NOV. 3. On once familiar scene I look^ Aud find therein, as in a book Of holy record, all the past ! I look, and know that look the last. And wish, and weep, and pray in vain That what once was might be again. But not in selfish spirit nozo Springs in my heart such idle woe. O'er others' sorrow, others' love. More deep than aught that I can prove, I muse, aud grieve, and half forget The homage of my own regret ! Yet well to me may what hath been Come back with pain in this fair scene. Remembrance from surrounding things Fond registries of kindness brings, 'Till scarce a spot in hall or bower. But hath for me its tale of power. The one unfailing friend, whose worth Is rarely equalled on this earth. Prepared for mansions of the blest. Is taken to his heavenly rest. For him in his eternal home God's kingdom is already come ! LINES. 45 Then not for him, the sad regret That on my heart its seal hath set ; And not for him alone the tear That will not bear repression here : For oh ! on all I gaze I find Affection's history defined. The filial thought that cannot cease. The holy grief that seeketh peace, On each beloved and well-kno-wn face In lineaments of love I trace ; But with the hope that's fixed on high The love that clings to what must die ! Oh, saddest thought ! yet not forgot. How much more sad if death were not ! Death's power can crush the human heart. But doth not reach the immortal part — Tlie exiled soul on earth must strive But wings its wav to Heaven to live ! -=Qa2O3iQ0i«^=— 46 TO MRS. G * * * ON HER BIRTHDAY. Oh ! could I frame a song with art, To charm the ear, or touch the heart. Or unadorned truths reveal. And simply write, what now I feel — I would not, lady ! let to-day Unheeded pass away. No, I would paint thee as thou art. Thy mind, thy soul, should have their part, And my imperfect lines should be A mirror of thy worth and thee ! Even as a stream in sunshine gliding Where heaven itself is seen abiding — There, in thy own bright coloui'iug di'est The friends who know and love thee best No trait should find they could gainsay — No touch, no hue, to wish away, Yet see thee perfectly designed As sweet, and fair, and good, and kind, As to their hearts thou long hast shown And as thou^rt pictured on my own. W said to-day, speaking of education, "that nine-tenths of that wliich we receive is not only use- less but harmful ;" but he could not suggest any mode of obtaining the tithe of good he admitted was acquired, separated from the evil. May it not be presumed to be as necessary as chaff to corn, which protects, but hurts it not, and is soon scattered? Or to the chrysalis covering of the butterfly? Once emancipated, the winged creature necessarily leaves the husk behind. 47 ON RECEIVING A ROSE FROM BERRY HILL. To other eyes this blushing rose Would but a blushing rose appear — Her tints would only tints disclose ; They would but see her as she shows Most beauteous^ but not dear. But oh ! to me how many things She tells of past and futui'e hours ! Her hues seem stolen from Joy^s bright wings. Her fragrance breathes of Memory's springs. And Hope's eternal bowers ! I think of her now far away — I see her pensive, still and sad. And anxious thoughts, like clouds that stray O'er summer sun, absorb the ray That would have made me glad. I think again, and oh ! once more All is as we had never parted ; The hills, the vales I wander o'er. Where with her I have roamed before. Confiding and lighthearted. Her home — its sloping lawn, the flowers That by herself were loved or planted — All, all bring back with magic powers To fanc/s eye the real hours Her presence so enchanted. 48 SONG, My rose ! tliy course was meant to be Brief as the sigh om- chilcUiood heaves ; But evermore henceforth to me, More sweet than living fragTancy, Will be thy withered leaves ! SONG TO THE TUNE OF "HERMILIE." Giii of my heart, We must not part. Waltzing with thee, is such pleasure to me ; Now we go round Oh ! how profound Joy is to me, waltzing with thee ! Not that thou'rt fair Do I declare, Giii of my heart, we will not part ; Nor to deceive. Bid thee believe Waltzing with thee, is such joy to me ! 'Neath snows of age Love writes a page Bright with life's light as thy eyes to-night ; Girl of my heart. We must not part, Waltzing with thee, is such pleasure to me ! BLACK EYES AND BLUE EYES. 49 Beauty and Love, TSnn-like may move. But beauty flies, trae love ne'er dies ; Girl of my heart, We must not part, Waltzing with thee, is such pleasure to me ! 'Tis that thou'rt dear. True, and sincere, Waltzing with thee, is such pleasure to me ; Girl of my heart, We will not part. Waltzing with thee, is such pleasure to me ! BLACK EYES AND BLUE EYES, (TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF BERTOLA). To contest fierce and high dispute The gentlest things are prone ; We cannot give a reason why, Except that they, lite you and I, Have wills and tempers of their own. Blue eyes, we know, are soft as heaven. But even they can argue. And once they said to eyes as bright As they themselves, but black as night, " We win more hearts than you do." 50 BLACK EYES AND BLUE EYES. Black eyes at first were startled — They knew their own dominion ; But as they stood in the crystal light Of theii- opponents, they felt there might Be others of their opinion. " Black eyes/' said the Blue, " are proud;" " And blue," said the Black, " can rove ; " " We are reflections of Heaven," said Blue, " And we," said they of the midnight hue, " Are torches veiled by love." " Pallas — Juno — both liad blue." " I grant ; but what had Venus ?" " Come, say no more, we both wall go To Cnidus, and Love, I very well know, Will settle the point between us." To Cnidus they went, and there received This judgment iii Cupid's writing — " Beauty in colour disdains to dwell. She lives in the eyes that most readily tell The thoughts of the heart's inditing." 51 TRANSLATION OP AN EXTRACT FROM "L'ELEGIE DE MARIE. (BY MADAME WALDOR). "Oh yes, my God ! — 'tis he — ^'tis he — Whom I have yearned^ but scarcely hoped to see ; But hush ! he sleeps, my name 's perhaps breathed by hun. Unthinking that Tm nigh him. Smile now I can, as erst, in other years — Forgotten are all tears — My sorrow is a dream that's flown. My happiness is not o'erthrown ! 'Twas but a storm, by wliich earth's flowers Are bent, not crushed. Heaven no longer lowers ; And yet, but yesterday, I said. When I saw evening close. And I had seen liim not — " Would I were dead !" But, I had waited long in silence drear. And vainly waited — and now Fate bestows The blessing prayed for — ^lie is here ! Oh ! wherefore should I tremble ? or repine That the bright gift of beauty is not mine ? What ! though when shivering 'neath a wintry sky A white rose is less pale than I — Will not my love transfuse my form with light. And must I not grow beauteous in his sight ? 52. SONG. But let me wait — ^he wakes ! " And near him, hidden, Marie gently takes Her station, trembling ^vith profound attention, Sudden, her beating heart transforms to stone, She hears her lover's voice distinctly mention A name, in accents soft, but not her o-svn ! SONG. Sing to me to-night, For my spirit is light, And I dream but of bright-coming hours. And I ask for a lay. Both gladsome and gay, That may breathe but of sunshine and flowers. The sorrow and tears Of my by-gone years All pangs by the world ever given. From my soul fade away. Like the clouds of to-day. And I see but the brightness of Heaven ! Then sing, sing to-night. Let lays soft as hght. For the moment enliven our bowers. And let the glad strain Come again and again. To encourage this spirit of ours. 53 LET ME REST. (ALTERED FOE SINGING, FROM A POEM BY EBENEZER ELLIOTT). She doth well, who cloth her best ; Is she weary ? let her rest. Brothers, I have done my best ; I am wear)', I would rest. After anguish, grief, and pain, After stri\ing long in vain Hoping to attain the best, Brothers, brothers, let me rest ! I ATould rest ; but lav me low. Where the hedge-side roses blow, "Where the ring-dove builds her nest. There, oh ! brothers, let me rest. Where the breeze -bowed poplars nod, ^Yhere the old woods worship God, Brothers ! poor hath been my best ; But I'm weary, let me rest. SONG. (TO A GERMAN AIR). Sleep, sleep, how may I bind thee ! Rest, rest, where can I find thee ? The world it is dreary. And I, oh ! I'm weary, Weary, weary, weary and lone ! 54 SONG. Sleepj sleep^ why dost thou fly me ? Eest^ rest^ wherefore defy me ? I come from afar, Like a wandering star, Wandering, wandering ever alone ! Sleep, sleep, shed thy dews o'er me ; Rest, rest, calmly restore me. My poor heart is sighing, As though I were dying. Dying, dying, dying alone ! SONG. "IP THOU ART HxVPPY, 'TIS ENOUGH FOR ME. Go, if thou wilt, but oh ! in gomg, hear One parting phrase, the last I give to thee ; Where'er thou wand^rest be these words held dear, " If t/iou art happy, ^tis enough for me ! " Enough for me, though with an aching heart I tread life's wilderness apart from thee ; In this world's bhss I ask no dearer part, '' If t/iou art happy, 'tis enough for me ! " 55 HYMN. (COMPOSED FOK THE OPENING OF TRINITY CHURCH, GRAY'S INN IJiKE, LONDON, AND SUNG THERE). Lord of lllight and God of Power ! Met within this holy fane. Finite creatures of an hour, Endless mercy seek to gain ! Hallelujah ! God of Power Consecrate to us this hour ! Penitent we here repair, And before thy altar kneel, Here to poui' the fervent prayer, Here thy chastening truth to feel. Hallelujah ! God of Power, Consecrate to us this hour ! All our sins and errors past, All our griefs and all our woe. On a Saviour's love we cast, Taught by thee that love to kuo\\'. Hallelujah ! God of Power, Consecrate to us this hour ! With thy sacred word, oh ! give Faith and meekness, truth and love. Let us as disciples live Of the Christ who reigns above. Hallelujah ! God of Power, Consecrate to us this hour ! 56 LINES. Let us dry the mourner's tear, Let us unto all be just ; Let us live as pilgrims here. Proving that in God we trust. Hallelujah ! God of Power, Consecrate to us this hour ! LINES. ON READING " THE GOLDEN VIOLET," BY " L. E. L." IN WHICH A BARD GIVES THIS INSTRUCTION TO WOMAN— ' ' And, one spell, all spells above — Never let her own her love ! " Ip this spell were the iron tie To bind man's faith, inconstancy Had never on this earth been known ; Por never yet did woman own — If she loved well — the thousandth part Of love abiding in her heart. Much, much she may, in fondness say, Much too, in grief reveal. Her joy may be a tell-tale ray. She cannot all conceal. But never yet did the frankest heart Its all of tender love impart. Deep, deep witliin its inmost core A fountain of sweet thoughts is playing. And round its border evermore Bright groups of winged Loves are straying. LINES. 57 The gushing waters never rise, But straight into the woman's eyes These active Cupids take the treasure ; And lovers, who have skill and leisure, May find some histories there revealed That to the world are volumes sealed. But words are not, that could unfold The changes in that fountain old. Sometimes as clear as crystal spring In purest sunshine glittering. Anon, its waters, low and drear, Threaten at once to disappear. Despair hath, then, a stubborn hold. The heart can only woe behold. And throws a dark unconscious shade O'er hopes that Love himself displayed. The fount too often warmly flows While manner doubt and coldness shows ; For woman's love and woman's fear. Though ever separate, still are near. And ev'n herseK could not tell why. While fondly loved, within her breast. Like cloud upon a summer sky, A jealous fear will oft-times rest. The clouds will fall in summer rain, Eeviving forest glade and plain ; But woman's tears will not remove The pain that oft-times springs from love. 58 THE CHIEF'S LAMENT " Who is there to mourn for Logan ? — Not one." The cliief had won a victor's fame, By deeds on the battle plain ; And no foul act on his glorious name Had left ignoble stain. But he lived too long ; for he lived to be In tins dreary world alone ; He lived to ask, who will mourn for me ? And to hear his heart say " None/' For thirty years his joy had been To descant on his race ; But now of all his warrior men The earth retained no trace. Foui' beauteous sons, aU nobly brave. Were once his vaunt and pride ; But he scarce could say he knew theii" grave. Or the spot on which they died. He found indeed the fatal field Where they had fought and fell, And where the foe had been said to yield, 'Twas there he said he'd dwell. He watched the spot when the morning bird Salutes the early light. And his j)laint of woe, alas ! was heard Blent with sobs through the tedious night. THE chief's lament. 59 " My bravej brave sons ! the righteous stars Shine brightly o'er my head ; But one thought all their brightness mars, Tou 're in your narrow bed. Well may I weep — ^well may I weep ! The young have ceased to be ; Li their graves the young and the good now sleep Who should have wept for me. " My brave, brave sons ! this weight of woe From my soul will not depart. It lessens not by the ceaseless flow Of tears from an old man's heart. My grief is fixed — yet not alone Weep I, my sons, for ye — I weep, alas ! that when I am gone You will not weep for me ! " Logan hath been a happy man, My sons, 'twas by your worth; 'Twas with your lives my bliss began. And now you 're laid in earth ! My blessing still to all I give As if I all could see ; As if my sons were still alive And all could weep for me.'^ 60 SONG. TO UNA-SFPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY HER LOVER. Believe me, I should feel it sin, Thy beauties to be ever praising, My Una ! did no mind within Those angel eyes still keep me gazing. And I should blush to call thee fair, Or praise the tints that grace thy cheek, Did not those tints while mantling there. Thy inward soul of feehng speak. Yet wert thou only, only fair. Unmarked, I feel thou hadst not moved, I still had praised thy graceful air. Perchance I even might have loved. Yes, loved ! but how unworthy thee, Such passion of my soul had been — Like lightning's flash to cease to be,"^ Had fairer creature stepped between. And not as now — when love of thee With every pulse of life is blent, And like the snn's light on the sea Brightens the darkly element. ' " Too like the lightning that doth cease to be Ere one can say it lightens." — Shakespeare. 61 SONG. (TO THE TUNE OP "EVELYN'S BOWEE). Of Hope, with golden hair, So blithe and debonair, Poets old and new have both said and sung in vain ; But I will now declare Her Protean sha]:)e and air, If you'll condescend to listen to my strain, my strain ! To the babe she is a rattle, To the soldier she's a battle. To the hero " pomp and circumstance " and victory ! To the poor man she is wealth. To tile sick man she is health. To the prisoner and the slave she is liberty ! To the maiden, she discovers A host of ardent lovers. And becomes a wedding-ring to charm her sight; To the youth just leaving college She ceases to be knowledge, And takes the angel form of some fairy sprite. To the sot she is a dram. To the gourmand becomes ham, Or turtle, or Jolui Dory, as may suit him best — Her form it is so pliant ! To the lawyer she's a client, While to misers she is gold in an iron chest. G2 LINES. To the doctor she's a fee. To the parson, a degree Of Theology or Arts, or a mitre ! To the sportsman she is game. To the poet wreaths of fame Just steeped in CastaFs fount to make them brighter ! LINES TO A GENTLEMAN WHO SAID HE THOUGHT "A WOMAN'S AFFECTION FOR HEK HUSBAND WOULD BE STRONGER AND MORE ENDURING, IF SHE HAD NEITHER FATHER, NOB MOTHER, NOR SISTER, NOR BROTHER TO LOVE." Oh ! -RTong her not, a woman's heart Of many loves can bear a part. As dear would be a lover's name. Though unforgot a mother's claim. As true her soul, as fixed her mind. Should duty there a shelter find. And fond as sweet might be her smile, Though brothers, too, were loved the while. A sister's tenderness might be Shrined in a heart that worshipped thee, Familiar in affection's lore. And thou — thou only loved the more. Then darken not life's one bright chain Of soft aff'ections, nor disdain, Shouldst such thou find, devoid of art. Already writ in woman's heart. Oh, no ! believe each added link Lito all worthier souls Avould sink LINES. 0-5 To strengthen love for thee — its name Were else to woman word of blame. The holy lights of early years, Endeared by time, undimmed by tears. Passion may not put out, yet be Guileless and pure, and worthy thee ! Like stars within a sunht sky, Still must they keep their vigils high ; Still be, though veiled by glorious light. What, if revealed, would charm the sight. Their station fixed, their duty known. Seen, cherished by the heart alone. Yet only prized and only viewed As gentle ministers of good. Thus, thus believe, round woman's heart. Would less affections play their part. Her dearest thoughts for others be Subservient to her love for thee ! Life's early flowers would not disgrace Love's best and fairest dwelling-place; Though paled by those of deeper hue. Yet fragrant still, and lovely too. When round his altar they entwine More bright, more blest becomes the slirine. Fade, fade they must, but leave in death A soft perfume, a living breath. That like remembered strains can fling. Fresh radiance round each treasured thing. And would to love once felt for thee. Transfix the pledge of constancy ! 64 I SAW HER ONCE. I SAW her once — she stood as stone, And still as Death appears ; She did not weep, for she was one Had nought to do with tears ; Yet all her form bespoke the blight Of anguish never sleeping ; And in her eye there shone a light Far worse to bear than weeping. Her left arm bore a sleeping cliild, Her right hand led another ; But, had not that young creature smiled And called on her as mother, I had not thought that one so young Had known a parentis woe or gladness ; Yet they, like her, in robes were hung Of more than orphan sadness ! Of all the human sights I know. And I have seen a varied host. An infant clad in weeds of woe Affects my heart the most. Bright spring flowers with the yew-tree twined. Or jewels on a marble tomb. Are not so sad, so ill-combined. As infancy and gloom ! 05 STANZAS. (ON VISITING A WELL-REMEMBERED SPOT). Fainter and fainter still Eemembrance comes As time wears on, Yet still dotli come, and will Till time is gone. Oh, endless love ! wliat store Of bliss and woe Thy memory gives ! Each word of thy deep lore For ever lives ! All vainly doth the heart That well has loved SeeJc to forget — The silent stars have part In its regret. To them, perchance, the eye Gratefully turned When hope was new, And the heart's secret tie Gave to their view. Sacred and secret too. From that lone hour The tie became A\hich time could ne'er undo, Nor breath defame. F 66 WILD FLOWEllS. Spring flowers can unite A thousand thoughts Remembered well, That pen could ne^er indite Nor whisper tell. Oil ! if the millionth part To one loved ear Were indeed told, Unmoved might be the hearty But not all cold. Some gentle thought would rise From its low depths. That thus to pain A heart could idolize. Yet love in vain. WILD FLOWERS I HAVE rescued some flowers from death — Such flowers as Nature^s hand rears, In secret to fan with her breath. In silence to bathe with her tears. And when man and the world laugh to scorn The precepts her Hps would disclose. She tui-ns to the woodbine and thorn. And weeps o'er the bindweed and rose. And the dew-drops of morn on their leaves. Ere brushed off by Zephyr's light elves. Are tears of a mother who grieves O'er her children less pure than themselves. 67 ANNIE. "Believe in immortality ! — How can we love if we decay ?" J. P. RlCHTEE. Why should I weep ? for tears will not restore thee ! Gone^ is not gone, dead is not dead, for aye. Dear one ! no eartlily woe can can now befaU thee, I feel thy spirit is with God to-day ! Let this console — else it were idle dreaming To talk of vu-tue, and of high intent ; Conscience to thee was not a world-born seemmg. But a monition from thy Maker sent ! Ajid thou, all-conscious of its deep revealing, From cluldhood^s hour obeyed its true behest. Steeped ever in its fount each anxious feeling That now in Heaven with thy God hath rest. F -Z 68 SONNET " A mirar il tuo divino aspetto — Uno stimol perpetuo m'iucita E tauto piacere ii'lio, tanto diletto Ch'io paio il ferro, e tu la calamita. " Fast in my soul iiimumbered questions rise That still must dark and unresolved remain, For some might ask, why ever in those eyes I sought, or still would seek, favour to gain. But who the subtle mystery may explain That thought and lieart and memory enslave, And hinds in an indissoluble chain Each evanescent hope that love e'er gave ? Who shall reveal why I thy unage wear More like thyself, more exquisite to view In my mind's eye, more faithful and more fair Than sculptor ever carved or artist drew ? Alas ! unloving hearts could but reprove The coldest could but say, they know not love. 69 SONNET " Est-il trop tard d'aimer ! " It is not late to love, if o'er thy heart The world hath no unfair advantage taken. And for vile dross at its unholy mart The ore from thee of pui'e affection shaken. It is not late, if the bright eye of love When seeking thine, doth sink into thy soul. And like a sun live there and ne'er remove, Though thousand thunders round thy hfe may roll. Nor is it late if you sincerely feel That you had rather be to one endeared. And near him dwell, and by him ever kneel. Than as earth's mightiest potentate be feared. Oh, no ! Love ever was life's sweetest rose, And late or early sweetlv doth unclose. 70 SONNET "II miser suole, ar facile crecleuza a quel che vuole." If easily my heart to love incline. Oh ! never say presumption bears it on ; I dare not think that I have conquered thine. Albeit my own irrevocably is gone. Wlien I would call it back, it scarce will come, But like a foolish bird that would be free (Yet makes a close-barred cage its chosen home) Mies with an eager pinion back to thee ! If I have hope, "'tis but of little worth. And springs from wishes blending with dark fears. Such hope, alas ! is not of halcyon birth. It looks like sunshine, but presages tears — I know tilts truth ! but, with the tempest-tost, StiU hope the firmest while I suffer most. 7L SONNET TO A DEAR FRIKND WHO HAT) SUFFEREB FROM THE SMALLPOX. It is but veiled^ my love, and not departed. Thy beauty's dazzling and attractive ray, Else, were thy friends around all broken-hearted, IN^ot smUing on thee, as thou seest to-day ! Yet, for themselves, not once would they complain ; For thou to them, less fair, would be as dear, — They still would seek thy smiles, thy love to gain — Still bend the music of thy voice to hear. What, then had been thy loss ? — the idler^s sighs. Who gives to that which perisheth his praise, Wlio loves alone of beauty that which dies, And hath no eye for that which ne'er decays. To liim, the better beauties of thy mind Sounds to the deaf had been, or colours to the blind. n SONNET. " II y a une passion qui ferine I'ame k toutes Les miseres qui tourmentent les gens du monde. " The time hath been, when ev^n the seasou^s change. Excess of cold, the wind in east or north. Or more of heat than common, would derange My tempera's sufferance, and complaint call forth. And I have oft, with supercilious ear. Disdained the social every-day discourse. And sighed ''mid common-place remarks, to hear Reason^s pure A^oice, or wit's resistless force ; But this is o''er — no longer I complain Of minor evils — all is changed to me ; The dullest converse cannot give me pain. For nothing do I hear or see but thee ! When absent near thee, and when near thee blest. Yet doth my heart seem poisoned with unrest. 73 SONNET. " Is human love the growth of human will ? " If human love could be by human will Commanded, now to worship, now to hate, If Lethe were not an imagined rill, And cotdd remorseful gone-by pangs abate ; Yet should not once my heart my will obey. Were my will's best that I should love thee not ; Nor would I one fond record wash away. Although unloved by thee or ev'n forgot. For lovers cannot look with common eyes. Nor can or heavy or light faults descry. They thus may doat where others might despise. Mock at all censure and reproof defy. Love's chain may clank to sounds of misery. Yet few would loose it, even to be free. 74 SONNET Eemembered every tliorn^ the flowers forgot, I weave the one and let the other fade, For sympathy to beg, am not afraid. And talk to others of a hapless lot ! But, ^tis unwise: the best, the truest friend, Unless some new affliction bow your breast. Will scarcely with one drop of pity part. But smile, quote moralist, and bid you mend ! When, then, the bitter of your cup of woe Springs to the top, lend not a voice to thought. But to some lonely wilderness resort, And there alone permit it to overflow. Breathe in that sohtude thy woe-fraught prayer. And strength and comfort gain — for God is there ! 75 SONNET If I of beauty e^er o'erprize the liglit, It is not for tlie fair and just array Of features^ or the tints of red and white That nature on sweet faces doth display. Nor yet for dimpled smile upon the cheek. Nor clusteriuo; rintjlets of luxuriant hair That in or ebon or in auburn fair The idle Tvinds on lovely head do seek. Por none of these alone, or ev^'n combined. Did I e^er beauty love, but that the mind Doth sometimes stand transfigured in the face ; And when I\e gazed its characters to trace. Hath seemed to me a revelation given To lead the heart and thought from it to Heaven ! 76 SONNET ON READING IN J. P. RICHTER, "TO OXJR HEARTS IT IS THE SAME, WHETHER OUR BELOVED ONE DIES, OR MERELY HIS LOVE DISAPPEAR." No, not the same ! for love while it doth last. Is as the life of life, and when it dies In the loved heart, for us all joy is past, More than 'twould be if he were in the skies. For where the best love is death cannot kill The hope it leaves of being re-united. Beheld in starry light, the dear one still Shines on our di'eary path, however benighted. But when the love doth die, or what love seemed. In life or death, no hope of bliss remains A home of rest, the grave is scarcely deemed. So endless show the anguish of love's pains. Back on itself the mourning soul is tlirowm. To feel, to suffer, and repent alone. 77 SONNET. ON SEEING "TIME AWAKENING FAME," BY DOMENICHINO. Can Fame then slumber ? Oh ! false^ false report ! She hath no sluggard heart that needs reposmg, Her ear and eye are ever kept from closing By deeds, and words, and works of high import, This was but painted then, in idle sport. By him whose brows are wreathed by her decree. Tor none who ever prized her deathless court. Would make her. Time ! a vassal unto thee ! Yet thou hast mighty power ! and many a name Loudly trumped forth, tlirough thee hath died away Thy forceful scythe, their weakness overcame The spruikling of thy sands obscui'ed their ray ; But for the rich"^ in mind, and worthy memory, Ere they depart, thyself oh. Time ! must die. * " Eicchi nomi degna, di memoria." — Ariosto. 78 SONNET (FROM DANTE). Oh ! wherefore is thy straggling soul depressed. And why do now thy feeble footsteps cease ? Bear fearless onward, nor e'er let the peace. The radiant sunshine of the immortal breast Be broken by what idle tongues can say. Be lite the mighty tower that doth not bend Its lofty top, though romid it there may play The fiercest storms, or gentlest winds descend. Let not thy eddying thoughts, with traitor force. Of vacillating powers from its course Divert thy mind. To that one fixed end To which each action of thy life should bend. Bring back thy gaze, and to thy fault be given Tears that alone can fit thy soul for Heaven ! " 11 Purgatorio," Canto 5, line 10. 79 TO MY SISTER M (DECEMBER, 1820). It seems not tlie same world to me, Where I must be and thou art not, I feel as if some boundless sea, Now severed me from thee ! I know too well from aU around I am, indeed, transported far. But thought still hovers o^er the spot Where thou art, like some lingering star On ocean's bosom when the sound Of gathering tempest echoes far and near. The spirit of my soul is now become A restless wanderer from its native home, And comes and goes with an untired wing, As if from thee it sought to bring Each spell that bound it once, to deck its dwelling here. I bless its efforts, for each trivial thing Is now a gem to memory ; And side by side, \rithin its stores they lie. Creating smiles and tears alternately, AccorcUng as the radiant hues they bear, Reflect the phantom Hope, or image back Despair. 80 WORDS. Sardanapahis : Those words- Myrrha : Were mords. Yes, only words ! but full of pain That will not, cannot die ; Their import hourly thrills my brain, A curse to memory ! I know they were not meant to wound, That heedlessly they fell ; Then wherefore should their memory sound To me like friendsliip^s knell ? It is, that ere those words of ruth By lip had been jaronounced, The utterer's heart believed them truth. And me must have renounced. That is — all, all I once had deemed Myself — oh ! how I erred ! ]^ar, far beyond my worth esteemed, With all my faults preferred. The dream is o'er, and now doth life An icy sea appear. Cold, cold with Atidening chasms rife. With mists and darkness drear. TEANSLATION. 81 With rocks around and clouds above, Beneath no sheltering dome ; Oh ! could or eaglet wild, or dove Find rest in such a home ? Oh no ! and now my wounded soul, With sense of pain opprest, Would, as a bird, from earthly dole Fly far to be at rest. TRANSLATION OF LINES WRITTEN ON MICHAEL ANGELO'S STATUE OF " NIGHT." WITH HIS ANSWER. That " Night " thou seest here so sweetly lying From a rude rock was carved by Angelo, But though that placid look mth death's is vjong. It still hath life — speak, and •'twill tell thee so. Answer. Sleep is sweet to me — but more sweet to know Myself of stone. While to this land remain Sorrow and shame, to see or hear were pain ; Therefore awake me not — speak, I beseech thee, low. a 82 ON SEEING THE MUMMY OF A POET AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM. /' II nome clie piu dura, e piu oiiora." — Dante. Of all the forms reclining here None fills my soul like thine — A poet^s name is on thy bier^ I boTV, as to a shrine. What thou didst write is now not known, At least not known to me. But ^tis enough, that thou didst own The Poet's mystery ! Thou wert, perhaps, to hearts of yore What Shakspeare is to mine ; Imbued with Milton's, Homer's lore. Or Dante-like divine ! Let kings, let incense-bearers pass,^ To each be honor given. They give back earth, as eartldy glass The Poet mirrors heaven ! * This mummy was, at the time I saw it, placed between that of an Egyptian Priest and one of the luie of Sesostris. 83 ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF THE CELEBRATED "L. E. L." It is in vain we talk of deatli's]^poor power When Genius dies, — Tears, when it meets the irrevocable hour. Gush from all eyes. A loud lament, from a far distant shore, Booms o^er the deep ; Gone from the earth is one bright creature more — For her we weep ! Yet, let the lip reveal its deep regret. And memory bring. From ^mid the sweetest flow'rets therein set^ Breatliings of Spring, — And Loves' wild words, and Passion^'s mad despair — Then say, whose lyre First wakened in their heart's mysterious lair The living fire ! Oh ! there are many now, whom wrinkled Care Hath made his own. Could well reveal, were memories laid bare. That lyre's tone. Eevealing to them what their own hearts proved. How sweet it came ! And how, in youtli, they worshipped, sought, and lovcd^ Th' initialled name. G 2 84 LINES ON SEEING THE BUST OF A^TNIE, THEN CALLED "BABY," WHICH DID NOT PLEASE »IE. Oh ! that I had a Raphael's power To paint thee as thou art. As beauteous, as at this lone hour I see thee in my heart. Then, not alone, oh ! " Baby " dear. Thy features would I give — Thy lovely mind on canvas here Should long a picture live ! I^d give thy eyes their azure hue. And with it the bright light That from their depths serenely through Comes forth, to charm the sight. I\l give thy generous look of love The sunshine of thy face ; Thy arch, sweet ways, that all approve. Thy gaiety and grace. For oft I gaze on thy sweet smile, As on a holy scroll — A stainless record, free from guile — A spotless human soul ! LINES. 85 And oft, while tlms I gaze, I pray — Tliy life through coming years May be, as shadowed forth to-day. Thy infancy appears. Blessing and blest, dear child, mayst thou In womanliood combine AH virtues with what dazzles now. And be a thing divine. LINES (IKTENDEB FOE MUSIC). A KOSE had ta'en its Hvery on Of summer hues, both bright and gay It opened to the morning sun. But slirank beneath the noon-tide ray. And evening saw its beauties gone. With vulgar weeds the flower was tlirown ; But scorned to mingle with their breath, It knew and mourned its fragrance flown. But proudly smiled — a rose in death. 86 THE QUESTION Diogenes in the summer rolled himself in the sand while the sun was shining, to accustom himself to support the heat ; and in the winter, he embraced statues covered with snow to inure himself to the cold. Oh ! wisely clone, to make the frame In such a changeful world, as fit to bear The summer's scorching heat and burning sand As wintry air. But wiser stiE, could it be done, ■'Twould be 'gainst moral change to find an art . That would from maddening joy or dread despair* Fast nerve the heart. An art to make old age unfeared. Death but the openmg portal to the skies. Illusive love, as an illusion sent To cheat the eyes. But if such art there were, would man No more by care and turmoil, peace oppose ? And soar sublime, from sublunary care. To seek repose ? Or, would he still true rest avoid, Ev'n as a bird, at all times on the wing, And be for evermore what he hath been, A restless thing ? 87 TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN OF GUARINI. Oh ! since my voice offends tliee, In silence I will die, But hill and vale shall plead for me Whenever they meet thine eye. These woods, that with thy loved name So frequently have rung. Shall haunt thine ear with sounds of blame. While mourning one so young. And stiU, while fountains weep around. And murmuring winds bewail — In silent sadness, when they soimd, My brow shall tell the tale. And should all these in vain be cast Before thine ear and eye. Oh ! let my spirit feel at last, 'Twas eloquent to die. THE LAST CHORUS IN THE " PASTOR FIDO " OF GUARINI. Oh ! happy pair ! Whose love was sowai in tears. But reaped in smiles ! Wliat grief and care Tluough long and bitter years. And many artful wiles Did your alfcctions bear ! 88 LOVE. Hence^ mortals, vain and blind, These truths of life may know, That pleasures are not always kind. Nor every ill a woe ! That true delights can only spring From virtue after suffering. LOVE And what is Love ? A light That comes from heaven in varied guise to all, And in its rise and fall, Swift as a meteor through the aziu'e night ; An ephemeral flower. Whose beauties opening to the noon-tide ray In silence fade away. Ere the approach of evening's chilly hour ; A strain of melody Brought to the ear, we know not how, And yet our sjairits bow Before it, when we feel its voice must die ; A cherishing perfume. Such as the gales of Araby will fling When wafted by the wing Of some loved bird from groves of orange bloom ; ANSWER TO "love." 89 An iris bright as day, Bom in the soul, whose heavenly form and hues Breathe gladness and diffuse Belief that thence ^twill never fade away — But, oh ! too bright to last The fair ethereal bow dissolves in air, Leaving no record there. Of all its beauteous tints and glory past ! * ANSW^ER TO THE FOREGOING POEM CALLED " LOVe/' Is tliis thy love ? Oh, shame To give to thing as brief And fading as a summer leaf, So sweet a name ! Yet 'tis indeed a light. That o'er the heart doth shine, Not falling meteor-like as tliine. But always bright ! And true, it is a flower, Fragrant and lovely too, Not fading soon, as yours would do. In one short hour ! * This little poem was published in the " New Monthly Maga- zine," when Campbell was its editor, May, 1822. It was also translated by a contributor to a French annuaire, edited by the late Mr. Tarver, of Eton College, and sent to him, as an original poem. 90 ANSWER TO "love, }} But, fanned by passing sigh And cherished by a tear. Its fragrance lives from year to year, Its bloom for aye ! And yes ! it is a strain. The heart will bend to hear. From which, if we would turn our ear, We strive in vain ; For music's self appears In its cadences to dwell. And mould the soul with magic spell. To smiles and tears. But, I had half forgot In saying what it is To tell 'mid turns and similes What it is not : It is not in hue or form. Like the evanescent bow. That heralds peace to all below Who feel life's thorn. For its tinct is "heaven's own," One cloudless azure dye, And by symbols of eternity Its form is known. yi E U D R A . Another horn- — another slow-winged liour, And still lie comes not to Eudora^s bower — Yet she hath waited since the morning light First broke upon the hills — and now the night Sends forth her shadows^ and the evening star Looks down in gentle pity from afar On that despaii* which seems all hope to spurn, Yet oft unto the lattice doth return, With list'ning ear and s\vift-detecting eye. In tumult or in darkness to descry The faintest whisper, the obscurest sign Of him she hopes for. How doth fear refine And magnify to hearts by passion tost. Each sense, and that of suffering the most ! As founts grow deeper, fed with rain from heaven, The power to grieve grows with the sorrow given. Again Eudora leans upon her hand. Again upturns the glass, whose tell-tale sand When filtered through shall ne^er delude her more ! She hstens to the water^s distant roar. And in its ceaseless cadence comfort hears ; It speaks unto her heart, and quells her fears. A nightingale is singing her sweet song Eudora feels, like rapture doth belong 92 EUDORA. To every tliouglit now tlirilling through her brain. And fondly trusts she doth not love in vain. Fresh flowers are yieldmg fragrance to the air, And "neath night's ebon shade ev^n show more fair Than in day's ruder light. All, all is peace. Even her heart's wild tumult seems to cease. No false alarm now startles or relieves. No passer's tread allm-es her, or deceives. The night-winds and the music of the bu?d Blent with the water's moan, alone are heard. But changes o'er the spirit quickly rise. Its skies are tinctured with a thousand dyes ; And, swiftly as the forked lightning flings Itself from heaven, to prey on earthly thmgs. Hearts, suffering hearts, will turn from bliss to pain. Nor know, why, havmg ceased, they weep again. Sudden her curls fall heavy round her brow, And shade her eyes, that ache with anguish now, Por, bitter tears unto their lids are springing A burden to the air, her sighs are bringing — When, hark ! a horse's tread from far resounds, It nearer comes, Eudora's bosom bounds, Her hands are clasped in speechless ecstacy. She hath no longer doubts, tis he, 'tis he ! And yet the being who in morning's hour Plucked, as it blossomed, hope's delusive flower. Then dashed it from her, but to take again. With the bright bud, renewal of her pain. Subdued, informed, now stems the impetuous course Of certain joy, and rallies all her force. She reasons with herself, if this should fail. Oh ! what will Patience, Hope, or Love avail ? EUDORA. 93 •Could Love again a darling xnsion weave ? Or Hope, the pliant om e^er again deceive ? Or Patience speak persuasion ? — Here I stay. Too much Fve been the sport of pain to-day. Too much have tried misgivings to remove. Too much have hoped for, from another^s love. My cruel fears to misery allied. Quenched in my soul my all of woman's pride ; But it shall now resume its wonted power ; Be Pride the despot of this happy hour." In vain the rude resolve, one moment cast All harshness from her, she forgot the past : Her head now rests upon her hero's breast. And every look and word, her love attest. She listens to resrets, and finds 'tis he And not herself must look for sympathy. And soon she pities where she meant to chide. Swiftly revealing all she meant to hide. Tells all her foUy, fear and hope, and pain. Then vows she ne'er will do the like again. Laughs at her fanc/s cheat that brought him nigh her With every withered leaf that rustled by her. Tells of her wish, that every sound might cease. And yet, that silence did not bring her peace. Her lover is not of the coimiion herd, He loved and prized each self-betraying word. She listens to reproofs more sweet than praise Heard from the lips, but seen not in the gaze. For looks may wound ev'n while the cautious tongue May seem with honeyed accents only hung. The eye can contradict the hardest tone. Or torture in a language all its owti. 94 CHARADE. Eudora did not learn from vows of love. Appeals to aught on earth or heaven above, How dear she was — her lover did not say She was the fairest ^mid the young and gay. The brightest or the dearest — ^but she knew Ev'n as herself, that he was fond and true. For o^er his features, as he stood beside her And now caressed — and now would seem to cliide her. There fell as she bestowed one timid kiss, The light of love's unalterable bliss. CHARADE. Of those who find my first in thee None willingly would rove ; To them my second as to me A dreary home would prove. Yet, they might see, as T should do. Shared I with thee my whole, A light, life's darkness shining through To counsel and console. (Answer — Friendship) . Paris, 1830. 95 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. " In the Orkneys a boy of two years old was carried away by an eagle in tbe sight of his parents, but after- wards recovered by his mother." — Quoted from Ray, in "Bingley's Animal Biography." They tell me o'er my Hugo's grave, Eepiniug tears must not be shed, Nor yew, nor funeral cypress wave Its mournful branches o'er his head. They say, that to his sinless brow. An angel's crown on high is given ; And that a mother's soul should bow Submissive to the will of Heaven. But they who talk have never known The love and joy a child can bring ; Have never watched when life hath fiovra, Affection's smile yet lingering On the smooth cheek, where Death's cold touch. Hath spoiled the lines where beauty dwelt. And hushed the voice whose tones were such In joy or woe, it well may melt A mother's soul to agonj^. That she can never hear them now, Or smooth the brow, or meet the eye. Of him she loved alone below. 96 THE mothee's lament. The only star that gleamed above Her path on earthy and left her not — The only trace of a widowed love By all except herself, forgot ; The only hope that now remained Of many given, and many gone ; The last, last link that still enchained Her soul to earth — and is it flown ? Oh yes, for ever ! but to me He is not dead, for, deep-enshrined Within the heart of memory I see his beauteous form reclined ; I hear a voice, as though ^twere near In cadence soft and musical, Breathe hymns of praise, and to my ear These floating hpnns of praise recall The hour in which I first impressed The infant soul that God had given (Fit inmate for his sinless breast). With thoughts of love, and hope of Heaven. To me a never-dying hour. An hour of joy, that sprang from woe. An hour of praise to that high Power, Who let his suffering creature know The rapture of again enfolding Her child within a warm embrace, The triumph of once more beholding Bliss, beaming from his father's face. And yet 'twill scarcely true be deemed That human nature could endure. Much less survive, a flight that seemed To brave the lofty cpiosui'e. THE mother's LA.MENT. 97 Still it was so. The falcon came Unfeared, unheard his silent flight, Until o'er Hugo's tremblinar frame I saw the sovereign bird alight. Yes, saw him seize my darling child And bear him tlirough the fields of air. And sunk my fears in thefeehng wild That I might still piu'sue him there ! Short-hved such thought, but hope yet stayed And bade a mother's ardour try To find the spot where her boy was laid And kiss liim livrng or see him die. Then swift as light I journeyed on To seek the spot where the wild bu-ds dwelt ; Where human foot had never gone, O'er endless snows that never melt. O'er rocks that seemed to cleave the sky — From whose ascent the parted soul Might wing its final flight on high — Scenes where the mind without control Might descant on the nothingness Of human wonders, and compare With the weak cry of man's distress The sovereign eagle's note of war Majestic in the wilderness ! Yes ! even then, when life and thought Seemed hushed in hope or lost in fear. These musings came, and memory caught Their spiiit blent with tones so dear That nature's mysteries, unrevealed To others now, or me before. Then pierced my inmost soul and sealed A bond, to love and to adore ! H 98 THE mother's lament. To bow submissive to my lot Whate'er my future doom might be. That if I found my child or not, To yield resigned, O God ! to Thee ! And Thou in mercy gav'st him back ! Long years have passed since that bright hour. Yet still could I the path retrack That led me to the eagle's bower. Oh ! there I saw, indeed, my child. And seized him with a fearful haste. As doubtful that my sense beguiled By scenes of death and danger past. Had conjured up a fairy dream. An ignis fatuus, to deceive. Whose fatal light, and mystic gleam, My clouded reason dared believe. Bewildered thus, once more I fled O'er drifted snows and chasms drear. With step so light, the gentle tread Could wake no murmuring echo there. And like the musk that beats the wind O'er Thibet's plains of trackless snows, I left no traitorous marks behind That could betray us to our foes. I rested not, nor paused for breath. Until before our cottage door I sank as in a trance of death. The waving of the sycamore Seemed gladsome, as I woke to joy. My husband's smile of bhss to see, His gaze of rapture o'er his boy. His tears of reverence over me. THE MOTHEll's LAMENT. 99 And Hugo grew — and boyish fame And honour, with a hand unsparing, Had heaped upon his lowly name Eenown for deeds of noble daring. And oft I dreamed, as oft averred. In after-life that cliild would be Superior to the common herd. In love, and war, and minstrelsy. And this, as long as life was lent, He proved ; and, oh ! far more than tliis. For in his every thought were blent Aspu-ings for immortal bKss. Aspirings sent him from above To waft him where souls do not err. And reconcile a mother^s love By faith, to see hun snatched from her. I wt]1 not say with unmoved eye I saw his parting breath forsake him ; I cannot say I saw him die. For false, false kindness tore me from him. But oh ! I saw his bier before me, I heard the voice of deep lament, I felt the garb of woe thrown o'er me. And loved it for its sentiment. It seemed to tell what I could not, That he was gone I loved so well. It seemed my passport to the spot Where he and holy seraphs dwell. For, if from scenes of eartldy thrall All sorrows teach the soul to part. Shall not a mother's more than all Lend aid to sanctify her heart ? H ii 100 TO THE YELLOW ESCHOLZIA. Why are thy petals closed, O golden flower ? But now, I marked them open to the sun. The blossom said, " From nature ^tis our dower To close, not only when the day is done, But ever also when the heavens lower. The rain-drop and each zephyr rude to shun." The flower bowed its head while thus repljdng. And I, whilst list'ning, felt my heart beat fast ! " Oh ! would," I cried, " instead of vainly sighing, I thus could shield me from each passing blast. And in eternal sunshine ever lying, Smile on the future, and forget the past. " Oh, humble blossom ! had I but thy power. From every pain my heart should aye be free, To friendship only in its sunniest horn- Would I henceforward ever vassal be. And ne'er in wintry haU or summer bower Should Love do aught but smile, and worship me." The flower bowed once more, as though 'twere trying Again to speak and bid me not repine — In gentle voice it said, and like one dying, " Oh ! covet not so poor a power as mine ! For Heaven's best gift, while Tune is o'er thee flying, T/w power to bear whate'er he brings, is thine." 101 THE WISH As I have often gazed on birds when flying, And longed to know Whence they had come, and whither they were hying. Then wished to go. So hath my heart, though backward turning With thought severe. Silently still a restless, ceaseless yearning Of thee to hear. And oft I say, when tears wiU not subside. Oh that some star Would in the heavens appear, liis steps to guide To me from far ! Or that to me it would these truths reveal By one bright ray, Wliere now he is ? What for me he doth feel ? Or of me say ? IMPROMPTU TO HARRIET J. P., WHO WAS STUNG ON THE LIP BY A BEE. I WONDER not that the bee should spring In eager haste to thy lovely lip ; For I, like it, should like to sip. But, ah ! I would not leave a sting. 102 A MANIAC'S SONG (ONCE INTENDED FOR A NOVEL). Haek ! hark ! sweet music in the air. Dost thou not hear ? — it moves tliis "way ! Blest spirits come nearer ! yet, now forbear. My heart can listen no more to-day. What gone ! oh shame, unworthy elves ! You should have stayed though I bid you go. I thought bright spirits, so blest themselves. Had no behest but to sing to woe ! I have seen you dart through the realms above. On the lightning's wing in a bright gold car, And I deemed that when souls were estranged by love To soothe them you travelled from star to star. And I thought you had come to me to sing For ever and ever of you bright spheres. To tell me that there true love can wring. As here, from the heart an ocean^s tears. Mine fall — have fallen — blest spirits come near. And in low, low tones I will whisper why : But haste, oh haste ! for the thought now clear In anguish or darkness too soon will die ! A maniac's song. 103 For my memory is as a sparMing stream That drinks in tlie light of a smibright ray. It gives back the past^ in a moment's dream. Then onward rushes, away, away ! I claim to tell what loud proclaim Of thundering sounds my ear could mark When none heard else — what visions came Alone to me, ere all grew dark. I saw one strua'cfle for his life Then on the dust lie prone ; I saw, amid the battle strife, A thousand swords to one. I saw, when stars around were cast, A spirit in the cloud ; I heard its voice in the mournful blast As one that wept aloud ! It spoke to me, that voice, of things Long, long ago gone by — I hear it now when the linnet sings And when the red leaves fly. It is loud and clear as a trumpet call. Yet soft as a lover's sigh ; But to me it is as a festival To hear that voice go by ! Oh hist ! oh hist ! 'tis passing now. My burning brain beats high, 'Twas well ! oh ! how could I foreknow My agony so high ? 104 A maniac's song. Once more, and in another scene, ril try to sing again ; Yes ! try to tell what the woes have been That give me back such pain. THE maniac's song TO THE SPIEITS SHE IMAGINED OFTEN CAME NEAR HER. Oh, come to me, spirits, and tell me all My soul would seek to know. Let your wings, outspread like a funeral pall. Shut out the world below ! Oh ! tell me, when darting from star to star And singing through realms above. Are you seeking there, as I deem you are. Sad souls, who are mad from love ? And now you are here, oh ! sing again, sing ! And tell me if in those spheres Fond love and true as on earth can bring From the heart a thousand tears ? Does the loved one there ever turn away From her he once held dear. Does his heart, all former truth betray, If a fairer form appear ? Oh spirits ! such sorrows are here so rife, So well are understood. That to some, as to me, the glad boon of life Hath ceased to be a good. LINES. ]05 Then take me with you, kind spirits ; away To where I conld be blest ! Wliere far from earth and earth^s dreams I could stay. With love itself at rest ! LINES (UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF HAPPY FEELINGS). A HOLY calm o'er my soul is thrown, 'T is the calm of trusting love ; Earth's varied colours blent in one, Like the plumage of the dove. The gentlest lake, 'neatli summer skies, More tranquil could not be ; My spirit is lulled, as a babe that lies On its own blest mother's knee. Oh ! let me not, by this hour beguiled, Remove all fear afar ; The lake, the dove, the sleeping child. Are but tj'pes of what earth's things are. To the water must come its stormy hour, To the bird a ruffled wing ; But who can foretell to the child its dower. Or to me what time may bring ? 106 LINES. TO MY LONG-LOVED FRIEND, MRS. A^*^^^ AFTER HER DEATH. Oh ! tlioii art not of tliose who die unwept, Unhonouredj unremembered ! O'er thy tomb My memory woke, and ever since hath kept Its faithful vigil there, as at its home. Dear friend ! thy looks, thy smile, each gracious word E'er uttered by thee, dui'ing bygone years, Though always fondly cherished, now afford Grief only to my heart, and ceaseless tears ! Yet do I prize each relic — every spot Where thou M'ert ever with me, is become A sacred shrine that ne'er can be forgot, Eilled with the one sad thought that thou art not. LINES WRITTEN AT REQUEST FOE A FATHER TO WRITE IN HIS DAUGHTER'S ALBUM. Could words a father^s love reveal. Fain would I now, dear Caroline, To words and ev'n to verse appeal To testify of mine. But words are not to tell how dear Thou long hast been and art to me — My name alone recorded here. Must speak my love for thee ! Ch . . . . s C . . . T . N. 107 A FRAGMENT. LINES TO MRS. HEMANS. ON READING HER POEM, ENTITLED, "THE BEINGS OF THE MIND."— N. ]VL M., 1828. The Beings of the Mind ! — add, too, the Heart — And thou art of them, to those, at least, who read Thy lays, and feel what they impart ! Now, unto me, from eartlily covering freed. Thy form the vestui'e of immortals wears. And o'er thy brow I place a coronal of stars ! "Wonderful Being ! I have never seen, Save ^ith my mental eye, thy hiunan dress ; To me, as yet, a vision thou hast been — In waking hours a di-eam of blessedness ; A rainbow of the cloud, by which to rise From dross of earth, to mingle with the skies. A smile of radiance oft descendeth o'er me — 'Tis tliine, and speaks of 'rapt affection's power ; Pain would I keep that smile for aye before me. Bask in its sunshine, be to it a flower. But as the wish is breathed, it fades away. Yet only its loved presence, not its sway. ■Jf -X- -X- -Sfr •}«• * ^ [Left unfinished — and likely (perhaps happily !) to continue so — the thread of thought is not only broken, but gone !l 108 DESULTORY THOUGHTS, NOTES ON BOOKS, &c. In prose or poetry I always like the calm majesty of Henry Taylor. He has determined me to read the whole of Wordsworth, which I have never yet done, and opened my understanding, I think, to comprehend him better. In parts I have long been a worshipper of Wordsworth. He makes me feel that " virtue and the faculties within are vital," and the only things of real consequence. But H. T. shows he is not to be hghtly understood, and that really to be benefited by liim he must be not only read but studied with steadiness. The generous of all nations have agreed that no evil should be spoken of the dead. But the dead should really enter into the compact, and not have words of theirs brought to light after their death that speak against themselves or others. Louis XVIII. is at once his own accusing and recording angel in the Memoirs written by himself, and published by the Duke de Damas. He relates, with evident satisfaction, and even with a sort of chuckling complacency, acts of meanness from which any honourable or less selfish mind would have turned with horror. His apparent object in writing these Memoirs is to exculpate himself from DESULTORY THOUGHTS. 109 sundry charges formerly brought against liim, of having aimed at the tlirone of France, and further to prove that his early wisdom, if the Court of Louis XVI. would but have listened to it, could have averted the revolu- tion ! He always seems to have disliked Marie An- toinette, and he could indeed have had little sympathy with a mind so unlike his own. His very condemnation of her is unequivocal praise. Job's -snsh that his enemy would write a book meets here a new comment. The enemy of this beautiful and most unfortunate of women, after a lapse of forty years, reveals, while he blames her, a thousand noble traits of character of which before we knew nothing. He contrasts his own servile and tune- serving complaisance to Madame Dubarry with the in- flexible rigour- of the virtuous Queen. He has no sympathy with the affectionate daughter who would not tolerate insults to her mother, because offered by la Favorite. But I will give the whole anecdote in the royal historian's own words : " I was in the apartment of the Dauphin one day when my sister-in-law came to him, her eyes sparkling with anger, her face bathed in tears, and her voice trembling with emotion. We eagerly inquired into the cause of her agitation, and learned from her that on the preceding evening the Countess Dubarry had read publicly from Prince Louis de Eohan, then ambassador at Vienna, a letter in which the diplomatist made merry at the expense of Marie Therese. To attack her mother was to wound Marie Antoinette where she was most sensitive. Sarcasms wrilien hy Prince Louis, repeated by la Favorite, were in her eyes serious crimes, which called for instant punishment.-'^ And well they might ! It would have been sufficiently presumptuous and impertinent for a 110 DESULTORY THOUGHTS. woman like Madame Dubarry at any moment to have held such a woman as Marie Ther^se up to ridicule ; but to do it in the presence of her daughter was a piece of unparalleled effi'ontery^ and ought to have excited some indignation against la Favorite and some smpathy with Marie Antoinette whose feelings she had dared to outrage. But virtuous indignation and generous sym- pathy could scarcely be expected to have fair play at the Court of Louis XV. The King himself had enjoyed the plaisanterie and could not therefore reprove ; most likely would not have done so under any circumstances. The affair^ however, did not end here. Marie Antoinette's indignation at the conduct of Prince Louis produced in her that deep-seated dislike which made him afterwards her secret and most mischievous enemy. Little people and great, so unlike in their circum- stances and talents, are yet often on a level with regard to their affections, unless, indeed, the pre-eminence be then given to the former. Napoleon I. loved liis sister Pauline as I love my sister. He was proud of her beauty (as I have been of my sister's) and to the last hour of his life repeated that she had always been the most amiable creature in the world, and always would he. It is confidence like this that gives durability to our affections. With such a cement they cannot die, without it the best friendships depend more on habit and circumstances than regard. What the great Em- peror felt for his sister I have always felt for mine — for I should deem it more easy for the sun to be turned from its coui'se than her soul from its habit of generous and high-minded virtue. — From IIS. book, dated 1823. DESULTORY THOUGHTS. Ill I HAPPENED to pass to-day one of the dirtiest old women I ever beheld, and remarked upon it. I was told, a few weeks since, a charitable lady had visited and washed her ! I could not help thinking if she once knew the pleasure, and refreshment, and delight of wasliing herself that she would like it ; and, jDursuing the thought, I extended it to all the other vii'tues. They who are ignorant of cleanliness are wholly unacquainted with the agreeable sensations it imparts. May it not be that they who are not benevolent in thought, or charitable in deed, are as little acquainted with the happiness imparted by the feeHngs of benevolence and charity, as this dirty old woman, of the effects of washing. Can they who indulge in untruth know the respect that truth inspires? They are, indeed, like the dirty old woman, and it requires the most extensive charity to tolerate them, it being so difficult to beHeve they ever can be made clean. If we wrap ourselves up in our own selfishness, can we ever become acquainted with the blessed feeluigs of such a woman as Florence Nightingale? Must we not remain as ignorant of them as the dirty old woman of the pleasm-es of soap and water? And so on, of everything that is good. It requires but a beginning. George Herbert gave good advice when he said, " Delay not the least virtue." When the sword of sorrow pierces a human soul it reveals " the thoughts of many hearts " to that soul, and sometimes leaves the power of diffusing that reve- lation to others. The sorrow then becomes genius, and as we read we say, " Beautiful " — " I have felt it " — "It is true!" 112 DESITLTOKY TffOUGHTS, I VERY often meet with books that make me say, " I wonder the writer did not produce something better V But this is a frequent thought with me over works of art as well as literature. And yet that work is most likely the very best that particular mind or hand, could realize — to each his (or her) limits. I remember, in years gone by, often to have looked on a portrait painted by the Marchioness of Thomond, a niece of Sir Joshua Beynolds, and saying as I looked, " If I could have painted as well as that I would have painted better." Should I ? Most likely not. To begin with, I could not paint at aU. The portrait was a striking likeness, but the picture most incomplete. Oh, for perfection ! In painting, in sculpture, how earnestly does the eye desire and seek for it. The ear is, I think, less fas- tidious, and will drink in with pleasure sounds that might not be considered perfect music, and the intellect can certainly be amused and even pleased in literature with much that is imperfect. But the soul pants for the perfection of nobleness in aU things ! How soon are its still and deep waters moved by aU that promises but a glimpse of it ! When we have a generous thought we should be eager to carry it out, lest some cold worldly feeling should arise and put it to flight. We should be grateful for it, as for a blessing, and remember it in our thanks- givings to the Giver of all Good. To bring the lustre of generosity into our little lives is to encanopy our- selves with stars, and to spread a carpet of flowers beneath our feet. It is sacrificing to our good angel and illmnining his face with smUes. DESULTORY THOUGHTS. 113 One of Shakspeare's sweet heroines is made to exclaim, " How happy some o'er other some may be ! " A hne to me full of pathos. But there are women, not like Shaks^jeare's heroines, or indeed any heroines at all, who feel their own prosperity so much that it makes them insolent ; but only to women who are less prosperous than themselves. Excellent bullies and braffcradocios would these women have made had they but been men ! Yet one of their most distinguishing characteristics is that they pique themselves on being " ladies ! " Mr. Charles Kingsley's definition of a gentleman in the early description of Amyas Leigh pleases me mightily, I would have it impressed on every young heart. He speaks of him as that young " lion-cub " who had been taught, that to be a " gentleman " he must never cause needless pain to any human being, rich or poor, and take pride in giving up his own pleasure for the sake of those weaker than himself. Epictetus was alwiiys contented in his miserv. " I am," said he, " in the very place Providence assigned that I should occupy. To complain is therefore to off-end." In sadness, when the spirits are depressed, how easy to forget the fragrance of the earth — the beauty of the skies ! We feel as if no flowers bloomed in Paradise and no stars shone in the blue heavens. Personal criticism, gossip of one another, what Ma- dame de Sevigne calls " causerie du prochain," the unfailing resource of country towns, is not altogether I 114 DESULTORY THOUGHTS. neglected iu large cities in general, or London in particular. It is witli some men as watli fruits. As culture im- proves the outside pulp, tlie inner part or kernel degenerates. The peach is better looking than the almond, and the outside of it is better, there can be no doubt ; but the kernel has diminished in size and is less good. Life to the prosperous and passionless is like a summer sea, all tranquilKty, softness, and safety. It is beauty in repose. The gentleness of heaven seems to surround these untried, these seemingly happy and super-happy beings. But, are they in reality as much happier than others as they appear to be ? Have the wild, the whim- sical, the impassioned, no golden moments of trans- cendent value to compensate for the whirlwinds, the tornadoes, and, alas ! too often, the shipwrecks of an agitated existence ? I believe they have. They, indeed, must have, or they could scarcely continue to exist. One reason that certain persons are disagreeable to us may be that, unconsciously to themselves, the feelings we inspire are expressed in theii- countenances. To them we are, in all probability, as unpleasing as they are to us. What so affecting as real virtue ! The wisdom, the integrity of Washington has swelled my heart with emotion and filled my eyes with tears, more frequently than the most pathetic history of sorrow I ever read. Excellent and wonderful man ! Heaven lent him to DESULTORY THOUGHTS. 115 America in a time of need, to save and serve his country. Europe may almost blush to think that "none but liimself can be his parallel." She has had many glo- riously great men, but at this moment I cannot recall one I think as great ! There are moments in which our minds " o'erleap their mortal state "" and blend with infinity. What we gain is vague and indistinct and often incommunicable. We seem to catch a glimpse of truth, but truth seen through a vapour — the majestic mountain top, con- cealed by an impenetrable cloud. AU that is certain, is, that we have been looking in a right direction, and of this we may make revelations to others, which may open to their minds a larger and more extended view. The poet and musician seem oftener than other men to have their visions of ecstatic dehffht, Thev at least have an inter- preting power given to them which others have not. What would remain an '^ unknown ton2:ue " is bv them, in part, revealed. I beheve that there are passages in poetry and strains in music that awaken in the souls of some of us, the precise tone of the minds from which they emanated; the precise tone I mean of that mo- ment of inspiration. ^Yhen I hear Beethoven's music I feel my attention arrested, as if I were listening to what he thought and felt, I do not say while actually composing a subhme passage, but at the moment when the idea of it first entered his heart. I seem to be discovering the mystic relation that exists between the unseen world and that which we inhabit. I can adduce nothing in proof that I do make discoveries, gain any positive information, eidarge my imagination or even increase my power of making idle conjectures ; but a I 2 116 DESULTORY THOUGHTS, whole army of logicians could not convince me tliat I have not gained something I had not before. Our feelings of joy^ sorrow, rapture, hope, and that dreamy abstractedness darting into futurity, which has not yet a name, so evanescent, and so soon forgotten, have yet an essence which, like exquisite perfume, never deserts the spot where it was exhaled, TJie soul absorbs and retains that pure and subtle sether, and is richer and better for the possession. Men of the smallest mental calibre are often the most fastidious, they are like those caterpillars who must eat of the tree on which they were hatched or not at aU. Diamonds have light in themselves (so at least ^tis said), but they sparkle in the sun. A MAN of dissipated habits has usually in his outward bearing a nameless something that betrays his inward value. And this unnamed property, wliile it serves as a warning to the good, is at the same time a signal to the vicious. The shark is the only fish that shines by night to warn men not to approach it. The more I read of Courts (with very few exceptions) the more I despise them. Supreme selfishness seems _ to reign in them to the utter exclusion of aU sym- pathy. I could lilcen them to the polar regions, or the " eminent tops " of mountains where there is an utter absence of sound. A dreamy desolate silence of the heart seems to pervade them all, [The Court of Queen Victoria is, 1 believe, a delightfid exception.] 117 THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD Oh ! bud of hope — oh ! star of light ! Oh ! gem of lustre rare ; A glmapse of Eden to my sight Thy opening beauties bear. For, gazing on thy dove-like eyes, I read thv soul within. And feel — nay see ! — ^thy young thoughts rise As angels — free from sin. "O^ My blessed boy ! and yet for thee My love is blent with care ; And oh ! 'tis well, or life would be A wreath too bright to wear. For every hour since thou wert bom I've trembled for the boon, And, lovelv bud ! in this thv dawn I think upon thy noon. Oh ! shouldst thou then but reahse The promise of this hour, And be what now I idolise In hope, my morning flower, A rival to the glorious fame Thy sire hath won and wins for thee. Thine, too, a rich and noble name To gi-ace thy ancestry — How \rill my heart then bound, my boy. To hail the hero's sway ! Yet glory, then, must not destroy The love I feel to-day. 118 THE MOTHER TO HER CHILD. No, no ! tlien, then as now, close-pressed, My lips shall cling to thine ! Then, then, as now, thy throbbing breast, My son ! must speak to mine. Oh, boy ! I loved thy father weU, But what I feel for thee Seems as a calmer, holier speU Than love's wild mystery. It is as though a chain had past To me from heavenly bowers. Whose links of adamant were cast, Yet light as summer flowers. And if I sleep, or if I wake, Stin near me seems that token ; And oh ! I feel 'twiU not forsake And never can be broken ! No, never ! nor yet rashly said Forgetting whose decree Could by a breath thy brow o'erspread "With cold mortality. But that I know, his bond too sure Immortal love to sever Through death as life 'iwiW. still endure Eor ever, and for ever ! Yes, yes, my flower ! If I from thee Or thou from me art taken. We shall but then as sleepers be In joy to re-awaken ! 119 LINES AFTER HEARING A BEAUTIFUE EXTEMPORE PERFORMANCE ON THE PIANOFORTE. "A soleuiu, strange and mingled air, 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. Such strain was his ! yet music's power Seemed never known to me before. My soul in one ecstatic hour Plew o'er the worlds and from it tore The sacred veil that closely lies, Round its most hallowed mysteries. Even as a bird, it soaring flew, But stooped awhile to drink of tears. As though regrets of other years Had been of flowers the morning dew ! Then swift again to meet the light Remounting on a joyous pinion. O'er future years it held dominion, And shook my being with its visions bright. Spirit of music ! Oh what mayst thou be Thou spell of wondrous power ? Com'st thou through rether from some distant sea. Or are the skies thy bower ? Do viewless winds bear thee from far to cheer us, Oh marvel that thou art ? Or art thou, subtle spirit, ever near us Thy home, the human heart ? 120 FRAGMENT. It may be true that there, Until emotion, or some magic strain, Awake thee from thy lair, Thon sleepest peacefullj, and it may be That all dreams, sweet and wild, are born of thee ! The voice, too, we so often hear When strains of melting softness meet the ear. Breathing so eagerly " Again, again," And saying to each form we love " Eemain," That ^q\cq, perhaps is thine. Sweet spirit ! If it be so, thou dost with us inherit The doom of earth, and speakest oft in vain. FRAGMENT. ALSO AFTER HEARING BEAUTIFUL MUSIC. I CAN but feebly speak of all I saw and felt — for, held in thrall. Awe blent with rapture — thrilling pain At moments ran across my brain But left deep joy behuid ; The silent joy of consciousness That we have better powers of mind And higher feelings than can find Here on this earth true endlessness. Each passion came to me, refined, I felt the sacredness of grief ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE FOR A PERIODICAL. 121 The bitterness of tears. Yet then I thought distress as brief As gladness now appears. Death, even death, lost all its sting. The grave its dreaded victory ; All, all I loved lay "withering But wrapped in immortality ! Light, glorious light, was round them thrown. Love, endless love was given. And mingled with their dying tone Came welcomings from Heaven ! ON BEING ASKED BY A FRIEND TO WRITE FOR A PERIODICAL. The visions of the soul mav not Be aU revealed — ere words can come The fleeting shades have left their home. Then- colours faded, gone, forgot ! The sounds the soul alone can hear May not be given to mortal ear ; Even music^s power is faithless here ! And scenes that greet the mental eye, Though cii'cled by a halo light Of living rays, (as pui-e and bright As if their splendoui- could not die — ) Like thin-wove clouds in summer air But float awhile, then melt away — Dreams of the mmd ! they will -not stay, Till thought can fix their record there ! 122 ox BEING ASKED TO WRITE FOR A PERIODICAL. It may be, noble bards have tried In vain such dreamings to prolong. For oh ! the meaner sons of song Too oft have felt how vam their art. To fix the phantoms of the heart. Or bring back visions that have died ! The lyre will yield a love-like strain If but by noon-tide air swept o'er, But wildest winds might breathe again And never wake its music more. Before me, beams of mental pleasure With " gay motes " peopled oft have played. But ere Tve caught the Muses' measure. Those motes to other eyes have strayed. And sounds, too, oft have met mine ear That seemed not of this earthly sphere ; But ere my shell hath caught the tone Those sweet airs vanish one by one ; And what were once unaginings Of rainbow hues, with form defined Are left the vague and shapeless things The darkling tempest leaves behind. And even now — oh will it '\ail And plead for lack of courtesy To tell, that all the musings fail I summoned for my task to-day ? — Oh, yes, to-day — and if again These flitting spirits come to me, Whate'er their guise, the hmnble strain Shall then be poured to thee. 123 SONG. (FROM A SOKNET OF PETRARCH). Place me where the sun dotli shine. As in Ind, with cruel power. Or where frost and snow combine. Mate my summer bower. Everywhere, oh ! ever}'where My heart would tui'n to thee. And bowing low, as it doth now, Say softly. How I love thee ! Let me be or high, or low, In stormy fortune or serene — Let me be where roses blow. Or where roses are not seen — Everywhere, oh ! everywhere My heart would turn to thee, And bowing low, as it doth now. Say softly. How I love thee ! Let each day be turned to night. Or every night be changed to day. In starless darkness, as in light, Those same words I still should say. Everywhere, oh ! everj^where My heart would turn to thee, And bowuig low, as it doth now, Sav softlv. How I love thee ! 21' SONG. Place me in or heaven or earth. In valley or in deep abyss — Or by calm domestic hearth, Still my theme of song were this Everywhere, oh ! everywhere My heart would turn to thee, And bowing low, as it doth now. Say softly. How I love thee ! Let me be or young or old, Viewless spirit floating free, Or fettered in a dungeon cold. Only should I muse on thee ! Everywhere, oh ! everywhere My heart would turn to thee. And bowing low, as it doth now. Say softly, How I love thee ! ]25 CURTAIN LECTURES, OR, A BACHELOR'S RESOLVE. A Bachelor — of observation, A Husband — by anticipation, And loving woman as I ought. And as I must, not merely caught By goodly tints divinely spread Of purest white or rosy red, Or raven tresses richly flowing. Or eyes Kke load-stars brightly glowing. Or featui'es regularly fair. Or sylph-like form, or graceful air, Or ankle delicately round. Or even a voice of magic sound. Or harmless wit, its radiance flinging On all around, yet never stinging. Or hands in wondrous whiteness vying With snowflakes on Ben Lomond lying, — I, a blutf bachelor, declare Not one of these shall prove my snare ! Not one ! not all these charms combined. Though added to a cultured mind, And wealth to meet a miser's hope. Or rank that might Avith Howards cope. Shall ever lure me by vohtion To put my blest and free condition 126 CURTAIN LECTURES. " Into confine " unless insured By bonds impregnably secured ^Gainst that one curse of married Kfe That fatal failing of a wife, (I scarce can name the thing I mean, Full well 'twill be divined, I ween) — ■ Yet, lest some other word of fear " Unpleasing to a married ear " Pop up, and cause a wrong conjecture I boldly name — a Curtain Lecture ! Stop, married men ! start not, I pray, Erom fear of aught that I can say, I nothing know, nor can reveal, \i justice beds are down or steel ; I only guess, and when I hear A husband's " As you please, my dear,'' And mark that " dear's " triumphant eye, I'm apt to think some treachery nigh. And when I see the tables turned In things where he alone' s concerned, I start, and rub my head, and swear By the bright stars, I'd rather bear The tyrant Turk's despotic sway, -Or cringe in chains to Egypt's Bey, Than suffer woman to control Each thought, each movement of my soul. And then I make a common cause With all who wish for Salique laws. Not wholly free from apprehension That, spite of all my long perpension. And all my commentaries past, I fall to their estate at last ! PHILEMON AND BAUCIS. 127 The gods forbid ! but such a t^vinge Shoots through my frame when wives infringe, It must be born of fears prophetic, Combined with notions theoretic, Tor sympathy alone I doubt Could scarcely bring such dolour out ! PHILEMON AND BAUCIS "Lorsqu'ils furent parvenus a uue extreme vieillesse Philemon s'apereut que Baucis devenait tilleul, et Baucis fut etonuee de voir que Philemon devint cliene. Us se fireut alors leurs derniers adieux." Baucis. Tis many years, Philemon dear, Since Mercury and -Jove were here. Thou hast since then grown old ; but I Still feel for thee idolatry — Should still, if asked, the same request Prefer unto Olympian guest. And beg of Mm my days to spare Only so long as on thy care I might rely — never to know Myself, the agonising woe Thy death would give ; nor yet to feel That mine should like a spectre steal All joy from thee, and leave thee here Old, desolate with none to cheer 128 PHILEMON AND BAUCIS. As I had done, thy path of life, Thy loved companion, friend, and wife. Yes, 'twas a boon well asked of Jove Not to survive what most we love, But let the self-same horn- be The ending of mortality To each at once — but say, hast thou Wished ever to recall thy vow ? Philemon. Shame on thy doubt ! Oh, Baucis, how Comes it, that thou shouldst question now At this late hour, my faithful love ? What have I left undone, to prove I shared thy wish to gracious Jove ? But now methinks 'tis near the hour For proclamation of his power. Fain would I know in what new way We to Elysium shall stray ! Fain learn if there, thou still wilt be Faithful as here thou'st been to me ? If I shall still move by thy side Fond as when first thou wert my bride ? My eyes ne'er know satiety. Yet seeking thee, and only thee ! My heart unwishing e'en to roam. Thou still its happiness and home. Unchanging bliss again be given By thee Avho art on earth my heaven ! Baucis. Philemon, hark ! I hear a sound As if of waters roaring round : PHILEMON AND BAUCIS. 121) Wliat can it be obscures my sight ? A mist seems floating in the light Of yon bright sun ; yet thee I see Distinctly — oh ! come nearer me. Philemon. Eor the first time, beloved friend, At thy behest I cannot wend, I near thee am, but would be nearer, And dear, I know, yet would be dearer ; But vainly now are wishes spoken. The thread of life is well-nigh broken : Jove keeps liis word, stiU with surprise I see thee change before my eyes. Alas ! my Baucis soon will be A tall and lovely linden tree ; Its branches wave, its leaves are growing, Its exquisite proportions sho\nug E'en in a tree through every part. The grace that centred in thy heart. Eeveal, what is my form to you For I now feel Vm changing too. Baucis. A stately oak, Philemon, thou Of mighty bole and steadfast bough Wilt shortly be — nay, art so now ! Each gentle zephyr passing near Shall waft to thee or sigh or tear. And thou in every ruder blast Must speak to me. Farewell ! 'tis past, Pve looked and spoken now my last. 130 philemon and baucis. Philemon. Your lant ! oh no^ my faithful friend, For thou hast said that thou wilt send To me, through all thy future years. Thy precious sighs, thy kindly tears — Those sighs and tears will be to me Affection's deathless registry — I will interpret all to mean That thou art still what thou hast been. Changed art thou to the eye, I Gwn, Eut many Avives more changed IVe known Prom what they were in maiden hour Than thou art now, my linden flower ! They keep, ■'tis true^ the covering on That erst they wore when hearts they won ; But, altered and debased in mind. Where may their hapless husbands find The consolation that is mine ? Oh ! Lady Chloe don't repine, Nor you, dear Phillis, hide your face. It is not my intent to trace Your folly or your faults to-day ; But should you change, and on your way To virtue wish for sheltering bower. Both I and Baucis have the power. And both the wish, to guide you back To Constancy's deserted track; While, lingering 'neath our boughs will tell The happiness of loving well, And how, when poor, \\\i\\ nought beside, It was our wealth, our hope, our pride — How, too, 'twas still, when riches came. More dear than wealth, or pride, or fame ! PHILEMON AND BAUCIS. 1 ;U In sickness and in health, together We braved the sun or wintry weather, In joy and sorrow ever near ; But each to each in woe more dear Than e'er in bliss ! Yet, was not ours The best of bliss ? Could Eden bowers Give better, brighter, holier love Thau that which Baucis'' kindness wove ? Faithful and dear, and oh ! so kind ! That if not to my failings blind So lenient, she, I fear, at last Saw not one shadow that they cast. And Ij in turn, could gazcon her, And her sweet smile in age, prefer To beauty and the queenly air Of all who were both young and fair. Jove saw our truth — and Jove (though he Himself could ne^er boast constancy) In others loved fidehty. He straight decreed that in our bower No change should come, no evil lower. But oh ! could change or evil come Where Love had made his chosen home ! I do not mean offence to Jove, But more I think we owe to Love. To Love then be our praises given, He made this earth to us a heaven ! He makes it still a joy to me To be thus near my linden tree. And though my Baucis doth not speak Her lowly bending branches seek-^- I know it well, as if she spoke, ' To honour thus her guardian oak. K 2 132 ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF THE YOUNG AND LOYELY MRS. R. G., WHO ANlfOUNCED HER OWN APPROACHING DISSOLUTION, WHEN NONE BELIEVED HER IN DANGER. " La bella donna che cotauto amavi Subitamente s'e da noi partita E, per quel ch'io ne speri Al ciel salita." — Petrarch. YouNGj lovely and beloved^ she died away Like a fair flower^ All, save herself, unconscious, as she lay Of the dread hour ! And her sweet voice proclaimed that she must die. Yet none believed ! Till her blest spirit winged its flight on high All were deceived ! None yet had wept, none yet had felt a fear. No woe was known ; Till she so true, so loving, and so dear, From earth was gone ! But oh ! Iter soul forefelt that life must cease. She knew the hour ! God, to her heart alone had whispered peace And given power ! MARY. 133 One long, long look on liini she loved so well Her spirit cast, That look showed love that words could never tell And was her last ! M A R Y THESE LINES WERE SUGGESTED BY READING IN PETRARCH. "PRIMAfERA PER ME NON PUR E IVIAI." " When may the heart -wdth justice saj There is no spring for me ?" Thus Mary said, one suimner's day When roving in wild ecstacy, From the bright rose she caught its bloom, Robbed the sweet violets of perfume. Stole for her hands the lily's hue. And steeped her dark brown eyes in dew. That made them show with double truth Each thought of hope, of joy, or ruth That, fearless of the world's control Succeeded in her sinless soul. When ftrst she spoke^ I answered not, My thoughts were at Vaucluse ; Tliey dwelt on Petrarch and liis grot, On Laura and his muse : Till Mary asked the same again And broke my thraldom's secret chain — 134 MARY. " Oh ! when, if ever may we say That spring hath ceased to be ? To me it seems this beauteous day A thought from which to flee. The flowers that now around me bloom I know full well must die^ The bright sun will not long illume As now he does the sky. But then I know another spring Will give what this has given — To me that spring is a beauteous thing Already formed in heaven. I feel of joys that are to come, As of suns that must arise I make for them a happy home My heart their paradise ! Oh, ever may I fail to see That spring can bloom no more for me ! " My foolish child ! though not all wrong Thy life of joys to frame. The grand in heart, the grand in song We must not lightly blame. We may not censure Petrarch's grief When Laura's spirit fled ; To him it was a blest relief. To honour thus the dead ; And hearts must be or duU or chill That do not feel his woe ; Light of h'ls life, his Laura stdl Beams on the world below. This star of beauty stiU we see Blent with the poet's memory. VALERIE^ THE BLIND GIUL. 135 But life at best, is but a loan How soon to flee away ! A flower no sooner seen than gone ! Music that will not stay ! But He who gave it hath not said We should for ever mourn — Our loving thoughts cling to the dead ; To them with hope we turn — Ee-union m a higher sphere The unmortal spirit sees, God, in his mercy to us here, Lets not this hope surcease. So Mary ! I will join thy prayer, That thou mayst fail to see, Whatever sorrow be thy share, That spring hath ceased to be. VALERIE, THE BLIND GIRL, EEFUSING TO MAERY HER LOVER. Do not of want of love my heart accuse If here for ever, Ernest, I -refuse Thy generous prayer, my misery to share ! What could I be to thee but source of care ? Ne'er should I hear thee, I know weU, reprove. But / might feel I wearied out thy love. Yet, never think that thou canst be forgot, Or fear an instant that I love thee not. 136 VALERIE, THE BLIND GIRL. ]\Iore dear tlian liglit wliicli I have yearned to see From my fu-st hours of sorro^^iug uifancy Thy voice hath been and is. Isi e^'er have I known A hite or singing yield so sweet a tune. And, wlien in absence, round my heart it played, Sorrow, that ever there in ambuscade Lay sleeping, woke to wish that thou wert near ; As others long to see, I longed to hear ! And though I give thee now a moment's pain. Most grateful to thee must I stiU remain. Nor grateful only ! Ernest, still believe I love thee, love thee Again I must not weave Visions of hope ; but not without regret Can I resolve to shun them or forget ! Forget ! May it then be, that woman's heart Can bid a master-passion thus depart ? As easy might I to my life-blood say, I will not have thy mmistry to-day. No ; not forget, although I must with pain Say to this dream of joy, '^ Ne'er come again," As if but born of slumber or the nisrht And doomed to vanish with the morning's light ! Yet, Ernest ! hoAV it might have soothed and blessed ; Condemn me not that I am thus distressed, Ev'n thou canst guess not what it costs my heart Thus with its idol, and its life to part ! Oh ! had but sight been mine ! The tender flower Of love I cast away in this dark hour Had then, unto thy heart with gladness given A bliss and joy unrivalled save in heaven. LINES. lo7 But now, unto another I resign (Too proud, perhaps, that it was ever mine) Thy heart, thy noble heart. " Oh, do not deem. Again I say, that 'twas in disesteem ! That I, thy goodness knew not how to prize. Nor felt the greatness of thy sacrifice ! It is for thy sake, and for thine alone I thus turn from thee and all hope disown. For, without thee, my fate can but bestow A dreary uncompanioned path of woe ! But better thus, than tmge with jealous fear Or doubt dishonouring thee, my hfe's career. Thy love is now unstained ; so, let it die Its tomb, my heart, its epitaph thy sigh Ee-echoing ever in my memory ! LINES WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF QUEEN CAROLINE (WIFE OF GEORGE IV.) Why with oblivion should we veil her name ? Eor, if you weigh the cause, not hers the blame But Ids, who reckless of his country's curse. Drove her from venial errors on to worse. A nation's pity gently slu'ouds her deeds. To pardon his, a nation's justice bleeds. Still is forgetfulness her only claim, An erring woman's last retreat from shame. 138 LINES WRITTEN IN MELANCHOLY. The day is clear, the earth is fau*, Flowers gHsten in the sun, The voice of birds pervades the air. Streams prattle as they run. An under-concert, too, I hear. Of insect bliss, both far and near. 3ut 'mid this fairness of the earth This loveHnes of scene. My spirit hath no touch of mirth, And dark thoughts intervene. They tell with truth what long Tve known That I must be, and am alone. These star-like flowers bloom for me. The river as it goes So sweetly, and so peacefully For me in music flo.ws ; But hearts are none, or are not known Who care that mine should feel alone. This song of birds I, too, can prize. And ev'n this insect hum, AU nature's sacred harmonies To me as incense come ; Still, I can hear my spirit moan To feel and be so dark and lone. LINES. 1-"VJ Yet friends are kind^ and some are true. And they who see me glad In scenes where smiles alone are due Believe I ne'er am sad ; They take for bliss the heartless tone I most assume, when most I'm lone. And yet I am alone in all, Save this, that Fm allied To one -^^diose loved name I recall With happiness and pride. So dear she is, I scarce can own, "WTiat yet is true, that Fm alone. Fain would she, if she could, remove The weary weight of woe That, spite of reason, faith, or love, AYiR follow where I go. Oh ! 'tis a paradox to own I love her, and yet feel alone. Whence come then the dark thoughts that feed This lonehness of spirit ? Is it the yearning to be freed From all we now inherit ? Or is this shadow overthrown To prove the soul must here be lone ! And know not, till in other spheres AA^hat 'tis to comprehend Of others' hearts and others' tears Their being, source, and end — They, too, in turn to read our own. And none, oh ! none to feel alone. 140 LINES TO A VERY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND WHO APPEARED TO OVERRATE THE ADVANTAGES OF RANK. " When our souls shall leave this dwelliug, The glory of one fair and virtuous action Is above all the 'scutcheons on our tomb Or silken banners o'er us. " — Shirley . A Poet long ago hath said. That man, although gigantic made, Whether with height to reach the pole Or hands to grasp the main. Must still, b}^ measuring Ms soul. His real standard gain. Dear girl ! "'tis even so with birth, No " pride of place " gives real worth, And none how low so^er can dim The lustre of its diadem. The springing lark^s low nest is found Concealed by weeds beneath the ground The passenger's unwary tread May crush its wing, or bruise its head. And yet the lark, with heart elate. Soars and sings at heaven's own gate. Thus genius, virtue, too, can rise From lowly paths to scnle the skies ! LINES. 14-1 Can do, what heraldry can not Win chaplets from the hand of Fame, And on their tomb inscribe a name Too noble to be e^er forgot. Loved friend ! the moral of the strain You'll say, I fear, is trite and vain, The illustration common-place And put on record without grace. rU take another — look above ! The splendour of Ahnighty love Shines o^er us from the vault of night — Yet, 'mid those stars, whose urns of light Pour radiance, some are termed " nnformed," As though they neither shone nor warmed. No name is theirs — yet do they rise Eesplendent portions of the skies. Perform their bidding, and neglect despise, Contented that to them the right is given To share with other orbs the light of heaven. U2 CAROLINE AFTER THK MANNER OF SPENSER ; BITT NOT AS SPENSER WOULD HAVE WRITTEN. ' ' lu avenenti spoglie Bellissima alma." That lady fair was seated in a bower, Small, and remote, and almost hid from view. Adorned it was with many a spring-tide flower Besprinkled o^er with morning's earliest dew. The ruby rose I saw, the violet blue, The lily pale and sweet, the primrose fair. But oh ! that lady did eclipse the hue Of each bright blossom that embalmed the air. And threw into the shade each beauteous flowret there. Would that I could describe her as she stood. When erst I saw her, graceful, young, and free. My poem then would be of womanhood The fairest picture that the earth could see ! Oh, gladly would I, if such thing could be Ypaint her slender waist, her raven haii-. Her wondrous face, that always seemed to me Pair as could be, and yet more s\\^eet than fair. So beauteous was her look, so far beyond compare. WHAT THE MUSIC OF THE "WAVES SAID. 14o Her lovely eyes, when heavenward glancing, seemed So fair their tinct, parts of the summer sky, Downcast, their pure and breatliing radiance teemed With the rich shadings that in violets lie. Ah ! many youths I deem with raptured eye Have marked the beauties I so ill proclaim, Eull many a heart hath given its first deep sigh, And oft its' last to memory of the same, That dared not in her ear speak love's enchanting name ! WHAT THE MUSIC OF THE WAVES SAID. " Hope on, hope ever, hope eternally What though the world be harsh and rude ! He, the Almighty One, is good, Hope thou then in Him 'hope eternally.'" The music of the waves said this to me One day, when by the shore I stood In sorrow, and the counsel good Will never, so I trust, forgotten be. In Him I hope, in Him I ever trust To keep my will, as spark in flame^ Subdued to his, until the same^ And I respondent move, although but dust. * Come scintilla ia fiamma. — Tasso. FINIS. \Jo UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 PR Jones - 1|826 A handful of J71h flowers and Wftftds PR 1826 J71h UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACI AA 000 368 186 3 s/SMMMH* 4