CV.

"Nay, by the golden lustre of thine eye, And by thy brow's most fair and ample span, Thought's glorious palace, framed for fancies high, And by thy cheek thus passionately wan, I know the signs of an immortal man,— Nature's chief darling, and illustrious mate, Destined to foil old Death's oblivious plan, And shine untarnish'd by the fogs of Fate, Time's famous rival till the final date!"

CVI.

"O shield us then from this usurping Time, And we will visit thee in moonlight dreams; And teach thee tunes, to wed unto thy rhyme, And dance about thee in all midnight gleams, Giving thee glimpses of our magic schemes, Such as no mortal's eye hath ever seen; And, for thy love to us in our extremes, Will ever keep thy chaplet fresh and green, Such as no poet's wreath hath ever been!"

CVII.

"And we'll distil thee aromatic dews, To charm thy sense, when there shall be no flow'rs; And flavor'd syrups in thy drinks infuse, And teach the nightingale to haunt thy bow'rs, And with our games divert thy weariest hours, With all that elfin wits can e'er devise. And, this churl dead, there'll be no hasting hours To rob thee of thy joys, as now joy flies":— Here she was stopp'd by Saturn's furious cries.

CVIII.

Whom, therefore, the kind Shade rebukes anew, Saying, "Thou haggard Sin, go forth, and scoop Thy hollow coffin in some churchyard yew, Or make th' autumnal flow'rs turn pale, and droop; Or fell the bearded corn, till gleaners stoop Under fat sheaves,—or blast the piny grove;— But here thou shall not harm this pretty group, Whose lives are not so frail and feebly wove, But leased on Nature's loveliness and love."

CIX.

"'Tis these that free the small entangled fly, Caught in the venom'd spider's crafty snare;— These be the petty surgeons that apply The healing balsams to the wounded hare, Bedded in bloody fern, no creature's care!— These be providers for the orphan brood, Whose tender mother hath been slain in air, Quitting with gaping bill her darling's food, Hard by the verge of her domestic wood."

CX.

"'Tis these befriend the timid trembling stag, When, with a bursting heart beset with fears, He feels his saving speed begin to flag; For then they quench the fatal taint with tears, And prompt fresh shifts in his alarum'd ears, So piteously they view all bloody morts; Or if the gunner, with his arms, appears, Like noisy pyes and jays, with harsh reports, They warn the wild fowl of his deadly sports."

CXI.

"For these are kindly ministers of nature, To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress; Pretty they be, and very small of stature,— For mercy still consorts with littleness;— Wherefore the sum of good is still the less, And mischief grossest in this world of wrong;— So do these charitable dwarfs redress The tenfold ravages of giants strong, To whom great malice and great might belong."

CXII.

"Likewise to them are Poets much beholden For secret favors in the midnight glooms; Brave Spenser quaff'd out of their goblets golden, And saw their tables spread of prompt mushrooms, And heard their horns of honeysuckle blooms Sounding upon the air most soothing soft, Like humming bees busy about the brooms,— And glanced this fair queen's witchery full oft, And in her magic wain soar'd far aloft."

CXIII.

"Nay I myself, though mortal, once was nursed By fairy gossips, friendly at my birth, And in my childish ear glib Mab rehearsed Her breezy travels round our planet's girth, Telling me wonders of the moon and earth; My gramarye at her grave lap I conn'd, Where Puck hath been convened to make me mirth; I have had from Queen Titania tokens fond, And toy'd with Oberon's permitted wand."

CXIV.

"With figs and plums and Persian dates they fed me, And delicate cates after my sunset meal, And took me by my childish hand, and led me By craggy rocks crested with keeps of steel, Whose awful bases deep dark woods conceal, Staining some dead lake with their verdant dyes. And when the West sparkled at Phoebus' wheel, With fairy euphrasy they purged mine eyes, To let me see their cities in the skies."

CXV.

"'Twas they first school'd my young imagination To take its flights like any new-fledged bird, And show'd the span of winged meditation Stretch'd wider than things grossly seen or heard. With sweet swift Ariel how I soar'd and stirr'd The fragrant blooms of spiritual bow'rs! 'Twas they endear'd what I have still preferr'd, Nature's blest attributes and balmy pow'rs, Her hills and vales and brooks, sweet birds and flow'rs."

CXVI.

"Wherefore with all true loyalty and duty Will I regard them in my honoring rhyme, With love for love, and homages to beauty, And magic thoughts gather'd in night's cool clime, With studious verse trancing the dragon Time, Strong as old Merlin's necromantic spells; So these dear monarchs of the summer's prime Shall live unstartled by his dreadful yells, Till shrill larks warn them to their flowery cells."

CXVII.

Look how a poison'd man turns livid black, Drugg'd with a cup of deadly hellebore, That sets his horrid features all at rack,— So seem'd these words into the ear to pour Of ghastly Saturn, answering with a roar Of mortal pain and spite and utmost rage, Wherewith his grisly arm he raised once more, And bade the cluster'd sinews all engage, As if at one fell stroke to wreck an age.

CXVIII.

Whereas the blade flash'd on the dinted ground, Down through his steadfast foe, yet made no scar On that immortal Shade, or death-like wound; But Time was long benumb'd, and stood ajar, And then with baffled rage took flight afar, To weep his hurt in some Cimmerian gloom, Or meaner fames (like mine) to mock and mar, Or sharp his scythe for royal strokes of doom, Whetting its edge on some old Caesar's tomb.

CXIX.

Howbeit he vanish'd in the forest shade, Distantly heard as if some grumbling pard, And, like Nymph Echo, to a sound decay'd;— Meanwhile the fays cluster'd the gracious Bard, The darling centre of their dear regard: Besides of sundry dances on the green, Never was mortal man so brightly starr'd, Or won such pretty homages, I ween. "Nod to him, Elves!" cries the melodious queen.

CXX.

"Nod to him, Elves, and flutter round about him, And quite enclose him with your pretty crowd, And touch him lovingly, for that, without him, The silkworm now had spun our dreary shroud;— But he hath all dispersed Death's tearful cloud, And Time's dread effigy scared quite away: Bow to him then, as though to me ye bow'd, And his dear wishes prosper and obey Wherever love and wit can find a way!"

CXXI.

"'Noint him with fairy dews of magic savors, Shaken from orient buds still pearly wet, Roses and spicy pinks,—and, of all favors, Plant in his walks the purple violet, And meadow-sweet under the hedges set, To mingle breaths with dainty eglantine And honeysuckles sweet,—nor yet forget Some pastoral flowery chaplets to entwine, To vie the thoughts about his brow benign!"

CXXII.

"Let no wild things astonish him or fear him, But tell them all how mild he is of heart, Till e'en the timid hares go frankly near him, And eke the dappled does, yet never start; Nor shall their fawns into the thickets dart, Nor wrens forsake their nests among the leaves, Nor speckled thrushes flutter far apart;— But bid the sacred swallow haunt his eaves, To guard his roof from lightning and from thieves."

CXXIII.

"Or when he goes the nimble squirrel's visitor, Let the brown hermit bring his hoarded nuts, For, tell him, this is Nature's kind Inquisitor,— Though man keeps cautious doors that conscience shuts, For conscious wrong all curious quest rebuts,— Nor yet shall bees uncase their jealous stings, However he may watch their straw-built huts;— So let him learn the crafts of all small things, Which he will hint most aptly when he sings."

CXXIV.

Here she leaves off, and with a graceful hand Waves thrice three splendid circles round his head; Which, though deserted by the radiant wand, Wears still the glory which her waving shed, Such as erst crown'd the old Apostle's head, To show the thoughts there harbor'd were divine, And on immortal contemplations fed:— Goodly it was to see that glory shine Around a brow so lofty and benign!—

CXXV.

Goodly it was to see the elfin brood Contend for kisses of his gentle hand, That had their mortal enemy withstood, And stay'd their lives, fast ebbing with the sand. Long while this strife engaged the pretty band; But now bold Chanticleer, from farm to farm, Challenged the dawn creeping o'er eastern land, And well the fairies knew that shrill alarm, Which sounds the knell of every elfish charm.

CXXVI.

And soon the rolling mist, that 'gan arise From plashy mead and undiscover'd stream, Earth's morning incense to the early skies, Crept o'er the failing landscape of my dream. Soon faded then the Phantom of my theme— A shapeless shade, that fancy disavowed, And shrank to nothing in the mist extreme, Then flew Titania,—and her little crowd, Like flocking linnets, vanished in a cloud.



HERO AND LEANDER.

TO S. T. COLERIDGE.

It is not with a hope my feeble praise Can add one moment's honor to thy own, That with thy mighty name I grace these lays; I seek to glorify myself alone: For that some precious favor thou hast shown To my endeavor in a bygone time, And by this token I would have it known Thou art my friend, and friendly to my rhyme! It is my dear ambition now to climb Still higher in thy thought,—if my bold pen May thrust on contemplations more sublime.— But I am thirsty for thy praise, for when We gain applauses from the great in name, We seem to be partakers of their fame.

I.

Oh Bards of old! What sorrows have ye sung, And tragic stories, chronicled in stone,— Sad Philomel restored her ravish'd tongue, And transform'd Niobe in dumbness shown; Sweet Sappho on her love forever calls, And Hero on the drown'd Leander falls!

II.

Was it that spectacles of sadder plights Should make our blisses relish the more high? Then all fair dames, and maidens, and true knights, Whose flourish'd fortunes prosper in Love's eye, Weep here, unto a tale of ancient grief, Traced from the course of an old bas-relief.

III.

There stands Abydos!—here is Sestos' steep, Hard by the gusty margin of the sea, Where sprinkling waves continually do leap; And that is where those famous lovers be, A builded gloom shot up into the gray, As if the first tall watch-tow'r of the day.

IV.

Lo! how the lark soars upward and is gone; Turning a spirit as he nears the sky, His voice is heard, though body there is none, And rain-like music scatters from on high; But Love would follow with a falcon spite, To pluck the minstrel from his dewy height.

V.

For Love hath framed a ditty of regrets, Tuned to the hollow sobbings on the shore, A vexing sense, that with like music frets, And chimes this dismal burthen o'er and o'er, Saying, Leander's joys are past and spent, Like stars extinguish'd in the firmament.

VI.

For ere the golden crevices of morn Let in those regal luxuries of light, Which all the variable east adorn, And hang rich fringes on the skirts of night, Leander, weaning from sweet Hero's side, Must leave a widow where he found a bride.

VII.

Hark! how the billows beat upon the sand! Like pawing steeds impatient of delay; Meanwhile their rider, ling'ring on the land, Dallies with love, and holds farewell at bay A too short span.—How tedious slow is grief! But parting renders time both sad and brief.

VIII.

"Alas!" (he sigh'd), "that this first glimpsing light, Which makes the wide world tenderly appear, Should be the burning signal for my flight From all the world's best image, which is here; Whose very shadow, in my fond compare, Shines far more bright than Beauty's self elsewhere."

IX.

Their cheeks are white as blossoms of the dark, Whose leaves close up and show the outward pale, And those fair mirrors where their joys did spark, All dim and tarnish'd with a dreary veil, No more to kindle till the night's return, Like stars replenish'd at Joy's golden urn.

X.

Ev'n thus they creep into the spectral gray, That cramps the landscape in its narrow brim, As when two shadows by old Lethe stray, He clasping her, and she entwining him; Like trees, wind-parted, that embrace anon,— True love so often goes before 'tis gone.

XI.

For what rich merchant but will pause in fear, To trust his wealth to the unsafe abyss? So Hero dotes upon her treasure here, And sums the loss with many an anxious kiss, Whilst her fond eyes grow dizzy in her head, Fear aggravating fear with shows of dread.

XII.

She thinks how many have been sunk and drown'd, And spies their snow-white bones below the deep, Then calls huge congregated monsters round, And plants a rock wherever he would leap; Anon she dwells on a fantastic dream, Which she interprets of that fatal stream.

XIII.

Saying, "That honied fly I saw was thee, Which lighted on a water-lily's cup, When, lo! the flower, enamor'd of my bee, Closed on him suddenly and lock'd him up, And he was smother'd in her drenching dew; Therefore this day thy drowning I shall rue."

XIV.

But next, remembering her virgin fame, She clips him in her arms and bids him go, But seeing him break loose, repents her shame, And plucks him back upon her bosom's snow; And tears unfix her iced resolve again, As steadfast frosts are thaw'd by show'rs of rain.

XV.

O for a type of parting!—Love to love Is like the fond attraction of two spheres, Which needs a godlike effort to remove, And then sink down their sunny atmospheres, In rain and darkness on each ruin'd heart, Nor yet their melodies will sound apart.

XVI.

So brave Leander sunders from his bride; The wrenching pang disparts his soul in twain; Half stays with her, half goes towards the tide,— And life must ache, until they join again. Now wouldst thou know the wideness of the wound?— Mete every step he takes upon the ground.

XVII.

And for the agony and bosom-throe, Let it be measured by the wide vast air, For that is infinite, and so is woe, Since parted lovers breathe it everywhere. Look how it heaves Leander's laboring chest, Panting, at poise, upon a rocky crest!

XVIII.

From which he leaps into the scooping brine, That shocks his bosom with a double chill; Because, all hours, till the slow sun's decline, That cold divorcer will be 'twixt them still; Wherefore he likens it to Styx' foul tide, Where life grows death upon the other side.

XIX.

Then sadly he confronts his twofold toil Against rude waves and an unwilling mind, Wishing, alas! with the stout rower's toil, That like a rower he might gaze behind, And watch that lonely statue he hath left, On her bleak summit, weeping and bereft!

XX.

Yet turning oft, he sees her troubled locks Pursue him still the furthest that they may; Her marble arms that overstretch the rocks, And her pale passion'd hands that seem to pray In dumb petition to the gods above: Love prays devoutly when it prays for love!

XXI.

Then with deep sighs he blows away the wave, That hangs superfluous tears upon his cheek, And bans his labor like a hopeless slave, That, chain'd in hostile galley, faint and weak, Plies on despairing through the restless foam, Thoughtful of his lost love, and far-off home.

XXII.

The drowsy mist before him chill and dank, Like a dull lethargy o'erleans the sea, When he rows on against the utter blank, Steering as if to dim eternity,— Like Love's frail ghost departing with the dawn; A failing shadow in the twilight drawn.

XXIII.

And soon is gone,—or nothing but a faint And failing image in the eye of thought, That mocks his model with an after-paint, And stains an atom like the shape she sought; Then with her earnest vows she hopes to fee The old and hoary majesty of sea.

XXIV.

"O King of waves, and brother of high Jove, Preserve my sumless venture there afloat; A woman's heart, and its whole wealth of love, Are all embark'd upon that little boat; Nay!—but two loves, two lives, a double fate,— A perilous voyage for so dear a freight."

XXV.

"If impious mariners be stain'd with crime, Shake not in awful rage thy hoary locks; Lay by thy storms until another time, Lest my frail bark be dash'd against the rocks: O rather smooth thy deeps, that he may fly Like Love himself, upon a seeming sky!"

XXVI.

"Let all thy herded monsters sleep beneath, Nor gore him with crook'd tusks, or wreathed horns; Let no fierce sharks destroy him with their teeth, Nor spine-fish wound him with their venom'd thorns; But if he faint, and timely succor lack, Let ruthful dolphins rest him on their back."

XXVII.

"Let no false dimpling whirlpools suck him in, Nor slimy quicksands smother his sweet breath; Let no jagg'd corals tear his tender skin, Nor mountain billows bury him in death";— And with that thought forestalling her own fears, She drowned his painted image in her tears.

XXVIII.

By this, the climbing Sun, with rest repair'd, Look'd through the gold embrasures of the sky, And ask'd the drowsy world how she had fared;— The drowsy world shone brighten'd in reply; And smiling off her fogs, his slanting beam Spied young Leander in the middle stream.

XXXI.

His face was pallid, but the hectic morn Had hung a lying crimson on his cheeks, And slanderous sparkles in his eyes forlorn; So death lies ambush'd in consumptive streaks; But inward grief was writhing o'er its task, As heart-sick jesters weep behind the mask.

XXX.

He thought of Hero and the lost delight, Her last embracings, and the space between; He thought of Hero and the future night, Her speechless rapture and enamor'd mien, When, lo! before him, scarce two galleys' space, His thoughts confronted with another face!

XXXI.

Her aspect's like a moon, divinely fair, But makes the midnight darker that it lies on; 'Tis so beclouded with her coal-black hair That densely skirts her luminous horizon, Making her doubly fair, thus darkly set, As marble lies advantaged upon jet.

XXXII.

She's all too bright, too argent, and too pale, To be a woman;—but a woman's double, Reflected, on the wave so faint and frail, She tops the billows like an air-blown bubble; Or dim creation of a morning dream, Fair as the wave-bleached lily of the stream.

XXXIII.

The very rumor strikes his seeing dead: Great beauty like great fear first stuns the sense: He knows not if her lips be blue or red, Nor of her eyes can give true evidence: Like murder's witness swooning in the court, His sight falls senseless by its own report.

XXXIV.

Anon resuming, it declares her eyes Are tint with azure, like two crystal wells That drink the blue complexion of the skies, Or pearls outpeeping from their silvery shells: Her polish'd brow, it is an ample plain, To lodge vast contemplations of the main.

XXXV.

Her lips might corals seem, but corals near Stray through her hair like blossoms on a bower; And o'er the weaker red still domineer, And make it pale by tribute to more power; Her rounded cheeks are of still paler hue, Touch'd by the bloom of water, tender blue.

XXXVI.

Thus he beholds her rocking on the water, Under the glossy umbrage of her hair, Like pearly Amphitrite's fairest daughter, Naiad, or Nereid,—or Syren fair, Mislodging music in her pitiless breast, A nightingale within a falcon's nest.

XXXVII.

They say there be such maidens in the deep, Charming poor mariners, that all too near By mortal lullabies fall dead asleep, As drowsy men are poison'd through the ear; Therefore Leander's fears begin to urge, This snowy swan is come to sing his dirge.

XXXVIII.

At which he falls into a deadly chill, And strains his eyes upon her lips apart; Fearing each breath to feel that prelude shrill, Pierce through his marrow, like a breath-blown dart Shot sudden from an Indian's hollow cane, With mortal venom fraught, and fiery pain.

XXXIX.

Here then, poor wretch, how he begins to crowd A thousand thoughts within a pulse's space; There seem'd so brief a pause of life allow'd, His mind stretch'd universal, to embrace The whole wide world, in an extreme farewell,— A moment's musing—but an age to tell.

XL.

For there stood Hero, widow'd at a glance, The foreseen sum of many a tedious fact, Pale cheeks, dim eyes, and wither'd countenance, A wasted ruin that no wasting lack'd; Time's tragic consequents ere time began, A world of sorrow in a tear-drop's span.

XLI.

A moment's thinking is an hour in words,— An hour of words is little for some woes; Too little breathing a long life affords For love to paint itself by perfect shows; Then let his love and grief unwrong'd lie dumb, Whilst Fear, and that it fears, together come.

XLII.

As when the crew, hard by some jutty cape, Struck pale and panick'd by the billow's roar, Lay by all timely measures of escape, And let their bark go driving on the shore; So fray'd Leander, drifting to his wreck, Gazing on Scylla, falls upon her neck.

XLIII.

For he hath all forgot the swimmer's art, The rower's cunning, and the pilot's skill, Letting his arms fall down in languid part, Sway'd by the waves, and nothing by his will, Till soon he jars against that glossy skin, Solid like glass, though seemingly as thin.

XLIV.

Lo! how she startles at the warning shock, And straightway girds him to her radiant breast, More like his safe smooth harbor than his rock; Poor wretch, he is so faint and toil-opprest, He cannot loose him from his grappling foe, Whether for love or hate, she lets not go.

XLV.

His eyes are blinded with the sleety brine, His ears are deafen'd with the wildering noise; He asks the purpose of her fell design, But foamy waves choke up his struggling voice; Under the ponderous sea his body dips, And Hero's name dies bubbling on his lips.

XLVI.

Look how a man is lower'd to his grave,— A yearning hollow in the green earth's lap; So he is sunk into the yawning wave,— The plunging sea fills up the watery gap; Anon he is all gone, and nothing seen But likeness of green turf and hillocks green.

XLVII.

And where he swam, the constant sun lies sleeping, Over the verdant plain that makes his bed; And all the noisy waves go freshly leaping. Like gamesome boys over the churchyard dead; The light in vain keeps looking for his face:— Now screaming sea-fowl settle in his place.

XLVIII.

Yet weep and watch for him, though all in vain! Ye moaning billows, seek him as ye wander! Ye gazing sunbeams, look for him again! Ye winds, grow hoarse with asking for Leander! Ye did but spare him for more cruel rape, Sea-storm and ruin in a female shape!

XLIX.

She says 'tis love hath bribed her to this deed, The glancing of his eyes did so bewitch her. O bootless theft! unprofitable meed! Love's treasury is sack'd, but she no richer; The sparkles of his eyes are cold and dead, And all his golden looks are turn'd to lead!

L.

She holds the casket, but her simple hand Hath spill'd its dearest jewel by the way; She hath life's empty garment at command, But her own death lies covert in the prey; As if a thief should steal a tainted vest, Some dead man's spoil, and sicken of his pest.

LI.

Now she compels him to her deeps below, Hiding his face beneath her plenteous hair, Which jealously she shakes all round her brow, For dread of envy, though no eyes are there But seals', and all brute tenants of the deep, Which heedless through the wave their journeys keep.

LII.

Down and still downward through the dusky green She bore him, murmuring with joyous haste In too rash ignorance, as he had been Born to the texture of that watery waste; That which she breathed and sigh'd, the emerald wave, How could her pleasant home become his grave!

LIII.

Down and still downward through the dusky green She bore her treasure, with a face too nigh To mark how life was alter'd in its mien, Or how the light grew torpid in his eye, Or how his pearly breath, unprison'd there, Flew up to join the universal air.

LIV.

She could not miss the throbbings of his heart, Whilst her own pulse so wanton'd in its joy; She could not guess he struggled to depart, And when he strove no more, the hapless boy! She read his mortal stillness for content, Feeling no fear where only love was meant.

LV.

Soon she alights upon her ocean-floor, And straight unyokes her arms from her fair prize; Then on his lovely face begins to pore, As if to glut her soul;—her hungry eyes Have grown so jealous of her arms' delight; It seems she hath no other sense but sight.

LVI.

But O sad marvel! O most bitter strange! What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale? Why will he not embrace,—why not exchange Her kindly kisses;—wherefore not exhale Some odorous message from life's ruby gates, Where she his first sweet embassy awaits?

LVII.

Her eyes, poor watchers, fix'd upon his looks, Are grappled with a wonder near to grief, As one, who pores on undecipher'd books, Strains vain surmise, and dodges with belief; So she keeps gazing with a mazy thought, Framing a thousand doubts that end in nought.

LVIII.

Too stern inscription for a page so young, The dark translation of his look was death! But death was written in an alien tongue, And learning was not by to give it breath; So one deep woe sleeps buried in its seal, Which Time, untimely, hasteth to reveal.

LIX.

Meanwhile she sits unconscious of her hap, Nursing Death's marble effigy, which there With heavy head lies pillow'd in her lap, And elbows all unhinged;—his sleeking hair Creeps o'er her knees, and settles where his hand Leans with lax fingers crook'd against the sand;

LX.

And there lies spread in many an oozy trail, Like glossy weeds hung from a chalky base, That shows no whiter than his brow is pale; So soon the wintry death had bleach'd his face Into cold marble,—with blue chilly shades, Showing wherein the freezy blood pervades.

LXI.

And o'er his steadfast cheek a furrow'd pain Hath set, and stiffened like a storm in ice, Showing by drooping lines the deadly strain Of mortal anguish;—yet you might gaze twice Ere Death it seem'd, and not his cousin, Sleep, That through those creviced lids did underpeep.

LXII.

But all that tender bloom about his eyes, Is Death's own violets, which his utmost rite It is to scatter when the red rose dies; For blue is chilly, and akin to white: Also he leaves some tinges on his lips, Which he hath kiss'd with such cold frosty nips.

LXIII.

"Surely," quoth she, "he sleeps, the senseless thing, Oppress'd and faint with toiling in the stream!" Therefore she will not mar his rest, but sing So low, her tune shall mingle with his dream; Meanwhile, her lily fingers task to twine His uncrispt locks uncurling in the brine.

LXIV.

"O lovely boy!"—thus she attuned her voice,— "Welcome, thrice welcome, to a sea-maid's home, My love-mate thou shalt be, and true heart's choice; How have I long'd such a twin-self should come,— A lonely thing, till this sweet chance befell, My heart kept sighing like a hollow shell."

LXV.

"Here thou shalt live, beneath this secret dome, An ocean-bow'r, defended by the shade Of quiet waters, a cool emerald gloom To lap thee all about. Nay, be not fray'd, Those are but shady fishes that sail by Like antic clouds across my liquid sky!"

LXVI.

"Look how the sunbeam burns upon their scales, And shows rich glimpses of their Tyrian skins; They flash small lightnings from their vigorous tails, And winking stars are kindled at their fins; These shall divert thee in thy weariest mood, And seek thy hand for gamesomeness and food."

LXVII.

"Lo! those green pretty leaves with tassel bells, My flow'rets those, that never pine for drouth; Myself did plant them in the dappled shells, That drink the wave with such a rosy mouth,— Pearls wouldst thou have beside? crystals to shine? I had such treasures once,—now they are thine."

LXVIII.

"Now, lay thine ear against this golden sand, And thou shalt hear the music of the sea, Those hollow tunes it plays against the land,— Is't not a rich and wondrous melody? I have lain hours, and fancied in its tone I heard the languages of ages gone!"

LXIX.

"I too can sing when it shall please thy choice, And breathe soft tunes through a melodious shell, Though heretofore I have but set my voice To some long sighs, grief-harmonized, to tell How desolate I fared;—but this sweet change Will add new notes of gladness to my range!"

LXX.

"Or bid me speak, and I will tell thee tales, Which I have framed out of the noise of waves; Ere now I have communed with senseless gales, And held vain colloquies with barren caves; But I could talk to thee whole days and days, Only to word my love a thousand ways."

LXXI.

"But if thy lips will bless me with their speech, Then ope, sweet oracles! and I'll be mute; I was born ignorant for thee to teach, Nay all love's lore to thy dear looks impute; Then ope thine eyes, fair teachers, by whose light I saw to give away my heart aright!"

LXXII.

But cold and deaf the sullen creature lies Over her knees, and with concealing clay, Like hoarding Avarice, locks up his eyes, And leaves her world impoverish'd of day; Then at his cruel lips she bends to plead, But there the door is closed against her need.

LXXIII.

Surely he sleeps,—so her false wits infer! Alas! poor sluggard, ne'er to wake again! Surely he sleeps, yet without any stir That might denote a vision in his brain; Or if he does not sleep, he feigns too long, Twice she hath reach'd the ending of her song.

LXXIV.

Therefore 'tis time she tells him to uncover Those radiant jesters, and disperse her fears, Whereby her April face is shaded over, Like rainy clouds just ripe for showering tears; Nay, if he will not wake, so poor she gets, Herself must open those lock'd-up cabinets.

LXXV.

With that she stoops above his brow, and bids Her busy hands forsake his tangled hair, And tenderly lift up those coffer-lids, That she may gaze upon the jewels there, Like babes that pluck an early bud apart, To know the dainty color of its heart.

LXXVI.

Now, picture one, soft creeping to a bed, Who slowly parts the fringe-hung canopies, And then starts back to find the sleeper dead; So she looks in on his uncover'd eyes, And seeing all within so drear and dark, Her own bright soul dies in her like a spark.

LXXVII.

Backward she falls, like a pale prophetess, Under the swoon of holy divination: And what had all surpass'd her simple guess, She now resolves in this dark revelation; Death's very mystery,—oblivious death;— Long sleep,—deep night, and an entranced breath.

LXXVIII.

Yet life, though wounded sore, not wholly slain, Merely obscured, and not extinguish'd, lies; Her breath that stood at ebb, soon flows again, Heaving her hollow breast with heavy sighs, And light comes in and kindles up the gloom, To light her spirit from its transient tomb.

LXXIX.

Then like the sun, awaken'd at new dawn, With pale bewilder'd face she peers about, And spies blurr'd images obscurely drawn, Uncertain shadows in a haze of doubt; But her true grief grows shapely by degrees,— A perish'd creature lying on her knees.

LXXX.

And now she knows how that old Murther preys, Whose quarry on her lap lies newly slain: How he roams all abroad and grimly slays, Like a lean tiger in Love's own domain; Parting fond mates,—and oft in flowery lawns Bereaves mild mothers of their milky fawns.

LXXXI.

O too dear knowledge! O pernicious earning! Foul curse engraven upon beauty's page! Ev'n now the sorrow of that deadly learning Ploughs up her brow, like an untimely age, And on her cheek stamps verdict of death's truth By canker blights upon the bud of youth!

LXXXII.

For as unwholesome winds decay the leaf, So her cheeks' rose is perish'd by her sighs, And withers in the sickly breath of grief; Whilst unacquainted rheum bedims her eyes, Tears, virgin tears, the first that ever leapt From those young lids, now plentifully wept.

LXXXIII.

Whence being shed, the liquid crystalline Drops straightway down, refusing to partake In gross admixture with the baser brine, But shrinks and hardens into pearls opaque, Hereafter to be worn on arms and ears; So one maid's trophy is another's tears!

LXXXIV.

"O foul Arch-Shadow, thou old cloud of Night," (Thus in her frenzy she began to wail,) "Thou blank Oblivion—blotter-out of light, Life's ruthless murderer, and dear love's bale! Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete, Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet?"

LXXXV.

"Lo! what a lovely ruin thou hast made! Alas! alas! thou hast no eye to see, And blindly slew'st him in misguided shade. Would I had lent my doting sense to thee! But now I turn to thee, a willing mark, Thine arrows miss me in the aimless dark!"

LXXXVI.

"O doubly cruel!—twice misdoing spite, But I will guide thee with my helping eyes, Or—walk the wide world through, devoid of sight,— Yet thou shalt know me by my many sighs. Nay, then thou should'st have spared my roses, false Death, And known Love's flow'r by smelling his sweet breath;"

LXXXVII.

"Or, when thy furious rage was round him dealing, Love should have grown from touching of his skin; But like cold marble thou art all unfeeling. And hast no ruddy springs of warmth within, And being but a shape of freezing bone, Thy touching only turn'd my love to stone!"

LXXXVIII.

"And here, alas! he lies across my knees, With cheeks still colder than the stilly wave. The light beneath his eyelids seems to freeze; Here then, since Love is dead and lacks a grave, O come and dig it in my sad heart's core— That wound will bring a balsam for its sore!"

LXXXIX.

"For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill Lies stingless, like a sense benumb'd with cold, Healing all hurts only with sleep's good-will? So shall I slumber, and perchance behold My living love in dreams,—O happy night, That lets me company his banish'd spright!"

XC.

"O poppy Death!—sweet poisoner of sleep; Where shall I seek for thee, oblivious drug, That I may steep thee in my drink, and creep Out of life's coil? Look, Idol! how I hug Thy dainty image in this strict embrace, And kiss this clay-cold model of thy face!"

XCI.

"Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps, I do but read my sorrows by their shine; O come and quench them with thy oozy damps, And let my darkness intermix with thine; Since love is blinded, wherefore should I see? Now love is death,—death will be love to me!"

XCII.

"Away, away, this vain complaining breath, It does but stir the troubles that I weep; Let it be hush'd and quieted, sweet Death; The wind must settle ere the wave can sleep,— Since love is silent, I would fain be mute; O death, be gracious to my dying suit!"

XCIII.

Thus far she pleads, but pleading nought avails her, For Death, her sullen burthen, deigns no heed; Then with dumb craving arms, since darkness fails her, She prays to heaven's fair light, as if her need Inspired her there were Gods to pity pain, Or end it,—but she lifts her arms in vain!

XCIV.

Poor gilded Grief! the subtle light by this With mazy gold creeps through her watery mine, And, diving downward through the green abyss, Lights up her palace with an amber shine; There, falling on her arms,—the crystal skin Reveals the ruby tide that fares within.

XCV.

Look how the fulsome beam would hang a glory On her dark hair, but the dark hairs repel it; Look how the perjured glow suborns a story On her pale lips, but lips refuse to tell it; Grief will not swerve from grief, however told On coral lips, or character'd in gold;

XCVI.

Or else, thou maid! safe anchor'd on Love's neck, Listing the hapless doom of young Leander, Thou would'st not shed a tear for that old wreck, Sitting secure where no wild surges wander; Whereas the woe moves on with tragic pace, And shows its sad reflection in thy face.

XCVII.

Thus having travell'd on, and track'd the tale, Like the due course of an old bas-relief, Where Tragedy pursues her progress pale, Brood here awhile upon that sea-maid's grief, And take a deeper imprint from the frieze Of that young Fate, with Death upon her knees.

XCVIII.

Then whilst the melancholy Muse withal Resumes her music in a sadder tone, Meanwhile the sunbeam strikes upon the wall, Conceive that lovely siren to live on, Ev'n as Hope whisper'd, the Promethean light Would kindle up the dead Leander's spright.

XCIX.

"'Tis light," she says, "that feeds the glittering stars, And those were stars set in his heavenly brow; But this salt cloud, this cold sea-vapor, mars Their radiant breathing, and obscures them now; Therefore I'll lay him in the clear blue air, And see how these dull orbs will kindle there."

C.

Swiftly as dolphins glide, or swifter yet, With dead Leander in her fond arms' fold, She cleaves the meshes of that radiant net The sun hath twined above of liquid gold, Nor slacks till on the margin of the land She lays his body on the glowing sand.

CI.

There, like a pearly waif, just past the reach Of foamy billows he lies cast. Just then, Some listless fishers, straying down the beach, Spy out this wonder. Thence the curious men, Low crouching, creep into a thicket brake, And watch her doings till their rude hearts ache.

CII.

First she begins to chafe him till she faints, Then falls upon his mouth with kisses many, And sometimes pauses in her own complaints To list his breathing, but there is not any,— Then looks into his eyes where no light dwells; Light makes no pictures in such muddy wells.

CIII.

The hot sun parches his discover'd eyes, The hot sun beats on his discolor'd limbs, The sand is oozy whereupon he lies, Soiling his fairness;—then away she swims, Meaning to gather him a daintier bed, Plucking the cool fresh weeds, brown, green, and red.

CIV.

But, simple-witted thief, while she dives under, Another robs her of her amorous theft; The ambush'd fishermen creep forth to plunder, And steal the unwatch'd treasure she has left; Only his void impression dints the sands; Leander is purloin'd by stealthy hands!

CV.

Lo! how she shudders off the beaded wave, Like Grief all over tears, and senseless falls,— His void imprint seems hollow'd for her grave; Then, rising on her knees, looks round and calls On "Hero! Hero!" having learn'd this name Of his last breath, she calls him by the same.

CVI.

Then with her frantic hands she rends her hairs, And casts them forth, sad keepsakes to the wind, As if in plucking those she plucked her cares; But grief lies deeper, and remains behind Like a barb'd arrow, rankling in her brain, Turning her very thoughts to throbs of pain.

CVII.

Anon her tangled locks are left alone, And down upon the sand she meekly sits, Hard by the foam, as humble as a stone, Like an enchanted maid beside her wits, That ponders with a look serene and tragic, Stunn'd by the mighty mystery of magic.

CVIII.

Or think of Ariadne's utter trance, Crazed by the flight of that disloyal traitor, Who left her gazing on the green expanse That swallowed up his track,—yet this would mate her, Ev'n in the cloudy summit of her woe, When o'er the far sea-brim she saw him go.

CIX.

For even so she bows, and bends her gaze O'er the eternal waste, as if to sum Its waves by weary thousands all her days, Dismally doom'd! meanwhile the billows come, And coldly dabble with her quiet feet, Like any bleaching stones they wont to greet.

CX.

And thence into her lap have boldly sprung, Washing her weedy tresses to and fro, That round her crouching knees have darkly hung; But she sits careless of waves' ebb and flow, Like a lone beacon on a desert coast, Showing where all her hope was wreck'd and lost.

CXI.

Yet whether in the sea or vaulted sky, She knoweth not her lover's abrupt resort, So like a shape of dreams he left her eye, Winking with doubt. Meanwhile, the churls' report Has throng'd the beach with many a curious face, That peeps upon her from its hiding place.

CXII.

And here a head, and there a brow half seen, Dodges behind a rock. Here on his hands A mariner his crumpled cheeks doth lean Over a rugged crest. Another stands, Holding his harmful arrow at the head, Still check'd by human caution and strange dread.

CXIII.

One stops his ears,—another close beholder Whispers unto the next his grave surmise; This crouches down,—and just above his shoulder, A woman's pity saddens in her eyes, And prompts her to befriend that lonely grief, With all sweet helps of sisterly relief.

CXIV.

And down the sunny beach she paces slowly, With many doubtful pauses by the way; Grief hath an influence so hush'd and holy,— Making her twice attempt, ere she can lay Her hand upon that sea-maid's shoulder white, Which makes her startle up in wild affright.

CXV.

And, like a seal, she leaps into the wave That drowns the shrill remainder of her scream; Anon the sea fills up the watery cave, And seals her exit with a foamy seam,— Leaving those baffled gazers on the beach, Turning in uncouth wonder each to each.

CXVI.

Some watch, some call, some see her head emerge, Wherever a brown weed falls through the foam; Some point to white eruptions of the surge:— But she is vanish'd to her shady home, Under the deep, inscrutable,—and there Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.

CXVII.

Now here, the sighing winds, before unheard, Forth from their cloudy caves begin to blow, Till all the surface of the deep is stirr'd, Like to the panting grief it hides below; And heaven is cover'd with a stormy rack, Soiling the waters with its inky black.

CXVIII.

The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey, And labors shoreward with a bending wing, Rowing against the wind her toilsome way; Meanwhile, the curling billows chafe, and fling Their dewy frost still further on the stones, That answer to the wind with hollow groans.

CXIX.

And here and there a fisher's far-off bark Flies with the sun's last glimpse upon its sail, Like a bright flame amid the waters dark, Watch'd with the hope and fear of maidens pale; And anxious mothers that upturn their brows, Freighting the gusty wind with frequent vows,

CXX.

For that the horrid deep has no sure path To guide Love safe into his homely haven. And lo! the storm grows blacker in its wrath, O'er the dark billow brooding like a raven, That bodes of death and widow's sorrowing, Under the dusky covert of his wing.

CXXI.

And so day ended. But no vesper spark Hung forth its heavenly sign; but sheets of flame Play'd round the savage features of the dark, Making night horrible. That night, there came A weeping maiden to high Sestos' steep, And tore her hair and gazed upon the deep.

CXXII.

And waved aloft her bright and ruddy torch, Whose flame the boastful wind so rudely fann'd, That oft it would recoil, and basely scorch The tender covert of her sheltering hand; Which yet, for Love's dear sake, disdain'd retire, And, like a glorying martyr, braved the fire.

CXXIII.

For that was love's own sign and beacon guide Across the Hellespont's wide weary space, Wherein he nightly struggled with the tide:— Look what a red it forges on her face, As if she blush'd at holding sucha light, Ev'n in the unseen presence of the night!

CXXIV.

Whereas her tragic cheek is truly pale, And colder than the rude and ruffian air That howls into her ear a horrid tale Of storm and wreck, and uttermost despair, Saying, "Leander floats amid the surge, And those are dismal waves that sing his dirge."

CXXV.

And hark!—a grieving voice, trembling and faint, Blends with the hollow sobbings of the sea; Like the sad music of a siren's plaint, But shriller than Leander's voice should be, Unless the wintry death had changed its tone,— Wherefore she thinks she hears his spirit moan.

CXXVI.

For now, upon each brief and breathless pause, Made by the raging winds, it plainly calls On "Hero! Hero!"—whereupon she draws Close to the dizzy brink, that ne'er appals Her brave and constant spirit to recoil, However the wild billows toss and toil.

CXXVII.

"Oh! dost thou live under the deep deep sea? I thought such love as thine could never die; If thou hast gain'd an immortality From the kind pitying sea-god, so will I; And this false cruel tide that used to sever Our hearts, shall be our common home forever!"

CXXVIII.

"There we will sit and sport upon one billow, And sing our ocean ditties all the day, And lie together on the same green pillow, That curls above us with its dewy spray; And ever in one presence live and dwell, Like two twin pearls within the selfsame shell!"

CXXIX.

One moment then, upon the dizzy verge She stands;—with face upturn'd against the sky; A moment more, upon the foamy surge She gazes, with a calm despairing eye; Feeling that awful pause of blood and breath, Which life endures when it confronts with death;—

CXXX.

Then from the giddy steep she madly springs, Grasping her maiden robes, that vainly kept Panting abroad, like unavailing wings, To save her from her death.—The sea-maid wept And in a crystal cave her corse enshrined; No meaner sepulchre should Hero find!



BALLAD.

Spring it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; When he's forsaken, Wither'd and shaken, What can an old man do but die?

Love will not clip him, Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by; Youth it is sunny, Age has no honey,— What can an old man do but die?

June it was jolly, Oh for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye; Youth may be silly, Wisdom is chilly,— What can an old man do but die?

Friends, they are scanty, Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why; Gold's in his clutches, (Buying him crutches!) What can an old man do but die?



AUTUMN

The Autumn skies are flush'd with gold, And fair and bright the rivers run; These are but streams of winter cold, And painted mists that quench the sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, In secret boughs no bird can shroud; These are but leaves that take to wing, And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

'Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms That on the cheerless valleys fall, The flowers are in their grassy tombs, And tears of dew are on them all.



BALLAD.

Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse And Beauty's fairest queen, Though 'tis not for my peasant lips To soil her name between: A king might lay his sceptre down, But I am poor and nought, The brow should wear a golden crown That wears her in its thought.

The diamonds glancing in her hair, Whose sudden beams surprise, Might bid such humble hopes beware The glancing of her eyes; Yet looking once, I look'd too long, And if my love is sin, Death follows on the heels of wrong, And kills the crime within.

Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves, It was so pure and fine, O lofty wears, and lowly weaves,— But hodden-gray is mine; And homely hose must step apart, Where garter'd princes stand, But may he wear my love at heart That wins her lily hand!

Alas! there's far from russet frieze To silks and satin gowns, But I doubt if God made like degrees In courtly hearts and clowns. My father wrong'd a maiden's mirth, And brought her cheeks to blame, And all that's lordly of my birth Is my reproach and shame!

'Tis vain to weep,—'tis vain to sigh, 'Tis vain, this idle speech, For where her happy pearls do lie, My tears may never reach; Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride May say, of what has been, His love was nobly born and died, Though all the rest was mean!

My speech is rude,—but speech is weak Such love as mine to tell, Yet had I words, I dare not speak, So, Lady, fare thee well; I will not wish thy better state Was one of low degree, But I must weep that partial fate Made such a churl of me.



THE EXILE.

The swallow with summer Will wing o'er the seas, The wind that I sigh to Will visit thy trees. The ship that it hastens Thy ports will contain, But me!—I must never See England again!

There's many that weep there, But one weeps alone, For the tears that are falling So far from her own; So far from thy own, love, We know not our pain; If death is between us, Or only the main.

When the white cloud reclines On the verge of the sea, I fancy the white cliffs, And dream upon thee; But the cloud spreads its wings To the blue heav'n and flies. We never shall meet, love, Except in the skies!



TO ——

Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow; The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine:— Flowers I have none to give thee, but I borrow Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine.

Here are red roses, gather'd at thy cheeks,— The white were all too happy to look white: For love the rose, for faith the lily speaks; It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright!

Dost love sweet Hyacinth? Its scented leaf Curls manifold,—all love's delights blow double: 'Tis said this flow'ret is inscribed with grief,— But let that hint of a forgotten trouble.

I pluck'd the Primrose at night's dewy noon; Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night;— 'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon! And here are Sun-flowers, amorous of light!

These golden Buttercups are April's seal,— The Daisy-stars her constellations be: These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel, Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee!

Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours:— A wight once made a dial of their bloom,— So may thy life be measured out by flowers!



ODE TO MELANCHOLY.

Come, let us set our careful breasts, Like Philomel, against the thorn, To aggravate the inward grief, That makes her accents so forlorn; The world has many cruel points, Whereby our bosoms have been torn, And there are dainty themes of grief, In sadness to outlast the morn,— True honor's dearth, affection's death, Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn, With all the piteous tales that tears Have water'd since the world was born.

The world!—it is a wilderness, Where tears are hung on every tree; For thus my gloomy phantasy Makes all things weep with me! Come let us sit and watch the sky, And fancy clouds, where no clouds be; Grief is enough to blot the eye, And make heaven black with misery. Why should birds sing such merry notes, Unless they were more blest than we? No sorrow ever chokes their throats, Except sweet nightingale; for she Was born to pain our hearts the more With her sad melody. Why shines the Sun, except that he Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide, And pensive shades for Melancholy, When all the earth is bright beside? Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave, Mirth shall not win us back again, Whilst man is made of his own grave, And fairest clouds but gilded rain!

I saw my mother in her shroud, Her cheek was cold and very pale; And ever since I've look'd on all As creatures doom'd to fail! Why do buds ope except to die? Ay, let us watch the roses wither, And think of our loves' cheeks; And oh! how quickly time doth fly To bring death's winter hither! Minutes, hours, days, and weeks, Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought; An age past is but a thought!

Ay, let us think of Him awhile That, with a coffin for a boat, Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat, And for our table choose a tomb: There's dark enough in any skull To charge with black a raven plume; And for the saddest funeral thoughts A winding-sheet hath ample room, Where Death, with his keen-pointed style, Hath writ the common doom. How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom, And o'er the dead lets fall its dew, As if in tears it wept for them, The many human families That sleep around its stem!

How cold the dead have made these stones, With natural drops kept ever wet! Lo! here the best—the worst—the world Doth now remember or forget, Are in one common ruin hurl'd, And love and hate are calmly met; The loveliest eyes that ever shone, The fairest hands, and locks of jet. Is't not enough to vex our souls, And fill our eyes, that we have set Our love upon a rose's leaf, Our hearts upon a violet? Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet; And sometimes at their swift decay Beforehand we must fret. The roses bud and bloom, again; But Love may haunt the grave of Love, And watch the mould in vain.

O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, And do not take my tears amiss; For tears must flow to wash away A thought that shows so stern as this: Forgive, if somewhile I forget, In woe to come, the present bliss; As frighted Proserpine let fall Her flowers at the sight of Dis, Ev'n so the dark and bright will kiss. The sunniest things throw sternest shade, And there is ev'n a happiness That makes the heart afraid!

Now let us with a spell invoke The full-orb'd moon to grieve our eyes; Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud Lapp'd all about her, let her rise All pale and dim, as if from rest The ghost of the late-buried sun Had crept into the skies. The Moon! she is the source of sighs, The very face to make us sad; If but to think in other times The same calm quiet look she had, As if the world held nothing base, Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad; The same fair light that shone in streams, The fairy lamp that charmed the lad; For so it is, with spent delights She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad.

All things are touch'd with Melancholy, Born of the secret soul's mistrust, To feel her fair ethereal wings Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust; Even the bright extremes of joy Bring on conclusions of disgust, Like the sweet blossoms of the May, Whose fragrance ends in must. O give her, then, her tribute just, Her sighs and tears, and musings holy; There is no music in the life That sounds with idiot laughter solely; There's not a string attuned to mirth, But has its chord in Melancholy.



SONNET.

By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts, Graven by Time, in love with his own lore; By all old martyrdoms and antique smarts, Wherein Love died to be alive the more; Yea, by the sad impression on the shore, Left by the drown'd Leander, to endear That coast for ever, where the billow's roar Moaneth for pity in the Poet's ear; By Hero's faith, and the foreboding tear That quench'd her brand's last twinkle in its fall; By Sappho's leap, and the low rustling fear That sigh'd around her flight; I swear by all, The world shall find such pattern in my act, As if Love's great examples still were lack'd.



SONNET.

TO MY WIFE.

The curse of Adam, the old curse of all, Though I inherit in this feverish life Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strife, And fruitless thought, in Care's eternal thrall, Yet more sweet honey than of bitter gall I taste, through thee, my Eve, my sweet wife. Then what was Man's lost Paradise!—how rife Of bliss, since love is with him in his fall! Such as our own pure passion still might frame, Of this fair earth, and its delightful bow'rs, If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came To trail its venom o'er the sweetest flow'rs;— But oh! as many and such tears are ours, As only should be shed for guilt and shame!



SONNET.

ON RECEIVING A GIFT.

Look how the golden ocean shines above Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth; So does the bright and blessed light of Love Its own things glorify, and raise their worth. As weeds seem flowers beneath the flattering brine, And stones like gems, and gems as gems indeed, Ev'n so our tokens shine; nay, they outshine Pebbles and pearls, and gems and coral weed; For where be ocean waves but half so clear, So calmly constant, and so kindly warm, As Love's most mild and glowing atmosphere, That hath no dregs to be upturn'd by storm? Thus, sweet, thy gracious gifts are gifts of price, And more than gold to doting Avarice.



SONNET.

Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak, Lives not within the humor of the eye;— Not being but an outward phantasy, That skims the surface of a tinted cheek,— Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak, As if the rose made summer,—and so lie Amongst the perishable things that die, Unlike the love which I would give and seek: Whose health is of no hue—to feel decay With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime. Love is its own great loveliness alway, And takes new lustre from the touch of time; Its bough owns no December and no May, But bears its blossom into Winter's clime.



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.[9]

[Footnote 9: Hood edited The Gem, one of the many annuals of that day, for the year 1829. The volume is memorable for having contained his fine poem.

"The remarkable name of Eugene Aram, belonging to a man of unusual talents and acquirements, is unhappily associated with a deed of blood as extraordinary in its details as any recorded in our calendar of crime. In the year 1745, being then an usher and deeply engaged in the study of Chaldee, Hebrew, Arabic, and the Celtic dialects, for the formation of a lexicon, he abruptly turned over a still darker page in human knowledge, and the brow that learning might have made illustrious was stamped ignominious forever with the brand of Cain. To obtain a trifling property he concerted with an accomplice, and with his own hand effected the violent death of one Daniel Clarke, a shoe-maker, of Knaresborough, in Yorkshire. For fourteen years nearly the secret slept with the victim in the earth of St. Robert's Cave, and the manner of its discovery would appear a striking example of the divine justice even amongst those marvels narrated in that curious old volume alluded to in the Fortunes of Nigel, under its quaint title of 'God's Revenge against Murther.'

"The accidental digging up of a skeleton, and the unwary and emphatic declaration of Aram's accomplice that it could not be that of Clarke, betraying a guilty knowledge of the true bones, he was wrought to a confession of their deposit. The learned homicide was seized and arraigned, and a trial of uncommon interest was wound up by a defence as memorable as the tragedy itself for eloquence and ingenuity—too ingenious for innocence, and eloquent enough to do credit even to that long premeditation which the interval between the deed and its discovery had afforded. That this dreary period had not passed without paroxysms of remorse may be inferred from a fact of affecting interest. The late Admiral Burney was a scholar at the school at Lynn in Norfolk when Aram was an usher, subsequent to his crime. The Admiral stated that Aram was beloved by the boys, and that he used to discourse to them of murder, not occasionally, as I have written elsewhere, but constantly, and in somewhat of the spirit ascribed to him in the poem.

"For the more imaginative part of the version I must refer back to one of those unaccountable visions which come upon us like frightful monsters thrown up by storms from the great black deeps of slumber. A lifeless body, in love and relationship the nearest and dearest, was imposed upon my back, with an overwhelming sense of obligation—not of filial piety merely, but some awful responsibility, equally vague and intense, and involving, as it seemed, inexpiable sin, horrors unutterable, torments intolerable—to bury my dead, like Abraham, out of my sight. In vain I attempted, again and again, to obey the mysterious mandate—by some dreadful process the burthen was replaced with a more stupendous weight of injunction, and an apalling conviction of the impossibility of its fulfilment. My mental anguish was indescribable;—the mighty agonies of souls tortured on the supernatural racks of sleep are not to be penned—and if in sketching those that belong to blood-guiltiness I have been at all successful, I owe it mainly to the uninvoked inspiration of that terrible dream."

The introduction of Admiral Burney's name makes it likely that Hood may have owed his first interest in the story to Charles Lamb. The circumstance that the book over which the gentle boy was poring when questioned by the usher was called the Death of Abel, is by no means forced or unnatural. Salomon Gessner's prose poem, Der Tod Abels, published in 1758, attained an astonishing popularity throughout Europe, and appeared in an English version somewhere about the time of the discovery of Aram's crime.]

I.

'Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool.

II.

Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouch'd by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in: Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn.

III.

Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran,— Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can; But the Usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man!

IV.

His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees!

V.

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside, For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed.

VI.

At last he shut the ponderous tome, With a fast and fervent grasp He strain'd the dusky covers close, And fix'd the brazen hasp: "Oh, God! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!"

VII.

Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took,— Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook,— And, lo! he saw a little boy That pored upon a book!

VIII.

"My gentle lad, what is't you read— Romance or fairy fable? Of is it some historic page, Or kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance,— "It is 'The Death of Abel.'"

IX.

The Usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain,— Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again; And down he sat beside the lad, And talk'd with him of Cain;

X.

And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves;

XI.

And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod,— Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God!

XII.

He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain,— With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain: For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain!

XIII.

"And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme,— Woe, woe, unutterable woe,— Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder, in a dream!"

XIV.

"One that had never done me wrong— A feeble man, and old; I led him to a lonely field,— The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!"

XV.

"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife,— And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone!"

XVI.

"Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill; And yet I feared him all the more, For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look, That murder could not kill!"

XVII.

"And, lo! the universal air Seemed lit with ghastly flame;— Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame: I took the dead man by his hand, And called upon his name!"

XVIII.

"Oh, God! it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain! But when I touched the lifeless clay, The blood gush'd out amain! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain!"

XIX.

"My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice: My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price: A dozen times I groan'd the dead Had never groan'd but twice!"

XX.

And now, from forth the frowning sky, From the Heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice—the awful voice Of the blood-avenging Sprite:— "Thou guilty man! take up thy dead And hide it from my sight!"

XXI.

"I took the dreary body up, And cast it in a stream,— A sluggish water, black as ink, The depth was so extreme:— My gentle Boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream!"

XXII.

"Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And wash'd my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young, That evening in the school."

XXIII.

"Oh, Heaven! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in Evening Hymn: Like a Devil of the Pit I seem'd, 'Mid holy Cherubim!"

XXIV.

"And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread: But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain That lighted me to bed; And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red!"

XXV.

"All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; My fever'd eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep: For Sin had render'd unto her The keys of Hell to keep!"

XXVI.

"All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That rack'd me all the time; A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime!"

XXVII.

"One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave,— Still urging me to go and see The Dead Man in his grave!"

XXVIII.

"Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the Dead in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry."

XXIX.

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing: For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing."

XXX.

"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran;— There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began: In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murder'd man!"

XXXI.

"And all that day I read in school, But my thought was other where; As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare!"

XXXII.

"Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep: Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep."

XXXIII.

"So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, Till blood for blood atones! Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh,— The world shall see his bones!"

XXXIV.

"Oh, God! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake."

XXXV.

"And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul,— It stands before me now!" The fearful Boy look'd up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow.

XXXVI.

That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between. With gyves upon his wrist.



SONNET.

FOR THE 14TH OF FEBRUARY.

No popular respect will I omit To do thee honor on this happy day, When every loyal lover tasks his wit His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay, And to his mistress dear his hopes convey. Rather thou knowest I would still outrun All calendars with Love's,—whose date alway Thy bright eyes govern better than the Sun,— For with thy favor was my life begun; And still I reckon on from smiles to smiles, And not by summers, for I thrive on none But those thy cheerful countenance complies: Oh! if it be to choose and call thee mine, Love, thou art every day my Valentine.



THE DEATH-BED.[10]

[Footnote 10: The Englishman's Magazine, August 1831. This magazine was a venture of Edward Moxon, the publisher, but had a career of only seven months. It is memorable, however, for including, besides the above and various papers by Charles Lamb, poetical contributions from Tennyson and Arthur Hallam, and also for containing the review by the latter of Tennyson's first volume of poems, published in 1830. The beautiful stanzas of Hood's appear here, as far as I have discovered, for the first time. The date of their composition remains unfixed. Hood's son was under the impression that they were written on the death of one of his father's sisters, but supplied no evidence bearing on the question.]

We watch'd her breathing through the night. Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied— We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed—she had Another morn than ours.



ANTICIPATION.[11]

[Footnote 11: These impressive, if rather morbid, lines seem to have been hitherto overlooked by Hood's editors, and are here collected for the first time.]

"Coming events cast their shadow before."

I had a vision in the summer light— Sorrow was in it, and my inward sight Ached with sad images. The touch of tears Gushed down my cheeks:—the figured woes of years Casting their shadows across sunny hours. Oh, there was nothing sorrowful in flowers Wooing the glances of an April sun, Or apple blossoms opening one by one Their crimson bosoms—or the twittered words And warbled sentences of merry birds;— Or the small glitter and the humming wings Of golden flies and many colored things— Oh, these were nothing sad—nor to see Her, Sitting beneath the comfortable stir Of early leaves—casting the playful grace Of moving shadows in so fair a face— Nor in her brow serene—nor in the love Of her mild eyes drinking the light above With a long thirst—nor in her gentle smile— Nor in her hand that shone blood-red the while She raised it in the sun. All these were dear To heart and eye—but an invisible fear Shook in the trees and chilled upon the air, And if one spot was laughing brightest—there My soul most sank and darkened in despair!— As if the shadows of a curtained room Haunted me in the sun—as if the bloom Of early flow'rets had no sweets for me, Nor apple blossoms any blush to see— As if the hour had brought too bright a day— And little birds were all too gay!—too gay!— As if the beauty of that Lovely One Were all a fable.—Full before the sun Stood Death and cast a shadow long before, Like a dark pall enshrouding her all o'er, Till eyes, and lips, and smiles, were all no more!



TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER.

Love thy mother, little one! Kiss and clasp her neck again,— Hereafter she may have a son Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. Love thy mother, little one!

Gaze upon her living eyes, And mirror back her love for thee,— Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs To meet them when they cannot see. Gaze upon her living eyes!

Press her lips the while they glow With love that they have often told,— Hereafter thou mayst press in woe, And kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow!

Oh, revere her raven hair! Although it be not silver-gray; Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh, revere her raven hair!

Pray for her at eve and morn, That Heaven may long the stroke defer,— For thou mayst live the hour forlorn When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn!



STANZAS[12]

[Footnote 12: From Hood's novel of Tylney Hall, published in 1834; apparently one of the many tender tributes originally addressed by Hood to his wife.]

(FROM TYLNEY HALL.)

Still glides the gentle streamlet on, With shifting current new and strange; The water that was here is gone, But those green shadows do not change.

Serene, or ruffled by the storm, On present waves as on the past, The mirrored grave retains its form, The self-same trees their semblance cast.

The hue each fleeting globule wears, That drop bequeaths it to the next, One picture still the surface bears, To illustrate the murmured text.

So, love, however time may flow, Fresh hours pursuing those that flee One constant image still shall show My tide of life is true to thee!



SONNET TO OCEAN.[13]

[Footnote 13: Written in 1835 after Hood's disastrous voyage to Rotterdam, in which the ship was nearly lost, and Hood's health was permanently affected.]

Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love, That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife, Thou darest menace my unit of a life, Sending my clay below, my soul above, Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth! Yet didst thou n'er restore my fainting health?— Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove? Nay, dost thou not against my own dear shore Full break, last link between my land and me?— My absent friends talk in thy very roar, In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see, And, if I must not see my England more, Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!



TO ——

COMPOSED AT ROTTERDAM.

I.

I gaze upon a city,— A city new and strange,— Down many a watery vista My fancy takes a range; From side to side I saunter, And wonder where I am; And can you be in England, And I at Rotterdam!

II.

Before me lie dark waters In broad canals and deep, Whereon the silver moonbeams Sleep, restless in their sleep; A sort of vulgar Venice Reminds me where I am; Yes, yes, you are in England, And I'm at Rotterdam.

III.

Tall houses with quaint gables, Where frequent windows shine, And quays that lead to bridges, And trees in formal line, And masts of spicy vessels From western Surinam, All tell me you're in England, But I'm in Rotterdam.

IV.

Those sailors, how outlandish The face and form of each! They deal in foreign gestures, And use a foreign speech; A tongue not learn'd near Isis, Or studied by the Cam, Declares that you're in England, And I'm at Rotterdam.

V.

And now across a market My doubtful way I trace, Where stands a solemn statue, The Genius of the place; And to the great Erasmus I offer my salaam; Who tells me you're in England, But I'm at Rotterdam.

VI.

The coffee-room is open— I mingle in its crowd,— The dominos are noisy— The hookahs raise a cloud; The flavor, none of Fearon's, That mingles with my dram, Reminds me you're in England, And I'm at Rotterdam.

VII.

Then here it goes, a bumper— The toast it shall be mine, In schiedam, or in sherry, Tokay, or hock of Rhine; It well deserves the brightest, Where sunbeam ever swam— "The Girl I love in England" I drink at Rotterdam!



LINES

ON SEEING MY WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN SLEEPING IN THE SAME CHAMBER.[14]

[Footnote 14: Written at Coblenz, where Hood and his family were then settled, in November 1835.]

And has the earth lost its so spacious round, The sky its blue circumference above, That in this little chamber there is found Both earth and heaven—my universe of love! All that my God can give me, or remove, Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death. Sweet that in this small compass I behove To live their living and to breathe their breath! Almost I wish that, with one common sigh, We might resign all mundane care and strife, And seek together that transcendent sky, Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, Wife, Together pant in everlasting life!



STANZAS.[15]

[Footnote 15: Assigned by Hood's son to the year 1835, but apparently only on conjecture.]

Is there a bitter pang for love removed, O God! The dead love doth not cost more tears Than the alive, the loving, the beloved— Not yet, not yet beyond all hopes and fears! Would I were laid Under the shade Of the calm grave, and the long grass of years,—

That love might die with sorrow:—I am sorrow; And she, that loves me tenderest, doth press Most poison from my cruel lips, and borrow Only new anguish from the old caress; Oh, this world's grief Hath no relief

In being wrung from a great happiness. Would I had never filled thine eyes with love, For love is only tears: would I had never Breathed such a curse-like blessing as we prove; Now, if "Farewell" could bless thee, I would sever! Would I were laid Under the shade Of the cold tomb, and the long grass forever!



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQ.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ATHENAEUM.

MY DEAR SIR—The following Ode was written anticipating the tone of some strictures on my writings by the gentleman to whom it is addressed. I have not seen his book; but I know by hearsay that some of my verses are characterized as "profaneness and ribaldry"—citing, in proof, the description of a certain sow, from whose jaw a cabbage sprout

"Protruded, as the dove so staunch For peace supports an olive branch."

If the printed works of my Censor had not prepared me for any misapplication of types, I should have been surprised by this misapprehension of one of the commonest emblems. In some cases the dove unquestionably stands for the Divine Spirit; but the same bird is also a lay representative of the peace of this world, and, as such, has figured time out of mind in allegorical pictures. The sense in which it was used by me is plain from the context; at least, it would be plain to any one but a fisher for faults, predisposed to carp at some things, to dab at others, and to flounder in all. But I am possibly in error. It is the female swine, perhaps, that is profaned in the eyes of the Oriental tourist. Men find strange ways of marking their intolerance; and the spirit is certainly strong enough, in Mr. W.'s works, to set up a creature as sacred, in sheer opposition to the Mussulman, with whom she is a beast of abomination. It would only be going the whole sow.—I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, THOS. HOOD.

"Close, close your eyes with holy dread, And weave a circle round him thrice, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise."—COLERIDGE.

"It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be."—Old Ballad.

A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land, Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee, Where rolls between us the eternal sea, Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand,— Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall; Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call; Across the wavy waste between us stretch'd, A friendly missive warns me of a stricture, Wherein my likeness you have darkly etch'd, And though I have not seen the shadow sketch'd, Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.

I guess the features:—in a line to paint Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint. Not one of those self-constituted saints, Quacks—not physicians—in the cure of souls, Censors who sniff out mortal taints, And call the devil over his own coals— Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God, Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibb'd; Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod, Commending sinners, not to ice thick-ribb'd, But endless flames, to scorch them up like flax— Yet sure of heav'n themselves, as if they'd cribb'd Th' impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!

Of such a character no single trace Exists, I know, in my fictitious face; There wants a certain cast about the eye; A certain lifting of the nose's tip; A certain curling of the nether lip, In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky; In brief it is an aspect deleterious, A face decidedly not serious, A face profane, that would not do at all To make a face at Exeter Hall,— That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray, And laud each other face to face, Till ev'ry farthing-candle ray Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace.

Well!—be the graceless lineaments confest! I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth; And dote upon a jest "Within the limits of becoming mirth";— No solemn sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious— Nor study in my sanctum supercilious To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull. I pray for grace—repent each sinful act— Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible; And love my neighbor far too well, in fact, To call and twit him with a godly tract That's turn'd by application to a libel. My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven, All creeds I view with toleration thorough, And have a horror of regarding heaven As anybody's rotten borough.

What else? no part I take in party fray, With troops from Billingsgate's slang-whanging tartars, I fear no Pope—and let great Ernest play At Fox and Goose with Foxs' Martyrs! I own I laugh at over-righteous men, I own I shake my sides at ranters, And treat sham-Abr'am saints with wicked banters, I even own, that there are times—but then It's when I've got my wine—I say d——canters!

I've no ambition to enact the spy On fellow souls, a Spiritual Pry— 'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses, Who thrust them into matters none of theirs; And tho' no delicacy discomposes Your Saint, yet I consider faith and pray'rs Amongst the privatest of men's affairs.

I do not hash the Gospel in my books, And thus upon the public mind intrude it, As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.

On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk; Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk,— For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat; 'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth, A man has got his belly full of meat Because he talks with victuals in his mouth!

Mere verbiage,—it is not worth a carrot! Why, Socrates—or Plato—where's the odds?— Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods, And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!

A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is Not a whit better than a Mantis,— An insect, of what clime I can't determine, That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence, By simple savages—thro' sheer pretence— Is reckon'd quite a saint amongst the vermin. But where's the reverence, or where the nous, To ride on one's religion thro' the lobby, Whether a stalking-horse or hobby, To show its pious paces to "the house"?

I honestly confess that I would hinder The Scottish member's legislative rigs, That spiritual Pinder, Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, That must be lash'd by law, wherever found, And driv'n to church, as to the parish pound. I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, I view that grovelling idea as one Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, A charity-boy, who longs to be a beadle.

On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd How much a man can differ from his neighbor: One wishes worship freely giv'n to God, Another wants to make it statute-labor— The broad distinction in a line to draw, As means to lead us to the skies above, You say—Sir Andrew and his love of law, And I—the Saviour with his law of love.

Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?

I do confess that I abhor and shrink From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Giles's sins, but blink The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly— My soul revolts at such a bare hypocrisy, And will not, dare not, fancy in accord The Lord of Hosts with an Exclusive Lord Of this world's aristocracy. It will not own a notion so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heav'n, whereas the poor and lowly Must work their passage, as they do in ships.

One place there is—beneath the burial sod, Where all mankind are equalized by death; Another place there is—the Fane of God, Where all are equal, who draw living breath;— Juggle who will elsewhere with his own soul, Playing the Judas with a temporal dole— He who can come beneath that awful cope, In the dread presence of a Maker just, Who metes to ev'ry pinch of human dust One even measure of immortal hope— He who can stand within that holy door, With soul unbow'd by that pure spirit-level, And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,— Might sit for Hell and represent the Devil!

Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae, In your last Journey-Work, perchance you ravage, Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless savage; A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,— A Scoffer, always on the grin, And sadly given to the mortal sin Of liking Maw-worms less than merry maggots!

The humble records of my life to search, I have not herded with mere pagan beasts; But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts," And I have been "where bells have knoll'd to church." Dear bells! how sweet the sounds of village bells When on the undulating air they swim! Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells! And trembling all about the breezy dells As flutter'd by the wings of Cherubim. Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; And lost to sight th' ecstatic lark above Sings, like a soul beatified, of love,— With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon;— O Pagans, Heathens, Infidels and Doubters! If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion, Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?

A man may cry "Church! Church!" at ev'ry word, With no more piety than other people— A daw's not reckon'd a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple. The Temple is a good, a holy place, But quacking only gives it an ill savor; While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, And bring religion's self into disfavor!

Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon, Who, binding up his Bible with his Ledger, Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon, A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger, Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week, A saving bet against his sinful bias— "Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, "I lie—I cheat—do anything for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious?"

In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts. One Sunday morning—(at the day don't fret)— In riding with a friend to Ponder's End Outside the stage, we happened to commend A certain mansion that we saw To Let. "Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple "You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it! 'Twas built by the same man as built yon chapel And master wanted once to buy it,— But t'other driv the bargain much too hard— He ax'd sure-ly a sum purdigious! But being so particular religious, Why, that, you see, put master on his guard!" Church is "a little heav'n below, I have been there and still would go,"— Yet I am none of those, who think it odd A man can pray unbidden from the cassock, And, passing by the customary hassock, Kneel down remote upon the simple sod, And sue in forma pauperis to God.

As for the rest,—intolerant to none, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, Ev'n the poor Pagan's homage to the Sun I would not harshly scorn, lest even there I spurn'd some elements of Christian pray'r— An aim, tho' erring, at a "world ayont," Acknowledgment of good—of man's futility, A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed That very thing so many Christians want— Humility.

Such, unto Papists, Jews or turban'd Turks, Such is my spirit—(I don't mean my wraith!) Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my works!

I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, The Bible in one hand, And my own commonplace-book in the other— But you have been to Palestine—alas! Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, Resemble copper wire, or brass, Which gets the narrower by going farther! Worthless are all such Pilgrimages—very! If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive The human heats and rancor to revive That at the Sepulchre they ought to bury. A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak!

Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, Scotland, renown'd for sanctity of old, Far distant Catholics to rate and scold For—doing as the Romans do at Rome? With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?— People who hold such absolute opinions Should stay at home, in Protestant dominions, Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.

Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings. Consider then, before, like Hurlothrumbo You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, You might have been High Priest to Mumbo Jumbo.

For me—thro' heathen ignorance perchance, Not having knelt in Palestine,—I feel None of that griffinish excess of zeal, Some travellers would blaze with here in France. Dolls I can see in virgin-like array, Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker Like crazy Quixote at the puppet's play, If their "offence be rank," should mine be rancor? Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him two black eyes for being blind?

Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop Around a canker'd stem should twine, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine? The images, 'tis true, are strangely dress'd, With gauds and toys extremely out of season; The carving nothing of the very best, The whole repugnant to the eye of reason, Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason— Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect One truly Catholic, one common form, At which uncheck'd All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.

Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss, One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, If hard by the wayside I found a cross, That made me breathe a pray'r upon the spot— While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem's use, had trail'd around its base The blue significant Forget-me-not? Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope Giving the eye much variegated scope;— "Look round," it whisper'd, "on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair, But"—(how the simple legend pierced me thro'!) "PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX."