Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks
Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes
A mirror of the moon; like some great glass,
Which did distort whatever form might pass,
Dashed into fragments by a playful child,
Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild,
Giving for one, which it could ne'er express,
A thousand images of loveliness.
If I were one whom the loud world held wise,
I should disdain to quote authorities
In the support of this kind of love ;—
Why there is first the God in heaven above,
Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be
Reviewed I hear in the next Quarterly;
And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece;
And Jesus Christ himself did never cease
To urge all living things to love each other,
And to forgive their mutual faults, and smother
The Devil of disunion in their souls.
It is a sweet thing friendship, a dear balm,
A happy and auspicious bird of calm,
Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous ocean;
A God that broods o'er chaos in commotion;
A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are,
Lifts its bold head into the world's pure air,
And blooms most radiantly when others die,
Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity;
And, with the light and odour of its bloom,
Shining within the dungeon and the tomb;
Whose coming is as light and music are
'Mid dissonance and gloom-a star
Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone,
A smile among dark frowns—a gentle tone
Among rude voices, a beloved light,
A solitude, a refuge, a delight.
If I had but a friend! why I have three,
Even by my own confession; there may be
Some more, for what I know; for 'tis my mind
To call my friends all who are wise and kind,
And these, Heaven knows, at best are very few,
But none can ever be more dear than you.
Why should they be? my muse has lost her wings,
Or like a dying swan who soars and sings
I should describe you in heroic style,
But as it is—are you not void of guile?
A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless;
A well of sealed and secret happiness;
A lute, which those whom love has taught to play
Make music on, to cheer the roughest day?
AND who feels discord now or sorrow?
Love is the universe to-day-
These are the slaves of dim to-morrow,
Darkening Life's labyrinthine way.
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY.
THY little footsteps on the sands
Of a remote and lonely shore;
The twinkling of thine infant hands
Where now the worm will feed no more:
Thy mingled look of love and glee
When we returned to gaze on thee-
A GENTLE story of two lovers young,
Who met in innocence and died in sorrow,
And of one selfish heart, whose rancour clung
Like curses on them; are ye slow to borrow
The lore of truth from such a tale?
Or in this world's deserted vale,
Do ye not see a star of gladness
Pierce the shadows of its sadness,
When ye are cold, that love is a light sent
From heaven, which none shall quench, to cheer
I AM drunk with the honey wine
Of the moon-unfolded eglantine,
Which fairies catch in hyacinth buds :
The bats, the dormice, and the moles
Sleep in the walls or under the sward
Of the desolate Castle yard;
And when 'tis spilt on the summer earth
Or its fumes arise among the dew,
Their jocund dreams are full of mirth,
They gibber their joy in sleep; for few
Of the fairies bear those bowls so new!
YE gentle visitations of calm thought—
Moods like the memories of happier earth,
Which come arrayed in thoughts of little
Like stars in clouds by the weak winds enwrought,
But that the clouds depart and stars remain, While they remain, and ye, alas, depart!
THE world is dreary,
And I am weary
Of wandering on without thee, Mary;
A joy was erewhile
In thy voice and thy smile,
And 'tis gone, when I should be gone too, Mary.
My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone,
And left me in this dreary world alone!
Thy form is here indeed a lovely one-
But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road,
That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode ;
Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair,
For thine own sake I cannot follow thee.
WHEN a lover clasps his fairest,
Then be our dread sport the rarest.
Their caresses were like the chaff
In the tempest, and be our laugh
His despair-her epitaph!
When a mother clasps her child,
Watch till dusty Death has piled
His cold ashes on the clay;
She has loved it many a day-
She remains, it fades away.
ONE sung of thee who left the tale untold,
Like the false dawns which perish in the bursting:
Like empty cups of wrought and dædal gold, Which mock the lips with air, when they are thirsting.
AND where is truth? On tombs? for such to thee
Has been my heart-and thy dead memory
Has lain from childhood, many a changeful year—
Unchangingly preserved and buried there.
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