Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim!
I see the fields, I see the autumn hand
Of God upon the maples! Answer Him
With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand
Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst!
I see the sun break over you; the mist
On hills that lift from iron bases grand
Their heads superb!—the dream, it is my native land.
TIME, with his constant touch, has half erased
The memory, but he cannot dim the fame
Of one who best of all has paraphrased
The tale of waters with a tale of flame,
Yet left us but his accents and his name.
Upon that life, the sun of history
Shines not, but Legend, like a moon in mist,
Sheds over it a weird uncertainty,
In which all figures wave and actions twist,
So that a man may read them as he list.
We know not if he trod some Theban street,
And sought compassion on his aged woe,
We know not if on Chian sand his feet
Left footprints once; but only this we know,
How the high ways of fame those footprints show.
Along the border of the restless sea,
The lonely thinker must have loved to roam,
We feel his soul wrapt in its majesty,
And he can speak in words that drip with foam,
As though himself a deep, and depths his home.
Hark! under all and through and over all,
Runs on the cadence of the changeful sea;
Now pleasantly the graceful surges fall,
And now they mutter in an angry key
Ever, throughout their changes, grand and free.
How sternly sang he of Achilles' might,
How sweetly of the sweet Andromache,
How low his lyre when Ajax prays for light; (Well might he bend that lyre in sympathy, For also great, and also blind was he.)
We almost see the nod of stern-browed Jove,
And feel Olympus shake; we almost hear
The melodies that Greek youths interwove
In pæan to Apollo, and the clear,
Full voice of Nestor, sounding far and near.
A dignity of sadness filled his heart,
That sadness, born of immortality,
Which they alone who live in art
Feel in its sweetness and its mystery,
Half-filled already with infinity.
Yea, Zeus was wise when he decreed him blind, And wiser still when he decreed him poor;
For insight grew as outer sight declined, And want o'errode the ills it could not cure, Else rhapsody had lacked its lay most pure.
GUILT IN SOLITUDE.
THE wretched have an hour to weep,
And penitence may bring repose;
But there are thoughts that cannot sleep,
And endless, solitary woes :-
For me sin's sorrow hath no close;
I am a soul stained and unshriven,
To whom no soothing hour is given.
The erring find an hour to pray,
The faint on pitying mercy call; The freshness of an earlier day,
When, innocent, he trusted all, Again upon his heart may fall;My poisoned spring of life doth tend To bitterness that hath no end.
Eyes, that have wept away their bloom,
May light their orbs of faded blue;
And pallid cheeks the rose resume,
As fields their flowery robes renew;
But smiles have bidden me adieu;
Nor laughter on its ruby shore
Shall break its joyous wavelets more.
For, in this lonely hermit cell,
Watching his hosts that in heaven's bower, And night's eternal palace, dwell,
I spend, unseen, the midnight hour, The captive of some awful Power; Benumbed in heart, with cankering pain, And branded with the curse of Cain.
Star of lost Hope! long set-O where,
Amid these shades will ye arise?
When will I see your lustre rare
Amid the glory of yon skies?
Alas! ye ne'er shall greet my eyes!
At noon of day, or night, the air
Breeds only cursing and despair.
Ears! but for one unceasing cry!-
Eyes! but for one unfading stain !-
In vain from these I seek to fly,-
To lag or linger is in vain!
A fearful breathing haunts the plain;
And if I walk by wood or hill,
The spectre dogs my footsteps still.
Yet, 'mid a hurrying human sea,
I've swept along the dizzying street,
And felt that all men looked at me,
Till terror winged my hastening feet!
And ere I reached my dim retreat,
The rills poured down a crimson flood,
The evening sun seemed bathed in blood!
One awful voice in all things speaks!-
It shrieks out of the twilight glade;
Against each shuddering hill it breaks,
And rustles under every shade:
My cheek is blanched, my soul dismayed;
Then mocking peals affright the air
And ring the dirge of my despair!
I feel not earthly joy, nor need,
Nor the wild pulse of strange desire;
Remote from men I sit, and feed
My heart with keen, remorseful fire.
I have nor wife, nor child, nor sire ;—
Happy am I, in this, that no
Unhappy life can share my woe.
For, surely as the bird of eve
Shall charm with song her favourite vale,
And surely as the heart must grieve,
When bliss of love is changed to bale,
I must pronounce my doleful tale ;—
Judgment and doom upon me press,
And the Voice whispers me- "Confess!
And love-is but a thought resigned,
Awakening scarce a passing sigh,
Like music breathed upon the wind,
That wins not to the ear reply:
'Tis not for me to love, but die!-
I dare not link thy fate with mine—
I am a murderer-Madeline!"
WITH wannest smile, from chilliest night, the morn
Arising, brings white veil from darkness drear
Refled, and over her chaste features worn,
Until the tardy sun his face doth clear :—
Behold! what maze of fairydom is here?
There's not an elm that springs its shaft aloof,
But gives of Winter's stateliest beauty proof!—
All trees as branching corals now appear.
I stand, with eye attent, and wistful ear
Where silence lays her finger, as if soon
Quaint bugles blown from Elfin-land to hear :But lo! the magic scatters—the pure boon
Is quickly gone!-each tall tree's powdery crown Does 'mid th' applausive stillness tremble down!
SLOPE Softly o'er the verdurous mead,
Sunlight of cloudless skies,
And kiss my lady's cheek!
Lo! her deep, passionate eyes,
By love-ethereal love-illumed,
Eclipse thy whitest beams,
Whenever they glance back
The borrowed sheen of silvery streams.
Blow gently round the winding woods,
O perfumed, gleeful air!
And touch my lady's lips,
Wooing with kisses rich and rare :
Her murmurous breath, outbreathed in sighs,
Is balmier than thine,
Wafted from orange groves
In some far-off voluptuous clime.
|