Poetical Works Complete

Hope grew fear, and fear grew hope,

Till both alike were done:

And the bride lay down in her grave alone,
And the mother without her son.

Years pass'd, and of that goodly ship

Nothing of tidings came;

Till, in after-time, when her fate had grown

But a tale of fear and a name

It was beneath a tropic sky

The tale was told to me;

The sailor who told, in his youth had been
Over that icy sea.

He said it was fearful to see them stand,
Nor the living nor yet the dead,
And the light glared strange in the glassy eyes
Whose human look was fled.

For frost had done one-half life's part,
And kept them from decay;
Those they loved had moulder'd, but these

Look'd the dead of yesterday.

Peace to the souls of the graveless dead!
"Twas an awful doom to dree;
But fearful and wondrous are thy works,
O God! in the boundless sea!

THE MINSTREL'S MONITOR.

SILENT and dark as the source of yon river, Whose birth-place we know not, and seek not to know,

Though wild as the flight of the shaft from yon

quiver,

Like prisoners escaped during night from their prison,

The waters fling gayly their spray to the sun; Who can tell me from whence that glad river has risen?

Who can say whence it springs in its beauty?—

not one.

O my heart, and my song, which is as my heart's flowing,

Read thy fate in yon river, for such is thine

own!

'Mid those the chief praise on thy music bestowing, Who cares for the lips from whence issue the tone?

Dark as its birth-place so dark is my spirit,

Whence yet the sweet waters of melody came: "Tis the long after-course, not the source, will inherit

The beauty and glory of sunshine and fame.

THE SPIRIT AND THE ANGEL
OF DEATH.

SPIRIT. I have been over the joyous earth,
When the blushing morning gave daylight birth:
The boughs and the grass were
sown with

pearls,

As an Eastern queen had unbound her curls,
And shower'd their tresses o'er leaf and flower;
And then I saw how the noontide hour
Kiss'd them away, as if the sun
Touch'd all with joy that it shone upon.

I saw a crimson rose, like an urn

Wherein a thousand odours burn;

It grew in the shade, but the place was bright

Is the course of its waves as in music they flow. With the glory and glow of its fragrant light.

The lily flings o'er it its silver white blossom,
Like ivory barks which a fairy hath made;
The rose o'er it bends with its beautiful bosom,
As though 'twere enamour'd itself of its shade.
The sunshine, like Hope, in its noontide hour

slumbers

On the stream, as it loved the bright place of its rest;

And its waves pass in song, as the sea shell's soft numbers

Had given to those waters their sweetest and best.

The banks that surround it are flower-dropt and sunny;

Then a young lover came beside its dwelling,
To a maiden his gentle love-tale telling;
He pluck'd a rose from out of the shade-
"Twas not bright as the check on which it was
laid:

The tale was told in the sunny noon,
Yet the same was heard by the rising moon.

I have been where the azure violet dwells;
I have sang the sweet peal of the lily bells;
I have pass'd on a diamond lake,
Where white swans summer pleasaunce take;
I saw the sun sink down in the sea,-
Blushes and bridal seem'd there to be.

Next o'er a noble city I swept,—
Calm, in the moonlight, its proud towers slept,

There the first birth of violets' odour-showers And its stately columns arose on the air

weep

There the bee heaps his earliest treasure of honey,

Or sinks in the depths of the harebell to sleep.

As cut from snow mountains-they were so fair.
Enter'd I next a stately hall;

The voung and the gay were at festival:

The cheek of rose flush'd a redder dye;
Flash'd the wild light from the full dark eye;
Laugh'd the sweet lip with a sunny glance,
As the beauty went through the graceful dance.
And I saw the rich wine from the goblet spring,
Like the sudden flash of a spirit's wing.

Thence I went in the twilight dim,
I heard a convent's vesper hymn :
Beautiful were the vestal train

That dwelt at peace in their holy fane.
Paused I in air, to hear a song
Which rather might to heaven belong;
The very winds for delight were mute,—
And I know 'twas the poet's gifted lute.
Then came a sound of the trumpet afar,—
The nations were gathering together in war,
Like a cloud in the sunset; the banner was
spread;

Victory had dyed it of meteor red;

Floating scarfs show'd their broider'd fold,
White foam dash'd the bridles of gold:
Gallant it was the sight to see
Of the young and noble chivalrie.

In sooth, this earth is a lovely place;
Pass not in darkness over her face;
Yet call back thy words of doom-
They are too gay and too fair for the tomb.

ANGEL OF DEATH. Thou has seen on earth, as

a passer by,

But the outward show of mortality:

Go, let the veil from thine eyes depart;

Search the secrets of every heart;
Look beyond what they seem to be;

Then come and say, are they not ripe for me.
SPIRIT. I have been over the green earth again;

I have heard the voice of sorrow and pain;

I saw a shining almond tree fling
Its silver wreath, like a gift, to Spring:

A cold breath came from the northern air;
The leaves were scatter'd, the boughs were bare.
I saw a ship launch'd on the sea,—
Queen of the waters she seem'd to be;
An hundred voices benizon gave,

As she cut her path through the frothing wave.
"Twas midnight-she anchor'd before a town,
Over which the sun had gone lingering down,
As loath to set upon what was so fair.
Now the smiling moon rode on the air,
Over towers and turrets, sailing in light,
And gardens, that seem'd to rejoice in night;
When the pealing thunder roll'd on the main,
And the town was awaked by the fiery rain,
And the cry of battle, for blood and fame
Follow'd wherever that war ship came.

I heard, on the night-wind borne along,
Sweet as before, that gifted song.

But look'd I now on the minstrel's thought-
There many an inward sorrow wrought,
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Work of wasting; pining for fame,
Yet loathing the gift of an empty name;
Hope, whose promise was little worth,
And Genius, tainted with cares of earth.

I have watch'd the young,-there are thorns with their bloom;

The gay, but their inward heart was gloom;

I have seen the snake steal amid flowers;
Showers that came down on April hours;
And have seen-alas! 'tis but outward show--
The sunshine of yon green earth below:
Glad of rest must the wretched and way-worn be-
Angel of Death, they are ready for thee!

THE LOST STAR.

A LIGHT is gone from yonder sky,
A star has left its sphere;
The beautiful--and do they die
In yon bright world as here?
Will that star leave a lonely place,

A darkness on the night ?—
No; few will miss its lovely face,

And none think heaven less bright!

What wert thou star of?-vanish'd one!
What mystery was thine?
Thy beauty from the east is gone :

What was thy sway and sign?
Wert thou the star of opening youth?—

And is it then for thee,

Its frank glad thoughts, its stainless truth, So early cease to be?

Of hope?-and was it to express
How soon hope sinks in shade;
Or else of human loveliness,
In sign how it will fade?
How was thy dying? like the song,
In music to the last,

An echo flung the winds among,
And then forever past?

Or didst thou sink as stars whose light
The fair moon renders vain?
The rest shone forth the next dark night,
Thou didst not shine again.

Didst thou fade gradual from the time

The first great curse was hurl'd, Till lost in sorrow and in crime, Star of our early world?

Forgotten and departed star!

A thousand glories shine
Round the blue midnight's regal car,
Who then remembers thine?

u 2

O, love is strong!-the mother's heart
Was fill'd with tender fears;
O, love is strong!-and for her child
Her grief restrain'd its tears.

One eve a light shone round her bed,
And there she saw him stand-
Her infant in his little shroud
A taper in his hand.

"Lo! mother, see my shroud is dry,
And I can sleep once more!"
And beautiful the parting smile
The little infant wore.

And down within the silent grave

He laid his weary head; And soon the early violets

Grew o'er his grassy bed.

The mother went her household ways-
Again she knelt in prayer,

And only ask'd of Heaven its aid
Her heavy lot to bear.

THE CHURCHYARD.

The shadow of the church falls o'er the ground,
Hallowing its place of rest; and here the dead
Slumber, where all religious impulses,
And sad and holy feelings, angel like,

Make the spot sacred with themselves, and wake
Those sorrowful emotions in the heart
Which purify it, like a temple meet
For an unearthly presence. Life, vain Life,
The bitter and the worthless, wherefore here
Do thy remembrances intrude?

THE willow shade is on the ground,
A green and solitary shade;
And many a wild flower on that mound
Its pleasant summer home has made.
And every breath that waves a leaf

Flings down upon the lonely flowers A moment's sunshine, bright and briefA blessing look'd by passing hours.

Those sweet, vague sounds are on the air, Half sleep, half song-half false, half true, As if the wind that brought them there

Had touch'd them with its music too. It is the very place to dream

Away a twilight's idle rest;

Where Thought floats down a starry stream, With a shadow on its breast.

Where Wealth, the fairy gift's our own,
Without its low and petty cares;
Where Pleasure some new veil has thrown,
To hide the weary face she wears.
Where hopes are high, yet cares come not,
Those fellow-waves of life's drear sea,
Its froth and depth-where Love is what
Love only in a dream can be.

I cannot muse beside that mound-
I cannot dream beneath that shade-
Too solemn is the haunted ground

Where Death his restingplace has made.

I feel my heart beat but to think
Each pulse is bearing life away;
I cannot rest upon the grave,

And not feel kindred to its clay.

There is a name upon the stone-
Alas! and can it be the same-
The young, the lovely, and the loved?
It is too soon to bear thy name.
Too soon!-O no, 'tis best to die

Ere all of life save breath is fled:
Why live when feelings, friends, and hopes,
Have long been number'd with the dead?

But thou, thy heart and cheek were brightNo check, no soil had either known; The angel natures of yon sky

Will only be to thee thine own. Thou knew'st no rainbow hopes that weep Themselves away to deeper shade;

Nor Love, whose very happiness

Should make the wakening heart afraid.

The green leaves e'en in spring they fall, The tears the stars at midnight weep, The dewy wild-flowers-such as these Are fitting mourners o'er thy sleep. For human tears are lava-drops,

That scorch and wither as they flow; Then let them flow from those who live, And not for those who sleep below.

O, weep for those whose silver chain

Has long been loosed, and yet live onThe doom'd to drink of life's dark wave, Whose golden bowl has long been gone! Ay, weep for those, the wearied, worn,

Dragg'd downward by some earthly tie, By some vain hope, some vainer love, Who loathe to live, yet fear to die.

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