Page images
PDF
EPUB

For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!

The wave-there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.

TO ZANTE.

FAIR isle that from the fairest of all flowers
Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take,
How many memories of what radiant hours
At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
How many scenes of what departed bliss!
How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
How many visions of a maiden that is

No more-no more upon thy verdant slopes!
No more! alas, that magical sad sound

Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more—

Thy memory no more! Accursed ground

Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,

O hyacinthine isle, O purple Zante!

Isola d'oro, fiore di levante!

DREAMLAND.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon named Night
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of Space-out of Time.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead—
Their still waters, still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,-
By the mountains-near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
By the grey woods,-by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,-
By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,-
By each spot the most unholy-
In each nook most melancholy,-
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the Past,
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by,

White-robed forms of friends long given
In agony to the Earth-and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis-oh 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringèd lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon named Night
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.

ISRAFEL.1

IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell
Whose heart-strings are a lute;
None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel;

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamoured moon

Blushes with love,

1 And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who

has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.-KORAN.

While, to listen, the red levin-
With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven-

Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings-
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod;

Where deep thoughts are a duty— Where Love's a grown-up God—

Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest!

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit— Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervour of thy luteWell may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell
Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.

FOR ANNIE.

THANK Heaven! the crisis,
The danger, is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last-

And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know,

I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length

But no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder

Might fancy me dead—

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing
At heart-ah that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness-the nausea-
The pitiless pain-

Have ceased, with the fever

« PreviousContinue »