SONG.

RETURN TO CONTENTS | RETURN TO TOP OF PAGE

Are other eyes beguiling, Love?

Are other rose-lips smiling, Love?

Ah, heed them not; you will not find

Lips more true, or eyes more kind,

Than mine, Love.

Are other white arms wreathing, Love?

Are other fond sighs breathing, Love?

Ah, heed them not; but call to mind

The arms, the sighs, you leave behind --

All thine, Love.

Then gaze not on other eyes, Love;

Breathe not other sighs, Love;

You may find many a brighter one

Than your own rose, but there are none

So true to thee, Love.

All thine own, mid gladness, Love;

Fonder still, mid sadness, Love;

Tho' changed from all that now thou art,

In shame, in sorrow, still thy heart

Would be the world to me, Love. --

L.E.L.

259 (January 5, 1822): 12.

POETIC SKETCHES.

[Sketch the first. "A woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world. She sends forth her sympathies in adventure; she embarks her whole shoal in the traffic of love, and, if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless; it is a bankruptcy of the heart."]

"Who shall bring healing to thy heart's despair,

Thy whole rich sum of happiness lies there."

There are dark yew-trees gathered round, beneath,

Are the white tombstones, and the green grass sods;

No other sounds are heard, save the low voice

Of a brook wandering by, or the wild song

Of the sweet red-breath plaining o'er the graves.

There is one tomb; distinguished from the rest

By wild flowers braided round in curious wreathes

Of April beauty; the blue violet

Bending with dewdrops, like to maiden tears,

Falling for love betrayed; the primrose wan,

As sick with hope deceived; the wild briar-rose

And honeysuckles fancifully linked,

While watching them with fond and patient care,

A pale and wasted Girl leans by that grave.

She once was beautiful, but the hot sun

Has left too rude a kiss upon her cheek,

And she has lain on the damp grass, the sky

Her only canopy; while the dew hung

Amid her hair, and the hoarse night wind sung

Her lullaby; and the unwholesome moss

Has been her pillow; this has paled her brow,

And that worst sickness, sorrow--She has lain

Beside that grave, while some unholy star

Shed over her evil influence.

I marked her place the flowers round, then smile;

Oh, such a sweet sad smile!--she sang at times;

Her song had notes most musical, but strange,

That thrilled the heart and wet the eye with tears.

These are thy bridal flowers

I am now wreathing;

This is thy marriage hymn

I am now breathing.

Some one has been changing

The fresh buds I gathered;

This is not my wreath,

Look how 'tis withered!

And then she threw the flowers aside, and turned

An earnest gaze on heaven; then sang again.

I love thee, oh! thou bright star,

Now looking in light from afar.

Am I not thy own love? I see

Thy answer shine down upon me.

I love thee, thou glorious king,

Look on the fair offering I bring.

There the summer rose blooms in its pride;

Is it not a fit crown for thy bride?

Oh! when will that time of joy be

When my spirit shall mingle with Thee!

Some day I shall seek thy bright shring,

And be to eternity thing.--

They told me of her history; her love

Was a neglected flame which had consumed

The vase wherein it kindled; Oh, how fraught

With bitterness is unrequited love!

To know that we have cast life's hope away

On a vain shadow. Her's was gentle passion,

Quite and deep, as woman's love should be,

All tenderness and silence, only known

By the soft meaning of a downcast eye,

Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts:

A high scarce heard, a blush scarce visible,

Alone may give it utterance. Love is

A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart,

When felt as only woman love can feel;

Pure as the snowfall, when its latest shower

Sinks on spring flowers; deep as a cave-locked fountain,

And changeless as the cypress's green leaves,

For, like them sad, she nourished

Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed

A passion unconfessed, till He she loved

Was wedded with another; then she grew

Moody and melancholy. One alone

Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,

Her gentle sister, but that sister died,

And the unhappy girl was left alone--

A Maniac. She would wander far, and shunn'd

Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt

Was that dead sister's grave, and that to her

Was as a home.

L.E.L.

260 (January 12, 1822): 27-28.

TEN YEARS AGO.

RETURN TO CONTENTS | RETURN TO TOP OF PAGE

"Ten years ago," the world was then

A pleasant and a lovely dream;

Life was a river banked by flowers,

With sunshine glancing o'er the stream;

The path was new, and there was thrown

A sweet veil over pleasure's ray;

But ignorance is happiness,

When young Hope is to show the way;

And fair the scenes that hope would show

When youth was bright "ten years ago."

Ten years are past,--life is no more

The fairy land that once I knew--

Pleasures have proved but falling stars,

And many a sweetest spell untrue:

But may I look on these dear ones,

Feel their soft smile, their rosy kiss;

Or may I turn, Beloved, to thee,

My own home-star of truth and bliss!

While love's sweet lights thus round me glow,

Can I regret "ten years ago?"

L.E.L.

260 (January 12, 1822): 28.

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Second.

"Oh, Power of love! so fearful, yet so fair!

Life of our life on earth, yet kin to care!"

It lay mid trees, a little quiet nest

Like to the stock dove's, and the honeysuckle

Spread o'er the cottage roof, while the red rose

Grew round the casement, where the thick-leaved vine

Wove a luxuriant curtain, with a wreath,

A bridal wreath of silver jessamine;--

A soft turf lay before the door, o'erhung

With a huge walnut-tree's green canopy,

Encircled round with flowers; and, like a queen

Of the young roses, stood a bright-cheeked Girl,

With smile of Summer and with lips of Spring,

A shape of air, and footsteps of the wind.

She looked all hope and gladness; but her eyes,

Her deep blue eyes, which seemed as they did owe

Their tints to the first vi'let April brings,

Had yet sad meanings in them; 'twas not grief,

But as a presage of some ill to come.--

She stood upon the turf, while round her flew

Her bright-hued pigeons, feeding from her hand;

And still she threw fresh flowers upon the cage,

Where two white doves were cooing; and then ran

Light as the rose leaves falling, to her sire,

To greet him, and to give a kind Good morrow.--

A blossom full of promise is Life's Joy,

That never comes to fruit; hope for a time

Suns the young floweret in its gladsome light,

And it looks flourishing--a little while,

'Tis past, we know not whither, but 'tis gone--

Some canker has consumed it, or some blight

Has nipt it unawares, some worm has preyed

Upon its life, or else some unkind blast

Has torn it from the stem; and those who loved,

Who fondly cultured it, are left to weep

Over the ruins of their cherished flower.--

I passed by that sweet cottage; it was changed;

The rose trees were all dead, the unpruned vine

Was trailing on the ground, the thick-grown weeks

Gave signs of desolation; one poor dove

Sat by a broken casement, while her wail

Was echo'd mournfully from the lone roof--

Love, Oh fond Love! betraying, beautiful,

How can we trust the hope of life to thee?

Is it not building on the sands? Fair girl,--

It was the darkness of thy destiny!

She loved one all unworthy of her love.

Alas, that still devoted confidence

Should lead but unto ruin! He beguil'd

Her steps from home and happiness; and when

She trusted but to him, his heart no more

Answered the beat of her's--then he could leave

The fond deceiv'd one lone and desolate!

She turned her to her Father, whom she left,

And knelt, and pray'd forgiveness: he might not

Look on her pale cheek, thin and wasted form,

And not weep o'er her kind and pardoning tears.

Her heart was broken--and familiar scenes

Of happier days and childhood brought no charm

To one whose hope was past away--She died.

Nov. L.E.L.

261 (January 19, 1822): 44-45.

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Third.

"You must make

Your heart a grave, and in it bury deep

Its young and beautiful feelings."

'Tis hidden from the sun by the tall elms,

The noon has here no power, and the soft grass

Springs fresh and green, even in the summer's heat.

There is deep stillness round, save when the gale

Talks to the willows that hang gracefully

Over the brook, whose broken murmurs are

An answer to the wind which brings then breaks

The bubbles on its surface; here the dove

Coos in the noon day, and at evening tide

The woodlark sings his vesper symphony.--

This lime grove was the cherished haunt of one

Who loved it for its solitude; to him

Silence was holiest language, and the leaves,

The birds, the clouds, were his familiar friends.

His soul was given to poesy, and crowds

And peopled cities were no chains to him,

Where all was cold and strange, where none could feel

As he did; and he loved to shring away,

The deep woods his companions, and to live

Mid visions and wild songs. Oh, blessedness!

To see the fair creatures of the thought

Assume a visible form; sweet Poesy!

How witching is thy power upon the heart;

Enchantment that does bind our senses up

In one unutterable influence;

A charmed spell set over every thought,

Till life's whole hope is cast upon the lyre.

Loved with a love intense and passionate,

A strange, a jealous, but devoted love.

It is not happiness, tho' in the wreath

That binds the poet's brow, there's many a hue

Of pleasure and of beauty; yet those flowers,

Like other blooms, are guarded round with thorns,

And subject to the blight and canker-worm.

Planet of bright but wayward destinies,

Thy votaries are thy victims; he who seeks

The laurel must essay a weary path;

Neglect will chill his best affections, or

Cold mockery will greet them. There are given

Rich gifts unto the bard; but, not content

With silent rapture, he must sun his wealth,

Show his hid treasures to the world, and then

The canker will consume them, and the fame

He fondly sought be bitterness of heart.

'Twas thus with the young Minstrel of this grove:

He sought to grasp an iris, beautiful

And of bright colours, but all formed of tears.

His memory lingers in this glen, for here

He caught the inspiration of the gale,

Singing its evening hymn, and worshipped

Like an idolater the morning star

He pass'd in early youth; his heart was as

A delicate flower, too soft to blossom long.

He sleeps where yon pale willow leans, and weeps

The morning dew above his quiet grave.

L.E.L.

262 (January 26, 1822): 59.

SONG.

RETURN TO CONTENTS | RETURN TO TOP OF PAGE

There were sweet sounds waked from my harp;

But see, its strings are broken.

Alas! that touch so sweet should leave

So sad a token.

My harp and heart are both alike,

Their music is departed;

The joy of song is gone from one

So broken hearted.

Love has past o'er from one

Like unto summer thunder,

And all the beauteous chords of hope

Are rent asunder!

L.E.L.

262 (January 26, 1822): 60.

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Fourth.

The shore was reefed with rocks, whose rugged sides

Were venturous footing for the fowler's step:

They were shaped out in wild and curious forms,

Above all jagged and broken, but below

The waves had worn the shaggy points away;

For there they rave incessantly. When last

I past along the beach, it was at eve,

A summer's eve, stormy, but beautiful;

I could but look upon the western sky,

The rest was hidden from my view; but there

The day had spent its glory. One rich light

Broke thro' the shadow of the tempest's wing,

While the black clouds, with gold and purple edged,

Caught every moment warmer hues, until

'Twas all one sparkling arch, and, like a king

In triumph o'er his foes, the Sun-god sought

The blue depths of the sea;--the waters yet

Were ruffled with the storm, and the white foam

yet floated on the billows, while the wind

Murmured at times like to an angry child,

Who sobs even in his slumber. Mid the rocks

That rose stern barriers to the rebel waves,

There was one spot less rugged than the rest:

Some firs had taken root there, and waved o'er

The entrance of a cave, where Grecian bards

Had said some Sea-maid dwelt, and decked the place

With ocean treasures, for the walls were bright

With crystal spar: In sooth, it seemed just formed

For some fair daughter of the main; at noon

Here she might bind her hair with shells, and wake

Her golden harp. But now a legend's told

Of human love and sorrow--it is called

The Cavern of the Pirate's Love:--her fate

Is soon and sadly told: she followed one,

A lawless wanderer of the deep, for whom

She left her father's halls. A little while

She might know happiness--it is the heart

That gives the colour to our destiny.

But lovely things are fleeting--blushes, sighs,

The hours of youth, smiles, hopes, and minstrel dreams.

Spring days and blossoms, music's tones, are all

Most fugitive; and swifter still than these

Will love dissolve into forgetfulness.

She was deserted. For awhile this cave

Was her sad refuge; for awhile the rocks

Echoed her wild complainings. I can deem

How she would gaze upon the sea, and think

Each passing cloud her lover's bark, 'till, hope

Sickened of its own vanity, and life

Sickened with hope, she passed and left a tale,

A melancholy tale, just fit to tell

On such an eve as this, when sky and sea

Are sleeping in the mute and mournful calm

Of passion sunk to rest.

L.E.L.

263 (February 2, 1822): 71.

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Fifth.

The palms flung down their shadow, and the air

Was rich with breathings of the citron bloom;

All the so radiant children of the south,

The gold and silver jessamines, the rose

In crimson glory, there were gathered--sounds

Of music too from waterfalls, the hymn

By bees sung to the sweet flowers as they fed;

The earth seemed in its infancy, the sky,

The fair blue sky, was glowing as the hopes

Of childish happiness; it was a land

Of blossoming and sunshine.--One is here,

To whom the earth is colourless, the heaven

Clouded and cold; his heart is far away:

The palms have not to him the majesty

Of his own land's green oaks, the roses here

Are not so sweet as those wild ones that grow

In his own valley; he would rather have

One pale blue violet than all the buds

That Indian suns have kist: his heart is full

Of gentle recollections, and those thoughts

Which can but hold communion with themselves,

The heart's best dreaming. When the wanderer

Calls up those tender memories which are

So precious to absence, those dear links

That distance cannot sunder--come there not

Such visionings, young Evelin, o'er thy soul?

The dwelling of thy childhood, the dark hill

Above thy native valley, down whose side,

Like a swift arrow, shot the foaming stream,

The music of the lark, which every morn

Waked thy light slumber, and a fairy shape,

Whose starry eyes are far too bright for tears,

Tho' tears are in them, and whose coral lip

Wears still its spring-day smile? Altho' "Farewell,"

That saddest of sad sounds, is lingering there,

Are not these present to thee?...Evelin was

A soldier, and he left his home with all

The high romance of youth. Beloved, and well

His heart repaid that love; but there were clouds,

Low worldly clouds, upon affection's star:

He sought to clear them--what was toil, that led

To fame, to fortune, and Elizabeth! - - - [rose

- - - There's music in that bower, where the wild

Has clung about the ash,--such plaining tones

As the winds waken: there a harp is breathing,

And o'er it leans its mistress, as she lived

Upon those melancholy sounds: her head

Is bent, as if in pain, upon those strings,

And the gold shadows of her long hair veil

The white hand which almost unconsciously

In melody is wandering: that fair hand

Is not more snowy than the cheek it presses;

That cheek does tell the history of the heart--

Tells, that across the bright May hours of youth

Bleak clouds have past, and left behind a trace

Bordering on sadness, but withal so sweet

You scarce might call it sorrow; and that smile

But speaks of patient mild endurance, soft

And kind and gentle thoughts, which well become

A breaking heart, whose throbs will soon be still

In the so lonely but so quiet grave.

Yes, she was dying! tho' so young, so fair,

Her days were number'd: and if e'er her cheek

Wore the rich colour it once had, 't was but

The sad and lovely herald of decay,

The death rose, that but blossoms on the tomb.

Her's was a heart which, when it once had loved,

Could but ill brook the many trembling fears

That absent love must know:--her fate was like

A star, o'er which the clouds steal one by one,

Scarce seen, scarce noticed, till the sweet light's

gone. - - - - -

- - - She is within his arms, and they have met,

Evelin and his Elizabeth! a flush

Of beautiful delight is on her face;

He clasped her silently, and his dark eye

Is filled with tears. Ah, tears like these are worth

A life of smiles,--at length he gently said,

"Elizabeth, my own love!"--it was heaven

To think that she again could hear him breathe

That dear dear name; she answered not, but lay

Upon his bosom motionless. He looked

On her sweet face--'twas fixed and pale in death!

L.E.L.

264 (February 9, 1822): 89.

POETIC SKETCHES.

Sketch Sixth.

Down swept the gathered waters over rocks

Which broke at times the column's foaming line;

Darkening amid the snow-white froth, it swept

Like an all conquering army, and an arch

Of sparkling hues that in the sunbeams played

Seemed to unite it with the sky which hung

Above all calmness and repose: The blue

Ethereal, soft and stainless, well beseemed

A heaven we deem the dwelling-place of peace:

Downwards it rushed; the tall green pines, that hung

Upon the cliffs beside, were covered o'er

With silver spray: there stood those stately trees,

Braving the furious storm, as the proud sons

Of Greece, when Greece was glorious, stood and braved

The tyrant's menace and defied the yoke.

It reached the plain below; a crystal lake

Became its dwelling, where the dimpling wave

Had lost all memory of its former strife:

The willows grew around, and that pale flower

The water-lily floated on its face,

The halycon plumed his azure wings, nor feared

A coming storm, and in the midst an isle

Rose like a blest shring to the guardian power

Of that sweet scene. It was a little spot

Shaded by gloomy firs and lighter birch:

Here the wild strawberry shed its first white blossoms,

And the dove built her nest, while the soft gale,

Sighing amid the graceful larches, gave

The only answer to her murmurings.--

Two once dwelt here, a Mother and her Child:

She was a widow, and had deeply drank

The cup of bitterness. But woman bears

The storm man shrinks from unrepiningly.

At length the one to whom her love had been

A light mid darkness died, and she was left

In coldness and unkindness: but one link

Still bound her to this earth; there was a smile

Bore gladness to her wounded heart, a voice

Of joy and consolation, one who made

Life very precious to her--the young bird,

Her own sweet nestling, yet too young to know

What clouds hung o'er him.--Quiet came at last;

The mourner found a little lone retreat

Where she might rest her weary feet--this isle

Became her home. Her child grew up

A hope and blessing to her:--she was proud

To hear that when he joined his young compeers,

No foot was fleet as his, no hand could send

The arrow so unerringly, and none

So lightly and so fearless could scale

The height whereon the eagle dwelt; and, more

Than all, to feel how she was loved! He seemed

To live but for her. When with boyish pride

He dared the venturous path the other feared,

If chance he saw his mother's cheek grow pale,

The meed was left unwon. One morn he went

In his light skiff, and promised to return

As evening fell; but when the sun sank down

The air was thick with clouds, and the fierce wind

Poured in its anger o'er the waters; loud

The thunder rolled, and the red lightnings hurled

Their fiery warnings. High upon a rock

She raised a fire:--the lightning struck the pile,

She marked it not--the rain beat on her head,

It was unfelt--but with the agony

Of hope expiring, still she fed the flame.

Day rolled the clouds away, and, sick at heart,

She looked towards the shore--he floated there,

Her own beloved Child!--With one wild shriek

She threw herself towards him, and the waves

Closed on them undivided! - - -

L.E.L.

265 (February 16, 1822): 105.

SONG.

Blends with the rose's sigh;

When no step and no sound are nigh.

Tell of its hope and fear,

When not another song is near.

Glancing of love, fond love;

Each shadow that darkens above.

Earth's gems in vain were mine;

When I breathe that sweet sigh of thine.

L.E.L.

268 (March 9, 1822): 152.

THE POET.

Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre,

That the Minstrel will feign what he never has felt;

Oh say not his love is a fugitive fire,

Thrown o'er the snow mountains, will sparkle, not melt.

It is not the Alpine hills rich with the ray

Of sunset can image the soul of the bard;

The light of the evening around them may play,

But the frost-work beneath is, tho' bright, cold and hard.

'

Tis the burning volcano, that ceaseless glows,

Where the Minstre may find his own semblance pourtray'd;

The red fires that gleam on the summit are those

That first on his own inmost spirit have preyed.

Ah, deeply the Minstrel has felt all he sings,

Every passion he paints his own bosom has known;

No note of wild music is swept from the strings,

But first his own feelings have echoed the tone.

Then say not his love is a fugitive fire,

That the heart can be ice while the lip is of flame;

Oh say not that truth does not dwell with the lyre;

The pulse of the heart and the harp are the same.

L.E.L.

275 (April 27, 1822): 264.

POETIC SKETCHES.

___________

Second Series--Sketch the First.

___________

___________

She leant upon her harp, and thousands looked

On her in love and wonder--thousands knelt

And worshipp'd in her presence--burning tears,

And words that died in utterance, and a pause

Of breathless, agitated eagerness,

First gave the full heart's homage: then came forth

A shout that rose to heaven, and the hills,

The distant valleys, all rang with the name

Of the AEolian Sappho--every heart

Found in itself some echo to her song.

Low notes of love--hopes beautiful and fresh,

And some gone by for ever--glorious dreams,

High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts

That dwell upon the absent and the dead,

Were breathing in her music--and these are

Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she

Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed,

Her colour's varying with deep emotion--

There is a softer blush than conscious pride

Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile

Is all a woman's timid tenderness:

Her eye is on a Youth, and other days

And young warm feelings have rushed on her soul

With all their former influence,--thoughts that slept

Cold, calm as death, have wakened to new life--

Whole years' existence have passed in that glance...

She had once loved in very early days:

That was a thing gone by: one had called forth

The music of her soul: he loved her too,

But not as she did - she was unto him

As a young bird, whose early flight he trained,

Whose first wild songs were sweet, for he had taught

Those songs--but she looked up to him with all

Youth's deep and passionate idolatry:

Love was her heart's sole universe--in whose smile

Was all e'en minstrel pride held precious; praise

Was prized but as the echo of his own.

But other times and other feelings came:

Hope is love's element, and love with her

Sickened of its own vanity....She lived

Mid bright realities and brighter dreams,

That tinge with such sweet colours minstrel thoughts;

And Fame, like sunlight, was upon her path;

And strangers heard her name, and eyes that never

Had looked on Sappho, yet had wept with her.

Her first love never wholly lost its power,

But, like rich incense shed, although no trace

Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness

Mingled with every feeling, and it gave

That soft and melancholy tenderness

Which was the magic of her song....That Youth

Who knelt before her was so like the shape

That haunted her spring dreams--the same dark eyes,

Whose light had once been as the light of heaven!--

Others breathed winning flatteries--she turned

A careless hearing--but when Phaon spoke,

Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light

Upon her cheek gave a most tender answer....

She loved with all the ardour of a heart

Which lives but in itself: her life had passed

Amid the grand creations of the thought:

Love was to her a vision--it was now

Heightened into devotion....But a soul

So gifted and so passionate as her's

Will seek companionship in vain, and find

Its feelings solitary....Phaon soon

Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid;

And Sappho knew that talents, riches, fame,

May not soothe slighted love. - - - -

- - - There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea;

'Twas there love's last song echoed--there She sleeps,

Whose lyre was crowned with laurel, and whose name

Will be remembered long as Love or Song

Are sacred--the devoted Sappho!

L.E.L.

276 (May 4, 1822): 282.

POETIC SKETCHES.

___________

Second Series--Sketch the Second.

___________

___________

There were two Portraits: one was of a Girl

Just blushing into woman; it was not

A face of perfect beauty, but it had

A most bewildering smile,--there was a glance

Of such arch playfulness and innocence,

That as you looked, a pleasant feeling came

Over the heart, as when you hear a sound

Of cheerful music. Rich and glossy curls

Were bound with roses, and her sparkling eyes

Gleamed like Thalia's, when some quick device

Of mirth is in her laugh. Her light step seemed

Bounding upon the air with all the life,

The buoyant life of one untouched by sorrow. - - -

- - - There was another, drawn in after years:

The face was young still; but its happy look

Was gone, the cheek had lost its colour, and

The lip its smile,--the light that once had played

Like sunshine in those eyes, was quenched and dim,

For tears had wasted it: her long dark hair

Floated upon her forehead in loose waves

Unbraided, and upon her pale thin hand

Her head was bent, as if in pain,--no trace

Was left of that sweet gaiety which once

Seemed as grief could not darken it, as care

Would pass and leave behind no memory. - - -

There was one whom she loved undoubtingly,

As youth will ever love.--he sought her smile,

And said most gentle things, although he knew

Another had his vows.--Oh! there are some

Can trifle, in cold vanity, with all

The warm soul's precious throbs, to whom it is

A triumph that a fond devoted heart

Is breaking for them,--who can bear to call

Young flowers into beauty, and then crush them!

Affections trampled on, and hopes destroyed,

Tears wrung from very bitterness, and sighs

That waste the breath of life,--these all were her's

Whose image is before me. She had given

Life's hope to a most fragile bark, to love!

'Twas wrecked--wrecked by love's treachery: she knew,

Yet spoke not of his falsehood; but the charm

That bound her to existence was dispelled--

Her days were numbered:--She is sleeping now.

L.E.L.

277 (May 11, 1822): 297.

POETIC SKETCHES.

___________

Second Series--Sketch the Third.

___________

___________

We met in secret: mystery is to love

Like perfume to the flower; the maiden's blush

Looks loveliest when her cheek is pale with fear.

By moonlight still I sought my lady's bower,

And there, 'mid blossoms fragrant as her sigh,

I met the beauty that my soul adored,

And listened for the light feet, which like wind

Pass'd o'er the dewy turf. Oh never can

That dear step be forgotten--it is still

Familiar as a sound of yesterday.--

Our shrine of meeting was a cypress, which

Hung o'er the rose, like Sorrow shading Love:

This was the temple where we called the Night

To witness gentle vows, and when each lip

Paused in the fullness of impassioned thoughts;--

Hearkened those moonlight melodies, which came

So soothingly upon that silent time;

The light cascade, descending, shedding round

Its silver drops upon the orange blooms,

That leant to kiss their own fair images,

Each sparkling wave a mirror, and sighed forth

Their soul of odour as they caught the dew;

The melancholy music of that bird

Who sings but to the stars, and tells her tale

Of love when, bosomed by the snowy clouds,

The Queen of Beauty lights her radiant lamp,

Her own soft planet.--And at times there came

Like a low echo, a faint murmur, when

A gale just laden with the rose's sight

Swept the Eolian lyre, and wakened sounds

Of such wild sweetness that it almost seemed

The breath of flowers made audible.--They told,

In long departed days, when every grove

Was filled with beautiful imaginings

And visioned creations, that a Nymph

Once pined with unrequited love, and sighed

Away her sad existence. I could think

She left her last tone softly giving soul

To the sad of that lonely lyre;

Or else, perchance, the spirit of some Bard,

Whose life in life was music, wander'd o'er

The chords which once with him held sympathy,

Like him neglected, but sweet breathing still! - -

- - Why dwell I on these memories? Alas,

The heart loves lingering o'er the shadows left

By joys departed.--'Twas one summer night,

And our brief hour had pass'd; I know not why,

But my soul felt disquieted within me,

And the next evening, when I sought the grove,

I had a strange foreboding sadness--none

Were there to welcome me, no silvery trace

Of fairy footsteps was upon the grass:

I waited long and anxiously--none came--

I wandered on; it was not in the hope

To meet my Rosalie; but it was sweet

To look upon the stars, and think that they

Had witnessed our love. At once a sound

Of music slowly rose, a sad low chant

Of maiden voices, and a faint light streamed

From out the windows of a chapel near;

I knew it well--'twas the shrine sacred to

Her patron saint, and Rosalie had said,

If ever I might claim her as my bride

Before the face of heaven, that altar should

Be where our vows were given. I entered in,

And heard a sound of weeping, and saw shapes

Bent down in anguish: in the midst a bier

Was covered o'er with flowers--sad offerings made

The dead, in vain--and one lay sleeping there,

Whose face was veiled;--I could not speak nor ask,

My heart was wild with fear,--I lifted up

The long white veil,--I looked on the pale cheek

Of my so worshipped Rosalie!

L.E.L.

278 (May 18, 1822): 314.

POETIC SKETCHES.

___________

Second Series--Sketch the Fourth.

St. George's Hospital, hyde-park corner.

___________

___________

I left the crowded street and the fresh day,

And entered the dark dwelling, where Death was

A daily visitant,--where sickness shed

Its weary languor o'er each fevered couch.

There was a sickly light, whose glimmer showed

Many a shape of misery: there lay

The victims of disease, writhing with pain;

And low faint groans, and breathings short and deep,

Each gasp a heartfelt agony, were all

That broke the stillness.--There was one, whose brow

Dark with hot climates, and gashed o'er with scars,

Told of the toiling march, the battle-rush,

Where sabres flashed, the red shots flew, and not

One ball or blow but did destruction's work:

But then his heart was high, and his pulse beat

Proudly and fearlessly:--now he was worn

With many a long day's suffering,--and death's

A fearful thing when we must count its steps.

And this was, then, the end of those sweet dreams,

Of home, of happiness, of quiet years

Spent in the little valley which had been

So long his land of promise? Farewell all

Gentle remembrances and cherished hopes!

His race was run, but its goal was the grave.--

I looked upon another, wasted, pale,

With eyes all heavy in the sleep of death;

Yet she was lovely still,--the cold damps hung

Upon a brow like marble, and her eyes,

Though dim, had yet their beautiful blue tinge.

Neglected as it was, her long fair hair

Was like the plumage of the dove, and spread

Its waving curls like gold upon her pillow.

Her face was a sweet ruin. She had loved,

Trusted, and been betrayed! In other days,

Had but her cheek looked pale, how tenderly

Fond hearts had watched it! They were far away,

She was a stranger in her loneliness,

And sinking to the grave of that worst ill

A broken heart.--And there was one, whose cheek

Was flushed with fever--'twas a face that seemed

Familiar to my memory,--'twas one

Whom I had loved in youth. In days long past,

How many glorious structures we had raised

Upon Hope's sandy basis! Genius gave

To him its golden treasures: he could pour

His own impassioned soul upon the lyre;

Or, with a painter's kill, create such shapes

Of loveliness, they were more like the hues

Of the rich evening shadows, than the work

Of human touch. But he was wayward, wild;

And hopes that in his heart's warm summer clime

Flourished, were quickly withered in the cold

And dull realities of life; - - - he was

Too proud, too visionary for this world,

And feelings which, like waters unconfined,

Had carried with them freshness and green beauty,

Thrown back upon themselves, spread desolation

On their own banks. He was a sacrifice,

And sank beneath neglect; his glowing thoughts

Were fires that preyed upon himself. Perhaps,

For he has left some high memorials, Fame

Will pour its sunlight o'er the picture, when

The Artist's hand is mouldering in the dust,

And fling the laurel o'er a harp, whose chords

Are dumb for ever. But his eyes he raised

Mutely to mine--he knew my voice again,

And every vision of his boyhood rushed

Over his soul; his lip was deadly pale,

But pride was yet upon its haughty curve; - -

He raised one hand contemptuously, and seemed

As he would bid me mark his fallen state,

And that it was unheeded. So he died

Without one struggle, and his brow in death

Wore its pale marble look of cold defiance.

L.E.L.

279 (May 25, 1822): 331.

POETIC SKETCHES.

___________

Second Series--Sketch the Fifth.

mr. martin's picture of clytie.

___________

- - - - - - - - - - Greece,

These are thy graceful memories, the dreams

That hallowed thy groves, and over things

Inanimate shed visionary life,

When every flower had some romantic tale

Linked with its sweetness, when the winds, the streams

Breathed poetry and love. - - -

It was a beautiful embodied thought,

A dream of the fine painter, one of those

That pass by moonlight o'er the soul, and flit

'Mid the dim shades of twilight, when the eye

Grows tearful with its ecstasy. There stood

A dark haired Grecian girl, whose eyes were raised,

With that soft look love teaches, to the sky--

One hand pressed to her brow, as she would gave

Upon the sun undazzled--'twas that nymph,

The slighted Clytie. May minstrel look

Upon the sweet creation, and not feel

Its influence on the heart? Now listen, love,

I'll tell thee of her history: she was

Amid those lovely ones that walk the earth

Like visions all of heaven, or but made

The more divine by earthly tenderness;

One of the maiden choir, that every morn,

From lips of dew and odours, to the sun

Hymned early welcome. 'Twas one summer eve,

And the white columns and the marble floor

In the proud temple of Day's deity

Were flooded o'er with crimson, and the air

Was rich with scents; it was Clytie's turn

To watch the perfumed flame; she sat and waked

Her silver lute with one of those sweet songs

Breathed by young poets when their mistress' kiss

Has been their inspiration. Suddenly

Some other music echoed her own,

Faint, but most exquisite, like those low tones

That winds of summer sigh in the sea shells;

It died in melting cadences, but still

Clytie bent to hear it.--Could it be

A dream, a strange wild dream? There stood a Youth

More beautiful than summer by her side!

His bright hair floated down like Indian gold,

A light played in his curls, and his dark eyes

Flashed splendour too intense for human gaze;

A wreath of laurel was upon the lyre

His graceful hand sustained, and by his side

The sparkling arrows hung. It was the god

That guides the sun's blue race, the god of light,

Of song, who left his native heaven for on

More precious far--the heaven of woman's love. - -

- - They met no more, but still that glorious shape

Haunted her visions; life to her was changed;

Gaiety, hope, and happiness, were all

Centered in one deep thought. The time had been,

When never smile was sunnier than her's,

No step more buoyant, and no song more glad:

All, all was changed; she fled to solitude,

And poured her wild complainings to the groves,

And Echo answered--Echo, that, like her,

Had pined with ill-starred love! Oh never, never

Had love a temple like a woman's heart!

She will serve so devotedly, will give

Youth, beauty, health, in sacrifice; will be

So very faithful!--without hope to cheer,

Or tenderness to soothe, her love yet will

Continue unto death. Clytie dwelt

On that once cherished memory; she would gaze

For hours upon the sky, and watch the sun;

And when the pale light faded from the west,

Would weep till morning. Is it not just thus

In that fine semblance, where the painter's touch

Has bodied forth her beauty and her sorrow

That she is pictured with a sad soft smile,

Turned to the azure home of her heart's god?

A fresh green landscape round, just like those groves,

The Grecian groves, where she was wont to roam.

- - - Look, dear, upon that flower--'tis hallowed

By the remembrance of unhappy love,

'Tis sacred to the slighted Clytie;

Look, how it turns its bosom to the sun,

And when dark clouds have shadowed it, or night

Is on the sky, mark how it folds its leaves,

And droops its head, and weeps sweet tears of dew,

The constant Sun-flower.

L.E.L.

280 (June 1, 1822): 346.

POETIC SKETCHES.

__________

Second Series--Sketch the Sixth.

THE DESERTER.

___________

___________

'Twas a sweet summer morn--the lark had just

Sprang from the clover bower around her nest,

And poured her blithe song to the clouds; the sun

Shed his first crimson o'er the dark grey walls

Of the old church, and stained the sparkling panes

Of ivy-covered windows. The damp grass,

That waved in wild luxuriance round the graves,

Was white with dew, but early steps had been,

And left a fresh green trace round yonder tomb:

'Twas a plain stone, but graven with a name

That many stopped to read--a Soldier's name--

And two were kneeling by it, one who had

Been weeping; she was widow to the brave,

Upon whose quiet bed her tears were falling.

From off her cheek the rose of youth had fled,

But beauty still was there, that softened grief,

Whose bitterness is gone, but which was felt

Too deeply for forgetfulness; her look,

Fraught with high feelings and intelligence,

And such as might beseem the Roman dame

Whose children died for liberty, was made

More soft and touching by the patient smile

Which piety had given the unearthly brow,

Which Guido draws when he would form a saint

Whose hopes are fixed on heaven, but who has yet

Some earthly feelings binding them to life.

Her arm was leant upon a graceful Youth,

The hope, the comfort of her widowhood;

He was departing from her, and she led

The youthful soldier to his father's tomb--

As in the visible presence of the dead

She gave her farewell blessing, and her voice

Lost its so tremulous accents as she bade

Her child tread in that father's steps, and told

How brave, how honoured he had been. But when

She did entreat him to remember all

Her hopes were centered in him, that he was

The stay of her declining years, that he

Might be the happiness of her old age,

Or bring her down with sorrow to the grave,

Her words grew inarticulate, and sobs

Alone found utterance; and he whose cheek

Was flushed with eagerness, whose ardent eye

Gave animated promise of the fame

That would be his, whose ear already rang

With the loud trumpet's war song, felt these dreams

Fade for a moment, and almost renounced

The fields he panted for, since they must cost

Such tears as these.--The churchyard left, they pass'd

Down by a hawthorn hedge, where the sweet May

Had showered its white luxuriance, intermixed

With crimson clusters of the wilding rose,

And linked with honeysuckle. O'er the path

Many an ancient oak and stately elm

Spread its green canopy. How Edward's eye

Lingered on each familiar sight, as if

Even to things inanimate he would bid

A last farewell. They reached the cottage gate;

His horse stood ready; many, too, were there,

Who came to say Good by, and kindly wish

To the young soldier health and happiness.

It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling

To know we are regretted. "Farewell" said

And oft repeated, one last wild embrace

Given to his pale Mother, who stood there,

Her cold hands prest upon a brow as cold,

In all the bursting heart's full agony--

One last last kiss--he sprang upon his horse,

And urged his utmost speed with spur and rein.

He is past - - - out of sight. - - - -

-------The muffled drum is rolling, and the low

Notes of the Death-march float upon the wind,

And stately steps are pacing round that square

With slow and measured tread; but every brow

Is darkened with emotion, and stern eyes,

That looked unshrinking on the face of death,

When met in battle, are now moist with tears.

The silent ring is formed, and in the midst

Stands the Deserter!-------Can this be the same,

The young, the gallant Edward? and are these

The laurels promised in his early dreams?

Those fettered hands, this doom of open shame!

Alas, for young and passionate spirits! Soon

False lights will dazzle. He had madly joined

The rebel banner! Oh 'twas pride to link

His fate with Erin's patriot few, to fight

For liberty or the grave! But he was now

A prisoner--yet there he stood, as firm

As tho' his feet were not upon the tomb:

His cheek was pale as marble, and as cold;

But his lip trembled not, and his dark eyes

Glanced proudly round. But when they bared

his breast

For the death-shot, and took a portrait thence,

He clenched his hands, and gasped, and one deep sob

Of agony burst from him; and he hid

His face awhile--his mother's look was there.

He could not steel his soul when he recalled

The bitterness of her despair. It passed--

That moment of wild anguish; he knelt down;

That sunbeam shed its glory over one,

Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy;

The next fell over cold and bloody clay. - -

----There is a deep voiced sound from yonder vale

Which ill accords with the sweet music made

By the light birds nestling by those green elms,

And a strange contrast to the blossomed thorns.

Dark plumes are waving, and a silent hearse

Is winding through that lane. They told it bore

A Widow, who died of a broken heart;

Her child, her soul's last treasure,--he had been

Shot for desertion!

L.E.L.

[In the Fifth Sketch, last week, the first seven lines should have been printed as a head to the poem.]

281 (June 8, 1822): 362-363.

THE WANDERER.

A Fragment.

* * * * *

- - - - - He laid his side upon the bank,

Making his couch of lily and of rose:

Above him waved its buds a woodbine dank,

Fanning the curls upon his burning brows.

His harp was hung upon its slender boughs;

And ever as the sudden swelling air

Did in its string the slumbering spirit rouse,

He thought upon his Love, so false and fair,

And to his wan lips pressed her lock of auburn hair.

Now Evening's golden urn o'erflowed with hues

Of all rare beauty, on the West afar;

And down the sky, encompassed with sweet dews,

Came sailing in its state the Twilight Star;

And on the hills a quivering silver bar

Showed where the Moon was in her cloudy tent,

Waiting until her brother's fiery car

Had plunged within the watery element,

That ever and anon a dying murmur sent.

The Minstrel smiled; and sighed, "O gentle bower,

Within thy shadow ever might I dwell!

Here should I see no Baron's frowning tower,

Nor feel upon my heart the Convent knell,

Where Love and Beauty in some dreary cell

Waste life away, of all its life forlorn,

In agonies not made for words to tell;

Till comes the long long night without the morn;

And it its earthy bed the broken heart is borne."

A sound was heard in Heaven--the hurrying clouds

Unfurled their pinions o'er the turbid sea,

As if dark Spirits sat within their shrouds.

Down to its roots was bowed the forest-tree,

The wolf against the wind howled mournfully;

The cloudy armies still came thickening on,

Scaling the mountains till they reach'd the sky--

Then, like a trumpet's solitary tone,

The thunder gave the sign--the tempest was begun.

The Minstrel started from his dripping bed,

And looked abroad on Heaven; the lightning-vein

Still left upon the storm its streak of red;

The rain had paused, but heavy smokes were seen

Bursting the solemn thunder-clouds between,

As if, within, the fiery wrath still blazed.

The Ocean lay a sheet of trembling green,

With spots, like floating islands, purple hazed,

Round which with weary sail some wandering

vessel mazed.

* * * * *

284 (June 29, 1822): 410.

SONGS.

1.

Ah, look upon those withered flowers,

And look upon that broken lute!

Why are those roses scentless, dead?

Why are those gentle chords so mute?

A sunbeam pass'd and kissed those flowers,

Waked the young bloom, the incense sigh;

But darkling clouds came o'er that ray,

The rose was left to droop, to die!

A wind breathed by and waked the lyre,

Oh never had it such a sound;

But soon the gale too rudely swept--

The lute lay broken on the ground!

These things are emblems of my heart;

And what has been thine influence there?

You taught me first love's happiness,

How could you teach me love's despair!

2. LOVE'S LAST WORDS.

Light be around thee, hope by thy guide;

Gay be thy bark, and smooth be the tide;

Soft be the wind that beareth thee on,

Sweet be thy welcome, thy wanderings done.

Bright be the heath, may the eyes you love best

Greet the long-absent again to his rest;

Be thy life like glad music which floateth away

As the gale lingering over the rose-tree in May.

But yet while thy moments in melody roll,

Be one dark remembrance left on thy soul,

Be the song of the evening thrice sad on thine ear--

Then think how your twilight were past away here.

And yet let the shadow of sorrowing be

Light as the dream of the morning to thee!

One fond, faint recollection, one last sight of thine

May be granted to love so devoted as mine!

3. FOR MUSIC.

Thou art looking on the face of night, my love!

Is not yon evening star bright, my love?

Methinks it is

A world of bliss

For spirits all softness and light, my love!

This earth is so chilled with care, my dear!

Would we might wing our flight there, my dear!

For love to blaze

With the cloudless rays

It would have in a world so fair, my dear!

But my wish to visit that star, dear love!

Is vain as my other hopes are, dear love!

For my heart's wild sigh

Of idolatry

Breathes with thee like that planet afar, dear love!

L.E.L.

284 (June 29, 1882): 410.

Sketches from Drawings by Mr. Dagley.

Sketch the First.

time arresting the Career of pleasure.

-----------------

-----------------

Stay thee on thy mad career,

Other sounds than Mirth's are near;

Fling not those white arm in air;

Cast those roses from thy hair;

Stop awhile those glancing feet;

Still thy golden cymbals' beat;

Ring not thus thy joyous laugh;

Cease that purple cup to quaff;

Hear my voice of warning, hear,--

Stay thee on thy mad career!

Roses laugh upon thy brow;

Radiant are thy starry eyes;

Spring is in the crimson dyes

O'er which thy dimple-smile is wreathing;

Incense on thy lip is breathing;

Light and Love are round thy soul,--

But thunder peals o'er June-skies roll;

Even now the storm is near--

Then stay thee on thy mad career!

There is writ thy destiny;

Clouds have veiled the new moonlight;

Stars have fallen from their heights;

These are emblems of the fate

That waits thee--dark and desolate!

All Morn's lights are now thine own,

Soon their glories will be gone;

What remains when they depart?

Faded hope, and withered heart

Like a flower with no perfume

To keep a memory of its bloom!

Look upon that hour-marked round,

Listen to that fateful sound;

There my silent hand is stealing,

My more silent course revealing;

Wild, devoted Pleasure, hear,--

Stay thee on thy mad career!----

L.E.L.

288 (July 27, 1822): 473.

Sketches from Designs by Mr. Dagley.

Sketch the Second.

Love touching the Horns of a Snail, which is

shrinking from his hand.

------------

------------

Oh, you have wronged me!--but, or e'er I tell

How deep I feel the injury, I will

One moment linger o'er the thing which were

Precious as happiness; I will just say,

For the last time, how I have loved you! All

My hopes in life dwelt with you, for you were

The centre of existence; all I said,

Or did, or thought, had reference to you.

I would have shared the bleakest poverty

With you, and only sorrowed for your sake;

I would have given up all the world could give

Of pleasure for you--and your kiss, your smile

To me had been light, mirth, and revelry.

You had my soul's first incense, for my heart

Had never darkened with love's conscious shadow,

Till you did set your image like a seal

Upon its every fibre. Oh, I could

Have born with open shame, with pain, with toil;

Have drained the veriest dregs of bitterness--

But cannot bear unkindness and neglect.

Thrice venomed is the wound when 'tis Love's hand

Inflicts the blow. Look on this picture--here

Are all my feelings imaged! Mark how soon,

How sensitive that creature shrinks away

From Love's rude touch, within its own calm home.

'Tis thus my soul's revealings have been checked,

And forced to shrink within themselves again,

And I might envy even that "cockled" Snail:

It will find in its shell a quiet rest--

But when my feelings turn unto the heart

That sent them forth, what will they find there but

A desert, where the too impassioned past

Has left deep fiery traces!

L.E.L.

289 (August 3, 1822): 487.

Sketches from Designs by Mr. Dagley.

Sketch the Third.

----------

THE CUP OF CIRCE.

----------

She sat a crowned Queen--the ruby's light

Gleamed like a red star on the dark midnight

Amid her curls; but as they downward fell

To meet her ivory neck's luxuriant swell,

Some roses twined around the flowing hair--

Fair roses--yet her neck was far more fair:

They were in summer perfume, and they gave

Fresh fragrance forth at each light tress's wave.

Her cheek was crimson beauty, and her eye

Flashed light upon its varying brilliancy.

There was a spell in those dark eyes, and all

Bent joyfully beneath its radiant thrall:

Their power was on the heart. One white hand raised

A sparkling vase, where gold and opals blazed

Only less glorious than her starry eyes;

(How sweet the incensed breathings that arise

From that enchanted cup!) and she the while

Held the bright poison with a witching smile.

All gathered round. I marked a fair child stop

And kiss the purple bubbles from the tope;

A white haired man, too, hung upon the brim--

Oh! that such pleasure should have charms for him--

And by his side a girl, whose blue eyes, bent

On the seducer, looked too innocent

For passion's madness;--but love's soul was there--

And for young Love what will not woman dare!

There was a warrior--oh, the chain was sweet

That bound him prisoner to the Circe's feet:

He knelt and gazed upon her beauty; she

Smiled, and received his wild idolatry;

Then sighed that low sweet sigh, whose tender tone

Is witching, from its echo of our own.

The Painter's skill has seized a moment where

Her hand is wreathing mid his raven hair;

And he is bent in worship, as that touch,

That soft light touch, were ecstasy too much.

He is just turned from that bewildering face

To the fair arm that holds the magic vase--

The purple liquor is just sparkling up--

The youth has pledged his heart's truth on that

cup!

L.E.L.

290 (August 10, 1822): 504.