THERE is a change — and I am poor;
Your Love hath been, nor long ago,
A Fountain at my fond Heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for this consecrated Fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden WELL.
- Such change, and at the very door my fond Heart, hath made me poor.
LET other Bards of Angels sing,
Bright Suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect Thing:
Rejoice that thou art not!
Such if thou wert in all men's view,
What would my Fancy have to do?
My Feelings to bestow?
Heed not tho' none should call thee fair; So, Mary, let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.
True Beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart with heart in concord beats,
And the Lover is beloved.
How rich that forehead's calm expanse! How bright that Heaven-directed glance! Waft her to Glory, wingèd Powers,
Ere Sorrow be renewed,
And intercourse with mortal hours
Bring back a humbler mood!
So looked Cecilia when she drew
An Angel from his station;
But hand and voice alike are still;
No sound here sweeps away the will
That gave it birth;-in service meek
One upright arm sustains the cheek,
And one across the bosom lies
That rose, and now forgets to rise,
Subdued by breathless harmonies
Of meditative feeling;
Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies,
Through the pure light of female eyes,
Their sanctity revealing!
O DEARER far than light and life are dear,
Full oft our human foresight I deplore;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more!
Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest;
While all the future, for thy purer soul,
With "sober certainties" of love is blest.
If a faint sigh, not meant for human ear,
Tell that these words thy humbleness offend,
Cherish me still else faltering in the rear
Of a steep march: uphold me to the end.
Peace settles where the Intellect is meek,
And love is dutiful in thought and deed;
Through Thee communion with that Love I seek;
The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the creed.
MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,
ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR.
"SMILE of the Moon! for so I name
That silent greeting from above;
A gentle flash of light that came
From Her whom drooping Captives love;
Or art thou of still higher birth?
Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,
My torpor to reprove!
"Bright boon of pitying Heaven - alas!
I may not trust thy placid cheer!
Pondering that Time to-night will pass
The threshold of another year;
For years to me are sad and dull;
My very moments are too full
Of hopelessness and fear.
"And yet, the soul-awakening gleam,
That struck perchance the farthest cone
Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem
To visit me, and me alone;
Me, unapproached by any friend,
Save those who to my sorrows lend
Tears due unto their own.
"To-night the church-tower bells will ring Through these wide realms a festive peal; To the new year a welcoming;
A tuneful offering for the weal
Of happy millions lulled in sleep;
While I am forced to watch and weep,
By wounds that may not heal.
"Born all too high, by wedlock raised
Still higher to be cast thus low!
Would that mine eyes had never gazed
On aught of more ambitious show
Than the sweet flowerets of the fields!
It is my royal state that yields
This bitterness of woe.
"Yet how? · for I, if there be truth
In the world's voice, was passing fair;
And beauty, for confiding youth,
Those shocks of passion can prepare
That kill the bloom before its time,
And blanch, without the Owner's crime,
The most resplendent hair.
"Unblest distinction! showered on me
To bind a lingering life in chains:
All that could quit my grasp, or flee,
Is gone;
but not the subtle stains
Fixed in the spirit; for even here
Can I be proud that jealous fear
Of what I was remains.
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