As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, In yearnings that can never be exprest Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat. MARGARET. 1. O SWEET pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Which the moon about her spreadeth, * ? 2. You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Come to you, gleams of mellow light 8. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars? The last wild thought of Chatelet, A fairy shield your 4. Genius made And gave you on your natal day, Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes, You are not less divine, But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, But ever trembling thro' the dew 5. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak: Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. dawn THE BLACKBIRD. O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, A golden bill! the silver tongue, Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young: |