As if these waited on thy golden lot,-
They blame thee for the faults that thou hast not.
Art thou to blame for that they bring to thee,
The soil and weight of their mortality ?
How can they hope that ever links will hold
Form'd, as they form them now, of the harsh
Or worse than even this, how can they think
That vanity will bind the failing link ?
How can they dream that thy sweet life will bear
Crowds', palaces' and cities' heartless air ?
When looks and thoughts alike must feel the chain,
And nought of life is real but its pain ;
Where the young spirit's high imaginings
Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things ;
Where, think or feel, you are foredoom'd to be
A marvel, and a sign for mockery ;
Where none must wander from the beaten road,
All alike champ the bit and feel the goad.
It is not made for thee, young Love !- away!
To where the green earth laughs to the clear day;
To the deep valley, where a thousand trees
Keep a green court for fairy revelries ;-
To some small island in a lonely lake,
Where only swans the diamond waters break;
Where the pine hangs in silence o'er the tide,
And the stream gushes from the mountain side ;
These, Love, are haunts for thee; where canst thou
brood With thy sweet wings furl'd—but in solitude !
LANDON.
« Leave me not ! ” was still
The burden of their music; and I knew
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness,
Its own still world amid the o'erpeopled world,
Hath ever breathed to Love.
They crown me with the glistening crown
Borne from a deathless tree;
I hear the pealing music of renown
Oh, Love! forsake me not!
Mine were a lone dark lot,
Bereft of thee!
They tell me that
my
soul
can throw
A glory o'er the earth ;
From thee, from thee is caught that golden glow,
Shed by thy gentle eyes,
It gives to flower and skies
A bright new birth!
Thence gleams the path of morning
Over the kindling hills a sunny zone !
Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning
With lustre not its own !
Thence
every
wood-recess Is fill'd with loveliness, Each bower to ring-doves and dim violets known.
I see all beauty by the ray
That streameth from thy smile ;
Oh! bear it, bear it not away!
Can that sweet light beguile?
Too pure, too spirit-like it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with th' alloy
Of fear midst quivering joy,
Yet must I perish if the gift depart-
Leave me not, Love ! to mine own beating heart !
The music from my lyre
With thy swift step would flee ; The world's cold breath would quench the starry
fire In my deep soul - a temple fill'd with thee!
Seal'd would the fountains lie,
The waves of harmony, Which thou alone canst free !
Like a shrine 'mid rocks forsaken,
Whence the oracle hath fled ;
Like a harp which none might waken
But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd,
Such would my spirit be,
So mute, so void, so shatter'd,
Bereft of thee !
Leave me not, Love! or, if this earth
Yield not for thee a home,
If the bright summer-land of thy June birth
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers “Come!" Then, with the glory from the rose,
With the sparkle from the stream,
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet's dream;
With all th' Elysian hues
Thy pathway that suffuse, With joy, with music, from the fading grove, Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love!
HEMANS.
It is the soft and silent hour
When mighty Love hath mightiest power
To bind the heart, subdue the will,
Bid Reason's cold stern voice be still.
Oh! never sounds in Beauty's ear
The whisper'd word so sweet and dear,
As when the gathering shadows hide
The tell-tale cheek, which Feeling's tide,
In one full, happy, joyous gush,
Hath tinted with a crimson blush !
So calm, so still, the scene around,
Almost the heart's own echoes sound !
How many a breast, on eve like this,
Is steep'd in rapture--fill'd with bliss !
MRS. WALKER.
May slighted woman turn, And as a vine the oak hath shaken off, Bend lightly to her tendencies again? Oh, no! by all her loveliness, by all That makes life poetry and beauty, no ! Make her a slave, steal from her rosy
cheek By needless jealousies ; let the last star Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give One evidence of love, and earth has not An emblem of devotedness like hers. But, oh! estrange her once, it boots not how,
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