They were all summer; lightning might assail And shiver them to ashes, but to trail A long and snake-like life of dull decay Was not for them-they had too little clay.
They were alone once more; for them to be Thus was another Eden; they were never Weary, unless when separate: the tree
Cut from its forest root of years-the river Damm'd from its fountain-the child from the knee And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever,- Would wither less than these two torn apart; Alas! there is no instinct like the heart-
The heart-which may be broken: happy they! Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, The precious porcelain of human clay,
Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold The long year link'd with heavy day on day, And all which must be borne, and never told; While life's strange principle will often lie Deepest in those who long the most to die.
'Whom the gods love die young' was said of yore, And many deaths do they escape by this:
The death of friends, and that which slays even more— The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, Except mere breath; and since the silent shore
Awaits at last even those who longest miss The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Haidée and Juan thought not of the dead.
The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them: They found no fault with Time, save that he fled;
They saw not in themselves aught to condemn ;
Each was the other's mirror, and but read
Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, And knew such brightness was but the reflection Of their exchanging glances of affection.
The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch,
The least glance better understood than words, Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much; A language, too, but like to that of birds, Known but to them, at least appearing such
As but to lovers a true sense affords ;
Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard.
All these were theirs, for they were children still,
And children still they should have ever been; They were not made in the real world to fill A busy character in the dull scene, But like two beings born from out a rill,
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, And never know the weight of human hours.
Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys As rarely they beheld throughout their round; And these were not of the vain kind which cloys, For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound
By the mere senses; and that which destroys Most love, possession, unto them appear'd A thing which each endearment more endear'd.
INVOCATION TO THE SPIRIT OF ACHILLES. [From The Deformed Transformed.]
Beautiful shadow
Of Thetis's boy!
Who sleeps in the meadow
Whose grass grows o'er Troy:
From the red earth, like Adam,
Thy likeness I shape,
As the being who made him,
Whose actions I ape.
Thou clay, be all glowing, Till the rose in his cheek Be as fair as, when blowing, It wears its first streak! Ye violets, I scatter, Now turn into eyes! And thou, sunshiny water, Of blood take the guise! Let these hyacinth boughs Be his long flowing hair, And wave o'er his brows As thou wavest in air! Let his heart be this marble I tear from the rock! But his voice as the warble Of birds on yon oak! Let his flesh be the purest Of mould, in which grew
The lily-root surest,
And drank the best dew! Let his limbs be the lightest Which clay can compound, And his aspect the brightest On earth to be found! Elements, near me,
Be mingled and stirr'd, Know me, and hear me,
And leap to my word! Sunbeams, awaken
This earth's animation! 'Tis done! He hath taken His stand in creation!
ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.
Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824.
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!
The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze- A funeral pile.
The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood!—unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give Away thy breath!
Seek out-less often sought than foundA soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.
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