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Loved ?

Relapses, into blessedness, I vow'd it:
That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,

A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
Oh! there is joy above the name of pleasure,
Deep self-possession, an intense repose.


Did you not say you woo'd her ?



SANDOVAL (with a sarcastic smile).

Once I loved No other than as eastem sages paint, Her whom I dared not woo!

The God, who Noats upon a lotos leaf,

Dreams for a thousand ages ; then awaking,

Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,

And wood, perchance, Relapses into bliss. One whom you loved not !


Ah! was that bliss

Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man?

Oh! I were most base, For suddenly, impatient of its silence,
Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her,
Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she

Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.
Met my advances with impassion'd pride,

I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them That kindled love with love. And when her sire, Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?

Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice, Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd

I swore, and with an inward thought that seemd The golden circlet in his hand, rejected My suit with insult, and in memory

The purpose and the substance of my being, of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head,

I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, Her blessings overlook and baffled them!

I would exchange my unblench'd state with herBut thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance

Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower

I now will go—all objects there will teach me Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her-

Say nothing of me-I myself will seek herAnxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously.

Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment But Oropeza

And keen inquiry of that scanning eye-

[Earl HENRY relires into the work Blessings gather round her! Within this wood there winds a secret passage,

SANDOVAL (alone). Beneath the walls, which opens out at length

O Henry! always strivest thou to be great Into the gloomiest covert of the garden

By thine own act—yet art thou never great The night ere my departure to the army,

But by the inspiration of great passion. She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up And to that covert by a silent stream,

And shape themselves : from Earth to Heaven they Which, with one star rellected near its marge,

stand, Was the sole object visible around me.

As though they were the pillars of a temple, No leaflet stirr'd; the air was almost sultry;

Built by Omnipotence in its own honor ! So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us !

But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit No leaflet stirr'd ;-yet pleasure hung upon

Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand,
The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.

And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins'
A little further on an arbor stood,
Fragrant with flowering trees—I well remember
What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness
Their snow-white blossoms made-thither she led

To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled-
I heard her heart beat-if 't were not my own. WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF



A rude and scaring note, my friend !

MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soil'd beneath the common tread,

Far from thy protecting spray'


Oh! no!
I have small memory of aught but pleasure.
The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams
Still flowing, still were lost in those of love:
So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,
Fleeing from Pain, shelter'd herself in Joy.
The stars above our heads were dim and steady,
Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us :
We were all life, each atom of our frames
A living soul-I vowd to die for her:
With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,

When the Partridge o'er the sheaf

Whirr'd along the yellow vale,
Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!

Love the dalliance of the gale

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing .

Heave and flutter to his sighs,
While the flatterer, on his wing,

Wood and whisper'd thee to rise.

Gaily from thy mother-stalk

O give me, from this heartless scene released, Wert thou danced and wafted high

To hear our old musician, blind and gray Soon on this unshelter'd walk

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kiss'd), Flung to fade, to rot and die.

His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,

The while I dance amid the ledded hay

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light TA AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE Or lies the purple evening on the bay THEATRE.

Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees
MAIDEN, that with sullen brow

For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,
Sittest behind those virgins gay,

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,

And while the lazy boat sways to and fro, Leafiess 'mid the blooms of May!

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,

That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
Him who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,

But 0, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, Fearful saw his pleading look,

And the gust pelting on the out-house shed
Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Soft the glances of the youth,

Ballad of shipwreck'd sailor floating dead, Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ;

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands! But no sound like simple truth,

Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures But no true love in his eye.

Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of Nature utter; birds or trees, Lothing thy polluted lot,

Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence!

Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves. Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. With a wiser innocence.


Thou hast known deceit and folly,

Thou hast felt that vice is woe : With a musing melancholy

Inly arm’d, go, Maiden! go.
Mother sage of Self-dominion,

Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!
The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion

Is the memory of past folly.
Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn,

Or the bean-field's odorous blooms :

THE tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall
Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,
Or mountain-inch alighting. And the rose
(In vain the darling of successful love)
Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,
The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.

Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk
By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,
That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,
Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not !*
So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk
Has work'd (the flowers which most she knew i

And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

Soon with renovated wing

Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the day-star spring,

And embathe in heavenly light.

LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. In the cool morning twilight, early waked

By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, Nor cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest

Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, These scented Roorns, where, to a gaudy throng, Down the slope coppice to the wood bine bower, Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,

Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, In mtricacies of laborious song.

Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,

Making a quiet image of disquiet
These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign In the smooth, scarcely moving rivel-pool.

To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; There, in that bower where first she own'd her love
But when the longbreathed singer's uptrill'd strain And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
Bursts in a muall— they gape for wonderment.

From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'd
Hark the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate!
Scomful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer

* One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,

Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve

inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,

the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergiss Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

mein nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Swedre

The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not-
Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
Her voice (that even in her mirthful mood
Has made me wish to steal away and weep),
Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss
With which she promised, that when spring return'd,
She would resign one half of that dear name,
And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray:

You made us grow devouter!
Each eye look'd up, and seem'd to say

How can we do without her? Besides, what vex'd us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you

In the place where you were going; This World has angels all too few,

And Heaven is overflowing !






Ah, not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,

To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell; Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strew'd,

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings,

And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark! Now mounts, now totters on the Tempest's wings,

Now groans, and shivers, the replunging Bark! Cling to the shrouds !” In vain! The breakers

If I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,

And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids :
So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone, Yet, while 't is dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.


Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a shipwreck'd man ! Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains,

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame? The elevating thought of suffer'd pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the




Of Gratitude ! Remembrances of Friend,

Or absent or no more! Shades of the Past, Which Love makes Substance! Hence to thee I send,

O dear as long as life and memory last ! I send with deep regards of heart and head, Sweet maid, for friendship form'd' this work to

thee : And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed

A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

"T is sweet to him, who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods,

And hallow thus the Sabbath-Day
And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate, and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.
But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doom'd to roam, Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home? Home-sickness is a wasting pang ;

This feel I hourly more and more : There 's Healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that playest on Albion's shore!


Why need I say, Louisa dear!
How glad I am to see you here

A lovely convalescent ;
Risen from the bed of pain and fear,

And feverish heat incessant l'he sunny Showers, the dappled Sky, The little Birds that warble high,

Their vernal loves commencing, Will better welcome you than I

With their sweet influencing.

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, she

Dove, The Linnet and Thrush, say, “I love and I love!" In the winter they 're silent—the wind is so strong, What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm

weather, And singing, and loving-all come back together

Its own sweet self-a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!

But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings hem
"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!”



How warm this woodland wild Recess!

Love surely hath been breathing here,

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks, with faint caress, As

to have you yet more near.

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

On seaward Quantock's heathy hills,

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills

Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling
He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,
Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,
That his sick body might have ease and rest;
He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest
Against his will the stifling load revealing,
Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest,
Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
The sternness on his gentle brow confess'd,
Sickness within and miserable feeling:
Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,
And dreaded sleep, each night repell'd in vain,
Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams,
Yet never could his heart command, though fain,
One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,
Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood,
Though changed in nature, wander where he would-
For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost!
For this one Hope he makes his hourly moan,
He wishes and can wish for this alone!
Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams
So the love-stricken visionary deems)
Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,
Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!
Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give
Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why

That asking look ? that yearning sigh? That sense of promise every where?

Beloved! flew your spirit by?

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long-lost child

I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! As whom I long had loved before

So deeply, had I been beguiled.

You stood before me like a thoughi,

A dream remember'd in a dream.

But when those meek eyes first did seem To tell me, Love within you wrought

O Greta, dear domestic stream!

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,

Has not Love's whisper evermore,

Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar! Sole voice, when other voices sleep,

Dear under-song in Clamor's hour.



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A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave the sweeter under-strain

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,

A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures Revisit on thy echoing strand:

Dreams (the soul herself forsaking),

On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc !
Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ;

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Silent adorations, making

Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful foria A blessed shadow of this Earth!

Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines,

How silently! Around thee and above Oye hopes, that stir within me,

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
Health comes with you from above! An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
God is with me, God is in me!

As with a wedge! But when I look again,
I cannot die, if Life be Love.

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!
o dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer Cupid, if storying legends* tell aright,

I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.
Once framed a rich elixir of delight.
A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd,

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd :

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, With these the magic dews, which evening brings, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings : Yea with my Life and Life's own secret Joy : Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd,

Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind

Into the mighty vision passing--there Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow. As in her natural form, swelld vast to Heaven! And Hope, the blameless parasite of woe. The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise, The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs;

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Sweet sounds transpired, as when th'enamour'd dove Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Pours the soft murm’ring of responsive love.

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
And “ Kisses” was the precious compound's name.

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.
With half the god his Cyprian mother blest,
And breathed on Sara's lovelier lips the rest.

Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale!
O struggling with the darkness all the night,

And visited all night by troops of stars,
III. MEDITATIVE POEMS, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink :

Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn,

Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn

Co-herald: wake, () wake, and utter praise !
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking Man.

Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life

Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams ?
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead:
Naught sinks into the Bosom's silent depth.
Quick sensibility of Pain and Pleasure

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul
Warmeth the inner frame.

Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,

From dark and icy caverns call’d you forth.
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,

For ever shatter'd and the same for ever?
HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents And who commanded (and the silence came), rush down its sides, and within a few paces of the Glaciers. Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue."

Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow

Adown enormous ravines slope amainI last thou a charm to stay the Morning-Star

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, In als steep course ? So long he seems to pause

And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven * Effinxit quondam blandum meditata laborem

Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun
Basia lasciva Cypria Diva manâ.
Ambrosiæ succos occultâ temperat arte,

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowen
Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus.

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet Sufficit et partem mellis, quod subdolus olim

God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Non impune favis surripuisset Amor.
Decussos violæ foliis ad miscet odores

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
Et spolin æstivis plurima rapta rosis.

God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice Addit et illecebras et mille et mille lepores,

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet.

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
Rr his composuit Dea basia ; et omnia libans
Lavenias nitide sparsa per ora Cloës

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Carm. Quod. Vol. II.


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