A hundred horrid stems, jagged and stark, Wrestled with crooked arms in hideous fray, Besides sleek ashes with their dappled bark, Suddenly I pronounced so sweet a strain, Which through his ardent eyes began to drain;— Meanwhile the deadly fates unclosed their shears ;So pity me and all my fated peers. FAIR INES. Он, saw ye not fair Ines? She's gone into the west, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast. Oh turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall'd bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write! Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier And whisper'd thee so near!Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear? I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, And banners waved before; And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream, -If it had been no more! Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song, With music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad and felt no mirth, But only music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell, To her you've loved so long. Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,Alas for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shore! The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more! SIGH ON, SAD HEART! SIGH on, sad heart, for love's eclipse, The diamonds glancing in her hair, Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves Oh lofty wears, and lowly weaves, But hoddan gray is mine; Alas! there's far from russet frize "Tis vain to weep-'tis vain to sigh, My tears may never reach; My speech is rude, but speech is weak Yet had I words, I dare not speak, I will not wish thy better state THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, While the cock is crowing aloof! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save,- Till the brain begins to swim; Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band; Band, and gusset, and seam; Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in my dream! "Oh! men with sisters dear! Oh! men with mothers and wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; "But why do I talk of death, Because of the fast I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work-work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A shatter'd roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank my shadow I thank From weary chime to chime; As prisoners work, for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam; Seam, and gusset, and band; Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, "Oh! but to breathe the breath And the grass beneath my feet; To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal! "Oh! but for one short hour! A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope; A little weeping would ease my heart- My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" With eyelids heavy and red, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitchWould that its tone could reach the rich!She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" SILENCE. THERE is a silence where hath been no sound, Of antique palaces, where man hath been, And owls, that flit continually between, Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, There the true silence is, self-conscious and alone. DEATH. IT is not death, that sometime in a sigh This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow; That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below; It is not death to know this, but to know That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go So duly and so oft,-and when grass waves Over the past-away, there may be then No resurrection in the minds of men. A RUSTIC ODE. On! well may poets make a fuss And turns me "dust to dust." My sun his daily course renews The path is dry and hot! But down a chimney's pot! Oh! but to hear the milk-maid blithe, The dewy meads among! Oh! but to smell the woodbine sweet! For meadow buds, I get a whiff That marks the Bell and Crown! Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing From tree to tree, and gayly sing Or mourn in thickets deep? My cuckoo has some ware to sell, The watchmen is my Philomel, My blackbird is a sweep! Where are ye, linnet! lark! and thrush! Are all my "tuneful throng." Of calimanco-dyes. Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun, Singing in soothing tones: Not thus the city streamlets flow; They make no music as they go, Though never "off the stones." Where are ye, pastoral, pretty sheep, And skin-not shear-the lambs. The rank weed-" piping hot." All rural things are vilely mock'd, With objects hard to bear: An Ingram's rustic chair! Where are ye, London meads and bowers, And gardens redolent of flowers Wherein the zephyr wons? Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more! No pastoral scene procures me peace; With brokers, not with bees. Oh! well may poets make a fuss Of city pleasures sick : My heart is all at pant to rest FROM AN ODE TO MELANCHOLY. OH! clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, And do not take my tears amiss; For tears must flow to wash away A thought that shows so stern as this: Forgive, if somewhile I forget, In wo to come, the present bliss. As frighted Proserpine let fall Her flowers at the sight of Dis, Even so the dark and bright will kiss. The sunniest things throw sternest shade, And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid! Now let us with a spell invoke The full-orb'd moon to grieve our eyes; Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud Lapp'd all about her, let her rise All pale and dim, as if from rest The ghost of the late buried sun Had crept into the skies. The moon! she is the source of sighs, The very face to make us sad; If but to think in other times The same calm quiet look she had, As if the world held nothing base, TO A COLD BEAUTY. Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad; The same fair light that shone in streams, The fairy lamp that charm'd the lad; For so it is, with spent delights She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad All things are touch'd with melancholy, Born of the secret soul's mistrust, To feel her fair ethereal wings Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust; Even the bright extremes of joy Bring on conclusions of disgust, Oh give her, then, her tribute just, I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born, I remember, I remember, The roses-red and white; Those flowers made of light! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing: My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops It was a childish ignorance, To know I'm farther off from heaven LADY, wouldst thou heiress be, Thou dost still lock up thy heart;Thou that shouldst outlast the snow, But in the whiteness of thy brow? Scorn and cold neglect are made For winter gloom and winter wind, But thou wilt wrong the summer air, Breathing it to words unkind,— Breath which only should belong To love, to sunlight, and to song! When the little buds unclose, Red, and white, and pied, and blue, And that virgin flower, the rose, Opes her heart to hold the dew, Wilt thou lock thy bosom up With no jewel in its cup? Let not cold December sit Thus in love's peculiar throne ;Brooklets are not prison'd now, But crystal frosts are all agone, And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May! LOVE. LOVE, dearest lady, such as I would speak, And takes new lustre from the touch of time; BY A LOVER. Br every sweet tradition of true hearts, By all old martyrdoms and antique smarts, Left by the drown'd Leander, to endear |