I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust,
That I may bring thee back no faded form,
No bosom chilled and blighted by the storm,
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet,
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet.
And thou too art in bonds! Yet droop thou not, O my beloved! there is one hopeless lot,
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead,—
There sits the grief that mantles up its head,
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light,
When darkness from the vainly doting sight
Covers its beautiful! * If thou wert gone.
To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow-
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone
Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now
Seems floating through my soul, were music taken
For ever from this world-oh! thus forsaken,
Could I bear on? Thou livest, thou livest, thou'rt mine!
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine,
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn,
Sit a lone watcher for the day's return.
And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning, Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care!
I have not watched in vain, serenely scorning
* "Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel wept and would not be comforted, because her children were no more. And that, indeed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else!"-From a letter of Arabella Stuart's to her husband.-See Curiosities of Literature.
The wild and busy whispers of despair!
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven-I wait
The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee.
Oh for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate
As a star shoots!-but on the breezy sea
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour!
Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss,
Faint and give way within me, as a flower
Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss?
Yet shall I fear that lot-the perfect rest,
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast,
After long suffering won? So rich a close
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes.
Sunset! I tell each moment.
The last red splendour floats along my wall,
Like a king's banner! Now it melts, it dies !
I see one star-I hear-'twas not the call,
The expected voice; my quick heart throbbed too soon.
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam
Through my lone lattice poured, I sit and dream
Of summer-lands afar, where holy love,
Under the vine or in the citron grove,
May breathe from terror.
Now the night grows deep,
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep.
I hear my veins beat. Hark! a bell's slow chime !
My heart strikes with it. Yet again-'tis time!
A step!-a voice !-or but a rising breeze?
Hark-haste !-I come to meet thee on the seas!
Now never more, oh! never, in the worth
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth
Trust fondly-never more! The hope is crushed
That lit my life, the voice within me hushed
That spoke sweet oracles; and I return
To lay my youth as in a burial urn,
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost!
No tempest met our barks-no billow tossed;
Yet were they severed even as we must be,
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free
From their close-coiling fate! In vain—in vain !
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again,
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood,
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood,
Like some proud bird of ocean; then mine eye
Strained out, one moment earlier to descry
The form it ached for, and the bark's career
Seemed slow to that fond yearning: it drew near,
Fraught with our foes! What boots it to recall
The strife, the tears? Once more a prison wall
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight,
And joyous glance of waters to the light,
And thee, my Seymour !-thee!
Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound thee!
And this shall be my strength-the joy to think
That thou may'st wander with heaven's breath around
And all the laughing sky! This thought shall yet
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken;
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears.
My friend my friend! where art thou? Day by day, Gliding like some dark mournful stream away,
My silent youth flows from me.
Spring, the while,
Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs
Round hall and hamlet; summer with her smile
Fills the green forest; young hearts breathe their vows;
Brothers long parted meet; fair children rise
Round the glad board; hope laughs from loving eyes:
All this is in the world!-these joys lie sown,
The dew of every path! On one alone
Their freshness may not fall-the stricken deer
Dying of thirst with all the waters near.
Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers! By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent; O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers, And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent, Quivering to breeze and raindrop, like the sheen Of twilight stars. On you heaven's eye hath been, Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you
Hath murmured, and the rill. My soul grows faint With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint Your haunts by dell and stream-the green, the free, The full of all sweet sound-the shut from me!
There went a swift bird singing past my cellO Love and Freedom! ye are lovely things!
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell,
And by the streams. But I-the blood of kings,
A proud unmingling river, through my veins
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains!
Kings -I had silent visions of deep bliss,
Leaving their thrones far distant; and for this
I am cast under their triumphal car,
An insect to be crushed!
Earth pitiless!
Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am proved
So long, so sternly! Seymour, my beloved!
There are such tales of holy marvels done
By strong affection, of deliverance won
Through its prevailing power! Are these things told
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old
Wonder, yet dare not doubt; and thou! oh, thou!
Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay?—
Thou canst not! Through the silent night, even now,
I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray
Still first for thee. O gentle, gentle friend!
How shall I bear this anguish to the end?
Aid!-comes there yet no aid? The voice of blood Passes heaven's gate, even ere the
Sinks through the greensward!
crimson flood
Is there not a cry
From the wrung heart, of power, through agony,
To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy !-hear me ! None
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun
Have heavier cause! Yet hear!-my soul grows dark!
Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone,
And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown,
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