Frances Anne Kemble: Verses about Time

Youth with swift feet walks onward in the way,
The land of joy lies all before his eyes;
Age, stumbling, lingers slower day by day,
Still looking back, for it behind him lies.

Written among the Ruins of the Sonnenberg


Thou who within thyself dost not behold
Ruins as great as these, though not as old,
Canst scarce through life have travelled many a year,
Or lack'st the spirit of a pilgrim here.
Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride,
Love, its warm hearth-stones, hope, its prospects wide,
Life's fortress in thee, held these one and all,
And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall.

Weep'st thou to see the ruin and decay
Which Time doth wreak upon earth's mighty things?
Temples of gods, and palaces of kings,
Weep'st thou to see them crumbling all away?
Oh I could show thee such a woful ruin
As doth surpass the worst of Time's undoing,
A fortress strong of life, not wrecked by years,
But overthrown by sighs, and sapped with tears;
A noble mansion, wherein youth did dwell,
To which this palace were a lowly cell;
A goodly temple, in whose holiest shrine,
Love had a worship like himself divine;
And all these fabrics fair deserted be—
A weed-grown heap, shunned even by memory.

I would I might be with thee, when the year
Begins to wane, and that thou walk'st alone
Upon the rocky strand, whilst loud and clear,
The autumn wind sings, from his cloudy throne,
Wild requiems for the summer that is gone.
Or when, in sad and contemplative mood,
Thy feet explore the leafy-paven wood:
I would my soul might reason then with thine,
Upon those themes most solemn and most strange,
Which every falling leaf and fading flower,
Whisper unto us with a voice divine;
Filling the brief space of one mortal hour
With fearful thoughts of death, decay, and change,
And the high mystery of that after birth,
That comes to us, as well as to the earth.

What though the sun must set, and darkness come,
Shall we turn coldly from the blessèd light,
And o'er the heavens call an earlier gloom,
Because the longest day must end in night?
What though the golden summer flies so fast,
Shall we neglect the rosy wreaths she brings,
Because their blooming sweetness may not last,
And winter comes apace with snowy wings?
What though this world be but the journeying land,
Where those who love but meet to part again;
Where, as we clasp in welcome friendship's hand,
That greeting clasp becomes a parting strain:
'Tis better to be blest for one short hour,
Than never know delight of love or joy,
Friendship, or mirth, or happiness, or power,
And all that Time creates, and must destroy.

SUGGESTED BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE OBSERVING THAT WE NEVER DREAM OF OURSELVES YOUNGER THAN WE ARE.
Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams
Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams,
May we return to that sweet land of youth,
That home of hope, of innocence, and truth,
Which as we further roam but fairer seems.
In that dim shadowy world, where the soul strays
When she has laid her mortal charge to rest,
We oft behold far future hours and days,
But ne'er live o'er the past, the happiest.
How oft will fancy's wild imaginings
Bear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen,
But ah! not e'en unfettered fancy's wings
Can lead us back to aught that we have been,
Or waft us to that smiling, sunny shore,
Which e'en in slumber we may tread no more.

The merriest time of all the year
Is the time when the leaves begin to fall,
When the chestnut-trees turn yellow and sere,
And the flowers are withering one and all;
When the thick green sward is growing brown,
And the honeysuckle berries are red,
And the oak is shaking its acorns down,
And the dry twigs snap 'neath the woodman's tread.
The merriest dance that e'er was seen
Is the headlong dance of the whirling leaves,
And the rattling stubble that flies between
The yellow ranks of the barley sheaves.
The merriest song that e'er was heard
Is the song of the sobbing autumn wind;
When the thin bare boughs of the elm are stirr'd,
And shake the black ivy round them twined.
The merriest time of all the year
Is the time when all things fade and fall,
When the sky is bleak, and the earth is drear,
Oh, that's the merriest month of all.

The golden hinges of the year have turned—
Spring, and the summer, and the harvest time
Have come, and gone; and on the threshold stands
The withered Winter, stretching forth his hands
To take my rose from me;—which he will wear
On his bleak bosom, all the bitter months
While the earth and I remain disconsolate.
My rose!—with the soft vesture of her leaves,
Gathered all round the secrets of her heart
In crimson fragrant folds,—within her bower
Of fair fresh green, guarded with maiden thorns.
O withered Winter! keep my blossom safe!
Thou shalt not kiss her with thy blue cold lips,
Nor pinch her in thy bony grip,—nor drop
More than one tiny sparkling diamond,
From thy cold carcanet, upon her cheek:
But lay soft snow fur round her—and above
Her precious head, make thy skies blue and clear,
And set her in the sun;—O withered Winter!
Be tender of my rose, and harm her not.
Alas, my flower, farewell!

Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;
Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide
Our mortal year along Time's rapid tide.
Spirit of life! the old decrepit earth
Has heard thy voice, and at a wondrous birth,
Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb,
A thousand germs of light and beauty come.
Thy breath is on the waters, and they leap
From their bright winter-woven fetters free;
Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep,
And greet thee with a gush of melody.
The air is full of music, wild and sweet,
Made by the joyous waving of the trees,
Wherein a thousand wingèd minstrels meet,
And by the work-song of the early bees,
In the white blossoms fondly murmuring,
And founts, that in the blessèd sunshine sing:
Hail to thee! maiden with the bright blue eyes!
And showery robe, all steeped in starry dew;
Hail to thee! as thou ridest through the skies,
Upon thy rainbow car of various hue.

Pass thy hand through my hair, love;
One little year ago,
In a curtain bright and rare, love,
It fell golden o'er my brow.
But the gold has paled away, love,
And the drooping curls are thin,
And cold threads of wintry gray, love,
Glitter their folds within:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age—can it be care?
Fasten thine eyes on mine, love;
One little year ago,
Midsummer's sunny shine, love,
Had not a warmer glow.
But the light is there no more, love,
Save in melancholy gleams,
Like wan moonlight wand'ring o'er, love,
Dim lands in troubled dreams:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age—can it be care?

Lay thy cheek to my cheek, love;
One little year ago
It was ripe, and round, and sleek, love,
As the autumn peaches grow.
But the rosy hue has fled, love,
Save a flush that goes and comes,
Like a flower born from the dead, love,
And blooming over tombs:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age—can it be care?

The moment must come, when the hands that unite
In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever;
When the eyes that have beamed o'er us brightly to-night,
Will have ceased to shine o'er us, for ever.
Yet wreathe again the goblet's brim
With pleasure's roseate crown!
What though the future hour be dim—
The present is our own!
The moment is come, and again we are parting,
To roam through the world, each our separate way;
In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is starting,
But hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds its ray.
Then wreathe again the goblet's brim
With pleasure's roseate crown!
What though the present hour be dim—
The future's yet our own!
The moment is past, and the bright throng that round us
So lately was gathered, has fled like a dream;
And time has untwisted the fond links that bound us,
Like frost wreaths, that melt in the morning's first beam.
Still wreathe once more the goblet's brim
With pleasure's roseate crown!
What though all else beside be dim—
The past has been our own!

O lady! thou, who in the olden time
Hadst been the star of many a poet's dream!
Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,
Weddest the gentle graces that beseem
Fair woman's best! forgive the daring line
That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye
Glance o'er the vain attempt too scornfully;
But, as thou read'st, think what a love was mine,
That made me venture on a theme, that none
Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.
Thou art most fair, though sorrow's chastening wing
Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow.
And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing
The splendour of thy beauty's summer now.
Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness
That dwells not only on the lip, or eye;
Thy beauty, is thy pure heart's holiness;
Thy grace, thy lofty spirit's majesty.
While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide,
Like some calm spirit o'er life's troubled stream,
With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side
Together blossoming; I almost deem
That I behold the loveliness and truth,
That like fair visions hovered round my youth,
Long sought—and then forgotten as a dream.

Time beckons on the hours: the expiring year
Already feels old Winter's icy breath;
As with cold hands he scatters on her bier
The faded glories of her autumn wreath.
As fleetly as the summer's sunshine past,
The winter's snow must melt; and the young Spring,
Strewing the earth with flowers, will come at last,
And in her train the hour of parting bring.
But, though I leave the harbour, where my heart
Sometime had found a peaceful resting-place,
Where it lay calmly moored; though I depart,
Yet, let not time my memory quite efface.
'Tis true, I leave no void, the happy home
To which you welcomed me, will be as gay,
As bright, as cheerful, when I've turned to roam,
Once more, upon life's weary onward way.
But oh! if ever by the warm hearth's blaze,
Where beaming eyes and kindred souls are met,
Your fancy wanders back to former days,
Let my remembrance hover round you yet.
Then, while before you glides time's shadowy train,
Of forms long vanished, days and hours long gone,
Perchance my name will be pronounced again,
In that dear circle where I once was one.
Think of me then, nor break kind memory's spell,
By reason's censure coldly o'er me cast,
Think only, that I loved ye passing well!
And let my follies slumber with the past.

The water has flowed forth a year,
Since, sitting by the fountain's side,
We looked into the basin clear,
Where sparkles still the gushing tide,
And watched the crystal current pour,
During one bright enchanting hour.
The sun sloped low upon the plain—
The mellow southern winter sun—
And purple rose the mountain chain,
Which then I first did look upon;
While o'er its shadowy crests were seen
Bright, dazzling peaks of snowy sheen.
The limpid heavens o'er our head
Were clear as truth, and soft as love;
The dark-blue tufted pine-trees spread
Their solemn shade our rest above.
And, framed between their pillars gray,
The landscape's magic pictures lay.

A year that water hath flowed forth;
A year my golden hours have flowed:
And towards the regions of the north
I turn, to leave this blest abode,
Where I have dwelt in constant joy,
In peace and rest without alloy.
Pain has been far from me, and pleasure
Has kept the record of my days;
Glory and beauty, without measure,
Have haunted my familiar ways,
And made a year's existence seem
Bright, brief, and wondrous as a dream.
Now I depart, and bear with me
The gathered riches of these days;
No shade the sternest futurity
Upon their perfect brightness lays;
Life shall possess them to the last:
The blackest fate must spare the past.

What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?
Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing?—shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?
Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God's great gift of time;
Shall I these mists of memory locked within,
Leave, and forget life's purposes sublime?
Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive
To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?
How may I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I'll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, belovèd one! art far from me.
For thee, I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.
I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time, and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won, since yet I live.
So may this doomèd time build up in me
A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.

O child! who to this evil world art come,
Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee,
Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home!
Welcome to all the woe this life awards thee!
Upon thy forehead yet the badge of sin
Hath worn no trace; thou look'st as though from heaven,
But pain, and guilt, and misery lie within;
Poor exile! from thy happy birth-land driven.
Thine eyes are sealed by the soft hand of sleep,
And like unruffled waves thy slumber seems;
The time's at hand when thou must wake to weep,
Or sleeping, walk a restless world of dreams.
How oft, as day by day life's burthen lies
Heavier and darker on thy fainting soul,
Wilt thou towards heaven turn thy weary eyes,
And long in bitterness to reach the goal!

How oft wilt thou, upon Time's flinty road,
Gaze at thy far-off early days, in vain!
Weeping, how oft wilt thou cast down thy load,
And curse and pray, then take it up again!
How many times shall the fiend Hope extend
Her poisonous chalice to thy thirsty lips!
How oft shall Love its withering sunshine lend,
To leave thee only a more dark eclipse!
How oft shall Sorrow strain thee in her grasp,—
How oft shall Sin laugh at thine overthrow—
How oft shall Doubt, Despair, and Anguish clasp
Their knotted arms around thine aching brow!
O living soul, hail to thy narrow cage!
Spirit of light, hail to thy gloomy cave!
Welcome to longing youth, to loathing age,
Welcome, immortal! welcome to the grave!

O Maria Felicia! the Painter and Bard,
Behind them in dying leave undying heirs,
The night of oblivion their memory spares,
And their great eager souls, other action debarred,
Against Death, against Time, having valiantly warr'd,
Though struck down in the strife claim its trophies as theirs.
In the iron engraved, one his thought leaves enshrin'd;
With a golden sweet cadence another's entwin'd,
Makes for ever all those who shall hear it his friends;
Though he died, on the canvas lives Raphael's mind,
And from death's darkest doom till this world of ours ends,
The mother-clasp'd Infant, his glory defends.
As the lamp guards the flame, so the bare marble halls
Of the Parthenon, keep in their desolate space,
The memory of Phidias enshrin'd in their walls;
And Praxiteles' child, the young Venus, yet calls
From the altar where smiling she still holds her place,
The centuries vanquish'd, to worship her grace.

Thus from Age after Age while new life they receive
To rest at God's feet, the old glories are gone,
And the accents of Genius their echoes still weave
With the great human voice till their speech is but one.
While for thee—dead but yesterday—fame does but leave
A cross in the dim chapel's darkness alone.
A Cross, and Oblivion, and Silence, and Death,
Hark! the wind's softest sob; hark! the breeze's deep breath;
Hark! the fisher-boy singing his way o'er the plain,
Of thy glory, thy hopes, thy young beauty's bright wreath,
Not a trace—not a sigh—not an echo remain!

And I
Am reading, too, my book of memory:
With eyelids closed, over the crested foam,
And the blue, marbled sea, I seek my home.
All present things forgotten, on the shore
Of the romantic Forth I stand once more;
Once more I hear the waves' harmonious strife;
Once more, upon the mountain coast of Fife,
I see the checker'd lights and shadows fall.
Upon the sand crumbles the ruin'd wall
That guards no more the desolate demesne,
And the deserted mansion. High between
The summer clouds the Ochil hills arise;
And far, far, like a shadow in the skies,
Ben Lomond tow'rs aloft in sovereign height.
O Cramond beach! are thy sands still as bright—
Thy waters still as sunny,—thy wild shore
As lonely and as lovely as of yore?—
Haunts of my happy time! as wandering back
Along my life, on memory's faithful track,
How fair ye seem,—how fair, how dear ye are!
Ye need not to be gazed at from afar;
Deceptive distance lends no brighter hue;
Your beauty and your peacefulness were true.
Not yours the charms from which we wearied stray,
And own them only when they're far away.
Oh, be ye blest for all the happiness
Which I have known in your wild loneliness.
Old sea, whose voice yet chimes upon my ear,—
Old paths, whose every winding step was dear,—
Dark, rocky promontories,—echoing caves,
Worn hollow by the white feet of the waves,—
Blue, lake-like waters,—legend-haunted isle,
Over ye all bright be the summer's smile;
And gently fall the winter on your breast,
Haunts of my youth, my memory's place of rest.

O hearts of flesh! O beating hearts of love!
O twining hands of human dear desire!—
How, when your glorious mate begins to move,
How shall ye follow those wide wings of fire
That bear him up? Ah! to the chariot wheels,
That wrap the child of genius to the sky,
Breathless ye cling till round the great world reels,
And ye fall fainting down despairingly!
Bleeding and blind ye fall, and still his flight,
Serene and strong, is upward to the light,
Nearer the sun and farther yet from ye,
Kindred alone of his mortality.
Awhile he stood beside ye, and awhile
His tender eyes, and lovely loving smile,
Made you believe he was indeed your brother:
But deep within that being lay another
Fearful as fair, no simple son of earth,
Of all created things the wondrous birth;
Immortal, Infinite, born to inherit
Matter, and mind, and sense, and subtlest spirit.
Lo! ye have called this King of all creation
Your fellow, and forgot the heaven-high station
Whence he must gather his great revenue:
Past, Present, Future, all things old and new,
All things in earth and heaven to him belong;
And in the pæans of his conquering song
Love is but one sweet chord, one single verse,
In the great chorus of the universe;
Which, with a voice resounding and sublime,
He utters forth unto all space and time.
O piteous, precious, hapless, human love!
Thou shalt be reaped by this bright son of Jove.
One flower 'mid the whole harvest of the world—
And when his mighty wings are gently furled,
Upon his heart thou shalt lie tenderly;
But when the summons of his destiny
Calls to him through the ages to awake,
One heavenward spring the drooping bud shall shake
Back to the earth, where it shall withering lie
In the broad light of Immortality.

Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world
Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled,
On which the day soared to the sunny west:
The moon sits calmly like a soul at rest,
Looking upon the never-resting earth;
All things in heaven wait on the solemn birth
Of night, but where has fled the happy dream
That at this hour, last night, our life did seem?
Where are the mountains with their tangled hair,
The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair?
Where are the shadows of the solemn hills,
And the fresh music of the summer rills?
Where are the wood-paths, winding, long, and steep,
And the great, glorious river, broad and deep,
And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet,
And the wild torrent's snowy, leaping feet,
The rustling, rocking boughs, the running streams,—
Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but dreams?
And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone,
That from the mountain-side came dancing down?
The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes,
The happy hearts, the human paradise,
The youth, the love, the life that revelled here,—
Are they too gone?—Upon Time's shadowy bier,
The pale, cold hours of joys now past are laid,
Perhaps not soon from memory's gaze to fade,
But never to be reckoned o'er again,
In all life's future store of bliss and pain.
From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart,
Youth flies—love dies—and from the joyous heart
Hope's gushing fountain ebbs too soon away,
Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day,
When from the barren waste of after life,
The weariness, the worldliness, the strife,
The soul looks o'er the desert of its way
To the green gardens of its early day:
The paradise, for which we vainly mourn,
The heaven, to which our lingering eyes still turn,
To which our footsteps never shall return.

I look along the dusty dreary way,
So lately strew'd with blossoms fresh and gay,—
The sweet procession of the year is past,
And wither'd whirling leaves run rattling fast,
Like throngs of tatter'd beggars following
Where late went by the pageant of a king.

First came the forward darlings of the Spring,
Snowdrops, and violets, and daisies white,
And hanging cowslips, and each fragrant thing
Whose waking wakes the season of delight,—
The year's faint smiles before its burst of mirth,
The soft sweet breathing babies of the earth,
Close to her warm brown bosom nestling in,
That the wild winds take laughing by the chin;
Then flush'd the silver glory of the May,
And like a bride the Spring was led away.

Summer's lithe daughters followed flaunting gay,
Mingling their odours with the new-mown hay,
The rosy eglantine, smooth, silken-cheek'd,
And amber honeysuckle, crimson-streak'd;

Then the prim privet with her ivory bloom,
Like a pale maiden sister, filled their room
With blue-green leaves, and almond bitter breath,
Thrusting her dainty spices up underneath.
Brown thorny arches sprinkled with the rose,
Whiter than chalk that on the wild brier grows,
And the cream-colour'd crumbling elder flower,
Garlanded o'er with starry virgin's bow'r,
Piled the green hedgerows with their heaps of bloom,
And buried the deep lanes in fragrant gloom.

Autumn, with shining berries black and red,
And glossy curl'd clematis bound his head;
Over his russet cloak the wild hops pale
With golden corn and scarlet poppies trail,
And waving down his mane of tawny hair,
Hangs purple poison-flow'r, the Lady Fair.

Of all the lovely train he was the last,
And with him all the pageant bright hath past,
And in its path, scour'd by the whimpering wind,
Gray shapeless Winter shuffles close behind.

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed
Those we let fall over the silent dead?
Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom,
Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb?
Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave,
Round which the slender, sunny grass-blades wave?
Whom are ye calling back to tread again
This weary walk of life? towards whom, in vain,
Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised;
The young, the loved, the honoured, and the praised?
Come hither;—look upon the faded cheek
Of that still woman, who with eyelids meek
Veils her most mournful eyes;—upon her brow
Sometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow,
When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly tear,
But patience oftener sits palely there.
Beauty has left her—hope and joy have long
Fled from her heart, yet she is young, is young;
Has many years, as human tongues would tell,
Upon the face of this blank earth to dwell.
Looks she not sad? 'tis but a tale of old,
Told o'er and o'er, and ever to be told,

The hourly story of our every day,
Which when men hear they sigh and turn away;
A tale too trite almost to find an ear,
A woe too common to deserve a tear.
She is the daughter of a distant land;—
Her kindred are far off;—her maiden hand,
Sought for by many, was obtained by one
Who owned a different birth-land from her own.
But what recked she of that? as low she knelt
Breathing her marriage vows, her fond heart felt,
'For thee, I give up country, home, and friends;
Thy love for each, for all, shall make amends;'
And was she loved?—perishing by her side
The children of her bosom drooped and died;
The bitter life they drew from her cold breast
Flickered and failed;—she laid them down to rest:
Two pale young blossoms in their early sleep;
And weeping, said, 'They have not lived to weep.'
And weeps she yet? no, to her weary eyes,
The bliss of tears her frozen heart denies;
Complaint, or sigh, breathes not upon her lips,
Her life is one dark, fatal, deep eclipse.
Lead her to the green grave where ye have laid
The creature that ye mourn;—let it be said:
'Here love, and youth, and beauty, are at rest!'
She only sadly murmurs, 'Blest!—most blest!'
And turns from gazing, lest her misery
Should make her sin, and pray to Heaven to die.

The blossoms hang again upon the tree,
As when with their sweet breath they greeted me
Against my casement, on that sunny morn,
When thou, first blossom of my spring, wast born,
And as I lay, panting from the fierce strife
With death and agony that won thy life,
Their snowy clusters hung on their brown bough,
E'en as upon my breast, my May-bud, thou.
They seem to me thy sisters, O my child!
And now the air, full of their fragrance mild,
Recalls that hour; a tenfold agony
Pulls at my heart-strings, as I think of thee.
Was it in vain! Oh, was it all in vain!
That night of hope, of terror, and of pain,
When from the shadowy boundaries of death,
I brought thee safely, breathing living breath
Upon my heart—it was a holy shrine.
Full of God's praise—they laid thee, treasure mine
And from its tender depths the blue heaven smiled,
And the white blossoms bowed to thee, my child,
And solemn joy of a new life was spread,
Like a mysterious halo round that bed.
And now how is it, since eleven years
Have steeped that memory in bitterest tears?
Alone, heart-broken, on a distant shore,
Thy childless mother sits lamenting o'er
Flowers, which the spring calls from this foreign earth,
Thy twins, that crowned the morning of thy birth.
How is it with thee—lost—lost—precious one!
In thy fresh spring-time growing up alone?
What warmth unfolds thee?—what sweet dews are shed,
Like love and patience over thy young head?
What holy springs feed thy deep inner life?
What shelters thee from passion's deadly strife?
What guards thy growth, straight, strong, and full and free,
Lovely and glorious, O my fair young tree?
God—Father—Thou—who by this awful fate
Hast lopped, and stripped, and left me desolate!
In the dark bitter floods that o'er my soul
Their billows of despair triumphant roll,
Let me not be o'erwhelmed!—Oh, they are thine,
These jewels of my life—not mine—not mine!
So keep them, that the blossoms of their youth
Shall, in a gracious growth of love and truth,
With an abundant harvest honour Thee:
And bless the blight which Thou hast sent on me;
Withering and blasting, though it seem to fall,
Let it not, O my Father! drink up all
My spirit's sap—so from this fate shall grow
The palm branch for my hand and for my brow,
With which, a hopeful pilgrim, I may tread
The shadowy path where rest awhile the dead,
Ere they rise up, a glorious company,
To find their lost ones, and to worship Thee!

Early in life, when hope seems prophecy,
And strong desire can sometimes mould a fate,
My dream was of thy shores, O Italy!
Of thy blue deep, that even for a while
Will not forsake its spicy pine-girt beaches;
Of the unuttered glories of thy sky,
Of the unnumbered beauties of thy earth,
And all the immortal memories, that rest
For ever like an atmosphere above thee.
Thus towards the south my spirit's flight was turned,
For ever with the yearning of one born there,
And nursed upon its warm and fragrant bosom;
Awhile the sunny dream shut out all else,
And filled the horizon of my contemplations.
Slowly, and by degrees, the toiling years
Breathed o'er the bright illusion, dimming it,—
And gathered close about me sterner things.
The graceful lines, the gorgeous hues, the forms
Of grandeur and of beauty that my thoughts
Had dwelt amidst, as in their proper home,
Melted and faded—broke, dissolved away,

Till the last, lovely, lingering trace had vanished,
And I forgot to hope it might return.
Across an ocean—not thy sapphire waves,
O Mediterranean, sea of memories!
But the dark marble ridges of th' Atlantic,
Destiny led me—not to thy bright shores,
Ausonia, but that wondrous wilderness,
That other world, where Hope supreme beholds
All things unshaped—one huge eventful promise.
Ah, not to thee, thou treasure-house of Art,
Thou trophy-loaded Temple of the Past,
Hung with triumphant spoils of all the ages!
But to that land where Expectation stands,
All former things behind her—and before
The unfathomed brightness of Futurity,
Rolling its broad waves to the feet of God.
Upon that distant shore, a dream more fair
Than the imaginations of my youth
Awhile entranced me; lightning-like it fled,
And I remained utterly desolate.
Love had departed; Youth, too, had departed;
Hope had departed; and my life before me
Lay covered with the ashes of the Past,—
Dark, barren, cold, drear, flinty, colourless.
As through the cheerless gray of waning night,
When its black veils wear thin and part like film,
Beautiful light, like life, begins to glow,
And the great picture of the earth is sketched
Faintly upon the canvas of the dark,
Brighter and brighter growing, as the day
Holds its great torch against God's masterpiece,
Till the whole work in perfect glory shines:
So rose once more that southern vision's splendour
Upon the cheerless twilight of my fate;
The last grim pages of my book of life,
Filled with a mean and grinding martyrdom,
Washed with unceasing tears at length gave back
The nobler legend written on my youth.
Again, again, the glowing shapes returned;
Again, the lovely lines like magic drew me;
Again the splendour of the southern heavens
Shed rosy light and golden glories round me,
And Art and Nature, twins immortal, stood
Upon the threshold of earth's Paradise,
And waved me towards it. And at last I came,—
But with a broken heart and tear-dimmed eyes,
And such a woful weight of misery laden
As well might challenge the great ministry
Of the whole universe, to comfort it.
Thus did I seek thy shores, O Italy!
Land—not of promise—but of consolation;
Not in that season of my life, when life
Itself was rich enough for all its need,
And I yet held its whole inheritance;
But in the bankrupt days when all is spent,
Bestowed, or stolen, wasted, given away,
To buy a store of bitter memories:
In the first hour of lengthening evening shadows,
When Resolution on life's summit stands,
Looks back on all its brightness, and looks forward
Through gathering downward darkness to the grave.
Hail, then, most fair, most glorious, long desired—
Long dreamed of—hoped for—Italy, hail! hail!
I kiss thy earth, weeping with joy, to think
That I, at last, stand on thy sacred soil.

The end is come: in thunder and wild rain
Autumn has stormed the golden house of Summer.
She going—lingers yet—sweet glances throwing
Of kind farewell upon the land she loves
And leaves. No more the sunny landscape glows
In the intense, uninterrupted light
And splendour of transparent, cloudless skies;
No more the yellow plain its tawny hue
Of sunburnt ripeness wears; even at noon
Thick watery veils fall on the mountain ranges,
And the white sun-rays, with pale slanting brushes,
Paint rainbows on the leaden-coloured storms.
Through milky, opal clouds the lightning plays,
Visible presence of that hidden power—
Mysterious soul of the great universe,
Whose secret force runs in red, human veins,
And in the glaring, white veins of the tempest,
Uplifts the hollow earth, the shifting sea;
Makes stormy reformations in the sky,
Sweeping, with searching besoms of sharp winds,
The foul and stagnant chambers of the air,
Where the thick, heavy, summer vapours slumber;

And, working in the sap of all still-growth,
In moonlight nights, unfolding leaves and blossoms;
Of all created life the vital element
Appearing still in fire—whether in the sea,
When its blue waves turn up great swaths of stars;
Or in the glittering, sparkling, winter ice world;
Or in the flickering white and crimson flames,
That leap in the northern sky; or in the sparks
Of love or hate, that flash in human eyes.
Lo, now, from day to day, and hour to hour,
Broad verdant shadows grow upon the land,
Cooling the burning landscape; while the clouds,
Disputing with the sun his heaven-dominion,
Chequer the hill-sides with fantastic shadows.
The glorious unity of light is gone,
The triumph of those bright and boundless skies;
Where, through all visible space, the eye met nothing
Save infinite brightness—glory infinite.
No more at evening does the sun dissolve
Into a heaving sea of molten gold;
While over it a heaven of molten gold
Panted, with light and heat intensely glowing,
While to the middle height of the pure ether,
One deepening sapphire from the amber spreads.
Now trains of melancholy, gorgeous clouds,
Like mourners at an Emperor's funeral,
Gather round the down-going of the sun;
Dark splendid curtains, with great golden fringes,
Shut up the day; masses of crimson glory,

Pale lakes of blue, studded with fiery islands,
Bright golden bars, cold peaks of slaty rock,
Mountains of fused amethyst and copper,
Fierce flaming eyes, with black o'erhanging brows,
Light floating curls of brown and golden hair,
And rosy flushes, like warm dreams of love,
Make rich and wonderful the dying day,
That, like a wounded dolphin, on the shore
Of night's black waves, dies in a thousand glories.
These are the very clouds that now put out
The serene beauty of the summer heavens.
The autumn sun hath virtue yet, to make
Right royal hangings for his sky-tent of them;
But, as the days wear on, and he grows faint,
And pale, and colourless, these are the clouds
That, like cold shrouds, shall muffle up the year,
Shut out the lovely blue, and draw round all—
Plain, hill, and sky—one still, chill wintry gray.

The end is come; the golden links are parting,
That in one chain of happy circumstance,
And gentle, friendly, human fellowship,
Bound many hearts for many a day together.
The precious bond dissolves; one friend departs
With the departing summer, and the end,
Ominous of the loss of all, begins:
Here it begins; with these first feet, that turn
From walking in the paths of daily life,
Where hand in hand, with peace and joy, all walked.

And now, from day to day, and hour to hour,
The brightness of our summer-life grows dim;
The voice that speaks to us from far already,
Soon in the distance shall be heard no more.
The perfect circle of this pleasant life
Hath lost its form—type of eternity—
And lies upon the earth a broken ring,
Token and type of every earthly thing.
Our sun of pleasure hastens towards the west,
But the green freshness of fair memories
Lives over these bright days for evermore;
The chequered lights, the storms of circumstance,
Shall sweep between us and their happy hours,
But not to efface them. O thou wealthy Past,
Thine are our treasures!—thine and ours alone
Through thee: the Present doth in fear rejoice;
The Future, but in fantasy: but thou
Holdest secure for ever and for ever
The bliss that has been ours; nor present woe,
Nor future dread, can touch that heritage
Of joy gone by—the only joy we own.

WRITTEN FOR THE 22 OF AUGUST 1834—THE BERKSHIRE JUBILEE.


Darkness upon the mountain and the vale—
Forest and field are bathed in dewy sleep,
And the night angels vigil o'er them keep.
No sound, no motion; over hill and dale,
A calm and lovely Death seems to embrace
Earth's fairest realms, and heaven's unmeasured space.

The dark wood slumbers; leaf, and branch, and bough,
High feathery crest, and lowliest grassy blade;
All restless wandering wings are folded now,
That swept the sky, and in the sunshine played.
The lake's wild waves rest in their rocky bowl,
Harmonious silence breathes from nature's soul,
And night's wide star-sown wings brood o'er the whole.
In the deep trance of the hushed universe
The dark death-mystery doth man rehearse.
Now for awhile, cease the swift thoughts to run
From task to task—tired labour, overdone,

With lighter toil than that of brain or heart,
In the sweet pause of outward life takes part;
And hope, and fear,—desire, love, joy, and sorrow,
Wait, 'neath sleep's downy wings, the coming morrow.
Peace upon earth, profoundest peace in heaven,
Praises the God of Peace, by whom 'tis given.

But hark! the woody depths of green Begin to stir,
Light thrills of life creep fresh between Oak, beech, and fir—
Faint rustling sounds of trembling leaves Whisper around,
The world at waking slowly heaves A sigh profound.
And showers of tears, Night gathered in her eyes,
Fall from fair Nature's face as she doth rise.

A ripple roughens on the lake,
The cradled lilies shivering wake,
Small crisping waves lift themselves up and break Along the laurelled shore;
And woods and waters, answering each other, make Silence no more.
And lo! the East turns pale—
Night's dusky veil Thinner and thinner grows;
Till the bright morning star
From hill to hill, afar,

His fire glance throws.
Gold streaks run through the sky,
Higher, and yet more high,
The glory streams—
Flushes of rosy hue,
Long lines of palest blue,
And amber gleams.
From the green valleys rise
The silver mists like spray,
Catch and give back the ray
In opal dyes;
Light floods the sky, light pours upon the earth,
In glorious light the joyful day takes birth.

Hail to the day that brings ye home,
Ye distant wand'rers from the mountain land!
Hail to the day that bids ye come
Again upon your native hills to stand!
Hail, hail! from rocky peak,
And wood-embowered dale,
A thousand voices welcome speak,
Hail, home-turned pilgrims, hail!
Oh welcome! from the meadow and the hill Glad greetings rise,
From flowing river, and from bounding rill,
Smooth sunny field, and gloomy wood-depth still,
And the sharp thunder-splintered crag, that strikes
Its rocky spikes,
Into the skies;

Gray Lock, cloud-girdled, from his purple throne
A shout of gladness sends,
And up soft meadow slopes, a warbling tone
The Housatonic blends.

Welcome, ye absent long, and distant far!
Who from the roof-tree of your childhood turned,
Have waged 'mid strangers life's relentless war,
While at your hearts the ancient home-love burned.
Ye that have ploughed the barren, briny foam,
And reaped hard fortunes from the stormy sea,
The golden grain-fields rippling round your home,
Roll their ripe billows from fierce tempests free.
Ye, from those western deadly blooming fields
Where Pestilence in Plenty's bosom lies,
The sterner rock-soil of your mountains yields
Health's rosy blossoms, to these purer skies.
And ye, who on the accursèd southern plain,
Barren, not fruitful, with the sweat of slaves,
Have breathed awhile the tainted air in pain,
'Mid human forms, their spirits' living graves,
Here fall the fetters—by his cottage door,
Lord of the lordliest life, each dweller stands,
Lifting to God, as did his sires of yore,
A heart of love, and free laborious hands.

On each bold granite peak, and forest crest,
Each stony hill-path, and each lake's smooth shore,
Blessings of noble exiled patriots rest,

Liberty's altars are they evermore.
And on this air there lingers yet the tone
Of those last sacred words to freedom given,
The parting utterance of that holy one,

Whose spirit from these mountains rose to Heaven.
Ye that have prospered, bearing hence with ye
The virtues that command prosperity,
To the green threshold of your youth oh come,
And hang your trophies round your early home.
Ye that have suffered, and whose weary eyes
Have turned with sadness to your happier years,
Come to the fountain of sweet memories,
And by its healing waters dry your tears.
Ye that departed young, and old return,
Ye who went forth with hope, and hopeless come,—
If still unquenched within your hearts hath burned
The sacred love and longing for your home—

Hail, hail!
Bright hill and dale
With mirth resound;
Join in the joyful strain,
Ye have not wept in vain,
The parted meet again,
The lost are found!

And may God guard thee, O thou lovely land!
Evil, nor danger, nigh thy borders come!
Green towers of freedom may thy hills still stand,
Still be thy valleys peace and virtue's home;
The blessing of the stranger rest on thee,
Unmoved as Heaven be thy prosperity!

Through Thuringia's forest green
The Landgraff rode at close of e'en;
Huntsmen and hounds were left behind,
While following fierce a dappled hind;
And though the day grew thick apace,
The brave steed distanced in the chase,
Still by his rider urged amain,
While daylight served, to reach the plain,
Sped through the mazes of the wood;
The crimson light like drops of blood
Sprinkled upon the foliage lay;
And through green arches far away
Some sudden gaps let in the light,
And made the rough old tree-trunks bright.
Fast sped the steed, but still more fast
The fiery steeds of heaven sped on;
Oak, glade, and hazel copse flew past,
But the red sunlight all was gone:
Twilight's dim shadows gathered round,
With light departed every sound;
The sudden strain of some late bird
From the high boughs no more was heard;
And, save the thundering hoofs that ring
Along the path, and fluttering wing
Of bats low flying through the gray,
Deep solemn silence sealed the day:
One after one, the twisted form
Of each huge chestnut tree grew dim,
And with the blackness of a storm,
The coming night looked wild and grim.
With slower step, and head bent low,
The gallant steed went forward now;
Quoth the good Landgraff, in his mind,
'To-night we shall no shelter find,
But thou and I, old horse, shall lie
Beneath the oak tent of the wood;
Keen hunter, even of lineage high,
Finds red-brown moss a pillow good.'
Just then, a sudden ruddy glare,
Streamed from the forest depths of green;
The Landgraff gave a lusty cheer,
Well pleased the light to see, I ween;
And with a hopeful snort, the steed
Sprang on with fresh-awakened speed.
From a low smithy lined with light,
The red glow poured upon the night;
And that which, when beheld afar,
Shone like a friendly twinkling star,
Searched every nook and cranny round;
Showed each brown leaf upon the ground;
Each ivy snake's fine hairy feet,
Climbing the pine-shafts gray and stern—
Great golden oak-boughs spread and meet
Above a sea of golden fern;
The foaming brook all glancing bright,
In golden waves went rolling by;
From the low roof a jet of light
Sprang upwards to the murky sky:
The fierce flames roared, the bellows blew,
Round a red rain of fire-sparks flew;
The sweat fell from the stout smith's brow,
And ever with each stalwart blow,
He cried, 'O Landgraff, grow thou hard!'—
Amazed, the wondering Landgraff heard;
And stepping forth out of the night
Into the smithy's ruddy light,
He and his horse together stood,
Like shadowy demons of the wood.
'Good friend,' quoth he, 'I've lost my way,
Here in the forest, and I pray
That thou wilt suffer me to rest,
Till by the sky I guess the east.'
The toil-worn workman wiped his brow;
He pointed to a settle low,
And to his humble pallet bed:—
'To all I have, welcome!' he said—
'Thy horse must stable in the wood;
The water of the brook is good;
Here is the black loaf that I eat,
To work and weariness 'tis sweet.'
And then, without another word,
He cried, 'O Landgraff, grow thou hard!'—
And struck the iron bar amain—
The furious sparks flew forth again;
And thus he wrought, and thus he prayed,
Till, the stout bar of iron made,
He paused awhile, with panting breast,
And sat him down beside his guest,
Who cried, 'Good friend, I prithee say,
Wherefore thus strangely thou dost pray.'
'Oh, sir,' replied the brawny man,
'To pray and pray is all we can;
Our Earl is good, may God reward
His gentleness, and make him hard;
He loves the poor, he grinds us not;
He leaves us all a peaceful lot,
And were there none between his grace
And the poor vassal's down-trod race,
His people's were a blessed case:
But between us poor men and him,
A tribe of barons, hard and grim,
Harrow and drive, and strip and spoil,
The wretched tillers of the soil;
And the great God, who out of heaven
The charge of us, His poor, hath given
To princes, who our rights should guard,
Make towards these fiends our Landgraff hard;
And save us through His mighty hand
From these destroyers of the land:
Because our Earl is mild and good,
This greedy, bloody, wolfish brood
Make us a people most ill-starred,
So, great God, make our Landgraff hard!'
They both sat silent, while the brook
With rippling voice the burden took,
And seemed to echo back the word,
'Oh, great God, make our Landgraff hard!'—
'Hast thou no wife, hast thou no child
To cheer thee in this forest wild?'—
'I had two children and a wife,'
The smith replied, 'to cheer my life—
I saw my boy borne past my door
Bound to a stag all streaming gore,
Followed by devilish men and hounds,
Because within the forest bounds
Of Ravenstein a fawn he found,
And lifted dying from the ground.
A forester of Ravenstein
Strove with him once, and fared the worse,
And sware that luckless boy of mine
Should live that fatal day to curse.
I saw him hunted through the wood,
And tracked him by the streaks of blood,
To where the fern banks hide the river;
But after that I saw him—never.
I had a daughter,—God be praised!
She to a distant town is gone,
A fair, fair girl!'—His hand he raised
And wiped the big tears, one by one,
From his brown face—'To let her go
I was right glad—'twas better so.
The wicked Lord of Falconsheight
Met her one morning by the brook;
She told her mother of his look
And loathsome words, as wild with fright
She fled away; that very night,
Like God's good angel, through the glade
A young companion of my trade
Came travelling by—short time he stayed,
And when he went, took hence the maid.
We gave our darling child to him,
And saved her so from shame.'—The dim
Red embers on the anvil showed
The fierce and fiery flush that glowed
Over the swart smith's knotted brow:
'Their mother pined away—and now,
I am alone;' he said, and rose—
Fast flew the sparks, fast fell the blows,
But neither said another word,
Save as the hammer fell with might,
From time to time, through the whole night
The prayer: 'Oh, make our Landgraff hard!'
The daylight dawned; the Landgraff rode
From the smith's cottage in the wood,
And through Thuringia, far and wide,
From that day forth was checked the pride
Of the fierce barons,—while the poor,
From wrong and cruelty secure,
Praised the good Earl, whose just command
With might and mercy ruled the land.

A BRITISH TRANSPORT VESSEL LOST ON THE COAST OF AFRICA.
A BALLAD.


As well as I am able, I'll relate how it befell,
And I trust, sirs, you'll excuse me, if I do not speak it well.
I've lived a hard and wandering life, serving our gracious Queen,
And have nigh forgot my schooling since a soldier I have been.

But however in my untaught speech the tale I tell may thrive,
I shall see the scene before me, to the latest day I live;
And sometimes I have scarce the heart to thank God for saving me,
When I think of my poor comrades, who went down in that dreadful sea,
And my brother's drowning eyes and voice, as a monstrous swirling wave
Rolled him right across my arms, 'twas his winding sheet and grave—

God forgive me! but I wish he had been saved instead of me,
He was a better, braver man than ever I shall be.

The night was still and silent, and the stars shone overhead,
And all were sleeping in the ship, who in one hour were dead.
A heavy swell was rolling in upon the treacherous shore,
And the steersman steered off from the coast, four miles, and barely four.
Six hundred sleeping souls relied upon that helmsman's care,
Poor wretch! the sea has saved him from a terrible despair!
For in that still and starlight night, on that smooth and silent sea,
He sent four hundred sleeping men straight to eternity;
He drove the ship upon the rocks that stretch the waves beneath,
It has been called Point Danger—it should be the Reef of Death.

I was dreaming of old Scotland, the home of my boyish years,
And the sound of the village bagpipe was droning in my ears;
And across the purple heath, behind a screen of fir and oak,
I saw from our low chimney curl the silver blue peat smoke;

My foot was on the door-stone, and my hand was on the lock,
And I heard my mother's voice within—when, suddenly, a shock
Went shuddering through the whole ship's frame, and then a grinding sound,
And the cry was heard above, below, 'Back her! she is aground!'
We heard the water rushing, whence or where we did not know,
And every face was darkened with terror and with woe;
But our officers did all that brave gentlemen could do,
And the sailors did their duty,—they were a gallant crew!
And we poor soldiers, too, sirs, I dare think, did all we could,
We had thought to die upon dry land, not choke in the weltering flood,
But steady, as if we had been on our old parading ground,
We stood till she went to pieces,—and the most of us were drowned.
With the first shock the word was given to put the engine back,
For we saw, when the sea was sucked away, where the reef lay, bare and black,
Right underneath the poor ship's prow, huge, hard, and without motion,
Beneath the sweltering, seething surf, of the restless, rolling ocean;

And it was terrible to hear the engine heave and throb,
Like the huge heart of a giant, with a sound like a heavy sob;
And it cast its shining arms aloft, and the wheels began to turn,
And the mad waves flashed, and whirled, and hissed, as they felt the strong ship spurn.
Another stroke, and we were off—but the black reef's stony teeth,
Had bitten through her iron ribs, and the sea rushed in beneath,
And up and up the water rose, fast, faster yet and higher,
And leapt into our ship's warm heart, and danced above the fire,
The shining arms fell motionless, and stopped the mighty breath,
And the mad waves sucked us back again, into the jaws of death.

Like horses plunging on the reef, we could see them through the dark,
The flying of their wild white manes made a long and shining mark,
And beyond where the rolling blackness, ridge upon ridge was tost,
Not four miles off, how near, and yet how distant! was the coast.
And now there came another shock, with a hideous crashing sound,
The ship broke right in half—and whirling madly round and round,

Half was sucked down before our eyes, and the water far and near,
Was strewed with hapless, helpless men, whose cries of pain and fear
Drove us wild with terror and with grief, as we stood upon the wreck,
The shivering, shattered, slippery planks, of that miserable deck.

Our wives and children in the boats had been lowered from the side,
And through the dark we heard them, as their wild farewells they cried;
And many a brave man's heart grew sick, as silently he stood,
And heard those bitter wailings rise and sink with the heaving flood:
But not one foot was stirred, and not one hand was raised to fly,
We were bid to stand there on that deck—and we stood still there to die.

At length word of command was given: 'Save yourselves all who can,'
And then, and not till then, away broke every boy and man,
When a loud voice, like an angel's, rose above the infernal din,
'Don't swamp your wives and children, hold back, if you are men!'

We looked into each other's eyes—the boats put off to shore—
And suddenly above my head I felt the billows pour.

I threw my arms abroad to swim—and found that they were cast
(Lord what a gripe I closed them with!) around our gallant mast:
As up the blessed shaft I clomb, shouting in frenzied glee,
The mad waves' thundering voices seemed to call alone for me;
But along the high main-topsail yard I climbed, and crawled, and clung,
And out into the empty night, over the sea I swung;
And others followed in the dark, that fearful, slippery way,
And there we held, and hung, and prayed, for the dear light of day;
And pray you, sirs, that never you may count such hideous hours,
Or know the agony and dread of those speechless prayers of ours.

All in a heap our limbs were twined, holding by one another,
And one man clutched my right arm fast, alas! 'twas not my brother;
I wound my hands around the spar, tight, tight, with the grip of Death,
And in my mortal fear I seized the wood fast in my teeth;

And as each high wave struck the mast, and shook us to and fro,
We could see the sharks' white bellies turn in the sea below.

Just as the day was breaking, I grew dizzy, faint, and sick,
And I heard the man who held me breathing heavily and quick,
His limbs slid slowly down, while with one hand he still did clasp
My arm, and I felt it yielding in the dead man's fatal grasp,
I flung it loose, still holding by one arm alone, while he,
With a heavy plunge fell fathoms down, into the churning sea—
He was dead, sirs, he was dead, yet my eyes grew glazed and dim
With horror, for I felt as if I just had murdered him,
And with that thought my wits gave way, for 'twas followed by another,
At which I shrieked aloud—that I had cast away my brother.

And this is all that I can tell—for I saw and heard no more
Till life came into me again, as I lay upon the shore;
I and a few poor fellows that a boat had fetched away,
By God's grace, from that direful mast, with the blessed light of day.
Our eyes were full of tears, as we looked towards the fatal reef,
Where above the surf the swinging yard seemed to beckon for relief,

For our comrades who lay rolling all round the sunken mast,—
They were brave fellows, sirs, and did their duty to the last:
And I hope that I may say it without unbecoming pride,
There are gallant soldiers, well I know, in many a land beside,
But I think that none but Englishmen like those men would have died.