Frances Anne Kemble: Verses about Water

If thou wert standing by yon tide,
And I were standing by thy side,
Methinks a death I could contrive,
Pleasanter than the life I live.
For I would lay me at thy feet,
And like a snowy winding-sheet,
The foaming fringes of the sea
Should roll themselves all over me,
And draw me but a little way
Into that cradle huge and gray,
And rock me all so tenderly,
And sing one sobbing lullaby,
And then unwind their foldings deep,
And lay me gently, fast asleep,
At thy dear feet, where I would lie
And sleep through all eternity.

Come fill the can again, boys,
One parting glass, one parting glass;
Ere we shall meet again, boys,
Long years may pass, long years may pass.
We'll drink the gallant bark, boys,
That's borne us through, that's borne us through,
Bright waves and billows dark, boys,
Our ship and crew, our ship and crew.
We'll drink those eyes that bright, boys,
With smiling ray, with smiling ray,
Have shone like stars to light, boys,
Our wat'ry way, our wat'ry way.
We'll drink our English home, boys,
Our fatherland, our fatherland,
And the shores to which we're come, boys,
A sister strand, a sister strand.

Why art thou weeping
Over the happy, happy dead,
Who are gone away,
From this life of clay,
From this fount of tears,
From this burthen of years,
From sin, from sorrow,
From sad 'to-morrow,'
From struggling and creeping:
Why art thou weeping,
O fool, for the dead?

Why art thou weeping,
Over the steadfast faithful dead,
Who can never change,
Nor grow cold and strange,
Nor turn away,
In a single day,
From the love they bore,
And the faith they swore,
Who are true for ever,
Will slight thee never,

But love thee still,
Through good and ill,
With the constancy
Of eternity:
Why art thou weeping,
O fool, for the dead?

They are your only friends;
For where this foul life ends,
Alone beginneth truth, and love, and faith;
All which sweet blossoms are preserved by death.

Night in her dark array
Steals o'er the ocean,
And with departed day
Hushed seems its motion.
Slowly o'er yon blue coast
Onward she's treading,
Till its dark line is lost,
'Neath her veil spreading.
The bark on the rippling deep
Hath found a pillow,
And the pale moonbeams sleep
On the smooth billow.
Bound by her emerald zone
Venice is lying,
And round her marble crown
Night winds are sighing.
From the high lattice now
Bright eyes are gleaming,
That seem on night's dark brow,
Brighter stars beaming.
Now o'er the blue lagune
Light barks are dancing,
And 'neath the silver moon
Swift oars are glancing.
Strains from the mandolin
Steal o'er the water,
Echo replies between
To mirth and laughter.
O'er the wave seen afar
Brilliantly shining,
Gleams like a fallen star
Venice reclining.

In visions countless as the golden motes
That dance upon the sun's earth-kissing beams,
A phantom haunts my life, an image floats
Through my day-thoughts, and through my midnight dreams,
Clothed in a thousand forms which fancy traces
With quick creation, and as soon effaces.
Sometimes, it slowly sweeps in silence by,
Beneath some long Ionian colonnade,
Through whose far vista I behold it fade,
Girlish in form, in bearing sad and high.
Sometimes, in some removèd chamber lone,
Where the sun's mellow radiance is thrown
Around it, in a thousand varying hues,
That melt and glow, it seems to sit and muse.
Sometimes, upon a gray and stony shore,
The lonely figure strays distractedly,
Or stands, and gazes the wide water o'er,
Stretching its arms above the cruel sea.
And all this while, I never see the face
Of this close haunting shape, that follows me;
And vainly do I strive, and pray for grace,
To know if what I think it is—it be.
Then with an accent by despair made wild,
I call aloud upon thy name, my child,
And I behold thine eyes—and suddenly
I'm in the dark of utter misery.

With these two kisses on thine eyes
I melt thy sleep away—arise!
For look, my love, Phœbus his golden hand
Hath laid upon the white mane of the sea,
And springing from the fresh brine gloriously,
He glances keen o'er the long level strand.
Now come his horses up, all snorting fire,
The lovely morning hours, hymning their choir
Of triumph, circle round the royal sun,
And the bright pageant of the day's begun.
Come, let me lock in mine thy hand,
And pace we with swift feet this smooth and sparkling sand.
See, how the swollen ridges of the waves
Curl into crystal caves,
Rising and rounding,
Rolling, rebounding,
Echoing, resounding,
And running into curves of creamy spray,
Mark, with white wavy lines, the far-indented bay.
The little bark, that, by the sheltering shore,
Folded her wings, and rocked herself to sleep,
Shakes out her pinions to the breeze once more,
And, like a swallow, dips, and skims the deep.
Hail, welcome day! hail, miracle of light!
Hail, wondrous resurrection from the night!
Hail, glorious earth! hail ocean, fearful fair!
Hail ye sweet kisses of fresh morning air!
Hail thou! my love, my life, my air, my light,
Soul of my day! my morning, noon, and night!

Dear, yet forbidden thoughts, that from my soul,
While shines the weary sun, with stern control
I drive away; why, when my spirits lie
Shrouded in the cold sleep of misery,
Do ye return, to mock me with false dreaming,
Where love, and all life's happiness is beaming?
O visions fair! that one by one have gone
Down, 'neath the dark horizon of my days;
Let not your pale reflection linger on
In the bleak sky, where live no more your rays.
Night! silent nurse, that with thy solemn eyes
Hang'st o'er the rocking cradle of the world,
Oh! be thou darker to my dreaming eyes;
Nor, in my slumbers, be the past unfurl'd.
Haunt me no more with whisperings from the dead,
The dead in heart, the changed, the withered:
Bring me no more sweet blossoms from my spring,
Which round my soul their early fragrance fling,
And, when the morning, with chill icy start,
Wakes me, hang blighted round my aching heart:
O night and slumber, be ye visionless,
Dark as the grave, deep as forgetfulness!
Night, thou shalt nurse me, but be sure, good nurse,
While sitting by my bed, that thou art silent,
I will not let thee sing me to my slumbers
With the sweet lullabies of former times,
Nor tell me tales, as other gossips wont,
Of the strange fairy days, that are all gone.

Silence instead of thy sweet song, my bird,
Which through the darkness of my winter days
Warbling of summer sunshine still was heard;
Mute is thy song, and vacant is thy place.

The spring comes back again, the fields rejoice,
Carols of gladness ring from every tree;
But I shall hear thy wild triumphant voice
No more: my summer song has died with thee.

What didst thou sing of, O my summer bird?
The broad, bright, brimming river, whose swift sweep
And whirling eddies by the home are heard,
Rushing, resistless, to the calling deep.

What didst thou sing of, thou melodious sprite?
Pine forests, with smooth russet carpets spread,
Where e'en at noonday dimly falls the light,
Through gloomy blue-green branches overhead.

What didst thou sing of, O thou jubilant soul?
Ever-fresh flowers and never-leafless trees,
Bending great ivory cups to the control
Of the soft swaying, orange scented breeze.

What didst thou sing of, thou embodied glee?
The wide wild marshes with their clashing reeds
And topaz-tinted channels, where the sea
Daily its tides of briny freshness leads.

What didst thou sing of, O thou winged voice?
Dark, bronze-leaved oaks, with silver mosses crowned,
Where thy free kindred live, love, and rejoice,
With wreaths of golden jasmine curtained round.

These didst thou sing of, spirit of delight!
From thy own radiant sky, thou quivering spark!
These thy sweet southern dreams of warmth and light,
Through the grim northern winter drear and dark.

My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side,
When once they turn away, thou Pleasant Water,
Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide,
Will shine the eyes of the White Island's daughter.
But often in my dreams, when I am gone
Beyond the sea that parts thy home and mine,
Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine,
And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on.
And when the burthen of existence lies
Upon my soul, darkly and heavily,
I'll clasp my hands over my weary eyes,
Thou Pleasant Water, and thy clear waves see.
Bright be thy course for ever and for ever,
Child of pure mountain springs, and mountain snow;
And as thou wanderest on to meet the river,
Oh, still in light and music mayst thou flow!
I never shall come back to thee again,
When once my sail is shadowed on the main,
Nor ever shall I hear thy laughing voice
As on their rippling way thy waves rejoice,
Nor ever see the dark green cedar throw
Its gloomy shade o'er the clear depths below,

Never, from stony rifts of granite gray,
Sparkling like diamond rocks in the sun's ray,
Shall I look down on thee, thou pleasant stream,
Beneath whose crystal folds the gold sands gleam;
Wherefore, farewell! but whensoe'er again
The wintry spell melts from the earth and air;
And the young spring comes dancing through thy glen,
With fragrant, flowery breath, and sunny hair;
When through the snow the scarlet berries gleam,
Like jewels strewn upon thy banks, fair stream,
My spirit shall through many a summer's day
Return, among thy peaceful woods to stray.

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.

Walking by moonlight on the golden margin
That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking
Of all the wild imaginings that man
Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with;
Making fair nature's solitary haunts
Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful.
And as the chain of thought grew link by link,
It seemed, as though the midnight heavens waxed brighter,
The stars gazed fix'dly with their golden eyes,
And a strange light played o'er each sleeping billow,
That laid its head upon the sandy beach.
Anon there came along the rocky shore
A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy.
From no one point of heaven, or earth, it came;
But under, over, and about it breathed;
Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure.
It swelled, as though borne on the floating wings
Of the midsummer breeze; it died away
Towards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds,
That one by one melted like flakes of snow
In the moonbeams. Then came a rushing sound,
Like countless wings of bees, or butterflies;
And suddenly, as far as eye might view,
The coast was peopled with a world of elves,
Who in fantastic ringlets danced around,
With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion,
Aimed at the moon. White was their snowy vesture,
And shining as the Alps, when that the sun
Gems their pale robes with diamonds. On their heads
Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove.
They were all fair, and light as dreams; anon
The dance broke off; and sailing through the air,
Some one way, and some other, they did each
Alight upon some waving branch, or flower,
That garlanded the rocks upon the shore.
One, chiefly, did I mark; one tiny sprite,
Who crept into an orange flower-bell,
And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips
Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew,
That glistened, like a pearl, in its white bosom.

Sleep, Venice, sleep! the evening gun resounds
Over the waves that rock thee on their breast;
The bugle blare to kennel calls the hounds,
Who sleepless watch thy waking and thy rest.
Sleep till the night stars do the day star meet,
And shuddering echoes o'er the water run,
Rippling thro' every glass-green wavering street
The stern good-morrow of thy guardian Hun.
Still do thy stones, O Venice, bid rejoice
With their old majesty the gazer's eye,
In their consummate grace uttering a voice
From every line of blended harmony.
Still glows the splendour of each wondrous dream
Vouchsaf'd thy painters o'er each sacred shrine,
And from the radiant visions downward streams
In visible light an influence divine.

Still through thy golden days and silver nights
Sings his soft jargon thy gay gondolier,
And o'er thy floors of liquid malachite
Slide the black-hooded barks to mystery dear.
Like Spanish beauty in its sable veil,
They rustle sideling through the watery way,
The wild, monotonous cry, with which they hail
Each other's course, echoing far away.
As each bright prow grazes the island strands,
Still ring the sweet Venetian voices clear;
And wondering wanderers from far, free lands,
Entranc'd look round—enchanted listen here.
From the far lands of Liberty they come,
England's proud children and the younger race;
Those who possess the Past's most glorious home,
And those who own the Future's boundless space.
Pitying they stand—for thee who would not weep!
Well it beseems these men to weep for thee,
Whose flags as erst thine own control the deep,
Whose conquering sails o'ershadow every sea.
Yet not in pity only—but in hope,
Spring the hot tears the brave for thee may shed;
They watch the dawn that bids thy dungeon ope:
But sleep thou still—the sky is not yet red.

Sleep till the mighty helmsman of the world,
By the Almighty set at Fortune's wheel,
Steers towards thy freedom, and once more unfurl'd
The banner of St. Mark the sun shall feel.
Then wake—then rise—then hurl away thy yoke,
And dye with life-blood that pale livery
Whose ghastly white has been thy jailor's cloak,
Covering for years thy shame and misery.
Rise with a shout that down thy giant stair
Shall thy old giants bring with thundering tread;
The blind Crusader standing stony there,
And him—the latest of thy mighty dead—
Whose patriot heart broke at the Austrian's foot,
Whose ashes under the black marble lie,
From whose dry dust stirr'd by thy voice shall shoot
A glorious tree of living Liberty.

The sea has left the strand—
In their deep sapphire cup
The waves lie gathered up,
Off the hard-ribbed sand.

From each dark rocky brim
The full wine-tinted billows ebbed away,
Leave on the golden rim
Of their huge bowl not one thin line of spray.

Above the short-grassed downs all broidered over
With scarlet pimpernel, and silver clover,
Like spicy incense quivers the warm air,
With piercing fervid heat,
The noonday sunbeams beat
On the red granite sea-slabs, broad and bare.

And prone along the shore,
Basking in the fierce glare,
Lie sun-bronzed Titans, covered o'er
With shaggy, sea-weed hair.

Come in, under this vault of brownest shade,
By sea-worn arches made,
Where all the air, with a rich topaz light,
Is darkly bright.
'Neath these rock-folded canopies,
Shadowy and cool,
The crystal water lies
In many a glassy pool,
Whose green-veined sides, as they receive the light,
Gleam like pale wells of precious malachite.

In the warm shallow water dip thy feet,
Shining like rose-hued pearls below the wave,
And, lying in this hollow, sea-smoothed seat,
Gaze on the far-off white-sailed fisher fleet,
Framed in the twilight portal of our cave;
While I lie here, and gaze on thee
Fairer art thou to me
Than Aphrodite, when the breathless deep
Wafted her smiling in her rosy sleep
Towards the green-myrtled shore, that in delight
With starry fragrance suddenly grew white,
Or than the shuddering girl,
Whose wide distended eyes,
Glassy with dread surprise,
Saw the huge billow curl,
Foaming and bristling, with its grisly freight;
While, twinkling from afar,
With iris-feathered heels, and falchion bright,
From the blue cope of heaven's dazzling height,
Her lover swooped, a flashing noon-tide star.

A mid-day dream hath lighted on thy brow,
And gently bends it down; thy fair eyes swim,
In liquid languor, lustreless and dim,
And slowly dropping now,
From the light loosened clasp of thy warm hand,
Making a ruddy shadow on the sand,
Falls a wine-perfumed rose, with crimson glow.

Sleep, my belovèd! while the sultry spell
Of silent noon o'er sea and earth doth dwell:
Stoop thy fair graceful head upon my breast,
With its thick rolls of golden hair opprest,
My lily!—and my breathing shall not sob
With one tumultuous sigh—nor my heart throb
With one irregular bound—that I may keep
With tenderest watch the treasure of thy sleep.
Droop gently down, in slumb'rous, slow eclipse,
Fair fringèd lids! beneath my sealing lips.

Let us stay here: nor ever more depart
From this sweet wilderness Nature and Art
Have made, not for light wandering feet to stray,
Through their fair chaos half one sunny day;
But for th' abiding place of those whose spirit
Is worthy all this beauty to inherit.
Pervading sunlight vivifies the earth,
The fresh green thickets rock, as though in mirth,
Under its warmth, and shaken by the breeze,
That springs down into them from waving trees,
Whose dark blue branches spread themselves on high,
On granite shafts, that seem to prop the sky.
Around, a rocky screen the mountains spread,
Wood-mantled to their middle, but each head
Gray, bare, and bald, save where a passing veil
Vaporous, and silvery soft, the low clouds trail
Over their craggy brows:—down their steep sides
The light procession of fleet shadow glides,
Garlands of melting gloom, that join and sever,
And climb, and then run down the hills for ever,
Like rapid outspread wings, flying away
Before the golden shafts of the bright day.
Turn from the rocky wall, and lo! a sea
Of level land, like an eternity,
Spreads its vast plain beneath the hazy light,
Till far, far on th' horizon's edge, one bright
And blinding streak betrays the distant verge,
Where earth and ocean in each other merge.
Look from this promontory made of ruin,
Through whose brown broken arches the soft wooing
Of the Spring air in murmurs low is heard,
Answering the voice of that triumphant bird,
Who, hid 'mid fragrant wreaths of hawthorn bloom,
Sings loud and sweet, here, in this wondrous tomb
Of the earth's greatness:—look below, around,
Above,—survey this magic sky and ground;
These crumbling arches, that blue vault of heaven,
These pillars, and these friezes, fallen or riven
From their stone sockets; those fair cypress trees,
Those vine and ivy garlands, Nature's frieze;
These graceful fragments, over which she flings
The still fresh mantle of a thousand Springs;
Hear from it all the strange and solemn story,
Decay and Death reaping all human glory.
Ho, Adrian! Emperor, Conqueror, Priest, and Lord!
Who the great Roman world swayedst with a word!
Thou who didst cast off power without measure,
To dwell in joy, possessing only pleasure!
The wild bee hums in the wild wreaths of thyme
That carpet o'er thy halls and courts sublime;
The nightingale, sweet single chorister,
Fills the void circle of thy theatre,
And northern pilgrims, with slow lingering feet,
Stray round each vestige of thy loved retreat,
And spend in homage half one sunny day
Before they pass upon their wandering way,
Leaving thy royal ruin of delight
Lordly and lonely, lovely, sad, and bright.

Genius and Love together stood
At break of day beside clear fountains,
In gardens hedged with laurel wood,
Screened by a wall of purple mountains;
As hand in hand they smiling strayed,
Love twined a wreath of perfect roses
On Genius' brow; 'And thus,' he said,
'My soul on thy bright soul reposes.'
And round and round they joyous flew,
On rapid now, now lingering pinion,
And blissful Love ne'er weary grew
Of measuring o'er his bright dominion.
Anon they rested from their flight,
And through the fringes of clear water,
All rainbow-touched Love chased a sprite,
The silver Naiad's snowy daughter,
While Genius lay with flashing eyes,
Looking into the distant skies.
Love paused and said, 'What dost thou see?'
'The far-off shining of the sea—
Say, wilt thou thither fly with me?'
'Is there a home by the wild flood?
Ah! leave we not our pleasant wood!'
But suddenly, with eager wings,
Towards his desire Genius springs;
So strong his flight, the rosy crown
At Love's sad feet fell broken down,
And lay beside him where he sate,
Waiting the coming of his mate:
And he returned all gloriously,
From the foam-caverns of the sea,
And brought strange heaps of shining treasure
To Love, who prized beyond all measure
His mere return:—And now his sight,
Swift as the eagle's sunward flight,
Rested upon the mountain's height—
'Look! wilt thou thither with me fly,
Dear Love?'—he cried; and rapidly
Beat with his golden wings the air.
'Is there a home for us up there?
What seek'st thou on the mountain's brow?'
'To see the wide world lie below.'
So he swept thither like the wind,
And Love remained dismayed behind:
And now a spirit of the air
Garlands of noble amaranth bare
To the Love god beside the fountain,
And spake—'Lo! Genius from the mountain
Sends thee, dear Love, eternal flowers,
To deck thy pleasant myrtle bowers.'

'Ah!' answered Love despondingly,
'Sweet roses were enough for me;
Look, they grow here upon the ground,
Close to our very home, all round,
And morn and even may be found—
When comes he back?' 'Into the sky
I saw him from the mountain fly
Higher and higher towards the sun.'
Love sighed, 'The day must soon be done,
And evening shall the wanderer bring,
With sated soul and weary wing.'
Love knew not that bold Genius' flight
Had passed the realms of day and night,
Till, from the blue, a glorious crown
Of starry light was towards him thrown;
He saw th' immortal circlet burn,
And knew his mate would ne'er return:
He gathered up the rosy wreath,
With withered leaves, and faint sweet breath;
And turning to the darkening skies
The tender longing of his eyes,
He bitterly began to weep,
And wept himself at last to sleep.

As o'er the chasm I breathless hung,
Thus from the depths the siren sung:
'Down, down into the womb
Of earth, the daylight's tomb,
Where the sun's eyes
Never may shine,
Nor fair moon rise
With smile divine;
Where caverns yawn
Black as despair,
Fatally drawn
I plunge down there;
And with the bound
The rocks resound,
And round and round
My waves are wound
Into the gaping rifts of the mid earth:
Oh for the sunny springs where I took birth!
The gentle rills,
The tiny brimming fountain,
That, scooped in the warm bosom of the mountain
Each May shower over-fills!
Whence I and my fair sister came; and she
Rolls her smooth silver flood along the way,
That princes made for her, so royally,
Piercing the rock to give her ample sway.
Down the bright sunny steep
Her waters leap,
Myrtle, and bay, and laurel, and wild vine,
A garland for her flowing tresses twine!
The green moss stars the rocks whereon she leaps,
Over her breast the fragrant locust weeps;
The air resounds with her wild shouts of laughter,
The echoes of the hills in chorus after
Repeat the sound, and in her silvery spray
Rainbows are woven by the light of day!
Down in the valley she springs
And sings,
And the sky bends over
Her, like a lover;
And glittering and sparkling her waters run,
A bright sea of snow in the summer sun!

Darkness broods over me the while;
Grim rocks that sweat
With my cold clammy spray,
As down the hopeless way
In one wild jet
My tortured billows lash, and leap, and boil;
So deep my bed of darkness lies,
That scarce the voice of my great agony
Reaches the skies,
And all ye see
With fearful eyes
Who question me,
Is the gray whirling mist that covers all
As with a pall.
Light! light upon the rocks! sudden and fierce
The sharp flames pierce;
Glaring upon my water
Like the blood-hue of slaughter
A red torch flashes;
As down my wild flood dashes
Wide flaring brightness streams upon my foam,
And flaming fire-wreaths come
Hissing into my waves to find their doom
In the same blackness that devours me.
The huge rocks grin, as with a sudden glee,
At this strange visitation of the light,
And they are made not beautiful, but bright,
As all their horrid piles and masses show,
Hanging above, and heaped below,
Searched by the ruddy glow.
Oh, let me still in darkness dwell!
Not in this hell
Of lurid light,
That scares the night,
Hence with the leaping glare,
Whose fiery stare
Reveals the secrets of my dismal bed;
Hence with the voices that profane the dread
Of my dark chambers!'—thus the Siren cried,
As o'er the rocky chasm's black hideous side
I hung entranced with terror and dismay,—
And at that piteous cry I fled away.

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.

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.