  TO A YOUNG MAN.Caress thy pleasures with a reverent touch, Too soon at best their early fragrance flees. Seek not to know, to see, or taste too much: The sweetest, deepest cup hath still its lees; The blushing grape is not too rudely pressed, When gushes forth its richest and its best. Bird, bubble, butterfly on light wing straying, With changing tints of crimson, blue, and gold, Upon warm waves of summer sunlight swaying, When thy frail, flaming wing the boy shall hold, Alas, how soon its fragile charms expire! E’en so when strong men seize their soul’s desire. Rend not with ruthless hand the lily’s bell, To gather all its sweetness at a breath; Spill not the pearl deep in its bosom’s cell, The crystal gift Aurora’s tears bequeath. So shall a delicate perfume be thine, Through all the weary hours of day’s decline. The gentlest spirits of the earth and air— Sweet mysteries to ruder men unknown— Will yield delights as delicate as rare, The secret bowers of Love shall be thy own, The one great bliss, so long thy hope’s despair, Will press with eager feet to find thee there. TELL ME, DEAR BIRD.In the warm twilight where I mused, there came A bird of unknown race with breast of flame. Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame, I conjure thee, e’en by his sacred name, How may I lure and win Love to my side? There is no lure for Love, in patience bide, And if he cometh not await him still, Love cometh only when and where he will. But when he cometh, bird with breast of flame, Teach me his roving feet to bind and tame. Many have sought to bind him, but in vain; He will not brook nor gold nor silken chain. If he is caught, Love languishes and dies, And ’tis not Love, if free to stay, he flies. Tell me, dear bird, O bird with breast of flame, When true Love comes, how may I know his name? What are the golden words upon his tongue: What message sweeter than a seraph’s song? Love hath no shibboleth, and where are words For the enraptured songs of summer birds? Tell me, dear Love, O bird with breast of flame, The deepest sense and meaning of thy name? Two all-sufficing souls for woe or bliss, But what they do, or what their converse is, Love only knows; they walk where none may see, Wrapped in the shades of a sweet mystery. PERDITA.Far away under Hesper, In seas never crossed, Like a faint-uttered whisper, Forgotten and lost; Where no sail ever flies O’er the face of the deep, A lost island lies Forgotten, asleep. An island reposes, Distant and dim, Where a cloud-veil of roses Never uncloses, Dreams and reposes On the horizon’s rim. An island arrayed In such magical grace, It would seem to be made For some happier race. Each valley and bower Has a charm of its own; A perfume each flower, Elsewhere unknown; A charm of such power That once known to the heart, If but for an hour, It can never depart. E’en the surges of ocean, Ceasing their roar, Their rage and commotion, Sigh in on the shore With a melody saintly, As vespers that seem Chanted so quaintly, By sisters so saintly, Mingling so faintly With the voice of a dream. One summer time olden, That standeth alone With its memories golden, That isle was my own. O island enchanted! Where now does she rove— The bright nymph that haunted Thy fountain and grove, While still at her side, Whereever she strayed, By the mountain or tide, My footsteps were stayed? Do her pulses still beat To the pulses of yore? Say, now, do her feet Tread some pitiless shore, Still hoping to meet One who cometh no more? O that summer! its ray In my heart lingers yet, Long after the day- Star it came from has set. My star of the night And of morning was she, My song-bird, my white- WingÈd bark on the sea; My rainbow, illuming With beauty and light; My rose-garden, blooming, Sweetly perfuming The hours of the night. But at last, in its fleetness, It seemed that each day From the charm and the sweetness Took something away, Till the flowers all faded From summer’s bright crown, The skies were o’ershadowed, The forests were brown. In the voices of morning There crept a new tone, A faint whispered warning From regions unknown, And over each heart Stole a mystical fear That our joy would depart With the flight of the year. A pale, cold, new-comer Had entered our isle, From a land beyond summer And sunshine and smile, Subduing us quite, Though we saw not his face, As winter gives blight When it cometh apace. Her glances and mine Sought each other no more, Each fearing some sign Not seen there before. Yet no word was revealing Misgiving or chill; Each sought for concealing The deathly, congealing Foreboding of ill. But at last came a night When our last song was sung, And like children in fright Together we clung. No farewell was spoken, Our voices were dumb, But we knew without token That parting was come. In the darkness that bound us A night-bird did sing, And the black air around us Was moved by his wing, As in vulture waves sweeping He sped from the shore, And away from my keeping My Day-star he tore. STANZAS TO ?.LOVE’S TRIBUTES.O that I might inspire my song with power To crown thy brows with more than queenly dower; To pour on thee a more than golden shower, And fill thy soul with sunshine every hour. Time breaks at last the lyre’s sweetest strings, And palls the sweetest note the minstrel sings, And riches fly away on falcon wings: Love only to his trust unchanging clings. Then be my song of whatsoe’er degree, And gifts however bright and fair to see, Rare trophies peril won by land and sea, Yet Love his own chief offering must be. All that the flower of Love may yield is thine, From blushing bud to clusters on the vine, With colors rich as rubies from the mine, And odors mounting to the soul like wine. But all, I know, is paltry in thine eyes, So far above them all thy worth doth rise. In vain my muse with feeble pinions tries To reach the regions where thy merit lies. Still o’er Love’s treasures hold thy sovereign sway; Taste them or spill them, keep or cast away; By night or daytime, hasten or delay, Trample them, cull them, go thine own sweet way. THE LITTLE SHEPHERDESS.PASTORELLE. Little lamb, I pray O come to me, None to caress and love have I but thee. Why art thou not some tender shepherd swain, Then loving thee would ease my weary pain. My sister Susan, she is fair and tall, And she may choose among the shepherds all, And she is called sweet names—my dear, my pet; Ah me! I’m brown, and I’m too little yet. Then stepping forth from a concealing shade, A youth beyond compare approached the maid, And, whisp’ring softly in her startled ear, She heard the tender words, “My pet, my dear.” She blushing stood, confused with downcast eyes, But heart and face were filled with glad surprise; And happier far than Susan tall and fair, The little nut-brown maiden trembling there. A FAREWELL.’Tis true that once I sighed for That tender heart of thine; I thought I could have died for The bliss I now decline. Too many swains enchanted, Since then within that heart, Have had sweet shelter granted For me to claim a part. Farewell, dear one, thy sorrow, Thy tears are all in vain; That tender heart to-morrow Will find some newer swain. Thou hast no necromancy To restore the passing sway, Of what was but the fancy Of an idle summer day. TO A FICKLE FAIR ONE.Some birds mate three times in a year, And I have called thee oft my bird. I knew not even shame and fear Could bind thee long; take my last word, Good-bye, sweet bird. TO THE SAME.Constancy and the Phoenix, birds that dwell In the bright realms of song, happy his fate Who elsewhere meets with one, for, mark it well, Sooner or later he will find its mate. THE PALACE OF REPOSE.Helpless we start before the break of day, And grope along an unknown path our way, Or follow leaders blind, and many fall; But on we press, heedless and joyous all, As happy fledglings fluttering in the brake, That nothing reck of prowling fox or snake. When over us at last the daylight dawns, We bear the marks of many cruel thorns; But brightly on the far horizon gleams (Of more than earthly grace the vision seems) The Palace of Repose, that rears on high Its golden domes against the western sky, While warm and tender as a poet’s dreams, The restful radiance from each tower that streams. Now through the early morning air we fly, As the young shepherd sped with beaming eye Fast fixed upon the rose-born butterfly. Toward flowery vales and hills our pathway leads, But when we reach them all their beauty fades. Hills that were fairer, ere their paths were won, Than the long slopes of fountained Helicon, Are marred by poisonous weeds and flinty stone; And forms that seemed, against the distant skies, Winging their snowy way to Paradise, Are birds unclean, whose wings are like a breath From some great charnel-house in lands of death. And shifting sands beneath our feet are spread, And pitfalls numberless beset our way, Where noisome reptiles fill us with dismay; On either side lie, fathomless and dim, Wide plains where wander phantoms stark and grim. Noon comes; the goal no nearer, on we haste, Nor note the lengthening shadows of the past. Luring us on we hear the far, faint moan Of music, weird and sweet as Memnon’s tone, Heard in the desert by the traveller lone; Bewildering as the sounds the shepherds erst Heard in the vales of Thessaly, when first Apollo’s wondrous music on them burst. Of all that started with us, hand in hand, Only a few are left, a dwindling band. With haggard faces fixed upon the goal, E’en as the needle to the steadfast pole, Swifter and swifter, till the evening air Sings like a serpent through our back-blown hair. But lo, the night has come, The sun goes down, His trailing robes with crimson glories crown The palace we had almost deemed was ours. Dearer than ever seem those fading towers, Whose oriel windows gleam like soul-lit eyes For one bright moment ere thick darkness lies On earth and sky, then trembling, faint, and sore, Closing our pathway, lo, we find a door, The entrance to a narrow house that still Blocks up the way of every human will. Wander where’er we may, this self-same goal Is reached at last by every weary soul. Our burdens fall unheeded, and our gains,— This is the end of all our toil and pains. Over the threshold hangs a shrunken lute, Upon a tree where grows nor flower nor fruit; Bewildering odors fill the heavy air, The nightshade and the wolf’s-bane mingle there; The faint perfume of rose and lily, too, Is swallowed up by asphodel and rue. We enter in, behold, a lowly bed, How sweet the poppied perfume o’er it shed, Where the red poppy swings its censer head. There sleep shall seize and bind us, sleep supreme, That knows no waking morn, no troubled dream. The years shall swiftly cover us from sight, In silence and insuperable night. MOODS.My wayward youth had drained the cup of Life, Wasting its treasures in the fitful strife, The mad revolt of a rebellious soul, That beats the stubborn bars of Fate’s control. My foolish heart whispered, there is no God, And if there is, let cravens fear his rod: Be thy own god, slake thy imperious thirst Where’er thou wilt, no fountain is accurst. Many strange paths my restless feet had sought, Not all ignoble, but to each I brought The turbulence of will that grasps at all, And, failing, breaks itself against the wall. Too late I knew my impotence at last, When the bright glow of youth was overpast. Worn out, exhausted by the weary route That leads from knowledge to disgust and doubt, Defeat, deceit, and baffled purpose stole Like a corroding canker to my soul. I hated Life, scorned and despised my kind, So far astray may err the unbridled mind. I had been nigh to death; the sullen wave Already my consenting feet did lave, When one who thought to be my friend, and fain Had done me kindness, plucked me back again. They said my reason wandered, and had found A peaceful nook remote from sight or sound Of busy men; there by the moonlit sea On a soft couch I lay, where over me Through the low lattice the sea odors crept, And from the landward side about me swept Soft languid waves of amorous perfume, Of pollen-dust, of bursting bud and bloom. Wrecked by the storm of life, and cast aside Like drift rejected by the loathing tide, Vacant of heart and thought I lay; the air That wooed my cheek and gently stirred my hair, Laden with yearning voices of the spring, Awoke in me no answering tone or string. From the deep shadows of the sleeping wood A baleful night-bird swept the solitude; The shuddering moonlight like a living thing Shrank from the touch of his defiling wing; And fiercely following like an eager pack Of wingÈd hounds upon his lurid track, Lewd mocking spirits filled the thickening air, Swarming as to a charnel banquet there. Close at my ear burst forth a piercing yell, As if each ghoul and fiend from nether hell Had burst its bonds, and joined that chorus fell; My quivering veins and nerves to frenzy stung, In discord jangled like a harp unstrung. Suddenly at my heart a quick sharp pluck, As ’twere some foot of small fierce bird had struck And griped me sore; then after some short space The keen pain seized me in another place; I felt myself clasped in a rude embrace, And o’er my body spread swift fleeting pangs, Sickening and deadly as a serpent’s fangs. Quivering in every limb then I was ’ware Of a strange woman bending o’er me there, With ashen hair, that in the moonlight pale Rippled about her shoulders like a veil; In her cold eyes that pierced me through and through, There dimly lurked a look that once I knew. Her face was bloodless, as of one that’s dead, But oh! her little mouth, how rosy red, Beset with glittering little fangs that bled, Fresh from the cruel feast whereon they fed. Cold was her bosom, and her clammy arms— No ruddy current warmed those shapely charms. The air grew stifling, and upon my ear Fell strident whispers chilling me with fear. “Dost thou not know my face? in my close kiss Lingers no essence of the olden bliss? Doth not my breath revive the ancient fire, And fill the shrunken veins of dead desire? I am the child of all thy joys; ere Death Swallowed them up each left with me some breath, Some drop of blood, some accent, or some look, A token from each fleeting hour I took; In me thy vanished raptures all unite The perfect fruit of all thy past delight. Long have I sought thee, now that thou art found, Now that my limbs about thee have been wound, And that my lips have fed upon thy face, Nothing shall tear thee more from my embrace; Dearer thou art to me than all that dwell In the wide triple realms, Earth, Heaven and Hell. Thou art my fruitful vineyard, and my well, My gilded mountain top, and flowery dell Whereon my lips shall pasture all the night, Vanishing only with the morning light. For in thy arms the olden joys I taste, And round us swarm the spectres of the past; The ruddy light still in their hollow eyes Lingers that shone upon our revelries In gay Lisboa’s palaces of pride, When every mask and cheek was flung aside, Virtue was mocked, and God and man defied. “And youthful joys far from Lisboa’s town Through some green byway of the years float down; Over fair Lusitania’s hills and plains Again we wander free from sinful stains; Though viewed through mist of tears, the earliest scenes Are brightest still whatever intervenes. The leafy songs that thrill the listening wood, And answering birds that make sweet interlude, The sylvan lakes illuminated by The rainbows arching all our summer sky, And swans that drift along the shore at rest— A string of pearls upon a swelling breast.” Ranging amid the garden groves of youth, The luring voice grew softer, till in sooth Like pulsing of a moonlight lute it fell, Lulling my senses with a rhythmic spell. I know not if I slumbered, but anon Those odious limbs about my own were thrown; I started up with thick and laboring breath, And sickening loathing almost unto death; “O Christ!” I cried, lo, at that sacred name The foul shape vanished, and instead one came Clad in soft light as from an inner flame, And held an ebon cross whereon there bled A great white Christ, with loving arms outspread. Singing afar a tender voice I heard, Faintly the accents fell, “Flee as a bird.” Then, as the spring-tides yearning to the moon, Flood the dry hollows where we walked at noon, E’en so the tidal-wave of feeling rose, And memories wakened from their long repose, And rushing back through many a dusty year Left me again a reverent child at prayer. Again the simple worshippers I saw Kneeling in fervent prayer; I heard with awe Once more the shameful tale recounted o’er: The buffets and revilings that He bore, The crown of thorns, the wormwood, and the gall, And our foul sins more bitter than them all, Filling the cup that our vile hands have pressed To the pure lips of our expiring Christ. Gazing upon the Saviour’s agony, Through my dark soul a cleansing current swept, And tears of humble penitence I wept. Softly I wept at first, then gathering force, Burst forth a storm of passionate remorse, Till my frail couch shook like an autumn leaf In the tempestuous torrent of my grief. Stretching my trembling hands, “O Christ!” I cried, “Would that with thee I might be crucified, So I might share thy love. O let me find Some sure retreat remote from all my kind, Far from the voice of priest or minister, Where reigns the silence of the sepulchre; To some far rocky island let me flee, Piercing the bosom of an unknown sea, There let me live in sweet converse with thee. Or in some Theban desert, too remote E’en for the sound of Memnon’s warning note, Or ’mid the rocks on Sinai’s shaking brow, Where the fierce fires of God’s anger glow; Or buried in some clammy convent cell, No matter where, dear Lord, so I may dwell Apart from all the universe but thee; So that my name may perish utterly From memory of man; so that no sound Of human voice or footstep may resound Through the deep portals of my solitude. There let me purge my sins with penance rude, The scourge, the midnight vigil, and the fast, Until I know thee, face to face at last.” How weak are all this life’s most tempting joys, Love, wealth, ambition, transitory toys, To those that flood the lonely anchorite In the rapt moments of his soul’s delight. The sweetest words of Jesus are not found In Holy Writ; who in his grace abound, Forsaking all the world to bear his cross, Counting all human love and honor dross; Who wears the thorny crown upon his head, And loveth better than his daily bread The scourge, the iron chain, the stony bed, Worn out with vigils, spent with sighs and tears, Jesus perchance may whisper in his ears, Sweeter than music of the choral spheres, The unwritten words that soothed the Magdalene. Perchance on Jesus’ bosom he may lean, A deeper sense than language can impart Lies in the throbbing of that wondrous heart. The moon went down, the night grew dark and dense, The aspiration of my soul intense Took real form and garb, or so it seemed, And bore me on to all that I had dreamed. Into the narrow dungeon where I lay The Saviour came, and gently put away My scourging hand; his smile ineffable With more than earthly radiance lit my cell— Sweeter than wanton couch had ever known, The rapture Jesus bringeth to his own. Naked and prone upon the dungeon stone, His love suffused me with a rosy glow. His words of grace and pardon, murmured low, Thrilled me and filled my spirit’s pulsing vein, Till like a ship impatient for the main Her snowy wings tugged at the anchor chain. I slept profoundly; when I woke, the sun Already more than half his course had run. Light willing feet were moving round my couch, And gentle hands with ministering touch. They brought me dainties, and their cheerful words, The hum of honey-bees, the voice of birds, The grand old forest’s potent influence Subdued and mingled with my every sense, And moved my being to accord and tune With all the leafy harmonies of June, As if some conscious hand beneficent A hideous nightmare pall had from me rent. I wandered out alone beneath the trees And in a tempting spot reclined at ease, My head in the cool shade, and at my feet Streaming the amber sunlight’s genial heat. My spirits rose, and quickening pulses beat, Surprised to find that living still was sweet. The tree-tops o’er me seemed to melt away— Green islets floating on an azure bay; And I in fancy floated with them, too, Drifting forever down the ether blue. Half dreaming thus, so quietly I lay The forest denizens resumed their play; But furtively, as though they feared to break The spell that brooded in the air, or wake Some discord slumbering in the solitude. A bird sang nigh me, but with voice subdued; The mossy oaks like kingly graybeards stood, And stretched inviting arms; the aspens wooed With myriad beckoning leaves, and each slant beam, Flung from the flying sun-god’s hand, did seem A rosy finger-tip that coyly pointed To some deep trysting-place by wood-nymphs haunted. Long vistas led away mysteriously, So tempting that I almost thought to see Arch faces from the nearer branches peeping, And clumsy satyrs in the distance leaping. The nymph, the satyr, and the bounding fawn That filled the groves of Thessaly are gone. The merry train that circled Oberon Trip it no more upon the moonlit lawn. But let them pass nor mourn the solitude: Far sweeter than the whole fantastic brood Is one weak, loving woman’s human form. A woman’s voice, low, tremulous, and warm, Hath a more potent spell to lull the charm Than Orphean lute, or siren’s song, where passed The wave-worn mariner lashed to his mast. Two doves thrust out their small heads timidly From the low branches of a neighboring tree, Looking askance, and peering through the green, Like foolish lovers fearing to be seen, Then, reassured, resumed their blissful play. I smiled to see them, thinking of a day, Just such another day as this, last year, When with a damsel I had wandered here, Amid these very vistas, and I thought Of a deep vine-clad arbor we had sought. Our words, our looks, our tender dalliance, all, Like birds of passage at the swallow’s call, Came trooping back, on light wings fluttering, And through me swept the quickening breath of spring. Seen through the shimmering aspen leaves afar A fair face twinkled on me like a star, And rustle of bright garments drawing nigh Fluttered my heart with strange expectancy. * * * * * And soon two happy lovers wandered far, And tarried till the rising of the evening star. TO ?.Her heart is a flower that long hath slept Where clammy night-dews o’er it wept, But now to love and rapture wakes As the flushing glory of morning breaks, And the heavy tears that chilled it so Pure diamonds all in the sunshine glow. Her hair is a sea of golden waves Love’s beauteous temple wall that laves, Rippling o’er two rosy shells Wherein the soul of music dwells, To break in hyacinthine curl Caressing the base of purest pearl. Her eyes, twin mountain pools that lie Reflecting back the summer sky, A fringe of graceful poplars there Sway softly in the amorous air. Oh! he who fathoms those wondrous eyes Will see the joys of Paradise. A crimson little rose her mouth Exhales the memories of the South; And when its petals gently move, Breathing some tender word of love, No angel’s voice at gates of bliss Hath promise to compare with this. Her brow a page of vellum fair, ’Twere vain to seek for tracery there; Pure as Mount Athos, yet I know Beneath that alabaster brow One tender secret, guarded well, Stirs sweetly in its guarded cell. * * * * * How many hundred hearts have beat To the faint music of her feet; What yearning eyes devour the grass That ripples where her footsteps pass, Beneath her kirtle’s airy sweep, Like moonbeams glancing o’er the deep. A snowy miracle of grace Her circling arms, for whose embrace Hyperion’s self might vainly sigh. Oh! if within those arms to lie To happy mortal e’er were given, How tame were all the joys of heaven. Sheltered by those endearing charms From my own spirit’s dark alarms, Endymion were not half so blest Fainting upon his Phoebe’s breast. TO ?.Revolving years another May-day bring; Earth at this bridal season’s glad return Blooms forth again in bridal robes of spring, Expectant, waiting, trembling, all things yearn. Cries then aloud the voice I thought was slain, Calls as of yore my stormy deep to thine; Answer is mute, I hear no voice but mine. TO THE SAME.Rarer and dearer seen through smiles or tears, Each day thy well-remembered face appears, Beaming through all the clouds and mists of years. Enfolding thee in dreams, my yearning kisses Cling to that face till all our perished blisses Come back like phantoms dear that re-awaken, And haste to greet their loved ones long forsaken. TO THE SAME.Right gladly would I twine a wreath of flowers, Each morn for thee from dewy garden bowers; But when I cull them, lo! they turn at view, E’en in my hands, to nightshade and to rue; Circling, beloved one, thy temples rare, Catching the halo of thy golden hair, Again they glow, roses and lilies there. |
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