The Poetical Works of Charles Mackay

more than enough. Hence the arduous task reserved for all writers, and more especially for poets, in the present day-for men who would reflect the age, and yet be in advance of it-who would be of sympathies with it and yet beyond itwho would give it the blossoms of their intellect with a full certainty that those blossoms, fair and flowery to this age, would be fruit to the ages which are to follow it.

To think that because we are a practical people, living in a practical age, that we shall no more find pleasure in the varied beauty of nature, animate and inanimate; that the beams of the sun, or the mental sunshine of bright faces, shall fill us no more with delight; that love, or hopes, or joys, or sorrows, shall no more affect us; or that poetry, which refines and spiritualizes all these, shall be extinguished by the progress of civilization, is mere lunacy. As civilization increases, the world will, doubtless, become more difficult to please in poetry. The wiser men grow, the less aptitude will they exhibit for being put off with shadows instead of realities. But poetry itself, purified and exalted, will all the more purify and exalt mankind. Those who speak great truths from their fulness of heart, and enshrine them in noble words set to the music which stirs the blood, will never want listeners. The poets who would do that have an arduous but noble task. Such poets need not fear that they have fallen upon evil times for their vocation; if they be but in earnest with it, and will not make it their pastime, but the business and recompense of their lives. Let them put on their singing robes cheerily in the face of heaven and nature; and wear them in a trustful and patient spirit, and speak that which is in them for the advancement of their kind and the glory of their Creator, and there will be no risk that they will be allowed to sing in the wilderness, no man listening to them'

JUVENILE POEMS. 1839.

NIENTE SENZA L'AMORE.

PART I.

THE PRAYER OF ADAM, ALONE IN PARADISE.
L'aria, la terra e l'acqua è d'amor piene.-PETRARCH.

O FATHER, hear!
Thou know'st my secret thought;
Thou know'st, with love and fear,
I bend before Thy mighty throne,
And before Thee I hold myself
nought.

Alas! I'm in the world alone,

All desolate upon the earth;
And when my spirit hears the tone,
The soft song of the birds in mirth,
When the young nightingales

When angels walk the quiet earth,
To glory in creation's birth;
Then, Father, in my dreams I see
A gentle being o'er me bent,
as Radiant with love, and like to me,
But of a softer lineament:
I strive to clasp her to my heart,

Their tender voices blend,
When from the flowery vales
Their hymns of love ascend;
Oh! then I feel there is a void for me,
A bliss too little in this world so fair;
To Thee, O Father, do I flee,

To Thee for solace breathe the prayer.
And when the rosy morn

Smiles on the dewy trees,
When music's voice is borne

Far on the gentle breeze;
When o'er the bowers I stray,
The fairest fruits to bring,
And on Thy shrine to lay
A fervent offering;
Father of many spheres!

When bending thus before Thy
throne,

My spirit weeps with silent tears,
To think that I must pray alone!
And when at evening's twilight dim,
When peaceful slumber shuts mine

eye,

And when the gentle seraphim

That we may live and be but one-
Ah, wherefore, lovely beam, depart,
Why must I wake and find thee
gone?
Almighty, in Thy wisdom high,
Thou saidst, that when I sin I die :
And once my spirit could not see
How that which is could cease to be;
Death was a vague unfathom'd thing,

On which the thought forbore to dwell,
But love has oped its secret spring,
And now I know it well!
To die, must be to live alone,
Unloved, uncherish'd, and unknown,
Without the sweet one of my dreams

To cull the fragrant flowers with me,
To wander by the morning's beams,
And raise the hymn of thanks to
Thee.

But, Father of the earth,

Lord of this boundless sphere,
If 'tis Thy high unchanging will
That I should linger here;

If 'tis Thy will that I should rove

Alone, o'er Eden's smiling bowers, Grant that the young birds' song of love, And the breeze sporting 'mong the flowers,

Bend from their bright homes in the May to my spirit cease to be

sky:

A music and a mystery!

Grant that my soul no more may feel The soft sounds breathing everywhere ;

That Nature's voice may cease to hymn
Love's universal prayer :
For all around, on earth or sea,
And the blue heaven's immensity,
Whisper it forth in many a tone,
And tell me I am all alone!

PART II.

THE DREAM OF THE SHIPWRECKED
MARINER.

THE sea was calm, the winds were fair,
Lightly o'er the deep we pass'd,
We thought no more of toil and pain,
For we drew near home at last;
The very sails made music sweet

As they flapp'd against the mast.

The fair-faced moon look'd softly down, Tinging the small waves with her light;

Many a heart beat anxiously,
Many an eye look'd bright,

To catch a glimpse of Albion's shore,
That gleam'd in the distance white.

I leant upon the vessel's side,

And thoughts came crowding o'er my soul,

As the welcome wind and tide

Drove to the wish'd-for goal; And thou, O loved one of my youth! Remember'd still thy plighted truth. In fancy's dream I saw thee stand, All lonely, on the ocean strand, Straining thy bright eyes o'er the sea, To catch a glimpse of love and me. I clasp'd thee to my constant heart, And swore we never more would part, When suddenly a shriek

Rose piercing o'er the wave! We'd struck upon a hidden rock--The vessel reel'd-the grave, The billowy grave, with greedy clasp, Drew us down deep-and then the gasp

Of death, pass'd quick o'er many a lip;
Many a gallant soul departed,
And the wind began to sob and sigh,
Like a weak man broken-hearted.
I sank into the deep abyss;

But with a desperate strife,
I buffeted the roaring waves,
And fought with them for life.
'Twas but a minute; o'er my soul
A leaden lethargy there stole,
And o'er my frame a sleep;
But ah! not dreamless, for my brain
Conjured a vision full of pain,
Most palpable, most deep.

By the devouring sea; That Chimboraço's mightier peak Was quench'd eternally; And that I with an angel's wings Flew onwards still, and found no rest; Nought met mine eye,

But the grey-colour'd sky,

And the wide ocean's dread, eternal breast.

Silence was over all,

Except when rose the blast, Fitfully rushing o'er the sea;

And I claim'd kindred with it, as it pass'd,

Because it mourned like me O'er the departed Earth,

And wept that in its course it saw no life

And heard no voice of mirth,

No sound of human passion or of strife.

I was alone all else had fled-
In the vast world I was alone:
Earth's children were all dead

And buried with their mother in the
deep,

Which had claim'd all things for its own, And left but me to weep.

Some heart whose tears with mine might flow:

Then 'twould be sweet to worship Thee!

But-as it is-better to die

Than live alone in this immensity.'

The restless waves had ceased to moan,
The storm had ceased to blow,
And the loud winds, in milder tone,
Began to murmur low,

And pleasant sounds came o'er the deep,
And floated on the air,

And raised me from the dark abyss
Of sorrow and despair.

With lighter heart I look'd again
O'er ocean's boundless scope,
Then turn'd my glance upon the sky
In gladness and in hope.
The dismal clouds had roll'd away,
The sky was clear and blue,
And, oh! to glad my longing eyes,
One star was peering through.
O lovely star! O welcome ray!
It was a beauteous sight,
Alone upon the waters wide,
To gaze upon its light.
For hours I look'd, until it seem'd
To change upon my view;
While soft sweet sounds came from the
sky,

And from the waters blue.

And then I saw two radiant eyes

Bent tenderly on mine;

While to a face the bright star changedBeloved, it was thine!

I woke upon the beach I lay,

And thou, my beautiful, mine own,
Wert bending o'er my pallid cheek,
Beside the waters lone,

And smiling 'mid thy tears, to see
That all had not been vain
To call my dreaming spirit back
To consciousness again.

SACRED MELODIES.

'AND GOD SAID, LET THERE
BE LIGHT!'

EARTH heard the loud, the solemn sound,
And started from her utmost bound;
And Darkness, on his ebon car,
Spread his black wings, and fled afar ;
The dun clouds open'd at the sight,
And hail'd the burst of life and light!

"Tis light! 'tis light!' the mountains
rung,

"'Tis light! 'tis light!' the valleys sung!
The stars beheld its dawning bright,
The spheres confess'd the Godhead's
might,

While Nature's universal voice
Proclaim'd aloud, 'Rejoice! rejoice !'

II.

WEEPING FOR THE DEAD.
Оn! why should we bewail the dead,
Why sorrow o'er their narrow bed?
Have they not sought the happy shore,
Where human cares oppress no more?
Bewail them not !-more blest than we,
From mortal woes and anguish free,
Their parted spirits rest in peace
In the still land where troubles cease!

Bewail them not! their bright abode
Is with a Father and a God:
Freed from Corruption's cold embrace,
They see th' Almighty face to face.
No sorrows move the faithful dead,
No woes disturb their narrow bed;
In the still land, where troubles cease,
Their parted spirits rest in peace.

III.

THE DOVE OF NOAH.

HOPE on her wings, and God her guide, The dove of Noah soar'd,

Far through the dim unfathom'd space,
Where shoreless ocean roar'd.
But, ah! she found no valley green,
No resting-place,--no track,
Until the peaceful ark received
The weary wanderer back.

So we, on Life's tempestuous sea,
Beset by grief and pain,
May seek a solace here below,
But ah! the search is vain.
A resting-place for weary man
Is only found above;
The ark to which the soul returns
Is the Almighty's love.

IV.

REPENTANCE.

By the red lightning rent and riven,
And stretch'd along the plain,
Can the tall oak extend to heaven
Its gay green boughs again?
Or when a star hath lost its track,
And faded from on high,
Can aught restore the lost one back
To glory and the sky?

No; the tall oak no more can spread
Its green leaves to the blast,
Nor can the meteor which hath fled,

Recall its splendours past.

Can man, deep sunk in guilty care,

And press'd by human ill,
Gain triumph o'er his dark despair,
And find a solace still?

Yes! He who for our ransom bled,
Holds back th' avenging rod,
When meek Contrition bows her head,
Repenting, to her God.

Though dark the sin-though deep the heart

Be sunk in guilt and pain, Heaven's Mercy can a balm impart, And lift it up again!

« Previous Continue »

Books