And still I staid a little more;
Alas! she never comes again!
I throw my flowers from the shore,
And watch in vain.
I know my life will fade away,
I know that I must vainly pine;
For I am made of mortal clay,
But she 's divine!
But the cloud spread its wings
To the blue heaven and flies.
We never shall meet, love,
Except in the skies!
O'ER hill, and dale, and distant sea,
Through all the miles that stretch between,
My thought must fly to rest on thee,
And would, though worlds should intervene.
Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks
The further we are forced apart,
Affection's firm elastic links
But bind the closer round the heart.
For now we sever each from each,
I learn what I have lost in thee;
Alas! that nothing less could teach
How great indeed my love should be!
Farewell! I did not know thy worth;
But thou art gone, and now 't is prized:
So angels walked unknown on earth,
But when they flew were recognized!
THE stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail;
The moon is constant to her time:
The sun will never fail;
But follow, follow round the world,
earth and the sea;
So love is with the lover's heart,
Wherever he may be.
Wherever he may be, the stars
Must daily lose their light;
The moon will veil her in the shade;
The sun will set at night.
The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he's away;
So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day.
MOTHER of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led! —
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,
Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunter never climbed, secure from dread?
How many antique fancies have I read
Of that mild presence! and how many wrought!
Wondrous and bright,
Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!
What art thou like? - sometimes I see thee ride
A far-bound galley on its perilous way,
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray :
Sometimes behold thee glide,
Clustered by all thy family of stars,
Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide,
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars;
Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep,
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,
Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep,
To catch the young Endymion asleep,—
Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch!
O, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be !
Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named;
And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed
A silver idol, and ne'er worshipped thee!
It is too late, or thou shouldst have my knee;
Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,
And not divine the crescent on thy brows!
Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild moon,
Behind those chestnut boughs,
Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;
I will be grateful for that simple boon,
In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet,
And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet.
In nights far gone,- ay, far away and dead,-
Before Care-fretted with a lidless eye,-
I was thy wooer on my little bed,
Letting the early hours of rest go by,
To see thee flood the heaven with milky light,
And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept;
For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams,-
Thou wert the fairies' armorer, that kept
Their burnished helms, and crowns, and corselets bright, Their spears and glittering mails;
And ever thou didst spill in winding streams
Sparkles and midnight gleams,
For fishes to new gloss their argent scales!
Why sighs? why creeping tears?— why claspéd hands?
Is it to count the boy's expended dower?
That fairies since have broke their gifted wands?
That young Delight, like any o'erblown flower,
Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground? --
Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour,
Thou art a sadder dial to old Time
Than ever I have found
On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tower,
Mottoed with stern and melancholy rhyme.
Why should I grieve for this?-O I must yearn,
Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory,
Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn,
Richly embossed with childhood's revelry,
With leaves and clustered fruits, and flowers eterne,-
(Eternal to the world, though not to me,)
Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be,
The deathless wreath, and undecayed festoon,
When I am hearsed within,-
Less than the pallid primrose to the moon,
That now she watches through a vapor thin.
So let it be: Before I lived to sigh,
Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,
Beautiful orb! and so, whene'er I lie
Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.
Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills,
And blessed thy fair face, O mother mild!
Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run,
|