And he had themes on which to dwell,
And memories that were not mine,
Which formed a separating spell,
And drew a mystic boundary line.
His thoughts were wanderers-and the things
Which brought back friendship's joys to me,
To him were but the spirit's wings
Which bore him o'er the distant sea.
For he had seen the evening star
Glancing its rays o'er ocean's waves,
And marked the moonbeams from afar,
Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves.
And he had gazed on trees and flowers
Beneath Italia's sunny skies,
And listened, in fair ladies' bowers,
To genius' words, and beauty's sighs.
His steps had echoed through the halls
Of grandeur, long left desolate ;
And he had climbed the crumbling walls,
Or op'd perforce the hingeless gate;
And mused o'er many an ancient pile,
In ruin still magnificent,
Whose histories could the hours beguile
With dreams, before to fancy lent.
Such recollections come to him,
With moon, and stars, and summer flowers; To me they bring the shadows dim
Of earlier and of happier hours.
I would those shadows darker fell-
For life, with its best powers to bless,
Has but few memories loved as well,
Or welcome as forgetfulness.
Now freshening breezes swell the sail,
Now leans the vessel to the gale;
So slant her deck, you have to cling
A moment to the nearest thing;
So far she bends into the deep,
Across her deck the white waves sweep;
Bursts through the flood the pointed prow,
That loves the startled foam to throw,
And thunders on before the wind,
Long breaks of whirl and froth behind;
And when the seas the bows o'erwhelm,
The captain mutters, "mind your helm !"
At night, when stormy shadows fall,
"All hands on deck," the captain's call.
Darkness around, save when below
Dim light the bursting billows throw-
And heave the waves, and beats the rain-
The labouring vessel groans with pain;
Strains-lurches-thunders-rocks and rolls,
We smile-but tremble in our souls!
Fierce howls the blast through sail and shroud,
And rings the tempest long and loud;
But sweet the change, when tranquilly
In sunshine sleep the air and sea.
Pen may not paint each magic dye
On the soft wave and sunny sky,
When comes the charming silent eve,
And gentle billows idly heave.
The liquid floor bends smooth and bright,
Like molten silver to the light;
Till, as the western clouds enfold
The fiery sun, it turns to gold,
And then a thousand colours, straying
From heaven to earth, and sweetly playing
Upon the ocean's giant breast,
Compose his savage soul to rest.
And thus, within the human mind,
When waves are hushed and still the wind,
When passion's storm has passed away,
And vice no more obscures the day,
The beams of virtue and of love
Break softly, falling from above,
O'er half-breathed wordly wishes shine,
And calm them with a power divine.
[Written with French chalk on a pane of glass in the house of a friend.]
On this frail glass, to others' view,
No written words appear;
They see the prospect smiling through,
Nor deem what secret's here.
But shouldst thou on the tablet bright
A single breath bestow,
At once the record starts to sight
Which only thou must know.
The substance usually called French chalk has this singular property, that what is written on glass, though easily rubbed out again so that no trace remains visible, by being breathed on becomes immediately distinctly legible.
Thus, like this glass, to stranger's gaze
My heart seemed unimpress'd;
In vain did beauty round me blaze,
It could not warm my breast.
But as one breath of thine can make
These letters plain to see,
So in my heart did love awake
When breath'd upon by thee.
"TWAS sunset's hallow'd time-and such an eve Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave. Never did brighter glories greet the eye, Low in the warm and ruddy western sky: Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest, Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, Were, as wild eastern legends idly feign, Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold, All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay, While hands unseen, or chance directs their way;
Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide,
With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide,
Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queen
Reclining on the shaded deck was seen,
At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool,
The subject world slipt from his dotard rule.
Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade,
And deeper hues the ruddy skies invade;
The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds,
And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds.
Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm,
The silent dews of evening dropt like balm;
The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies,
To chase the viewless insect through the skies;
The bat began his lantern-loving flight,
The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night,
Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near,
His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear;
The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie,
With idle hum, and careless blundering eye;
The little trusty watchman of pale night,
The firefly trimm'd anew his lamp so bright,
And took his merry airy circuit round
The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound,
Where blossom'd clover, bathed in balmy dew,
In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew.
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