DEDICATION OF THE DREAM, TO THE DUCHESS OF SUTHERLAND. ONCE more, my harp! once more, although I thought Whose lot is cast amid that busy world And Fancy's generous wing is faintly furl'd; To thee-whose friendship kept its equal truth Through the most dreary hour of my embitter'd youth I dedicate the lay. Ah! never bard, In days when poverty was twin with song; Nor wandering harper, lonely and ill-starr'd, Cheer'd by some castle's chief, and harbour'd long; Not Scott's Last Minstrel, in his trembling lays, Woke with a warmer heart the earnest meed of praise! For easy are the alms the rich man spares To sons of Genius, by misfortune bent, But thou gav'st me, what woman seldom dares, Belief-in spite of many a cold dissentWhen, slander'd and malign'd, I stood apart, From those whose bounded power hath wrung, not crush'd, my heart. Then, then, when cowards lied away my name, And scoff'd to see me feebly stem the tide; When some were kind on whom I had no claim, And some forsook on whom my love relied, And some, who might have battled for my sake, Stood off in doubt to see what turn the world" would take Thou gavest me that the poor do give the poor, Kind words, and holy wishes, and true tears; The loved, the near of kin could do no more, Who changed not with the gloom of varying But clung the closer when I stood forlorn, [years, And blunted slander's dart with their indignant scorn. For they who credit crime are they who feel Their own hearts weak to unresisted sin; Mem'ry, not judgment, prompts the thoughts which steal O'er minds like these, an easy faith to win; And tales of broken truth are still believed Most readily by those who have themselves deceived. But, like a white swan down a troubled stream, Whose ruffling pinion hath the power to fling Aside the turbid drops which darkly gleam And mar the freshness of her snowy wing, So thou, with queenly grace and gentle pride, Along the world's dark waves in purity dost glide; Thy pale and pearly cheek was never made To crimson with a faint, false-hearted shame; Thou didst not shrink, of bitter tongues afraid, Who hunt in packs the object of their blame; To thee the sad denial still held true, And, though my faint and tributary rhymes Shall set some value on his votive lay, EXTRACT FROM THE DREAM. Он, Twilight! Spirit that does render birth To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams; Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet, Who, slow returning from his task of toil, Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil, And, tho' such radiance round him brightly glows, Marks the small spark his cottage window throws; Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace, Fondly he dreams of each familiar face, Recalls the treasures of his narrow life, His rosy children and his sunburnt wife, To whom his coming is the chief event Of simple days in cheerful labour spent. The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past, And those poor cottagers have only cast One careless glance on all that show of pride, Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside; But him they wait for, him they welcome home, Fond sentinels look forth to see him come; The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim, The frugal meal prepared are all for him; For him the watching of that sturdy boy, For him those smiles of tenderness and joy, For him-who plods his sauntering way along, Whistling the fragment of some village song! TO MY BOOKS. SILENT companions of the lonely hour, Friends, who can never alter or forsake, Who for inconstant roving have no power, And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take,Let me return to you; this turmoil ending Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought; And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought, My native language spoke in friendly tone, TWILIGHT. Ir is the twilight hour, The daylight toil is done, And the last rays are departing Of the cold and wintry sun. It is the time when friendship Holds converse fair and free. It is the time when children Dance round the mother's knee. But my soul is faint and heavy, With a yearning sad and deep, By the fireside lone and dreary I sit me down and weep! Where are ye, merry voices, Whose clear and bird-like tone, Some other ear now blesses, Less anxious than my own? Where are ye, steps of lightness, Which fell like blossom-showers? Where are ye, sounds of laughter, That cheer'd the pleasant hours? Through the dim light slow declining, Where my wistful glances fall, I can see your pictures hanging Against the silent wall;They gleam athwart the darkness, With their sweet and changeless eyes, But mute are ye, my children! No voice to mine replies. Your old home's former mirth? With the memory of me? Such a heavy time hath grown,- Would be trivial-would be welcome- On the water's changeful breast; That the high priest of her nation Was the babe she sought to hide. No! in terror wildly flying, She hurried on her path: Her swoln heart full to bursting Of woman's helpless wrath; Of that wrath so blent with anguish, When we seek to shield from ill Those feeble little creatures Who seem more helpless still! Ah! no doubt in such an hour Her thoughts were harsh and wild; The fiercer burn'd her spirit The more she loved her child; No doubt, a frenzied anger Was mingled with her fear, When that prayer arose for justice Which God hath sworn to hear. He heard it! From His heaven, In its blue and boundless scope, He saw that task of anguish, And that fragile ark of hope; When she turn'd from that lost infant Her weeping eyes of love, And the cold reeds bent beneath itHis angels watch'd above! She was spared the bitter sorrow Of her young child's early death, Or the doubt where he was carried To draw his distant breath; She was call'd his life to nourish From the well-springs of her heart, God's mercy re-uniting Those whom man had forced apart! Nor was thy wo forgotten, Whose worn and weary feet Who felt no more for thee. And saw no fountain wave,- No shadow of relief; But to cast the young child from thee, But the Lord of Hosts was nigh! From the fountain's living spring,- Upheld by God's firm promise, Serene and undismay'd! And thou, Nain's grieving widow! Whose task of life seem'd done, When the pale corse lay before thee Of thy dear and only son; Though death, that fearful shadow, Had veil'd his fair young eyes, There was mercy for thy weeping, There was pity for thy sighs! The gentle voice of Jesus, (Who the touch of sorrow knew) The grave's cold claim arrested E'er it hid him from thy view; And those loving orbs re-open'd And knew thy mournful face,And the stiff limbs warm'd and bent them With all life's moving grace,— And his senses dawn'd and waken'd From the dark and frozen spell, Which death had cast around him Whom thou didst love so well; Till, like one return'd from exile To his former home of rest, Falls sobbing on his breast; All that memory held dear,- The twilight hour is over! In busier homes than mine, And the tread of homeward feet, No more I mark the objects In my cold and cheerless room; Have sunk-and all is gloom; And my eyes turn sadly towards them, Whose fondness fate beguiled, Saved her river-floating child;By the sudden joy which bounded In the banish'd Hagar's heart, When she saw the gushing fountain From the sandy desert start;By the living smile which greeted The lonely one of Nain, When her long last watch was over, And her hope seem'd wild and vain ;— By all the tender mercy God hath shown to human grief, When fate or man's perverseness And wild efforts of my own,- THE BLIND MAN TO HIS BRIDE. WHEN first, beloved, in vanish'd hours The blind man sought thy love to gain, They said thy cheek was bright as flowers New freshen'd by the summer rain: They said thy movements, swift yet soft, Were such as make the winged dove Seem, as it gently soars aloft, The image of repose and love. They told me, too, an eager crowd Of wooers praised thy beauty rare; A common love to meet or share. Days came and went ;-thy step I heard And well by that sweet voice I knew (Without the happiness of sight) Thy years, as yet, were glad and few, Thy smile, most innocently bright: I knew how full of love's own grace The beauty of thy form must be; And fancy idolized the face Whose loveliness I might not see! Oh! happy were those days, beloved! I almost ceased for light to pine When through the summer vales we roved, Thy fond hand gently link'd in mine. Thy soft "Good night" still sweetly cheer'd The unbroken darkness of my doom; And thy "Good morrow, love," endear'd Each sunrise that return'd in gloom! At length, as years roll'd swiftly on, They spoke to me of Time's decayOf roses from thy smooth cheek gone, And ebon ringlets turn'd to gray. Ah! then I bless'd the sightless eyes Which could not feel the deepening shade, Nor watch beneath succeeding skies Thy withering beauty faintly fade. I saw no paleness on thy cheek, No lines upon thy forehead smooth,But still the blind man heard thee speak In accents made to bless and soothe. Still he could feel thy guiding hand As through the woodlands wild we ranged,Still in the summer light could stand, And know thy heart and voice unchanged. And still, beloved, till life grows cold, By counting happy years gone by: As when those happy years began,— When first thou camest to sooth and share The sorrows of a sightless man! Old Time, who changes all below, To wean men gently for the grave, Hath brought us no increase of wo, And leaves us all he ever gave: For I am still a helpless thing, Whose darken'd world is cheer'd by theeAnd thou art she whose beauty's spring The blind man vainly yearn'd to see! THE SENSE OF BEAUTY. SPIRIT! who over this our mortal earth, Which imperfection doth not some way dim Thou who unseen, from out thy radiant wings Dost shower down light o'er mean and common things; And, wandering to and fro, Through the condemn'd and sinful world dost go, The sculptor owns thee! On his high pale brow His chisel ne'er shall trace, Though in his mind the fresh creation glows; The marble fixes in a sweet repose! His true and patient hand Moulds the dull clay to beauty's richest line, Or with more tedious skill, Obedient to thy will, By touches imperceptible and fine, The rough-hewn block away, Till the soft shadow of the bust's pale smile Wakes into statue-life and pays the assiduous toil! Thee the young painter knows,-whose fervent eyes, O'er the blank waste of canvass fondly bending, See fast within its magic circle rise The old Arcadian shades, Where thwarting glimpses of the sun are thrown, And dancing nymphs and shepherds one by one Appear to bless his sight In fancy's glowing light, Peopling that spot of green earth's flowery breast Lo! at his pencil's touch steals faintly forth Thee, also, doth the dreaming poet hail, He suddenly beholds the checker'd face Nor only these thy presence woo, In the deep well-springs of the human heart, When most imprison'd; causing tears to start [die, At the bright close of some rare holiday, Or the warm sunbeam dazzles with its rays, Who wild across the grassy meadow springs, Pursues the uncertain prize, Lured by the velvet glory of its wings! And so from youth to age-yea, till the end— Thou hoverest round us! And when all is o'er, Comes faint and fitfully, to usher nigh Consoling visions from thy native sky, Making it sweet to die! The sick man's ears are faint-his eyes are dim- To kneel about his bed, God's white-robed angels, who around him stand, So, living, dying,-still our hearts pursue (With the sick dreams of exiles,) that far world Whence angels once were hurl'd; Or it may be, a faint and trembling sense, THE MOTHER'S HEART. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest-born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And natural piety that lean'd to heaven; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, Yet patient to rebuke when justly givenObedient-easy to be reconciledAnd meekly cheerful-such wert thou, my child! Not willing to be left; still by my side [dying;— Haunting my walks, while summer-day was Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying, Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshness,-prone to fade, And bending weakly to the thunder-shower,Still, round the loved, thy heart found force to bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the wind! Then THOU, my merry love;-bold in thy glee, Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, And many a mirthful jest and mock reply, And thine was many an art to win and bless, [bound. But thought that love with thee had reach'd its At length THOU camest: thou, the last and least; Nick-named The Emperor" by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast, A mimic majesty that made us smile: And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! An eye of resolute and successful scheming! Fair shoulders-curling lip-and dauntless browFit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming: And proud the lifting of thy stately head, And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. Different from both! Yet each succeeding claim, I, that all other love had been forswearing, Forthwith admitted, equal and the same; Nor injured either, by this love's comparing; Nor stole a fraction for the newer callBut in the mother's heart, found room for all! THE CHILD OF EARTH. FAINTER her slow step falls from day to day, Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow; Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, "I am content to die, but, oh! not now! Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing; Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe. I am content to die-but, oh! not now!" The spring hath ripen'd into summer-time, The season's viewless boundary is past; The glorious sun hath reach'd his burning prime; Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last? "Let me not perish while o'er land and lea, With silent steps the lord of light moves on; Nor while the murmur of the mountain bee Greets my dull ear with music in its tone! Pale sickness dims my eye, and clouds my brow; I am content to die-but, oh! not now!" |