Betrayal

Around me broods the dim, mysterious Night,
    Star-lit and still.
No whisper comes across the Plain,
Asleep beneath the breezes light,
Which scarcely stir the growing grain.
Slow chimes the quiet midnight hour
In some unseen and distant tower,
While round me broods the vague, mysterious Night,
    Star-lit, and cool, and still.

And I must desecrate this silent time
    Of drowsy dreams!
On mighty wings towards the sky,
Towards the stars, I have to climb
And o'er the sleeping country fly,
And such far-echoing clamour make
That all the villages must wake.
So must I desecrate this quiet time
    Of soft and drowsy dreams!

The hour comes ... soon must I say farewell
    To this fair earth.
Then to my little room I go
Where I ...

The moment must come, when the hands that unite
    In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever;
When the eyes that have beamed o'er us brightly to-night,
    Will have ceased to shine o'er us, for ever.
        Yet wreathe again the goblet's brim
        With pleasure's roseate crown!
        What though the future hour be dim -
        The present is our own!

The moment is come, and again we are parting,
    To roam through the world, each our separate way;
In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is starting,
    But hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds its ray.
        Then wreathe again the goblet's brim
        With pleasure's roseate crown!
        What though the present hour be dim -
        The future's yet our own!

The moment is pa...

    'T is pleasant to bear recollections in mind
    Of joys that time hurries away--
    To look back on smiles that have passed like the wind,
    And compare them with frowns of to-day.
    'T was the constant delight of Old Robin, forsooth,
    On the past with clear vision to dwell--
    To recount the fond loves and the raptures of youth,
    And tales of lost pleasures to tell.

    "'T is now many years," like a child, he would say,
    "Since I joined in the sports of the green--
    Since I tied up the flowers for the garland of May,
    And danced with the holiday queen.
    My memory looks backward in sorrowful pride,
    And I think, till my eyes dim with tears,
    Of the past, where my happiness withered and died,
    And the present dull, desol...

Farewell: how should not such as thou fare well,
Though we fare ill that love thee, and that live,
And know, whate'er the days wherein we dwell
May give us, thee again they will not give?
Peace, rest, and sleep are all we know of death,
And all we dream of comfort: yet for thee,
Whose breath of life was bright and strenuous breath,
We think the change is other than we see.
The seal of sleep set on thine eyes to-day
Surely can seal not up the keen swift light
That lit them once for ever. Night can slay
None save the children of the womb of night.
The fire that burns up dawn to bring forth noon
Was father of thy spirit: how shouldst thou
Die as they die for whom the sun and moon
Are silent? Thee the darkness holds not now:
Them, while they looked upon the light,...

PART FOURTH.

WALK ABROAD - VIEWS AROUND, FROM THE SEVERN TO BRISTOL - WRINGTON - "AULD ROBIN GRAY."

The shower is past - the heath-bell, at our feet,
Looks up, as with a smile, though the cold dew
Hangs yet within its cup, like Pity's tear
Upon the eyelids of a village child!
Mark! where a light upon those far-off waves
Gleams, while the passing shower above our head
Sheds its last silent drops, amid the hues
Of the fast-fading rainbow, - such is life!
Let us go forth, the redbreast is abroad,
And, dripping in the sunshine, sings again.    10
No object on the wider sea-line meets
The straining vision, but one distant ship,
Hanging, as motionless and still, far off,
In the pale haze, between the sea and sky.
She seems the ship - the very ship I saw<...

The song of Kilvani:    fairest she
In all the land of Savatthi.
She had one child, as sweet and gay
And dear to her as the light of day.
She was so young, and he so fair,
The same bright eyes and the same dark hair;
To see them by the blossomy way,
They seemed two children at their play.

There came a death-dart from the sky,
Kilvani saw her darling die.
The glimmering shade his eyes invades,
Out of his cheek the red bloom fades;
His warm heart feels the icy chill,
The round limbs shudder, and are still.
And yet Kilvani held him fast
Long after life's last pulse was past,
As if her kisses could restore
The smile gone out for evermore.

But when she saw her child was dead,
She scattered ashes on her head,
And seized the small corp...

They meet to say farewell: Their way
Of saying this is hard to say. -
    He holds her hand an instant, wholly
    Distressed - and she unclasps it slowly.

He bends his gaze evasively
Over the printed page that she
    Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder
    Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her.

The clock, beneath its crystal cup,
Discreetly clicks - "Quick!    Act!    Speak up!"
    A tension circles both her slender
    Wrists - and her raised eyes flash in splendor,

Even as he feels his dazzled own. -
Then, blindingly, round either thrown,
    They feel a stress of arms that ever
    Strain tremblingly - and "Never!    Never!"

Is whispered brokenly, with half
A sob, like a belated laugh, -
    While cloyingly their ...

Twin lilies in the river floating,
    Two lilies pure and white;
And one is pale and faintly drooping,
    The other glad and bright.

Twin lilies in the silvery waters,
    Two lilies white and frail;
And one is ever laughing gladly,
    The other, still and pale.

Upon the peaceful gleaming waters,
    They linger side by side;
And one, her head is drooping sadly;
    The other glows with pride.

Twin stars are o'er the river beaming,
    Two stars with silvery light;
And now they look with glances loving
    Upon the lilies white.

Two lilies now are drooping lowly
    Unto the river tide;
While in the wave the stars reflected
    Are floating side by side.

And now the stars are bending slowly
    To kiss ...

'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
    As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more
    The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,
Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!
Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the day
    No tear escap'd him, not one suffering groan
    Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone
In bitterness; thinking that far away
Tho' the gay negroes join the midnight song,
    Tho' merriment resounds on Niger's shore,
She whom he loves far from the chearful throng
    Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door
With dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone,
    And weeps for him who will return no more.

Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?


What shall be said between us here
Among the downs, between the trees,
In fields that knew our feet last year,
In sight of quiet sands and seas,
This year, Félise?

Who knows what word were best to say?
For last year’s leaves lie dead and red
On this sweet day, in this green May,
And barren corn makes bitter bread.
What shall be said?

Here as last year the fields begin,
A fire of flowers and glowing grass;
The old fields we laughed and lingered in,
Seeing each our souls in last year’s glass,
Félise, alas!

Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep,
Not we, though this be as it is?
For love awake or love asleep
Ends in a laugh, a dream, a kiss,
A song like this.

I tha...

Another day of rest, and I sit here
Among the trees, green mounds, and leaves as sere
As my own blasted hopes. There was a time
When Love and perfect Happiness did chime
Like two sweet sounds upon this blessed day;
But one has flown forever, far away
From this poor Earth's unsatisfied desires
To love eternal, and the sacred fires
With which the other lighted up my mind
Have faded out and left no trace behind,
But dust and bitter ashes. Like a bark
Becalmed, I anchor through the midnight dark,
Still hoping for another dawn of Love.
Bring back my olive branch of Happiness, O dove!

Amid the ruins of monastic gloom,
Where Nore's meand'ring waters wind along,
Genius and Wealth have rais'd the tasteful dome,
Yet not alone for Fashion's brilliant throng; -

In Virtue's cause they take a noble aim;
'Tis theirs in sweetest harmony to blend
Wit with Compassion, Sympathy with Fame,
Pleasure the means, Beneficence the end[A].

There, if on Beauty's cheek the tear appears
(Form'd by the mournful Muse's mimic sigh),
Fast as it falls, a kindred drop it bears,
More sadly shed from genuine Misery.

Nor, if the laughter-loving Nymph delight,
Does the reviving transport perish there;
Still, still, with Pity's radiance doubly bright,
Its smiles shed sunshine on the cheek of Care.

So, if Pomona's golden fruit descend,
...

I have lost, and lately, these
Many dainty mistresses:
Stately Julia, prime of all;
Sapho next, a principal:
Smooth Anthea, for a skin
White, and heaven-like crystalline:
Sweet Electra, and the choice
Myrha, for the lute and voice.
Next, Corinna, for her wit,
And the graceful use of it;
With Perilla: All are gone;
Only Herrick's left alone,
For to number sorrow by
Their departures hence, and die.

Beyond the pale of memory,
In some mysterious dusky grove;
A place of shadows utterly,
Where never coos the turtle-dove,
A world forgotten of the sun:
I dreamed we met when day was done,
And marvelled at our ancient love.

Met there by chance, long kept apart,
We wandered through the darkling glades;
And that old language of the heart
We sought to speak: alas! poor shades!
Over our pallid lips had run
The waters of oblivion,
Which crown all loves of men or maids.

In vain we stammered: from afar
Our old desire shone cold and dead:
That time was distant as a star,
When eyes were bright and lips were red.
And still we went with downcast eye
And no delight in being nigh,
Poor shadows most uncomforted.

Ah, Lalage! while lif...

Friend of mine! whose lot was cast
With me in the distant past;
Where, like shadows flitting fast,

Fact and fancy, thought and theme,
Word and work, begin to seem
Like a half-remembered dream!

Touched by change have all things been,
Yet I think of thee as when
We had speech of lip and pen.

For the calm thy kindness lent
To a path of discontent,
Rough with trial and dissent;

Gentle words where such were few,
Softening blame where blame was true,
Praising where small praise was due;

For a waking dream made good,
For an ideal understood,
For thy Christian womanhood;

For thy marvellous gift to cull
From our common life and dull
Whatsoe'er is beautiful;

Thoughts and fancies, Hybla's bees
Droppi...

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

[More Ways Than One.]

        I was present, one day
            Where both layman and priest
        Worshipped God in a way
            That was startling, at least:
        Over thirty in place
            On the stage, in a row,
        As is often the case
            At a minstrelsy show;
        In a uniform clad
            Was each one of them seen,
        And a banjo they had,
            And a loud tambourine.
        And they sung and they shouted
            Their spasmodic joys,
        Just as if they ne'er doubted
            That God loved a noise.

        And their phrases, though all
            Not deficient in points,
        A grammarian would call
      ...

FIRST SPEAKER, as David

I.
On the first of the Feast of Feasts,
The Dedication Day,
When the Levites joined the Priests
At the Altar in robed array,
Gave signal to sound and say,

II.
When the thousands, rear and van,
Swarming with one accord
Became as a single man
(Look, gesture, thought and word)
In praising and thanking the Lord,

III.
When the singers lift up their voice,
And the trumpets made endeavour,
Sounding, “In God rejoice!”
Saying, “In Him rejoice
“Whose mercy endureth for ever!”

IV.
Then the Temple filled with a cloud,
Even the House of the Lord;
Porch bent and pillar bowed:
For the presence of the Lord,
In the glory of His cloud,
Had filled the House of the Lord.

My door is always left ajar,
Lest you should suddenly slip through,
A little breathless frightened star;
Each footfall sets my heart abeat,
I always think it may be you,
Stolen in from the street.

My ears are evermore attent,
Waiting in vain for one blest sound -
The little frock, with lilac scent,
That used to whisper up the stair;
Then in my arms with one wild bound -
Your lips, your eyes, your hair.
Never the south wind through the rose,
Brushing its petals with soft hand,
Made such sweet talking as your clothes,
Rustling and fragrant as you came,
And at my aching door would stand -
Then vanish into flame.