Betrayal

Ah, Douglass, we have fall'n on evil days,
Such days as thou, not even thou didst know,
When thee, the eyes of that harsh long ago
Saw, salient, at the cross of devious ways,
And all the country heard thee with amaze.
Not ended then, the passionate ebb and flow,
The awful tide that battled to and fro;
We ride amid a tempest of dispraise.

Now, when the waves of swift dissension swarm,
And Honor, the strong pilot, lieth stark,
Oh, for thy voice high-sounding o'er the storm,
For thy strong arm to guide the shivering bark,
The blast-defying power of thy form,
To give us comfort through the lonely dark.

As when the old moon lighted by the tender
    And radiant crescent of the new is seen,
And for a moment's space suggests the splendor
    Of what in its full prime it once has been,
So on my waning years you cast the glory
    Of youth and pleasure, for a little hour;
And life again seems like an unread story,
    And joy and hope both stir me with their power.

Can blooming June be fond of bleak December?
    I dare not wait to hear my heart reply.
I will forget the question -and remember
    Alone the priceless feast spread for mine eye,
That radiant hair that flows across the pillows,
    Like shimmering sunbeams over drifts of snow;
Those heaving breasts, like undulating billows,
    Whose dangers or delights but Love can know.

That crimson mou...

Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"

When Fate shall chill, at length,...

When Thou wast taken, Lord, I oft have read,
All Thy disciples Thee forsook and fled.
Let their example not a pattern be
For me to fly, but now to follow Thee.

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds
    Hang'st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed;
First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds,
    'Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and dead:
As through my tears my soul looks up to thee,
    Loathing the heavy chains that bind it here,
There comes a fearful thought that misery
    Perhaps is found, even in thy distant sphere.
Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin,
    The heritage of death, disease, decay,
A wilderness, like that we wander in,
    Where all things fairest, soonest pass away?
And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world,
    Round which life's sweetest buds fall withered,
Where hope's bright wings in the dark earth lie furled,
    And living hearts are mouldering with the dead?
Perchance ...

Cesare, poi che 'l traditor d' Egitto.

THE COUNTENANCE DOES NOT ALWAYS TRULY INDICATE THE HEART.


    When Egypt's traitor Pompey's honour'd head
To Cæsar sent; then, records so relate,
To shroud a gladness manifestly great,
Some feigned tears the specious monarch shed:
And, when misfortune her dark mantle spread
O'er Hannibal, and his afflicted state,
He laugh'd 'midst those who wept their adverse fate,
That rank despite to wreak defeat had bred.
Thus doth the mind oft variously conceal
Its several passions by a different veil;
Now with a countenance that's sad, now gay:
So mirth and song if sometimes I employ,
'Tis but to hide those sorrows that annoy,
'Tis but to chase my amorous cares away.

NOTT.


    Cæsar, wh...

Unnamed at times, at times unknown,
Our graves lie thick beyond the seas;
Unnamed, but not of Him unknown;--
He knows!--He sees!

And not one soul has fallen in vain.
Here was no useless sacrifice.
From this red sowing of white seed
New life shall rise.

All that for which they fought lives on,
And flourishes triumphantly;
Watered with blood and hopeful tears,
It could not die.

The world was sinking in a slough
Of sloth, and ease, and selfish greed;
God surely sent this scourge to mould
A nobler creed.

Birth comes with travail; all these woes
Are birth-pangs of the days to be.
Life's noblest things are ever born
In agony.

So--comfort to the stricken heart!
Take solace in the thought that he
You mourn wa...

Alien blossoms! tell me why
    Seek ye such a lonely place,
Thus to bloom, and droop, and die
    Far away from all your race?

Wherefore, from the sunny bowers
    Where your beauteous kindred bloom,
Have ye come, O banished flowers!
    Thus to decorate a tomb?

"Mortal, dost thou question why
    Thus beside the grave we bloom?
Why we hither come to die,
    Aliens from our garden-home?

"'Twas Affection's gentle hand
    Placed us thus her dead so near; -
Tis at weeping Love's command
    That we breathe our fragrance here.

"Ask not why we wither here,
    Thou who ne'er hast tasted woe,
Who hast never felt the tear
    Of bereaved affection flow, -

"Ask not, till thy household band
    By death's cruel ...

    Oh, the noise of Piccadilly - its rumble and its roar!
    A tide of life's broad ocean surging toward the shore.
    Who once has listened, ever can hear its long refrain
    With haunting echo drowning or dirge or flaunting strain.
    Who heeds it, in his vision may see a world-throng pass -
    And over there the Green Park with laughing lad and lass;
    While weary men and women and careless youth go by,
    Where windows glow and glitter, and in the evening sky
    A crescent moon is watching the laughing lass and lad.
    The long, warm London twilight! Happy they are, though sad.
    With kiss and tear they are parting. 'Tis late - the rush and roar -
    The life of Picadilly is waning - is no more.

    Ah, the dark, the cold, the stillness of the trenches in ...

(For a friend who mourns its passing.)

He took the earth as earth had been his throne;
And beauty as the red rose for his eye;
"Give me the moon," he said, "for mine alone;
Or I will reach and pluck it from the sky!"

And thou, Life, dost mourn him, for the day
Has darkened since the gallant youngling went;
And smaller seems thy dwelling-place of clay
Since he has left that valley tenement.

But oh, perchance, beyond some utmost gate.
While at the gate thy stranger feet do stand.
He shall approach thee, beautiful, elate.
Crowned with his moon, the red rose in his hand!

The morning shone on Tagus' rocky side,
And airs of summer swelled the yellow tide,
When, rising from his melancholy bed,
And faint, and feebly by Antonio[2] led,
Poor Camoens, subdued by want and woe,
Along the winding margin wandered slow,
His harp, that once could each warm feeling move
Of patriot glory or of tenderest love,
His sole and sable friend[3] (while a faint tone
Rose from the wires) placed by a mossy stone.
How beautiful the sun ascending shines
From ridge to ridge, along the purple vines!
How pure the azure of the opening skies!
How resonant the nearer rock replies
To call of early mariners! and, hark!
The distant whistle from yon parting bark,
That down the channel as serene she strays,
Her gray sail mingles with the ...

"But if any old Lady, Knight, Priest, or Physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?"

Anstey's 'New Bath Guide', p. 169.


Candour compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse, which blends the censor with the friend;
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause;
For this wild error, which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon, - must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart;
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't controul,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far be...

A Shepherd's Boy (he seeks no better name)
Led forth his flocks along the silver Thame,
Where dancing sun-beams n the waters play'd,
And verdant alders form'd a quiv'ring shade.
Soft as he mourn'd, the streams forgot to flow,
The flocks around a dumb compassion show,
The Naiads wept in ev'ry wat'ry bow'r,
And Jove consented in a silent show'r.
Accept, O Garth, the Muse's early lays,
That adds this wreath of Ivy to thy Bays;
Hear what from Love unpractis'd hearts endure,
From Love, the sole disease thou canst not cure.
Ye shady beeches, and ye cooling streams,
Defence from Phoebus, not from Cupid's beams,
To you I mourn, nor to the deaf I sing,
The woods shall answer, and their echo ring.
The gills and rocks attend my doleful lay,
Why art thou prouder and ...

"Turn me a rhyme," said Fate,
"Turn me a rhyme:
A swift and deadly hate
Blows headlong towards thee in the teeth of Time.
Write! or thy words will fall too late."

"Write me a fold," said Fate,
"Write me a fold,
Life to conciliate,
Of words red with thine heart's blood, hotly told.
Then, kings may envy thine estate!"

"Make thee a fame," said Fate,
"Make thee a fame
To storm the heaven-hung gate,
Unbarred alone to the victorious name
Which has Art's conquerors to mate."

"Die in thy shame," said Fate,
"Die in thy shame!
Naught here can compensate
But the proud radiance of that glorious flame,
Genius: fade, thou, unconsecrate!"

As some contented bird doth coo
    She trilled a song of fond delight,
    The while she spread the cloth of white,
And set the cups and plates for two.

She leaned beyond the window sill,
    And looked along the busy street,
    And listened for his coming feet.
The skies were calm, the winds were still.

'O love, my love, why art thou late?
    The kettle boils, the cloth is spread,
    The clock points close to noon,' she said.
O clock of time!    O clock of fate!

She heard the moon's glad sound of cheer;
    (The hiss, the whirl, the crash, the creak,
    Of maddened wheels, the awful shriek
Of awestruck men -she did not hear.)

She lightly tripped about the room,
    And near the window, where his eyes
    Might greet it w...

I pray you, pardon me, Elsie,
    And smile that frown away
That dims the light of your lovely face
    As a thunder-cloud the day.
I really could not help it, -
    Before I thought, 'twas done, -
And those great grey eyes flashed bright and cold,
    Like an icicle in the sun.

I was thinking of the summers
    When we were boys and girls,
And wandered in the blossoming woods,
    And the gay winds romped with your curls.
And you seemed to me the same little girl
    I kissed in the alder-path,
I kissed the little girl's lips, and, alas!
    I have roused a woman's wrath.

There is not so much to pardon, -
    For why were your lips so red?
The blond hair fell in a shower of gold
    From the proud, provoking head.
And the beaut...

What love is; how I love; how builders' clay
By love is lit into a golden spending;
How love calls beautiful ghosts back to the day;
How life because of love shall have no ending,
These with the dawn I have begun to sing,
These with the million-budded noon that's rising
Shall be a theme, with love's consent, to bring
My song to some imperishable devising.
And may the petals of this garland fall
On every quarrel, and in fragrance bless
Old friendship; and a little comfort all
The weary loves that walk the wilderness,
While still my song I consecrate alone
To her who taking it shall take her own.

Poor Monsieur his conscience preserved for a year,
Yet in one hour he lost it, 'tis known far and near;
To whom did he lose it? - A judge or a peer.[2]
    Which nobody can deny.

This very same conscience was sold in a closet,
Nor for a baked loaf, or a loaf in a losset,
But a sweet sugar-plum, which you put in a posset.
    Which nobody can deny.

O Monsieur, to sell it for nothing was nonsense,
For, if you would sell it, it should have been long since,
But now you have lost both your cake and your conscience.
    Which nobody can deny.

So Nell of the Dairy, before she was wed,
Refused ten good guineas for her maidenhead,
Yet gave it for nothing to smooth-spoken Ned.
    Which nobody can deny.

But, Monsieur, no vonder dat you vere collo...