Betrayal

I

How beautiful when up a lofty height
Honour ascends among the humblest poor,
And feeling sinks as deep! See there the door
Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight
Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune's spite
She wasted no complaint, but strove to make
A just repayment, both for conscience-sake
And that herself and hers should stand upright
In the world's eye. Her work when daylight failed
Paused not, and through the depth of night she kept
Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed
With some, the noble Creature never slept;
But, one by one, the hand of death assailed
Her children from her inmost heart bewept.

II

The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow,
Till a winter's noonday placed her buried Son
Before her eyes, last child...

Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:
One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep,
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.

Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:
I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star.

Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame!
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame:
But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know,
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.

What I love shall come like visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;
What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray,
Thou...

I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because -- because if he should die
While I was gone, and I -- too late --
Should reach the heart that wanted me;

If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted, hunted so, to see,
And could not bear to shut until
They "noticed" me -- they noticed me;

If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I 'd come -- so sure I 'd come,
It listening, listening, went to sleep
Telling my tardy name, --

My heart would wish it broke before,
Since breaking then, since breaking then,
Were useless as next morning's sun,
Where midnight frosts had lain!

Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird!
Thou art come from the spirits' land:
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard,
And tell of the shadowy band!

* * * * *

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain,
Can those who have loved, forget?
We call and they answer not again
Do they love, do they love us yet?

F. HEMANS.

Yes! yes, I have come from the spirits' land,
From the land that is bright and fair,
I come with a voice from the shadowy band,
To tell that they love you there!

To say, if a wish or a fond regret
Could live in Elysian bowers,
'Twould be for the friends they could ne'er forget,
The loved of their youthful hours;

To whisper the dear deserted band,
Who smiled on their tarriance he...

My hour is not yet come! - these burning eyes
    Have not yet look'd their last! - else, 'mid the roar
    Of this wild STORM, what gloomy joy to pour
    My freed, exhaling Soul! - sublime to rise,
Rend the conflicting clouds, inflame the skies,
    And lash the torrents! - Bending to explore
    Our evening seat, my straining eye once more
    Roves the wide watry Waste; - but nought descries
Save the pale Flood, o'erwhelming as it strays.
    Yet Oh! lest my remorseless Fate decree
    That all I love, with life's extinguish'd rays
Sink from my soul, to soothe this agony,
    To balm that life, whose loss may forfeit thee,
    COME DEAR REMEMBRANCE OF DEPARTED DAYS!

    I and myself swore enmity.    Alack,
    Myself has tied my hands behind my back.
    Yielding, I know there's no excuse in them,
    I was accomplice to the stratagem.

"O maiden, peerless, come dwell with me,
And bright shall I render thy destiny:
Thou shalt leave thy cot by the green hillside,
To dwell in a palace home of pride,
Where crowding menials, with lowly mien,
Shall attend each wish of their lovely queen."

"Ah! stranger my cot by the green hillside
Hath more charms for me than thy halls of pride;
If the roof be lowly, the moss rose there
Rich fragrance sheds on the summer air;
And the birds and insects, with joyous song,
Are more welcome far than a menial throng."

"Child, tell me not so! too fair art thou,
With thy starry eyes and thy queenlike brow,
To dwell in this spot, sequestered and lone,
Thy marvelous beauty to all unknown;
And that form, which might grace a throne, arrayed
In the lowly garb...

Nature's imperfect child, to whom
The world is wrapt in viewless gloom,
Can unresisted still impart
The fondest wishes of his heart.

And he, to whose impervious ear
The sweetest sounds no charms dispense,
Can bid his inmost soul appear
In clear, tho' silent, eloquence.

But we, my Julia, not so blest,
Are doom'd a diff'rent fate to prove, -
To feel each joy and hope supprest
That flow from pure, but hidden, love.

I wore my heart upon my sleeve,
Tis most unwise, they say, to do -
But then how could I but believe
The foolish thing was safe with you?
Yet, had I known, 'twas safer far
With wolves and tigers, the wild sea
Were kinder to it than you are -
Sweetheart, how you must laugh at me!

Yet am I glad I did not know
That creatures of such tender bloom,
Beneath their sanctuary snow,
Were such cold ministers of doom;
For had I known, as I began
To love you, ere we flung apart,
I had not been so glad a man
As holds his lady to his heart.

And am I lonely here to-night
With empty eyes, the cause is this,
Your face it was that gave me sight,
My heart ran over with your kiss.
Still do I think that what I laid
Before the altar of your face,<...

In the depths of a Forest secluded and wild,
The night voices whisper in passionate numbers;
And I’m leaning again, as I did when a child,
O’er the grave where my father so quietly slumbers.

The years have rolled by with a thundering sound
But I knew, O ye woodlands, affection would know it,
And the spot which I stand on is sanctified ground
By the love that I bear to him sleeping below it.

Oh! well may the winds with a saddening moan
Go fitfully over the branches so dreary;
And well may I kneel by the time-shattered stone,
And rejoice that a rest has been found for the weary.

I.

Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness, and o’er all
Blue, stainless, steel-bright ether, raining down
Tranquillity upon the deep-hushed town,
The freshening meadows, and the hillsides brown;
Voice of the west-wind from the hills of pine,
And the brimmed river from its distant fall,
Low hum of bees, and joyous interlude
Of bird-songs in the streamlet-skirting wood,
Heralds and prophecies of sound and sight,
Blessed forerunners of the warmth and light,
Attendant angels to the house of prayer,
With reverent footsteps keeping pace with mine,
Once more, through God’s great love, with you I share
A morn of resurrection sweet and fair
As that which saw, of old, in Palestine,
Immortal Love uprising in fresh bloom
From the dark night and winter of the to...

At last, dear love, the day is gone,
    The doors are barred--the lamps are lit,
The couch beside the fire is drawn,
    The nook whore thou wert wont to sit;

The book is open at the place,
    And half its leaves are still uncut,
And yet without thy listening face,
    I cannot read, the book I shut,

And muse, and dream:--it is the day
    When lovers, silent all the year,
Find tongues in floral tokens gay,
    To whisper all they long to hear.

Ah, many a time, and many a time
    I saw the question in thine eyes,
Where is the silver-sounding rhyme,
    The simple household melodies,

The harp that trembled to thy touch;
    Hast thou forgot thine early lore?
And know'st not that I love so much,
    That song contents my...

The Saviour hides his face!
My spirit thirsts to prove
Renew’d supplies of pardoning grace,
And never-fading love.


The favour’d souls who know
What glories shine in him,
Pant for his presence as the roe
Pants for the living stream!


What trifles tease me now!
They swarm like summer flies,
They cleave to everything I do,
And swim before my eyes.


How dull the Sabbath-day,
Without the Sabbath’s Lord!
How toilsome then to sing and pray,
And wait upon the word!


Of all the truths I hear,
How few delight my taste!
I glean a berry here and there,
But mourn the vintage past.


Yet let me (as I ought)
Still hope to be supplied;
No pleasure else is worth a thought,
Nor shall I be ...

Here upon the mountain-side
    Till now we met together;
Here I won my woodland bride,
    In flush of summer weather.
Green was then the linden-bough,
    This dear retreat that shaded;
Autumn winds are round me now,
    And the leaves have faded.

She whose heart was all my own,
    In this summer-bower,
With all pleasant things has flown,
    Sunbeam, bird, and flower!
But her memory will stay
    With me, though we're parted--
From the scene I turn away,
    Lone and broken-hearted!

Ther's a Squire lives at th' Hall 'at's lukt up to,
As if he wor ommost a god.
He's hansum, he's rich, an he's clivver,
An fowk's praad if he gives 'em a nod.
He keeps carriages, horses an dogs,
For spooartin, or fancy, or labor,
He's a pew set apart in a church,
An he's reckoned a varry gooid naybor.

Ther's a woman bedrabbled an weet,
Crouched daan in a doorhoil to rest;
Her een strangely breet, - her face like a sheet,
An her long hair hings ovver her breast.
Want's shrivell'd her body to nowt,
An vice has set th' stamp on her face;
An her heart's grown soa callous an hard,
'At it connot be touched wi' disgrace.

Ther's a child bundled up i' some rags,
'At's whinin its poor life away;
Neglected an starvin on th' flags,
On this wild,...

I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice,
And the rich summer's welcome loss I hear
In the sickle's serpentine hiss
Cutting the corn's ear tightly pressed to ear.
And the short skirts of the slim reapers
Fly in the wind like holiday pennants,
The clash of joyful cymbals, and creeping
From under dusty lashes, the long glance.

I don't expect love's tender flatteries,
In premonition of some dark event,
But come, come and see this paradise
Where together we were blessed and innocent.

I stood on the bridge at midnight,
    As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
    Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection
    In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
    And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance
    Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
    Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters
    The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
    Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
    The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing
    Among the wooden piers,

“The poets pour us wine”
Said the dearest poet I ever knew,
Dearest and greatest and best to me.
You clamor athirst for poetry
We pour. “But when shall a vintage be”
You cry, “strong grape, squeezed gold from screw.
Yet sweet juice, flavored flowery-fine?
That were indeed the wine!”

One pours your cup, stark strength,
Meat for a man; and you eye the pulp
Strained, turbid still, from the viscous blood
Of the snaky bough: and you grumble “Good!
For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood;
Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp!”
So, down, with a wry face, goes at length
The liquor: stuff for strength.

One pours your cup, sheer sweet,
The fragrant fumes of a year condensed:
Suspicion of all that’s ripe or rathe,
From the bud on branch to the g...