Death

At the grey dawn, amongst the felling leaves,
        A little bird outside my window swung,
High on a topmost branch he trilled his song,
        And “Ireland! Ireland! Ireland!” ever sung.

Take me, I cried, back to my island home;
        Sweet bird, my soul shall ride between thy wings;
For my lone spirit wide his pinions spread,
        And home and home and home he ever sings.

We lingered over Ulster stern and wild.
        I called: “Arise! doth none remember me?”
One turnèd in the darkness murmuring,
        “How loud upon the breakers sobs the sea!”

We rested over Connaught-whispering said:
        “Awake, awake, and welcome!    I am here.”
One woke and shivered at the morning grey;
        “The trees, I never heard them sigh so drear.”

It was not then her heart broke--
That moment when she knew
That all her faith held holiest
Was utterly untrue.

It was not then her heart broke--
That night of prayer and tears
When first she dared the thought of life
Through all the empty years.

But when beneath the April boughs
She felt the blossoms stir,
The careless mirth of yesterday
Came near and smiled at her.

Old singing lingered in the wind,
Old joy came close again,
Oh, underneath the April boughs,
I think her heart broke then.

Thy prayer was ‘Light-more Light-while Time shall last!’
Thou rawest a glory growing on the night,
But not the shadows which that light would cast,
Till shadows vanish in the Light of Light.

How I loved you in your sleep,
With the starlight on your hair!

The touch of your lips was sweet,
    Aziza whom I adore,
I lay at your slender feet,
    And against their soft palms pressed,
I fitted my face to rest.
As winds blow over the sea
    From Citron gardens ashore,
Came, through your scented hair,
    The breeze of the night to me.

My lips grew arid and dry,
    My nerves were tense,
Though your beauty soothe the eye
    It maddens the sense.
Every curve of that beauty is known to me,
Every tint of that delicate roseleaf skin,
    And these are printed on every atom of me,
Burnt in on every fibre until I die.
    And for this, my sin,
I doubt if ever, though dust I be,
The dust will lose the desire,
The torm...

Never was day so over-sick with showers
But that it had some intermitting hours;
Never was night so tedious but it knew
The last watch out, and saw the dawning too;
Never was dungeon so obscurely deep
Wherein or light or day did never peep;
Never did moon so ebb, or seas so wane,
But they left hope-seed to fill up again.
So you, my lord, though you have now your stay,
Your night, your prison, and your ebb, you may
Spring up afresh, when all these mists are spent,
And star-like, once more gild our firmament.
Let but that mighty Cæsar speak, and then
All bolts, all bars, all gates shall cleave; as when
That earthquake shook the house, and gave the stout
Apostles way, unshackled, to go out.
This, as I wish for, so I hope to see;
Though you, my lord, have bee...

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA.


        "They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses."--Anon.


        "La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature."
        D'ALEMBERT.


"They made her a grave, too cold and damp
    "For a soul so warm and true;
"And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,[1]
    "Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp,
"She paddles her white canoe.

"And her fire-fly lamp I so...

    Hereafter!    O we need not waste
        Our smiles or tears, whatever befall:
    No happiness but holds a taste
        Of something sweeter, after all; -
    No depth of agony but feels
        Some fragment of abiding trust, -
    Whatever death unlocks or seals,
        The mute beyond is just.

To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings,
Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun,
For my mean pen are too superior things:
Or how they all, or each their dates have run
Let Poets and Historians set these forth,
My obscure Lines shall not so dim their worth.

But when my wondring eyes and envious heart
Great Bartas sugar'd lines, do but read o're
Fool I do grudge the Muses did not part
'Twixt him and me that overfluent store,
A Bartas can, do what a Bartas will
But simple I according to my skill.

From school-boyes tongue no rhet'rick we expect
Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings,
Nor perfect beauty, where's a main defect:
My foolish, broken blemish'd Muse so sings
And this to mend, alas, no Art is able,
'Cause nature, made it so irrep...

The Earth moans in her sleep
Like an old mother
Whose sons have gone to the war,
Who weeps silently in her heart
Till dreams comfort her.

The Earth tosses
As if she would shake off humanity,
A burden too heavy to be borne,
And free of the pest of intolerable men,
Spin with woods and waters
Joyously in the clear heavens
In the beautiful cool rains,
Bearing gladly the dumb animals,
And sleep when the time comes
Glistening in the remains of sunlight
With marmoreal innocency.

Be comforted, old mother,
Whose sons have gone to the war;
And be assured, O Earth,
Of your burden of passionate men,
For without them who would dream the dreams
That encompass you with glory,
Who would gather your youth
And store it in the jar o...

Those silver clouds collected round the sun
His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less
To overshade than multiply his beams
By soft reflection, grateful to the sky,
To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense
Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy
More ample than the time-dismantled Oak
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired
In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use
Was fashioned; whether, by the hand of Art,
That eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought
On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs
In languor; or, by Nature, for repose
Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied with the chase.
O Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight
Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves,
Approach; and, thus invited, crown wit...

When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow'd;
And else, when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd, still I was not happy;
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,
When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming, O then I was happy;
O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish'd me more, and the beautiful day pass'd well,
And the next came with equal joy, and with the next, at...

Part I.

Dark, with shrouds of mist surrounded.
Rise the mountains from the shore,
Where the galleys of the Islesmen
Stand updrawn, their voyage o'er.

Horns this morn are hoarsely sounding
From Loch Búy's ancient wall,
While for chase the guests and vassals
Gather in the court and hall.

Hounds, whose voices could give warning
From far moors of stags at bay,
Quiver in each iron muscle,
Howl, impatient of delay.

Henchmen, waiting for the signal,
At their chiefs imperious word
Start, to drive from hill and corrie
To the pass the watchful herd.

Closed were paths as with a netting,
Vain high courage, speed, or scent;
Every mesh, a man in ambush
Ready with a crossbow bent.

"Eachan, guard that glade and cops...

I have a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beautys mold
And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Or quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.

Birds warbled round me, and each trace
Of inward sadness had its...

Now comes the fierce north-easter, bound
About with clouds and racks of rain,
And dry, dead leaves go whirling round
In rings of dust, and sigh like pain
Across the plain.

Now twilight, with a shadowy hand
Of wild dominionship, doth keep
Strong hold of hollow straits of land,
And watery sounds are loud and deep
By gap and steep.

Keen, fitful gusts, that fly before
The wings of storm when day hath shut
Its eyes on mountains, flaw by flaw,
Fleet down by whistling box-tree butt,
Against the hut.

And, ringed and girt with lurid pomp,
Far eastern cliffs start up, and take
Thick steaming vapours from a swamp
That lieth like a great blind lake,
Of face opaque.

The moss that, like a tender grief,
About an English ruin c...

1.

Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.


2.

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.


3.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return, - alas, never!


4.

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
Whe...

    Elenor Murray stole away from Nice
    Before her furlough ended, tense to see
    Something of Italy, and planned to go
    To Genoa, explore the ancient town
    Of Christopher Columbus, if she might
    Elude the regulation, as she did,
    In leaving Nice for Italy. But for her
    Always the dream, and always the defeat
    Of what she dreamed.

    She found herself in Florence
    And saw the city. But the weariness
    Of labor and her illness came again
    At intervals, and on such days she lay
    And heard the hours toll, wished for death and wept,
    Being alone and sorrowful.

    On a morning
    She rose and looked for galleries, came at last
    Into the Via Gino Capponi
    And saw a little church and entered in,

    Passer-By,
    To love is to find your own soul
    Through the soul of the beloved one.
    When the beloved one withdraws itself from your soul
    Then you have lost your soul.
    It is written: "l have a friend,
    But my sorrow has no friend."
    Hence my long years of solitude at the home of my father,
    Trying to get myself back,
    And to turn my sorrow into a supremer self.
    But there was my father with his sorrows,
    Sitting under the cedar tree,
    A picture that sank into my heart at last
    Bringing infinite repose.
    Oh, ye souls who have made life
    Fragrant and white as tube roses
    From earth's dark soil,
    Eternal peace!

Laughter not time destroyed my voice
And put that crack in it,
And when the moon’s pot-bellied
I get a laughing fit,
For that old Madge comes down the lane,
A stone upon her breast,
And a cloak wrapped about the stone,
And she can get no rest
With singing hush and hush-a-bye;
She that has been wild
And barren as a breaking wave
Thinks that the stone’s a child.

And Peter that had great affairs
And was a pushing man
Shrieks, ‘I am King of the Peacocks,’
And perches on a stone;
And then I laugh till tears run down
And the heart thumps at my side,
Remembering that her shriek was love
And that he shrieks from pride.