Freedom

They mock my toil the nymphs and am'rous swains
And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry,
Love-songs in language that thou little know'st?
How dar'st thou risque to sing these foreign strains?
Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd,
And that thy fairest flow'rs, Here, fade and die?
Then with pretence of admiration high
Thee other shores expect, and other tides,
Rivers on whose grassy sides
Her deathless laurel-leaf with which to bind
Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides;
Why then this burthen, better far declin'd?
Speak, Canzone! for me. The Fair One said who guides
My willing heart, and all my Fancy's flights,
"This is the language in which Love delights."

("Il semblait grelotter.")

[XXXVI., December, 1837.]


He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen.
'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass
Of leafless branches, with a blackened back
And a green foot - an isolated Faun
In old deserted park, who, bending forward,
Half-merged himself in the entangled boughs,
Half in his marble settings. He was there,
Pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things
Devoid of movement, he was there - forgotten.

Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts -
Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird,
And, like himself, grown old in that same place.
Through the dark network of their undergrowth,
Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown.
Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night
Was letting down h...

Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell
    Caged by the law of man's resistless might!
With thy sweet liquid notes, by some strong spell,
    Compelled to minister to his delight!
Whence, what art thou? art thou a fairy wight
    Caught sleeping in some lily's snowy bell,
Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moonlight,
    And drink the starry dew-drops, as they fell?
Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art singing,
    Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain's brow,
Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing,
    And sail upon the sunset's amber glow?
When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme,
    Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream,
Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play,
Dancing in circles by the moon's soft beam,
Hiding in...

Ah, hapless JUNE! circles yon lunar Sphere
    Yet the dim Halo? whose cold powers ordain
    Long o'er these vales shou'd sweep, in misty train,
    The pale continuous showers, that sullying smear
Thy radiant lilies, towering on the plain;
    Bend low, with rivel'd leaves of canker'd stain,
    Thy drench'd and heavy rose. - Yet pledg'd and dear
    Fair Hope still holds the promise of the Year;
Suspends her anchor on the silver horn
    Of the next wexing Orb, tho', JUNE, thy Day,
    Robb'd of its golden eve, and rosy morn,
And gloomy as the Winter's rigid sway,
    Leads sunless, lingering, disappointing Hours
    Thro' the song-silent glades and dropping bowers.

I saw the long line of the vacant shore,
    The sea-weed and the shells upon the sand,
    And the brown rocks left bare on every hand,
    As if the ebbing tide would flow no more.
Then heard I, more distinctly than before,
    The ocean breathe and its great breast expand,
    And hurrying came on the defenceless land
    The insurgent waters with tumultuous roar.
All thought and feeling and desire, I said,
    Love, laughter, and the exultant joy of song
    Have ebbed from me forever!    Suddenly o'er me
They swept again from their deep ocean bed,
    And in a tumult of delight, and strong
    As youth, and beautiful as youth, upbore me.

Give me to-night to hide me in the shade,
    That neither moon nor star
May see the secret place where I am laid,
    Nor watch me from afar.

Let not the dark its prying ghosts employ
    To peer on my retreat,
And see the fragments of my broken toy
    Lie scattered at my feet.

I fashioned it, that idol of my own,
    Of metal strange and bright;
I made my toy a god - I raised a throne
    To honour my delight.

This haunted byway of the grove was lit
    With lamps my hand had trimmed,
Before the altar in the midst of it
    I kept their flame undimmed.

My steps turned ever to the hidden shrine;
    Aware or unaware,
My soul dwelt only in that spot divine,
    And now a wreck lies there.

Give me to-night to w...

The wasting thistle whitens on my crest,
The barren grasses blow upon my spear,
A green, pale pennon: blazon of wild faith
And love of fruitless things: yea, of my love,
Among the golden loves of all the knights,
Alone: most hopeless, sweet, and blasphemous,
The love of God:
I hear the crumbling creeds
Like cliffs washed down by water, change, and pass;
I hear a noise of words, age after age,
A new cold wind that blows across the plains,
And all the shrines stand empty; and to me
All these are nothing: priests and schools may doubt
Who never have believed; but I have loved.
Ah friends, I know it passing well, the love
Wherewith I love; it shall not bring to me
Return or hire or any pleasant thing--
Ay, I have tried it: Ay, I know its roots.
Earthquak...

A Log-Hut in the solitude,
A clapboard roof to rest beneath!
This side, the shadow-haunted wood;
That side, the sunlight-haunted heath.

At daybreak Morn shall come to me
In raiment of the white winds spun;
Slim in her rosy hand the key
That opes the gateway of the sun.

Her smile shall help my heart enough
With love to labour all the day,
And cheer the road, whose rocks are rough,
With her smooth footprints, each a ray.

At dusk a voice shall call afar,
A lone voice like the whippoorwill's;
And, on her shimmering brow one star,
Night shall descend the western hills.

She at my door till dawn shall stand,
With gothic eyes, that, dark and deep,
Are mirrors of a mystic land,
Fantastic with the towns of sleep.

Persephone, Persephone!
Still I fancy I can see
Thee amid the daffodils.
Golden wealth thy basket fills;
Golden blossoms at thy breast;
Golden hair that shames the West;
Golden sunlight round thy head!
Ah! the golden years have fled;
Thee have reft, and me have left
Here alone, thy loss to mourn.

Persephone, Persephone!
Still I fancy I can see
Her, as white and still she lies:
Death has woo'd and won his prize.
White the blossoms at her breast;
White and still her face at rest;
White the moonbeams round her head.
Ah! the wintry years have fled;
Comfort lent and patience sent,
And my grief is easier borne.

Persephone, Persephone!
Still in dreams thou com'st to me;
Every night art at my side,
Half my bride, and half...

Before the Battle.


The clarion call of liberty
    Rings on the startled gales!
The rising hills reverberate
    The rising of the vales!
Through all the land the thrilling shout
    Swift as an arrow goes!
Columbia's champions arm and out
    To battle with her foes!


After the Battle


The bugle-song of victory
    Is vocal in the air!
The strains, by warrior-voices breathed,
    Are echoed by the fair!
The eagle, with the wreath, blood-bought,
    Soars proudly to the sun,
Proclaiming the "good fight is fought,
    And the great victory won!"

I

Within her gilded cage confined,
I saw a dazzling Belle,
A Parrot of that famous kind
Whose name is Non-Pareil.

Like beads of glossy jet her eyes;
And, smoothed by Nature's skill,
With pearl or gleaming agate vies
Her finely-curved bill.

Her plumy mantle's living hues
In mass opposed to mass,
Outshine the splendour that imbues
The robes of pictured glass.

And, sooth to say, an apter Mate
Did never tempt the choice
Of feathered Thing most delicate
In figure and in voice.

But, exiled from Australian bowers,
And singleness her lot,
She trills her song with tutored powers,
Or mocks each casual note.

No more of pity for regrets
With which she may have striven!
Now but in wantonness she frets,<...

O sweetly wild and 'witching Poesy!
Thou light of this world's hermitage I prove thee;
And surely none helps loving thee that knows thee,
A soul of feeling cannot help but love thee.
I would say how thy secret wonders move me,
Thou spell of loveliness!--but 'tis too much:
Had I the language of the gods above me
I might then venture thy wild harp to touch,
And sing of all thy thrilling pains and pleasures;
The flowers I meet in this world's wilderness;
The comforts rising from thy spell-bound treasures,
Thy cordial balm that softens my distress:
I would say all, but thou art far above me;
Words are too weak, expression can't be had;
I can but say I love, and dearly love thee,
And that thou cheer'st me when my soul is sad.

Whatever your work and whatever its worth,
    No matter how strong or clever,
Some one will sneer if you pause to hear,
    And scoff at your best endeavour.
For the target art has a broad expanse,
    And wherever you chance to hit it,
Though close be your aim to the bull's-eye fame,
    There are those who will never admit it.

Though the house applauds while the artist plays,
    And a smiling world adores him,
Somebody is there with an ennuied air
    To say that the acting bores him.
For the tower of art has a lofty spire,
    With many a stair and landing,
And those who climb seem small oft-time
    To one at the bottom standing.

So work along in your chosen niche
    With a steady purpose to nerve you;
Let nothing men say who pass ...

We plucked a red rose, you and I,
    All in the summer weather;
Sweet its perfume and rare its bloom,
    Enjoyed by us together.
The rose is dead, the summer fled,
    And bleak winds are complaining;
We dwell apart, but in each heart
    We find the thorn remaining.

We sipped a sweet wine, you and I,
    All in the summer weather.
The beaded draught we lightly quaffed,
    And filled the glass together.
Together we watched its rosy glow,
    And saw its bubbles glitter;
Apart, alone we only know
    The lees are very bitter.

We walked in sunshine, you and I,
    All in the summer weather:
The very night seemed noonday bright,
    When we two were together.
I wonder why with our good-bye
    O'er hill and vale and meadow<...

I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I see the wife misused by her husband - I see the treacherous seducer of young women;
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hid - I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny - I see martyrs and prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea - I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be kill'd, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor, and upon Negroes, and the like;
All these ...

    O woven fabric and bright web of sound,
    Whose threads are magical,
    And with swift weaving thrall
    And hold the spirit bound!
    We may not know whence thy strange sorceries fall -
    Whether they be Earth's voices wild and strong,
    Her high and perfect song.
    Or broken dreams of higher worlds unfound.
    For, lo, thou art as dreams.
    And to thy realm all hidden things belong -
    All fugitive and evanescent gleams
    The soul hath vainly sought;
    All mystic immanence;
    All visions of ungrasped magnificence,
    And great ideals pinnacled in thought;
    All paths with marvel fraught
    That lead to lands obscure:
    For, lo, upon thy road of sound we pass,
    Seeking thy magic lure,
    To vales mist-implica...

The young Endymion sleeps Endymion's sleep;
    The shepherd-boy whose tale was left half told!
    The solemn grove uplifts its shield of gold
    To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
The nightingale is singing from the steep;
    It is midsummer, but the air is cold;
    Can it be death?    Alas, beside the fold
    A shepherd's pipe lies shattered near his sheep.
Lo! in the moonlight gleams a marble white,
    On which I read: "Here lieth one whose name
    Was writ in water."    And was this the meed
Of his sweet singing?    Rather let me write:
    "The smoking flax before it burst to flame
    Was quenched by death, and broken the bruised reed."

One from the ends of the earth, gifts at an open door,
Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more!
From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed,
Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed!
Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude?
Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood?

Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in,
We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin.
Not in the dark do we fight, haggle and flout and gibe;
Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe.
Gifts have we only to-day, Love without promise or fee,
Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea!