Heartbreak

    Herbert broke our engagement of eight years
    When Annabelle returned to the village From the
    Seminary, ah me!
    If I had let my love for him alone
    It might have grown into a beautiful sorrow -
    Who knows? - filling my life with healing fragrance.
    But I tortured it, I poisoned it
    I blinded its eyes, and it became hatred -
    Deadly ivy instead of clematis.
    And my soul fell from its support
    Its tendrils tangled in decay.
    Do not let the will play gardener to your soul
    Unless you are sure
    It is wiser than your soul's nature.

Plain-pathed experience, the unlearnèd's guide,
Her simple followers evidently shows
Sometimes what schoolmen scarcely can decide,
Nor yet wise reason absolutely knows;
    In making trial of a murder wrought,
If the vile actors of the heinous deed
Near the dead body happily be brought,
Oft 't hath been proved the breathless corse will bleed.
    She coming near, that my poor heart hath slain,
Long since departed, to the world no more,
The ancient wounds no longer can contain,
But fall to bleeding as they did before.
    But what of this? Should she to death be led,
    It furthers justice but helps not the dead.

Where is now my peace of mind?
    Gone, alas! for evermore:
Turn where'er I may, I find
    Thorns where roses bloomed before!
O'er the green-fields of my soul,
    Where the springs of joy were found,
Now the clouds of sorrow roll,
    Shading all the prospect round!

Do I merit pangs like these,
    That have cleft my heart in twain?
Must I, to the very lees,
    Drain thy bitter chalice, Pain?
Silent grief all grief excels;
    Life and it together part--
Like a restless worm it dwells
    Deep within the human heart!

Posthumous Fragments Of Margaret Mcholson.

Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor.

[The "Posthumous Fragments", published at Oxford by Shelley, appeared in November, 1810.]



War.

Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurled
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.
See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,
Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky;
Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger's rage
Has swept these myriads from life's crowded stage:
Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies,
He shudders in death's latest agonies;
Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,
Yet does his parting breath essay to speak -
'Oh God! my wife,...

It wor th' owd, owd story he towd her,
    Th' story, 'at's owder nor time;
Nowt ivver chap whisper'd wor owder,
    Nowt ivver soa grand an sublime.
For man nivver towd ither story,
    Soa chock full ov magic as this,
For, it shraaded th' young chaps i' glory,
    An' filled her 'at listened wi' bliss.

Th' story had wrought sich a wonder
    Noa ither tale ivver has done--
Two hearts, that afooar wor assunder,
    Wor knit i' a crack into one.
An' still he kept tellin' her th' story,
    Which mooar an' mooar wonderful grew,
(Soa oft its been tell'd its grown hoary,)
    But shoo could hav sworn it wor new.

Shoo thowt of th' angels above 'em,
    Wor jealous o' her, an' him, then--
For angels has noa chaps to love 'em,
    Love's n...

Care is a Poet fine:
He works in shade or shine,
And leaves, you know his sign!
No day without its line.

He writes with iron pen
Upon the brows of men;
Faint lines at first, and then
He scores them in again.

His touch at first is light
On Beauty’s brow of white;
The old churl loves to write
On foreheads broad and bright.

A line for young love crossed,
A line for fair hopes lost
In an untimely frost,
A line that means Thou Wast.

Then deeper script appears:
The furrows of dim fears,
The traces of old tears,
The tide-marks of the years.

To him with sight made strong
By suffering and wrong,
The brows of all the throng
Are eloquent with song.

White moons may come, white moons may go
She sleeps where early blossoms blow;
Knows nothing of the leafy June,
That leans above her night and noon,
Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon,
Watching her roses grow.

The downy moth at twilight comes
And flutters round their honeyed blooms:
Long, lazy clouds, like ivory,
That isle the blue lagoons of sky,
Redden to molten gold and dye
With flame the pine-deep glooms.

Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf;
The wind, that shakes the violet's sheaf;
The slender sound of water lone,
That makes a harp-string of some stone,
And now a wood bird's glimmering moan,
Seem whisperings there of grief.

Her garden, where the lilacs grew,
Where, on old walls, old roses blew,
Head-heavy with t...

Why should you be astonished that my heart,
Plunged for so long in darkness and in dearth,
Should be revived by you, and stir and start
As by warm April now, reviving Earth?
I am the field of undulating grass
And you the gentle perfumed breath of Spring,
And all my lyric being, when you pass,
Is bowed and filled with sudden murmuring.
I asked you nothing and expected less,
But, with that deep, impassioned tenderness
Of one approaching what he most adores,
I only wished to lose a little space
All thought of my own life, and in its place
To live and dream and have my joy in yours.

With farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look’d at them,
And often thought, ‘I’ll make them man and wife.’
Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all,
And yearn’d toward William; but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.
Then there came a day
When Allan call’d his son, and said, ‘My son
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother’s daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;
...

The listless Palm-trees catch the breeze above
    The pile-built huts that edge the salt Lagoon,
There is no Breeze to cool the heat of love,
    No wind from land or sea, at night or noon.

Perfumed and robed I wait, my Lord, for you,
    And my heart waits alert, with strained delight,
My flowers are loath to close, as though they knew
    That you will come to me before the night.

In the Verandah all the lights are lit,
    And softly veiled in rose to please your eyes,
Between the pillars flying foxes flit,
    Their wings transparent on the lilac skies.

Come soon, my Lord, come soon, I almost fear
    My heart may fail me in this keen suspense,
Break with delight, at last, to know you near.
    Pleasure is one with Pain, if too intense.
...

    'Tis bitter-sweet, when winter nights are long,
        To watch, beside the flames which smoke and twist,
    The distant memories which slowly throng,
        Brought by the chime soft-singing through the mist.

    Happy the sturdy, vigorous-throated bell
        Who, spite of age alert and confident,
    Cries hourly, like some strong old sentinel
        Flinging the ready challenge from his tent.

    For me, my soul is cracked; when sick with care,
    She strives with songs to people the cold air
        It happens often that her feeble cries

        Mock the harsh rattle of a man who lies
    Wounded, forgotten, 'neath a mound of slain
    And dies, pinned fast, writhing his limbs in pain.

Oh, the poets may sing of their Lady Irenes,
And may rave in their rhymes about wonderful queens;
But I throw my poetical wings to the breeze,
And soar in a song to my Lady Louise.
A sweet little maid, who is dearer, I ween,
Than any fair duchess, or even a queen.
When speaking of her I can't plod in my prose,
For she 's the wee lassie who gave me a rose.

Since poets, from seeing a lady's lip curled,
Have written fair verse that has sweetened the world;
Why, then, should not I give the space of an hour
To making a song in return for a flower?
I have found in my life--it has not been so long--
There are too few of flowers--too little of song.
So out of that blossom, this lay of mine grows,
For the dear little lady who gave me the rose.

I thank God f...

Aspro core e selvaggio, e cruda voglia.

HOPE ALONE SUPPORTS HIM IN HIS MISERY.


    Hard heart and cold, a stern will past belief,
In angel form of gentle sweet allure;
If thus her practised rigour long endure,
O'er me her triumph will be poor and brief.
For when or spring, or die, flower, herb, and leaf.
When day is brightest, night when most obscure,
Alway I weep. Great cause from Fortune sure,
From Love and Laura have I for my grief.
I live in hope alone, remembering still
How by long fall of small drops I have seen
Marble and solid stone that worn have been.
No heart there is so hard, so cold no will,
By true tears, fervent prayers, and faithful love
That will not deign at length to melt and move.

MACGREGOR.

Oh, deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man, has shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears;
And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,
Though with a pierced and broken heart,
And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God h...

The point is turned; the twilight shadow fills
The wheeling stream, the soft receding shore,
And on our ears from deep among the hills
Breaks now the rapid's sudden quickening roar.
Ah yet the same, or have they changed their face,
The fair green fields, and can it still be seen,
The white log cottage near the mountain's base,
So bright and quiet, so home-like and serene?
Ah, well I question, for as five years go,
How many blessings fall, and how much woe.

Aye there they are, nor have they changed their cheer,
The fields, the hut, the leafy mountain brows;
Across the lonely dusk again I hear
The loitering bells, the lowing of the cows,
The bleat of many sheep, the stilly rush
Of the low whispering river, and through all,
Soft human tongues that break the...

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1869.)


I

I would not if I could undo my past,
    Tho' for its sake my future is a blank;
    My past, for which I have myself to thank,
For all its faults and follies first and last.
I would not cast anew the lot once cast,
    Or launch a second ship for one that sank,
    Or drug with sweets the bitterness I drank,
Or break by feasting my perpetual fast.
I would not if I could: for much more dear
    Is one remembrance than a hundred joys,
    More than a thousand hopes in jubilee;
    Dearer the music of one tearful voice
    That unforgotten calls and calls to me,
'Follow me here, rise up, and follow here.'

II

What seekest thou far in the unknown land?
    In hope I follow joy gon...

To learn the transport by the pain,
As blind men learn the sun;
To die of thirst, suspecting
That brooks in meadows run;

To stay the homesick, homesick feet
Upon a foreign shore
Haunted by native lands, the while,
And blue, beloved air --

This is the sovereign anguish,
This, the signal woe!
These are the patient laureates
Whose voices, trained below,

Ascend in ceaseless carol,
Inaudible, indeed,
To us, the duller scholars
Of the mysterious bard!

Here in turn succeed and rule
Carter, smith, and village fool,
Then again the place is known
As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school;
Now somehow it's come to me
To light the fire and hold the key,
Here in Heaven to reign alone.

All the walls are white with lime,
Big blue periwinkles climb
And kiss the crumbling window-sill;
Snug inside I sit and rhyme,
Planning, poem, book, or fable,
At my darling beech-wood table
Fresh with bluebells from the hill.

Through the window I can see
Rooks above the cherry-tree,
Sparrows in the violet bed,
Bramble-bush and bumble-bee,
And old red bracken smoulders still
Among boulders on the hill,
Far too bright to seem quite dead.

But old Death, who can't forget,
Waits his time and watche...