Heartbreak

Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet,
Promised methought long days of bliss sincere!
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,
Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat
Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of Hope.
Of love, and social scenes, it seemed to speak,
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;
That, oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope
Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours.
Ah me! the prospect saddened as she sung;
Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung;
Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers,
Whilst Horror, pointing to yon breathless clay,
"No peace be thine," exclaimed, "away, away!"

And dwells there in a female heart,
By bounteous Heaven design’d,
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined—


Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,
To smother in ignoble rest
At once both bliss and woe!


Far be the thought, and far the strain,
Which breathes the low desire,
How sweet soe’er the verse complain,
Though Phœbus string the lyre.


Come, then, fair maid (in nature wise),
Who, knowing them, can tell
From generous sympathy what joys
The glowing bosom swell:


In justice to the various powers
Of pleasing, which you share,
Join me, amid your silent hours,
To form the better prayer.


With lenient balm may Oberon hence
To fairy-land be driven...

As good to write, as for to lie and grone.
O Stella deare, how much thy powre hath wrought,
That hast my mind (now of the basest) brought
My still-kept course, while others sleepe, to mone!
Alas, if from the height of Vertues throne
Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought
Vpon a wretch that long thy grace hath sought,
Weigh then how I by thee am ouerthrowne,
And then thinke thus: although thy beautie be
Made manifest by such a victorie,
Yet noble conquerours do wreckes auoid.
Since then thou hast so farre subdued me
That in my heart I offer still to thee,
O do not let thy temple be destroyd!

O rose! forbear to flaunt yourself,
    All bloom and dew -
I once, sad-hearted as I am,
    Was young as you.

But, one by one, the petals fell
    Earthward to rot;
Only a berry testifies
    A rose forgot.

While one sere leaf, that parting Autumn gilds,
    Trembles upon the thin, and naked spray,
    November, dragging on his sunless day,
    Lours, cold and fallen, on the watry fields;
And Nature to the waste dominion yields,
    Stript her last robes, with gold and purple gay. -
    So droops my life, of your soft beams despoil'd,
    Youth, Health, and Hope, that long exulting smil'd;
And the wild carols, and the bloomy hues
    Of merry Spring-time, spruce on every plain
    Her half-blown bushes, moist with sunny rain,
More pensive thoughts in my sunk heart infuse
    Than Winter's grey, and desolate domain,
    Faded, like my lost Youth, that no bright Spring renews.

Shall we wake one morn of spring,
Glad at heart of everything,
Yet pensive with the thought of eve?
Then the white house shall we leave,
Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,
Through the garth, and go our ways,
Wandering down among the meads
Till our very joyance needs
Rest at last; till we shall come
To that Sun-god's lonely home,
Lonely on the hill-side grey,
Whence the sheep have gone away;
Lonely till the feast-time is,
When with prayer and praise of bliss,
Thither comes the country side.
There awhile shall we abide,
Sitting low down in the porch
By that image with the torch:
Thy one white hand laid upon
The black pillar that was won
From the far-off Indian mine;
And my hand nigh touching thine,
But not touching; and thy gown

Blacke pytchy Night, companyon of my woe,
The Inne of care, the Nurse of drery sorrow,
Why lengthnest thou thy darkest howres so,
Still to prolong my long tyme lookt-for morrow?
Thou Sable shadow, Image of dispayre,
Portraite of hell, the ayres black mourning weed,
Recorder of reuenge, remembrancer of care,
The shadow and the vaile of euery sinfull deed.
Death like to thee, so lyue thou still in death,
The graue of ioy, prison of dayes delight.
Let heauens withdraw their sweet Ambrozian breath,
Nor Moone nor stars lend thee their shining light;
    For thou alone renew'st that olde desire,
    Which still torments me in dayes burning fire.

Una donna più bella assai che 'l sole.

GLORY AND VIRTUE.


    A lady, lovelier, brighter than the sun,
Like him superior o'er all time and space,
Of rare resistless grace,
Me to her train in early life had won:
She, from that hour, in act, and word and thought,
--For still the world thus covets what is rare--
In many ways though brought
Before my search, was still the same coy fair:
For her alone my plans, from what they were,
Grew changed, since nearer subject to her eyes;
Her love alone could spur
My young ambition to each hard emprize:
So, if in long-wish'd port I e'er arrive,
I hope, for aye through her,
When others deem me dead, in honour to survive.

Full of first hope, burning with youthful love,
She, at her will, ...

To his heart it struck such terror
That he laughed a laugh of scorn, -
The man in the soldier's doublet,
With the sword so bravely worn.

It struck his heart like the frost-wind
To find his comrades fled,
While the battle-field was guarded
By the heroes who lay dead.

He drew his sword in the sunlight,
And called with a long halloo:
"Dead men, there is one living
Shall stay it out with you!"

He raised a ragged standard,
This lonely soul in war,
And called the foe to onset,
With shouts they heard afar.

They galloped swiftly toward him.
The banner floated wide;
It sank; he sank beside it
Upon his sword, and died.

I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest,
Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast,
For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.

Two and two my guards behind, two and two before,
Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore;
Me, poor dove, that must not coo - eagle that must not soar.

All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens grow
Scented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blow
That are costly, out of season as the seasons go.

All my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon I trace
Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place,
Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.

Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon,
Almost like my father's chair, which is an ...

THE POET SINGS TO HER POET

O poet of the time to be,
    My conqueror, I began for thee.
Enter into thy poet's pain,
    And take the riches of the rain,
And make the perfect year for me.

Thou unto whom my lyre shall fall,
Whene'er thou comest, hear my call.
    O, keep the promise of my lays,
    Take the sweet parable of my days;
I trust thee with the aim of all.

And if thy thoughts unfold from me,
Know that I too have hints of thee,
    Dim hopes that come across my mind
    In the rare days of warmer wind,
And tones of summer in the sea.

And I have set thy paths, I guide
Thy blossoms on the wild hillside.
    And I, thy bygone poet, share
    The flowers that throng thy feet where
I led thy feet before I died.

In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm, Upon Seeing An Idiotic Youth Seated In The Chimney-Corner, Caressing A Broom.


'Twas on a night of wildest storms,
When loudly roar'd the raving main, -
When dark clouds shew'd their shapeless forms,
And hail beat hard the cottage pane, -

Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,
With open mouth and staring eyes;
A batter'd broom was all his pride, -
It was his wife, his child, his prize!

Alike to him if tempests howl,
Or summer beam its sweetest day;
For still is pleas'd the silly soul,
And still he laughs the hours away.

Alas! I could not stop the sigh,
To see him thus so wildly stare, -
To mark, in ruins, Reason lie,
Callous alike to joy and care.

God bless thee, t...

Some peoples thinks they ain't no Fairies now
No more yet! - But they is, I bet! 'Cause ef
They wuzn't Fairies, nen I' like to know
Who'd w'ite 'bout Fairies in the books, an' tell
What Fairies does, an' how their picture looks,
An' all an' ever'thing! W'y, ef they don't
Be Fairies anymore, nen little boys
'U'd ist sleep when they go to sleep an' wont
Have ist no dweams at all, - 'Cause Fairies - good
Fairies - they're a-purpose to make dweams!
But they is Fairies - an' I know they is!
'Cause one time wunst, when its all Summertime,
An' don't haf to be no fires in the stove
Er fireplace to keep warm wiv - ner don't haf
To wear old scwatchy flannen shirts at all,
An' aint no fweeze - ner cold - ner snow!...

What sight so lured him thro’ the fields he knew
As where earth’s green stole into heaven’s own hue,

Far–far–away?

What sound was dearest in his native dells?
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells

Far–far–away.

What vague world-whisper, mystic pain or joy,
Thro’ those three words would haunt him when a boy,

Far–far–away?

A whisper from his dawn of life? a breath
From some fair dawn beyond the doors of death

Far–far–away?

Far, far, how far? from o’er the gates of Birth,
The faint horizons, all the bounds of earth,

Far–far–away?

What charm in words, a charm no words could give?
O dying words, can Music make you live

Far–far–away?

Because we love bare hills and stunted trees
And were the last to choose the settled ground,
Its boredom of the desk or of the spade, because
So many years companioned by a hound,
Our voices carry; and though slumber-bound,
Some few half wake and half renew their choice,
Give tongue, proclaim their hidden name -- "Hound Voice."

The women that I picked spoke sweet and low
And yet gave tongue. "Hound Voices' were they all.
We picked each other from afar and knew
What hour of terror comes to test the soul,
And in that terror's name obeyed the call,
And understood, what none have understood,
Those images that waken in the blood.
Some day we shall get up before the dawn
And find our ancient hounds before the door,
And wide awake know that the hunt is on;

Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? grief yet is mine.
Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir
More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.

Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;
Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,
As whose children we are brethren: one.

And any moment may descend hot death
To shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blast
Beloved soldiers who love rough life and breath
Not less for dying faithful to the last.

O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,
Oped mouth gushing, fallen head,
Lessening pressure of a hand shrunk, clammed, and stony!
O sudden spasm, release of the dead!

Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief o...

Sal Sanguine wor a bonny lass,
Ov that yo may be sewer;
Shoo had her trubbles tho', alas!
An th' biggest wor her yure.
Noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart,
But oft shoo'd heeard it sed,
They thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart,
It wor soa varry red.

Young fowk we know are seldom wise, -
Experience taiches wit; -
Some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes
Is net as black as jet.
Wol others seem quite in a stew,
An can't tell whear to bide,
'Coss they've black een asteead o' blue, -
An twenty things beside.

Aw'm foorced to own Sal Sanguine's nop,
It had a ruddy cast;
An once shoo heeard a silly fop,
Say as he hurried past -
"There goes the girl I'd like to wed, -
'Twould grant my heart's desire;
In spring pull ...

'Twas a tender little honeysuckle vine
That smiled and danced in the warm sunshine,
And spied a maid as fair as all maids be,
Who said, "Little honeysuckle, come up to me."
So it climbed and climbed in the sun and the shade,
And all summer long at her window stayed;
For that is the way that honeysuckles go,
And that is the way that true loves grow.

Then the loving little honeysuckle vine
Kissed the little maid in the warm sunshine;
But the winter came with an angry frown,
And the false little maid shut the window down;
And the sorrowing vine on the wintry side
Mourned and mourned for the love that died,
And faded away in the wind and snow, -
And that is the way that some loves go.