The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood

by Thomas Hood

A FAIRY TALE.

I.

Immortal Imogen, crown'd queen above

The lilies of thy sex, vouchsafe to hear

A fairy dream in honor of true love—

True above ills, and frailty, and all fear,—

Perchance a shadow of his own career

Whose youth was darkly prison'd and long-twined

By serpent-sorrow, till white Love drew near,

And sweetly sang him free, and round his mind

A bright horizon threw, wherein no grief may wind.

II.

I saw a tower builded on a lake,

Mock'd by its inverse shadow, dark and deep—

That seem'd a still intenser night to make,

Wherein the quiet waters sank to sleep,—

And, whatso'er was prison'd in that keep,

A monstrous Snake was warden:—round and round

In sable ringlets I beheld him creep

Blackest amid black shadows to the ground,

Whilst his enormous head, the topmost turret crown'd.

III.

From whence he shot fierce light against the stars,

Making the pale moon paler with affright;

And with his ruby eye out-threaten'd Mars—

That blaz'd in the mid-heavens, hot and bright—

Nor slept, nor wink'd, but with a steadfast spite

Watch'd their wan looks and tremblings in the skies;

And that he might not slumber in the night,

The curtain-lids were pluck'd from his large eyes,

So he might never drowse, but watch his secret prize.

IV.

Prince or princess in dismal durance pent,

Victims of old Enchantment's love or hate,

Their lives must all in painful sighs be spent,

Watching the lonely waters soon and late,

And clouds that pass and leave them to their fate,

Or company their grief with heavy tears:—

Meanwhile that Hope can spy no golden gate

For sweet escapement, but in darksome fears

They weep and pine away as if immortal years.

V.

No gentle bird with gold upon its wing

Will perch upon the grate—the gentle bird

Is safe in leafy dell, and will not bring

Freedom's sweet key-note and commission-word

Learn'd of a fairy's lips, for pity stirr'd—

Lest while he trembling sings, untimely guest!

Watch'd by that cruel Snake and darkly heard,

He leave a widow on her lonely nest,

To press in silent grief the darlings of her breast.

VI.

No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark,

Will seek the fruitful perils of the place,

To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark

That bear that serpent image on their face.

And Love, brave Love! though he attempt the base,

Nerved to his loyal death, he may not win

His captive lady from the strict embrace

Of that foul Serpent, clasping her within

His sable folds—like Eve enthrall'd by the old Sin.

VII.

But there is none—no knight in panoply,

Nor Love, intrench'd in his strong steely coat:

No little speck—no sail—no helper nigh,

No sign—no whispering—no plash of boat:—

The distant shores show dimly and remote,

Made of a deeper mist,—serene and gray,—

And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float

Over the gloomy wave, and pass away,

Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play.

VIII.

And bright and silvery the willows sleep

Over the shady verge—no mad winds tease

Their hoary heads; but quietly they weep

Their sprinkling leaves—half fountains and half trees:

Their lilies be—and fairer than all these,

A solitary Swan her breast of snow

Launches against the wave that seems to freeze

Into a chaste reflection, still below

Twin shadow of herself wherever she may go.

IX.

And forth she paddles in the very noon

Of solemn midnight like an elfin thing,

Charm'd into being by the argent moon—

Whose silver light for love of her fair wing

Goes with her in the shade, still worshipping

Her dainty plumage:—all around her grew

A radiant circlet, like a fairy ring;

And all behind, a tiny little clue

Of light, to guide her back across the waters blue.

X.

And sure she is no meaner than a fay,

Redeem'd from sleepy death, for beauty's sake,

By old ordainment:—silent as she lay,

Touched by a moonlight wand I saw her wake,

And cut her leafy slough, and so forsake

The verdant prison of her lily peers,

That slept amidst the stars upon the lake—

A breathing shape—restored to human fears,

And new-born love and grief—self-conscious of her tears.

XI.

And now she clasps her wings around her heart,

And near that lonely isle begins to glide,

Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start

Turns her impatient head from side to side

In universal terrors—all too wide

To watch; and often to that marble keep

Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied

Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep

That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep.

XII.

And well she may, to spy that fearful thing

All down the dusky walls in circlets wound;

Alas! for what rare prize, with many a ring

Girding the marble casket round and round?

His folded tail, lost in the gloom profound,

Terribly darkeneth the rocky base;

But on the top his monstrous head is crown'd

With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face

Gleam his unwearied eyes, red watchers of the place.

XIII.

Alas! of the hot fires that nightly fall,

No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite,

So he may never see beneath the wall

That timid little creature, all too bright,

That stretches her fair neck, slender and white,

Invoking the pale moon, and vainly tries

Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night

With song—but, hush—it perishes in sighs,

And there will be no dirge sad-swelling, though she dies!

XIV.

She droops—she sinks—she leans upon the lake,

Fainting again into a lifeless flower;

But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake

Her spirit from its death, and with new power

She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower

Of tender song, timed to her falling tears—

That wins the shady summit of that tower,

And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears,

Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's ears.

XV.

And, lo! the scaly beast is all deprest,

Subdued like Argus by the might of sound—

What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest

To magic converse with the air, and bound

The many monster eyes, all slumber-drown'd:—

So on the turret-top that watchful Snake

Pillows his giant head, and lists profound,

As if his wrathful spite would never wake,

Charm'd into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty's sake!

XVI.

His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown,

And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies,

To drink that dainty flood of music down—

His scaly throat is big with pent-up sighs—

And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies,

His looks for envy of the charmed sense

Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes,

Stung into pain by their own impotence,

Distil enormous tears into the lake immense.

XVII.

Oh, tuneful Swan! oh, melancholy bird!

Sweet was that midnight miracle of song,

Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word

To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong—

Hinting a piteous tale—perchance how long

Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake,

What time disguised thy leafy mates among—

And no eye knew what human love and ache

Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to break.

XVIII.

Therefore no poet will ungently touch

The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew

Trembles like tears; but ever hold it such

As human pain may wander through and through,

Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue—

Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entomb'd,

By magic spells. Alas! who ever knew

Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed,

Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed?

XIX.

And now the winged song has scaled the height

Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair,

And soon a little casement flashing bright

Widens self-open'd into the cool air—

That music like a bird may enter there

And soothe the captive in his stony cage;

For there is nought of grief, or painful care,

But plaintive song may happily engage

From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage.

XX.

And forth into the light, small and remote,

A creature, like the fair son of a king,

Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd coat

Against the silver moonlight glistening,

And leans upon his white hand listening

To that sweet music that with tenderer tone

Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing

Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan,

Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone!

XI.

And while he listens, the mysterious song,

Woven with timid particles of speech.

Twines into passionate words that grieve along

The melancholy notes, and softly teach

The secrets of true love,—that trembling reach

His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun

He missions like replies, and each to each

Their silver voices mingle into one,

Like blended streams that make one music as they run.

XII.

"Ah! Love, my hope is swooning in my heart,—"

"Ay, sweet, my cage is strong and hung full high—"

"Alas! our lips are held so far apart,

Thy words come faint,—they have so far to fly!—"

"If I may only shun that serpent-eye,—"

"Ah me! that serpent-eye doth never sleep;—"

"Then, nearer thee, Love's martyr, I will die!—"

"Alas, alas! that word has made me weep!

For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep!"

XIII.

"My marble keep! it is my marble tomb—"

"Nay, sweet! but thou hast there thy living breath—"

"Aye to expend in sighs for this hard doom;—"

"But I will come to thee and sing beneath,"

"And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath;—"

"Nay, I will find a path from these despairs."

"Ah, needs then thou must tread the back of death,

Making his stony ribs thy stony stairs.—

Behold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares!"

XIV.

Full sudden at these words, the princely youth

Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still

Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth,

But numb'd to dulness by the fairy skill

Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill

For intense fear) that charm'd him as he lay—

Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will,

Held some short throbs by natural dismay,

Then down the serpent-track begins his darksome way.

XV.

Now dimly seen—now toiling out of sight,

Eclipsed and cover'd by the envious wall;

Now fair and spangled in the sudden light,

And clinging with wide arms for fear of fall;

Now dark and shelter'd by a kindly pall

Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe;

Slowly he winds adown—dimly and small,

Watch'd by the gentle Swan that sings below,

Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow.

XVI.

But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace

The marble walls about—which he must tread

Before his anxious foot may touch the base:

Long in the dreary path, and must be sped!

But Love, that holds the mastery of dread,

Braces his spirit, and with constant toil

He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread,

Impatient plunges from the last long coil;

So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil!

XVII.

The song is hush'd, the charm is all complete,

And two fair Swans are swimming on the lake:

But scarce their tender bills have time to meet,

When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake—

His steely scales a fearful rustling make,

Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell

The sable storm;—the plumy lovers quake—

And feel the troubled waters pant and swell,

Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer fell.

XVIII.

His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death,

Hiss horrible pursuit—his red eyes glare

The waters into blood—his eager breath

Grows hot upon their plumes:—now, minstrel fair!

She drops her ring into the waves, and there

It widens all around, a fairy ring

Wrought of the silver light—the fearful pair

Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling

The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing.

XIX.

Bending their course over the pale gray lake,

Against the pallid East, wherein light play'd

In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake

Circled them round continually, and bay'd

Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade

The sanctuary ring—his sable mail

Roll'd darkly through the flood, and writhed and made

A shining track over the waters pale,

Lash'd into boiling foam by his enormous tail.

XX.

And so they sail'd into the distance dim,

Into the very distance—small and white,

Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim

Over the brooklets—follow'd by the spite

Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright

Worried them on their course, and sore annoy,

Till on the grassy marge I saw them 'light,

And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy,

Lock'd in embrace of sweet unutterable joy!

XXI.

Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers

Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes

Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers

The Oriental sun began to rise,

Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies;

Wherewith that sable Serpent far away

Fled, like a part of night—delicious sighs

From waking blossoms purified the day,

And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray.

[ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.][5]

I.

Ah me! those old familiar bounds!

That classic house, those classic grounds

My pensive thought recalls!

What tender urchins now confine,

What little captives now repine,

Within yon irksome walls?

II.

Ay, that's the very house! I know

Its ugly windows, ten a-row!

Its chimneys in the rear!

And there's the iron rod so high,

That drew the thunder from the sky

And turn'd our table-beer!

III.

There I was birch'd! there I was bred!

There like a little Adam fed

From Learning's woeful tree!

The weary tasks I used to con!—

The hopeless leaves I wept upon!—

Most fruitless leaves to me!—

IV.

The summon'd class!—the awful bow!—

I wonder who is master now

And wholesome anguish sheds!

How many ushers now employs,

How many maids to see the boys

Have nothing in their heads!

V.

And Mrs. S——?—Doth she abet

(Like Pallas in the parlor) yet

Some favor'd two or three,—

The little Crichtons of the hour,

Her muffin-medals that devour,

And swill her prize—bohea?

VI.

Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,

Beneath whose shade in summer's prime

So wildly I have read!—

Who sits there now, and skims the cream

Of young Romance, and weaves a dream

Of Love and Cottage-bread?

VII.

Who struts the Randall of the walk?

Who models tiny heads in chalk?

Who scoops the light canoe?

What early genius buds apace?

Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase?

Hal Baylis? blithe Carew?

VIII.

Alack! they're gone—a thousand ways!

And some are serving in "the Greys,"

And some have perish'd young!—

Jack Harris weds his second wife;

Hal Baylis drives the wane of life;

And blithe Carew—is hung!

IX.

Grave Bowers teaches A B C

To savages at Owhyee;

Poor Chase is with the worms!—

All, all are gone—the olden breed!—

New crops of mushroon boys succeed,

"And push us from our forms!"

X.

Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,

And leap, and skip, and mob about,

At play where we have play'd!

Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine

Their crony arms; some in the shine,—

And some are in the shade!

XI.

Lo there what mix'd conditions run!

The orphan lad; the widow's son;

And Fortune's favor'd care—

The wealthy-born, for whom she hath

Mac-Adamised the future path—

The Nabob's pamper'd heir!

XII.

Some brightly starr'd—some evil born,—

For honor some, and some for scorn,—

For fair or foul renown!

Good, bad, indiff'rent—none may lack!

Look, here's a White, and there's a Black

And there's a Creole brown!

XIII.

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,

And wish their frugal sires would keep

Their only sons at home;—

Some tease their future tense, and plan

The full-grown doings of the man,

And plant for years to come!

XIV.

A foolish wish! There's one at hoop;

And four at fives! and five who stoop

The marble taw to speed!

And one that curvets in and out,

Reining his fellow Cob about,—

Would I were in his steed!

XV.

Yet he would glady halt and drop

That boyish harness off, to swop

With this world's heavy van—

To toil, to tug. O little fool!

While thou canst be a horse at school,

To wish to be a man!

XVI.

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing

To wear a crown,—to be a king!

And sleep on regal down!

Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares;

For happier is thy head that wears

That hat without a crown!

XVII.

And dost thou think that years acquire

New added joys? Dost think thy sire

More happy than his son?

That manhood's mirth?—Oh, go thy ways

To Drury-lane when—plays,

And see how forced our fun!

XVIII.

Thy taws are brave!—thy tops are rare!—

Our tops are spun with coils of care,

Our dumps are no delight!—

The Elgin marbles are but tame,

And 'tis at best a sorry game

To fly the Muse's kite!

XIX.

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,

Our topmost joys fall dull and dead

Like balls with no rebound!

And often with a faded eye

We look behind, and send a sigh

Towards that merry ground!

XX.

Then be contented. Thou hast got

The most of heaven in thy young lot;

There's sky-blue in thy cup!

Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast—

Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last

A sorry breaking-up!

[SONG.]

There is dew for the flow'ret[6]

And honey for the bee,

And bowers for the wild bird,

And love for you and me.

There are tears for the many

And pleasures for the few;

But let the world pass on, dear,

There's love for me and you.

There is care that will not leave us,

And pain that will not flee;

But on our hearth unalter'd

Sits Love—'tween you and me.

Our love it ne'er was reckon'd,

Yet good it is and true,

It's half the world to me, dear,

It's all the world to you.

[THE WATER LADY.][7]

Alas, the moon should ever beam

To show what man should never see!—

I saw a maiden on a stream,

And fair was she!

I staid awhile, to see her throw

Her tresses black, that all beset

The fair horizon of her brow

With clouds of jet.

I staid a little while to view

Her cheek, that wore in place of red

The bloom of water, tender blue,

Daintily spread.

I staid to watch, a little space,

Her parted lips if she would sing;

The waters closed above her face

With many a ring.

And still I staid a little more,

Alas! she never comes again!

I throw my flowers from the shore,

And watch in vain.

I know my life will fade away,

I know that I must vainly pine,

For I am made of mortal clay,

But she's divine!

[AUTUMN.]

The Autumn is old,

The sere leaves are flying;—

He hath gather'd up gold,

And now he is dying;—

Old Age, begin sighing!

The vintage is ripe,

The harvest is heaping;—

But some that have sow'd

Have no riches for reaping;—

Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!

The year's in the wane,

There is nothing adorning,

The night has no eve,

And the day has no morning;—

Cold winter gives warning.

The rivers run chill,

The red sun is sinking,

And I am grown old,

And life is fast shrinking;

Here's enow for sad thinking!

[I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.]

I remember, I remember,

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day,

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses, red and white,

The violets, and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday,—

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

The fir trees dark and high;

I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm farther off from Heav'n

Than when I was a boy.

[THE POET'S PORTION.]

What is a mine—a treasury—a dower—

A magic talisman of mighty power?

A poet's wide possession of the earth.

He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth

Before its budding—ere the first red streaks,—

And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks.

Look—if his dawn be not as other men's!

Twenty bright flushes—ere another kens

The first of sunlight is abroad—he sees

Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees,

And opes the splendid fissures of the morn.

When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn

Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf

Is commonly abroad, in his piled sheaf

The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame.

No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name,

But he will sip it first—before the lees.

'Tis his to taste rich honey,—ere the bees

Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall

June's rosy advent for his coronal;

Before th' expectant buds upon the bough,

Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow.

Oh! blest to see the flower in its seed,

Before its leafy presence; for indeed

Leaves are but wings on which the summer flies,

And each thing perishable fades and dies,

Escap'd in thought; but his rich thinkings be

Like overflows of immortality:

So that what there is steep'd shall perish never,

But live and bloom, and be a joy forever.

[ODE TO THE MOON.]

I.

Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go

Over those hoary crests, divinely led!—

Art thou that huntress of the silver bow,

Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread

Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,

Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow,

Where hunter never climb'd,—secure from dread?

How many antique fancies have I read

Of that mild presence! and how many wrought!

Wondrous and bright,

Upon the silver light,

Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!

II.

What art thou like?—Sometimes I see thee ride

A far-bound galley on its perilous way,

Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray;—

Sometimes behold thee glide,

Cluster'd by all thy family of stars,

Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide,

Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars;—

Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep,

Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,

Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep,

To catch the young Endymion asleep,—

Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch!—

III.

Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be!

Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named;

And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed

A silver idol, and ne'er worshipp'd thee!—

It is too late—or thou should'st have my knee—

Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,

And not divine the crescent on thy brows!—

Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon,

Behind those chestnut boughs,

Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;

I will be grateful for that simple boon,

In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet,

And bless thy dainty face when'er we meet.

IV.

In nights far gone,—ay, far away and dead,—

Before Care-fretted, with a lidless eye,—

I was thy wooer on my little bed,

Letting the early hours of rest go by,

To see thee flood the heaven with milky light,

And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept;

For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams,—

Thou wert the fairies' armourer, that kept

Their burnish'd helms, and crowns, and corslets bright,

Their spears, and glittering mails;

And ever thou didst spill in winding streams

Sparkles and midnight gleams,

For fishes to new gloss their ardent scales!—

V.

Why sighs?—why creeping tears?—why clasped hands?—

Is it to count the boy's expended dow'r?

That fairies since have broke their gifted wands?

That young Delight, like any o'erblown flower,

Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground?—

Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour,

Thou art a sadder dial to old Time

Than ever I have found

On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tow'r,

Motto'd with stern and melancholy rhyme.

VI.

Why should I grieve for this?—Oh I must yearn

Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory,

Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn,

Richly emboss'd with childhood's revelry,

With leaves and cluster'd fruits, and flow'rs eterne,—

(Eternal to the world, though not to me),

Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be,

The deathless wreath, and undecay'd festoon,

When I am hearsed within,—

Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon,

That now she watches through a vapor thin.

VII.

So let it be:—Before I lived to sigh,

Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,

Beautiful Orb! and so, whene'er I lie

Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.

Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills,

And blessëd thy fair face, O Mother mild!

Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run,

Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond,

And blend their plighted shadows into one:—

Still smile at even on the bedded child,

And close his eyelids with thy silver wand!

[SONNET.]

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky

The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

Hues of all flow'rs, that in their ashes lie,

Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed,—

Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red,—

Like exhalations from the leafy mould,

Look here how honor glorifies the dead,

And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold!—

Such is the memory of poets old,

Who on Parnassus' hill have bloom'd elate;

Now they are laid under their marbles cold,

And turned to clay, whereof they were create;

But god Apollo hath them all enroll'd,

And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate!

[A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.]

I.

Oh, when I was a tiny boy,

My days and nights were full of joy,

My mates were blithe and kind!—

No wonder that I sometimes sigh,

And dash the tear-drop from my eye,

To cast a look behind!

II.

A hoop was an eternal round

Of pleasure. In those days I found

A top a joyous thing;—

But now those past delights I drop,

My head, alas! is all my top,

And careful thoughts the string!

III.

My marbles—once my bag was stored,—

Now I must play with Elgin's lord,

With Theseus for a taw!

My playful horse has slipt his string,

Forgotten all his capering,

And harness'd to the law!

IV.

My kite—how fast and far it flew!

Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew

My pleasure from the sky!

'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes,

The tasks I wrote—my present dreams

Will never soar so high!

V.

My joys are wingless all and dead;

My dumps are made of more than lead;—

My flights soon find a fall;

My fears prevail, my fancies droop,

Joy never cometh with a hoop,

And seldom with a call!

VI.

My football's laid upon the shelf;

I am a shuttlecock myself

The world knocks to and fro;—

My archery is all unlearn'd,

And grief against myself has turn'd

My arrows and my bow!

VII.

No more in noontide sun I bask;

My authorship's an endless task,

My head's ne'er out of school:

My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight,

I have too many foes to fight,

And friends grown strangely cool!

VIII.

The very chum that shared my cake

Holds out so cold a hand to shake,

It makes me shrink and sigh:—

On this I will not dwell and hang,—

The changeling would not feel a pang

Though these should meet his eye!

IX.

No skies so blue or so serene

As then;—no leaves look half so green

As clothed the playground tree!

All things I loved are altered so,

Nor does it ease my heart to know

That change resides in me!

X.

Oh for the garb that marked the boy,

The trousers made of corduroy,

Well ink'd with black and red;

The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill—

It only let the sunshine still

Repose upon my head!

XI.

Oh for the riband round the neck!

The careless dogs-ears apt to deck

My book and collar both!

How can this formal man be styled

Merely an Alexandrine child,

A boy of larger growth?

XII.

Oh for that small, small beer anew!

And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue

That wash'd my sweet meals down;

The master even!—and that small Turk

That fagg'd me!—worse is now my work—

A fag for all the town!

XIII.

Oh for the lessons learned by heart!

Ay, though the very birch's smart

Should mark those hours again;

I'd "kiss the rod," and be resign'd

Beneath the stroke, and even find

Some sugar in the cane!

XIV.

The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed!

The Fairy Tales in school-time read,

By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun!

The angel form that always walk'd

In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd

Exactly like Miss Brown!

XV.

The omne bene—Christmas come!

The prize of merit, won for home—

Merit had prizes then!

But now I write for days and days,

For fame—a deal of empty praise,

Without the silver pen!

XVI.

Then "home, sweet home!" the crowded coach—

The joyous shout—the loud approach—

The winding horns like rams'!

The meeting sweet that made me thrill,

The sweetmeats, almost sweeter still,

No 'satis' to the 'jams'!—

XVII.

When that I was a tiny boy

My days and nights were full of joy,

My mates were blithe and kind!

No wonder that I sometimes sigh,

And dash the tear-drop from my eye,

To cast a look behind!

[BALLAD.]

It was not in the Winter

Our loving lot was cast;

It was the Time of Roses,—

We plucked them as we passed!

That churlish season never frown'd

On early lovers yet:—

Oh, no—the world was newly crown'd

With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,

But still you held me fast;

It was the Time of Roses,—

We pluck'd them as we pass'd.—

What else could peer thy glowing cheek,

That tears began to stud?

And when I ask'd the like of Love,

You snatched a damask bud;

And oped it to the dainty core,

Still glowing to the last.—

It was the Time of Roses,—

We plucked them as we pass'd!

[TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY.]

I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring,

Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing:

"Fly through the world, and I will follow thee,

Only for looks that may turn back on me;

"Only for roses that your chance may throw—

Though withered—Twill wear them on my brow,

To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain,—

Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again."

"Thy love before thee, I must tread behind,

Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind;

But trust not all her fondness, though it seem,

Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream."

"Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet;

But smiles betray, and music sings deceit;

And words speak false;—yet, if they welcome prove,

I'll be their echo, and repeat their love."

"Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last,

The bitterness to come, and sweetness past;

When thou art vext, then turn again, and see

Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee."

[FLOWERS.]

I will not have the mad Clytie,

Whose head is turned by the sun;

The tulip is a courtly queen,

Whom, therefore, I will shun;

The cowslip is a country wench,

The violet is a nun;—

But I will woo the dainty rose,

The queen of every one.

The pea is but a wanton witch,

In too much haste to wed,

And clasps her rings on every hand;

The wolfsbane I should dread;

Nor will I dreary rosemarye,

That always mourns the dead;—

But I will woo the dainty rose,

With her cheeks of tender red.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,

And so is no mate for me—

And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush,

She is of such low degree;

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,

And the broom's betroth'd to the bee;—

But I will plight with the dainty rose,

For fairest of all is she.

[BALLAD.]

She's up and gone, the graceless girl,

And robb'd my failing years!

My blood before was thin and cold

But now 'tis turn'd to tears;—

My shadow falls upon my grave,

So near the brink I stand,

She might have stay'd a little yet,

And led me by the hand!

Aye, call her on the barren moor,

And call her on the hill:

'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,

And plover's answer shrill;

My child is flown on wilder wings

Than they have ever spread,

And I may even walk a waste

That widen'd when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,

But never one like mine;

Her meat was served on plates of gold,

Her drink was rosy wine;

But now she'll share the robin's food,

And sup the common rill,

Before her feet will turn again

To meet her father's will!

[RUTH.]

She stood breast high amid the corn

Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,

Like the sweetheart of the sun,

Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,

Deeply ripen'd;—such a blush

In the midst of brown was born,

Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,

Which were blackest none could tell,

But long lashes veil'd a light,

That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,

Made her tressy forehead dim;—

Thus she stood amid the stooks,

Praising God with sweetest looks:—

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean,

Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,

Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

Share my harvest and my home.

[THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.][8]

I.

'Twas in that mellow season of the year

When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves

Till they be gold,—and with a broader sphere

The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves;

When more abundantly the spider weaves,

And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime;—

That forth I fared, on one of those still eves,

Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time,

To think how the bright months had spent their prime,

II.

So that, wherever I address'd my way,

I seem'd to track the melancholy feet

Of him that is the Father of Decay,

And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet;—

Wherefore regretfully I made retreat

To some unwasted regions of my brain,

Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat,

And bade that bounteous season bloom again,

And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain.

III.

It was a shady and sequester'd scene,

Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio,

Planted with his own laurels evergreen,

And roses that for endless summer blow;

And there were fountain springs to overflow

Their marble basins,—and cool green arcades

Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw

Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,—

With timid coneys cropping the green blades.

IV.

And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish,

Argent and gold; and some of Tyrian skin,

Some crimson-barr'd;—and ever at a wish

They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin

As glass upon their backs, and then dived in,

Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom;

Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win

My changeable regard,—for so we doom

Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom.

V.

And there were many birds of many dyes,

From tree to tree still faring to and fro,

And stately peacocks with their splendid eyes,

And gorgeous pheasants with their golden glow,

Like Iris just bedabbled in her bow,

Beside some vocalists, without a name,

That oft on fairy errands come and go,

With accents magical;—and all were tame,

And peckled at my hand where'er I came.

VI.

And for my sylvan company, in lieu

Of Pampinea with her lively peers,

Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew,

All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears,

For she was gracious to my childish years,

And made me free of her enchanted round;

Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears,

And plants her court upon a verdant mound,

Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound.

VII.

"Ah me," she cries, "was ever moonlight seen

So clear and tender for our midnight trips?

Go some one forth, and with a trump convene

My lieges all!"—Away the goblin skips

A pace or two apart, and deftly strips

The ruddy skin from a sweet rose's cheek,

Then blows the shuddering leaf between his lips,

Making it utter forth a shrill small shriek,

Like a fray'd bird in the gray owlet's beak.

VIII.

And lo! upon my fix'd delighted ken

Appear'd the loyal Fays.—Some by degrees

Crept from the primrose buds that open'd then,

Ana some from bell-shaped blossoms like the bees,

Some from the dewy meads, and rushy leas,

Flew up like chafers when the rustics pass;

Some from the rivers, others from tall trees

Dropp'd, like shed blossoms, silent to the grass,

Spirits and elfins small, of every class.

IX.

Peri and Pixy, and quaint Puck the Antic,

Brought Robin Goodfellow, that merry swain;

And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms romantic,

Came too, from distance, in her tiny wain,

Fresh dripping from a cloud—some bloomy rain,

Then circling the bright Moon, had wash'd her car,

And still bedew'd it with a various stain:

Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star,

Who bears all fairy embassies afar.

X.

But Oberon, that night elsewhere exiled,

Was absent, whether some distemper'd spleen

Kept him and his fair mate unreconciled,

Or warfare with the Gnome (whose race had been

Sometime obnoxious), kept him from his queen,

And made her now peruse the starry skies

Prophetical, with such an absent mien;

Howbeit, the tears stole often to her eyes,

And oft the Moon was incensed with her sighs—

XI.

Which made the elves sport drearily, and soon

Their hushing dances languish'd to a stand,

Like midnight leaves, when, as the Zephyrs swoon,

All on their drooping stems they sink unfann'd,—

So into silence droop'd the fairy band,

To see their empress dear so pale and still,

Crowding her softly round on either hand,

As pale as frosty snowdrops, and as chill,

To whom the sceptred dame reveals her ill.

XII.

"Alas," quoth she, "ye know our fairy lives

Are leased upon the fickle faith of men;

Not measured out against Fate's mortal knives,

Like human gosamers,—we perish when

We fade and are forgot in worldly kens—

Though poesy has thus prolong'd our date,

Thanks be to the sweet Bard's auspicious pen

That rescued us so long!—howbeit of late

I feel some dark misgivings of our fate."

XIII.

"And this dull day my melancholy sleep

Hath been so thronged with images of woe,

That even now I cannot choose but weep

To think this was some sad prophetic show

Of future horror to befall us so,

Of mortal wreck and uttermost distress,

Yea, our poor empire's fall and overthrow,

For this was my long vision's dreadful stress,

And when I waked my trouble was not less."

XIV.

"Whenever to the clouds I tried to seek,

Such leaden weight dragg'd these Icarian wings,

My faithless wand was wavering and weak,

And slimy toads had trespass'd in our rings—

The birds refused to sing for me—all things

Disown'd their old allegiance to our spells;

The rude bees prick'd me with their rebel stings;

And, when I pass'd, the valley-lily's bells

Rang out, methought, most melancholy knells."

XV.

"And ever on the faint and flagging air

A doleful spirit with a dreary note

Cried in my fearful ear, 'Prepare! prepare!'

Which soon I knew came from a raven's throat,

Perch'd on a cypress-bough not far remote,—

A cursed bird, too crafty to be shot,

That alway cometh with his soot-black coat

To make hearts dreary:—for he is a blot

Upon the book of life, as well ye wot!—"

XVI.

"Wherefore some while I bribed him to be mute,

With bitter acorns stuffing his foul maw,

Which barely I appeased, when some fresh bruit

Startled me all aheap!—and soon I saw

The horridest shape that ever raised my awe,—

A monstrous giant, very huge and tall,

Such as in elder times, devoid of law,

With wicked might grieved the primeval ball,

And this was sure the deadliest of them all!"

XVII.

"Gaunt was he as a wolf of Languedoc,

With bloody jaws, and frost upon his crown

So from his barren poll one hoary lock

Over his wrinkled front fell far adown,

Well nigh to where his frosty brows did frown

Like jagged icicles at cottage eaves;

And for his coronal he wore some brown

And bristled ears gather'd from Ceres' sheaves,

Entwined with certain sere and russet leaves."

XVIII.

"And lo! upon a mast rear'd far aloft,

He bore a very bright and crescent blade,

The which he waved so dreadfully, and oft,

In meditative spite, that, sore dismay'd,

I crept into an acorn-cup for shade;

Meanwhile the horrid effigy went by:

I trow his look was dreadful, for it made

The trembling birds betake them to the sky,

For every leaf was lifted by his sigh."

XIX.

"And ever, as he sigh'd, his foggy breath

Blurr'd out the landscape like a flight of smoke:

Thence knew I this was either dreary Death

Or Time, who leads all creatures to his stroke.

Ah wretched me!"—Here, even as she spoke,

The melancholy Shape came gliding in,

And lean'd his back against an antique oak,

Folding his wings, that were so fine and thin,

They scarce were seen against the Dryad's skin.

XX.

Then what a fear seized all the little rout!

Look how a flock of panick'd sheep will stare—

And huddle close—and start—and wheel about,

Watching the roaming mongrel here and there,—

So did that sudden Apparition scare

All close aheap those small affrighted things;

Nor sought they now the safety of the air,

As if some leaden spell withheld their wings;

But who can fly that ancientest of Kings?

XXI.

Whom now the Queen, with a forestalling tear

And previous sigh, beginneth to entreat,

Bidding him spare, for love, her lieges dear:

"Alas!" quoth she, "is there no nodding wheat

Ripe for thy crooked weapon, and more meet,—

Or wither'd leaves to ravish from the tree,—

Or crumbling battlements for thy defeat?

Think but what vaunting monuments there be

Builded in spite and mockery of thee."

XXII.

"O fret away the fabric walls of Fame,

And grind down marble Cæsars with the dust:

Make tombs inscriptionless—raze each high name,

And waste old armors of renown with rust:

Do all of this, and thy revenge is just:

Make such decays the trophies of thy prime,

And check Ambition's overweening lust,

That dares exterminating war with Time,—

But we are guiltless of that lofty crime."

XXIII.

"Frail feeble spirits!—the children of a dream!

Leased on the sufferance of fickle men,

Like motes dependent on the sunny beam,

Living but in the sun's indulgent ken,

And when that light withdraws, withdrawing then;—

So do we flutter in the glance of youth

And fervid fancy,—and so perish when

The eye of faith grows aged;—in sad truth,

Feeling thy sway, O Time! though not thy tooth!"

XXIV.

"Where be those old divinities forlorn,

That dwelt in trees, or haunted in a stream?

Alas! their memories are dimm'd and torn,

Like the remainder tatters of a dream:

So will it fare with our poor thrones, I deem;—

For us the same dark trench Oblivion delves,

That holds the wastes of every human scheme.

O spare us then,—and these our pretty elves,—

We soon, alas! shall perish of ourselves!"

XXV.

Now as she ended, with a sigh, to name

Those old Olympians, scatter'd by the whirl

Of Fortune's giddy wheel and brought to shame,

Methought a scornful and malignant curl

Show'd on the lips of that malicious churl,

To think what noble havocs he had made;

So that I fear'd he all at once would hurl

The harmless fairies into endless shade,—

Howbeit he stopp'd awhile to whet his blade.

XXVI.

Pity it was to hear the elfins' wail

Rise up in concert from their mingled dread,

Pity it was to see them, all so pale,

Gaze on the grass as for a dying bed;—

But Puck was seated on a spider's thread,

That hung between two branches of a briar,

And 'gan to swing and gambol, heels o'er head,

Like any Southwark tumbler on a wire,

For him no present grief could long inspire.

XXVII.

Meanwhile the Queen with many piteous drops,

Falling like tiny sparks full fast and free,

Bedews a pathway from her throne;—and stops

Before the foot of her arch enemy,

And with her little arms enfolds his knee,

That shows more grisly from that fair embrace;

But she will ne'er depart. "Alas!" quoth she,

"My painful fingers I will here enlace

Till I have gain'd your pity for our race."

XXVIII.

"What have we ever done to earn this grudge,

And hate—(if not too humble for thy hating?)—

Look o'er our labors and our lives, and judge

If there be any ills of our creating;

For we are very kindly creatures, dating

With nature's charities still sweet and bland:—

O think this murder worthy of debating!"

Herewith she makes a signal with her hand,

To beckon some one from the Fairy band.

XXIX.

Anon I saw one of those elfin things,

Clad all in white like any chorister,

Come fluttering forth on his melodious wings,

That made soft music at each little stir,

But something louder than a bee's demur

Before he lights upon a bunch of broom,

And thus 'gan he with Saturn to confer,—

And O his voice was sweet, touch'd with the gloom

Of that sad theme that argued of his doom!

XXX.

Quoth he, "We make all melodies our care,

That no false discords may offend the Sun,

Music's great master—tuning everywhere

All pastoral sounds and melodies, each one

Duly to place and season, so that none

May harshly interfere. We rouse at morn

The shrill sweet lark; and when the day is done,

Hush silent pauses for the bird forlorn,

That singeth with her breast against a thorn."

XXXI.

"We gather in loud choirs the twittering race,

That make a chorus with their single note;

And tend on new-fledged birds in every place,

That duly they may get their tunes by rote;

And oft, like echoes, answering remote,

We hide in thickets from the feather'd throng,

And strain in rivalship each throbbing throat,

Singing in shrill responses all day long,

Whilst the glad truant listens to our song."

XXXII.

"Wherefore, great King of Years, as thou dost love

The raining music from a morning cloud,

When vanish'd larks are carolling above,

To wake Apollo with their pipings loud;—

If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud

The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell,

Show thy sweet mercy on this little crowd,

And we will muffle up the sheepfold bell

Whene'er thou listenest to Philomel."

XXXIII.

Then Saturn thus;—"Sweet is the merry lark,

That carols in man's ear so clear and strong;

And youth must love to listen in the dark

That tuneful elegy of Tereus' wrong;

But I have heard that ancient strain too long,

For sweet is sweet but when a little strange,

And I grow weary for some newer song;

For wherefore had I wings, unless to range

Through all things mutable, from change to change?"

XXXIV.

"But would'st thou hear the melodies of Time,

Listen when sleep and drowsy darkness roll

Over hush'd cities, and the midnight chime

Sounds from their hundred clocks, and deep bells toll

Like a last knell over the dead world's soul,

Saying, 'Time shall be final of all things,

Whose late, last voice must elegize the whole,'—

O then I clap aloft my brave broad wings,

And make the wide air tremble while it rings!"

XXXV.

Then next a fair Eve-Fay made meek address,

Saying, "We be the handmaids of the Spring;

In sign whereof, May, the quaint broideress,

Hath wrought her samplers on our gauzy wing.

We tend upon buds birth and blossoming,

And count the leafy tributes that they owe—

As, so much to the earth—so much to fling

In showers to the brook—so much to go

In whirlwinds to the clouds that made them grow."

XXXVI.

"The pastoral cowslips are our little pets,

And daisy stars, whose firmament is green;

Pansies, and those veil'd nuns, meek violets,

Sighing to that warm world from which they screen;

And golden daffodils, pluck'd for May's Queen;

And lonely harebells, quaking on the heath;

And Hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen,

Whose tuneful voice, turn'd fragrance in his breath,

Kiss'd by sad Zephyr, guilty of his death."

XXXVII.

"The widow'd primrose weeping to the moon

And saffron crocus in whose chalice bright

A cool libation hoarded for the noon

Is kept—and she that purifies the light,

The virgin lily, faithful to her white,

Whereon Eve wept in Eden for her shame;

And the most dainty rose, Aurora's spright,

Our every godchild, by whatever name—

Spares us our lives, for we did nurse the same!"

XXXVIII.

Then that old Mower stamp'd his heel, and struck

His hurtful scythe against the harmless ground,

Saying, "Ye foolish imps, when am I stuck

With gaudy buds, or like a wooer crown'd

With flow'ry chaplets, save when they are found

Withered?—Whenever have I pluck'd a rose,

Except to scatter its vain leaves around?

For so all gloss of beauty I oppose,

And bring decay on every flow'r that blows."

XXXIX.

"Or when am I so wroth as when I view

The wanton pride of Summer;—how she decks

The birthday world with blossoms ever-new,

As if Time had not lived, and heap'd great wrecks

Of years on years?—O then I bravely vex

And catch the gay Months in their gaudy plight,

And slay them with the wreaths about their necks,

Like foolish heifers in the holy rite,

And raise great trophies to my ancient might."

XL.

Then saith another, "We are kindly things,

And like her offspring nestle with the dove,—

Witness these hearts embroidered on our wings,

To show our constant patronage of love:—

We sit at even, in sweet bow'rs above

Lovers, and shake rich odors on the air,

To mingle with their sighs; and still remove

The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear

Their privacy, and haunt some other where."

XLI.

"And we are near the mother when she sits

Beside her infant in its wicker bed;

And we are in the fairy scene that flits

Across its tender brain: sweet dreams we shed,

And whilst the tender little soul is fled,

Away, to sport with our young elves, the while

We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red,

And tickle the soft lips until they smile,

So that their careful parents they beguile."

XLII.

"O then, if ever thou hast breathed a vow

At Love's dear portal, or at pale moon-rise

Crush'd the dear curl on a regardful brow,

That did not frown thee from thy honey prize—

If ever thy sweet son sat on thy thighs,

And wooed thee from thy careful thoughts within

To watch the harmless beauty of his eyes,

Or glad thy fingers on his smooth soft skin,

For Love's dear sake, let us thy pity win!"

XLIII.

Then Saturn fiercely thus:—"What joy have I

In tender babes, that have devour'd mine own,

Whenever to the light I heard them cry,

Till foolish Rhea cheated me with stone?

Whereon, till now, is my great hunger shown,

In monstrous dint of my enormous tooth;

And—but the peopled world is too full grown

For hunger's edge—I would consume all youth

At one great meal, without delay or ruth!"

XLIV.

"For I am well nigh crazed and wild to hear

How boastful fathers taunt me with their breed,

Saying, 'We shall not die nor disappear,

But, in these other selves, ourselves succeed

Ev'n as ripe flowers pass into their seed

Only to be renew'd from prime to prime,'

All of which boastings I am forced to read,

Besides a thousand challenges to Time,

Which bragging lovers have compiled in rhyme."

XLV.

"Wherefore, when they are sweetly met o' nights,

There will I steal and with my hurried hand

Startle them suddenly from their delights

Before the next encounter hath been plann'd,

Ravishing hours in little minutes spann'd;

But when they say farewell, and grieve apart,

Then like a leaden statue I will stand,

Meanwhile their many tears encrust my dart,

And with a ragged edge cut heart from heart."

XLVI.

Then next a merry Woodsman, clad in green,

Step vanward from his mates, that idly stood

Each at his proper ease, as they had been

Nursed in the liberty of old Shérwood,

And wore the livery of Robin Hood,

Who wont in forest shades to dine and sup,—

So came this chief right frankly, and made good

His haunch against his axe, and thus spoke up,

Doffing his cap, which was an acorn's cup:—

XLVII.

"We be small foresters and gay, who tend

On trees, and all their furniture of green,

Training the young boughs airily to bend,

And show blue snatches of the sky between;—

Or knit more close intricacies, to screen

Birds' crafty dwellings, as may hide them best,

But most the timid blackbird's—she that, seen,

Will bear black poisonous berries to her nest,

Lest man should cage the darlings of her breast."

XLVIII.

"We bend each tree in proper attitude,

And founting willows train in silvery falls;

We frame all shady roofs and arches rude,

And verdant aisles leading to Dryads' halls,

Or deep recesses where the Echo calls;—

We shape all plumy trees against the sky,

And carve tall elms' Corinthian capitals,—

When sometimes, as our tiny hatchets ply,

Men say, the tapping woodpecker is nigh."

XLIX.

"Sometimes we scoop the squirrel's hollow cell,

And sometimes carve quaint letters on trees' rind,

That haply some lone musing wight may spell

Dainty Aminta,—Gentle Rosalind,—

Or chastest Laura,—sweetly call'd to mind

In sylvan solitudes, ere he lies down;—

And sometimes we enrich gray stems with twined

And vagrant ivy,—or rich moss, whose brown

Burns into gold as the warm sun goes down."

L.

"And, lastly, for mirth's sake and Christmas cheer,

We bear the seedling berries, for increase,

To graft the Druid oaks, from year to year,

Careful that mistletoe may never cease;—

Wherefore, if thou dost prize the shady peace

Of sombre forests, or to see light break

Through sylvan cloisters, and in spring release

Thy spirit amongst leaves from careful ake,

Spare us our lives for the Green Dryad's sake."

LI.

Then Saturn, with a frown:—"Go forth, and fell

Oak for your coffins, and thenceforth lay by

Your axes for the rust, and bid farewell

To all sweet birds, and the blue peeps of sky

Through tangled branches, for ye shall not spy

The next green generation of the tree;

But hence with the dead leaves, whene'e they fly,—

Which in the bleak air I would rather see,

Than flights of the most tuneful birds that be."

LII.

"For I dislike all prime, and verdant pets,

Ivy except, that on the aged wall

Prays with its worm-like roots, and daily frets

The crumbled tower it seems to league withal,

King-like, worn down by its own coronal:—

Neither in forest haunts love I to won,

Before the golden plumage 'gins to fall,

And leaves the brown bleak limbs with few leaves on,

Or bare—like Nature in her skeleton."

LIII.

"For then sit I amongst the crooked boughs,

Wooing dull Memory with kindred sighs;

And there in rustling nuptials we espouse,

Smit by the sadness in each other's eyes;—

But Hope must have green bowers and blue skies,

And must be courted with the gauds of Spring;

Whilst Youth leans god-like on her lap, and cries,

'What shall we always do, but love and sing?'—

And Time is reckon'd a discarded thing."

LIV.

Here in my dream it made me fret to see

How Puck, the antic, all this dreary while

Had blithely jested with calamity,

With mis-timed mirth mocking the doleful style

Of his sad comrades, till it raised my bile

To see him so reflect their grief aside,

Turning their solemn looks to have a smile—

Like a straight stick shown crooked in the tide;—

But soon a novel advocate I spied.

LV.

Quoth he—"We teach all natures to fulfil

Their fore-appointed crafts, and instincts meet,—

The bee's sweet alchemy,—the spider's skill,—

The pismire's care to garner up his wheat,—

And rustic masonry to swallows fleet,—

The lapwing's cunning to preserve her nest,—

But most, that lesser pelican, the sweet

And shrilly ruddock, with its bleeding breast,

Its tender pity of poor babes distrest."

LVI.

"Sometimes we cast our shapes, and in sleek skins

Delve with the timid mole, that aptly delves

From our example; so the spider spins,

And eke the silk-worm, pattern'd by ourselves:

Sometimes we travail on the summer shelves

Of early bees, and busy toils commence,

Watch'd of wise men, that know not we are elves,

But gaze and marvel at our stretch of sense,

And praise our human-like intelligence."

LVII.

"Wherefore, by thy delight in that old tale,

And plaintive dirges the late robins sing,

What time the leaves are scatter'd by the gale,

Mindful of that old forest burying;—

As thou dost love to watch each tiny thing,

For whom our craft most curiously contrives,

If thou hast caught a bee upon the wing,

To take his honey-bag,—spare us our lives,

And we will pay the ransom in full hives."

LVIII.

"Now by my glass," quoth Time, "ye do offend

In teaching the brown bees that careful lore,

And frugal ants, whose millions would have end,

But they lay up for need a timely store,

And travail with the seasons evermore;

Whereas Great Mammoth long hath pass'd away,

And none but I can tell what hide he wore;

Whilst purblind men, the creatures of a day,

In riddling wonder his great bones survey."

LIX.

Then came an elf, right beauteous to behold,

Whose coat was like a brooklet that the sun

Hath all embroider'd with its crooked gold,

It was so quaintly wrought and overrun

With spangled traceries,—most meet for one

That was a warden of the pearly streams;—

And as he stept out of the shadows dun,

His jewels sparkled in the pale moon's gleams,

And shot into the air their pointed beams.

LX.

Quoth he,—"We bear the gold and silver keys

Of bubbling springs and fountains, that below

Course thro' the veiny earth,—which when they freeze

Into hard crysolites, we bid to flow,

Creeping like subtle snakes, when, as they go,

We guide their windings to melodious falls,

At whose soft murmurings, so sweet and low,

Poets have tuned their smoothest madrigals,

To sing to ladies in their banquet-halls."

LXI.

"And when the hot sun with his steadfast heat

Parches the river god,—whose dusty urn

Drips miserly, till soon his crystal feet

Against his pebbly floor wax faint and burn

And languid fish, unpoised, grow sick and yearn,—

Then scoop we hollows in some sandy nook,

And little channels dig, wherein we turn

The thread-worn rivulet, that all forsook

The Naiad-lily, pining for her brook."

LXII.

"Wherefore, by thy delight in cool green meads,

With living sapphires daintily inlaid,—

In all soft songs of waters and their reeds,—

And all reflections in a streamlet made,

Haply of thy own love, that, disarray'd,

Kills the fair lily with a livelier white,—

By silver trouts upspringing from green shade,

And winking stars reduplicate at night,

Spare us, poor ministers to such delight."

LXIII.

Howbeit his pleading and his gentle looks

Moved not the spiteful Shade:—Quoth he, "Your taste

Shoots wide of mine, for I despise the brooks

And slavish rivulets that run to waste

In noontide sweats, or, like poor vassals, haste

To swell the vast dominion of the sea,

In whose great presence I am held disgraced,

And neighbor'd with a king that rivals me

In ancient might and hoary majesty."

LXIV.

"Whereas I ruled in Chaos, and still keep

The awful secrets of that ancient dearth,

Before the briny fountains of the deep

Brimm'd up the hollow cavities of earth;—

I saw each trickling Sea-God at his birth,

Each pearly Naiad with her oozy locks,

And infant Titans of enormous girth,

Whose huge young feet yet stumbled on the rocks,

Stunning the early world with frequent shocks."

LXV.

"Where now is Titan, with his cumbrous brood,

That scared the world?—By this sharp scythe they fell,

And half the sky was curdled with their blood:

So have all primal giants sigh'd farewell.

No wardens now by sedgy fountains dwell,

Nor pearly Naiads. All their days are done

That strove with Time, untimely, to excel;

Wherefore I razed their progenies, and none

But my great shadow intercepts the sun!"

LXVI.

Then saith the timid Fay—"Oh, mighty Time!

Well hast thou wrought the cruel Titans' fall,

For they were stain'd with many a bloody crime:

Great giants work great wrongs,—but we are small,

For love goes lowly;—but Oppression's tall,

And with surpassing strides goes foremost still

Where love indeed can hardly reach at all;

Like a poor dwarf o'erburthen'd with good will,

That labors to efface the tracks of ill.—"

LXVII.

"Man even strives with Man, but we eschew

The guilty feud, and all fierce strifes abhor;

Nay, we are gentle as the sweet heaven's dew,

Beside the red and horrid drops of war,

Weeping the cruel hates men battle for,

Which worldly bosoms nourish in our spite:

For in the gentle breast we ne'er withdraw,

But only when all love hath taken flight,

And youth's warm gracious heart is hardened quite."

LXVIII.

"So are our gentle natures intertwined

With sweet humanities, and closely knit

In kindly sympathy with human kind.

Witness how we befriend, with elfin wit,

All hopeless maids and lovers,—nor omit

Magical succors unto hearts forlorn:—

We charm man's life, and do not perish it;—

So judge us by the helps we showed this morn,

To one who held his wretched days in scorn."

LXIX.

"'Twas nigh sweet Amwell;—for the Queen had task'd

Our skill to-day amidst the silver Lea,

Whereon the noontide sun had not yet bask'd,

Wherefore some patient man we thought to see,

Planted in moss-grown rushes to the knee,

Beside the cloudy margin cold and dim;—

Howbeit no patient fisherman was he

That cast his sudden shadow from the brim,

Making us leave our toils to gaze on him."

LXX.

"His face was ashy pale, and leaden care

Had sunk the levell'd arches of his brow,

Once bridges for his joyous thoughts to fare

Over those melancholy springs and slow,

That from his piteous eyes began to flow,

And fell anon into the chilly stream;

Which, as his mimick'd image show'd below,

Wrinkled his face with many a needless seam,

Making grief sadder in its own esteem."

LXXI.

"And lo! upon the air we saw him stretch

His passionate arms; and, in a wayward strain,

He 'gan to elegize that fellow wretch

That with mute gestures answer'd him again,

Saying, 'Poor slave, how long wilt thou remain

Life's sad weak captive in a prison strong,

Hoping with tears to rust away thy chain,

In bitter servitude to worldly wrong?—

Thou wear'st that mortal livery too long!'"

LXXII.

"This, with more spleenful speeches and some tears,

When he had spent upon the imaged wave,

Speedily I convened my elfin peers

Under the lily-cups, that we might save

This woeful mortal from a wilful grave

By shrewd diversions of his mind's regret,

Seeing he was mere Melancholy's slave,

That sank wherever a dark cloud he met,

And straight was tangled in her secret net."

LXXIII.

"Therefore, as still he watch'd the water's flow,

Daintily we transform'd, and with bright fins

Came glancing through the gloom; some from below

Rose like dim fancies when a dream begins,

Snatching the light upon their purple skins;

Then under the broad leaves made slow retire:

One like a golden galley bravely wins

Its radiant course,—another glows like fire,—

Making that wayward man our pranks admire."

LXXIV.

"And so he banish'd thought, and quite forgot

All contemplation of that wretched face;

And so we wiled him from that lonely spot

Along the river's brink; till, by heaven's grace,

He met a gentle haunter of the place,

Full of sweet wisdom gather'd from the brooks,

Who there discuss'd his melancholy case

With wholesome texts learned from kind nature's books,

Meanwhile he newly trimm'd his lines and hooks."

LXXV.

Herewith the Fairy ceased. Quoth Ariel now—

"Let me remember how I saved a man,

Whose fatal noose was fastened on a bough,

Intended to abridge his sad life's span;

For haply I was by when he began

His stern soliloquy in life dispraise,

And overheard his melancholy plan,

How he had made a vow to end his days,

And therefore follow'd him in all his ways."

LXXVI.

"Through brake and tangled copse, for much he loathed

All populous haunts, and roam'd in forests rude,

To hide himself from man. But I had clothed

My delicate limbs with plumes, and still pursued,

Where only foxes and wild cats intrude,

Till we were come beside an ancient tree

Late blasted by a storm. Here he renew'd

His loud complaints,—choosing that spot to be

The scene of his last horrid tragedy."

LXXVII.

"It was a wild and melancholy glen,

Made gloomy by tall firs and cypress dark,

Whose roots, like any bones of buried men,

Push'd through the rotten sod for fear's remark;

A hundred horrid stems, jagged and stark,

Wrestled with crooked arms in hideous fray,

Besides sleek ashes with their dappled bark,

Like crafty serpents climbing for a prey,

With many blasted oaks moss-grown and gray."

LXXVIII.

"But here upon his final desperate clause

Suddenly I pronounced so sweet a strain,

Like a pang'd nightingale, it made him pause,

Till half the frenzy of his grief was slain,

The sad remainder oozing from his brain

In timely ecstasies of healing tears,

Which through his ardent eyes began to drain;—

Meanwhile the deadly Fates unclosed their shears:—

So pity me and all my fated peers!"

LXXIX.

Thus Ariel ended, and was some time hush'd:

When with the hoary shape a fresh tongue pleads,

And red as rose the gentle Fairy blush'd

To read the records of her own good deeds:—

"It chanced," quoth she, "in seeking through the meads

For honied cowslips, sweetest in the morn,

Whilst yet the buds were hung with dewy beads."

And Echo answered to the huntsman's horn,

We found a babe left in the swaths forlorn.

LXXX.

"A little, sorrowful, deserted thing,

Begot of love, and yet no love begetting;

Guiltless of shame, and yet for shame to wring;

And too soon banish'd from a mother's petting,

To churlish nurture and the wide world's fretting,

For alien pity and unnatural care;—

Alas! to see how the cold dew kept wetting

His childish coats, and dabbled all his hair,

Like gossamers across his forehead fair."

LXXXI.

"His pretty pouting mouth, witless of speech,

Lay half-way open like a rose-lipp'd shell;

And his young cheek was softer than a peach,

Whereon his tears, for roundness, could not dwell,

But quickly roll'd themselves to pearls, and fell,

Some on the grass, and some against his hand,

Or haply wander'd to the dimpled well,

Which love beside his mouth had sweetly plann'd,

Yet not for tears, but mirth and smilings bland."

LXXXII.

"Pity it was to see those frequent tears

Falling regardless from his friendless eyes;

There was such beauty in those twin blue spheres,

As any mother's heart might leap to prize;

Blue were they, like the zenith of the skies

Softened betwixt two clouds, both clear and mild;—

Just touched with thought, and yet not over wise,

They show'd the gentle spirit of a child,

Not yet by care or any craft defiled."

LXXXIII.

"Pity it was to see the ardent sun

Scorching his helpless limbs—it shone so warm;

For kindly shade or shelter he had none,

Nor mother's gentle breast, come fair or storm.

Meanwhile I bade my pitying mates transform

Like grasshoppers, and then, with shrilly cries,

All round the infant noisily we swarm,

Haply some passing rustic to advise—

Whilst providential Heaven our care espies."

LXXXIV.

"And sends full soon a tender-hearted hind,

Who, wond'ring at our loud unusual note,

Strays curiously aside, and so doth find

The orphan child laid in the grass remote,

And laps the foundling in his russet coat,

Who thence was nurtured in his kindly cot:—

But how he prosper'd let proud London quote,

How wise, how rich, and how renown'd he got,

And chief of all her citizens, I wot."

LXXXV.

"Witness his goodly vessels on the Thames,

Whose holds were fraught with costly merchandise,—

Jewels from Ind, and pearls for courtly dames,

And gorgeous silks that Samarcand supplies:

Witness that Royal Bourse he bade arise,

The mart of merchants from the East and West:

Whose slender summit, pointing to the skies,

Still bears, in token of his grateful breast,

The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest—"

LXXXVI.

"The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest,

That all the summer, with a tuneful wing,

Makes merry chirpings in its grassy nest,

Inspirited with dew to leap and sing:—

So let us also live, eternal King!

Partakers of the green and pleasant earth:—

Pity it is to slay the meanest thing,

That, like a mote, shines in the smile of mirth:—

Enough there is of joy's decrease and dearth!"

LXXXVII.

"Enough of pleasure, and delight, and beauty,

Perish'd and gone, and hasting to decay;—

Enough to sadden even thee, whose duty

Or spite it is to havoc and to slay:

Too many a lovely race razed quite away,

Hath left large gaps in life and human loving;—

Here then begin thy cruel war to stay,

And spare fresh sighs, and tears, and groans, reproving

Thy desolating hand for our removing."

LXXXVIII.

Now here I heard a shrill and sudden cry,

And, looking up, I saw the antic Puck

Grappling with Time, who clutch'd him like a fly,

Victim of his own sport,—the jester's luck!

He, whilst his fellows grieved, poor wight, had stuck

His freakish gauds upon the Ancient's brow,

And now his ear, and now his beard, would pluck;

Whereas the angry churl had snatched him now,

Crying, "Thou impish mischief, who art thou?"

LXXXIX.

"Alas!" quoth Puck, "a little random elf,

Born in the sport of nature, like a weed,

For simple sweet enjoyment of myself,

But for no other purpose, worth, or need;

And yet withal of a most happy breed;

And there is Robin Goodfellow besides,

My partner dear in many a prankish deed

To make dame Laughter hold her jolly sides,

Like merry mummers twain on holy tides."

XC.

"'Tis we that bob the angler's idle cork,

Till e'en the patient man breathes half a curse;

We steal the morsel from the gossip's fork,

And curdling looks with secret straws disperse,

Or stop the sneezing chanter at mid verse:

And when an infant's beauty prospers ill,

We change, some mothers say, the child at nurse:

But any graver purpose to fulfil,

We have not wit enough, and scarce the will."

XCI.

"We never let the canker melancholy

To gather on our faces like a rust,

But glass our features with some change of folly,

Taking life's fabled miseries on trust,

But only sorrowing when sorrow must:

We ruminate no sage's solemn cud,

But own ourselves a pinch of lively dust

To frisk upon a wind,—whereas the flood

Of tears would turn us into heavy mud."

XCII.

"Beshrew those sad interpreters of nature,

Who gloze her lively universal law,

As if she had not form'd our cheerful feature

To be so tickled with the slightest straw!

So let them vex their mumbling mouths, and draw

The corners downward, like a wat'ry moon,

And deal in gusty sighs and rainy flaw—

We will not woo foul weather all too soon,

Or nurse November on the lap of June."

XCIII.

"For ours are winging sprites, like any bird,

That shun all stagnant settlements of grief;

And even in our rest our hearts are stirr'd,

Like insects settled on a dancing leaf:—

This is our small philosophy in brief,

Which thus to teach hath set me all agape:

But dost thou relish it? O hoary chief!

Unclasp thy crooked fingers from my nape,

And I will show thee many a pleasant scrape."

XCIV.

Then Saturn thus:—shaking his crooked blade

O'erhead, which made aloft a lightning flash

In all the fairies' eyes, dismally fray'd!

His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash—

Meanwhile the bolt shatters some pine or ash—

"Thou feeble, wanton, foolish, fickle thing!

Whom nought can frighten, sadden, or abash,—

To hope my solemn countenance to wring

To idiot smiles!—but I will prune thy wing!"

XCV.

"Lo! this most awful handle of my scythe

Stood once a May-pole, with a flowery crown,

Which rustics danced around, and maidens blithe,

To wanton pipings;—but I pluck'd it down,

And robed the May Queen in a churchyard gown,

Turning her buds to rosemary and rue;

And all their merry minstrelsy did drown,

And laid each lusty leaper in the dew;—

So thou shalt fare—and every jovial crew!"

XCVI.

Here he lets go the struggling imp, to clutch.

His mortal engine with each grisly hand,

Which frights the elfin progeny so much,

They huddle in a heap, and trembling stand

All round Titania, like the queen bee's band,

With sighs and tears and very shrieks of woe!—

Meanwhile, some moving argument I plann'd,

To make the stern Shade merciful,—when lo!

He drops his fatal scythe without a blow!

XCVII.

For, just at need, a timely Apparition

Steps in between, to bear the awful brunt;

Making him change his horrible position,

To marvel at this comer, brave and blunt,

That dares Time's irresistible affront,

Whose strokes have scarr'd even the gods of old;—

Whereas this seem'd a mortal, at mere hunt

For coneys, lighted by the moonshine cold,

Or stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold.

XCVIII.

Who, turning to the small assembled fays,

Doffs to the lily queen his courteous cap,

And holds her beauty for a while in gaze,

With bright eyes kindling at this pleasant hap;

And thence upon the fair moon's silver map,

As if in question of this magic chance,

Laid like a dream upon the green earth's lap;

And then upon old Saturn turns askance,

Exclaiming, with a glad and kindly glance:—

XCIX.

"Oh, these be Fancy's revelers by night!

Stealthy companions of the downy moth—

Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light,

Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth;—

These be the feasters on night's silver cloth;—

The gnat with shrilly trump is their convener,

Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth,

With lulling tunes to charm the air serener,

Or dance upon the grass to make it greener."

C.

"These be the pretty genii of the flow'rs,

Daintily fed with honey and pure dew—

Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours,

King Oberon, and all his merry crew,

The darling puppets of romance's view;

Fairies, and sprites, and goblin elves we call them,

Famous for patronage of lovers true;—

No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them,

So do not thus with crabbed frowns appal them."

CI.

O what a cry was Saturn's then!—it made

The fairies quake. "What care I for their pranks,

However they may lovers choose to aid,

Or dance their roundelays on flow'ry banks?—

Long must they dance before they earn my thanks,—

So step aside, to some far safer spot,

Whilst with my hungry scythe I mow their ranks,

And leave them in the sun, like weeds, to rot,

And with the next day's sun to be forgot."

CII.

Anon, he raised afresh his weapon keen;

But still the gracious Shade disarm'd his aim,

Stepping with brave alacrity between,

And made his sore arm powerless and tame.

His be perpetual glory, for the shame

Of hoary Saturn in that grand defeat!—

But I must tell how here Titania, came

With all her kneeling lieges, to entreat

His kindly succor, in sad tones, but sweet.

CIII.

Saying, "Thou seest a wretched queen before thee,

The fading power of a failing land,

Who for a kingdom kneeleth to implore thee,

Now menaced by this tyrant's spoiling hand;

No one but thee can hopefully withstand

That crooked blade, he longeth so to lift.

I pray thee blind him with his own vile sand,

Which only times all ruins by its drift,

Or prune his eagle wings that are so swift."

CIV.

"Or take him by that sole and grizzled tuft,

That hangs upon his bald and barren crown;

And we will sing to see him so rebuff'd,

And lend our little mights to pull him down,

And make brave sport of his malicious frown,

For all his boastful mockery o'er men.

For thou wast born, I know, for this renown,

By my most magical and inward ken,

That readeth ev'n at Fate's forestalling pen."

CV.

"Nay, by the golden lustre of thine eye,

And by thy brow's most fair and ample span,

Thought's glorious palace, framed for fancies high,

And by thy cheek thus passionately wan,

I know the signs of an immortal man,—

Nature's chief darling, and illustrious mate,

Destined to foil old Death's oblivious plan,

And shine untarnish'd by the fogs of Fate,

Time's famous rival till the final date!"

CVI.

"O shield us then from this usurping Time,

And we will visit thee in moonlight dreams;

And teach thee tunes, to wed unto thy rhyme,

And dance about thee in all midnight gleams,

Giving thee glimpses of our magic schemes,

Such as no mortal's eye hath ever seen;

And, for thy love to us in our extremes,

Will ever keep thy chaplet fresh and green,

Such as no poet's wreath hath ever been!"

CVII.

"And we'll distil thee aromatic dews,

To charm thy sense, when there shall be no flow'rs;

And flavor'd syrups in thy drinks infuse,

And teach the nightingale to haunt thy bow'rs,

And with our games divert thy weariest hours,

With all that elfin wits can e'er devise.

And, this churl dead, there'll be no hasting hours

To rob thee of thy joys, as now joy flies":—

Here she was stopp'd by Saturn's furious cries.

CVIII.

Whom, therefore, the kind Shade rebukes anew,

Saying, "Thou haggard Sin, go forth, and scoop

Thy hollow coffin in some churchyard yew,

Or make th' autumnal flow'rs turn pale, and droop;

Or fell the bearded corn, till gleaners stoop

Under fat sheaves,—or blast the piny grove;—

But here thou shall not harm this pretty group,

Whose lives are not so frail and feebly wove,

But leased on Nature's loveliness and love."

CIX.

"'Tis these that free the small entangled fly,

Caught in the venom'd spider's crafty snare;—

These be the petty surgeons that apply

The healing balsams to the wounded hare,

Bedded in bloody fern, no creature's care!—

These be providers for the orphan brood,

Whose tender mother hath been slain in air,

Quitting with gaping bill her darling's food,

Hard by the verge of her domestic wood."

CX.

"'Tis these befriend the timid trembling stag,

When, with a bursting heart beset with fears,

He feels his saving speed begin to flag;

For then they quench the fatal taint with tears,

And prompt fresh shifts in his alarum'd ears,

So piteously they view all bloody morts;

Or if the gunner, with his arms, appears,

Like noisy pyes and jays, with harsh reports,

They warn the wild fowl of his deadly sports."

CXI.

"For these are kindly ministers of nature,

To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress;

Pretty they be, and very small of stature,—

For mercy still consorts with littleness;—

Wherefore the sum of good is still the less,

And mischief grossest in this world of wrong;—

So do these charitable dwarfs redress

The tenfold ravages of giants strong,

To whom great malice and great might belong."

CXII.

"Likewise to them are Poets much beholden

For secret favors in the midnight glooms;

Brave Spenser quaff'd out of their goblets golden,

And saw their tables spread of prompt mushrooms,

And heard their horns of honeysuckle blooms

Sounding upon the air most soothing soft,

Like humming bees busy about the brooms,—

And glanced this fair queen's witchery full oft,

And in her magic wain soar'd far aloft."

CXIII.

"Nay I myself, though mortal, once was nursed

By fairy gossips, friendly at my birth,

And in my childish ear glib Mab rehearsed

Her breezy travels round our planet's girth,

Telling me wonders of the moon and earth;

My gramarye at her grave lap I conn'd,

Where Puck hath been convened to make me mirth;

I have had from Queen Titania tokens fond,

And toy'd with Oberon's permitted wand."

CXIV.

"With figs and plums and Persian dates they fed me,

And delicate cates after my sunset meal,

And took me by my childish hand, and led me

By craggy rocks crested with keeps of steel,

Whose awful bases deep dark woods conceal,

Staining some dead lake with their verdant dyes.

And when the West sparkled at Phoebus' wheel,

With fairy euphrasy they purged mine eyes,

To let me see their cities in the skies."

CXV.

"'Twas they first school'd my young imagination

To take its flights like any new-fledged bird,

And show'd the span of winged meditation

Stretch'd wider than things grossly seen or heard.

With sweet swift Ariel how I soar'd and stirr'd

The fragrant blooms of spiritual bow'rs!

'Twas they endear'd what I have still preferr'd,

Nature's blest attributes and balmy pow'rs,

Her hills and vales and brooks, sweet birds and flow'rs."

CXVI.

"Wherefore with all true loyalty and duty

Will I regard them in my honoring rhyme,

With love for love, and homages to beauty,

And magic thoughts gather'd in night's cool clime,

With studious verse trancing the dragon Time,

Strong as old Merlin's necromantic spells;

So these dear monarchs of the summer's prime

Shall live unstartled by his dreadful yells,

Till shrill larks warn them to their flowery cells."

CXVII.

Look how a poison'd man turns livid black,

Drugg'd with a cup of deadly hellebore,

That sets his horrid features all at rack,—

So seem'd these words into the ear to pour

Of ghastly Saturn, answering with a roar

Of mortal pain and spite and utmost rage,

Wherewith his grisly arm he raised once more,

And bade the cluster'd sinews all engage,

As if at one fell stroke to wreck an age.

CXVIII.

Whereas the blade flash'd on the dinted ground,

Down through his steadfast foe, yet made no scar

On that immortal Shade, or death-like wound;

But Time was long benumb'd, and stood ajar,

And then with baffled rage took flight afar,

To weep his hurt in some Cimmerian gloom,

Or meaner fames (like mine) to mock and mar,

Or sharp his scythe for royal strokes of doom,

Whetting its edge on some old Cæsar's tomb.

CXIX.

Howbeit he vanish'd in the forest shade,

Distantly heard as if some grumbling pard,

And, like Nymph Echo, to a sound decay'd;—

Meanwhile the fays cluster'd the gracious Bard,

The darling centre of their dear regard:

Besides of sundry dances on the green,

Never was mortal man so brightly starr'd,

Or won such pretty homages, I ween.

"Nod to him, Elves!" cries the melodious queen.

CXX.

"Nod to him, Elves, and flutter round about him,

And quite enclose him with your pretty crowd,

And touch him lovingly, for that, without him,

The silkworm now had spun our dreary shroud;—

But he hath all dispersed Death's tearful cloud,

And Time's dread effigy scared quite away:

Bow to him then, as though to me ye bow'd,

And his dear wishes prosper and obey

Wherever love and wit can find a way!"

CXXI.

"'Noint him with fairy dews of magic savors,

Shaken from orient buds still pearly wet,

Roses and spicy pinks,—and, of all favors,

Plant in his walks the purple violet,

And meadow-sweet under the hedges set,

To mingle breaths with dainty eglantine

And honeysuckles sweet,—nor yet forget

Some pastoral flowery chaplets to entwine,

To vie the thoughts about his brow benign!"

CXXII.

"Let no wild things astonish him or fear him,

But tell them all how mild he is of heart,

Till e'en the timid hares go frankly near him,

And eke the dappled does, yet never start;

Nor shall their fawns into the thickets dart,

Nor wrens forsake their nests among the leaves,

Nor speckled thrushes flutter far apart;—

But bid the sacred swallow haunt his eaves,

To guard his roof from lightning and from thieves."

CXXIII.

"Or when he goes the nimble squirrel's visitor,

Let the brown hermit bring his hoarded nuts,

For, tell him, this is Nature's kind Inquisitor,—

Though man keeps cautious doors that conscience shuts,

For conscious wrong all curious quest rebuts,—

Nor yet shall bees uncase their jealous stings,

However he may watch their straw-built huts;—

So let him learn the crafts of all small things,

Which he will hint most aptly when he sings."

CXXIV.

Here she leaves off, and with a graceful hand

Waves thrice three splendid circles round his head;

Which, though deserted by the radiant wand,

Wears still the glory which her waving shed,

Such as erst crown'd the old Apostle's head,

To show the thoughts there harbor'd were divine,

And on immortal contemplations fed:—

Goodly it was to see that glory shine

Around a brow so lofty and benign!—

CXXV.

Goodly it was to see the elfin brood

Contend for kisses of his gentle hand,

That had their mortal enemy withstood,

And stay'd their lives, fast ebbing with the sand.

Long while this strife engaged the pretty band;

But now bold Chanticleer, from farm to farm,

Challenged the dawn creeping o'er eastern land,

And well the fairies knew that shrill alarm,

Which sounds the knell of every elfish charm.

CXXVI.

And soon the rolling mist, that 'gan arise

From plashy mead and undiscover'd stream,

Earth's morning incense to the early skies,

Crept o'er the failing landscape of my dream.

Soon faded then the Phantom of my theme—

A shapeless shade, that fancy disavowed,

And shrank to nothing in the mist extreme,

Then flew Titania,—and her little crowd,

Like flocking linnets, vanished in a cloud.

[HERO AND LEANDER.]

TO S. T. COLERIDGE.

It is not with a hope my feeble praise

Can add one moment's honor to thy own,

That with thy mighty name I grace these lays;

I seek to glorify myself alone:

For that some precious favor thou hast shown

To my endeavor in a bygone time,

And by this token I would have it known

Thou art my friend, and friendly to my rhyme!

It is my dear ambition now to climb

Still higher in thy thought,—if my bold pen

May thrust on contemplations more sublime.—

But I am thirsty for thy praise, for when

We gain applauses from the great in name,

We seem to be partakers of their fame.

I.

Oh Bards of old! What sorrows have ye sung,

And tragic stories, chronicled in stone,—

Sad Philomel restored her ravish'd tongue,

And transform'd Niobe in dumbness shown;

Sweet Sappho on her love forever calls,

And Hero on the drown'd Leander falls!

II.

Was it that spectacles of sadder plights

Should make our blisses relish the more high?

Then all fair dames, and maidens, and true knights,

Whose flourish'd fortunes prosper in Love's eye,

Weep here, unto a tale of ancient grief,

Traced from the course of an old bas-relief.

III.

There stands Abydos!—here is Sestos' steep,

Hard by the gusty margin of the sea,

Where sprinkling waves continually do leap;

And that is where those famous lovers be,

A builded gloom shot up into the gray,

As if the first tall watch-tow'r of the day.

IV.

Lo! how the lark soars upward and is gone;

Turning a spirit as he nears the sky,

His voice is heard, though body there is none,

And rain-like music scatters from on high;

But Love would follow with a falcon spite,

To pluck the minstrel from his dewy height.

V.

For Love hath framed a ditty of regrets,

Tuned to the hollow sobbings on the shore,

A vexing sense, that with like music frets,

And chimes this dismal burthen o'er and o'er,

Saying, Leander's joys are past and spent,

Like stars extinguish'd in the firmament.

VI.

For ere the golden crevices of morn

Let in those regal luxuries of light,

Which all the variable east adorn,

And hang rich fringes on the skirts of night,

Leander, weaning from sweet Hero's side,

Must leave a widow where he found a bride.

VII.

Hark! how the billows beat upon the sand!

Like pawing steeds impatient of delay;

Meanwhile their rider, ling'ring on the land,

Dallies with love, and holds farewell at bay

A too short span.—How tedious slow is grief!

But parting renders time both sad and brief.

VIII.

"Alas!" (he sigh'd), "that this first glimpsing light,

Which makes the wide world tenderly appear,

Should be the burning signal for my flight

From all the world's best image, which is here;

Whose very shadow, in my fond compare,

Shines far more bright than Beauty's self elsewhere."

IX.

Their cheeks are white as blossoms of the dark,

Whose leaves close up and show the outward pale,

And those fair mirrors where their joys did spark,

All dim and tarnish'd with a dreary veil,

No more to kindle till the night's return,

Like stars replenish'd at Joy's golden urn.

X.

Ev'n thus they creep into the spectral gray,

That cramps the landscape in its narrow brim,

As when two shadows by old Lethe stray,

He clasping her, and she entwining him;

Like trees, wind-parted, that embrace anon,—

True love so often goes before 'tis gone.

XI.

For what rich merchant but will pause in fear,

To trust his wealth to the unsafe abyss?

So Hero dotes upon her treasure here,

And sums the loss with many an anxious kiss,

Whilst her fond eyes grow dizzy in her head,

Fear aggravating fear with shows of dread.

XII.

She thinks how many have been sunk and drown'd,

And spies their snow-white bones below the deep,

Then calls huge congregated monsters round,

And plants a rock wherever he would leap;

Anon she dwells on a fantastic dream,

Which she interprets of that fatal stream.

XIII.

Saying, "That honied fly I saw was thee,

Which lighted on a water-lily's cup,

When, lo! the flower, enamor'd of my bee,

Closed on him suddenly and lock'd him up,

And he was smother'd in her drenching dew;

Therefore this day thy drowning I shall rue."

XIV.

But next, remembering her virgin fame,

She clips him in her arms and bids him go,

But seeing him break loose, repents her shame,

And plucks him back upon her bosom's snow;

And tears unfix her iced resolve again,

As steadfast frosts are thaw'd by show'rs of rain.

XV.

O for a type of parting!—Love to love

Is like the fond attraction of two spheres,

Which needs a godlike effort to remove,

And then sink down their sunny atmospheres,

In rain and darkness on each ruin'd heart,

Nor yet their melodies will sound apart.

XVI.

So brave Leander sunders from his bride;

The wrenching pang disparts his soul in twain;

Half stays with her, half goes towards the tide,—

And life must ache, until they join again.

Now wouldst thou know the wideness of the wound?—

Mete every step he takes upon the ground.

XVII.

And for the agony and bosom-throe,

Let it be measured by the wide vast air,

For that is infinite, and so is woe,

Since parted lovers breathe it everywhere.

Look how it heaves Leander's laboring chest,

Panting, at poise, upon a rocky crest!

XVIII.

From which he leaps into the scooping brine,

That shocks his bosom with a double chill;

Because, all hours, till the slow sun's decline,

That cold divorcer will be 'twixt them still;

Wherefore he likens it to Styx' foul tide,

Where life grows death upon the other side.

XIX.

Then sadly he confronts his twofold toil

Against rude waves and an unwilling mind,

Wishing, alas! with the stout rower's toil,

That like a rower he might gaze behind,

And watch that lonely statue he hath left,

On her bleak summit, weeping and bereft!

XX.

Yet turning oft, he sees her troubled locks

Pursue him still the furthest that they may;

Her marble arms that overstretch the rocks,

And her pale passion'd hands that seem to pray

In dumb petition to the gods above:

Love prays devoutly when it prays for love!

XXI.

Then with deep sighs he blows away the wave,

That hangs superfluous tears upon his cheek,

And bans his labor like a hopeless slave,

That, chain'd in hostile galley, faint and weak,

Plies on despairing through the restless foam,

Thoughtful of his lost love, and far-off home.

XXII.

The drowsy mist before him chill and dank,

Like a dull lethargy o'erleans the sea,

When he rows on against the utter blank,

Steering as if to dim eternity,—

Like Love's frail ghost departing with the dawn;

A failing shadow in the twilight drawn.

XXIII.

And soon is gone,—or nothing but a faint

And failing image in the eye of thought,

That mocks his model with an after-paint,

And stains an atom like the shape she sought;

Then with her earnest vows she hopes to fee

The old and hoary majesty of sea.

XXIV.

"O King of waves, and brother of high Jove,

Preserve my sumless venture there afloat;

A woman's heart, and its whole wealth of love,

Are all embark'd upon that little boat;

Nay!—but two loves, two lives, a double fate,—

A perilous voyage for so dear a freight."

XXV.

"If impious mariners be stain'd with crime,

Shake not in awful rage thy hoary locks;

Lay by thy storms until another time,

Lest my frail bark be dash'd against the rocks:

O rather smooth thy deeps, that he may fly

Like Love himself, upon a seeming sky!"

XXVI.

"Let all thy herded monsters sleep beneath,

Nor gore him with crook'd tusks, or wreathëd horns;

Let no fierce sharks destroy him with their teeth,

Nor spine-fish wound him with their venom'd thorns;

But if he faint, and timely succor lack,

Let ruthful dolphins rest him on their back."

XXVII.

"Let no false dimpling whirlpools suck him in,

Nor slimy quicksands smother his sweet breath;

Let no jagg'd corals tear his tender skin,

Nor mountain billows bury him in death";—

And with that thought forestalling her own fears,

She drowned his painted image in her tears.

XXVIII.

By this, the climbing Sun, with rest repair'd,

Look'd through the gold embrasures of the sky,

And ask'd the drowsy world how she had fared;—

The drowsy world shone brighten'd in reply;

And smiling off her fogs, his slanting beam

Spied young Leander in the middle stream.

XXXI.

His face was pallid, but the hectic morn

Had hung a lying crimson on his cheeks,

And slanderous sparkles in his eyes forlorn;

So death lies ambush'd in consumptive streaks;

But inward grief was writhing o'er its task,

As heart-sick jesters weep behind the mask.

XXX.

He thought of Hero and the lost delight,

Her last embracings, and the space between;

He thought of Hero and the future night,

Her speechless rapture and enamor'd mien,

When, lo! before him, scarce two galleys' space,

His thoughts confronted with another face!

XXXI.

Her aspect's like a moon, divinely fair,

But makes the midnight darker that it lies on;

'Tis so beclouded with her coal-black hair

That densely skirts her luminous horizon,

Making her doubly fair, thus darkly set,

As marble lies advantaged upon jet.

XXXII.

She's all too bright, too argent, and too pale,

To be a woman;—but a woman's double,

Reflected, on the wave so faint and frail,

She tops the billows like an air-blown bubble;

Or dim creation of a morning dream,

Fair as the wave-bleached lily of the stream.

XXXIII.

The very rumor strikes his seeing dead:

Great beauty like great fear first stuns the sense:

He knows not if her lips be blue or red,

Nor of her eyes can give true evidence:

Like murder's witness swooning in the court,

His sight falls senseless by its own report.

XXXIV.

Anon resuming, it declares her eyes

Are tint with azure, like two crystal wells

That drink the blue complexion of the skies,

Or pearls outpeeping from their silvery shells:

Her polish'd brow, it is an ample plain,

To lodge vast contemplations of the main.

XXXV.

Her lips might corals seem, but corals near

Stray through her hair like blossoms on a bower;

And o'er the weaker red still domineer,

And make it pale by tribute to more power;

Her rounded cheeks are of still paler hue,

Touch'd by the bloom of water, tender blue.

XXXVI.

Thus he beholds her rocking on the water,

Under the glossy umbrage of her hair,

Like pearly Amphitrite's fairest daughter,

Naiad, or Nereid,—or Syren fair,

Mislodging music in her pitiless breast,

A nightingale within a falcon's nest.

XXXVII.

They say there be such maidens in the deep,

Charming poor mariners, that all too near

By mortal lullabies fall dead asleep,

As drowsy men are poison'd through the ear;

Therefore Leander's fears begin to urge,

This snowy swan is come to sing his dirge.

XXXVIII.

At which he falls into a deadly chill,

And strains his eyes upon her lips apart;

Fearing each breath to feel that prelude shrill,

Pierce through his marrow, like a breath-blown dart

Shot sudden from an Indian's hollow cane,

With mortal venom fraught, and fiery pain.

XXXIX.

Here then, poor wretch, how he begins to crowd

A thousand thoughts within a pulse's space;

There seem'd so brief a pause of life allow'd,

His mind stretch'd universal, to embrace

The whole wide world, in an extreme farewell,—

A moment's musing—but an age to tell.

XL.

For there stood Hero, widow'd at a glance,

The foreseen sum of many a tedious fact,

Pale cheeks, dim eyes, and wither'd countenance,

A wasted ruin that no wasting lack'd;

Time's tragic consequents ere time began,

A world of sorrow in a tear-drop's span.

XLI.

A moment's thinking is an hour in words,—

An hour of words is little for some woes;

Too little breathing a long life affords

For love to paint itself by perfect shows;

Then let his love and grief unwrong'd lie dumb,

Whilst Fear, and that it fears, together come.

XLII.

As when the crew, hard by some jutty cape,

Struck pale and panick'd by the billow's roar,

Lay by all timely measures of escape,

And let their bark go driving on the shore;

So fray'd Leander, drifting to his wreck,

Gazing on Scylla, falls upon her neck.

XLIII.

For he hath all forgot the swimmer's art,

The rower's cunning, and the pilot's skill,

Letting his arms fall down in languid part,

Sway'd by the waves, and nothing by his will,

Till soon he jars against that glossy skin,

Solid like glass, though seemingly as thin.

XLIV.

Lo! how she startles at the warning shock,

And straightway girds him to her radiant breast,

More like his safe smooth harbor than his rock;

Poor wretch, he is so faint and toil-opprest,

He cannot loose him from his grappling foe,

Whether for love or hate, she lets not go.

XLV.

His eyes are blinded with the sleety brine,

His ears are deafen'd with the wildering noise;

He asks the purpose of her fell design,

But foamy waves choke up his struggling voice;

Under the ponderous sea his body dips,

And Hero's name dies bubbling on his lips.

XLVI.

Look how a man is lower'd to his grave,—

A yearning hollow in the green earth's lap;

So he is sunk into the yawning wave,—

The plunging sea fills up the watery gap;

Anon he is all gone, and nothing seen

But likeness of green turf and hillocks green.

XLVII.

And where he swam, the constant sun lies sleeping,

Over the verdant plain that makes his bed;

And all the noisy waves go freshly leaping.

Like gamesome boys over the churchyard dead;

The light in vain keeps looking for his face:—

Now screaming sea-fowl settle in his place.

XLVIII.

Yet weep and watch for him, though all in vain!

Ye moaning billows, seek him as ye wander!

Ye gazing sunbeams, look for him again!

Ye winds, grow hoarse with asking for Leander!

Ye did but spare him for more cruel rape,

Sea-storm and ruin in a female shape!

XLIX.

She says 'tis love hath bribed her to this deed,

The glancing of his eyes did so bewitch her.

O bootless theft! unprofitable meed!

Love's treasury is sack'd, but she no richer;

The sparkles of his eyes are cold and dead,

And all his golden looks are turn'd to lead!

L.

She holds the casket, but her simple hand

Hath spill'd its dearest jewel by the way;

She hath life's empty garment at command,

But her own death lies covert in the prey;

As if a thief should steal a tainted vest,

Some dead man's spoil, and sicken of his pest.

LI.

Now she compels him to her deeps below,

Hiding his face beneath her plenteous hair,

Which jealously she shakes all round her brow,

For dread of envy, though no eyes are there

But seals', and all brute tenants of the deep,

Which heedless through the wave their journeys keep.

LII.

Down and still downward through the dusky green

She bore him, murmuring with joyous haste

In too rash ignorance, as he had been

Born to the texture of that watery waste;

That which she breathed and sigh'd, the emerald wave,

How could her pleasant home become his grave!

LIII.

Down and still downward through the dusky green

She bore her treasure, with a face too nigh

To mark how life was alter'd in its mien,

Or how the light grew torpid in his eye,

Or how his pearly breath, unprison'd there,

Flew up to join the universal air.

LIV.

She could not miss the throbbings of his heart,

Whilst her own pulse so wanton'd in its joy;

She could not guess he struggled to depart,

And when he strove no more, the hapless boy!

She read his mortal stillness for content,

Feeling no fear where only love was meant.

LV.

Soon she alights upon her ocean-floor,

And straight unyokes her arms from her fair prize;

Then on his lovely face begins to pore,

As if to glut her soul;—her hungry eyes

Have grown so jealous of her arms' delight;

It seems she hath no other sense but sight.

LVI.

But O sad marvel! O most bitter strange!

What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale?

Why will he not embrace,—why not exchange

Her kindly kisses;—wherefore not exhale

Some odorous message from life's ruby gates,

Where she his first sweet embassy awaits?

LVII.

Her eyes, poor watchers, fix'd upon his looks,

Are grappled with a wonder near to grief,

As one, who pores on undecipher'd books,

Strains vain surmise, and dodges with belief;

So she keeps gazing with a mazy thought,

Framing a thousand doubts that end in nought.

LVIII.

Too stern inscription for a page so young,

The dark translation of his look was death!

But death was written in an alien tongue,

And learning was not by to give it breath;

So one deep woe sleeps buried in its seal,

Which Time, untimely, hasteth to reveal.

LIX.

Meanwhile she sits unconscious of her hap,

Nursing Death's marble effigy, which there

With heavy head lies pillow'd in her lap,

And elbows all unhinged;—his sleeking hair

Creeps o'er her knees, and settles where his hand

Leans with lax fingers crook'd against the sand;

LX.

And there lies spread in many an oozy trail,

Like glossy weeds hung from a chalky base,

That shows no whiter than his brow is pale;

So soon the wintry death had bleach'd his face

Into cold marble,—with blue chilly shades,

Showing wherein the freezy blood pervades.

LXI.

And o'er his steadfast cheek a furrow'd pain

Hath set, and stiffened like a storm in ice,

Showing by drooping lines the deadly strain

Of mortal anguish;—yet you might gaze twice

Ere Death it seem'd, and not his cousin, Sleep,

That through those creviced lids did underpeep.

LXII.

But all that tender bloom about his eyes,

Is Death's own violets, which his utmost rite

It is to scatter when the red rose dies;

For blue is chilly, and akin to white:

Also he leaves some tinges on his lips,

Which he hath kiss'd with such cold frosty nips.

LXIII.

"Surely," quoth she, "he sleeps, the senseless thing,

Oppress'd and faint with toiling in the stream!"

Therefore she will not mar his rest, but sing

So low, her tune shall mingle with his dream;

Meanwhile, her lily fingers task to twine

His uncrispt locks uncurling in the brine.

LXIV.

"O lovely boy!"—thus she attuned her voice,—

"Welcome, thrice welcome, to a sea-maid's home,

My love-mate thou shalt be, and true heart's choice;

How have I long'd such a twin-self should come,—

A lonely thing, till this sweet chance befell,

My heart kept sighing like a hollow shell."

LXV.

"Here thou shalt live, beneath this secret dome,

An ocean-bow'r, defended by the shade

Of quiet waters, a cool emerald gloom

To lap thee all about. Nay, be not fray'd,

Those are but shady fishes that sail by

Like antic clouds across my liquid sky!"

LXVI.

"Look how the sunbeam burns upon their scales,

And shows rich glimpses of their Tyrian skins;

They flash small lightnings from their vigorous tails,

And winking stars are kindled at their fins;

These shall divert thee in thy weariest mood,

And seek thy hand for gamesomeness and food."

LXVII.

"Lo! those green pretty leaves with tassel bells,

My flow'rets those, that never pine for drouth;

Myself did plant them in the dappled shells,

That drink the wave with such a rosy mouth,—

Pearls wouldst thou have beside? crystals to shine?

I had such treasures once,—now they are thine."

LXVIII.

"Now, lay thine ear against this golden sand,

And thou shalt hear the music of the sea,

Those hollow tunes it plays against the land,—

Is't not a rich and wondrous melody?

I have lain hours, and fancied in its tone

I heard the languages of ages gone!"

LXIX.

"I too can sing when it shall please thy choice,

And breathe soft tunes through a melodious shell,

Though heretofore I have but set my voice

To some long sighs, grief-harmonized, to tell

How desolate I fared;—but this sweet change

Will add new notes of gladness to my range!"

LXX.

"Or bid me speak, and I will tell thee tales,

Which I have framed out of the noise of waves;

Ere now I have communed with senseless gales,

And held vain colloquies with barren caves;

But I could talk to thee whole days and days,

Only to word my love a thousand ways."

LXXI.

"But if thy lips will bless me with their speech,

Then ope, sweet oracles! and I'll be mute;

I was born ignorant for thee to teach,

Nay all love's lore to thy dear looks impute;

Then ope thine eyes, fair teachers, by whose light

I saw to give away my heart aright!"

LXXII.

But cold and deaf the sullen creature lies

Over her knees, and with concealing clay,

Like hoarding Avarice, locks up his eyes,

And leaves her world impoverish'd of day;

Then at his cruel lips she bends to plead,

But there the door is closed against her need.

LXXIII.

Surely he sleeps,—so her false wits infer!

Alas! poor sluggard, ne'er to wake again!

Surely he sleeps, yet without any stir

That might denote a vision in his brain;

Or if he does not sleep, he feigns too long,

Twice she hath reach'd the ending of her song.

LXXIV.

Therefore 'tis time she tells him to uncover

Those radiant jesters, and disperse her fears,

Whereby her April face is shaded over,

Like rainy clouds just ripe for showering tears;

Nay, if he will not wake, so poor she gets,

Herself must open those lock'd-up cabinets.

LXXV.

With that she stoops above his brow, and bids

Her busy hands forsake his tangled hair,

And tenderly lift up those coffer-lids,

That she may gaze upon the jewels there,

Like babes that pluck an early bud apart,

To know the dainty color of its heart.

LXXVI.

Now, picture one, soft creeping to a bed,

Who slowly parts the fringe-hung canopies,

And then starts back to find the sleeper dead;

So she looks in on his uncover'd eyes,

And seeing all within so drear and dark,

Her own bright soul dies in her like a spark.

LXXVII.

Backward she falls, like a pale prophetess,

Under the swoon of holy divination:

And what had all surpass'd her simple guess,

She now resolves in this dark revelation;

Death's very mystery,—oblivious death;—

Long sleep,—deep night, and an entranced breath.

LXXVIII.

Yet life, though wounded sore, not wholly slain,

Merely obscured, and not extinguish'd, lies;

Her breath that stood at ebb, soon flows again,

Heaving her hollow breast with heavy sighs,

And light comes in and kindles up the gloom,

To light her spirit from its transient tomb.

LXXIX.

Then like the sun, awaken'd at new dawn,

With pale bewilder'd face she peers about,

And spies blurr'd images obscurely drawn,

Uncertain shadows in a haze of doubt;

But her true grief grows shapely by degrees,—

A perish'd creature lying on her knees.

LXXX.

And now she knows how that old Murther preys,

Whose quarry on her lap lies newly slain:

How he roams all abroad and grimly slays,

Like a lean tiger in Love's own domain;

Parting fond mates,—and oft in flowery lawns

Bereaves mild mothers of their milky fawns.

LXXXI.

O too dear knowledge! O pernicious earning!

Foul curse engraven upon beauty's page!

Ev'n now the sorrow of that deadly learning

Ploughs up her brow, like an untimely age,

And on her cheek stamps verdict of death's truth

By canker blights upon the bud of youth!

LXXXII.

For as unwholesome winds decay the leaf,

So her cheeks' rose is perish'd by her sighs,

And withers in the sickly breath of grief;

Whilst unacquainted rheum bedims her eyes,

Tears, virgin tears, the first that ever leapt

From those young lids, now plentifully wept.

LXXXIII.

Whence being shed, the liquid crystalline

Drops straightway down, refusing to partake

In gross admixture with the baser brine,

But shrinks and hardens into pearls opaque,

Hereafter to be worn on arms and ears;

So one maid's trophy is another's tears!

LXXXIV.

"O foul Arch-Shadow, thou old cloud of Night,"

(Thus in her frenzy she began to wail,)

"Thou blank Oblivion—blotter-out of light,

Life's ruthless murderer, and dear love's bale!

Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete,

Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet?"

LXXXV.

"Lo! what a lovely ruin thou hast made!

Alas! alas! thou hast no eye to see,

And blindly slew'st him in misguided shade.

Would I had lent my doting sense to thee!

But now I turn to thee, a willing mark,

Thine arrows miss me in the aimless dark!"

LXXXVI.

"O doubly cruel!—twice misdoing spite,

But I will guide thee with my helping eyes,

Or—walk the wide world through, devoid of sight,—

Yet thou shalt know me by my many sighs.

Nay, then thou should'st have spared my roses, false Death,

And known Love's flow'r by smelling his sweet breath;"

LXXXVII.

"Or, when thy furious rage was round him dealing,

Love should have grown from touching of his skin;

But like cold marble thou art all unfeeling.

And hast no ruddy springs of warmth within,

And being but a shape of freezing bone,

Thy touching only turn'd my love to stone!"

LXXXVIII.

"And here, alas! he lies across my knees,

With cheeks still colder than the stilly wave.

The light beneath his eyelids seems to freeze;

Here then, since Love is dead and lacks a grave,

O come and dig it in my sad heart's core—

That wound will bring a balsam for its sore!"

LXXXIX.

"For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill

Lies stingless, like a sense benumb'd with cold,

Healing all hurts only with sleep's good-will?

So shall I slumber, and perchance behold

My living love in dreams,—O happy night,

That lets me company his banish'd spright!"

XC.

"O poppy Death!—sweet poisoner of sleep;

Where shall I seek for thee, oblivious drug,

That I may steep thee in my drink, and creep

Out of life's coil? Look, Idol! how I hug

Thy dainty image in this strict embrace,

And kiss this clay-cold model of thy face!"

XCI.

"Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps,

I do but read my sorrows by their shine;

O come and quench them with thy oozy damps,

And let my darkness intermix with thine;

Since love is blinded, wherefore should I see?

Now love is death,—death will be love to me!"

XCII.

"Away, away, this vain complaining breath,

It does but stir the troubles that I weep;

Let it be hush'd and quieted, sweet Death;

The wind must settle ere the wave can sleep,—

Since love is silent, I would fain be mute;

O death, be gracious to my dying suit!"

XCIII.

Thus far she pleads, but pleading nought avails her,

For Death, her sullen burthen, deigns no heed;

Then with dumb craving arms, since darkness fails her,

She prays to heaven's fair light, as if her need

Inspired her there were Gods to pity pain,

Or end it,—but she lifts her arms in vain!

XCIV.

Poor gilded Grief! the subtle light by this

With mazy gold creeps through her watery mine,

And, diving downward through the green abyss,

Lights up her palace with an amber shine;

There, falling on her arms,—the crystal skin

Reveals the ruby tide that fares within.

XCV.

Look how the fulsome beam would hang a glory

On her dark hair, but the dark hairs repel it;

Look how the perjured glow suborns a story

On her pale lips, but lips refuse to tell it;

Grief will not swerve from grief, however told

On coral lips, or character'd in gold;

XCVI.

Or else, thou maid! safe anchor'd on Love's neck,

Listing the hapless doom of young Leander,

Thou would'st not shed a tear for that old wreck,

Sitting secure where no wild surges wander;

Whereas the woe moves on with tragic pace,

And shows its sad reflection in thy face.

XCVII.

Thus having travell'd on, and track'd the tale,

Like the due course of an old bas-relief,

Where Tragedy pursues her progress pale,

Brood here awhile upon that sea-maid's grief,

And take a deeper imprint from the frieze

Of that young Fate, with Death upon her knees.

XCVIII.

Then whilst the melancholy Muse withal

Resumes her music in a sadder tone,

Meanwhile the sunbeam strikes upon the wall,

Conceive that lovely siren to live on,

Ev'n as Hope whisper'd, the Promethean light

Would kindle up the dead Leander's spright.

XCIX.

"'Tis light," she says, "that feeds the glittering stars,

And those were stars set in his heavenly brow;

But this salt cloud, this cold sea-vapor, mars

Their radiant breathing, and obscures them now;

Therefore I'll lay him in the clear blue air,

And see how these dull orbs will kindle there."

C.

Swiftly as dolphins glide, or swifter yet,

With dead Leander in her fond arms' fold,

She cleaves the meshes of that radiant net

The sun hath twined above of liquid gold,

Nor slacks till on the margin of the land

She lays his body on the glowing sand.

CI.

There, like a pearly waif, just past the reach

Of foamy billows he lies cast. Just then,

Some listless fishers, straying down the beach,

Spy out this wonder. Thence the curious men,

Low crouching, creep into a thicket brake,

And watch her doings till their rude hearts ache.

CII.

First she begins to chafe him till she faints,

Then falls upon his mouth with kisses many,

And sometimes pauses in her own complaints

To list his breathing, but there is not any,—

Then looks into his eyes where no light dwells;

Light makes no pictures in such muddy wells.

CIII.

The hot sun parches his discover'd eyes,

The hot sun beats on his discolor'd limbs,

The sand is oozy whereupon he lies,

Soiling his fairness;—then away she swims,

Meaning to gather him a daintier bed,

Plucking the cool fresh weeds, brown, green, and red.

CIV.

But, simple-witted thief, while she dives under,

Another robs her of her amorous theft;

The ambush'd fishermen creep forth to plunder,

And steal the unwatch'd treasure she has left;

Only his void impression dints the sands;

Leander is purloin'd by stealthy hands!

CV.

Lo! how she shudders off the beaded wave,

Like Grief all over tears, and senseless falls,—

His void imprint seems hollow'd for her grave;

Then, rising on her knees, looks round and calls

On "Hero! Hero!" having learn'd this name

Of his last breath, she calls him by the same.

CVI.

Then with her frantic hands she rends her hairs,

And casts them forth, sad keepsakes to the wind,

As if in plucking those she plucked her cares;

But grief lies deeper, and remains behind

Like a barb'd arrow, rankling in her brain,

Turning her very thoughts to throbs of pain.

CVII.

Anon her tangled locks are left alone,

And down upon the sand she meekly sits,

Hard by the foam, as humble as a stone,

Like an enchanted maid beside her wits,

That ponders with a look serene and tragic,

Stunn'd by the mighty mystery of magic.

CVIII.

Or think of Ariadne's utter trance,

Crazed by the flight of that disloyal traitor,

Who left her gazing on the green expanse

That swallowed up his track,—yet this would mate her,

Ev'n in the cloudy summit of her woe,

When o'er the far sea-brim she saw him go.

CIX.

For even so she bows, and bends her gaze

O'er the eternal waste, as if to sum

Its waves by weary thousands all her days,

Dismally doom'd! meanwhile the billows come,

And coldly dabble with her quiet feet,

Like any bleaching stones they wont to greet.

CX.

And thence into her lap have boldly sprung,

Washing her weedy tresses to and fro,

That round her crouching knees have darkly hung;

But she sits careless of waves' ebb and flow,

Like a lone beacon on a desert coast,

Showing where all her hope was wreck'd and lost.

CXI.

Yet whether in the sea or vaulted sky,

She knoweth not her lover's abrupt resort,

So like a shape of dreams he left her eye,

Winking with doubt. Meanwhile, the churls' report

Has throng'd the beach with many a curious face,

That peeps upon her from its hiding place.

CXII.

And here a head, and there a brow half seen,

Dodges behind a rock. Here on his hands

A mariner his crumpled cheeks doth lean

Over a rugged crest. Another stands,

Holding his harmful arrow at the head,

Still check'd by human caution and strange dread.

CXIII.

One stops his ears,—another close beholder

Whispers unto the next his grave surmise;

This crouches down,—and just above his shoulder,

A woman's pity saddens in her eyes,

And prompts her to befriend that lonely grief,

With all sweet helps of sisterly relief.

CXIV.

And down the sunny beach she paces slowly,

With many doubtful pauses by the way;

Grief hath an influence so hush'd and holy,—

Making her twice attempt, ere she can lay

Her hand upon that sea-maid's shoulder white,

Which makes her startle up in wild affright.

CXV.

And, like a seal, she leaps into the wave

That drowns the shrill remainder of her scream;

Anon the sea fills up the watery cave,

And seals her exit with a foamy seam,—

Leaving those baffled gazers on the beach,

Turning in uncouth wonder each to each.

CXVI.

Some watch, some call, some see her head emerge,

Wherever a brown weed falls through the foam;

Some point to white eruptions of the surge:—

But she is vanish'd to her shady home,

Under the deep, inscrutable,—and there

Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.

CXVII.

Now here, the sighing winds, before unheard,

Forth from their cloudy caves begin to blow,

Till all the surface of the deep is stirr'd,

Like to the panting grief it hides below;

And heaven is cover'd with a stormy rack,

Soiling the waters with its inky black.

CXVIII.

The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey,

And labors shoreward with a bending wing,

Rowing against the wind her toilsome way;

Meanwhile, the curling billows chafe, and fling

Their dewy frost still further on the stones,

That answer to the wind with hollow groans.

CXIX.

And here and there a fisher's far-off bark

Flies with the sun's last glimpse upon its sail,

Like a bright flame amid the waters dark,

Watch'd with the hope and fear of maidens pale;

And anxious mothers that upturn their brows,

Freighting the gusty wind with frequent vows,

CXX.

For that the horrid deep has no sure path

To guide Love safe into his homely haven.

And lo! the storm grows blacker in its wrath,

O'er the dark billow brooding like a raven,

That bodes of death and widow's sorrowing,

Under the dusky covert of his wing.

CXXI.

And so day ended. But no vesper spark

Hung forth its heavenly sign; but sheets of flame

Play'd round the savage features of the dark,

Making night horrible. That night, there came

A weeping maiden to high Sestos' steep,

And tore her hair and gazed upon the deep.

CXXII.

And waved aloft her bright and ruddy torch,

Whose flame the boastful wind so rudely fann'd,

That oft it would recoil, and basely scorch

The tender covert of her sheltering hand;

Which yet, for Love's dear sake, disdain'd retire,

And, like a glorying martyr, braved the fire.

CXXIII.

For that was love's own sign and beacon guide

Across the Hellespont's wide weary space,

Wherein he nightly struggled with the tide:—

Look what a red it forges on her face,

As if she blush'd at holding sucha light,

Ev'n in the unseen presence of the night!

CXXIV.

Whereas her tragic cheek is truly pale,

And colder than the rude and ruffian air

That howls into her ear a horrid tale

Of storm and wreck, and uttermost despair,

Saying, "Leander floats amid the surge,

And those are dismal waves that sing his dirge."

CXXV.

And hark!—a grieving voice, trembling and faint,

Blends with the hollow sobbings of the sea;

Like the sad music of a siren's plaint,

But shriller than Leander's voice should be,

Unless the wintry death had changed its tone,—

Wherefore she thinks she hears his spirit moan.

CXXVI.

For now, upon each brief and breathless pause,

Made by the raging winds, it plainly calls

On "Hero! Hero!"—whereupon she draws

Close to the dizzy brink, that ne'er appals

Her brave and constant spirit to recoil,

However the wild billows toss and toil.

CXXVII.

"Oh! dost thou live under the deep deep sea?

I thought such love as thine could never die;

If thou hast gain'd an immortality

From the kind pitying sea-god, so will I;

And this false cruel tide that used to sever

Our hearts, shall be our common home forever!"

CXXVIII.

"There we will sit and sport upon one billow,

And sing our ocean ditties all the day,

And lie together on the same green pillow,

That curls above us with its dewy spray;

And ever in one presence live and dwell,

Like two twin pearls within the selfsame shell!"

CXXIX.

One moment then, upon the dizzy verge

She stands;—with face upturn'd against the sky;

A moment more, upon the foamy surge

She gazes, with a calm despairing eye;

Feeling that awful pause of blood and breath,

Which life endures when it confronts with death;—

CXXX.

Then from the giddy steep she madly springs,

Grasping her maiden robes, that vainly kept

Panting abroad, like unavailing wings,

To save her from her death.—The sea-maid wept

And in a crystal cave her corse enshrined;

No meaner sepulchre should Hero find!

[BALLAD.]

Spring it is cheery,

Winter is dreary,

Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;

When he's forsaken,

Wither'd and shaken,

What can an old man do but die?

Love will not clip him,

Maids will not lip him,

Maud and Marian pass him by;

Youth it is sunny,

Age has no honey,—

What can an old man do but die?

June it was jolly,

Oh for its folly!

A dancing leg and a laughing eye;

Youth may be silly,

Wisdom is chilly,—

What can an old man do but die?

Friends, they are scanty,

Beggars are plenty,

If he has followers, I know why;

Gold's in his clutches,

(Buying him crutches!)

What can an old man do but die?

[AUTUMN]

The Autumn skies are flush'd with gold,

And fair and bright the rivers run;

These are but streams of winter cold,

And painted mists that quench the sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,

In secret boughs no bird can shroud;

These are but leaves that take to wing,

And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

'Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms

That on the cheerless valleys fall,

The flowers are in their grassy tombs,

And tears of dew are on them all.

[BALLAD.]

Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse

And Beauty's fairest queen,

Though 'tis not for my peasant lips

To soil her name between:

A king might lay his sceptre down,

But I am poor and nought,

The brow should wear a golden crown

That wears her in its thought.

The diamonds glancing in her hair,

Whose sudden beams surprise,

Might bid such humble hopes beware

The glancing of her eyes;

Yet looking once, I look'd too long,

And if my love is sin,

Death follows on the heels of wrong,

And kills the crime within.

Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves,

It was so pure and fine,

O lofty wears, and lowly weaves,—

But hodden-gray is mine;

And homely hose must step apart,

Where garter'd princes stand,

But may he wear my love at heart

That wins her lily hand!

Alas! there's far from russet frieze

To silks and satin gowns,

But I doubt if God made like degrees

In courtly hearts and clowns.

My father wrong'd a maiden's mirth,

And brought her cheeks to blame,

And all that's lordly of my birth

Is my reproach and shame!

'Tis vain to weep,—'tis vain to sigh,

'Tis vain, this idle speech,

For where her happy pearls do lie,

My tears may never reach;

Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride

May say, of what has been,

His love was nobly born and died,

Though all the rest was mean!

My speech is rude,—but speech is weak

Such love as mine to tell,

Yet had I words, I dare not speak,

So, Lady, fare thee well;

I will not wish thy better state

Was one of low degree,

But I must weep that partial fate

Made such a churl of me.

[THE EXILE.]

The swallow with summer

Will wing o'er the seas,

The wind that I sigh to

Will visit thy trees.

The ship that it hastens

Thy ports will contain,

But me!—I must never

See England again!

There's many that weep there,

But one weeps alone,

For the tears that are falling

So far from her own;

So far from thy own, love,

We know not our pain;

If death is between us,

Or only the main.

When the white cloud reclines

On the verge of the sea,

I fancy the white cliffs,

And dream upon thee;

But the cloud spreads its wings

To the blue heav'n and flies.

We never shall meet, love,

Except in the skies!

[TO ——]

Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow;

The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine:—

Flowers I have none to give thee, but I borrow

Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine.

Here are red roses, gather'd at thy cheeks,—

The white were all too happy to look white:

For love the rose, for faith the lily speaks;

It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright!

Dost love sweet Hyacinth? Its scented leaf

Curls manifold,—all love's delights blow double:

'Tis said this flow'ret is inscribed with grief,—

But let that hint of a forgotten trouble.

I pluck'd the Primrose at night's dewy noon;

Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night;—

'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon!

And here are Sun-flowers, amorous of light!

These golden Buttercups are April's seal,—

The Daisy-stars her constellations be:

These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel,

Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee!

Here's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom

Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours:—

A wight once made a dial of their bloom,—

So may thy life be measured out by flowers!

[ODE TO MELANCHOLY.]

Come, let us set our careful breasts,

Like Philomel, against the thorn,

To aggravate the inward grief,

That makes her accents so forlorn;

The world has many cruel points,

Whereby our bosoms have been torn,

And there are dainty themes of grief,

In sadness to outlast the morn,—

True honor's dearth, affection's death,

Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn,

With all the piteous tales that tears

Have water'd since the world was born.

The world!—it is a wilderness,

Where tears are hung on every tree;

For thus my gloomy phantasy

Makes all things weep with me!

Come let us sit and watch the sky,

And fancy clouds, where no clouds be;

Grief is enough to blot the eye,

And make heaven black with misery.

Why should birds sing such merry notes,

Unless they were more blest than we?

No sorrow ever chokes their throats,

Except sweet nightingale; for she

Was born to pain our hearts the more

With her sad melody.

Why shines the Sun, except that he

Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide,

And pensive shades for Melancholy,

When all the earth is bright beside?

Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave,

Mirth shall not win us back again,

Whilst man is made of his own grave,

And fairest clouds but gilded rain!

I saw my mother in her shroud,

Her cheek was cold and very pale;

And ever since I've look'd on all

As creatures doom'd to fail!

Why do buds ope except to die?

Ay, let us watch the roses wither,

And think of our loves' cheeks;

And oh! how quickly time doth fly

To bring death's winter hither!

Minutes, hours, days, and weeks,

Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought;

An age past is but a thought!

Ay, let us think of Him awhile

That, with a coffin for a boat,

Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat,

And for our table choose a tomb:

There's dark enough in any skull

To charge with black a raven plume;

And for the saddest funeral thoughts

A winding-sheet hath ample room,

Where Death, with his keen-pointed style,

Hath writ the common doom.

How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom,

And o'er the dead lets fall its dew,

As if in tears it wept for them,

The many human families

That sleep around its stem!

How cold the dead have made these stones,

With natural drops kept ever wet!

Lo! here the best—the worst—the world

Doth now remember or forget,

Are in one common ruin hurl'd,

And love and hate are calmly met;

The loveliest eyes that ever shone,

The fairest hands, and locks of jet.

Is't not enough to vex our souls,

And fill our eyes, that we have set

Our love upon a rose's leaf,

Our hearts upon a violet?

Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet;

And sometimes at their swift decay

Beforehand we must fret.

The roses bud and bloom, again;

But Love may haunt the grave of Love,

And watch the mould in vain.

O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine,

And do not take my tears amiss;

For tears must flow to wash away

A thought that shows so stern as this:

Forgive, if somewhile I forget,

In woe to come, the present bliss;

As frighted Proserpine let fall

Her flowers at the sight of Dis,

Ev'n so the dark and bright will kiss.

The sunniest things throw sternest shade,

And there is ev'n a happiness

That makes the heart afraid!

Now let us with a spell invoke

The full-orb'd moon to grieve our eyes;

Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud

Lapp'd all about her, let her rise

All pale and dim, as if from rest

The ghost of the late-buried sun

Had crept into the skies.

The Moon! she is the source of sighs,

The very face to make us sad;

If but to think in other times

The same calm quiet look she had,

As if the world held nothing base,

Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad;

The same fair light that shone in streams,

The fairy lamp that charmed the lad;

For so it is, with spent delights

She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad.

All things are touch'd with Melancholy,

Born of the secret soul's mistrust,

To feel her fair ethereal wings

Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust;

Even the bright extremes of joy

Bring on conclusions of disgust,

Like the sweet blossoms of the May,

Whose fragrance ends in must.

O give her, then, her tribute just,

Her sighs and tears, and musings holy;

There is no music in the life

That sounds with idiot laughter solely;

There's not a string attuned to mirth,

But has its chord in Melancholy.