“O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray, Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart doth fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill, Portend success in love; O, if Jove’s will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why; Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.”
This is plainly a fabricated song, not poured out from the heart, though full of melodious fancy. More natural and earnest is the tone in which our poet soon after praises one who had passed unheeding by the bower of love, and devoted herself to a life of piety and good deeds. We cannot guess who she was, but such saints are seen in every land and age.
“Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green, And with those few art eminently seen That labor up the hill of heavenly truth,— The better part with Mary and with Ruth, Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, Hast gained thy entrance, virginwise and pure.”
It is a truth for the initiated that love begins with worship, and favors piety in its first approaches; and we need not wonder if the devout poet in due time paid his amorous addresses to this bride of the Spirit, whose lamp must have been dim, indeed, if it did not reveal to her the lover in disguise of the brother in Israel. A poet of our day, in a sonnet somewhat faulty in form, but true to the faith of your pilgrim-vow, ye happy palmers of Love,—
“O voi che per la via d’Amor passate!”
has written as follows:—
“‘As calmest waters mirror Heaven the best, So best befit remembrances of thee Calm holy hours from earthly passion free, Sweet twilight musing,—Sabbaths in the breast. No stooping thought, nor any grovelling care, The sacred whiteness of that place shall stain, Where, far from heartless joys and rites profane, Memory has reared to thee an altar fair. Yet frequent visitors shall kiss the shrine, And ever keep its vestal lamp alight; All noble thoughts, all dreams divinely bright, That waken or delight this soul of mine.’ So Love, meek pilgrim! his young vows did pay, With glowing eyes that must his lips gainsay.”
A higher gospel is preached in the sonnet of another American poet, who has written too few verses,—or rather has published too few of the many he has composed.
“As unto blooming roses, summer dews, Or morning’s amber to the tree-top choirs, So to my bosom are the beams that use To rain on me from eyes that Love inspires; Your love,—vouchsafe it, royal-hearted Few,— And I will set no common price thereon; O, I will keep, as Heaven his holy blue, Or Night her diamonds, that dear treasure won. But aught of inward faith must I forego, Or miss one drop from Truth’s baptismal hand, Think poorer thoughts, pray cheaper prayers, and grow Less worthy trust, to meet your hearts’ demand: Farewell! your wish I for your sake deny; Rebel to love in truth to love am I.”
A poet who has been more than once quoted in this essay, saw no sharp hostility between Love and Death,—those reputed foes,—but thus addressed the last earthly benefactor of mankind:—