Clarence. Thy voice doth marshal on my soul
To battle, and to dream of noble things.
Thy golden words I'll graft upon my heart
Like blossoms wedded to the granite rock.
But, Mother, weep not! Why should April tears
Come with the sunshine of thy voice?
Mother. Bless thee,
God bless thee, Clarence! May thy sorrows be
Light and evanescent as vapoury wreaths
That fleck the Summer blue. My dreams shall wing
Their way to thee, as moonbeams pierce the night.
And I will send my soul up in a cloud
Of thought to Heav'n, wreathed with a Mother's prayer,
For thee. Farewell—and be thou blest.
SUNRISE IN THE COUNTRY.
What a sweet atmosphere of melody
And coolness falls upon the troubled heart,
Like oil upon the wave. Dance on—dance on—
Ye couriers of the sun—full-throated choir;
And sky-ward fling your sobbing psalmody—
A sunrise offering to the coming day.
On—on: still higher! Still rolls the torrent down,
Bearing the soul up in a cloud of sprays,
The world seems deluged with a golden shower:
Myriads of larks trill out their morning psalm,
As though the stars were changed to silver bells
Timbrelling forth their sweet melodious bursts
In joyous welcome of the maiden Morn.
FAITH IN LOVE.
Man's faith in woman's love
Is all the darken'd earth can boast of Heaven.
That faith destroyed—farewell to happiness,
And joy, and worldly hope, and all that goes
To deify mankind.
UNREQUITED AFFECTION.
She was a simple cottage-girl,
But lovely as a poet's richest thought
Of woman's beauty—and as false as fair.
I've writhed beneath the witchery of her voice
As cornfields palpitate beneath the breeze—
Have sued with praying hands—lavished my life
Upon her image, as the bright stars pour
Their trembling splendours on the cold-heart lake—
Wounded my manliness upon the rock
Of her too fatal beauty, like a storm
That twines with sobbing fondness round the neck
Of some sky-kissing hill, bursts in his love,
Then slowly droops and flows about her feet
A puling streamlet,—whilst a gilded cloud
Is toying with the brow of his Beloved!
'Twas gold that sear'd the love-bud of her heart;
To bitter ashes turned my life's sweet fruit;
And sent my soul adrift upon the world
A wandering, worthless wreck.
THE POET'S TROUBLES.
To be possess'd of passion's ecstasy
Outswelling from the heart; the teeming brain
Afire with glowing light; as when the sun
Catches the tall tree-tops with Summer warmth,
And draws the trembling sap with impulse sweet
Through every fibre up to th' glory-crown;
To feel the breath of some rare influence
Of subtle life suck at the throbbing soul
As though into infinity to kiss
The yielding passion subtle as itself;
To see the hand of God in everything;
To hear His voice in every sound that comes;
To long, and long, with passionate desire,
To speak the language which the dream divine
Incessantly implies; to live and move
In Fancy's heav'n—yet know that earth still holds
The fancy captive: these the daily death
Of many minds that wrestle all in vain
'Gainst that which Heav'n in cruel kindness sends
To teach mankind humility. Ah, me!
The pow'r to feel the touch of Paradise
And to enjoy it not—as hungering men
Have died ere now, gazing upon the food
By heartless gaolers placed beyond their reach.