Poems | Page 7

Know, then it is my spirit swells,
And drinks, with eager joy, the air

Of freedom--where at last it dwells,
Chartered, a common task to
share
With thee, and then it stirs alert,
And pants to learn what
menaced hurt
Demands for thee its care.
Remember, I have crossed the deep,
And stood with thee on deck, to
gaze
On waves that rose in threatening heap,
While stagnant lay a
heavy haze,
Dimly confusing sea with sky,

And baffling, even, the
pilot's eye,
Intent to thread the maze--

Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous coast,
And find a way to steer our
band
To the one point obscure, which lost,
Flung us, as victims, on
the strand;--
All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword,
And not a
wherry could be moored
Along the guarded land.
I feared not then--I fear not now;
The interest of each stirring scene

Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow,
In every nerve and bounding
vein ;
Alike on turbid Channel sea,
Or in still wood of Normandy,

I feel as born again.
The rain descended that wild morn
When, anchoring in the cove at
last,
Our band, all weary and forlorn
Ashore, like wave-worn sailors,
cast--
Sought for a sheltering roof in vain,
And scarce could scanty
food obtain
To break their morning fast.
Thou didst thy crust with me divide,
Thou didst thy cloak around me
fold;
And, sitting silent by thy side,
I ate the bread in peace untold:

Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet
As costly fare or princely
treat
On royal plate of gold.
Sharp blew the sleet upon my face,
And, rising wild, the gusty wind

Drove on those thundering waves apace,
Our crew so late had left
behind;
But, spite of frozen shower and storm,
So close to thee, my
heart beat warm,
And tranquil slept my mind.
So now--nor foot-sore nor opprest
With walking all this August day,

I taste a heaven in this brief rest,
This gipsy-halt beside the way.

England's wild flowers are fair to view,
Like balm is England's
summer dew
Like gold her sunset ray.
But the white violets, growing here,
Are sweeter than I yet have seen,

And ne'er did dew so pure and clear
Distil on forest mosses green,

As now, called forth by summer heat,
Perfumes our cool and fresh
retreat--
These fragrant limes between.

That sunset! Look beneath the boughs,
Over the copse--beyond the
hills;
How soft, yet deep and warm it glows,
And heaven with rich
suffusion fills;
With hues where still the opal's tint,
Its gleam of
prisoned fire is blent,
Where flame through azure thrills!
Depart we now--for fast will fade
That solemn splendour of decline,

And deep must be the after-shade
As stars alone to-night will shine;

No moon is destined--pale--to gaze
On such a day's vast Phoenix
blaze,
A day in fires decayed!
There--hand-in-hand we tread again
The mazes of this varying wood,

And soon, amid a cultured plain,
Girt in with fertile solitude,
We
shall our resting-place descry,
Marked by one roof-tree, towering
high
Above a farmstead rude.
Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare,
We'll seek a couch of dreamless
ease;
Courage will guard thy heart from fear,
And Love give mine
divinest peace:
To-morrow brings more dangerous toil,
And
through its conflict and turmoil
We'll pass, as God shall please.
[The preceding composition refers, doubtless, to the scenes acted in
France during the last year of the Consulate.]
FRANCES.
She will not sleep, for fear of dreams,
But, rising, quits her restless
bed,
And walks where some beclouded beams
Of moonlight
through the hall are shed.
Obedient to the goad of grief,
Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow,

In varying motion seek relief
From the Eumenides of woe.
Wringing her hands, at intervals--
But long as mute as phantom dim--

She glides along the dusky walls,
Under the black oak rafters grim.

The close air of the grated tower
Stifles a heart that scarce can beat,

And, though so late and lone the hour,
Forth pass her wandering,
faltering feet;
And on the pavement spread before
The long front of the mansion
grey,
Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar,
Which pale on grass
and granite lay.
Not long she stayed where misty moon
And shimmering stars could
on her look,
But through the garden archway soon
Her strange and
gloomy path she took.
Some firs, coeval with the tower,
Their straight black boughs
stretched o'er her head;
Unseen, beneath this sable bower,
Rustled
her dress and rapid tread.
There was an alcove in that shade,
Screening a rustic seat and stand;

Weary she sat her down, and laid
Her hot brow on her burning
hand.
To solitude and to the night,
Some words she now, in murmurs, said;

And trickling through her fingers white,
Some tears of misery she
shed.
"God help me in my grievous need,
God help me in my inward pain;

Which cannot ask for pity's meed,
Which has no licence to
complain,
"Which must be borne; yet who can bear,
Hours long, days long, a
constant weight--
The yoke of absolute despair,
A suffering wholly
desolate?
"Who can for ever crush the heart,
Restrain its throbbing, curb its life?

Dissemble truth with ceaseless art,
With outward calm mask
inward strife?"

She waited--as for some reply;
The still and cloudy night gave none;

Ere long, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh,
Her heavy plaint again
begun.
"Unloved--I love; unwept--I weep;
Grief I restrain--hope I repress:

Vain is this anguish--fixed and deep;
Vainer, desires and dreams of