Poems | Page 9

ye respire,?And, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre?When it is wet with tears.
Each in his secret heart perchance doth own?Some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed;--?Sufferers alike together and alone?Are we; with many a grief to others known,?How many unrevealed!
Alas! for natural tears and simple pains,?For tender recollections, cherished long,?For guileless griefs, which no compunction stains,?We blush; as if we wore these earthly chains?Only for sport and song!
Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace:?In vain I strove their parting to delay;?Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space,?Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face?Lightens, and fades away.
Fraser's Magazine
THE MORNING OF LIFE.
_("Le voile du matin.")_
[Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.]
The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks,?Old towers gleam white in the ray,?And already the glory so joyously seeks?The lark that's saluting the day.
Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair,?Though, were you swept hence in the night,?From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare?At the sun rising newly as bright.
But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown?Where glitters Eternity's stream,?And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown,?As sunshine disperses a dream.
BELOVED NAME.
_("Le parfum d'un lis.")_
[Bk. V. xiii.]
The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light,?The latest murmur of departing day,?Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight,?The mystic farewell of each hour at flight,?The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay,--
The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow?As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun;?The thrilling accent of a voice we know,?The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow,?An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run,--
The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh,?Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame,--?The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,--?The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie,?Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME!
Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine,?Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound;?Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine,?The sacred word which at some hidden shrine,?The selfsame voice forever makes resound!
O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame,?My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide,?With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim,?Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name,?Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,--
Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing,?Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear;?To solemn harmonies attuned the string,?As, music show'ring from his viewless wing,?On heavenly airs some angel hovered near.
CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY)
THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD.
_("Oui, ce front, ce sourire.")_
[Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.]
That brow, that smile, that cheek so fair,?Beseem my child, who weeps and plays:?A heavenly spirit guards her ways,?From whom she stole that mixture rare.?Through all her features shining mild,?The poet sees an angel there,?The father sees a child.
And by their flame so pure and bright,?We see how lately those sweet eyes?Have wandered down from Paradise,?And still are lingering in its light.
All earthly things are but a shade?Through which she looks at things above,?And sees the holy Mother-maid,?Athwart her mother's glance of love.
She seems celestial songs to hear,?And virgin souls are whispering near.?Till by her radiant smile deceived,?I say, "Young angel, lately given,?When was thy martyrdom achieved??And what name lost thou bear in heaven?"
Dublin University Magazine.
BALLADES.--1823-28.
THE GRANDMOTHER
_("Dors-tu? m��re de notre m��re.")_
[III., 1823.]
"To die--to sleep."--SHAKESPEARE.
Still asleep! We have been since the noon thus alone.
Oh, the hours we have ceased to number!?Wake, grandmother!--speechless say why thou art grown.?Then, thy lips are so cold!--the Madonna of stone
Is like thee in thy holy slumber.?We have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer,
But what can now betide thee??Like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were,?And thy lips would still murmur a blessing whene'er
Thy children stood beside thee.
Now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bent
O'er the hearth, where ashes smoulder;?And behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent.?Art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? Oh, relent!
But--parent, thy hands grow colder!?Say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thine
The glow that has departed??Wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne??Wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine,
Of the brave and noble-hearted?
Of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen,
Lies in wait for the unwary--?Of the maid who was freed by her knight from the den?Of the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but then
Turned aside by the wand of a fairy??Wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm,
And thoughts of evil banish??What goblins the sign of the cross may disarm??What saint it is good to invoke? and what charm
Can make the demon vanish?
Or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book,
So feared by hell and Satan;?At its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look,?At the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook,
And the hymns and the prayers in Latin.?Oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young,
Thy voice was wont to