Pray for her at eve and morn,
That Heaven may long the stroke defer,—
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn
When thou wilt ask to die with her.
Pray for her at eve and morn!
FAREWELL Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim:
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night-
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapour chill;
Strong the earthy odour grows-
I smell the mould above the rose!
Welcome Life! the Spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapour cold-
I smell the rose above the mould!
April, 1845.
OUR hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again.
Friends, if we have ever been,
Friends we cannot now remain :
I only know I loved you once,
I only know I loved in vain;
Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again!
Then farewell to heart and hand!
I would our hands had never met:
Even the outward form of love
Must be resign'd with some regret.
Friends, we still might seem to be,
If my wrong could e'er forget
Our hands have join'd but not our hearts:
I would our hands had never met!
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,
Escaped 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.
O LADY, leave thy silken thread
And flowery tapestrie:
There 's living roses on the bush,
And blossoms on the tree;
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.
'Tis like the birthday of the world,
When earth was born in bloom;
The light is made of many dyes,
The air is all perfume;
There's crimson buds, and white and blue
The very rainbow showers
Have turn'd to blossoms where they fell,
And sown the earth with flowers.
There 's fairy tulips in the east,
The garden of the sun;
The very streams reflect the hues,
And blossom as they run :
While Morn opes like a crimson rose,
Still wet with pearly showers;
Then, lady, leave the silken thread
Thou twinest into flowers!
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 wither'd-I will 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
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."
I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
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 tipp'd 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.
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