| |
| | A spirit pure as hers, |
| Is always pure, even while it errs: |
| As sunshine, broken in the rill, |
| Though turned astray, is sunshine still. |
| 1 |
| | Alas! how light a cause may move |
| Dissension between hearts that love! |
| Hearts that the world in vain had tried, |
| And sorrow but more closely tied; |
| That stood the storm, when waves were rough, |
| Yet in a sunny hour fall off. |
| 2 |
| | Alas! too well, too well they know |
| The pain, the penitence, the woe |
| That passion brings down on the best, |
| The wisest and the loveliest. |
| 3 |
| | All that’s bright must fade— |
| The brightest still the fleetest; |
| All that’s sweet was made |
| But to be lost when sweetest. |
| 4 |
| | Amaranths such as crown the maids |
| That wander through Zamara’s shades. |
| 5 |
| | And be their rest unmov’d |
| By the white moonlight’s dazzling power: |
| None, but the loving and belov’d, |
| Should be awake at this sweet hour. |
| 6 |
| | And conscience, truth and honesty are made |
| To rise and fall, like other wares of trade. |
| 7 |
| | And music too—dear music! that can touch |
| Beyond all else the soul that loves it much— |
| Now heard far off, so far as but to seem |
| Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream. |
| 8 |
| | And see—the Sun himself!—on wings |
| Of glory up the East he springs. |
| Angel of Light! who from the time |
| Those heavens began their march sublime, |
| Hath first of all the starry choir |
| Trod in his Maker’s steps of fire! |
| 9 |
| | And then her look—Oh, where’s the heart so wise |
| Could, unbewilder’d, meet those matchless eyes? |
| Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, |
| Like those of angels. |
| 10 |
| | And violets, transform’d to eyes, |
| Inshrined a soul within their blue. |
| 11 |
| | And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, |
| The maiden herself will steal after it soon. |
| 12 |
| | Anemones and seas of gold, |
| And new-blown lilies of the river, |
| And those sweet flow’rets that unfold |
| Their buds on Camadera’s quiver. |
| 13 |
| | Angel of light! who from the time |
| Those heavens began their march sublime, |
| Hath first of all the starry choir |
| Trod in his Maker’s steps of fire! |
| 14 |
| | As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean |
| Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, |
| So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion |
| Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee. |
| 15 |
| | As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets, |
| The same look which she turn’d when he rose. |
| 16 |
| | Bastard Freedom waves |
| Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves. |
| 17 |
| | Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, |
| Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, |
| Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, |
| Like fairy-gifts fading away! |
| Thou would’st still be ador’d, as this moment thou art, |
| Let thy loveliness fade as it will, |
| And, around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart |
| Would entwine itself verdantly still! |
| 18 |
| | Better to dwell in freedom’s hall, |
| With a cold damp floor and mouldering wall, |
| Than bow the head and tend the knee |
| In the proudest palace of slaverie. |
| 19 |
| | Blest power of sunshine! genial day! |
| What balm, what life is in thy ray; |
| To feel thee is such real bliss, |
| That had the world no joy but this, |
| To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,— |
| It were a world too exquisite, |
| For man to leave it for the gloom, |
| The deep cold shadow of the tomb. |
| 20 |
| |
|
|
| |
| | But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast |
| To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. |
| 21 |
| | But soon, the prospect clearing, |
| By cloudless starlight on he treads |
| And thinks no lamp so cheering |
| As that light which heaven sheds. |
| 22 |
| | Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! |
| Tho’ the herd hath fled from thee, thy home is still here; |
| Here is still the smile that no cloud can o’ercast, |
| And the heart and the hand all thy own to the Last! |
| 23 |
| | Enough, that we are parted—that there rolls |
| A flood of headlong fate between our souls, |
| Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee |
| As hell from heaven, to all eternity! |
| 24 |
| | Even now, as, wandering upon Erie’s shore, |
| I hear Niagara’s distant cataract roar, |
| I sigh for England—oh! these weary feet |
| Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet. |
| 25 |
| | Every season hath its pleasures; |
| Spring may boast her flowery prime, |
| Yet the vineyard’s ruby treasures |
| Brighten Autumn’s sob’rer time. |
| 26 |
| | For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way, |
| He’d na let a cat on the Sabbath say “mew;” |
| Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play, |
| An’ Phœbus himsel’ could na travel that day, |
| As he’d find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew. |
| 27 |
| | Go where glory waits thee; |
| But while fame elates thee, |
| O, still remember me. |
| When the praise thou meetest, |
| To thine ear is sweetest, |
| O, then remember me. |
| 28 |
| | Good-bye—my paper’s out so nearly, |
| I’ve only room for, Yours sincerely. |
| 29 |
| | Hath the pearl less whiteness |
| Because of its birth? |
| Hath the violet less brightness |
| For growing near earth? |
| 30 |
| | Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast, |
| And the heart, and the hand, all thy own to the last. |
| 31 |
| | How calm—how beautiful comes on |
| The stilly hour, when storms have gone, |
| When warring winds have died away |
| And clouds, beneath the dancing ray |
| Melt off and leave the land and sea, |
| Sleeping in bright tranquillity. |
| 32 |
| | How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, |
| And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, |
| For then sweet dreams of other days arise, |
| And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. |
| 33 |
| | How sweet the answer Echo makes |
| To music at night, |
| When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, |
| And far away, o’er lawns and lakes, |
| Goes answering light. |
| 34 |
| | I find the doctors and the sages |
| Have differ’d in all climes and ages, |
| And two in fifty scarce agree |
| On what is pure morality. |
| 35 |
| | If I speak to thee in friendship’s name, |
| Thou think’st I speak too coldly; |
| If I mention Love’s devoted flame, |
| Thou say’st I speak too boldly. |
| 36 |
| | In vain we fondly strive to trace |
| The soul’s reflection in the face; |
| In vain we dwell on lines and crosses, |
| Crooked mouths and short probosces; |
| Boobies have looked as wise and bright |
| As Plato and the Stagyrite |
| And many a sage and learned skull |
| Has peeped through windows dark and dull. |
| 37 |
| | It seem’d as if each thought and look |
| And motion were that minute chain’d |
| Fast to the spot such root she took, |
| And—like a sunflower by a brook, |
| With face upturn’d—so still remain’d! |
| 38 |
| | It was an evening bright and still |
| As ever blush’d on wave or bower, |
| Smiling from heaven, as if nought ill |
| Could happen in so sweet an hour. |
| 39 |
| | Just prophet, let the damn’d one dwell |
| Full in the sight of Paradise, |
| Beholding heaven and feeling hell. |
| 40 |
| | Life is a waste of wearisome hours, |
| Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns, |
| And the heart, that is soonest awake to the flowers, |
| Is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns. |
| 41 |
| | Like a young eagle who has lent his plume, |
| To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom, |
| See their own feathers pluck’d, to wing the dart, |
| Which rank corruption destines for their heart! |
| 42 |
| | Like ships that have gone down at sea, |
| When heaven was all tranquillity. |
| 43 |
| | Like tulip-beds of different shape and dyes, |
| Bending beneath the invisible west-wind’s sighs. |
| 44 |
| | Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d! |
| Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill’d— |
| You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, |
| But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. |
| 45 |
| | Martyrs! who left for our reaping |
| Truths you had sown in your blood— |
| Sinners! whom long years of weeping |
| Chastened from evil to good— |
| * * * * * |
| Say, through what region enchanted |
| Walk ye, in Heaven’s sweet air? |
| Say, to what spirits ’tis granted, |
| Bright souls, to dwell with you there? |
| 46 |
| | Music!—O! how faint, how weak, |
| Language fades before thy spell! |
| Why should Feeling ever speak, |
| When thou can’st breathe her soul so well? |
| Friendship’s balmy words may feign— |
| Love’s are even more false than they; |
| Oh! ’tis only music’s strain |
| Can sweetly soothe, and not betray. |
| 47 |
| | My birthday!—what a different sound |
| That word had in my youthful ears; |
| And how each time the day comes round, |
| Less and less white its mark appears. |
| 48 |
| | My only books |
| Were woman’s looks, |
| And folly’s all they’ve taught me. |
| 49 |
| | Never does a wilder song |
| Steal the breezy lyre along, |
| When the wind in odors dying, |
| Wooes it with enamor’d sighing. |
| 50 |
| | Not more the rose, the queen of flowers, |
| Outblushes all the bloom of bower, |
| Than she unrivall’d grace discloses; |
| The sweetest rose, where all are roses. |
| 51 |
| | Now in his Palace of the West, |
| Sinking to slumber, the bright Day, |
| Like a tired monarch fann’d to rest, |
| ’Mid the cool airs of Evening lay; |
| While round his couch’s golden rim |
| The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept— |
| Struggling each other’s light to dim, |
| And catch his last smile e’er he slept. |
| 52 |
| | O woman! whose form and whose soul |
| Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue; |
| Whether sunn’d in the tropics, or chill’d at the pole, |
| If woman be there, there is happiness too. |
| 53 |
| | O! ever thus from childhood’s hour, |
| I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay; |
| I never loved a tree or flower, |
| But ’twas the first to fade away! |
| 54 |
| | O, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! |
| Chosen leaf |
| Of bard and chief, |
| Old Erin’s native Shamrock. |
| 55 |
| | Oft in the stilly night |
| E’er slumber’s chain has bound me, |
| Fond memory brings the light |
| Of other days around me. |
| 56 |
| | Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere, |
| A boon, an offering heaven holds dear, |
| ’Tis the last libation Liberty draws |
| From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause. |
| 57 |
| | Oh! let not tears embalm my tomb, |
| None but the dews by twilight given! |
| Oh! let not sighs disturb the gloom |
| None but the whispering winds of heaven. |
| 58 |
| | Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy’d, |
| Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy’d! |
| 59 |
| | Oh, colder than the wind that freezes |
| Founts, that but now in sunshine play’d, |
| Is that congealing pang which seizes |
| The trusting bosom, when betray’d. |
| 60 |
| | Oh, for a tongue to curse the slave, |
| Whose treason, like a deadly blight, |
| Comes o’er the councils of the brave, |
| And blasts them in their hour of might—! |
| 61 |
| | Oh, the heart, that has truly loved, never forgets, |
| But as truly loves on to the close, |
| As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, |
| The same look which she turn’d when he rose. |
| 62 |
| | One of those passing rainbow dreams, |
| Half light, half shade, which fancy’s beams |
| Paint on the fleeting mists that roll, |
| In trance or slumber, round the soul! |
| 63 |
| | Our hearts, my love, were form’d to be |
| The genuine twins of sympathy, |
| They live with one sensation: |
| In joy or grief, but most in love, |
| Like chords in unison they move, |
| And thrill with like vibration. |
| 64 |
| | Our rocks are rough, but smiling there |
| The acacia waves her yellow hair, |
| Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less |
| For flow’ring in a wilderness. |
| 65 |
| | Playful blushes, that seemed nought |
| But luminous escapes of thought. |
| 66 |
| | Pleasure’s the only noble end |
| To which all human powers should tend; |
| And virtue gives her heavenly lore, |
| But to make pleasure please us more! |
| Wisdom and she were both design’d |
| To make the senses more refined, |
| That man might revel free from cloying, |
| Then most a sage, when most enjoying! |
| 67 |
| | Prayer moves the hand that moves the universe. |
| Holy beginning of a holy cause, |
| When heroes, girt for freedom’s combat, pause |
| Before high Heaven, and, humble in their might, |
| Call down its blessing on that coming fight. |
| 68 |
| | Rose of the desert! thus should woman be |
| Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee. |
| 69 |
| | Rose of the garden! such is woman’s lot— |
| Worshipp’d while blooming—when she fades, forgot. |
| 70 |
| | Rose! thou art the sweetest flower, |
| That ever drank the amber shower; |
| Rose! thou art the fondest child |
| Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild. |
| 71 |
| | Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side |
| In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? |
| Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, |
| If he kneel not before the same altar with me? |
| From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, |
| To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? |
| No! perish the hearts, and the laws that try |
| Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this! |
| 72 |
| | So life’s year begins and closes; |
| Days, though short’ning, still can shine; |
| What though youth gave love and roses, |
| Age still leaves us friends and wine. |
| 73 |
| | Steals timidly away, |
| Shrinking as violets do in summer’s ray. |
| 74 |
| | Sunflowers by the sides of brooks, |
| Turn’d to the sun. |
| 75 |
| | Take all the pleasure of all the spheres, |
| And multiply each through endless years, |
| One minute of Heaven is worth them all. |
| 76 |
| | That holy shame, which ne’er forgets |
| What clear renown it us’d to wear; |
| Whose blush remains when virtue sets, |
| To show her sunshine has been there. |
| 77 |
| | The glorious Angel, who was keeping |
| The gates of Light, beheld her weeping; |
| And, as he nearer drew and listen’d |
| To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten’d |
| Within his eyelids, like the spray |
| From Eden’s fountain, where it lies |
| On the blue flow’r, which—Bramins say— |
| Blooms nowhere but in Paradise. |
| 78 |
| | The harp that once through Tara’s halls |
| The soul of music shed, |
| Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls, |
| As if that soul were fled. |
| 79 |
| | The love of gold that meanest rage, |
| And latest folly of man’s sinking age, |
| Which, rarely venturing in the van of life, |
| While nobler passions wage their heated strife, |
| Comes skulking last with selfishness and fear |
| And dies collecting lumber in the rear! |
| 80 |
| | The rose distils a healing balm |
| The beating pulse of pain to calm. |
| 81 |
| | Then should some cloud pass over |
| The brow of sire or lover, |
| Think ’tis the shade |
| By Victory made |
| Whose wings right o’er us hover! |
| 82 |
| | There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, |
| When two, that are link’d in one heavenly tie, |
| With heart never changing, and brow never cold, |
| Love on thro’ all ills, and love on till they die. |
| One hour of a passion so sacred is worth |
| Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; |
| And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, |
| It is this—it is this! |
| 83 |
| | They may rail at this life—from the hour I began it, |
| I’ve found it a life full of kindness and bliss; |
| And, until they can show me some happier planet, |
| More social and bright, I’ll content me with this. |
| 84 |
| | Thinkest thou |
| That I could live, and let thee go, |
| Who art my life itself?—no—no. |
| 85 |
| | This narrow isthmus ’twixt two boundless seas, |
| The past, the future—two eternities. |
| 86 |
| | Thou art, O God, the life and light |
| Of all this wondrous world we see; |
| Its glow by day, its smile by night, |
| Are but reflections caught from Thee! |
| Where’er we turn thy glories shine, |
| And all things fair and bright are thine! |
| 87 |
| | Thou little know’st |
| What he can brave, who, born and nurst |
| In danger’s paths, has dared her worst! |
| Upon whose ear the signal-word |
| Of strife and death is hourly breaking; |
| Who sleeps with head upon the sword |
| His fever’d hand must grasp in waking. |
| 88 |
| | ’Tis not in fate to harm me, |
| While fate leaves thy love to me; |
| ’Tis not in joy to charm me, |
| Unless that joy be shar’d with thee. |
| 89 |
| | ’Tis sweet to think that where’er we rove |
| We are sure to find something blissful and dear; |
| And that when we’re far from the lips we love, |
| We’ve but to make love to the lips we are near. |
| 90 |
| | Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, |
| I’ll taste the luxury of woe. |
| 91 |
| | Well—peace to thy heart, tho’ another’s it be; |
| And health to that cheek, tho’ it bloom not for me. |
| 92 |
| | Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious and free, |
| First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea. |
| 93 |
| | What would the rose with all her pride be worth, |
| Were there no sun to call her brightness forth? |
| 94 |
| | When I remember all |
| The friends so link’d together, |
| I’ve seen around me fall, |
| Like leaves in wintry weather |
| I feel like one who treads alone |
| Some banquet hall deserted, |
| Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, |
| And all but he departed. |
| 95 |
| | When time who steals our years away |
| Shall steal our pleasures too, |
| The mem’ry of the past will stay |
| And half our joys renew. |
| 96 |
| | Where bastard Freedom waves |
| Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves. |
| 97 |
| | While her laugh, full of life, without any control, |
| But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul; |
| And where it most sparkled, no glance could discover |
| In lips, cheek or eyes, for it brightened all over— |
| Like any fair lake that the breeze was upon, |
| When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun. |
| 98 |
| | Whose hearts in every thought are one, |
| Whose voices utter the same wills, |
| Answering, as echo doth, some tone |
| Of fairy music ’mong the hills, |
| So like itself we seek in vain |
| Which is the echo; which the strain. |
| 99 |
| | With all my soul, then let us part, |
| Since both are anxious to be free; |
| And I will send you home your heart, |
| If you will send back mine to me! |
| 100 |
| | With what a deep devotedness of woe |
| I wept thy absence—o’er and o’er again |
| Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain, |
| And memory, like a drop that, night and day, |
| Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away! |
| 101 |
| | Yes—rather plunge me back in pagan night, |
| And take my chance with Socrates for bliss, |
| Than be the Christian of a faith like this, |
| Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway, |
| And in a convert mourns to lose a prey. |
| 102 |
| | Yet, no—not words, for they |
| But half can tell love’s feeling; |
| Sweet flowers alone can say |
| What passion fears revealing: |
| A once bright rose’s wither’d leaf, |
| A tow’ring lily broken— |
| Oh, these may paint a grief |
| No words could e’er have spoken. |
| 103 |
| A philosopher being asked what was the first thing necessary to win the love of a woman, answered, Opportunity! | 104 |
| Allowing everything that can be claimed for the superior patience and self-command of women, still the main solution of their enduring pain better than men is their having less physical sensibility. | 105 |
| Assurance never failed to get admission into the houses of the great. | 106 |
| But the trail of the serpent is over them all. | 107 |
| Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal. | 108 |
| Eyes of most unholy blue! | 109 |
| Gradual as the snow, at heaven’s breath, melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath, her lids unclosed, and the bright eyes were seen. | 110 |
| Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish: earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal. | 111 |
| How dear to my soul is the mild twilight hour! | 112 |
| Humility—that low, sweet root from which all heavenly virtues shoot. | 113 |
| It is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment without having a critic forever, like the Old Man of the Sea, upon his back. | 114 |
| It was whispered balm, it was sunshine spoken! | 115 |
| Like the plants that throw their fragrance from the wounded part, breathe sweetness out of woe. | 116 |
| Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smiled, the soul was lost. | 117 |
| Music!—O, how faint, how weak, language fades before thy spell! | 118 |
| Such eyes as may have looked from heaven, but never were raised to it before! | 119 |
| Sweet flowers alone can say what passion fears revealing. | 120 |
| That star on life’s tremulous ocean. | 121 |
| The cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. | 122 |
| The fresh and buoyant sense of being that bounds in youth’s yet careless breast. | 123 |
| The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touched by the thorns. | 124 |
| There are dreadful punishments enacted against thieves; but it were much better to make such good provisions, by which every man might be put in a method how to live, and so to be preserved from the fatal necessity of stealing and dying for it. | 125 |
| There is nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream. | 126 |
| There’s nothing true but heaven. | 127 |
| Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain. | 128 |
| This moment is a flower too fair and brief. | 129 |
| This narrow isthmus ’twixt two boundless seas. | 130 |
| Though an angel should write, still ’tis devils must print. | 131 |
| Though it is pleasant weaving nets, it is wiser to make cages. | 132 |
| Through the shadowy past, like a tomb-searcher, memory ran, lifting each shroud that time had cast o’er buried hopes. | 133 |
| ’Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone. | 134 |
| To sigh, yet feel no pain. | 135 |
| To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. | 136 |
| What a power there is in innocence! whose very helplessness is its safeguard: in whose presence even passion himself stands abashed, and stands worshipper at the very altar he came to despoil. | 137 |
| When pleasure, like the midnight flower that scorns the eye of vulgar light, begins to bloom for sons of night and maids who love the moon. | 138 |
| Where there is room in the heart, there is always room in the house. | 139 |
| Whose every little ringlet thrilled, as if with soul and passion filled! | 140 |
| Whose wit in the combat, gentle as bright, ne’er carried a heart-stain away on its blade. | 141 |
| Without one glimpse of reason or of heaven. | 142 |
| Young roses kindled into thought. | 143 |
| |
