Glass -dv 
 
 Book 
 
THE 
 
 Jh 
 
 GARDEN OF FLORENCE ; 
 
 &C. &C. 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE; 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY JOHN HAMILTON. V££±> 
 
 A,X£L<i 
 
 \ — "" 
 
 fes^*^ 
 
 LONDON: 
 JOHN WARREN, OLD BOND-STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXXI. 
 

 LONDON. 
 
 PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFR • A KS. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO 
 
 1. 
 
 This book is thine — this record of past hours; 
 
 This chronicle of feelings gone for aye ! 
 Thou 'It find a line or two about the flowers, 
 
 And words of welcome to the Lady May :-— 
 Think not with these I now abuse my powers, 
 
 I Ve learn'd at length to reverence Lady-day.- 
 These are old follies — as the time increases, 
 I give up drawling verse for drawing leases. 
 
VI DEDICATION". 
 
 2. 
 I will not tell the world that thou hast chid 
 
 My heart for worshipping the idol Muse ; 
 That thy dark eye hath given its gentle lid 
 
 Tears for my wanderings ; — I may not choose 
 When thou dost speak, but do as I am bid, — 
 
 And therefore to the roses and the dews, 
 Very respectfully I make my bow ; — 
 And turn my back upon the tulips now. 
 
 3. 
 1 11 give my goods up (which thou little dreamest) 
 
 To those who by their fair deserts have won them ; 
 My roses unto Mr. Bell the chemist, 
 
 My dews to Dr. Wells who hath written on them : — 
 Rather severe in thy decree thou seemest, 
 
 But as poetic objects I Ve undone them, 
 I have but to request the world will view 
 The lily and myself henceforth as two! 
 
DEDICATION. Ml 
 
 4. 
 There is some talk of fairies in my book, 
 
 (Creatures whose bodies have a doubtful title) 
 I once believed in them — and oft have shook 
 
 My boyish heart with thoughts that made me sigh, 
 till 
 Years stood like shadows in each leafy nook, 
 
 To parcel out the wilds in rood and pightle ; 
 There is some talk, I must confess, of fairies, — 
 I knew no better, — boys will have vagaries, 
 
 5. 
 Thou hast entreated me " to write no more," 
 
 To turn aside from the consuming art ; 
 And can I shun the voice that I adore, 
 
 The voice that hath an echo in my heart ? 
 Perchance a gentleman of twenty-four, 
 
 And upwards, should abandon verse in part, 
 And keep a house, and plunge in tax vexations, 
 And die, and leave a will for his relations. 
 
* m DEDICATION, 
 
 6. 
 
 I wish the world could know how young and bright 
 Thou art whose voice forbids me poesy; 
 
 And how thy cheek, June-born, doth take delight 
 In marring thy sweet caution : — oh ! to me 
 
 Thine eye is lustrous with the Muse's light, 
 And that which thou forbiddest is in thee : — 
 
 'Tis as the lily in some magic hour 
 
 Should speak, and warn the heart against a flower. 
 
 7- 
 But thy advice is law — so farewell, fairies ! 
 
 My soul against your glowing haunts I must ice, — 
 Fate, at a word, my course of study varies, 
 
 And brings me books in which a deal of dust is : — 
 Shakspearegivesplace to Blackstone's Commentaries, — 
 
 And Burns's Poems usher in Burns' Justice. — 
 I give a sigh (a trifle) to times past ; — 
 These are my latest verses, and my last. 
 
DEDICATION. IX 
 
 And as they are my last, — thou wilt not sigh, 
 That thus an offering from my heart to thine 
 
 I bring them, — as I pledged in hours gone by, 
 Craving thee to be kind to them as mine. 
 
 Now to the Lady Muse I bid good bye; 
 
 Poor soul ! the tears within her eyelids shine : 
 
 I kiss her hand, so sonnet sweet, and part :— 
 
 Well ! — be it so. — A blessing on her heart ! 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Many of the poems in this little volume, indeed 
 the greater part of them, have been written for 
 some years, and I very much fear that age has not 
 improved them. Modern poetry is not, perhaps, 
 bettered by being hoarded according to the direc- 
 tions of Horace; — for to be seen in its freshest 
 colours, it should be " worn in its newest gloss." 
 
 The stories from Boccacio (The Garden of Flo- 
 rence, and The Ladye of Provence) were to have 
 
XU ADVERTISEMENT, 
 
 been associated with tales from the same source, 
 intended to have been written by a friend ; — but 
 illness on his part, and distracting engagements on 
 mine, prevented us from accomplishing our plan at 
 the time ; and Death now, to my deep sorrow, has 
 frustrated it for ever ! 
 
 He, who is gone, was one of the very kindest 
 friends I possessed, and yet he was not kinder 
 perhaps to me, than to others. His intense mind 
 and powerful feeling would, I truly believe, have 
 done the world some service, had his life been 
 spared — but he was of too sensitive a nature — and 
 thus he was destroyed ! One story he completed, 
 and that is to me now the most pathetic poem in 
 existence ! 
 
 The Ladye of Provence is taken from one of 
 Boccacio's stories, and the original incidents are 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. XU1 
 
 pretty faithfully followed. The names have been 
 changed, for the reason given in the old epitaph ; 
 — Rossiglionc would not accommodate itself to 
 metre. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Dedication v 
 
 Advertisement . xi 
 
 The Garden of Florence ...... 1 
 
 The Romance of Youth 29 
 
 Devon 95 
 
 Song 104 
 
 Lines to a Valley 106 
 
 The Wood 110 
 
 Stanzas written in an Album . • . . 113 
 
 Matin-Song 116 
 
 Song 118 
 
 Sonnet, written under a Picture . . . . .120 
 
 Sonnet to with the two following . . .122 
 
 Sonnet to 124 
 
 Sonnet to the same 126 
 
 Sonnet 128 
 
xvi 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Sonnet on the Picture of a Lady 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 Epistle to — .... 
 
 To F B , aged three years 
 
 Song, written to a favourite air 
 The Ladye of Provence . 
 
 Pag 
 
 130 
 132 
 134 
 144 
 150 
 153 
 
THE 
 
 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
THE 
 
 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 FROM BOCCACCIO. 
 I. 
 
 I N the fair city of Florence, there did dwell 
 A young and sweetly favour'd damosel ; — 
 The daughter of mean parents, yet secure 
 Of that respect which stainless thoughts ensure. 
 -In quiet home she dwelt, adorning peace; — 
 She lived by patient carding of the fleece, 
 And spinning at her distaff cheerfully 
 From night to morn. — 'Twas beautiful to see 
 Her undetected spirit, as she sat 
 Singing to nought the work that she was at. 
 
 b 2 
 
* GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 The dark and natural tresses curl'd adown 
 Upon her easy shoulders,, where the gown 
 Was simply button'd. — And the roses came 
 Into the summer cheeks of that young dame ;— 
 And on her forehead white, the lilies did the same. 
 
 II. 
 
 She carded for her livelihood the wool ;— 
 
 And her so pretty hands were ever full 
 
 Of white supplies brought by the Florence youth 
 
 Who pined in numbers for her : — -Oh ! the South 
 
 Held, in their eyes, no other so divine ! — 
 
 Yet not to love did her young heart incline ; — 
 
 Though she was beautiful, and few of years, 
 
 No unhush'd hopes stirr'd strange and pulsing fears,- 
 
 Nor thoughts of deepening joy ran riot into tears ! 
 
 III. 
 
 So dwelt the fair Sirnonida, — so flew 
 
 Her hours betwixt the morn and evening dew; 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. O 
 
 She rose with laughing- spirit and light eyes, 
 
 Ate of her morning fruit with fragrant sighs, — 
 
 Said her young orisons with bowed heart. 
 
 And went all singing to her maiden art. 
 
 At night upon her pillow as she lay, 
 
 She dream'd anew the light dreams of the day, 
 
 And brake into fresh thoughts as innocent as they ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! why should such calm heart and such calm hours 
 Have Love's destroying hand among their flowers ! 
 Might they not live ? — Might not Simonida 
 Have her sighs spared to sleep, her lips to pray 
 Their white and morning prayers, her voice to rise 
 In choral sweetness with the lark i' the skies ? 
 No; she was young — bland — beautiful— and Care 
 Saw her — and loving one so young — so fair — 
 Disturb'd her sighs and gave a trouble to her prayer. 
 Ah pity 'tis that I must tell of wrong, 
 And harass with rude truth my even song ! 
 
6 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 V. 
 
 Pasquino, a young merchant — fair as young— ■• 
 Of noble carriage, eloquent of tongue, 
 And buoyant of his spirit as a child, 
 Came unto light Simonida — and piled 
 Her home with fleecy treasures for the wheel. 
 Oft — oft would she look up — and he would steal 
 To watch her at the distaff — and admire 
 Her fingers that till then seem'd ne'er to tire — 
 Her form of innocent beauty — lightly bent 
 Over the snowy woof — her eyes intent 
 Upon her pearl-fair hands, and the curl'd nests 
 Of hair that love had twined upon her breasts ! 
 And while she talk'd or sung, Pasquino linger'd — 
 And then the wheel would sleep! — the wool unfinger'd, 
 Seem'd indolently straying from her hand ! — 
 And silence held their lips in strange command. 
 He, started into memory — and caught 
 The quills of yarn her white — white hands had 
 wrought, 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 7 
 
 Made theft of what she spun — the simplest piece, — 
 
 And went away, — alone, — and kiss'd the fleece. 
 
 She — after idle gazings — would return 
 
 To her neglected wheel, and gently yearn 
 
 Over his cherish'd image, till her eyes 
 
 Were wet with tears that filPd them by surprise, 
 
 And from her dreaming heart arose unconscious sighs. 
 
 VI. 
 
 They met all innocence — and hope — and youth ; 
 And all their words were thoughts — their thoughts, 
 
 pure truth :— « 
 Every new day that pass'd, pass'd them the fleeter, 
 And hours though sweet were chased by hours still 
 
 sweeter. 
 Love had adopted them. The pillow now 
 Held a perplex'd and aching, dreamless brow — 
 Ah ! sleep alighted not on either's lid — - 
 The fever'd hand toss'd on the coverlid,— 
 
o GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 And all the patient dawning of the day, 
 The dimness — and the gleam — and the chilFd grey 
 Of the silver East were seen, while they all restless 
 lay! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh lovers are long watchers of the night I 
 Watchers of coiling darkness — of the light— » 
 Of the cold window-pane, whereon the moon 
 Casteth her sallow smile in night's mid noon-^- 
 Of the unwearied stars that watch on high, 
 As though there were lone lovers in the sky !— 
 Passion lays desolate the fields of sleep, 
 And wakes a thousand eyes to watch and weep. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But to my tale — how sadness creepeth o'er 
 My lingering measure of this antique lore ; — 
 It cometh onward a slow cloud, and forms 
 A gloom like that which prophesies of storms ! 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. V 
 
 IX ' 
 
 Pasquino one autumnal day sat near 
 The loved Simonida, and with deep fear 
 Trusted his tremulous passion to her ear : — 
 She, unaffected, gentle, pallid — shrunk, — 
 Her heart with its first draught of rapture drunk, — 
 Scarce daring to give credence to the words 
 That melted round her like the songs of birds ! 
 She droop'd an instant — gazed — perceived the truth 
 Bloom'd all at once through her confiding youth — 
 And all in tears confest her wishes blest — 
 And hid her face in blushes on his breast ! 
 He press'd her to his heart — her tresses fell 
 Like shadows o'er his hands — and such the spell 
 Of this full tenderness — he dared not move, 
 Lest his breast lose her cheek — lest passion prove 
 A dream — and he should break the enchantment of 
 his love ! 
 
JO GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 X. 
 
 But soon recovering into converse — they 
 
 Pledged o'er and o'er their hearts, — nor saw the day 
 
 Swoon o'er the yellow leaves, and from the sky 
 
 Through the wan West decay, — till hours gone by, 
 
 The father of Simonida came in, 
 
 From labouring in the woods where he had been 
 
 By day. Pasquino met him. The repast 
 
 His daughter brought, and many a sweet smile cast 
 
 Upon her lover, as she simply stored 
 
 The fruit, and homely viands on the board. 
 
 Night hurried on ; but ere Pasquino went 
 
 From his Simonida — he gently leant 
 
 His lip against her pearled ear, and said, — 
 
 " My love — to-morrow morn leave thou thy bed, 
 
 " And south of Florence meet me where the trees 
 
 " Of a most goodly garden fill the breeze 
 
 " With odours pleasant, for the olive there 
 
 " In fragrant beauty filleth the calm air." 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 11 
 
 She smiled a promise, press'd his hand, and closed 
 The door upon her lover, — and reposed ! 
 
 XL 
 
 The morrow was the Sunday. After prayer 
 She veil'd her forehead, and adown the stair 
 Went, by her father's leave, for she had said 
 The story of her love unvarnished : 
 First to Saint Gallo, for his pardon pure, 
 The damsel pass'd ; and then, serenely sure, 
 She met Pasquino, just as the fair sun 
 His golden sabbath-light had richly spun 
 Like a fine woof over the mellowing leaves 
 Of the autumnal trees. — Oh ! Love receives 
 Joy from the breath of morning, its own breath ; 
 The world— the world seems emptied all of death, 
 And hopes surround its orb one long and laughing 
 wreath ! 
 
12 
 
 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 XII. 
 
 They met — and kiss'd a welcome. — The first morn 
 On which their lips seem'd for each other born ! 
 She lean'd within his arm, on that new day, 
 And look'd content to lean her life away ! 
 Their eyes in married lustre could not part, 
 But, lighted by the radiance of the heart, 
 Shone on each other : — thus, — they idly cast 
 Their shadows on the laurels as they pass'd ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And sweet the laurel grew — that hallow'd tree, 
 With leaves that seem the leaves of song to be,— 
 Which never loseth its appareling, 
 But looketh constant of the undaunted spring. 
 And flowers were in that silent garden growing, 
 Of pleasant odours all and lustrous blowing, 
 That did enrich the air on which they fed, 
 And far around a light and fragrance spread. 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. i^ 
 
 The lofty foliage lent a tender gloom, 
 Like that which doth through holy buildings come,—- 
 Where, as adown the shafted aisles you stray, 
 The very silence seems to feel and pray; — 
 Such — and so beautiful was that high shade !— 
 The stretching roses o'er the pathway play'd, 
 And shook their bright dew at the lovers' feet, 
 Scattering those morning-pearls their steps to greet,— 
 And waving as they pass'd as though in reverence 
 
 meet. 
 All singing birds, the breaking sun, the theme — 
 Drew these young hearts along soft wandering in a 
 
 dream ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 There were delightful pledges — fair as they 
 
 Who met adoring on that dawning day ! 
 
 Soft voices clothing sweeter words, — and sighs 
 
 That brake, when words of tenderness would rise— 
 
 And looks of silent passion — and the press 
 
 Of married hands in happy tenderness ! 
 
14 
 
 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 The paths were still — save when the small bird threw 
 His morning notes around, like sprinkled dew, — 
 And even the bird's light voice but seem'd to wake 
 A hymn to silence, even for silence* sake ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 Could they not love so ever — ever stray ? 
 Ah, no such thing as time before them lay ! 
 They loved — and were together — and alone, — 
 The morn, with all its riches, was their own ! 
 They laugh'd — and linger'd, — they sat down — they 
 wander'd,— - . 
 
 Now spake — and now in gazing silence ponder'd ! — 
 
 » 
 
 A bed of sage was near them as they walk'd, 
 (Fit plant to match with that of which they talk'd !) 
 Pasquino, stooping, pluck'd a leaf, and play'd 
 With a saying of Old Crones — for dames have said 
 The sage-leaf whitens teeth — he laughing bit 
 The idle leaf, loosing his playful wit, 
 And saying, — " Sweet girl, I taste this leaf, to be 
 " More wise anon, than thus to worship thee ! 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 15 
 
 " Than thus to kiss thy pensive forehead, where, 
 
 u Like beauty's tent, falleth thy parted hair : — 
 
 " Doth it not blanch me, love ?"— he champ'd the 
 
 plant — 
 Amid his heedless talk — and pallid — faint — 
 He whiten'd at the leaf, — and sigh'd !« — His hand 
 Trembled in cold and fearful damp — A bland, 
 A dim expression of undying love 
 Went o'er his shiver'd cheeky — and then he strove 
 To kiss Simonida — and as he gave 
 That deathful kiss — that kiss cold as the grave ! 
 He curl'd with shuddering throe and withering clutch, 
 Like that frail plant which shrinketh at a touch ! 
 One shriek — no more — and lost Simonida 
 Feels at her feet a corpse — for there it whitening lay ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Stern — sternest sorrow ruffles not the mind — 
 Measureless grief seems bountiful and kind ! — 
 
16 
 
 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 It shakes no nerve — disturbs no tear — but leaves 
 
 The heart as calm as that which never grieves. 
 
 Simonida look'd down, and almost smiled — 
 
 She seem'd in heedlessness a very child : 
 
 She moved her lips, but did not speak — yet now 
 
 A trembling- moisture comes upon her brow, 
 
 And in cold horror, with outstretched hands 
 
 And livid eye and lip, she sternly stands : 
 
 She looks not on the body — knows it not— 
 
 The sense of all existence is forgot — 
 
 She hath no voice — her open eyes no light — 
 
 Her bosom is down sunk — her lips are ghastly white ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Yes ! — Grief will have its wretch, howe'er it stay 
 To fascinate at first its dismal prey ! 
 Truth waits to whisper in the desolate ear, 
 At the heart's pause, all that it would not hear. 
 The altering corpse of dead Pasquino brake 
 Her statue-like despair; — and she did make 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE, 1 7 
 
 The olive aisles of that still garden shade 
 Echo her shrieking voice — shrieking for aid ! 
 The frighten'd hollows of that shade returned 
 The shriek of agony, — and far off mourn'd ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Two lovers — happier lovers ! — chanced that day 
 To haunt those walks — and to make holiday 
 In pastoral recesses and calm air, 
 Such as to lovers are so matchless fair ! 
 They heard the shriek of woman — and they sped 
 To where Simonida, by the black dead, 
 In sobbing passion watch'd the altering frame. — 
 The gloomed forehead, and the neck the same — 
 And all death's hiding clouds that o'er youth's morn- 
 ing came ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Where is his gallant lip, his falcon eye — 
 
 His fair and thoughtful forehead — calm and high! — 
 
*° GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 His handsome gloomy locks of curled hair, 
 His warm embrowned cheek — his noble air 
 And deep melodious voice — so manly sweet ! 
 Is that dark wither'd body at her feet 
 All the remains of these ? — Simonida ! 
 Quit — quit the change ! — Oh turn thy troubled eyes 
 away ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 But now the morning deepen'd — the high trees 
 
 Warm'd in the climbing sun — and the quick breeze 
 
 Came heralding the golden light along; — 
 
 All — all around there was a noise of song ! 
 
 The crowding Florentines brake hurrying through 
 
 The clustering leaves and wreathing paths — and 
 
 knew, 
 And bare the deathlike creature from the place, 
 Where she lay link'd in terrible embrace ! 
 The black and sightless marks Pasquino bore 
 Betray'd a poison'd death — They sought no more, 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 1,9 
 
 But with wild accusation and harsh breath 
 Accused the pale girl of her lover's death. 
 Her ghastly look of silence and cold grief 
 Strengthen^ the Florentines in their belief: 
 And by those very laurels, which had worn 
 Two blended shadows on that sabbath morn, 
 Her solitary shape return'd, and gave 
 A shade like something wandering from the grave, 
 
 XXL 
 
 The dew was on the leaf, it look'd chill tears,— 
 
 Not pearls, as to the lover it appears ! 
 
 The hanging white rose shudder'd in the air, 
 
 As it were sick with grief, and pale with care ;— 
 
 The birds were painfully alive with song : — 
 
 She heard, — and, drown'd in grief, went silently along. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 She entereth patiently the palace gate, 
 And stands all tears before the Potestate ;— • 
 
 c2 
 
20 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 Her arms are cross'd upon her breast, her hair 
 Is scatter'd down her shoulders, — and her fair, 
 Her fair young- cheek is colourless and gone, 
 And her compressed lips seem whiten d into stone ! 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 And stone she might be deem'd, for slowly she 
 Harden'd into a youthful Niobe ! 
 In cold forgetful apathy she stands, 
 With steady fallen hair, and lifeless hands ! 
 Look in her eyes, — no troubled grief have they ! 
 No wild distraction doth her breast betray ! 
 Though one long sigh, at times, doth seem to throw 
 Out from her innermost heart its stifling woe- 
 Save this, — a statue standeth she, — while all 
 Feed their suspicions in the palace hall ; — 
 Suspicions deepen, — and the impatient crowd 
 From looks to whispers turn, — till clamorous, loud, 
 All becomes accusation, — and each tongue 
 Noises for vengeance on Pasquino's wrong ! 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 21 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The Judge, a passionless and aged man, 
 Look'd mildly on the creature, young 1 and wan, 
 That stood in unmoved gloom, — as forest pines 
 When winds are still, — before these Florentines, — 
 While turbulent thoughts, clothed in tumultuous 
 
 breath, 
 Clam our 'd of cruel hate and desperate death. 
 He heeded not each fierce report, — but turn'd, 
 And with a voice that seem'd like sound inurn'd, 
 Commanded silence :— silent were the crowd 
 Before his tone austere and visage proud ! 
 Potent in length of days and might of mind, 
 His very look could sway the people-kind ! 
 Then looking on Simonida, — some tears 
 Ran down his lined cheek, his cheek of years,—' 
 And pity on his awful brow just brake, 
 As morn first tinges night — and forth he spake, 
 
22 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 u We must cast rashness by : — this mute young 
 
 thing" 
 " Claims in her anguish, patient questioning. 
 " She looketh not of guilt, — and therefore ruth 
 " Should shield her sorrow, till the utter truth 
 " Appears by more than seeming circumstance.— 
 " Come, sad one ! Rouse thee from this troubled 
 
 trance ! 
 " The truth alone I seek, — till that be known 
 " (And may it still claim pity's gentlest tone !) 
 " I do vouchsafe thee the respect of all, 
 " That late have madden'd in this palace hall ! 
 " Now to the Garden of Florence, — there to see 
 " The dreary truth of what is told to me !" 
 And silently forth they went — the judge — the maid — 
 The hushed people — all ; — and through the shade 
 Of that romantic garden the wild throng press'd, 
 Crushing the flowers of beauty in their nest, 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 23 
 
 And breaking- branches down, until they found 
 Pasquino's body stretch'd upon the ground ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Back into consciousness Simonida 
 
 Started with hideous shriek. — Pasquino lay 
 
 Before her as she quitted him : — his face 
 
 Turn'd upward, — and his arms, as dropp'd from her 
 
 embrace ! 
 She knelt and kiss'd him; — kiss'd his dreadful cheek ! 
 And rising-, — with convulsive strength to speak 
 Strove; but her lips were fix'd with sorrow's weight, — * 
 And she but gazed upon the Potestate ! 
 
 XXVII, 
 
 He look'd on her with pity ; — her distress 
 Savour'd so little of the murderess, — 
 And then with gentle voice bade her to tell 
 Faithfully how Pasquino's fate befell. 
 
24 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 She shudder'd — but arousing, as from death, 
 And gasping all convulsedly for breath, 
 She to the bed of sage, — recounting o'er 
 Their walks — their conference — and their love be- 
 fore — 
 Went placidly, — and gathering there a leaf, 
 Told, in a voice broken by tender grief, 
 How he had mock'd her fondness with the saying 
 Of crones and dames prophetic ; — and delaying 
 A moment as in memory, — she applied 
 The sage-leaf to her teeth, champ'd it, and sigh'd 
 Over his treasured words of tenderness, 
 Repeating word for word in her distress, — 
 And pausing but his name most passionately to bless I 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The impatient people anger'd at the tale 
 Simonida told. " What ! shall this leaf prevail — 
 " A leaf her only refuge ! a poor leaf, 
 " The source of all this death-work and wild grief! 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 25 
 
 €< The adder hath a poison fang, but here, 
 u Here is the human adder — ah ! — a tear !— 
 c< In pity for thy young deceit weep — sigh, 
 " Sigh o'er thy serpent-heart's fidelity ! 
 " Let her have eager death ! — Let her be turn'd 
 cc Out to the ban-dogs ! — or be slowly burn'd 
 " Here in the Garden of Florence by the side 
 * Of him who by her bitter hand hath died !" 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 So raved the anger'd Florentines, — till they 
 Were awed and silenced by Simonida, — 
 Whose voice now dallying with her lover's name 
 In a low childish fondness paused and came ! 
 It weaken'd — and it weaken'd — and it stopp'd — 
 Her fluttering lips were voiceless — and down dropp'd 
 Her nerveless hands against her tremulous side — 
 She shriek'd — and, falling on Pasquino, died. 
 
26 
 
 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Oh, sweet — unfortunate lovers ! ye were young 
 And scarcely pledged of heart ! did ye belong- 
 To a sad or happy fate ? — Ah ! life's rude wars 
 Were taken from both, — auspicious were your stars 
 To end your mortal lives and fervent love 
 In one day's space ! Heaven hath ye both above ! 
 The pine your monument — the grass your bed — 
 Flowers, and the sweetest, at your feet and 
 
 head — 
 The sunlight, soften'd by the tender leaves, 
 Cast on your married cheeks — the air, that grieves 
 Through fragrant aisles, your chorister, — to bring 
 The fairy hymn around you of the spring. — 
 The rose to weep its cold and early tears 
 For ever in the youth of after years ! 
 All blessed be your memories and your rest — 
 Your short and joined fate hath been the best ! 
 
GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 27 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 In dark amaze, the terror-stricken crowd 
 
 Stood — till the Judge spake wondering*, — aloud,— 
 
 " What meaneth this ? — Is this the work of dreams ? 
 
 " My mind is dazed — Can it be what it seems ? 
 
 " I speak perchance the idle words of age, 
 
 " But venom seemeth in that bed of sage 
 
 " To dwell and do death-work ! — And yet 'tis said 
 
 " The sage is not of an infected bed ; — 
 
 M But let it be dug up, that it may be 
 
 " Burn'd for our Florentines' security !' 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The plants were torn out from the hideous bed, 
 
 And naked lay the murderer of the dead ! — 
 
 At the main root, a huge and gloomy toad 
 
 Sat in its earth'd and venomous abode, 
 
 Dwelling in poison, and infecting there 
 
 Each leaf with deadly taste. — None, none might dare 
 
28 
 
 GARDEN OF FLORENCE. 
 
 To approach the bright-eyed reptile — but each brought 
 Branches of scattered wood, and o'er him wrought 
 A funeral pile — the roots of sage were thrown 
 Into the heap — and all was burned down ! 
 
 XXXIIL 
 
 The lovers side by side were gently laid 
 
 In the Garden of Florence, — and the tenderest shade 
 
 Of waving trees hallow'd their pleasant tomb, 
 
 And wrapp'd it in a green and placid gloom. 
 
 The lonely nightingale and watching star 
 
 At eve for ever their companions are ! 
 
THE 
 
 ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 No greater misery can befall you in this life, than to become a 
 prey unto the world. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
Since this Poem was begun, many changes have 
 befallen its Author, and of such a nature as utterly 
 to prevent him from at present perfecting- his work. 
 The first Canto is however given to the public, as 
 it is complete in itself, so far as fable goes, and 
 contains all that may be called the dream of the 
 story. The Canto intended to follow would be one 
 more of realities, — carrying the hero of the poem 
 into the solid misfortunes and betrayals of the 
 world, and mingling him with its actual and 
 painful characters and events. Perhaps it may be 
 said that the stanzas now printed are too visionary 
 and descriptive— -too full of repose and repetition ; 
 and the Author must endure this charge, since he 
 is rash enough to come thus imperfectly before the 
 
32 
 
 world. If these stanzas be favourably received,, it 
 may yet be seen how far he is capable of giving the 
 passion itself of poetry, and not the mere picture 
 of it. 
 
 The plan of this poem came suddenly on the 
 Author's mind some few years back, at a time 
 when he was passing his hours in a most romantic 
 part of the country, — and when all his feelings 
 were devoted to poetry. At that time it was to 
 him " a dream and a glory." Since then he has 
 nearly experienced the change which the poem 
 describes. The world of imagination is darkened 
 by the shadow of the world of reality : — and the 
 dazzling colours of fancy have faded by degrees 
 into "the light of common day/' It was the 
 Author's intention to have shown how ruthlessly 
 discontent and a connexion with the world mar all 
 the beauty and bloom of youth ; how sad and how 
 distracted the heart becomes, when it is distorted 
 
33 
 
 from its innocent rapture and ingenuousness, and 
 impelled from its early romance into the bitterness 
 and severities of ripened life. The bright side of 
 the picture is here only given. 
 
 It has been observed by one or two intelligent 
 friends to whom this Canto has been shown, that 
 in its plan it reminded them at first of Beattie's 
 Minstrel. It is thought by the Author, that 
 such a resemblance could but appear on a first 
 and hasty glance, for every sequent part of the 
 story materially differs from that delightful work. 
 He is not conscious of being a plagiarist either in 
 his plot or his poetry; and he had no idea of the 
 Minstrel when he first conceived, and afterwards 
 composed his poem. He has described every thing 
 as well as he could, — the ideal as well as the posi- 
 tive : and he has not paused to'consider how others 
 turned their descriptions, while fashioning his 
 own. The reader will find some aged words 
 
34 
 
 scattered through the stanzas, which may per- 
 chance strike him as an affectation : the Author, 
 however, adopted them only when he considered 
 they simplified and strengthened the poetry: he 
 disclaims all affectation. The old language is full 
 of beauty ; and it has been well said by West in 
 one of his letters to Gray, that " Old words are as 
 " good as old gold, when properly chosen." In 
 this Poem there is, it is hoped, no peculiarity of 
 style : the Spenserian measure has been selected 
 because it is the richest and the most capable of 
 variety in the language. If a poet write from his 
 feelings, and trust to them for producing their own 
 expressions, he cannot do amiss. A poet ought to 
 be the farthest from a mannerist. Natural thoughts 
 and feelings will find their fitting language without 
 an effort; and it is to this instinctive style that 
 we are indebted for- all that is finest and purest in 
 poetry ; in the simple, the austere, the emphatic, 
 the beautiful. 
 
35 
 
 Enough, and perhaps more than enough, has 
 been said in explanation of this fragment, and of 
 the feelings that prompted its publication. The 
 Author must be excused in thus becoming his own 
 Fadladeen, but he could not resist an explanation. 
 If this Canto be read, — the conclusion of it may 
 follow : if it be disregarded, ee here the story ends." 
 And the Author will have reason to bless the 
 alienation of mind that baffled its completion. 
 
 d 2 
 
THE 
 
 ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 i. 
 
 There was a youngster boy of golden mind, 
 Not many years agone ; who with his mother 
 In humble house did sweet seclusion find ; 
 No other relative he had — no brother 
 To link him with mankind — no friend to smother 
 Fantasies wild and dim ; no sister young 
 To woo and win, far surer than another, 
 His nature from its dreams, and with sweet tongue 
 To scatter silver sounds his listening thoughts among. 
 
58 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 II. 
 
 His mother was a gentle woman, one 
 That could not thwart him, she did love him so ; 
 Her hopes did grow like ivy round her son, 
 And yet his dreaming mind did work her woe ; 
 She deem'd he would be happier, would he know 
 Less of the essences of things, — and less 
 Of solitary mysteries that throw 
 The mind upon itself. And he would press 
 Her hand, and say he would forsake all loneliness. 
 
 III. 
 
 But like the certain backward flow of rivers, 
 His thoughts would course again to their romance ; 
 And as the light upon the water quivers, — 
 So would his mind upon its wonders dance. 
 And he would sit for hours listening the prance 
 Of barbed steed, — watching the steeled knights, 
 That went in olden days with targe and lance 
 To succour ladies fair : such dazzling sights 
 Were unto him enchantment— magic to his nights. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 39 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh sunn'd romance ! Spirit of Spenser's song ! 
 Spirit of moonlight wolds — of ladies' eyes — 
 Spirit of high ethereal hearts that long- 
 To beat for ever ! — Spirit of golden skies — 
 And winter cloud, that like a giant lies 
 Slumbering in heavy gloom the livelong day :— 
 Spirit of love ! Sole light from Paradise 
 Brought by the wandering Two : — Ah who shall say 
 
 Our dreaming boy was wrong, who loved thy proud 
 array ? 
 
 V. 
 Some say that from the cradle he was prone 
 To strange delights, unlike his simple kind ; 
 That he did love to lie and be alone, 
 To creep from out his bed, when night was blind, 
 And listen at the window to the wind, 
 Singing in lofty elms; — to feed his eyes, 
 Which then were dark, and deep, and full of mind, 
 With sight of the wan moon in desert skies, 
 
 Tiil tears to those two orbs, like night stars would arise. 
 
40 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And as lie grew, when evening meekly came 
 With dusk feet to the earth, — he slily took 
 His supper to the wood, and eat the same 
 Beneath some towering pines, that blackly shook 
 O'er him their raven heads : and he forsook 
 All thoughts of home in that old forest throng, 
 Till the air dropt, and the unwearied brook 
 Told wooing stories as it coil'd along, 
 Winning him from dark thoughts of mystery and wrong, 
 
 VII. 
 
 The colour of his young years did not fade 
 With later ones, — but glow'd upon his heart 
 Even on the edge of manhood, — as the braid 
 Of light on morning's forehead bears its part 
 In making evening lovely ; — he would start 
 To hear the murmuring pine, as when a child : — 
 Oh Nature ! ever beautiful thou art 
 To those on whose young eyes thine own have smiled, 
 And of their youth, through thee, they never are be- 
 guiled. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 41 
 
 VIII. 
 He hung entranced o'er a few wild books 
 Of elder time, and made them living things ; 
 There was a music in his silent looks, 
 As left there from his soul's attuned strings ; 
 He gave up all dim walks — wood wanderings, — 
 And in his chamber sat as he had been 
 No living boy ; but there he framed him wings 
 To bear him o'er dim flowers and pastoral green, 
 And float him amid leaves, where Joyance lay serene. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His mother grieved ; — and he had surely pined 
 At her depression, — but he saw it not, 
 From his abstraction and romance of mind ; 
 But he did feel as one that wears, I wot, 
 With an o'erpowering presence ; for his lot 
 Was pain and melancholy ; — he did break, 
 Like one far gone in eld, — his hand grew hot, 
 And tremulous, and he of nights did wake, 
 Watching the stars their posts on skyey turrets take. 
 
4" THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 X. 
 
 u And those then are the spirits of olden time, 
 " Lingering about those regions blue and far ; 
 u The very thought doth shed feelings sublime 
 " Over my mind like light. That placid star 
 " Is Venus sitting in her pearly car ; 
 " How full of simple joy is her soft look ! 
 " How full of love ! No wild air seems to mar 
 " Her quiet locks — but all around are shook — 
 " As hers appear when seen in some unresting brook/* 
 
 XL 
 
 But illness lodged itself within his frame, 
 And made a leaden thing of his wild eye ; 
 It hung upon him like the thirst of fame, 
 But work'd within him deeper injury ; 
 His cheek grew hollow, and his press'd lips dry, 
 And o'er his limbs crept slothful lassitude ; 
 He look'd as one that must sink down and die, 
 For by the day he lay in languid mood, 
 And night was scarcely more filled up with solitude. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 43 
 
 XII. 
 Certes, it was right sorrowful to see 
 So very gentle and inspired a child 
 Wearing away as so it seem'd to be, 
 And going to his grave serene and mild : 
 The warrior's heart, that is so fiery wild, 
 Breaks — and a flood of glory streams around; — 
 But where youth in its quiet is beguiled 
 To the chill tomb — it doth the gazer wound ; 
 
 For there no beauty is — no breath — no sight — no 
 sound ! 
 
 XIII. 
 At night he felt a longing to be thrown 
 Into some forest dun, where trees were thick, 
 And water very cool : to make a throne 
 Of some quaint bank, and in a pleasant trick 
 Of idleness, a coronal to pick 
 Of lilies of the water for his head, — 
 And ever while his pulse was beating quick 
 With pain, he sweet things of the summer said, 
 
 And framed this little song, upon his midnight bed* 
 
44 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. 
 O melon-scented lily ! 
 
 O water queen of flowers ! 
 When shall I see the silver waves, 
 Dancing around thee, like sweet slaves 
 
 To Beauty in its bowers ; 
 When shall I take an earthly part 
 In honouring thy golden heart ? 
 
 O pretty rose autumnal ! 
 
 O fairy queen of trees ! 
 When may I trace thy gentle buds 
 Adorned with their emerald studs, 
 
 In their green palaces : 
 When see thy vernal velvet fall 
 Under thy ruby coronal ? 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 45 
 
 The sound of forest music, 
 
 The water song of streams, 
 Are become dim and strange to me, 
 As musings of old witchery ; — 
 
 But in my fitful dreams, 
 And in my waking weary hours, 
 Spirits come to me, as from flowers. 
 
 XIV. 
 Oh passion ! why art thou such madness ? Why 
 Dost thou so fatally thy progress speak ? — 
 Thou puttest out the light of a starry eye, — 
 And feedest on the beauty of the cheek ; — 
 Beneath thy ravages the heart is weak, 
 Yet woos thee and thy ruin with delight, 
 Loving its still destroyer, — like a meek 
 And quiet Indian woman, that in bright 
 And clinging flames, to Love resigns her gentle spright. 
 
4 " THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XV. 
 
 It was a pity, so it was/ that one 
 So framed to dwell in golden Arcady, 
 Should be left naked in a world so lone, 
 When all trace of those days hath ceased to be, 
 Save in some rich old page of poesy ; 
 He should have lived in elder days, and slept 
 With light luxurious creatures near a tree, 
 Or by the side of some warm stream, that crept 
 Through vales where never soul repined — or plain'd — 
 or wept. 
 
 XVI. 
 His health at length revived with warmer days, 
 And in the quiet sun his eye regain'd 
 Its mystic lustre, like the wave that plays, 
 After a storm, with golden glory stain'd. 
 Near to the open'd window he remain'd, 
 And read light stories of delightful times; 
 But when the day in laughing beauty waned, 
 He closed his book, and turn'd him from the rhymes, 
 To muse o'er fables old, and call up classic climes. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH, 47 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He read of story strange and fiction fair, 
 Of heathen deities, and shapes divine ; 
 Of girls with heaven-blue eyes and golden hair, 
 That over glassy waters lean'd to twine 
 Their tresses with the breathing jessamine ; 
 Of nymphs that mused, as though to marble turn'd, 
 Or upon green banks sweetly did recline, 
 When the sun westward through the foliage burn'd, 
 Waiting till Dian bright from the wood chase return'd. 
 
 XVIIL 
 
 And when her crescent through the branches play'd, 
 Sending a silver light, through the red glow 
 Of the setting sun, the nymphs from the green shade 
 Came all attendant; from her form of snow 
 They wreathed her ruffled locks, — and took her bow* 
 Which had so oft the air with arrows laced, — 
 And laid it in the leaves ; and bending low, 
 With pearFd and delicate fingers, quick unbraced 
 The sandals which the feet of that wood goddess 
 graced. 
 
48 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He mused o'er Psyche too,, the immortal maid, 
 Whom young Love woo'd and wafted to the sides, 
 She that so meek o'er the starr'd pavement stray'd 
 Of Jove's ether ial temple ; and that lies 
 Asleep with Cupid's lips upon her eyes, 
 Breathing all lovely visions o'er her sight : 
 She that stood gentle before Jove ; — the prize 
 Of youthful Love — while Ganymede the bright 
 
 Stood cloying the eagle's plumage with his hand of 
 light. 
 
 XX. 
 He read and dreamt of young Endymion, 
 Till his romantic fancy drank its fill ; 
 He saw that lovely shepherd sitting alone, 
 Watching his white nocks upon Ida's hill ; 
 The Moon adored him, — and when all was still, 
 And stars were wakeful — she would earthward stray, 
 And linger with her shepherd love, until 
 The hoofs of the steeds that bear the car of day, 
 
 Struck silver light in the east, — and then she waned 
 awav ! 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 4,9 
 
 XXI. 
 
 But these remembrances of heathen days 
 Fall on the riven heart and wearied brain 
 Like shadows of dim madness; the mind strays 
 Backward and backward for ideal gain, 
 Into the heathen world, — and not in vain,— - 
 For beings rise and crowd to it, and give, 
 Like creatures of the clay, a heavy pain, — 
 Nor will they cease, at word or wish, to live- 
 But still they crowd and wear, — how well soe'er we 
 strive. 
 
 XXII. 
 Soon as the boy could quit his weary room, 
 And bear him from the threshold to the air, 
 He did divert him from the sorry gloom, 
 With sight of much that sylvan was, and fair :-*— 
 The patient passion of a snowy pair 
 Of doves in an old wood, — the leaves, that seem 
 Disporting like green Eden-birds, where'er 
 The trees are light, — the linnet's joyous theme, 
 Sweet as a fit of sound from Music in her dream* 
 
 e 
 
50 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 He loved no earthly lady ; for as yet 
 He had not watched for beauty in the forms 
 Of his own kind : no eye of melting jet 
 Sway'd the wild hearings of his heart, the storms 
 Of rolling passion, — as the soft moon forms 
 And checks the sea-foam and the throbbing wave ; 
 But certes 'tis that wayward bo} 7 hood warms 
 In beauty's light at some strange hour : — the brave, 
 The cold, the stern, the wild, — can woman's eye en- 
 slave. 
 
 XXIV. 
 Oh ! who hath ever at his heart withstood 
 The deep still sweetness of a soft brown eye, 
 That seems in its own silent orb to brood 
 O'er visions of the inward mind, to lie 
 Circled with intellectual witchery ; — 
 And then the even forehead, all above, 
 As white and smooth as sheening ivory, — 
 On which rich tresses of the brown hair move ; — 
 Ah who hath gazed on these, nor given a sigh to love I 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 51 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Long raven hair, lying on ivory shoulders^ 
 And eyes with soft and dusky lashes shaded, 
 And snow-fair breast and brow, awe young beholders 
 Into still madness : — and one black tress braided 
 Along the silent forehead, hath invaded 
 Many a heart, and never pass'd away : — 
 A cheek, in which the inconstant rose hath faded, 
 Hath with pale beauty made enchanted prey 
 Of those who have been wild and heedless in their day* 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Calm forest evenings are divine delights, 
 To such as have been long in chamber pent 
 With clinging pain and unreposing nights, 
 And thoughts that lean towards madness for a vent : 
 The mind amid dim trees becomes unbent, 
 And the heart draws in store of quiet breath, 
 A silence melts, as from the firmament, 
 To temper stirring scenes and things beneath, 
 And blend the light of life with all the calm of death. 
 
 e 2 
 
52 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The forest found him every evening lending 
 
 His presence to its shades of happiness ; 
 
 There washe lonely, lingering, dreaming, wending, — 
 
 As though he were some form of airiness, 
 
 That came those solitary scenes to bless ; 
 
 To various glens, and nooks, and brakes he wander'd, 
 
 And he was very happy, as I guess; 
 
 For o'er his book in open air he ponder'd, 
 
 Or mused where one sweet stream through hidden 
 ways meander'd. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 Beside this viewless stream, all lonely weeping, 
 The delicate willow hung. Its silver stem 
 The birch sent up, like glossy serpent creeping 
 Out through the lofty foliage, — many a gem, 
 As dropped from heedless Flora's diadem, 
 Lay round the crooked roots. The ash was there 
 Strewing its tresses light — and near to them 
 The pine shook out its dark and dreary hair, 
 
 Under which all was wither 'd, worn, and wild, and 
 bare. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH, 53 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Yet ever underneath the crowning leaves. 
 The water lapsed along,, as 'twere enjoying 
 To be alone on soft and silent eves, 
 The listening solitude with lulFd notes cloying : 
 It won the lone boy's ear, all gently buoying 
 His heart up in the silence as on wings ; — 
 All that was rude, and restless, and annoying, 
 Seem'd charm'd away, as when some spirit sings 
 On starlight nights to soothe young poets' wanderings, 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Within the very middle of that wood, 
 A little lake on grassy banks did lean 
 Its joyous waves of silver ; — and a brood 
 Of water lilies all around were seen, 
 Sitting in fragrance on their broad leaves green ; 
 Flowers of the fairest on the margin grew, 
 And rose-trees, with young lilac trees between, 
 Circled the still lake buddingly, and threw 
 A floating foliage there, that took a soften'd hue. 
 
54 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And there two swans did lay their bosoms white 
 Amongst the lilies, — or serenely go, 
 Ereasting the water into wreaths of light, 
 Which spread around like halos, and below, 
 Their well mock'd images did softly glow 
 Like melted marble : — or they stilly furFd 
 In idlesse fair their wings of woven snow, 
 Or on their backs their necks gracefully curl'd, 
 And there like spirits sat upon their silvery world, 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The 'fisher sets its little breast afloat, 
 Dying the wave it touches sweetly blue ; — 
 It doth resemble an Italian boat, 
 Launch'd on the water by some lover true, 
 And all deserted by an idle crew ; — 
 It loves to creep among the reeds, and show 
 Between those restless bars the azure hue 
 Of its rich plume, — and on the wave below, 
 As tribute from its breast, a feather blue to throw. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 55 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 The fish that to and fro were glancing there, 
 Did mock the mind with fancies ; they would seem 
 Like shooting lights piercing the moonlight air,— 
 Or like swift spirits seen in some frail dream ; 
 Or youthful poets, viewing them, might deem 
 They were quick thoughts, — or that young fairies 
 
 sent 
 Their silver arrows lightly through the stream ; — 
 And whilst above the water flowers they leant, 
 They gleam'd like distant stars in the dim firmament. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The gay fly hover'd o'er the water clear, 
 And seem'd in its rich shade a pride to take; 
 The lilies of the valley growing near, 
 Look'd at their sister lilies of the lake, 
 And meekly droop'd ; the deer that came to slake 
 Its thirst at that fair water, — with a start, 
 Leap'd from the shadow which his form did make, 
 And, through the lilac branches, breaking apart, 
 W ent like the wind in all its wantonness of heart. 
 
56 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Up sprung the goldfinch from the covering grass, 
 And wing'd its way into the nearest bower ; 
 And there it sat twinkling within the mass 
 Of playful leaves, where the blithe roses cower 
 Like fairy birds, — itself a feather'd flower, — 
 A winged blossom sparkling in the shade : 
 The shadows fell upon it in a shower, 
 Gentle green shadows by the foliage made, 
 Which o'er its plumage rich, like dappled sunlight, 
 playd. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 He sometimes heard the sound of distant flute, 
 Breath'd by some happy, homeward wending wight; 
 Its mellow music did his spirit suit, 
 And seem'd fit prelude to a summer night. 
 He stretch'd along his boyish figure light, 
 And in romantic idlesse, took each tone 
 Into his heart of hearts, — his eyes waxed bright, 
 And imaged music; when the flute had flown, 
 He heard its echoes die across the forest lone. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. $7 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 As thus he lay his listless form along, 
 Amid the pleasaunce of a bed of grass, 
 He nursed his nature with the hollow song 
 Of the gloss'd blackbird, who in one rich mass 
 Heaved out his soul of song. Then would he class 
 The lays of lesser birds, shed from the spray 
 That o'er him grew. And as the bee would pass, 
 Humming its music on its airy way, 
 He watch'd its little wings spin in the evening ray. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 And could there then be aught of wonderment, 
 That our enthusiast should be aye delaying 
 In this enchanted spot ? — a vernal tent 
 Was ever o'er him, and his heart was straying 
 In endless journeys of green joyaunce, laying* 
 Its little plans of fairy life to come; 
 And all his light and rising thoughts arraying* 
 In fair romance. The evening's latest gloom 
 Came down ere he would bend his wayward footsteps 
 home. 
 
58 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Why should the world lay iron chains upon 
 A youngster boy of such a golden mind ? 
 Are there not men enough with hearts of stone, 
 And eyes to nature's emerald beauties blind, 
 To work the tasks and evils of their kind ? 
 Oh ! let the etherial dreamer wander free, 
 As over meadows goeth the light wind, 
 To nooks which shadows are of Arcady, 
 And dells which are as deep and sweet as dells may be ! 
 
 XL. 
 One eve, the sun was down the west sky sinking, 
 And hyeing like a bridegroom to his bed ; 
 The deer was at the lake, timidly drinking, 
 Before he couch'd him for the night — his head 
 And branching horns with setting rays bright red; — 
 Full late the gnats did weave their dance, I ween, 
 And the stern dragon-fly as swiftly sped, 
 As arrow from the bow ; — our boy did lean 
 Near to the lake, entranced at such an evening scene. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 59 
 
 XLL 
 
 A fairy book was idly in his fingers 
 Half open, — he had read its wonders well — 
 Of azure birds that are enchanted singers, 
 And dancing water from a guarded well; 
 Of shepherd princess, and what her befel ; 
 And of her lover from the eagle's nest ; 
 Of many marvels which I may not tell, 
 If in my bed I ever hope to rest, 
 Though why, I cannot guess; but fairies know the best. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 But tales of faery are splendid things, 
 When gather'd in our childhood ; they remain 
 Like dew eterne in our rememberings, 
 Freshening the mead of memory from the pain 
 Of wither'd thought ; a deep romantic strain 
 Of music are they sounding through our days ; 
 Who can forget the White Cat, and her train 
 Of magic hands ? The Royal Ram ? The ways 
 Finetta went on th' Ogre's dazzling house to gaze ? 
 
60 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 And Princess Fairstar is a silver name, 
 From whose long* hair the combed emeralds fell ; 
 And Beauty, who in luckless hour became 
 The bride of dreary Bear : — but how I dwell 
 With gossip fondness upon fairy spell ! 
 Where is the boy ? Still lying- near the lake, 
 But o'er his ears there steals a honey swell 
 Of music, as though spirits were awake, 
 
 And he with thrilling joy doth start, and list, and 
 quake. 
 
 XLIV. 
 He quaked indeed, — he listen'd long, — he started, 
 A ray of light shot upward from the core 
 Of the water lilies, — and they spread, and parted, 
 And then the light increased more and more ; 
 And fainting sounds of sweetness kiss'd the shore, 
 And swoon'd upon the water. All afloat 
 And restless were those flowers with their bright 
 
 store 
 Of fairies, — for at every mellow note, 
 
 A small and dazzling form stood in each silvery boat. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. (Si 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Much doth it wonder me that I can keep,, — 
 I who do weave this mystic history, — 
 My constancy and ardency from sleep ; 
 So high the state of elfin pageantry ! 
 And I should surely stagger drooping! y 
 Under the magic beauty, — but I place 
 A steady trust in what did flit to me 
 In fitful visions of the fairy race, 
 When I was young*, and smiles inhabited my face. 
 
 XLV I. 
 
 Since childhood (and not yet hath past my youth), 
 Trouble hath haunted me in many a form; 
 In my first trial on this world uncouth, 
 And in my springing feelings, early warm ; 
 And home-affliction fell, that direst storm 
 That breaks upon us ; and my health gave way, 
 As whispering in mine ear, " the worm — the worm;" 
 But one gold heart chased all the gloom away, 
 And rose, an earthly sun, upon my bettering day. 
 
62 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XL VII. 
 Partly a love of fame — partly the love 
 Of poesy for its dear self — but more 
 To gladden one soft spirit — do I move 
 Along this curious path of fairy love : 
 If my Muse be upon Oblivion's shore, 
 And, after all her flower sweet pastime ends, 
 She must be gulph'd in the drear sea, — her store 
 Toss'd on Lethean waves, — my nature bends, 
 And takes the desolate fate the world so coldly sends. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Ah ! can such careless lay as this endow 
 My life with lustre,— giving up my name 
 Within the portal, like a flower to blow, 
 Decking the eternal temple of old Fame ? 
 My song is lowly, and good sooth I shame 
 To offer it, where many are so fair : — 
 But yet Simplicity, though aye the same, 
 May not in every heart so badly fare, 
 And certes higher bards my little lay may spare. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 63 
 
 XLIX. 
 But why do I delay ? — Ah, why indeed 
 " Dally with faint surmise/' — when I should haste 
 To quaint delights which I might win, and lead 
 In silver links of poesy : I waste 
 My time in idle prattlement, and taste 
 Every strange cup that is held up to me : — 
 Now be my soul unto its purpose braced, 
 Not wandering every where, as chance may be, 
 But lingering with my small and lily company. 
 
 L. 
 
 The waves did melt and part before those flowers, 
 Which bent them like the gentlest boats to land ; 
 And as scared roseleaves flit from summer bowers, 
 These small and pretty spirits, each with wand 
 Of crystal brightness in its pearly hand, 
 Pass'd to the grassy quiet of the shore ; 
 The verdure silver'd underneath that band 
 Of fays, in spots of softest lustre, more 
 Starlight and sweet than aught in palaces of yore ! 
 
64 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Amid that airy elfin company, 
 There were the prettiest shapes that e'er were seen; 
 Spanlong and very sightly to the ee, 
 And young* as one night's dewdrops are., I ween ; 
 And they as light upon the grass did lean, 
 Listening to lone sounds waken'd in the air 
 From lutes etherial ! — more emerald green 
 The grass became, rejoicing calmly there 
 In creatures of romance, so radiantly fair. 
 
 LII. 
 
 The freckled cowslip sprang, but meekly droop'd 
 In those most tremulous starry presences : 
 Wreaths of the odorous eglantine were loop'd 
 From spray to spray of all the youthful trees : 
 Blossoms as white as foam of coursing seas 
 Studded the grass and leaves ; — and all about 
 The gold and purple breast of the heart's-ease 
 Did offer resting spots to that quaint rout, — 
 And rosebuds in the air for a fairy's kiss did pout. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 65 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Out peep'dthe snowdrop, though 'twas summer time; 
 How could it from such revels be away ? — 
 Although it was oppress'd with the warm clime, 
 Still it look'd beautiful in its array, 
 And lonely as the budding star of day ! — 
 All these bright flowers were one night's ornament, 
 Born in the fairies' breath, to pass away 
 Even with their vanishings, — by Flora lent 
 To make for sportive fays the deckings of their tent. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Th' enthusiast gaz'd, like one bewildered 
 And breathless with immortal vi sitings, — 
 He sat in chill delight ; nor stirr'd his head, 
 Lest all should pass away like shadowy things ; 
 Now would his eye be dazed with the wings 
 Of spangled fay, hovering o'er blossom white; — 
 And now he listen'd to lone thrilling strings 
 Of magic lutes— and saw the harebell, bright 
 In its blue veins, for there nestled a form of light. 
 
66 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LV. 
 
 One blew a honeysuckle trumpet well, 
 And made young martial music, till it laugh'd — 
 And in its mirth flew sparks unmatchable 
 Of light around ; another, with sweet craft, 
 Stole from some careless fay its cup, and quaff d 
 The dew-wine to its depth, — then amid weeds 
 Hid the small crystal goblet : — oft a shaft, 
 Made of the film taken from water-reeds, 
 Did flit across the air, and pierce the lilac's beads. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Under the shadow of a May sweet blossom, 
 Two placid elves, like linked sisters, chased 
 The moments with the heaving of the bosom 
 In happy sleep : their arms were interlaced, 
 And their bright cheeks commingling seem'd to taste 
 Each others rosy beauty : overhead 
 A bee, that had been trammel'd in his haste 
 That magic eve, a lulling murmur bred ; 
 And dewy leaves a hymn to sylvan quiet shed. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 67 
 
 LVII. 
 
 A wand was waved through the charmed air, 
 And up there rose a very costly throng 
 Of ivory tables, stored with dainties rare, 
 At sight of which e'en dieted men might long : 
 They rose amid strange minstrelsy and song, — 
 And there was pheasant from enchanted wood, 
 And swan from fairy stream, — and these among, 
 Were chalices of Eastern dew-wine, brew'd 
 By pearly hands in far Arabian solitude. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 And golden berries, steep'd in cream, were soon 
 Brought there from stores in Asian palaces ; 
 And from the lonely Mountains of the Moon, 
 From which swarth Afric's serpent-river frees 
 Its wily head, — fish, stranger than the seas 
 Hold in their deep green wastes, to the bright feast 
 Were brought in coral dishes by streak'd bees ; 
 And fruit, the very loveliest and the least, 
 Came from young spangled trees in gardens of the East. 
 
 f 2 
 
68 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 There was good store of sweet and sheening" cherries, 
 Gather'd from trees that under water grew 
 In mystic orchards, — and the best wood-berries 
 That blush in scarlet ripeness through the dew, — 
 And tiny plums, round, and of blooming* blue, — 
 And golden apples of a fairy size, — 
 And glossy nuts, the which brown squirrels drew, 
 Eying them longingly with sly dark eyes, 
 And stealing when they could a little hazel prize. 
 
 LX. 
 
 The glowworms waited on the fairies' mirth, 
 And when the stars of heaven were all asleep 
 They lamp'd the grassy chambers of the earth, 
 And in an emerald light the air did steep : — 
 Such tears perchance the happy angels weep 
 Radiant with joy. — They gave the quiet green 
 A richness, as though wonders from the deep 
 Were cull'd and cast there in unsullied sheen, 
 To glitter for a night, and never more be seen ! 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 69 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The boys dark eyes were drunken with th' excess 
 Of wonder, and of beauty, and of joy ; 
 His hands each other closely did caress, — 
 Within his lips, his sighs were strangely coy, 
 And could not venture forth ; — the heart's annoy 
 Was its own haunting pleasure : — who would not 
 Have been on such a night that dreaming boy, 
 Though madness from that hour should be his lot, 
 Madness of heart and brain, in dungeon dim and hot ? 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Ecstasy is a honey-kind of madness — 
 A sweet delirium of th' entranced brain ; — 
 It is a beautiful bewilder'd gladness, 
 That hath a heightening portion of faint pain, 
 Born of the heart's intenseness. They who drain 
 Apollo's golden fruit of sunny wine, 
 Are sure of it, as is the hoary main 
 Of its old rage in storms : — the crystalline 
 Enchantments which he saw, made the boy nigh divine. 
 
70 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 The evening's roses in the sky departed, 
 And their falFn leaves lay scatter'd in the West ; 
 The clustering fays, so light and merry-hearted, 
 All tow'rds the water's snowy margent press'd ; 
 The swans came gliding from their reeded nest, 
 And bow'd their serpent necks before the throng; — 
 Suddenly fairy voices broke the rest 
 Of the charm'd air, — and sent, the waves along, 
 To their advancing queen a welcome and a song ! 
 
 FAIRY SONG. 
 
 1. 
 
 See, see ! the evening dies, — 
 See, see ! the stars arise, — 
 Sweetly do they wake and cluster, 
 Shaking from their hair a lustre : 
 Are they fairer than our eyes ? 
 Or happier in their paradise, 
 Than we, who drink the dew, and kiss 
 Every pretty flower that is? 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 71 
 
 2. 
 Stars ! — they sleep in azure hall, 
 And palaces etherial ; 
 We in lily cups repose, 
 Or in the leaflet of a rose : 
 They perpetual brightness hold, 
 We, like them, can ne'er grow old. 
 Are they merrier than ourselves ?— 
 Elves are stars, and stars are elves. 
 
 3. 
 In water's coral paths we wander, 
 And tease gold-fish, as they meander 
 Through their quiet element; 
 And sleep at night in wavy tent :— 
 They in a cerulean sea 
 Bathe in silent liberty ; 
 Or haunt the strange and milky river, 
 That through wide Heaven doth stray and 
 quiver. 
 
72 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH, 
 
 4. 
 
 Hark ! the Dragon fly — our Queen 
 
 In her boddice, dimly seen, — 
 
 In her robe of gossamer, — 
 
 In her beauty, — brings with her 
 
 A crowning presence for our night : — 
 
 So with dress of silver light, 
 
 And motion that no silence mars, 
 
 The Moon glides in among the stars. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Across the sleeping water's charmed levels 
 The hailed Queen came in a curved shell, 
 Drawn by two tiny swans to those quaint revels, 
 Swans that were whiter than the snowdrop's bell, — 
 And small as wrens : their lifted wings did well 
 Mantle their wreathing necks: — at first they seem'd 
 To be reflections, wrought by fairy spell, 
 Of those two birds that all the summer dream'd 
 Over the sylvan waves in which their bosoms gleam'd. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 7^ 
 
 LXV. 
 
 And very beautiful was that young- queen, 
 Even to the eyes that were with beauty cloy'd ; 
 Within her shell-car did she sit serene, 
 Lightly across that happy water buoy'd; 
 The very air her countenance enjoy'd, 
 Kissing* its sister roses. On her brow, 
 The fair and fairy ringlets gently toy'd, 
 And all around that brow did violets grow, 
 Or so in sooth they seem'd, so freshly did they blow. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Her boddice was a pretty sight to see ; 
 Ye who would know its colour, — be a thief 
 Of the rose's muffled bud from off the tree, 
 And for your knowledge, strip it leaf by leaf, 
 Spite of your own remorse or Flora's grief, 
 Till ye have come unto its heart's pale hue, 
 The last, last leaf, which is the queen — the chief, 
 Of beautiful dim blooms: — ye shall not rue, 
 At sight of that sweet leaf, the mischief which ye do. 
 
74 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 She glided to the earth from her small car, 
 As though she were of air, or e'en more light ; — 
 That swan-drawn shell did vanish like a star, 
 That falleth from the steady heavens at night :— 
 Ah ! fairy queen, why is thy form so bright ? 
 Why are thine eyes so fair? Can mortal be 
 Safe in his regular pulse to have the sight 
 Of beauty so divine ? Ah ! quickly flee,— 
 Or less etherial seem, — or others make like thee. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 The mortal heart that at those revels beat, 
 Beat quicker at that fairy loveliness, 
 Which shone on such small cheek so passing sweet, 
 And look'd perfection in each coiling tress : 
 He sigh'd within him, — half in gloominess, 
 Feeling the fetters of his mortal state, 
 Which chain'd him to the earth ; his earthy dress 
 He fain would have thrown off, for such stern weight 
 Was iron on his soul : — he could not change his fate— 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 75 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Or lie had been a creature of the air, — 
 A haunter of the cowslips, — and the caves 
 Of blue and breath-sweet flowers, — a lingerer where 
 That fairy spirit lingerd ; in the waves, 
 If she were in them, making golden slaves 
 Of beauty-tinged fish, — or from the herd 
 Of lilies taking the whitest one that laves 
 Its snow-leaves, for a car; — and when grass stirr'd, 
 Hunting and yoking well the spotted lady-bird. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 But he was of the earth, on which he lay, 
 And must his lot, however hard, abide ; 
 Breath was awarded him, and he must stay 
 The time of its departure : — but he sigh'd, 
 With unsure wistfulness and baffled pride, 
 At what he was, and what he might have been ! 
 Still joy again came o'er him, when he eyed 
 The beauty and the motion of that queen,— 
 For she advanc'd with step the lightest ever seen. 
 
76 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 We are eternal piners after change ; 
 Ah, woe is me ! we never are content : — 
 There's earthly joy for earthly hearts; — and strange 
 It is, that we are with dejection pent 
 In our own wishes. — Beauty ne'er was sent 
 To make us wretched, — and yet wise men say, 
 This life is all of pain, — that we are bent 
 With misery, as with old age, for aye ; 
 But we our own dark sorrows make, ah, well a day ! 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 The Fay-queen stood before the mortal youth, 
 With smiles of dangerous and deep tenderness ; 
 Yet in her eyes there something was of ruth, 
 A sweet embalming of the boy's distress : — 
 She meekly smil'd, and then she did address 
 With birdlike voice his young enchanted ear ;— 
 Such magic tones faintly our senses bless 
 About the mellow May-time of the year, 
 When happy hearts, like trees, all blossoming appear. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 77 
 
 LXXIII. 
 " Enchanted boy ! Thy mind hath won for thee 
 " Sights all unearthly and most beautiful. 
 " No mortal eye on forms of faery 
 " Hath ever glanc'd before : — the spirit dull 
 " Ne'er dreams of us ; — but thou shalt never cull 
 " A cowslip, but a fairy shall be there ; 
 " Let what thou see'st to-night i;hy nature lull 
 " Into contentment, — come at eve, and share 
 <c Th' enjoyments of my elves which are for ever fair/' 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 " Seek not the world. The magic of thy mind 
 " Was wrought in innocence, and will be lost 
 " In that pernicious storehouse of mankind, 
 " Where hearts, in calms, are broken, aye — or tost 
 " Unfriended in the storms. Be it thy boast 
 " To live but simply happy: — light and joy 
 " And youth are thine with us, — but at thy cost 
 " Close with the poisonous world; it will destroy 
 " Mirth, fire, and hope, and feeling, magic boy ! 
 
78 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 " But time it is to break the revels up, 
 u And time it is to tread, — not upon earth f — 
 So saying, quickly vanish'd fruit, and cup, 
 And fay, and every thing of fairy birth. 
 Without them, the boy's heart felt a strange dearth 
 Of objects for his thought : the queen had gone, — 
 And then all other things were little worth 3 — 
 But late and lovely had the night come down, 
 And he was very rapt, and he was all alone. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 He look'd up to the sky, which quickly threw 
 A life into his mind. The stars were light, 
 Sprinkling the skiey fields with heavenly dew, 
 Or gemming well the raven hair of night : 
 From earth he sent his spirit on its flight, 
 To dream, wandering amidst them ; and there came 
 A thought to him, that as those orbs were bright, 
 Brighter in darkness, — he might be the same. 
 And in a gloomy age make starlight of his nam<*. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 79 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 And glorious is the fate of him who rears 
 His name as a proud column on the earth, — 
 Round which the withering tempest of long years 
 Lingers, yet leaves it strong as at its birth. 
 It keeps high splendour. Never is there dearth 
 Of those who bend to it as glory's goal ; 
 To thousands it gives elevated worth, 
 And points the pride of spirit. 'Mid the roll 
 Of dangerous times it stands, the landmark of the soul. 
 
 LXXVIIL 
 
 " My heart, all youthful, hath one passion towering 
 " O'er all the other passions — 'tis for Fame ! 
 " Whatever storms around my head be lowering, 
 " Still be endurance high, — and hope the same. 
 " It is the diet of my heart — the aim 
 " Of my full spirit — and let others lie 
 " The while the rust of time creeps o'er their name, 
 " Wearing it from the world for aye, — while I 
 a So consecrate my name, that it shall never die. 
 
80 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 <e Were it not glorious at one vigorous bound 
 u To spring, all life, upon the wings of Time, 
 " And never more to touch the soiling ground, 
 " But float for ever, and through every clime, 
 " The wonder of all lands ? Oh, flight sublime ! 
 " Give me but this, — and I will throw this form 
 " Back to its fellow earth, that cannot climb : 
 " What matters that the body glut the worm, 
 " So as the spirit flies proud o'er each worldly storm R 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 So sigh'd our lonely deep enthusiast, 
 While stretch'd upon his old ancestral earth ; — 
 Ah ! wheresoever we are call'd or cast, 
 Still have we yearnings of immortal birth ;— 
 Which whether they be well or nothing worth, 
 Are yet the eagles of the lofty mind : — 
 So in that old — old wood — amid the dearth 
 Of natural sounds he did unhood, unbind, 
 His falcon soul, whose wing was wilder than the wind. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 81 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Good heaven ! it was a very blessed night, 
 And dull with beauty ; — all things were at rest : 
 From the wide heavens to the green leaves light, 
 Slumber reign'd heavily. On the lake's breast 
 Sleep sat, and all its heaving heart oppress'd : 
 A silence lean'd along the lifeless air, 
 And nature bow'd beneath it, and was bless'd. — 
 The enthusiast rose and homeward did repair, 
 
 With loitering feet, — and mind that stray 'd it knew 
 not where. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 'Tis the first breathing mellow morn of May,— 
 The rose of months, — the violet of the year ; — 
 Stepping in blossoms white, a virgin day, 
 To feed our eyes with sweetness ; — not severe, 
 But gentle is her cheek : — and smiles appear 
 On mine, while I am writing, to behold 
 Her presence o'er the silver clouds, and here 
 To feel her very breath, that laughs all cold 
 
 To scorn. — Ah ! can the heart that tastes it e'er 
 grow old ? 
 
82 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LXXXIIL 
 It will not ; for the heart is not for age, 
 That hath most deeply revell'd in the May ; 
 It carries youth along, — like a light page 
 Attendant on a lover, — to the day 
 Of regular death. The first spring flowers that play, 
 Dance through all years in the eternal mind ; 
 And I, who now am sitting in the ray, 
 Telling this fairy tale, — a gladness find, 
 That will go through my life like falcons down the 
 wind. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 No more of this. Yet could I not refrain 
 From breaking off my history, to give 
 A welcome to the May. And now I chain 
 My mind to what 's perchance as fugitive. 
 Oft would the boy amid the shadows live 
 Of the deep forest, — and the fairy pleasure 
 Was stored up in his heart as in a hive, — 
 And " riches fineless" was that golden treasure, 
 Gathered from those, in whom (i life was a dance — a 
 measure." 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 83 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 His time exhaled away, as odour from 
 
 A mossy rose that dies where it is born ; 
 
 Serenity was inmate of his home, 
 
 And sylvan joy was ready night and morn 
 
 To do him courtesy, — his days unworn 
 
 Went by him, as the water by the willow ; 
 
 And though it was his nature to be lorn, 
 
 His moods came o'er him rather on the pillow, 
 
 Than when he heard the birds, or watch'd the lake's 
 light billow. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 Two summers pass'd away, like two sweet children 
 That go in quiet beauty to the grave ; [wildering 
 When books of quaint research brought their be- 
 Over the youngster's mind :— and Fancy gave 
 Her wings a wider flight, and she did wave 
 Tow'rds men, and tow'rds the cities where they 
 
 cluster ; — 
 And he did find one friend whose heart was brave 
 With doubt ; who ample questionings could muster, 
 
 Which would with clouds inclose a mind of purestlustre. 
 
 g2 
 
84 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 How is it that the minds of mortals jar 
 In what should be their music and their joy ? 
 The spirit, which might make itself a star, 
 Doth wrap itself in clouds, and all destroy 
 The innocent and lofty heart, and toy 
 With idle questionings of serious things ? — 
 Is it that men were made themselves to annoy 
 With dreams of ill, and mystic ponderings, 
 And doubts of old religion, and the bliss she brings. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 The friend was stern to all save him, and cold 
 With highwroughtcaution, — full of fancies strange; 
 A lover of the heathen times of old, — 
 A questioner of all things in the range 
 Of lofty hopes — a worshipper of change 
 In human practices — a denizen 
 In scenes which he reviled : — he would estrange 
 Men from their faith ; — and smooth his words were, 
 when 
 Such were to win the hearts and thoughts of quiet men. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. - 85 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 This world was all he credited, — which gave 
 To his retired hours a dreariness ; 
 Oblivion was the spirit of the grave, 
 And chance lent life its ills and happiness, — 
 So deem'd he, — ah ! how sore was his distress 
 By night, and in his meditative hours ! — 
 Hope had for him no soft blue eye — no tress 
 Of golden hair — no fair and lovely bowers ; 
 The soul was mortal all,like Summer's heedless flowers. 
 
 XC. 
 
 This wise friend marr'd the youngster's innocence, 
 Put poison in the cup of his content ; 
 Made him no more a joyer in the sense 
 Of forest comfort ; — turn'd his mental bent 
 To other scenes, — ah ! scenes how different ! 
 And did estrange him from the oak and pine.— 
 (€ Was it for such as he,"— -the friend would vent 
 His converse thus, — " to keep a mind supine, — 
 " A mind that might among the great and lofty shine !" 
 
86 
 
 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 And then he set the young thoughts straying wide, 
 Through metaphysic labyrinths, — which none 
 Have ever yet explored ; — and then the pride 
 Of youth he did awaken with a store 
 Of flatteries, — and promises of more 
 From learned men in cities of the wise : 
 The world in his adoring language wore 
 A hue to dazzle the enthusiast's eyes, 
 And of his heart to make a fatal sacrifice. 
 
 XCII. 
 
 The distant world now wooed the boy, who knew 
 Nought of its deadly sorrows ; he would deem, 
 So friendship taught him, that its hearts were true, 
 And all things faithful as at first they seem ; 
 The distant world came to him like a dream, 
 Dress'd in its fair deceit, — its presence brought 
 A strange wild melancholy, — and the gleam 
 Of far off things play'd o'er his mind, and wrought 
 Wishes all wild, — strange hopes, — and a delirious 
 thought. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 87 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 As yet he was a stranger to all strife, 
 Save that which nature makes, and that to him 
 Was the soul's harmony, the spirit's life : — 
 The prospect of the world was distant — dim, — 
 And yet he deem'd it bright ; but that wild whim, 
 Which in young hearts doth bear the name of Hope, 
 FilFd up his cup of error to the brim : — 
 He panted for the world, — and down the slope 
 Tow'rds it he fain would bound like the slim antelope. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 The slumbers of his bed were visited 
 By visions, shadowy of his mind and fate ; 
 His sleep anticipated life, — and led 
 Events to him before their time : — elate 
 He rose, resolved at times to terminate 
 His dreaming with the like realities : 
 But oft his sleep gave gloom ; — and one night, late, 
 A strange and dreary vision did arise : 
 That in the forest deep he lay with musing eyes ; 
 
88 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH, 
 
 xcv. 
 
 That when he lifted them, — before him stood 
 A figure tall, and in a shadowy dress : 
 It was as some lone spirit of the wood, 
 With eyes all dim, and fixed with distress, — 
 And sunken cheeks, — and lips of pallidness, — 
 Standing* with folded arms, and floating hair, 
 The shadow of a woman ! — but a tress 
 Was sometimes lifted by the gusty air, 
 And now the waved robe a heaving breast did bare. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 He gazed — his hand paused on a turning leaf, 
 And his blood ran in coldness to his heart : — 
 He gazed — but still his eyes felt no relief; 
 For that dim lonely form would not depart : 
 It stood — as prison'd there by mystic art, 
 Looking upon him steadily ; — he tried 
 To utter speech, but not a word would start 
 From his weak lips — his very feelings died, 
 As he beheld that spirit of melancholy pride ! 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 89 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 " I know thee, boy — and thou wilt know me better 
 " Ere many years be past," — the spirit said ; 
 " Of late thou hast pined to wear an earthly fetter, 
 " And wish'd these woods by thee untenanted. 
 " I've read thy inmost mind ; and I have sped — 
 " My wing is rapid as the wing of Time — 
 ' ' To wreak thy wish : the fault be on thy head ; 
 " Since 'tis thy will those bounding hills to climb, 
 " And pass into the world, I'll crown that wayward 
 crime. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 " Thou knowest not the happiness that lies 
 " In this romantic home, or thou would'st not 
 " Seek in cold cities for it ; thy young eyes 
 " Have seen no other than a guileless spot, 
 " A wood as peaceful as a fairy grot, — 
 " Leaf-canopied, — and peopled all with deer, 
 " And birds : the world thou seek'st will change 
 
 thy lot ; 
 " There wilt thou meet with bitterness and fear, 
 " And in thy very heart, — the form thou seest here V 3 
 
90 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 It vanished — and his slumber vanish'd too ; 
 But not with that the frightful recollection : 
 The shape — the shadowy hair — the snowy hue 
 Of the dooming lip — the desolate dejection 
 Of the whole form, sank him in mute reflection 
 Day after day. He sought his friend, and told 
 The terrors of his mind; but no election 
 Was left him to depart or stay, for old 
 And cunning scoff that friend before him did unfold. 
 
 C. 
 
 The die was in the air — it fell — and he 
 Prepared to quit a home which long had been 
 Serene and beautiful as home could be, — 
 To quit it for the bustle of a scene 
 Where men were thickly sown, associates keen, 
 And passion prey'd upon as common food. 
 Ah ! what could ere restore to him the green 
 Before his cottage door — the magic wood — 
 And all the nooks that filTd his ancient solitude ! 
 
THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 91 
 
 CI. 
 
 It was indeed a solitude become : — 
 At evening — late — the last he would be there, 
 After the sun was set he stray'd from home, 
 And hurried through the arched wood, to where 
 The lake lay in its slumber mild and fair ; 
 No music sounded — nought was heard to sound 
 That spake of fairies — silence wooed the air — 
 The leaves just rustled on the trees around, 
 And a benighted bee might murmur o'er the ground. 
 
 CII. 
 
 But all the fairies and their feasts were faded — > 
 Gone from the earth, or hidden from his gaze ; 
 A moment's hectic melancholy shaded 
 His youthful furrow'd forehead ; — in amaze 
 He went away : — the images of days 
 Pass'd underneath the music of the pine, 
 And made more lovely from his own wild lays, 
 Took tribute from his heart, and from his eyne ; — ? 
 But now the hour was come, — when grief he must 
 decline. 
 
92 THE ROMANCE OF YOUTH. 
 
 cm. 
 
 No word of sorrow from his mother came, — 
 But on her cheek there was the trace of tears, — 
 The paleness of mute sorrow — and the tame 
 Dejection which long suffering deeply sears 
 The heart with : — she had many tender fears, 
 But these she hush'd, — and bade him her farewell, 
 With something of a hope that busy years 
 Would wear away his dreaminess, — and quell 
 The wild moods of the mind, — which are unquellable. 
 
 CIV. 
 
 He left his home, array'd in pilgrim weed, 
 As he were bound for holy Palestine; 
 With staff and sandal-shoon he cross'd the mead 
 That lay before his cottage door : — the kine 
 Were at their evening meal, and the decline 
 Of the setting sun was beautiful to see : — 
 He turnd for one last look — the eglantine — 
 The cot — the trees — the sunshine met his e'e, 
 And not without a tear might that last parting be. 
 
POEMS. 
 
DEVON. 
 
 Devon ! 
 The smile of summer is upon thy woods, 
 The breath of summer is upon thy sea ;— 
 Would I were thine ! — when last I lingered with thee, 
 It was a dreary season, and the day 
 Slept pillow'd upon clouds, mocking the night; 
 The wind aye wander'd through the sullen woods, 
 And found no leaf to touch its voice with pity ; 
 The troublous sound of water was about, 
 Startling the uncouth air ; — 'twas vacant all : 
 Old winter frown'd upon the staring sea. 
 But oh ! I saw thee at a lovelier tide, 
 
 
96 POEMS. 
 
 And grew enamour'd of thee ; — Autumn then 
 
 Was busy plucking all her golden leaves, 
 
 Or listening to the blackbird's fitful song, 
 
 Whistled in her hollow woods ; — and the light flowers 
 
 Were nodding prettily at the fickle bees, 
 
 That left them heedlessly. — I will be with thee ! 
 
 My heart shall haunt the spots it loved the best, 
 
 Borne on by that strange voyager, the mind. 
 
 Though caged in cities, still my thoughts are free 
 
 To visit the green fields, and beautiful woods, 
 
 And rivulets, that chaunt a lowly ditty 
 
 In the sleepy ear of summer, — and the sea, 
 
 That talks for ever to the quiet sands. 
 
 Nor from my bodily sight are beauties held : 
 
 The sky is open to me, — and the sun, — 
 
 That golden traveller o'er the patient heavens ; 
 
 And the sweet moon that is a-bathing ever 
 
 In the blue untroubled waters of the sky ; 
 
 The changing clouds; and those perpetual stars, 
 
 The silent watchers from eternity ! 
 
POEMS. 97 
 
 Beautiful Devon ! 
 Receive me, now a mental visitor, 
 Into thy green retreats : young" Memory 
 Shall be my mild attendant. — 'Tis to her, 
 And to that fairy of the soul, sweet Hope, 
 I owe the light of life. The first doth sketch 
 Features, and favorite scenes, — and breathe dear tones 
 Into my charmed ears, — and deck with stars 
 The dreary night of Time. And blue-eyed Hope 
 Shows me a sunny distance — lends me joys, 
 Bright as the wild eyes of the nightingale, 
 And rapturous as her song. 
 And now I bend me to my favorite wood : — 
 Here is the gentle flower " forget me not," 
 As simple and as fresh of hue as ever. 
 How still and beautiful are all the trees ! 
 The leaves are strangely bright ; — and, through the 
 
 branches, 
 Their golden threads are weaved by the sun : — 
 Perchance the god Apollo here hath wander d, 
 And left his rich lute, strung with chords of light, 
 
9S 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Mid the leaves in which he play'd. Methinks I hear 
 Sounds of his song divine — afar — afar — 
 Dying* through Echo's shell ! — I do remember 
 Those who were with me when I last was here, — 
 Peace be within the dear loved hearts of both ! 
 We gather'd wood flowers, — some, blue as the vein 
 O'er Hero's eyelid stealing, — and some as white 
 In the clustering grass, as rich Europa's hand 
 Nested amid the curls on Jupiter's forehead, 
 What time he snatch'd her through the startled 
 
 waves ; — 
 Some purple too, such as in Enna's meadows 
 Forsook their own green homes and parent stalks, 
 To kiss the fingers of Proserpina; 
 And some were small as fairies' eyes, and bright 
 As lover's tears ! — We gather'd, as we stray'd, 
 These dewy stars of the wood ; and one dear hand 
 Became their beautiful and silvery vase : 
 Sweet flowers, how sweetly held ! — Hark ! hear ye not ? 
 The streamlet in that dell is not at rest, — 
 Tis muttering something to the drowsy wood. 
 
POEMS. 9§ 
 
 Once, how adovvn the brambles wild I broke, 
 To trace the hidden murmurer : How oft, 
 In solitary hours, the lonely sound 
 Of that obscure and melancholy stream 
 Comes blending" with my thoughts ! 
 
 Now upward winding, 
 I rise above the trees, and look upon 
 A sea of wood, with all its billowy leaves 
 Rolling in heavy sunshine, — and one field, 
 Like a green island, pleasant and at rest. — 
 Thou madcap bird ! thy sudden gush of song, 
 Pour'd out through amber leaves, hath startled me 
 Into a wild delight : — thou sing'st, and then 
 Spreadest thy wings, as though it were thy wish 
 To chase the giddy song. Be ever here, 
 Free to the leaves, a summer chorister, 
 A feather'd spirit of peace and airy pleasure. 
 There was a cottage, — but I see it not, — 
 Where in a dreaming mood I once had wish'd 
 To have dwelt for life :— Ah ! do I wish it now ? 
 Our fanciful desires depart as fast 
 
 h 2 
 
100 POEMS. 
 
 As they are framed ; — some solid purpose comes, — 
 And they fleet from us like the sunned snow. 
 Old wood, farewell ! 
 1*11 bless thee when my feet again return 
 Into thy peaceful grass. 
 
 Here, on a hill, I stretch 
 My form along in boyish happiness. — 
 Here is the stile on which I quietly sat 
 In the sunny morn, — and there, the wandering Sid, 
 With its lilac flowers : — and lo ! beneath me lies 
 The huge majestic sea. I hear it not — t 
 But I can see it curling to the shore, 
 And whitening on the yellow beach. The sun — 
 The only eye worthy to watch the sea, — 
 Is shedding diamonds to enrich the waves, 
 That rise to catch them. All my being seems 
 To swell with o'er wrought feelings, — and to shake 
 With thronging thoughts, — and to be well nigh sick 
 With vain surmises, and deep yearnings, that 
 I might associate with the enormous sun, 
 Or be a lone companion to the sea. 
 
POEMS. 101 
 
 Tremendous thoughts come o'er us, when we gaze, 
 With all the mind weighing- upon the eyes, 
 At the hug-e sea — the sun ! — A wearing pain 
 Clings heavily to the heart :— a consciousness 
 Of mortal want, of fatal poverty, 
 Haunts all the waking- soul. The full relief 
 Is some romantic dream which hides the earth, 
 Some momentary and most strange possession 
 Of an ideal vastness, or the voice 
 Of that intense sure hope which ne'er betrays. 
 
 The ocean old hath my deep reverence, — 
 And I could watch it ever : — when it sleeps, 
 And its hush'd waves but throb at intervals, 
 Like some fair infant's breath in sad repose, — 
 'Tis strangely sweet to gaze ; or when it starts 
 At the voice of the torturing* storm, and like mad 
 
 age, 
 Tosses its hoar-hair on the raving wind, 
 'Tis wild delight to watch it. But I love 
 To see it gently playing on loose rocks, 
 Lifting the idle sea- weed carelessly ; 
 
102 POEMS. 
 
 Or hear it in some dreary cavern, muttering 
 A solitary legend of old times. 
 
 The gentle memory of many things 
 Is hovering o'er my brain, — of breathing eves 
 When the curFd moon was up, and the lonely star 
 Was quietly dwelling in its own blue world $ — 
 Of nights that found me listening to the grief, 
 And the wild ditties of the young Ophelia, — 
 Or seeing Juliet o'er her lattice leaning, 
 In the soft, passioned moon. Ah ! might I live 
 For ever near the sea — the fields — the wood — 
 To watch the day go by on golden wings, 
 Woo the lone morn that sleeps in balmy light, 
 And kiss the quiet breath from Evening's lips. 
 
 But now my fancies do in part subside, 
 And set realities come o'er me ; now 
 The visionary scenes have fleeted from me, 
 And left me lonely in this populous city. 
 The mind hath, like the sea, its swells and sinkings, 
 Its turbulence, its tremblings, and its sleep ; 
 Sway'd by the very temper of the elements. 
 
POEMS. 1 03 
 
 No bird sings now its rash enchanting* lay 
 
 In my startled ear; no green and careless wave 
 
 Vexeth the indolent pebble on the beach; 
 
 No solitary bee rocks the wild-flower, 
 
 Or hangs upon the air with drowsy humming ; 
 
 No rustling of gold leaves is heard ; no song 
 
 Framed by the moist lips of the pilgrim brook : — 
 
 All these are quiet now, or only heard 
 
 Like mellow'd murmurings of the distant sea. 
 
104 POEMS, 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I.- 
 
 Go, where the water glideth gently ever, 
 
 Glideth by meadows that the greenest be ; — 
 Go, listen to our own beloved river, 
 And think of me ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth 
 
 Its fairy gem beside the giant tree ; 
 Listen the dim brook pining while it playeth, 
 And think of me ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Watch when the sky is silver pale at Even, 
 And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree ; 
 Go out beneath the solitary heaven, 
 And think of me ! 
 
POEMS. 
 
 105 
 
 4. 
 And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming*, 
 
 And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea ; 
 Go, silent as a star beneath her beaming, 
 And think of me ! 
 
106 POEMS. 
 
 LINES TO A VALLEY 
 
 Sweet Ide ! thy green remembering 
 Is like the foot-print of young Spring 
 Over my heart, and I shall be 
 Secure of youth in feeling thee. 
 Thy valley, Ide ! can never die 
 From the stored pictures of mine eye ; 
 But in the waste of faded years 
 Shine beautiful as Morning's tears 
 On heath forlorn. The sloping meadow, 
 That leads us to the mellow'd shadow 
 Of wreathed trees, and bars away 
 The view of city old and gray, 
 And laps our hearts in balmy ease 
 Among the quiet cottages, 
 Is a calm pillow for the Sun 
 To spread his golden hair upon. 
 
POEMS. 1°7 
 
 Mine autumn evening ! sweet Avert thou, 
 
 When welcom'd on that meadow's brow ; 
 
 But sweeter when, amid the trees, 
 
 I listen'd to the singing bees 
 
 Down in the vale — and saw the skies 
 
 All blazon'd with the streams, that rise 
 
 Purple and golden in the west, 
 
 And float o'er Heaven's eternal breast ; 
 
 Ethereal rivers, that do stain 
 
 With gorgeous waves the silver plain 
 
 Of the sweet world above us, — where 
 
 By night the starry islands are. 
 
 Was I not happy in the sight 
 
 Of that rich wide world o'er me, — light 
 
 Of heart, to feel the mighty earth 
 
 A sleeping thing, — calm as the birth 
 
 Of cowslips on enchanted eves, 
 
 When fairies open their dim leaves ; — 
 
 To dream amid the inwoven trees, 
 
 Which are autumnal palaces, 
 
108 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Pillar'd and golden roof'd; — to walk 
 To the music of enraptured talk, 
 Falling* from ever happy lips, 
 Whose lustre knoweth no eclipse ; — 
 To feel the hymning of the breeze, 
 And listen to the mellow bees ; — 
 To con with deep romantic pleasure 
 At airy sounds, some echoing measure, 
 And call up picturing poesy 
 To mock the beauty of the sky ! 
 Was I not happy as a tree 
 In blossoming orchard, to be free 
 From heavy strangers, and the press 
 Of dull acquaintance, that distress 
 The bosom's patience, — and to see 
 Those — those I loved the best, with me ! 
 I had an hour of that calm time 
 We read of in the forest rhyme 
 Of pastoral poet. The sweet air 
 Play'd round me, like Apollo's hair, 
 
POEMS. 109 
 
 Rich, soft, and full of melody. 
 The bird sang late upon the tree 
 Its lonely song*. The hush of night 
 Was born before its time : the light 
 Seem'd left unusually alone 
 In the wide heavens, — and the tone 
 Of our own voices was endued 
 With the mellowness of solitude. 
 
 I say but feebly what I feel 
 Of thee, sweet Ide ! but I will steal 
 Again to thee at autumn- tide, 
 With one who loves thee at my side,— 
 And give deep honoring thoughts to thee 
 Of joyous, young serenity. 
 
110 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE WOOD. 
 
 Whence is the secret charm of this lone wood, 
 Which in the light of evening mildly sleeps ? 
 I tread with lingering feet the quiet steeps, 
 Where thwarted oaks o'er their own old age brood ; 
 And where the gentler trees in summer weather 
 Spring up all greenly in their youth together : 
 And the grass is dwelling in a silent mood, 
 And the fir-like fern its under-forest keeps 
 In a strange stillness. My wing'd spirit sweeps 
 Forth as it hath been wont ; nor stays with me, 
 Like some domestic thing that loves its home. 
 It goes a-dreaming o'er the imagery 
 Of other scenes, which from afar do come, 
 Matching them with this indolent solitude. 
 Here — I am dwelling in the days gone by — 
 And under trees which I have known before : 
 
POEMS. Ill 
 
 My heart with feelings old is running o'er, 
 And I am thrill'd — thrilFd at an evening sky. 
 The present seems a mockery of the past, 
 And all my thoughts glide by me, like a stream 
 That seeks a home, — that shines beneath the beam 
 Of the summer sun, — and wanders through sweet 
 
 meads, 
 In which the joyous wildflower meekly feeds, — 
 And strays, and wastes away in woods at last. 
 My thoughts o'er many things glance silently; 
 But to this olden forest creep, and cling fast. 
 Imagination, ever wild and free, 
 With heart as open as the naked sea, 
 Can consecrate whate'er it looks upon : 
 And Memory, that maiden never alone, 
 Cons o'er the tale of life. While I can see 
 This blue, deep sky — that sun so proudly setting 
 In the haughty west — that spring patiently wetting 
 The shadowy dell — these trees so tall and fair, 
 That have no visitors but the birds and air ; 
 And hear those leaves a gentle murmur keep, 
 
112 POEMS. 
 
 Like brooks that make soft music in their sleep ; 
 The melting of young- waters in the dells ; 
 The jingle of the loose flock's lulling bells; 
 While these all mingling o'er my senses sweep, 
 I need not doubt but I shall ever find 
 Things, that will feed the cravings of my mind. 
 My happiest hours were pass'd with those I love 
 On steeps ; in dells with shadowy trees above ; 
 And therefore it may be my soul ne'er sleeps, 
 When it is in a pastoral solitude ; 
 And such may be the charm of this lone wood, 
 Which in the light of evening sweetly sleeps. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 113 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 1. 
 
 Hour after hour departs, 
 
 Recklessly flying! 
 The golden time of our hearts 
 
 Is fast a-dying ! 
 Oh ! how soon will it have faded !- 
 Joy droops, with forehead shaded, 
 
 And Memory starts ! 
 
 2. 
 When I am gone — oh ! wear 
 Sweet smiles; thy dwelling 
 
114 
 
 Choose, where the flowers feed the air, 
 
 And the sea is swelling : 
 And near where some rivulet lingers 
 In the grass, like an infant's fingers 
 
 In its mother's hair. 
 
 3. 
 Thy spirit should steep its wing 
 
 In the dews of nature ; 
 And the living airs of Spring 
 
 Should give each feature 
 Of thy face a rich lustrous smiling, — 
 Thy thoughts from that gloom beguiling, 
 
 Which cold hours bring. 
 
 4. 
 Farewell to our delights ! 
 
 Love, — we are parted ! 
 Come with thy silvery nights, 
 
 Autumn, gold-hearted ! 
 
POEMS. 
 
 115 
 
 Let our two hearts be wreathing 
 Their hopes, when the eve is breathing- 
 Through leaf-starr'd lights ! 
 
116 POEMS, 
 
 MATIN-SONG. 
 
 l. 
 The day's wan light breaks fair and far, 
 
 The wave is restless on the stream; — 
 Dallying with the morning star, 
 
 It rocks the slight and silvery beam. 
 
 2. 
 Freshly the heart of day is breathing ! 
 
 The wild-flower trembles for the bee :- 
 On ocean's cheek a smile is wreathing, 
 
 Tenderly and merrily ! 
 
POEMS. 117 
 
 3. 
 
 The sky-lark leaves its nest, 
 With pearls upon its breast ;— 
 From its nested sedge the crowned swan 
 
 glides, slow,— 
 And forth into the morning, like the light, 
 doth go ! 
 
118 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 1. 
 That peasant girl's blue eyes 
 
 Are beauty's stars to me ; 
 They 're not like Summer skies, 
 
 Nor like the deep blue sea; — 
 Nor of the harebell's hue- — 
 And yet they are sweetly blue ! 
 
 2. 
 That peasant girl is fair, — 
 A lid, when your eyes behold 
 
POEMS. 119 
 
 Her white hand wreathe her hair, 
 
 *Tis ivory lost in gold ; — 
 But still you '11 turn to woo 
 Those eyes so sweetly blue ! 
 
120 POEMS, 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE. 
 
 Lone Cot ! most placidly in thy green nest 
 
 Thou cowerest, like the white bird of the wood, 
 Birds and high trees are all thy neighbourhood — 
 
 And silence is the joy thou lovest best. 
 
 I Ve seen thee, in the mantling evening drest, 
 Wear thy wan beauty so — that, oh ! I would 
 Never abandon that delightful mood 
 
 In which I found thee in thy radiant vest. 
 
 Thou wert to me a dream of days to come, 
 The fairy spirit of a visional spot, 
 
POEMS. 121 
 
 Where Hope and Love might build themselves a 
 home, 
 And bid long farewell to a worldly lot. 
 
 The dream was idle as the ocean foam- 
 Yet still it was my dream, thou lonely Cot ! 
 
122 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET TO 
 
 WITH THE TWO FOLLOWING. 
 
 Robin the outlaw ! Is there not a mass 
 
 Of freedom in the name ? — It tells the story 
 
 Of clenched oaks, with branches bow'd and hoary, 
 
 Leaning in aged beauty o'er the grass ;— 
 
 Of dazed smile on cheek of border lass 
 
 Listening 'gainst some old gate at his strange glory : 
 And of the dappled stag, struck down and gory, 
 
 Lying with nostril wide in green morass. 
 
 It tells a tale of forest days — of times 
 
 That would have been most precious unto thee : 
 
123 
 
 Days of undying pastoral liberty : — 
 Sweeter than music old of abbey chimes — 
 Sweet as the virtue of Shakspearian rhymes — 
 
 Days, shadowy with the magic green- wood tree ! 
 
124 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET TO 
 
 The trees in Sherwood forest are old and good, — 
 
 The grass beneath them now is dimly green ; 
 
 Are they deserted all ? Is no young mien 
 With loose-slung bugle met within the wood : 
 No arrow found, — foil'd of its antler'd food, — 
 
 Struck in the oak's rude side ? Is there nought 
 seen, 
 
 To mark the revelries which there have been, — 
 In the sweet days of merry Robin Hood ? 
 
 Go there, with Summer, and with evening, — go 
 In the soft shadows like some wandering man,— 
 
POEMS. 125 
 
 And thou shalt far amid the forest know 
 The archer men in green, with belt and bow, 
 Feasting- on pheasant, river-fowl, and swan, 
 With Robin at their head, and Marian. 
 
126 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 With coat of Lincoln green and mantle too, 
 And horn of ivory mouth, and buckle bright, 
 And arrows wing'd with peacock-feathers light, 
 
 And trusty bow well gather' d of the yew, — 
 
 Stands Robin Hood : — and near, with eyes of blue 
 Shining through dusk hair, like the stars of night, 
 And habited in pretty forest plight, — 
 
 His green-wood beauty sits, young as the dew. 
 
 Oh gentle-tressed girl ! Maid Marian ! 
 
 Are thine eyes bent upon the gallant game 
 
POEMS. 127 
 
 That stray in the merry Sherwood : thy sweet fame 
 Can never, never die. And thou, high man, 
 Would we might pledge thee with thy silver Can 
 
 Of Rhenish, in the woods of Nottingham ! 
 
128 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Sweet poets of the gentle antique line, 
 That made the hue of beauty all eterne, 
 And gave earth's melodies a silver turn, — 
 
 Where did you steal your art so right divine ? — 
 
 Sweetly ye memoried every golden twine 
 
 Of your ladies' tresses : — teach me how to spurn 
 Death's lone decaying and oblivion stern 
 
 From the sweet forehead of a lady mine. 
 
 The golden clusters of enamouring hair 
 Glow'd in poetic pictures sweetly well ; — 
 
POEMS. 12.9 
 
 Why should not tresses dusk, that are so fair 
 On the live brow, have an eternal spell 
 
 In poesy ? — dark eyes are dearer far 
 
 Than orbs that mock the hyacinthine-bell. 
 
130 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON THE PICTURE OF A LADY. 
 
 Sorrow hath made thine eyes more dark and keen, 
 And set a whiter hue upon thy cheeks, — 
 And round thy pressed lips drawn anguish streaks, 
 
 And made thy forehead fearfully serene. 
 
 Even in thy steady hair her work is seen, 
 For its still parted darkness — till it breaks 
 In heavy curls upon thy shoulders — speaks 
 
 Like the stern wave, — how hard the storm hath 
 been ! 
 
 So look'd that hapless lady of the South, 
 Sweet Isabella ! at that dreary part 
 
POEMS. 131 
 
 Of all the passion 'd hours of her youth ; 
 
 When her green basil pot by brothers' art 
 Was stolen away : — so look'd her pained mouth 
 
 In the mute patience of a breaking heart ! 
 
 k2 
 
132 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Art thou now sitting by thine evening- fire, 
 
 Reading our natural Shakspeare ; art thou playing 
 Lone melodies ; — or listening to the saying 
 
 Of thy dear sisters, or thy placid sire ; — 
 
 Or do thine eyes, loving the heavens, admire 
 The very gentle moon that seems a-maying 
 Mid the bright stars ? — I think I see thee straying 
 
 In thy fawn-colour'd and most sweet attire ! — 
 
 I know not what delights thee — where thou art — 
 But white Simplicity doth lead with care 
 
POEMS. 133 
 
 Thy pleasures : — oh ! might I but linger where 
 Thou lingerest, — and take a gentle part 
 
 In music, — or thy walks, thy books ; — and share 
 In the divine enjoyments of thy heart ! 
 
184 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 EPISTLE TO 
 
 " For there is nothing either good or bad ; but 
 " Thinking makes it so." — 
 
 Shakspearc. 
 
 The day is waning", — and my walk is over 
 Beneath the joyous sun, which, like a lover, 
 Is wending to his loved one in the West : — 
 (Ah ! that my feet the same sweet journey press'd !) 
 Gently the amber evening sleeps in Heaven, 
 And in its sleep serenest smiles are given. 
 The blossoms on the pear-tree cluster white, 
 And meekly wear the veil of golden light, 
 Which falls in quiet round them from the sun, 
 Like beauty o'er a dedicated nun. 
 
POEMS. 135 
 
 My Annie dear ! perchance on eves like these, 
 With gladness underneath the budding- trees, 
 Thou walkest with thy sisters in sweet talk, 
 Or by the sea takest a lonely walk, 
 Thinking- of them, and (can I wholly be 
 Without the hope ?) — giving a thought to me !— 
 
 Thy letter of quick kindness found me, Annie ! — 
 And so you think my cravings all too many ! — 
 And rally me with veiFd austerity, 
 Or feelings which are keen — to none but me ! 
 Far, far I sojourn from the form I love, 
 And some few feelings live in me, that move 
 Like aspen-leaves, and to the slightest wind, — 
 And yearnings rise from an unresting mind, 
 Perchance o'erwrought, — but not for aught that may 
 Fall on myself — oh no ! — the bitter day 
 Hath been, and I have borne it — ay, and now 
 Health and a freshen'd hope are on my brow, 
 
136 
 
 POEMS* 
 
 As they had never vanish'd, — but for Her,— 
 My hopes, and fears, and feelings, rise and stir, 
 And hunger after tidings : — these are not 
 So much the pain of thine, as of my lot. 
 If I have been too wearying, — bear with me, 
 With all the love I ever found in thee, — 
 Nor yet those sleepless feelings e'er deride, 
 Which pain my breast and hurt no thing beside !— 
 
 Oh ! could I walk with thee in days like these, 
 
 When the young leaf is venturing on the trees, — 
 
 And the pale blossom on the cherry bough 
 
 Lives in its beauty, — as I see it now ; — 
 
 I should be happier than the linnet's wing 
 
 Spread in the first mild sunlight of the spring ! 
 
 Oft do I see thee, as I lonely lean 
 
 In these soft evenings, which are as serene 
 
 In their cerulean skies, and setting suns, 
 
 And clouds gold-feather'd, — as the summer ones ;- 
 
POEMS. J 37 
 
 Oft do I see thee in my thoughts, — that take 
 
 Westerly wanderings, — thy enjoyment make 
 
 From the enchantments of an evening sea 
 
 That weaves its own sweet pastime merrily, — 
 
 Or sleeps beneath some sea-nymph's waving wands ; — 
 
 Or as it fawns upon the golden sands 
 
 With never ending kisses, and soft sighs, — 
 
 I see thee lingering o'er its harmonies, 
 
 As though some spirit did converse with thee 
 
 Of worlds divine, where shattered hearts shall be 
 
 Ever at rest, amid Elysian bowers, 
 
 LulFd with the music of the lute- fed hours. — 
 
 The silver sea-foam on the sands thou lovest, 
 
 That at thy feet is dying, as thou rovest, 
 
 And brightening up again — as mourners' eyes 
 
 That fade and sparkle while the spirits rise : 
 
 Dear is the mystic world of waters, when 
 
 Day hath departed from the eyes of men, 
 
 And that devoted haunter of the sky, 
 
 The lonely moon, is lingering thoughtfully 
 
138 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Over the bosom of the sleeping sea, — 
 That trembles in its dreams. For then to thee 
 Steals that long line of pure and silver light 
 Across the waters, which all starry bright 
 Doth from the chasten'd Deity seem to come, 
 To bear thy white thoughts to a happy home ! — 
 
 Of late there hath been many a silent eve, 
 Rosy as wreaths which lady-fingers weave 
 For soft brown tresses on a revel night, — 
 And gentle as the bird that takes its flight 
 From Cytherea's finger. — Lonely sitting 
 On one of these fair eves, — and idly knitting 
 My thoughts, — as many a cottage spinster doth 
 Her web, — in mood, half industry, half sloth : — 
 I sat into the twilight late, and caught 
 Old days and green joys in the net of thought : 
 And many a dear departed scene arose 
 And pass'd away, — like birds from their repose, 
 
POEMS. 1^9 
 
 Startled by heedless feet in morning' grass ; — 
 And sylvan pleasures,, in a joyous mass, 
 Revived about my heart, and died again — 
 Touching the next few moments with dim pain. 
 I thought of those I loved — I thought of thee — 
 And of our pastime when the night was free — 
 The bustle of the books — the lonely notes 
 Of a melancholy melody that floats 
 For ever and for ever through the mind, — 
 Leaving a sad and sweet delight behind ! 
 I thought of Him, — the deathless — the inspired — 
 Whose light my very earliest boyhood fired, — 
 And of his rich creations : — have we not 
 Sorrow'd at high Macbeth's distorted lot — 
 Sigh'd over Hamlet's sweet and 'wilder 'd heart — 
 And, when we came upon that piteous part 
 Of love's romance, where long before 'twas day 
 The Ladye of the moonlight pined away, 
 Over the sleeping fruitage— passion-pale, — 
 Have we not loved young Juliet ? — and the wail 
 
140 
 
 Of Lear swoon'd round the heart — and still the tear 
 Wrung from meek Desdemona, by the austere 
 And darkling* madness of her Moorish lord, 
 Was dear to us, — and many a sorrowing word 
 Of tender pity dropt at the wild fate 
 Of one so young and so disconsolate ! 
 And now my thoughts turn'd to the heavy sea, 
 That weighs for aye, " Though inland far we be :" — 
 I heard it plainly gathering — curling — thundering — 
 With eye rock-still and heart chill'd up with won- 
 dering : — 
 It came with glassy curve, and dreary brightness, 
 And dash'd itself into a cloud of whiteness, — 
 And kept a stunning noise that never ceased 
 In my crazed ears. — But these rough thoughts de- 
 creased, — 
 And lightly o'er green waters of the summer, 
 The merry sunlight was a joyous comer, — 
 Strewing its golden wealth along the way, 
 To mingle with the silver of the spray : 
 
141 
 
 The waves, like infants, join'd in heedless bands, 
 And chased each other on the placid sands ; 
 The day was bright, — as days in summer are, — 
 And thou, — methought, — and those I love, were 
 there ! 
 
 But these are idle dreams that cheat me, Annie ! — 
 And through my life these dreams have aye been 
 
 many, — 
 Leading me oft with faithless witchery 
 To pant for glories which could never be : 
 Taunting my soul with fame — to make the waking 
 A thing of momentary spirit-breaking. 
 'Tis ever thus with youth — Ambition leads 
 The heart to gaze at high and dangerous deeds, 
 And leads it to its fall — Hope sits afar, 
 Cresting the distance like a lonely star, 
 Holding a shadowy cup which fades away 
 Just as the lip its thirstings would allay. 
 
142 
 
 Why is not youth contented with its own ? — 
 
 No living things, but what are human, moan 
 
 With feverish aspirations after change : — 
 
 The slim deer loves its own wide forest range, 
 
 Nor pines for sunny fields — the lion roams 
 
 O'er the hot desart to his wooded homes, 
 
 And is content : — the eagle from his dwelling 
 
 Screams its wild joy on top of old Helvellyn, 
 
 Or watches from his lonely rocks the sun 
 
 With that majestic patience known to none 
 
 Of mortal mould — Hearts that are human, pine, 
 
 While gazing at that orb, to be divine ! — 
 
 The world is knowledge to us — but for years 
 
 Gain'd, we lose quietude, and trust, and tears, 
 
 (Those dew-drops of young nature) ; and we wear 
 
 The comfortless dark garmentry of care. 
 
 Then follows thirst of change, and cheerless age, 
 
 And prayers for an immortal pilgrimage 
 
 To that untroubled region of the blest, 
 
 Where bruised and broken hearts are all at rest! — 
 
POEMS. 143 
 
 But fare tliee well — I wear thee, Annie dear ! 
 
 With moralizings which are half austere, 
 
 And " dry as summer-dust " — moods of the mind 
 
 Which long departing sickness leaves behind : — 
 
 Pratings of mental wanderings, not worth 
 
 A thought from thee, — unless a thought of mirth. — 
 
 But now the light hath faded, and the trees 
 With their young leaves are dingy images 
 Seen clear against the milky-col our'd sky; — 
 Farewell ! I breathe towards the West a sigh 
 For thee — for others too — and for the hour 
 When I shall walk before the garden bower ! 
 
 The evening hath departed — and the blue 
 Of heaven is all obscured — once more, adieu ! 
 
 May 1817. 
 
144 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 TO F B- 
 
 AGED THREE YEARS. 
 
 u Even so this happy creature of herself 
 " Is all sufficient : Solitude to her 
 u Is blithe society." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 As young and pretty as the bud 
 Of the strawberry in the wood ; 
 As restless as the fawn that 's there, 
 Playing like a thing of air, — 
 Chasing the wind, if there be any, — 
 Like these, art thou, my little Fanny ! 
 
 I look on thee, and in thy face, 
 The life is there of childish grace : 
 
POEMS. 145 
 
 I see the silent thought that breaks 
 Into young smiles as Fancy wakes ; 
 And newly-wing'd Intelligence, 
 Trying its little flights from thence. 
 I see a strife 'twixt Health and Beauty, 
 Which shall the best achieve its duty ; 
 A gentle strife, for both contend, 
 But both, like bees, their labours blend. 
 
 Thy cheek by Health is rounded well, 
 
 By its hand invisible ; 
 
 But sweet and rosy hues there are, 
 
 And you may trace young Beauty there. 
 
 Health made thy gentle lips to be 
 
 So glad in their own company ; 
 
 So lavish of the cherry's dies, 
 
 So like the leaf, when autumn flies ; — 
 
 But Beauty claims thy young blue eyes. 
 
 And oh ! thy little light soft hair, 
 
 Parted on thy forehead fair, 
 
 L 
 
146 POEMS. 
 
 Doth seem to take its own delight 
 In leaning smooth and looking bright. 
 Thy figure small, and tiny feet, 
 Dotting the carpet round us, greet 
 Our hearts with joy, and feed the sense 
 Of love for utter innocence. 
 
 These beauties, Fanny, are to thee, 
 As yet, unknown society ; — 
 And so they 're a befitting dress 
 For thy mental prettiness ; — 
 For thy simple thoughts, that seem 
 Fragments of a summer dream ; — 
 For thy merry lips' first sayings, 
 For thy fancy's fairy strayings : 
 Thou art wiser far than many 
 That in years are richer, Fanny ! 
 
 The best of wisdom dwells with thee, 
 In thy white simplicity, — 
 
POEMS. 147 
 
 In thy young imaginings, 
 Which float about on spotless wings ; 
 In thy prattlings, kindly meant, 
 And in thy beautiful content. 
 Thine is the bloom of life, and we 
 Are jarrers in society, — 
 Opposers of each other's good, 
 Despoilers of all neighbourhood ; 
 Prone to pain, and serious folly, 
 And framers of self-melancholy. 
 Thou dost wander light and free, 
 In thine own heart's company ; 
 Making mirth, wherever chance 
 May lead thee in thy mazy dance : 
 Like the linnet wild, that weaves 
 Glad liberty amid the leaves. 
 
 Little copier of the lives 
 Of thy playmate relatives, — 
 
 l2 
 
148 POEM9. 
 
 Mocker of the elder ones, — 
 How thy wayward fancy runs, 
 By light from thine own laughing* eyes. 
 Its circle of sweet mimicries. 
 Oft in thy little face, I find 
 The flitting shadows of the mind 
 Pass and repass, as thou dost tease 
 That mind with infant sophistries: — 
 And then, when no conclusion 's near, 
 Thou, like a true philosopher, 
 Dost seek the joyous heart again, 
 And leave at rest the little brain. 
 
 Fare thee well ! I Ve found in thee 
 Blithe and sweet society ; 
 Merriment in drooping pain, 
 Pictures, given back again, 
 Of the pranks of childishness, 
 Ere I tasted of distress. 
 
POEMS. 1 4-9 
 
 Fare thee well ! — may youth be slow 
 To pass from thee,, who wear'st it so ; 
 For years are but the links of care. 
 To one so innocent and fair ! 
 Around thee joy., within thee truth, 
 Thou 'rt worthy of perpetual youth ; — 
 Worthy of that delight which lies 
 Within thy blue and pleasant eyes ; 
 Worthy thy mother's fond caressing : 
 I owe thee, Fanny, many a blessing, 
 For pranks of kindliness and glee, 
 And words of childish charity ; 
 For pleasures generous, light, and many, — 
 And therefore do I bless thee, Fanny I 
 
150 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 WRITTEN TO A FAVOURITE AIR. 
 
 1, 
 
 By the river — by the river 
 
 The round moon is rising ; 
 Like the water she glideth, 
 
 In silence and light ! 
 The tree-shadow falleth 
 
 In tremulous beauty, 
 And the swan yet abideth 
 
 The wave of the night. 
 
 2. 
 By the river, by the river, 
 At evening — in summer, — 
 
 • 
 
151 
 
 We have seen the moon rising, 
 The same tender moon ! 
 
 But we never, we never 
 
 In summer, — at evening, — 
 
 Shall again steep our eyes in 
 The balm of her boon ! 
 
THE 
 
 LADYE OF PKOVENCE. 
 
INTRODUCTORY STANZAS. 
 
 TO AZILE. 
 
 1. 
 
 Now, Azile ! make this pleasant bank thy seat, 
 A gentle tree o'er canopies thy head ; 
 
 And the evening airs, so soft and passing sweet, 
 Are odorous voices from the rose's bed : 
 
 The azure water, gliding at thy feet 
 In silence, seemeth to be fairy -led ; 
 
 And all around, above thee ? like thy breast, 
 
 Azile ! is beautiful and full of rest. 
 
 2. 
 How tenderly the loved Evening treads 
 
 With pearl-white feet the pathless quiet sky I 
 
156 
 
 INTRODUCTORY STANZAS. 
 
 Sweet silence falleth on our bowed heads, 
 As though a blessing and a boon from high ! 
 
 Thy love, my Azile ! on my heart now sheds 
 A gentler balm ; and in thy dark, dark eye, 
 
 Reposeth a serener, dearer light, — 
 
 Like the moon's lustre softening the deep night. 
 
 3. 
 Azile ! I will beguile this gentle hour 
 
 By telling thee a Provence tale, which thou 
 May'st deem as tender as the Provence flower ; 
 
 And it perchance may sadden thy sweet brow : 
 Tis from that old Italian, who did shower 
 
 His hundred tales upon the heart : — and now 
 Listen, while I in thy fair ear rehearse 
 The story, tamed into Northern verse. 
 
THE 
 
 LAD YE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 In fair Provence, two goodly castles stood, 
 Neighbouring each other in their stately pride, 
 And facing the setting sun, whose rays they cast 
 Back on the evening from the sheening ivy 
 And gorgeous window pane. The lofty trees 
 In mighty clusters throng'd around the walls 
 Like palace-guards — and Quiet nested 'mid them, 
 With dove-like wings folded beside her breast. 
 
 Two high and antique Families, in love 
 And gentle friending, filFd these castle halls. 
 
158 THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Guiglielmo Gardastagno and his lady 
 (A fair young timid lover of her lord) 
 Inhabited the southern House — the other 
 Was the noble home, Francesco Virgillisi 
 Gave the divine and loving Indreana, 
 
 
 
 When from her father's halls and mother s tears 
 
 He led her, jewell'd with a costly heart, 
 
 To be his life-queen. Happily the days 
 
 Fled in the sweet Provence. The ladies met, 
 
 Talk'd of their hawks, their pages, and their lords. 
 
 Their palfreys lily-white — and slim light hounds, — 
 
 Their pearled ornaments and rich apparel, — 
 
 While they sat idly o'er their broidery ; 
 
 And thus their gentle hearts, like two sweet roses, 
 
 By nearing to each other, grew united. 
 
 At tilts and tournaments, did Virgillisi 
 
 And Gardastagno well associate ; 
 
 They were as brothers in their sports, — their joys, 
 
 Their wonted occupations, — and there never 
 
 Went by the day, but the wild forest boar 
 
THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 159 
 
 Burst from its lair, before two gallant Hunters, 
 Mounted alike, — and habited alike, 
 With spears of the self-same fashion. Side by side 
 They rode, like the godlike brothers of old, — and 
 
 never 
 Fail'd in the sharing of the chase's dangers. 
 There you should see them skirting the deep wood, 
 In mantles greener than the sombre pine, — 
 And cheering on the hounds with voices, tuned 
 By long society to sound as one. 
 No better friends than the Lord Gardastagno 
 And Virgillisi ever held a hawk, 
 Nor tenderer creatures, than their ladies, ever 
 Indulged that pangless love that knows no sighs ! 
 
 But rash untoward Passion brake and foil'd 
 The pleasure of these Houses. Gardastagno, 
 Forgetting his young wife, — forgetting all 
 The loyalty of friendship — and distract 
 By the so fearful and exceeding beauty 
 
160 
 
 THE LADVE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 Of Indreana — fell from forest sports, 
 
 From tilts and knightly exercise, to dream 
 
 In Virgillisi's hall by one fair side, 
 
 The while she led her silken needle on 
 
 Its flowery way, — and there for hours he stood 
 
 Down gazing at her pearled fingers — lost 
 
 In wondering at the lustre of her brow, 
 
 And trembling at her eyes. Oh, Indreana ! 
 
 Couldst thou not then have chill'd him with a look, 
 
 And chid him to the chase ? — Alas ! thine eye 
 
 Oft turn'd to his in serious light — and oft, 
 
 Surprised by a sigh, resought its work ! 
 
 This lawless passion met with no rebuke, 
 
 And, patience-nursed, grew on to dangerous strength ! 
 
 The young and innocent bride of Gardastagno 
 Suspected not the change ; — but still she felt 
 A sad estrangement in her Indreana, 
 And did at times in tears entreat some cause, — 
 Entreat in vain, — and gather pain from silence. 
 
THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. l6l 
 
 Less oft they met; — Indreana framed excuse 
 For putting aside the visits as of old, — 
 And the timid lady — Gardastagno's wife,— 
 Went not abroad, but with a troubled heart 
 Pined in her chamber, like a wounded bird. 
 
 Not thus in ignorance did Virgillisi 
 
 Linger. — The clouds came gathering round at first, 
 
 And through their darkness truth but faintly lightend : 
 
 The time, with circumstance, illumed his mind ! 
 
 And Gardastagno's treachery — and the sufferance, 
 
 The not unwilling sufferance, of wrong love 
 
 In Indreana's heart, — were plain as light. 
 
 Such broken amity and ruin'd hope 
 Madden'd the mind of Virgillisi. — Where, 
 Where could lie turn for quiet ? — That one friend, 
 Whose mind had been the storehouse of his griefs, 
 Was his dusk enemy — and to her heart, — 
 The once most sainted palace of his love, — 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 He could not breathe his prayers as he was wont ; — 
 The spoiler had destroyed the shrine, and left 
 An image there, not of the chasten'd God ! 
 What now shall stead the wither'd hopes of him, 
 Who, stripp'd of every friend, — must stand alone 
 In this huge world, — gall'd into solitude ? 
 
 Yet — said I that no friend was left — that none 
 Remain'd unto his heart ? — I err'd. — Revenge 
 Came whispering gloomy words, that made him smile. 
 Long, silent walks, o'er-shrouded by the boughs 
 Of sombre trees, — and chamber musings deep, — 
 And patient and concealed observation, — 
 Wrought Virgillisi's mind to its resolve, 
 And that resolve was Gardastagno's death. 
 
 Then light and free grew Virgillisi's spirit, 
 Clear'd of its indecision, and buoyed up 
 With one all-crowning purpose — and the lovers, 
 The lost and wretched pair of frail fond lovers, 
 Deem'd themselves unsuspected — and resigned 
 
THE LADYE OF PROVENCE 
 
 163 
 
 Their passion to its dream. They walk'd, and read, 
 And gazed upon each other, even as two 
 Guiltless adorers in the heart of youth. 
 But Gardastagno's days were number'd out, 
 And Virgill isi waited for the hour ! 
 
 There was a public tourney to be held, 
 
 At which all knights of courage and repute 
 
 Were call'd to the break of lance. The trumpet rang 
 
 Through the fair streets of France, and a public just 
 
 Was loud proclaimed to all men of fame. 
 
 Lord Virgillisi craved of Gardastagno 
 
 An evening's converse, upon arms, and steeds, 
 
 And all that might accomplish them, to meet 
 
 The gallant spirits of France within the lists. 
 
 The evening came — and Gardastagno rode 
 Below the castles, into a cool wood,— 
 A cool enchanting wood, — where the grass spread 
 Its gentlest verdure under arched trees, 
 
 M 2 
 
164 THE LAD YE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 And the yellow lustre of the evening sun 
 
 Flooded the topmost branches — and stream'd through 
 
 The broken foliage, down to the green grass. 
 
 He rode unarm'd and tenderly along, 
 
 And slowly, for a lustrous sunset gave 
 
 Its poesy to the heart — and they who love, 
 
 Cannot but idle when the eve is fair. 
 
 He threw the bridle o'er the neck of his horse, 
 
 And with it likewise loosed the rein of his mind. 
 
 " Why comes not Virgillisi ?" — Thus he spake 
 
 Aloud in those mild shades — he was alone ! — 
 
 " Oh Indreana! how my heart fleets back 
 
 " To thee, so soften'd by this passion'd eve ! 
 
 " Where art thou ? — Talking to thy perched hawk 
 
 " With straying thoughts ? — or lingering 'mid thy 
 
 flowers, 
 " Thyself the sweetest lily of them all ? 
 " Or walking, with thy light and favourite hound 
 u Disporting pleasantly before thy steps ? — 
 
THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 1%JU 
 
 iC I know not. — We are not together — that 
 " Is all I feel — and hapless we must be !" 
 Thus did he shame, with an unworthy love 
 And erring speech, the ear of hallow'd eve ! 
 « Why comes not Virgillisi ? — I will turn 
 cc And seek his castle — and of Indreana 
 e ' Ask tidings of her lord ! — Alas the word T 
 
 He turn'd his steed. — Hark ! — o'er the quiet grass 
 
 Came the sound and ring of steeled trappings, — loud, — 
 
 And louder, — and anon a knight was seen, 
 
 With two attendants, — armed from the crown 
 
 Down to the heel complete ; — their faces hid 
 
 By the closed beaver ; — and their steeled garments 
 
 Sheening and sounding in the golden sun. 
 
 They rode towards Gardastagno — and he checked 
 
 His courser — marvelling at their near approach. 
 
 And with no curbed pace the knight came on. 
 
 He flash'd his sword in the startled light — and spurr'd 
 
166 
 
 THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 His black and rushing barb — and crying aloud : 
 
 " Alone — defenceless — dreaming of thy love 
 
 " And of no other wrong — I find thee here 
 
 " Fit offering to the God of my revenge. 
 
 " No barrier stands between my hunger' d sword 
 
 " And thy bad heart. — And thus I make them one !" 
 
 And sweeping onward, while he spoke, his hand, — 
 
 The hand of Virgillisi, — usher'd death 
 
 Into the breast of Gardastagno. There, 
 
 Without a word — without a sigh, he fell 
 
 Dead-struck, down plunged in the soiled grass. 
 
 He knew the voice of his wrong'd friend — and sought 
 
 No safety — death was near — and he could die. 
 
 Virgillisi loosed his beaver — and descended. 
 With cruel knife he open'd the dead breast 
 Of Gardastagno, and from thence out took 
 The ruddy heart, the heart that loved so well 
 Its murderer, till by passion gone distract — 
 And, wrapping it in the lance's bandelot, 
 
THE LAD YE OF PROVENCE. 167 
 
 Delivered it with care into the hands 
 Of his attendant — bidding him to silence ! 
 So mounting on his horse — he left the body- 
 Mangled and cold upon the blooded grass, 
 And sought his castle and his Indreana. 
 
 The sun had set — the deep wood-shadows fell 
 Heavily down to earth — and the night gusts 
 Of the chilling wind ruffled the lofty trees, 
 Making a dismal moaning, as for death. 
 Indreana sigh'd over her untouch'd lute, 
 Restless, because the evening came alone. 
 
 Virgillisi found her — all alone — and sitting 
 
 At the open lattice, gazing dreamingly 
 
 Over the orange trees at dusk of eve. 
 
 He kiss'd her joyless lip. " My love !" said he, 
 
 " Are thy thoughts chiding me for leaving thee, 
 
 te Leaving thee here, a lute but thy companion ?" 
 
 " Not so, my lord," said Indreana — " never 
 
168 
 
 THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 " Can I give birth to chiding — I was lost 
 
 " In indolence and vacancy of mind. 
 
 e: The air blows chilly — did not Gardastagno 
 
 <c Promise that he would sup with us to-night?" 
 
 Virgillisi smiled a death smile to himself, 
 
 But smothering his black thoughts,, he gently spake — 
 
 " His wife, my love, did crave his company, 
 
 " And I did yield him to that fond young thing. 
 
 u But come ! — alone, — and loving as we do, 
 
 " Let us be happy in each other's thoughts. 
 
 cc We'll sup together, sweet, shall we not so?" 
 
 The lady quieted her vexed heart, 
 
 And with a seeming kindness did consent. 
 
 Then leaving Indreana, Virgillisi 
 
 Went forth — and bade his servant thus — " Take this, 
 
 " This dainty heart of a wild boar, that I kill'd 
 
 " In the forest ; — dress it in a goodly way, 
 
 " With sauces rich, — the best thou canst devise, — 
 
 " And serve it to us in a silver dish." 
 
THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 1 69 
 
 The servant sliced it cunningly and well, 
 And dressing it, — even with his utmost art, — 
 Made it of pleasant taste and grateful odour, 
 And served it to them in a silver dish. 
 
 Many fair speeches Virgillisi used 
 
 At supper to his lady — and he press'd 
 
 Her appetite so well, that at the last 
 
 She banqueted most freely on the heart. 
 
 Virgillisi saw her feed, with eager eyes, 
 
 And, when the delicate was nigh devour'd, 
 
 He said — ie How like you, love, this fragrant food? 
 
 Ci How pleaseth it your taste ?" — " Truly, my lord, 
 
 <e Never the better loved I any dish !" 
 
 He answer'd, " Trust me, madam, I believe 
 
 " You love that dead, which gave you love in life." 
 
 She sank to silence — gazed upon the relics 
 
 With steady, pained eyes, — grew deathly pale — 
 
 And with a quiet voice at length did say, 
 
 " I pray you, sir, what meat is this you have given ? 
 
i70 THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 a Upon what dish have I been feeding now ?" 
 
 In bitter voice then Virgillisi said, 
 
 u I will resolve thee, thou disloyal lady, 
 
 " I will resolve thee quickly to thy shame ; — 
 
 " 'Tis Gardastagno's heart thou hast devour'd ! 
 
 " These hands did gather it — I knew 'twould pleasure 
 
 " Thy most depraved fancy and false taste ! 
 
 " His heart's torn casket lieth in the wood, — 
 
 " The heart itself thy body hath inurn'd !" 
 
 Poor Idreana ! what a dismal fate ! 
 In marble silence sat she, — tears alone 
 In bitter plenteousness ran down her cheeks, 
 And fell upon the white tomb of her heart. 
 Given o'er to grief — to anguish dedicate — 
 The Jady of Sorrow's Convent she should seem! 
 Sighs vehement and deep at length brake forth, 
 And did relieve her even to speech : — she spake, — 
 " Lord Virgillisi, thou hast done a deed 
 (e Hateful, — disloyal, — full of cruel fate ; — 
 
THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 171 
 
 " That I have loved the gracious Gardastagno 
 
 " (As who that knew him, loved him not i—you loved 
 
 him) 
 " My tongue confesses — it may be, my heart 
 " Hath recognized his virtues all too well — 
 " And watch'd them with too deep an interest ! 
 " But, Virgillisi, I am not dishonoured, 
 " Thy bed cannot rebuke me, — for, though lost 
 " In womanly fair 'haviour, I have kept 
 " My honour (ah what honour !) spotless still ! 
 " Nay — give me credence, — this is not a time 
 "" To question my sad words ! — Mark — Virgillisi !— 
 " Since I have proved the strange receptacle 
 "• Of that most precious relic, the sweet heart 
 " Of Gardastagno, our remember'd friend, 
 " And the star of all fair courtesy and truth ! 
 " I will be burthen'd with no meaner food, 
 fe Nor house with one, who fills my thoughts with 
 blood r 
 
172 THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 So having spoken — her eyes, till then tear-calm'd, 
 
 Flash'd an unnatural light — and her breast heaved 
 
 Tumultuous. Starting up — she shuddering left 
 
 The side of Virgillisi — and went forth 
 
 To a great gazing window, which stood ope, 
 
 Gorgeously facing the broad western sky, 
 
 Above some giant trees, whose lofty tops 
 
 Billow'd beneath it — Desperate was the depth ! 
 
 Yet Indreana, violent in heart, 
 
 And wild to fate, — leap'd forth, — down tearing 
 
 through 
 The crashing branches and cold rushing air, 
 To the hideous earth, — where death awaited her ! 
 Her shiver'd form lay at the castle's foot, 
 Despoiled of all comeliness and breath ! 
 
 Like a body without its soul, stood Virgillisi 
 
 Confounded at his utter solitude, 
 
 And lost in a patient horror ! — she was gone ! 
 
THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 173 
 
 Gone terribly for ever from his sight ! — 
 He had seen her dare the fall (and still her scarf, 
 Caught by the lattice, stream'd into the night). 
 His ears had heard the branches break — the air 
 Sound with her rushing garments — and his soul 
 Had sicken'd at the silence that ensued. 
 Death — death was in that silence — and he felt 
 Revenge had stalk'd too sternly through his heart I 
 The menials found the shatter'd Indreana 
 Beneath the castle walls, — and in wild grief 
 Rush'd to their master. Virgillisi stood 
 Alone, — beholding the wide staring window 
 That seem'd to him the portal of the grave ! 
 They led him forth, — and tended him with care ; 
 But he, in stupid sorrow, spake no word. 
 
 Days pass'd, — and tears to Virgillisi's eyes 
 Came ministers of comfort — comfort cold ! 
 Yet sullen in the light, — he prowl'd in woods, 
 
174 THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 
 
 And shudder'd under trees ; — and through the 
 
 night 
 Strange phantoms trampled o'er his heart, and died 
 Fiercely before his eyes. — His menials heard 
 Pitiful screams at midnight in his room, 
 But never might they break his solitude. 
 At last, grief-madden'd, — from Provence he fled, — 
 No one knew whither : He return'd no more ! 
 
 The wife of Gardastagno mourn'd her lord 
 
 With a constancy which only woman knows ; — 
 
 Superior to neglect, disgrace, and time ! 
 
 He was her first — last — only passion : — he 
 
 Had been her daily, nightly dream ; — and never 
 
 Could she forget — or alter in her love, 
 
 Though he had wrong'd her! She renounced the 
 
 world, 
 And in a convent buried her young days ! 
 
 The fates of the Unfortunates were rumour'd 
 
THE LADYE OF PROVENCE. 175 
 
 Throughout Provence ; and the bodies being found, 
 Were in the castle chapel of Virgillisi 
 Entombed near each other, with sweet lines 
 Graven o'er the marble, telling their sad tale. 
 
 THE END. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON. WHITEFRIARS. 
 
 LRBMy'28 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 014 527 165 4 fl