'And clasp a sudden hand in mine."- Tennyson.
(F the impossible could ever be,
And in the waste of life thy faithful hand
Should suddenly clasp mine, and all the grand
Full radiance of thy presence shine on me,
Say, should I, as of old, close to thee cling,
In happy confidence, and lay my head
Upon that tender heart, where oft 'twas laid?
Or rather should I kneel, while thou didst fling
The mantle of forgiveness me to cover;
For Death doth teach what Life can never show.
And now I feel thy goodness, Oh! my Lover,
And to thine arms, with halting steps I go:
Ah! dost thou raise me, dear, and do I rest
This weary heart of mine on thy true breast?
OW rich am I who am possessed of this,
The pictured semblance of thy heav'nly face;
For tho' the painter's art did somewhat miss
To give thy beauty's every winning grace,
Yet I am blest, who, gazing here, can trace
Of thy sweet mind th' unspoken loveliness.
How like it is! I could that cheek caress,
And smoothe those wanton tresses to their place.
Thou speakest, sure. Thy tender lips apart,
And those twin fountains of pure light-thine eyes— Are breathing forth the deep thoughts of thine heart, Where, all unseen, thy richest treasure lies.
Heaven guard and guide and bless thee, dear, my love, And lead thee thro' this world to worlds above.
H! friend, whose tender words drop gently down, As dews of evening upon wayside flowers, 'Tis men like thee redeem this world of ours. And now I feel in stature to have grown,
While my awaken'd soul puts forth her powers New harness'd for the battle. Thou hast shewn Me, erewhile fainting, that not all alone
I fight life's combat, that th' Eternal dowers
Our eternal spirits with such essence fine,
That howsoe'er we walk thro' this world's mire,
He keeps alight within his holy fire.
This is our heritage-e'en mine and thine-
Shall a king's son the portion eat of swine?
Not so, the feast is set, God calls us higher.
[From a Painting by Guido].
HY gazest thou so mournfully in my face? I cannot give thee help, thou beauteous thing, Poor dove with rifled nest, and broken wing, In this wide earth for thee no resting place,
But that dark house to which our sick souls cling, The grave! which brings man's best imagining Sweet quiet, endless calm. Kind Death's embrace Was welcome to thee, fairest of thy race;
And oh most wretched, pierced by sorrow's sting, So foully murdererd! May great Heaven's King Requite thee for thy piteous evil case,
And o'er thy every wrong His pardon fling. Nay, look not on me, or my heart will break, I cannot help thee girl, nor vengeance take.
NSKILL'D am I in flattery's pleasing lore,
Such arts, I feel, are all despised by thee,
Yet when I muse thy gentle kindness o'er
My grateful heart could well a flatterer be.
The weary traveller hails the tiniest spot
Of flow'r-deck'd verdure on his lonely way,
And as he journeys on from day to day
The memory of its beauty, unforgot,
Brightens the pathway, tho' through deserts dread.
So thou a dull monotony dost grace
With the refreshing kindness of thy face,
Where well thy kindlier spirit may be read.
Scorn not the Muse, for tho' her song be poor
She fain would honour thee, of that be sure.
NGRATITUDE, base offspring of deceit,
How oft it wrings the trusting heart with pain,
And checks its gen'rous impulse, in disdain,
That aught but falsehood it will ever meet,
Binding the frankest spirit by a chain,
From which it strives to free itself in vain :
For gall is in the cup trust made so sweet,
And the wrong'd nature, once belief is slain,
With cold suspicion doubts the truest faith,
Deeming it, too, will wither and decay
(Like the short sunshine of a winter's day),
To die for ever 'neath misfortune's breath.
O, wisest man! thou speakest words of sooth,
Calling this sharper than a serpent's tooth.
OGS bay the moon. Yet holds she on her way
Thro' the high heav'n with unmov'd majesty.
So in our walk thro' life we sometime see
A great soul passing on from day to day,
Heedless of all the howlings round its head
As of the vipers crush'd beneath its tread.
Calmly it moves, holding a world at bay,
Till from its life serene such light is shed,
That all false baying tongues will cease to make
Their hideous noises, and foul vipers creep
Back to their loathsome dens and sullen sleep.'
While on the upright soul its course doth take,
And for the transient gloom is lovelier seen,
As brighter from her clouds breaks forth night's Queen.
NEED no pictured likeness of thy face,
'Tis graven deep within this heart of mine;
Yet gladly read I over, line by line,
This volume eloquent; where manly grace
And woman's sweetness tenderly combine;
Where from a lofty brow high truth doth shine,
And patient courage time may not erase.
Oh! may thy son's sons yet thine image bear,
And may thy lofty spirit light their brows,
When that the sleep e'en Love may not arouse,
Has sealed thine own with calm that angels wear,
So that men gazing on their faces fair
May turn and bless the babes in glad surprise
To see 'neath childhoods' brows such earnest eyes
DREAMED last night a nosegay of spring flowers
Was put into my bosom, snowdrops fair,
And fragrant violets seemed blooming there ;
Children of light, and life, and golden hours
Of fitful sunshine, beautiful as rare.
I did not see the hand which thus had laid,
Its tender off'ring close beside my heart,
Yet knew they were of Paradise a part,
And kissed the precious things, nor felt afraid.
Oh! that the watcher from the gloom might start,
Who near my pillow sometime kind had stay'd !
Alas! when I awakened, with a moan,
Angel and flowrets back to Heaven had gone,
Ah! shall I never know who for me pray'd.
[From Michael Angelo's Painting].
WEIRD mystic sisters, now some life is done,
And the wide open'd shears will cut the thread While Youth or Beauty joins the silent dead. See Clotho pauses, who the distaff spun,
To glare upon her sister, in whose eyes The cruel light of her dark purpose lies. Oh! not by looks appealing art thou won, Relentless fate thine office is begun,
And the pale watcher who with earnest guise, Stretches the thread upon her pitying hands,
While for a moment's grace her sad face cries
In mute obedience to thy mandate stands.
But vain the prayer--and so, the shining shears,
Cuts hour by hour some thread thro' endless years.
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