Oh! let the deep Aonian shell
Breathe tuneful numbers, clear and well,
While the glad Hours, in fair array,
Lead on this buxom Holiday;
And Time, as on his way he springs,
Hates the last bard who gave him wings;
For ‘neath thy gentleness of praise,
My Father! rose my early lays!
And when the lyre was scarce awake,
I lov’d its strings for thy lov’d sake;
Woo’d the kind Muses — but the while
Thought only how to win thy smile —
My proudest fame — my dearest pride —
More dear than all the world beside!
And now, perchance, I seek the tone
For magic that is more its own;
But still my Father’s looks remain
The best Mæcenas of my strain;
My gentlest joy, upon his brow
To read the smile, that meets me now —
To hear him, in his kindness, say
The words, — perchance he’ll speak to-day!
SPENSERIAN STANZAS ON A BOY OF THREE YEARS OLD.
Child of the sunny lockes and beautifull brow!
In thoughtfull tendernesse I gaze on thee —
Upon thy daintie cheek Expression’s glow
Daunceth in tyme to thine heart’s melodie;
Ne mortall wight mote lovelier urchin see!
Nathlesse it teens this pensive brest of mine
To think — belive the innocent revelrie
Shall be eclipsed in those soft blue eyne —
Whenso the howre of youth no more for thee shall shine.
Ah me! eftsoons thy childhood’s pleasaunt dais
Shall fly away, and be a whilome thing!
And sweetest mearimake, and birthday lais
Be reck’d not of, except when memories bring
Feres to their embers with awaking wing,
To make past love rejoyce thy tender sprite,
Albeit the toyles of daunger thee enring!
Child of the wavy lockes, and brow of light —
Then be thy conscience pure, as now thy face is bright.
VERSES TO MY BROTHER.
“For we were nurs’d upon the self-same hill.”
Lycidas.
I will write down thy name, and when ‘tis writ,
Will turn me from the hum that mortals keep
In the wide world without, and gaze on it!
It telleth of the past — calling from sleep
Such dear, yet mournful thoughts, as make us smile, and weep.
Belov’d and best! what thousand feelings start,
As o’er the paper’s course my fingers move —
My Brother! dearest, kindest as thou art!
How can these lips my heart’s affection prove?
I could not speak the words, if words could speak my love.
Together have we past our infant hours,
Together sported Childhood’s spring away,
Together cull’d young Hope’s fast budding flowers,
To wreathe the forehead of each coming day!
Yes! for the present’s sun makes e’en the future gay.
And when the laughing mood was nearly o’er,
Together, many a minute did we wile
On Horace’ page, or Maro’s sweeter lore;
While one young critic, on the classic style,
Would sagely try to frown, and make the other smile.
But now alone thou con’st the ancient tome —
And sometimes thy dear studies, it may be,
Are cross’d by dearer dreams of me and home!
Alone I muse on Homer — thoughts are free —
And if mine often stray, they go in search of thee!
I may not praise thee here — I will not bless!
Yet all thy goodness doth my memory bear,
Cherish’d by more than Friendship’s tenderness —
And, in the silence of my evening prayer,
Thou shalt not be forgot — thy dear name shall be there!
STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.
“ — I am not now
That which I have been.”
Childe Harold.
He was , and is not! Græcia’s trembling shore,
Sighing through all her palmy groves, shall tell
That Harold’s pilgrimage at last is o’er —
Mute the impassioned tongue, and tuneful shell,
That erst was wont in noblest strains to swell —
Hush’d the proud shouts that rode Ægæa’s wave!
For lo! the great Deliv’rer breathes farewell!
Gives to the world his mem’ry and a grave —
Expiring in the land he only lived to save!
Mourn, Hellas, mourn! and o’er thy widow’d brow,
For aye, the cypress wreath of sorrow twine;
And in thy new-form’d beauty, desolate, throw
The fresh-cull’d flowers on his sepulchral shrine.
Yes! let that heart whose fervour was all thine,
In consecrated urn lamented be!
That generous heart where genius thrill’d divine,
Hath spent its last most glorious throb for thee —
Then sank amid the storm that made thy children free!
Britannia’s Poet! Græcia’s hero, sleeps!
And Freedom, bending o’er the breathless clay,
Lifts up her voice, and in her anguish weeps!
For us , a night hath clouded o’er our day,
And hush’d the lips that breath’d our fairest lay.
Alas! and must the British lyre resound
A requiem, while the spirit wings away
Of him who on its strings such music found,
And taught its startling chords to give so sweet a sound!
The theme grows sadder — but my soul shall find
A language in these tears! No more — no more!
Soon, ‘midst the shriekings of the tossing wind,
The ‘dark blue depths’ he sang of, shall have bore
Our all of Byron to his native shore!
His grave is thick with voices — to the ear
Murm’ring an awful tale of greatness o’er;
But Memory strives with Death, and lingering near,
Shall consecrate the dust of Harold’s lonely bier!
MEMORY.
My Fancy’s steps have often strayed
To some fair vale the hills have made;
Where sparkling waters travel o’er,
And hold a mirror to the shore;
Winding with murmurings in and out,
To find the flowers which grow about.
And there, perchance, in childhood bold,
Some little elf, four summers old,
Adown the vales may chance to run,
To hunt his shadow in the sun!
But when the waters meet his eyes,
He starts and stops with glad surprise,
And shouts, with merry voice, to view
The banks of green, the skies of blue,
Th’ inverted flocks that bleating go,
Lilies, and trees of apple blow,
Seeming so beautiful below!
He peeps above — he glances round,
And then looks down, and thinks he’s found
Reposing in the stream, to woo one,
A world ev’n lovelier than the true one.
Thus, with visions gay and light,
Hath Fancy lov’d my page to dight;
Yet Thought hath, through a vista, seen
Something less frivolous I ween:
Then, while my chatting pen runs on,
I’ll tell you what she dreamt upon.
Memory’s the streamlet of the scene,
Which sweeps the hills of life between;
And, when our walking hour is past,
Upon its shore we rest at last;
And love to view the
waters fair,
And see lost joys depictured there.
My —— — , when thy feet are led
To press those banks we all must tread —
May Virtue’s smile, and Learning’s praise,
Adorn the waters to thy gaze;
And, o’er their lucid course, be lent
The sunshine of a life well spent!
Then, if a thought should glad thy breast
Of those who loved thee first and best,
My name, perchance, may haunt the spot,
Not quite unprized — nor all forgot.
TO ——
Mine is a wayward lay;
And, if its echoing rhymes I try to string,
Proveth a truant thing,
Whenso some names I love, send it away!
For then, eyes swimming o’er,
And claspëd hands, and smiles in fondness meant,
Are much more eloquent —
So it had fain begone, and speak no more!
Yet shall it come again,
Ah, friend belov’d! if so thy wishes be,
And, with wild melody,
I will, upon thine ear, cadence my strain —
Cadence my simple line,
Unfashion’d by the cunning hand of Art,
But coming from my heart,
To tell the message of its love to thine!
As ocean shells, when taken
From Ocean’s bed, will faithfully repeat
Her ancient music sweet —
Ev’n so these words, true to my heart, shall waken!
Oh! while our bark is seen,
Our little bark of kindly, social love,
Down life’s clear stream to move
Toward the summer shores, where all is green —
So long thy name shall bring,
Echoes of joy unto the grateful gales,
And thousand tender tales,
To freshen the fond hearts that round thee cling!
Hast thou not look’d upon
The flowerets of the field in lowly dress?
Blame not my simpleness —
Think only of my love! — my song is gone.
STANZAS OCCASIONED BY A PASSAGE IN MR. EMERSON’S JOURNAL
WHICH STATES, THAT ON THE MENTION OF LORD BYRON’S NAME, CAPTAIN DEMETRIUS, AN OLD ROUMELIOT, BURST INTO TEARS.
Name not his name, or look afar —
For when my spirit hears
That name, its strength is turned to woe —
My voice is turned to tears.
Name me the host and battle-storm,
Mine own good sword shall stem;
Name me the foeman and the block,
I have a smile for them!
But name him not, or cease to mark
This brow where passions sweep —
Behold, a warrior is a man,
And as a man may weep!
I could not scorn my Country’s foes,
Did not these tears descend —
I could not love my Country’s fame,
And not my Country’s Friend.
Deem not his memory e’er can be
Upon our spirits dim —
Name us the generous and the free,
And we must think of him!
For his voice resounded through our land
Like the voice of liberty,
As when the war-trump of the wind
Upstirs our dark blue sea.
His arm was in the foremost rank,
Where embattled thousands roll —
His name was in the love of Greece,
And his spell was on her soul!
But the arm that wielded her good sword,
The brow that wore the wreath,
The lips that breathed the deathless thoughts —
They went asleep in death.
Ye left his heart , when ye took away
The dust in funeral state;
And we dumbly placed in a little urn,
That home of all things great.
The banner streamed — the war-shout rose —
Our heroes played their part;
But not a pulse would throb or burn —
Oh! could it be his heart!
I will not think— ‘tis worse than vain
Upon such thoughts to keep;
Then, Briton, name me not his name —
I cannot choose but weep!
THE PAST.
There is a silence upon the Ocean,
Albeit it swells with a feverish motion;
Like to the battle-camp’s fearful calm,
While the banners are spread, and the warriors arm.
The winds beat not their drum to the waves,
But sullenly moan in the distant caves;
Talking over, before they rise,
Some of their dark conspiracies.
And so it is in this life of ours,
A calm may be on the present hours,
But the calmest hour of festive glee
May turn the mother of woe to thee.
I will betake me to the Past,
And she shall make my love at last;
I will find my home in her tarrying-place —
I will gaze all day on her deathly face!
Her form, though awful, is fair to view;
The clasp of her hand, though cold, is true;
Her shadowy brow hath no changefulness,
And her numbered smiles can grow no less!
Her voice is like a pleasant song,
Which we have not heard for very long,
And which a joy on our souls will cast,
Though we know not where we heard it last.
She shall walk with me, away, away,
Where’er the mighty have left their clay;
She shall speak to me in places lone,
With a low and holy tone.
Ay! when I have lit my lamp at night,
She will be present with my sprite;
And I will say, whate’er it be,
Every word she telleth me!
THE PRAYER.
Methought that I did stand upon a tomb —
And all was silent as the dust beneath,
While feverish thoughts upon my soul would come,
Losing my words in tears: I thought of death;
And prayed that when my lips gave out the breath,
The friends I loved like life might stay behind:
So, for a little while, my name might eath
Be something dear, — spoken with voices kind,
Heard with remembering looks, from eyes which tears would blind!
I prayed that I might sink unto my rest,
(O foolish, selfish prayer!) before them all;
So I might look my last on those loved best —
So never would my voice repining call,
And never would my tears impassioned fall
On one familiar face turning to clay!
So would my tune of life be musical,
Albeit abrupt — like airs the Spaniards play,
Which in the sweetest part, break off, and die away.
Methought I looked around! the scene was rife
With little vales, green banks, and waters heaving;
And every living thing did joy in life,
And every thing of beauty did seem living —
Oh, then, life’s pulse was at my heart reviving;
And then I knew that it was good to bear
Dispensëd woe, that by the spirit’s grieving,
It might be weanëd from a world so fair! —
Thus with submissive words mine heart did close its prayer.
ON A PICTURE OF RIEGO’S WIDOW, PLACED IN THE EXHIBITION.
Daughter of Spain! a passer by
May mark the cheek serenely pale —
The dark eyes which dream silently,
And the calm lip which gives no wail!
Calm! it bears not a deeper trace
Of feelings it disdain
ed to show;
We look upon the Widow’s face,
And only read the Patriot’s woe!
No word, no look, no sigh of thine,
Would make his glory seem more dim;
Thou would’st not give to vulgar eyne
The sacred tear which fell for him .
Thou would’st not hold to the world’s view
Thy ruined joys, thy broken heart —
The jeering world — it only knew
Of all thine anguish — that thou wert!
While o’er his grave thy steps would go
With a firm tread, — stilling thy love, —
As if the dust would blush below
To feel one faltering foot above.
For Spain, he dared the noble strife —
For Spain, he gave his latest breath;
And he who lived the Patriot’s life,
Was dragged to die the traitor’s death!
And the shout of thousands swept around,
As he stood the traitor’s block beside;
But his dying lips gave a free sound —
Let the foe weep! — thy brow had pride!
Yet haply in the midnight air,
When none might part thy God and thee,
The lengthened sob, the passionate prayer,
Have spoken thy soul’s agony!
But silent else, thou past away —
The plaint unbreath’d, the anguish hid —
More voiceless than the echoing clay
Which idly knocked thy coffin’s lid.
Peace be to thee! while Britons seek
This place, if British souls they bear,
‘Twill start the crimson in the cheek
To see Riego’s widow there!
WEEP, AS IF YOU THOUGHT OF LAUGHTER!
SONG
Weep , as if you thought of laughter!
Smile, as tears were coming after!
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 11