From off his gleesome forehead, bold and glad
With keeping blythe Dan Phoebus company; —
And throws him on the grass, though half afraid;
First glancing round, lest tempests should be nigh;
And lays close to the ground his ruddy lips,
And shapes their beauty into sound, and calls
On all the petall’d flowers that sit beneath
In hiding-places from the rain and snow,
To loosen the hard soil, and leave their cold
Sad idlesse, and betake them up to him.
They straightway hear his voice —
A thought did come,
And press from out my soul the heathen dream.
Mine eyes were purgëd. Straightway did I bind
Round me the garment of my strength, and heard
Nature’s death-shrieking — the hereafter cry,
When he o’ the lion voice, the rainbow-crown’d,
Shall stand upon the mountains and the sea,
And swear by earth, by heaven’s throne, and Him
Who sitteth on the throne, there shall be time
No more, no more! Then, veil’d Eternity
Shall straight unveil her awful countenance
Unto the reeling worlds, and take the place
Of seasons, years, and ages. Aye and aye
Shall be the time of day. The wrinkled heav’n
Shall yield her silent sun, made blind and white
With an exterminating light: the wind,
Unchainëd from the poles, nor having charge
Of cloud or ocean, with a sobbing wail
Shall rush among the stars, and swoon to death.
Yea, the shrunk earth, appearing livid pale
Beneath the red-tongued flame, shall shudder by
From out her ancient place, and leave — a void.
Yet haply by that void the saints redeem’d
May sometimes stray; when memory of sin
Ghost-like shall rise upon their holy souls;
And on their lips shall lie the name of earth
In paleness and in silentness; until
Each looking on his brother, face to face,
And bursting into sudden happy tears,
(The only tears undried) shall murmur— ‘Christ!’
THE PICTURE GALLERY AT PENSHURST.
They spoke unto me from the silent ground,
They look’d unto me from the pictured wall:
The echo of my footstep was a sound
Like to the echo of their own footfall,
What time their living feet were in the hall.
I breathed where they had breathed — and where they brought
Their souls to moralize on glory’s pall,
I walk’d with silence in a cloud of thought:
So, what they erst had learn’d, I mine own spirit taught.
Ay! with mine eyes of flesh, I did behold
The likeness of their flesh! They, the great dead,
Stood still upon the canvass, while I told
The glorious memories to their ashes wed.
There, I beheld the Sidneys: — he, who bled
Freely for freedom’s sake, bore gallantly
His soul upon his brow; — he, whose lute said
Sweet music to the land, meseem’d to be
Dreaming with that pale face, of love and Arcadie.
Mine heart had shrinëd these. And therefore past
Were these, and such as these, in mine heart’s pride,
Which deem’d death, glory’s other name. At last
I stay’d my pilgrim feet, and paused beside
A picture, which the shadows half did hide.
The form was a fair woman’s form; the brow
Brightly between the clustering curls espied:
The cheek a little pale, yet seeming so
As, if the lips could speak, the paleness soon would go.
And rested there the lips, so warm and loving,
That, they could speak, one might be fain to guess:
Only they had been much too bright, if moving,
To stay by their own will, all motionless.
One outstretch’d hand its marble seal ‘gan press
On roses which look’d fading; while the eyes,
Uplifted in a calm, proud loveliness,
Seem’d busy with their flow’ry destinies,
Drawing, for ladye’s heart, some moral quaint and wise.
She perish’d like her roses. I did look
On her, as she did look on them — to sigh!
Alas, alas! that the fair-written book
Of her sweet face, should be in death laid by,
As any blotted scroll! Its cruelty
Poison’d a heart most gentle-pulsed of all,
And turn’d it unto song, therein to die:
For grief’s stern tension maketh musical,
Unless the strain’d string break or ere the music fall.
Worship of Waller’s heart! no dream of thine
Reveal’d unto thee, that the lowly one,
Who sate enshadow’d near thy beauty’s shine,
Should, when the light was out, the life was done,
Record thy name with those by Memory won
From Time’s eternal burial. I am woo’d
By wholesome thoughts this sad thought hath begun;
For mind is strengthen’d when awhile subdued,
As he who touch’d the earth, and rose with power renew’d.
TO A POET’S CHILD.
A far harp swept the sea above;
A far voice said thy name in love:
Then silence on the harp was cast;
The voice was chain’d — the love went last!
And as I heard the melodie,
Sweet-voicëd Fancy spake of thee:
And as the silence o’er it came,
Mine heart, in silence, sigh’d thy name.
I thought there was one only place,
Where thou couldst lift thine orphan’d face;
A little home for prayer and woe; —
A stone above — a shroud below; —
That evermore, that stone beside,
Thy wither’d joys would form thy pride;
As palm trees, on their south sea bed,
Make islands with the flowers they shed.
Child of the Dead! my dream of thee
Was sad to tell, and dark to see;
And vain as many a brighter dream;
Since thou canst sing by Babel’s stream!
For here, amid the worldly crowd,
‘Mid common brows, and laughter loud,
And hollow words, and feelings sere,
Child of the Dead! I meet thee here!
And is thy step so fast and light?
And is thy smile so gay and bright?
And canst thou smile, with cheek undim,
Upon a world that frown’d on him ?
The minstrel’s harp is on his bier;
What doth the minstrel’s orphan here?
The loving moulders in the clay;
The loved, — she keepeth holyday!
‘Tis well! I would not doom thy years
Of golden prime, to only tears.
Fair girl! ‘twere better that thine eyes
Should find a joy in summer skies,
As if their sun were on thy fate.
Be happy; strive not to be great;
And go not, from thy kind apart,
With lofty soul and stricken heart.
Think not too deeply: shallow thought,
Like open rills, is ever sought
By light and flowers; while fountains deep
Amid the rocks and shadows sleep.
Feel not too warmly: lest thou be
Too like Cyrene’s waters free,
Which burn at night, when all around
In darkness and in chill is found.
Touch not the harp to win the wreath:
Its tone is fame, its echo death!
The wreath may like the laurel grow,
Yet turns to cypress on the brow!
And, as a flame springs clear and bright,
Yet leaveth ashes ‘stead of light;
So genius (fatal gift)! is doom’d
To leave the heart it fired, consumed.
For thee, for thee, thou orphan’d one,
I make an humble orison!
Love all the world; and ever dream
That all are true who truly seem.
Forget! for, so, ‘twill move thee not,
Or lightly move; to be forgot!
Be streams thy music; hills, thy mirth;
Thy chiefest light, the household hearth.
So, when grief plays her natural part,
And visiteth thy quiet heart;
Shall all the clouds of grief be seen
To show a sky of hope between.
So, when thy beauty senseless lies,
No sculptured urn shall o’er thee rise;
But gentle eyes shall weep at will,
Such tears as hearts like thine distil.
MINSTRELSY.
One asked her once the resun why,
She hadde delyte in minstrelsie,
She answerëd on this manére.
Robert de Brunne.
For ever, since my childish looks
Could rest on Nature’s pictured books;
For ever, since my childish tongue
Could name the themes our bards have sung;
So long, the sweetness of their singing
Hath been to me a rapture bringing!
Yet ask me not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.
I know that much whereof I sing,
Is shapen but for vanishing;
I know that summer’s flower and leaf
And shine and shade are very brief,
And that the heart they brighten, may,
Before them all, be sheathed in clay! —
I do not know the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.
A few there are, whose smile and praise
My minstrel hope, would kindly raise:
But, of those few — Death may impress
The lips of some with silentness;
While some may friendship’s faith resign,
And heed no more a song of mine. —
Ask not, ask not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.
The sweetest song that minstrels sing,
Will charm not Joy to tarrying;
The greenest bay that earth can grow,
Will shelter not in burning woe;
A thousand voices will not cheer,
When one is mute that aye is dear! —
Is there, alas! no reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy?
I do not know! The turf is green
Beneath the rain’s fast-dropping sheen,
Yet asks not why that deeper hue
Doth all its tender leaves renew; —
And I, like-minded, am content,
While music to my soul is sent,
To question not the reason why
I have delight in minstrelsy.
Years pass — my life with them shall pass:
And soon, the cricket in the grass
And summer bird, shall louder sing
Than she who owns a minstrel’s string.
Oh then may some, the dear and few,
Recall her love, whose truth they knew;
When all forget to question why
She had delight in minstrelsy!
TO THE MEMORY OF SIR UVEDALE PRICE, BART.
Farewell! — a word that human lips bestow
On all that human hearts delight to know:
On summer skies, and scenes that change as fast;
On ocean calms, and faith as fit to last;
On Life, from Love’s own arms, that breaks away;
On hopes that blind, and glories that decay!
And ever thus, ‘farewell, farewell,’ is said,
As round the hills of lengthening time, we tread;
As at each step, the winding ways unfold
Some untried prospect which obscures the old; —
Perhaps a prospect brightly color’d o’er,
Yet not with brightness that we loved before;
And dull and dark the brightest hue appears
To eyes like ours, surcharged and dim with tears.
Oft, oft we wish the winding road were past,
And yon supernal summit gain’d at last;
Where all that gradual change removed, is found
At once, for ever, as you look around;
Where every scene by tender eyes survey’d,
And lost and wept for, to their gaze is spread —
No tear to dim the sight, no shade to fall,
But Heaven’s own sunshine lighting, charming all.
Farewell! — a common word — and yet how drear
And strange it soundeth as I write it here!
How strange that thou a place of death shouldst fill,
Thy brain unlighted, and thine heart grown chill!
And dark the eye, whose plausive glance to draw,
Incited Nature brake her tyrant’s law!
And deaf the ear, to charm whose organ true,
Mæonian music tuned her harp anew!
And mute the lips where Plato’s bee hath roved;
And motionless the hand that genius moved! —
Ah friend! thou speakest not! — but still to me
Do Genius, Music, Nature, speak of thee! —
Still golden fancy, still the sounding line,
And waving wood, recall some word of thine:
Some word, some look, whose living light is o’er —
And Memory sees what Hope can see no more.
Twice, twice, thy voice hath spoken. Twice there came
To us, a change, a joy — to thee, a fame!
Thou spakest once; and every pleasant sight,
Woods waving wild, and fountains gushing bright,
Cool copses, grassy banks, and all the dyes
Of shade and sunshine gleam’d before our eyes.
Thou spakest twice; and every pleasant sound
Its ancient silken harmony unwound,
From Doric pipe and Attic lyre that lay
Enclasp’d in hands whose cunning is decay.
And now no more thou speakest! Death hath met
And won thee to him! Oh remember’d yet!
We cannot see , and hearken , and forget!
My thoughts are far. I think upon the time,
When Foxley’s purple hills and woods sublime
Were thrilling at thy step; when thou didst throw
Thy burning spirit on the vale below,
To bathe its sense in beauty. Lovely ground!
There, never more shall step of thine resound!
There, Spring again shall come, but find thee not,
And deck with humid eyes her favorite spot;
Strew tender green on paths thy foot forsakes,
And make that fair, which Memory saddest makes.
For me, all sorrowful, unused to raise
A minstrel song and dream not of thy praise,
Upon thy grave, my tuneless harp I lay,
Nor try to sing what only tears can say.
So warm and fast the ready waters swell —
So weak the faltering voice thou knewest well!
Thy words of kindness calm’d that voice before;
Now , thoughts of them but make it tremble more;
And leave its theme to others, and depart
To dwell within the silence where thou art.
THE AUTUMN.
Go , sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer flowers depart —
Sit still — as all transform’d to stone,
Except your musing heart.
How there you sat in summer-time,
May yet be in your mind;
And how you heard the green woods sing
Beneath the freshening wind.
Though the same wind now blows around,
You would its blast recall;
For every breath that stirs the trees,
Doth cause a leaf to fall.
Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth
That flesh and dust impart:
We cannot bear its visitings,
When change is on the heart.
Gay words and jests may make us smile,
When Sorrow is asleep;
But other things must make us smile,
When Sorrow bids us weep!
The dearest hands that clasp our hands, —
Their presence may be o’er;
The dearest voice that meets our ear,
That tone may come no more!
Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,
Which once refresh’d our mind,
Shall come — as, on those sighing woods,
The chilling autumn wind.
Hear not the wind — view not the woods;
Look out o’er vale and hill:
In spring, the sky encircled them —
The sky is round them still.
Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold —
Come change — and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne’er be desolate.
THE DEATH-BED OF TERESA DEL RIEGO.
— Si fia muta ogni altra cosa, al fine
Parlerà il mio morire,
E ti dirà la morte il mio martire.
Guarini.
The room was darken’d; but a wan lamp shed
Its light upon a half-uncurtain’d bed,
Whereon the widow’d sate. Blackly as death
Her veiling hair hung round her, and no breath
Came from her lips to motion it. Between
Its parted clouds, the calm fair face was seen
Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Page 14