POETICAL SKETCHES OF MODERN PICTURES.
When they have been too often crush'd to earth,
| Her blood runs cold, her heart beats high, It is their fiercest enemy;
For further blindness to their little worth,- When fond illusions have dropt one by one, Like pearls from a rich carkanet, till none Are left upon life's soil'd and naked string,—She flung her down in her despair! And this is all what time will ever bring. -And that fair girl,-what can the heart foresee
He of the charm'd and deadly steel, Whose stroke was never known to heal,- He of the sword sworn not to spare,—
Of her young love, and of its destiny? There is a white cloud o'er the moon, its
Is very light, and yet there sleeps the storm; It is an omen, it may tell the fate Of love known all too soon, repented all too
The dying chief sprang to his knee, And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully; But his gash'd arm, what is it now? Livid his lip, and black his brow, While over him the slayer stood, As if he almost scorn'd the blood
That cost so little to be won,
He strikes, the work of death is done!
THEY fled, for there was for the brave Left only a dishonour'd grave. The day was lost; and his red hand Was now upon a broken brand, The foes were in his native town,
The gates were forced, the walls were down, The burning city lit the sky,— What had he then to do but fly; Fly to the mountain-rock, where yet Revenge might strike, or peace forget!
They fled, for she was by his side, Life's last and loveliest link, his bride,— Friends, fame, hope, freedom, all were gone, Or linger'd only with that one. They hasten'd by the lonely way That through the winding forest lay, Hearth, home, tower, temple, blazed behind, And shout and shriek came on the wind; And twice the warrior turn'd again And cursed the arm that now in vain, Wounded and faint, essay'd to grasp The sword that trembled in its clasp.
At last they reach'd a secret shade Which seem'd as for their safety made; And there they paused, for the warm tide Burst in red gushes from his side, And hung the drops on brow and cheek, And his gasp'd breath came thick and weak. She took her long dark hair, and bound The cool moss on each gaping wound, And in her closed-up hands she brought The water which his hot lip sought,— And anxious gazed upon his eye, As asking, shall we live or die? Almost as if she thought his breath Had power o'er his own life and death.
But, hark!—'tis not the wind deceives, There is a step among the leaves:
THE FAIRY-QUEEN SLEEPING.
She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt Of the spring-wind in its first sunshine-hour, For the luxuriant strawberry-blossoms spread Like a snow-shower there, and violets Bow'd down their purple vases of perfume About her pillow,-link'd in a gay band Floated fantastic shapes, these were her guards, Her lithe and rainbow elves.
We have been o'er land and sea, Seeking lovely dreams for thee,- Where is there we have not been Gathering gifts for our sweet queen? We are come with sound and sight Fit for fairy's sleep to-night;- First around thy couch shall sweep Odours, such as roses weep When the earliest spring-rain Calls them into life again; Next upon thine ear shall float Many a low and silver note, Stolen from a dark-eyed maid When her lover's serenade, Rising as the stars grew dim, Waken'd her from thoughts of him; There shall steal o'er lip and cheek Gales, but all too light to break Thy soft rest, such gales as hide All day orange-flowers inside, Or that, while hot noontide, dwell And before thy sleeping eyes In the purple hyacinth-bell; Shall come glorious pageantries,— Palaces of gems and gold, Such as dazzle to behold,- Gardens, in which every tree Seems a world of bloom to be,- Fountains, whose clear waters show The white pearls that lie below.— During slumber's magic reign Other times shall live again; First thou shalt be young and free In thy days of liberty,—
Which send sweet messages upon the breeze To lull a maiden's sleep, and fan her cheek, When inward thoughts in outward blushes speak.
Beneath 's a silken couch, just fit to be A snowy shrine for some fair deity; And there a beauty rests, lovely as those Enchanted visions haunting the repose Of the young poet, when his eyelids shut To dream that love they have but dream'd as yet;-
But dream'd! Alas, that love should ever be A happiness but made for phantasie! And flowers are by her side, and her dark eye Seems as it read in them her destiny. She knew whose hand had gather'd them, she knew
Whose sigh and touch were on their scent and hue.
Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own, But only to the spring and summer known. Ah! little marvel in such clime and age As that of our too earth-bound pilgrimage, That we should daily hear that love is fled, And hope grown pale, and lighted feelings dead.
Not for the cold, the careless to impart, By such sweet signs, the silence of the heart: But surely in the countries where the sun Lights loveliness in all he shines upon,- Where love is as a mystery and a dream, One single flower upon life's troubled stream; There, there, perchance, may the young bosom thrill,
Feeling and fancy linger with love still.
She look'd upon the blossoms, and a smile, A twilight one, lit up her lip the while. Surely her love is blest, no leaves are there That aught of lover's misery declare. True, 'mid them is that pale and pining flower, Whose dim blue colour speaks an absent hour; Yet it is nothing but that tender sorrow Of those who part to-day to meet to-morrow: For there are hope and constancy beside, And are not these to happiness allied? And yet upon that maiden's cheek is caught A summer - evening's shade of pensive thought, As if these large soft eyes knew all their fate, How the heart would its destiny create,— At once too tender, and too passionate;Too made for happiness to be happy here, An angel fetter'd to an earthly sphere.And those dark eyes, so large, so soft, so bright,
So clear as if their very tears were light- They tell that destiny;-art thou not one To whom love will be like the summer-sun That feeds the diamond in the secret mine, Then calls it from its solitude to shine, And piece by piece be broken? Watch the bloom,
And mark its fading to an early tomb, And read in the decay upon it stealing Of thy own wasted hope and wither'd feeling ;-
Ay, fitting messengers for love! as fair, As quickly past as his own visions are;- Fling, fling the flowers away!
AND there the island lay, the waves around Had never known a storm; for the northwind
Was charm'd from coming, and the only airs That blew brought sunshine on their azure wings,
Or tones of music from the sparry caves, Where the sea-maids make lutes of the pink conch.
These were sea-breezes,—those that swept the land
Brought other gifts,—sighs from blueviolets, Or from June's sweet Sultana, the bright
Stole odours. On the silver mirror's face Was but a single ripple that was made By a flamingo's beak, whose scarlet wings Shone like a meteor on the stream: around, Upon the golden sands, were coral plants, And shells of many colours, and sea-weeds, Whose foliage caught and chain'd the Nautilus,
Where lay they as at anchor. On each side Were grottoes, like fair porticoes with steps
POETICAL SKETCHES OF MODERN PICTURES.
Of the green marble; and a lovely light, Like the far radiance of a thousand lamps, Half-shine, half-shadow, or the glorious track
Of a departing star but faintly seen In the dim distance, through those caverns shone,
And play'd o'er the tall trees which seem'd to hide
Gardens, where hyacinths rang their soft bells
To call the bees from the anemone, Jealous of their bright rivals' golden wealth. -Amid those arches floated starry shapes, Just indistinct enough to make the eye Dream of surpassing beauty; but in front, Borne on a car of pearl, and drawn by swans, There lay a lovely figure,-she was queen Of the Enchanted Island, which was raised From ocean's bosom but to pleasure her: And spirits, from the stars, and from the sea, The beautiful mortal had them for her slaves.
I live in the depths of the tulip's bower, I wear a wreath of the cistus-flower, I drink the dew of the blue harebell, I know the breath of the violet well,- The white and the azure violet,
But I know not which is the sweetest yet,—
I have kiss'd the cheek of the rose,
I have watch'd the lily unclose,
My silver mine is the almond-tree,
My dwelling is in the serpentine Of the rainbow's colour'd line,— See how its rose and amber clings To the many hues of my radiant wings; Mine is the step that bids the earth Give to the iris-flower its birth, And mine the golden cup to hide, Where the last faint hue of the rainbow died.
Search the depths of an Indian mine, Where are the colours to match with mine?
Dance we round, for the gale is bringing Songs the summer-rose is singing.
I float on the breath of a minstrel's lute, Or the wandering sounds of a distant flute, Linger I over the tones that swell From the pink-vein'd chords of an ocean- shell;
I love the sky-lark's morning-hymn, Or the nightingale heard at the twilight dim, The echo, the fountain's melody,- These, oh! these are the spells for me!
Hail to the summer-night of June; See! yonder has risen our ladye moon.
My palace is in the coral-cave Set with spars by the ocean-wave; Would ye have gems, then seek them there,— There found I the pearls that bind my hair. I and the wind together can roam Over the green waves and their white foam,- See, I have got this silver shell, Mark how my breath will its smallness swell, For the Nautilus is my boat
In which I over the waters float,- The moon is shining over the sea, Who is there will come sail with me?
Who will come dwell with flower and me? Our noontide-sleep is on leaf and flower,
Dance we our round, 'tis a summer-night, And our steps are led by the glow-worms' light.
Our revels are held in a moonlit hour,- What is there sweet, what is there fair, And we are not the dwellers there? Dance we round, for the morning-light, Will put us and our glow-worm-lamps to
A CHILD SCREENING A DOVE FROM | Isles of cinnamon and spice,
Ay, screen thy favourite dove, fair child,
Ay, screen it if you may,
Yet I misdoubt thy trembling hand Will scare the hawk away.
Shadow each of Paradise,
Where the flowers shine with dyes, Tinted bright from the sun-rise,— Where the birds which drink their dew, Wave wings of yet brighter hue, And each river's course is roll'd Over bed of pearl and gold!
Oh! for those lime-scented groves
That dove will die, that child will weep,- Where the Spanish lover roves,
Is this their destinie?
Ever amid the sweets of life
Some evil thing must be.
Ay, moralize,-is it not thus
We 've mourn'd our hope and love? Alas! there's tears for every eye, A hawk for every dove!
CUPID AND SWALLOWS FLYING FROM WINTER.
AWAY, away, o'er land and sea, This is now no home for me; My light wings may never bear Northern cloud or winter-air. Murky shades are gathering fast, Sleet and snow are on the blast; Trees from which the leaves are fled, Flowers whose very roots are dead, Grass of its green blade bereft, These are all that now are left. -Linger here another day, I shall be as sad as they;
My companions fly with spring,
I too must be on the wing.
Tuning to the western star,
His soft song and light guitar,— Where the dark-hair'd girls are dancing, Fairies in the moonlight glancing, With pencill'd brows, and radiant eyes, Like their planet-lighted skies! Or those clear Italian lakes Where the silver cygnet makes Its soft nest of leaf and flower, A white lily for its bower! Each of these a home would be, Fit for beauty and for me:
I must seek their happier sphere While the Winter lords it here.
Ay, surely it is here that Love should come, And find (if he may find on earth) a home; Here cast off all the sorrow and the shame That cling like shadows to his very name
Young Love, thou art belied: they speak of thee,
And couple with thy mention misery; Talk of the broken heart, the wasted bloom,
Where are the sweet gales whose song The spirit blighted, and the early tomb;
Wont to waft my darts along? Scented airs! oh, not like these, Rough as they which sweep the seas; But those sighs of rose which bring Incense from their wandering. Where are the bright flowers that kept Guard around me while I slept? Where the sunny eyes whose beams Waken'd me from my soft dreams ?— These are with the swallows gone,- Beauty's heart is chill'd to stone.
Oh! for some sweet southern clime, Where 'tis ever summer-time,Where, if blossoms fall, their tomb Is amid new birth of bloom,Where green leaves are ever springing, Where the lark is always singing,One of those bright isles which lie Fair beneath an azure sky,
As if these waited on thy golden lot,They blame thee for the faults which thou hast not.
Art thou to blame for that they bring on thee The soil and weight of their mortality? How can they hope that ever links will hold Form'd, as they form them now, of the harsh gold?
Or worse than even this, how can they think That vanity will bind the failing link? How can they dream that thy sweet life will bear Crowds', palaces', and cities' heartless air? Where the lip smiles while the heart's desolate,
And courtesy lends its deep mask to hate; Where looks and thoughts alike must feel the chain,
And nought of life is real but its pain; Where the young spirit's high imaginings Are scorn'd and cast away as idle things;
POETICAL SKETCHES OF MODERN PICTURES.
Where, think or feel, you are foredoom'd to be
A marvel and a sign for mockery; Where none must wander from the beaten road,
All alike champ the bit, and feel the goad. It is not made for thee, young Love! away To where the green earth laughs to the clear day,
To the deep valley, where a thousand trees Keep a green court for fairy-revelries,— To some small island on a lonely lake, Where only swans the diamond-waters break, Where the pines hang in silence o'er the tide And the stream gushes from the mountain- side;
These, Love, are haunts for thee; where canst thou brood With thy sweet wings furl'd but in Solitude?
It matters not its history; love has wings Like lightning, swift and fatal, and it springs Like a wild flower where it is least expected, Existing whether cherish'd or rejected; Living with only but to be content, Hopeless, for love is its own element,Requiring nothing so that it may be The martyr of its fond fidelity.
▲ mystery art thou, thou mighty one! We speak thy name in beauty, yet we shun To own thee, Love, a guest; the poet's songs
Are sweetest when their voice to thee belongs, And hope, sweet opiate, tenderness, delight, Are terms which are thy own peculiar right; Yet all deny their master,-who will own His breast thy footstool, and his heart thy throne?
'Tis strange to think if we could fling aside The masque and mantle that love wears from pride,
How much would be, we now so little guess, Deep in each heart's undream'd, unsought
The careless smile, like a gay banner borne, The laugh of merriment, the lip of scorn,— And for a cloak what is there that can be So difficult to pierce as gaiety? Too dazzling to be scann'd, the haughty brow Seems to hide something it would not avow, But rainbow-words,light laugh, and thought- less jest,
These are the bars, the curtain to the breast, That shuns a scrutiny: and she, whose form Now bends in grief beneath the bosom's storm,
Has hidden well her wound,-now none are nigh To mock with curious or with careless eye, (For love seeks sympathy, a chilling yes, Strikes at the root of its best happiness, And mockery is worm-wood) she may dwell On feelings which that picture may not tell.
A STATUARY GROUP, BY WESTMACOTT.
AND the summer-sun shone in the sky, And the rose's whole life was in its sigh, When her eyelids were kiss'd by a morning- beam,
And the Nymph rose up from her moonlit dream;
For she had watch'd the midnight-hour Till her head had bow'd like a sleeping flower;
But now she had waken'd, and light and dew Gave her morning-freshness and morninghue,
Up she sprang, and away she fled O'er the lithe grass-stem and the blossom's head,
From the lilies' bells she dash'd not the spray, For her feet were as light and as white as they.
Sudden upon her arm there shone A gem with the hues of an Indian stone, And she knew the insect-bird whose wing Is sacred to PSYCHE and to Spring; But scarce had her touch its captive prest, Ere another prisoner was on her breast, And the Zephyr sought his prize again,— No, said the Nymph, thy search is vain: And hér golden hair from its braided yoke Burst like the banner of hope as she spoke: And instead, fair boy, thou shalt moralize Over the pleasure that from thee flies; Then it is pleasure,- for we possess But in the search, not in the success.
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