But yet my love with sweets is rife,
With happiness it teems,
It beautifies my waking life,
And waits upon my dreams;
A shape that floats upon the night,
Like foam upon the sea,-
A voice of seraphim,—a light
Of present Deity!
I hide me in the dark arcade,
When she walks forth alone,—
I feast upon her hair's rich braid,-
Her half-unclaspéd zone:
I watch the flittings of her dress,
The bending boughs between,-
I trace her footsteps' faery press,
On the scarcely ruffled green.
Oh deep delight! the frail guitar
Trembles beneath her hand,
She sings a song she brought from far,
I cannot understand;
Her voice is always as from heaven,
But yet I seem to hear
Its music best, when thus 'tis given
All music to my ear.
She has turn'd her tender eyes around,
And seen me crouching there,
And smiles, just as that last full sound
Is fainting on the air;
And now, I can go forth so proud,
And raise my head so tall,-
My heart within me beats so loud,
And musical withal:-
And there is summer all the while,
Mid-winter though it be,-
How should the universe not smile,
When she has smiled on me?
For though that smile can nothing more
Than merest pity prove,
Yet pity, it was sung of yore,
Is not so far from love.
From what a crowd of lovers' woes My weakness is exempt!
How far more fortunate than those
Who mark me for contempt!
No fear of rival happiness
My fervent glory smothers, The zephyr fans me none the less That is so bland to others.
Thus without share in coin or land,
But well content to hold
The wealth of nature in my hand,
One flail of virgin gold,—
My love above me like a sun,-
My own bright thoughts my wings,-
Through life I trust to flutter on,
As gay as aught that sings.
One hour I own I dread.-to die
Alone and unbefriended,-
No soothing voice, no tearful eye,-
But that must soon be ended;
And then I shall receive my part
Of everlasting treasure,
In that just world where each man's heart Will be his only measure.
GENTLY supported by the ready aid
Of loving hands, whose little work of to
Her grateful prodigality repaid
With all the benediction of her smile,
She turn'd her failing feet
To the soft pillow'd seat,
Dispensing kindly greetings all the while.
Before the tranquil beauty of her face
I bow'd in spirit, thinking that she were
A suffering angel, whom the special grace
Of God intrusted to our pious care.
That we might learn from her
The art to minister
To heavenly beings in seraphic air.
There seem'd to lie a weight upon her brain,
That ever press'd her blue-vein'd eyelids down,
But could not dim her lustrous eyes with pain,
Nor seem her forehead with the faintest frown:
She was as she were proud,
So young, to be allow'd
To follow Him who wore the thorny crown. Nor was she sad, but over every mood,
To which her lightly-pliant mind gave birth, Gracefully changing, did a spirit brood, Of quiet gaiety, and serenest mirth; And thus her voice did flow, So beautifully low,
A stream whose music was no thing of earth.
Now long that instrument has ceased to sound,
Now long that gracious form in earth has lain
Tended by nature only, and unwound
Are all those mingled threads of love and pain
So let me weep and bend
My head, and wait the end,
Knowing that God creates not thus in vain.
In reverence will we speak of those that woo
The ear Divine with clear and ready prayer;
And, while their voices cleave the Sabbath air,
Know their bright thoughts are winging heaven-
ward too.
Yet many a one-❝ the latchet of whose shoe"
These might not loose-will often only dare Lay some poor words between him and despair"Father, forgive! we know not what we do."
For, as Christ pray'd, so echoes our weak heart, Yearning the ways of God to vindicate, But worn and wilder'd by the shows of fate, Of good oppress'd and beautiful defiled,
Dim alien force, that draws or holds apart From its dear home that wandering spirit-child
THE words that trembled on your lips
Were utter'd not-I know it well;
The tears that would your eyes eclipse
Were check'd and smother'd ere they fell: The looks and smiles I gain'd from you
Were little more than others won, And yet you are not wholly true,
Nor wholly just what you have done.
You know, at least you might have known,
That every little grace you gave,—
Your voice's somewhat lower'd tone,-
Your hand's faint shake or parting wave,Your every sympathetic look
At words that chanced your soul to touch, While reading from some favourite book,
Were much to me-alas, how much!
You might have seen-perhaps you saw-
How all of these were steps of hope
On which I rose, in joy and awe,
Up to my passion's lofty scope;
How after each, a firmer tread
I planted on the slippery ground, And higher raised my venturous head, And ever new assurance found.
May be, without a further thought,
It only pleased you thus to please, And thus to kindly feelings wrought
You measured not the sweet degrees; Yet, though you hardly understood
Where I was following at your call,
You might I dare to say you should—
Have thought how far I had to fall.
And thus when fallen, faint, and bruised,
I see another's glad success,
I may have wrongfully accused
Your heart of vulgar fickleness:
But even now, in.calm review
Of all I lost and all I won,
I cannot deem you wholly true,
Nor wholly just what you have done.
I SEE the worlds of earth and sky
With beauty filled to overflow;
My spirit lags behind the eye-
I know, but feel not as I know:
Those miracles of form and hue
I can dissect with artist skill,
But more than this I cannot do,-
Enjoyment rests beyond the will.
Round me in rich profusion lie
Nectareous fruits of ancient mind,
The thoughts that have no power to die
In golden poesy enshrined:
And near me hang, of later birth,
Ripe clusters from the living tree, But what the pleasure, what the worth If all is savourless to mo?
I hear the subtle chords of sound,
Entangled, loosed, and knit anew;
The music floats without-around
But will not enter and imbue:
While harmonies diviner still,
Sweet greetings, appellations dear, That used through every nerve to thrill, I often hear, and only hear.
O dreadful thought! if by God's grace
To souls like mine there should be given That perfect presence of his face,
Which we, for want of words, call heaven,And unresponsive even there
This heart of mine could still remain, And its intrinsic evil bear
To realms that know no other pain.
Better down nature's scale to roll,
Far as the base, unbreathing clod, Then rest a conscious reasoning soul, Impervious to the light of God;Hateful the powers that but divine What we have lost beyond recall, The intellectual plummet-line
That sounds the depths to which we fall.
EVIL, every living hour,
Holds us in its wilful hand, Save as thou, essential Power, May'st be gracious to withstand: Pain within the subtle flesh,
Heavy lids that cannot close, Hearts that hope will not refresh,Hand of healing! interpose.
Tyranny's strong breath is tainting Nature's sweet and vivid air, Nations silently are fainting,
Or up-gather in despair:
Not to those distracted wills
Trust the judgment of their wʊes;
While the cup of anguish fills,
Arm of Justice! interpose.
Pleasures night and day are hovering
Round their prey of weary hours,
Weakness and unrest discovering
In the best of human powers:
Ere the fond delusions tire,
Ere envenom'd passion grows
From the root of vain desire,-
Mind of Wisdom! interpose.
Now no more in tuneful motion
Life with love and duty glides. Reason's meteor-lighted ocean
Bears us down its mazy tides; Head is clear and hand is strong,
But our heart no haven knows; Sun of Truth! the night is long, Let thy adiance interpose.
FESTUS is the title of a very remarkable poem published anonymously by Pickering, in 1839. It is stated in HORNE'S New Spirit of the Age, that it was written by P. J. BAILEY, but of Mr. BAILEY, more than that he wrote Festus, I know nothing. The poem attracted considerable attention, on its appearance, but was not generally praised. The versification is often careless, and the work shows a want of the constructive faculty. Moreover, it is too daring in action and conclusion. It has scenes in the unknown world, and its hero speaks
FESTUS DESCRIBES HIS FRIEND.
He had no times of study, and no place;
All places and all times to him were one.
His soul was like the wind-harp, which he loved,
And sounded only when the spirit blew,
Sometime in feasts and follies, for he went [rose
Life-like through all things; and his thoughts then
Like sparkles in the bright wine, brighter still,
Sometimes in dreams, and then the shining words
Would wake him in the dark before his face.
All things talk'd thoughts to him. The sea went mad
To show his meaning; and the awful sun
Thundered his thoughts into him; and at night
The stars would whisper theirs, the moon sigh hers,
He spake the world's one tongue; in earth and
heaven
There is but one, it is the word of truth.
To him the eye let out its hidden meaning;
And young and old made their hearts over to him;
And thoughts were told to him as unto none,
Save one who heareth, said and unsaid, all.
All things were inspiration unto him-
Wood, wold, hill, field, sea, city, solitude,
And crowds, and streets, and man where'er he was,
And the blue eye of God which is above us;
Brook-bounded pine spinnies, where spirits flit;
And haunted pits the rustic hurries by,
Where cold wet ghosts sit ringing jingling bells;
Old orchards' leaf-roofed aisles, and red-cheek'd load;
And the blood-colour'd tears which yew-trees weep
O'er churchyard graves, like murderers remorseful;
The dark green rings where fairies sit and sup,
Crushing the violet dew in the acorn cup;
Where by his new-made bride the bridegroom sips,
The white moon shimmering on their longing lips;
The large, o'er-loaded, wealthy-looking wains
Quietly swaggering home through leafy lanes,
Leaving on all low branches, as they come,
Straws for the birds, ears of the harvest-home,-
He drew his light from that he was amidst,
face to face with Him whom no one hath sen or at any time shall see. In some respects it is not unlike the Faust of GOETHE. It is not equal to that wonderful book; yet it has passages of deepest wisdom, of power and tenderness, such as few poets in our day have produced; and it will live.
In the Monthly Magazine for 1840 is an additional scene to Festus, in which the author speaks of himself and his poem. The first of the following extracts is from this
As doth a lamp from air which hath itself
Matter of light although it show not. His
Was but the power to light what might be lit.
He met a muse in every lonely maid;
And learn'd a song from every lip he loved.
But his heart ripen'd most 'neath southern eyes,
Which sunn'd their sweets into him all day long,
For fortune call'd him southward, towards the sun.
We do not make our thoughts; they grow in us
Like grain in wood; the growth is of the skies,
Which are of nature, nature is of God.
The world is full of glorious likenesses,
The poet's power is to sort these out,
And to make music from the common strings
With which the world is strung; to make the dumb
Earth utter heavenly harmony, and draw
Life clear and sweet and harmless as spring water,
Welling its way through flowers. Without faith,
Illimitable faith, strong as a state's
In its own might, in God, no bard can be.
All things are signs of other and of nature.
It is at night we see heaven moveth, and
A darkness thick with suns; the thoughts we think
Subsist the same in God, as stars in heaven,
And as those specks of light will prove great worlds,
When we approach them sometime free from flesh,
So too our thoughts will become magnified
To mindlike things immortal. And as space
Is but a property of God, wherein
Is laid all matter, other attributes
May be the infinite homes of mind and soul.
Love, mirth, wo, pleasure, was in turn his theme,
And the great good which beauty does the soul,
And the God-made necessity of things.
And, like that noble knight in olden tale,
Who changed his armour's hue at each fresh charge
By virtue of his lady-love's strange ring,
So that none knew him save his private page,
And she who cried, God save him, every time
He brake spears with the brave till he quell'd ali-
So he applied him o all themes that came;
Loving the most to breast the rapid deep,
Where others had been drown'd, and heeding
naught
Where danger might not fill the place of fame.
And mid the magic circle of these sounds,
His lyre ray'd out, spell-bound himself he stood,
Like a still'd storm. It is no task for suns
To shine. He knew himself a bard ordain'd,
More than inspired, of God inspirited,
Making himself like an electric rod
A lure for lightning feelings; and his words
Felt like the things which fall in thunder, which
The mind, when in a dark, hot, cloudful state,
Doth make metallic, meteoric, ball-like.
He spake to spirits with a spirit-tongue,
Who came compell'd by wizard word of truth,
And ray'd them round him from the ends of heaven;
For, as be all bards, he was born of beauty,
And with a natural fitness, to draw down
All tones and shades of beauty to his soul,
Even as the rainbow tinted shell, which lies
Miles deep at bottom of the sea, hath all
Colours of skies, and flowers, and gems, and plumes,
And all by nature, which doth reproduce
Like loveliness in seeming opposites.
Our life is like the wizard's charmed ring,
Death's heads, and loathsome things fill up the
ground;
But spirits wing about, and wait on us,
While yet the hour of enchantment is,
And while we keep in, we are safe, and can
Force them to do our bidding. And he raised
The rebel in himself, and in his mind
Walk'd with him through the world.
I LOVED her, for that she was beautiful,
And that to me she seem'd to be all nature
And all varieties of things in one;
Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise
All light and laughter in the morning; fear
No petty customs nor appearances;
But think what others only dream'd about;
And say what others did but think; and do
What others would but say; and glory in [me;
What others dared but do; it was these which won
And that she never school'd within her breast
One thought or feeling, but gave holiday
To all; and that she told me all her woes
And wrongs and ills; and so she made them mine
In the communion of love; and we
Grew like each other, for we loved each other;
She, mild and generous as the sun in spring;
And I, like earth, all budding out with love.
The beautiful are never desolate;
For some one alway loves them-God or man.
If man abandons, God Himself takes them,
And thus it was. She whom I once loved died.
The lightning loathes its cloud; the soul its clay.
Can I forget that hand I took in mine,
Pale as pale violets; that eye, where mind
And matter met alike livine? Ah, no!
May God that moment judge me when I do!
Oh! she was fair; her nature once all spring
And deadly beauty like a maiden sword;
Startlingly beautiful. I see her now!
Whate'er thou art, thy soul is in my mind;
Thy shadow hourly lengthens o'er my brain
And peoples all its pictures wit' thyself,
Gone, not forgotten; pass'd, not ost; thou'lt shins
In heaven like a bright spot in the sun!
She said she wish'd to die, and so she died;
For, cloudlike, she pour'd out her love, which was
Her life, to freshen this parch'd heart.
It was
I said we were to part, but she said nothing; There was no discord; it was music ceased; Life's thrilling, bursting, bounding joy. She sate Like a house-god, her hands fix'd on her knee; And her dank hair lay loose and long behind her, Through which her wild bright eye flash'd like a flint;
She spake not, moved not, but she look'd the more;
As if her eye were action, speech, and feeling.
I felt it all, and came and knelt beside her,
The electric touch solved both our souls together;
Then comes the feeling which unmakes, undoes;
Which tears the sealike soul up by the roots
And lashes it in scorn against the skies.
Twice did I stamp to God, swearing, hand clench'd,
That not even He nor death should tear her from me.
It is the saddest and the sorest night
One's own love weeping. But why call on God?
But that the feeling of the boundless bounds
All feeling! as the welkin doth the world.
It is this which ones us with the whole and God.
Then first we wept; then closed and clung
FAITH is a higher faculty than reason, Though of the brightest power of revelation, As the snow-peaked mountain rises o'er The lightning, and applies itself to heaven, We know in daytime there are stars about us Just as at night, and name them what and where By sight of science; so by faith we know, Although we may not see them till our night, That spirits are about us, and believe, That to a spirit's eye all heaven may be As full of angels as a beam of light Of motes. As spiritual, it shows all Classes of life, perhaps above our kind, Known to tradition, reason, or God's word. As earthly, it imbodies most the life
Of youth; its powers, its aims, its deeds, its failings;
And as a sketch of world-life, it begins
And ends, and rightly, in heaven, and with God;
While heaven is also in the midst thereof.
God, or all good, the evil of the world,
And man, wherein are both, are each display'd;
The mortal is the model of all men.
The foibles, follies, trials, sufferings
Of a young, hot, un-world-school'd heart, that has
Had its own way in life, and wherein all
May see some likeness of their own, 'tis these
Attract, unite, and, sunlike, concentrate
The ever-moving system of our feeling ;
Like life, too, as a whole, it has a moral,
And, as in life, each scene too has its moral,
A scene for every year of his young life,
Shining upon it, like the quiet moon,
Illustrating the obscure, unequal earth:
And though these scenes may seem to careless eyes
Irregular and rough and unconnected,
Like to the stones at Stonehenge, still a use,
A meaning, and a purpose may be mark'd
Among them of a temple rear'd to God,-
It has a plan, no plot; and life has none.
GREAT THOUGHTS.
WHO can mistake great thoughts? They seize upon the mind; arrest, and search, And shake it; bow the tall soul as by wind; Rush over it like rivers over reeds, Which quaver in the current; turn us cold, And pale, and voiceless; leaving in the brain A rocking and a ringing,-glorious, But momentary; madness might it last, And close the soul with Heaven as with a seal.
A letter from his lady dear, he bless'd
The paper that her hand had travell'd over,
And her eye look'd on, and would think he saw
Gleams of that light she lavish'd from her eyes,
Wandering amid the words of love she'd traced
Like glowworms among beds of flowers. He seem'd
To bear with being but because she loved him;
She was the sheath wherein his soul had rest,
As hath a sword from war.
NIGHT brings out stars as sorrow shows us truth"; Though many, yet they help not; bright, they light not
They are too late to serve us; and sad things
Are aye too true. We never see the stars
Till we can see naught but them. So with truta.
And yet if one would look down a deep well,
Even at noon, we might see these same stars,
Far fairer than the blinding blue: the truth
Stars in the water like a dark bright eye,
But there are other eyes men better love
Than truth's, for when we have her she is so cold
And proud, we know not what to do with her...
Sometimes the thought comes swiftening over us,
Like a small bird winging the stili blue air,
And then again at other times it rises
Slow, like a cloud which scales the skies all breathless,
And just o'erhead lets itself down on us.
Sometimes we feel the wish across the mind
Rush, like a rocket roaring up the sky,
That we should join with God and give the world
The go-by; but the world meantime turns round.
And peeps us in the face; the wanton world;
We feel it gently pressing down our arm,
The arm we raised to do for truth such wonders:
We feel it softly bearing on our side;
We feel it touch and thrill us through the body,
And we are fools, and there's an end of us.
WE live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most
Who thinks most; feels the noblest; acts the best. And he whose heart beats quickest lives the longest: Lives in one hour more than in years do some Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins Life is but a means unto an end; that end, Beginning, mean, and end to all things-God. The dead have all the glory of the world.
THE bard must have a kind, courageous heart, And natural chivalry to aid the weak. He must believe the best of every thing; Love all below, and worship all above. All animals are living hieroglyphs. The dashing dog, and stealthy-stepping cat, Hawk, bull, and all that breathe, mean something
To the true eye than their shapes show; for all
Were made in love, and made to be beloved.
Thus must he think as to earth's lower life,
Who seeks to win the world to thought and love,
As doth the bard, whose habit is all kindness
To every thing
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