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Oh! I were most base, Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her, Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she Met my advances with impassion'd pride, That kindled love with love. And when her sire, Who in his dream of hope already grasp'd The golden circlet in his hand, rejected My suit with insult, and in memory of ancient feuds pour'd curses on my head, Her blessings overtook and baffled them! But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.
Ah ! was that bliss
and the substance of my being,
friend! I cannot bear the torment And keen inquiry of that scanning eye —
[EARL HENRY retires into the wood.
SANDOVAL. Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously. But Oropeza
Blessings gather round her! Within this wood there winds a secret passage, Beneath the walls, which opens out at length Into the gloomiest covert of the garden The night ere my departure to the army, She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, And to that covert by a silent stream, Which, with one star reflected near its marge, Was the sole object visible around me. No leaflet stirr’d; the air was almost sultry; So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! No leaflet stirrd ;-yet pleasure hung upon The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air. A little further on an arbour stood, Fragrant with flowering trees- I well remember What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness Their snow-white blossoms made-thither she led me, To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled — I heard her heart beat-if 't were not my own.
SANDOVAL (alone). O Henry! always strivest thou to be great By thine own act-yet art thou never great But by the inspiration of great passion. The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up And shape themselves: from Earth to Heaven they stand, As though they were the pillars of a temple, Built by Omnipotence in its own honour! But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand, And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins !
TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,
WHOM THE AUTHOR RAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER
SANDOVAL. A rude and scaring note, my friend!
Oh! no! I have small memory of aught but pleasure. The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams Still flowing, still were lost in those of love : So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, Fleeing from Pain, shelter'd herself in Joy. The stars above our heads were dim and steady, Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us : We were all life, each atom of our frames A living soul-I vow'd to die for her: With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,
When the Partridge o'er the sheaf
Whirr'd along the yellow vale, Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!
Love the dalliance of the gale.
Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!
Heave and flutter to his sighs, While the flatterer, on his wing,
Wood and whisper'd thee to rise.
O give me,
Gaily from thy mother-stalk
Wert thou danced and wafted highSoon on this unshelter'd walk
Flung to fade, to rot and die.
from this heartless scene released, To hear our old musician, blind and
grey (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed),
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play,
The while I dance amid the ledded bay
TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE
Siltest behind those virgins gay,
Leatless 'mid the blooms of May!
Or lies the purple evening on the bay
Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees,
On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,
Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, That his own check is wet with quiet tears.
Ilim who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watchi'd with angry gaze, Fearful saw his pleading look,
Anxious heard his fervid phrase.
Soft the glances of the youth
Soft his speech, and soft his sigh; But no sound like simple truth, But no true love in his
But 0, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, And the gust pelting on the out-louse shed
Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow,
To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, Ballad of ship-wreck'd sa ilor floating dead,
Whom his own true love buried in the sands! Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The things of Nature utter; birds or trees, Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze,
Loathing thy polluted lot,
Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,
With a wiser innocence.
Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that vice is woc: With a musing melancholy
Jnly arm’d, go, Maiden! go,
of Self-dominion, Firm thy steps, 0 Melancholy! The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion
Is the memory of past folly.
Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,
Wbile she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn,
Or the bean-field's odorous blooms :
Tae tedded bay, the first fruits of the soil,
Soon with renovated wing
Shall she dare a loftier flight, Upward to the day-slar spring,
And embathe in heavenly light.
LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, Ileaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
In intricacies of laborious song.
These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrill'd strain
Bursts in a squall--they gape for wonderment.
In the cool morning twilight, early waked By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, Softly she rose, and lightly stolc along, Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower, Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung, Making a quiet image of disquiet In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. There, in that bower where first she own'd her love, And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy From off her clowing cheek, she satc and stretch'd
! One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six 10 twelve inches high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Vergissmein nicht) and, we believe, in Denmark and Swedeo.
Ilark! the decp buzz of Vanity and Hate!
Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady cyes some maid of humbler state,
While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest, Praules accordant scandal in her ear.
wbile in bed you lay, Your danger taught us all to pray:
You made us grow devouter! Each eye look'd up and seem'd to say,
How can we do without her ?
The silk upon the frame, and work'd her name
Besides, what ver'd us worse, we knew, They liave no need of such as you
In the place where you were going : This World has angels all too few,
And Heaven is overflowing!
Dut the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he· I love my Love, and
Love loves me!,
Its own sweet self-a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!
RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. How warm this woodland wild Recess!
Love surely hath been breathing here.
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear! Swells up, then sinks with fain caress,
As if to have you yet more pear.
THE VISIONARY HOPE. Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling He faiu would frame a prayer within his breast, Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, That his sick body might have ease and rest; He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest Against bis will the stifling load revealing, Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, Some royal prisoner at liis conqueror's feast, An alien's restless mood but half concealing, The stern ness on his gentle brow confess'd, Sickness within and miserable feeling : Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, And dreaded sleep, each night repell’d in vain, Each night was scatter'd by its own loud screams : Yet never could his heart command, though fain, One deep full wish to be no more in pain.
Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
On sea-ward Quantock's heathy bills,
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float bere and there, like things astray,
And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.
No voice as yet had made the air
Be music with your name; yet why
That asking look ? that yearning sich? That sense of promise every where ?
Beloved ! flew your spirit by?
As when a mother doth explore
The rose-mark on her long-lost child,
I met, I loved you, maiden mild! As whom I long had loved before
So deeply, had I been beguiled.
That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, Though changed in nature, wander where he wouldFor Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost! For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, He wisbes and can wish for this alone! Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams (So the love-stricken visionary deems) Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower! Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.
You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remember'd in a dream.
But when those meck eyes first did seem To tell me, Love within you wrought
O Greta, dear domestic stream!
Has not, since then, Love's prompture dep
Has not Love's whisper evermore,
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar? Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in Clamour's hour.
THE HAPPY HUSBAND.
OFT, oft methinks, the while with thee
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear And dedicated name,
A pledge of more than passing life,
ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, AFTER
UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT TO
Dreams (the Soul herself forsaking),
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base "Silent adorations, making
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer Once framed a rich elixir of delight.
I'worshipp'd the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings:
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, Each tender pledge of sacred faith he join'd,
Yea with my Life and Life's own secret Joy: Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind
Till the dilating Soul, cprapt, transfused, Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive briglitness glow
Into the mighty vision passing—there
As in her natural form, sweli'd vast to Heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive love.
Mute thanks and secret ecstacy! Awake, The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my llymn.
Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale!
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink :
Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn,
| Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ?
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
forth from night and utter death, Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul
From dark and icy caverns calld
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shatter'd and the same for ever!
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in And who commanded (and the silence came), the foot of Mont Blanc, tive conspicuous torrents rush down its Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its • flowers of loveliest blue.
Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amainHast thou a charm to stay the Morning-Star
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full Moon? Who bade the Sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?--
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing ye mcadow-streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,