Our spirits, like delighted things That walk the air on subtle wings, Floated and mingled far away, 'Mid the warm winds of the sunny day. And when the evening star came forth Above the curve of the new bent moon, And light and sound ebbed from the earth, Like the tide of the full and weary sea To the depths of its own tranquillity, Our natures to its own repose
Did the earth's breathless sleep attune: Like flowers, which on each other close Their languid leaves when day-light's gone, We lay, till new emotions came,
Which seemed to make each mortal frame One soul of interwoven flame, A life in life, a second birth, In worlds diviner far than earth, Which, like two strains of harmony That mingle in the silent sky, Then slowly disunite, past by And left the tenderness of tears, A soft oblivion of all fears,
A sweet sleep: so we travelled on Till we came to the home of Lionel, Among the mountains wild and lone, Beside the hoary western sea,
Which near the verge of the echoing shore The massy forest shadowed o'er.
The ancient steward, with hair all hoar, As we alighted, wept to see
His master changed so fearfully; And the old man's sobs did waken me From my dream of unremaining gladness; The truth flashed o'er me like quick madness When I looked, and saw that there was death On Lionel yet day by day
He lived, till fear grew hope and faith, And in my soul I dared to say, Nothing so bright can pass away: Death is dark, and foul, and dull,
But he is-O how beautiful!
Yet day by day he grew more weak,
And his sweet voice, when he might speak,
Which ne'er was loud, became more low;
And the light which flashed through his waxen cheek Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which flow
From sunset o'er the Alpine snow: And death seemed not like death in him, For the spirit of life o'er every limb Lingered, a mist of sense and thought. When the summer wind faint odours brought From mountain flowers, even as it passed, His cheek would change, as the noon-day sea Which the dying breeze sweeps fitfully. If but a cloud the sky o'ercast, You might see his colour come and go, And the softest strain of music made Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade Amid the dew of his tender eyes; And the breath, with intermitting flow, Made his pale lips quiver and part. You might hear the beatings of his heart, Quick, but not strong; and with my tresses When oft he playfully would bind In the bowers of mossy lonelinesses His neck, and win me so to mingle In the sweet depth of woven caresses, And our faint limbs were intertwined,
Alas! the unquiet life did tingle From mine own heart through every vein, Like a captive in dreams of liberty, Who beats the walls of his stony cell. But his, it seemed already free, Like the shadow of fire surrounding me! On my faint eyes and limbs did dwell That spirit as it passed, till soon, As a frail cloud wandering o'er the moon, Beneath its light invisible,
Is seen when it folds its grey wings again To alight on midnight's dusky plain, I lived and saw, and the gathering soul Passed from beneath that strong control, And I fell on a life which was sick with fear Of all the woe that now I bear.
Amid a bloomless myrtle wood, On a green and sea-girt promontory, Not far from where we dwelt, there stood In record of a sweet sad story,
An altar and a temple bright Circled by steps, and o'er the gate Was sculptured, "To Fidelity;" And in the shrine an image sate, All veiled: but there was seen the light Of smiles, which faintly could express A mingled pain and tenderness, Through that ethereal drapery.
The left hand held the head, the right- Beyond the veil, beneath the skin,
You might see the nerves quivering within- Was forcing the point of a barbed dart Into its side-convulsing heart.
An unskilled hand, yet one informed With genius, had the marble warmed With that pathetic life. This tale It told: A dog had from the sea, When the tide was raging fearfully, Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and pale, Then died beside her on the sand,
And she that temple thence had planned; But it was Lionel's own hand
Had wrought the image. Each new moon That lady did, in this lone fane,
The rites of a religion sweet,
Whose god was in her heart and brain: The seasons' loveliest flowers were strewn On the marble floor beneath her feet, And she brought crowns of sea-buds white, Whose odour is so sweet and faint, And weeds, like branching chrysolite, Woven in devices fine and quaint, And tears from her brown eyes did stain The altar: need but look upon That dying statue, fair and wan, If tears should cease, to weep again:
And rare Arabian odours came,
Through the myrtle copses, steaming thence From the hissing frankincense,
Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam,
Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome,
That ivory dome, whose azure night
With golden stars, like heaven, was bright O'er the split cedars' pointed flame; And the lady's harp would kindle there The melody of an old air, Softer than sleep; the villagers Mixt their religion up with hers,
And as they listened round, shed tears.
One eve he led me to this fane: Daylight on its last purple cloud Was lingering grey, and soon her strain The nightingale began; now loud, Climbing in circles the windless sky, Now dying music; suddenly "Tis scattered in a thousand notes, And now to the bushed ear it floats Like field-smells known in infancy, Then failing, soothes the air again. We sate within that temple lone, Pavilioned round with Parian stone: His mother's harp stood near, and oft I had awakened music soft Amid its wires: the nightingale Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale: "Now drain the cup," said Lionel, "Which the poet-bird has crowned so well With the wine of her bright and liquid song! Heardst thou not sweet words among That heaven-resounding minstrelsy! Heardst thou not, that those who die Awake in a world of ecstacy?
That love, when limbs are interwoven, And sleep, when the night of life is cloven, And thought, to the world's dim boundaries clinging,
And music when one beloved is singing, Is death? Let us drain right joyously The which the sweet bird fills for me." cup
He paused, and to my lips he bent His own: like spirit his words went Through all my limbs with the speed of fire; And his keen eyes, glittering through mine, Filled me with the flame divine, Which in their orbs was burning far, Like the light of an unmeasured star, In the sky of midnight dark and deep: Yes, 'twas his soul that did inspire Sounds, which my skill could ne'er awaken ; And first, I felt my fingers sweep The harp, and a long quivering cry Burst from my lips in symphony: The dusk and solid air was shaken, As swift and swifter the notes came
From my touch, that wandered like quick flame, And from my bosom, labouring With some unutterable thing:
The awful sound of my own voice made
My faint lips tremble; in some mood
Of wordless thought Lionel stood So pale, that even beside his cheek The snowy column from its shade Caught whiteness: yet his countenance Raised upward, burned with radiance Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light,
Like the moon struggling through the night Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break With beams that might not be confined. I paused, but soon his gestures kindled New power, as by the moving wind The waves are lifted, and my song
To low soft notes now changed and dwindled, And from the twinkling wires among,
My languid fingers drew and flung Circles of life-dissolving sound, Yet faint: in aery rings they bound My Lionel, who, as every strain Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien
Sunk with the sound relaxedly; And slowly now he turned to me, As slowly faded from his face That awful joy: with looks serene He was soon drawn to my embrace, And my wild song then died away In murmurs: words, I dare not say, We mixed, and on his lips mine fed Till they methought felt still and cold: "What is it with thee, love?" I said; No word, no look, no motion! yes, There was a change, but spare to guess, Nor let that moment's hope be told. I looked, and knew that he was dead, And fell, as the eagle on the plain Falls when life deserts her brain, And the mortal lightning is veiled again. O that I were now dead! but such, Did they not, love, demand too much, Those dying murmurs? He forbad. O that I once again were mad! And yet, dear Rosalind, not so, For I would live to share thy woe. Sweet boy! did I forget thee too? Alas, we know not what we do When we speak words.
Is in my mind of that sea-shore. Madness came on me, and a troop Of misty shapes did seem to sit Beside me, on a vessel's poop, And the clear north-wind was driving it. Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strange flowers,
And the stars methought grew unlike ours, And the azure sky and the stormless sea Made me believe that I had died, And waked in a world, which was to me Drear hell, though heaven to all beside. Then a dead sleep fell on my mind, Whilst animal life many long years Had rescued from a chasm of tears; And when I woke, I wept to find That the same lady, bright and wise, With silver locks and quick brown eyes, The mother of my Lionel,
Had tended me in my distress,
And died some months before. Nor less Wonder, but far more peace and joy, Brought in that hour my lovely boy;
For through that trance my soul had well The impress of thy being kept;
And if I waked, or if I slept,
No doubt, though memory faithless be, Thy image ever dwelt on me ;
And thus, O Lionel ! like thee
Is our sweet child. 'Tis sure most strange
I knew not of so great a change,
As that which gave him birth, who now
Is all the solace of my woe.
That Lionel great wealth had left
By will to me, and that of all
The ready lies of law bereft,
My child and me might well befall.
But let me think not of the scorn,
Which from the meanest I have borne, When, for my child's beloved sake,
I mixed with slaves, to vindicate
She ceased." Lo, where red morning thro' the woods
Is burning o'er the dew!" said Rosalind,
And with these words they rose, and towards the flood
Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves now wind With equal steps and fingers intertwined: Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore Is shadowed with rocks, and cypresses
Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies,
And with their shadows the clear depths below, And where a little terrace from its bowers, Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers, Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er The liquid marble of the windless lake;
And where the aged forest's limbs look hoar, Under the leaves which their green garments make,
They come 'tis Helen's home, and clean and white,
Like one which tyrants spare on our own land In some such solitude, its casements bright Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning
And even within 'twas scarce like Italy.
And when she saw how all things there were planned,
As in an English home, dim memory Disturbed poor Rosalind; she stood as one Whose mind is where his body cannot be, Till Helen led her where her child yet slept, And said, "Observe, that brow was Lionel's, Those lips were his, and so he ever kept One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it. You cannot see his eyes, they are two wells Of liquid love: let us not wake him yet." But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept A shower of burning tears, which fell upon His face, and so his opening lashes shone With tears unlike his own, as he did leap In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep.
And after many years, for human things Change even like the ocean and the wind, Her daughter was restored to Rosalind, And in their circle thence some visitings Of joy 'mid their new calm would intervene : A lovely child she was, of looks serene, And motions which o'er things indifferent shed The grace and gentleness from whence they came. And Helen's boy grew with her, and they fed From the same flowers of thought, until each mind Like springs which mingle in one flood became, And in their union soon their parents saw The shadow of the peace denied to them. And Rosalind,-for when the living stem Is cankered in its heart, the tree must fall,- Died ere her time; and with deep grief and awe The pale survivors followed her remains Beyond the region of dissolving rains, Up the cold mountain she was wont to call Her tomb; and on Chiavenna's precipice They raised a pyramid of lasting ice, Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun, Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun,
The last, when it had sunk; and through the night The charioteers of Arctos wheeled round Its glittering point, as seen from Helen's home, Whose sad inhabitants each year would come, With willing steps climbing that rugged height, And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound With amaranth flowers, which, in the clime's despite,
Filled the frore air with unaccustomed light: Such flowers, as in the wintry memory bloom Of one friend left, adorned that frozen tomb.
Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould, Whose sufferings too were less, death slowlier led Into the peace of his dominion cold: She died among her kindred, being old; And know, that if love die not in the dead As in the living, none of mortal kind Are blest, as now Helen and Rosalind.
LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS.
MANY a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on Day and night, and night and day, Drifting on his dreary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track; Whilst above, the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet, Riving sail, and cord, and plank, Till the ship has almost drank Death from the o'er-brimming deep; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as ever still Longing with divided will; But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on
O'er the unreposing wave, To the haven of the grave.
What, if there no friends will greet; What, if there no heart will meet His with love's impatient beat; Wander wheresoe'er he may, Can he dream before that day To find refuge from distress
In friendship's smile, in love's caress? Then 'twill wreak him little woe Whether such there be or no: Senseless is the breast, and cold, Which relenting love would fold; Bloodless are the veins and chill Which the pulse of pain did fill: Every little living nerve
That from bitter words did swerve Round the tortured lips and brow, Are like sapless leaflets now Frozen upon December's bough.
On the beach of a northern sea Which tempests shake eternally, As once the wretch there lay to sleep, Lies a solitary heap,
One white skull and seven dry bones, On the margin of the stones, Where a few grey rushes stand, Boundaries of the sea and land: Nor is heard one voice of wail But the sea-mews, as they sail O'er the billows of the gale; Or the whirlwind up and down Howling, like a slaughtered town,
When a king in glory rides Through the pomp of fratricides: Those unburied bones around There is many a mournful sound; There is no lament for him, Like a sunless vapour, dim, Who once clothed with life and thought What now moves nor murmurs not.
Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide Agony: To such a one this morn was led My bark, by soft winds piloted. 'Mid the mountains Euganean, I stood listening to the pæan
With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical;
Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar
Like grey shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie
In the unfathomable sky, So their plumes of purple grain, Starred with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes
On the morning's fitful gale Through the broken mist they sail; And the vapours cloven and gleaming Follow down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright, and clear, and still, Round the solitary hill.
Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,- A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline;
And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright,
Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt City! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne among the waves, Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state, Save where many a palace-gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own, Topples o'er the abandon'd sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way, Wandering at the close of day, Will spread his sail and seize his oar, Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep, Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path.
Those who alone thy towers behold Quivering through aërial gold, As I now behold them here, Would imagine not they were Sepulchres, where human forms, Like pollution-nourish'd worms, To the corpse of greatness cling, Murdered and now mouldering: But if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence, and shake From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime; If not, perish thou and they; Clouds which stain truth's rising day By her sun consumed away,
Earth can spare ye; while like flowers, In the waste of years and hours, From your dust new nations spring With more kindly blossoming.
Perish! let there only be Floating o'er thy hearthless sea, As the garment of thy sky Clothes the world immortally, One remembrance, more sublime Than the tattered pall of Time, Which scarce hides thy visage wan: That a tempest-cleaving swan Of the songs of Albion, Driven from his ancestral streams, By the might of evil dreams, Found a nest in thee; and Ocean Welcomed him with such emotion That its joy grew his, and sprung From his lips like music flung
O'er a mighty thunder-fit, Chastening terror: what though yet Poesy's unfailing river,
Which through Albion winds for ever, Lashing with melodious wave Many a sacred poet's grave, Mourn its latest nursling fled! What though thou with all thy dead Scarce can for this fame repay Aught thine own,-oh, rather say, Though thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sunlike soul ! As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs ; As divinest Shakspeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light, Like omniscient power, which he Imaged 'mid mortality;
As the love from Petrarch's urn, Yet amid yon hills doth burn,
A quenchless lamp, by which the heart Sees things unearthly; so thou art, Mighty spirit: so shall be
The city that did refuge thee.
Lo, the sun floats up the sky, Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light Seems to level plain and height; From the sea a mist has spread, And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now, Like its glory long ago. By the skirts of that grey cloud Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude, 'Mid the harvest shining plain, Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe, And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain, Heaped upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will; And the sickle to the sword Lies unchanged, though many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison, Overgrows this region's foison, Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest-home: Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow, Or worse; but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge.
Padua, thou within whose walls Those mute guests at festivals, Son and Mother, Death and Sin, Played at dice for Ezzelin, Till Death cried, " I win, I win!" And Sin cursed to lose the wager, But Death promised, to assuage ner, That he would petition for Her to be made Vice-Emperor, When the destined years were o'er, Over all between the Po And the eastern Alpine snow, Under the mighty Austrian.
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