Whence art thou, shady presence, that canst hide
From my charmed sight the glorious things of earth?
A mirage o'er life's desert dost thou glide?
Or with those glimmerings of a former birth,
A "trailing cloud of glory," hast thou come
From some bright world afar, our unremembered home?
I know thou dwell'st not in this dull, cold Real,
I know thy home is in some brighter sphere;
I know I shall not meet thee, my Ideal,
In the dark wanderings that await me here:
Why comes thy gentle image then, to me,
Wasting my night of life in one long dream of thee?
The city's peopled solitude, the glare
Of festal halls, moonlight, and music's tone,
All breathe the sad refrain-thou art not there!
And even with nature I am still alone:
With joy I see her summer bloom depart;
I love drear winter's reign-'tis winter in my heart.
And if I sigh upon my brow to see,
The deep'ning shadow of Time's restless wing,
'Tis for the youth I might not give to give to thee,
The vanished brightness of my first sweet spring;
That I might give thee not the joyous form
Unworn by tears and cares, unblighted by the storm.
And when the hearts I shall be proud to win,
Breathe, in those tones that woman holds so dear,
Words of impassioned homage unto mine,
Coldly and harsh they fall upon my ear;
And as I listen to the fervent vow,
My weary heart replies, "Alas! it is not thou.”
And when the thoughts within my spirit glow,
That would outpour themselves in words of fire,
If some kind influence bade the music flow,
Like that which woke the notes of Memnon's lyre;
Thou, sunlight of my life, wak'st not the lay,
And song within my heart, unuttered, dies away,
Depart, oh shadow! fatal dream, depart!
Go! I conjure thee leave me this poor life, And I will meet with firm, heroic heart,
Its threat'ning storms and its tumultuous strife, And with the poet-seer will see thee stand
To welcome my approach to thine own spirit-land.
Ir comes to me when healths go round,
And o'er the wine their garlands wreathing,
The flowers of wit, with music wound,
And freshly from the goblet breathing;
From sparkling song and sally gay
It comes to steal my heart away,
And fill my soul, mid festal glee,
With sad, sweet, silent thoughts of thee.
It comes to me upon the mart,
Where care in jostling crowds is rife;
Where Avarice goads the sordid heart,
Or cold Ambition prompts the strife;
It comes to whisper, if I'm there,
'Tis but with thee each prize to share,
For Fame were not success to me,
Nor riches wealth unshared by thee.
It comes to me when smiles are bright,
On gentle lips that murmur round me,
And kindling glances flash delight
In eyes whose spell would once have bound me. It comes-but comes to bring alone Rememberance of some look or tone, Dearer than aught I hear or see, Because 'twas born or breathed by thee.
It comes to me where cloistor'd boughs
Their shadows cast upon the sod;
A while in Nature's fane my vows
Are lifted from her shrine to GOD;
It comes to tell that all of worth
I dream in heaven or know on earth,
However bright or dear it be,
Is blended with my thought of thec.
"Chaque pas qui m'eloignoit de vous, separoit mon corps de mon âme, et me donnoit un sentiment anticipe de la mort. Je voulois vous décrire ce que Je verrois. Vain projet ! Je n'ai rien vois que vous."— St. Prenz.
THEY tell me of the prospect I survey,
They speak of streams, and skies of deepest blue,
That shine o'er fertile vales and flowery meads;
Of mountain clefts, with torrents dashing through:
It may be so; for Nature to the gay
Is ever beautiful-it charms not me!
I only feel my soul remain afar-
My passion-clouded eyes see nought save thee.
The tender, blissful thoughts that fill my soul,
Bound by mine oath to thee, I fain would quell;
For I have promised, dear one! for thy sake,
To yield no more to love-enrapturing spell:
I would obey-like other mortals seem;
Bear with my fate, and brave reality;
But shrinking from the wretchedness it brings,
I cling to visions that are full of thee.
I know that we must part: but do not prove
Too pitiless, beloved! nor urge too far
The sufferings of a grieved and tortured heart,
Where love and honour hold perpetual war;
I go at thy command; but can I join
A dreary world, where thou art naught to me?
No! better far in solitude to dwell,
And cheer its lonely hours with dreams of thee.
Yet oft will memory paint one happy scene,
One moment fraught with ecstasy of bliss,
When, thrilling with the soft clasp of thy hand,
My lips met thine in one long glowing kiss:
Ah, fatal gift! that was our parting doom-
How wert thou shadowed by Fate's stern decree!
Alas! that clouds of sadness should have dimmed
The first, the only boon of love from thee!
THE ANNOYER.
LOVE knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes, unbidden, everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song, in the time of birds.
He peeps into the warrior's heart,
From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears, and the many men,
May not deny him room.
He'll come to his tent in the weary night,
And be busy in his dream,
And he'll float to his eye in morning light,
Like a fay on a silver beam.
He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,
And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,
And flint is his woodland track.
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,
The cloud, and the open sky,-
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.
The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,
And ponders the silver sea,
For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thought has he;
He leaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And he speaks in the ripple low,
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook is bare below.
He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer,
And profanes the cell of the holy man
In the shape of a lady fair.
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought
Will Love be lurking nigh.
SEEK NOT TO UNDERSTAND HER.
WHY seek her heart to understand,
If but enough thou knowest
To prove that all thy love, like sand,
Upon the wind thou throwest?
The ill thou makest out at last
Doth but reflect the bitter past,
While all the good thou learnest yet,
But makes her harder to forget.
What matters all the nobleness
Which in our breast resideth,
And what the warmth and tenderness
Her mien of coldness hideth?
If but ungenerous thoughts prevail
When thou her bosom wouldst assail,
While tenderness and warmth doth ne'er,
By any chance, toward thee appear.
Sum up each token thou hast won
Of kindred feeling there-
How few for Hope to build upon,
How many for Despair!
And if e'er word or look declareth
Love or aversion, which she beareth
While of the first no proof thou hast,
How many are there of the last.
Then strive no more to understand
Her heart, of whom thou knowest
Enough to prove thy love like sand
Upon the wind thou throwest,
The ill thou makest out at last
Doth but reflect the bitter past,
While all the good thou learnest yet
But makes her harder to forget.
TO A FACE BELOVED.
THE music of the wakened lyre
Dies not upon the quivering strings,
Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire
Upon the lip that trembling sings;
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