Breasts and limbs and lifted eyes,
Hair and lips and stretching fingers,
Fade away--and fadeless rise.
And the god whose
ferventraptureClasps her finds his close embrace
Full of palpitating branches,
And new leaves that bud apace,
Bound his wonder-stricken
forehead; -
While in ebbing measures slow
Sounds of
softly dying pulses
Pause and
quiver, pause and go;
Go, and come again, and flutter
On the verge of life,--then flee!
All the white ambrosial beauty
Is a lustrous Laurel Tree!
Still with the great panting love-chase
All its
running sap is warmed; -
But from head to foot the
virginIs transfigured and transformed.
Changed!--yet the green Dryad nature
Is
instinct with human ties,
And above its
anguish'd lover
Breathes
pathetic sympathies;
Sympathies of love and sorrow;
Joy in her
divine escape;
Breathing through her bursting foliage
Comfort to his bending shape.
Vainly now the floating Naiads
Seek to
pierce the
laurel maze,
Nought but
laurel meets their glances,
Laurel glistens as they gaze.
Nought but bright
propheticlaurel!
Laurel over eyes and brows,
Over limbs and over bosom,
Laurel leaves and
laurel boughs!
And in vain the listening Dryad
Shells her hand against her ear! -
All is silence--save the echo
Travelling in the distance drear.
LONDON BY LAMPLIGHT
There stands a
singer in the street,
He has an
audience motley and meet;
Above him lowers the London night,
And around the lamps are flaring bright.
His minstrelsy may be unchaste -
'Tis much unto that motley taste,
And loud the
laughter he provokes
From those sad slaves of obscene jokes.
But woe is many a passer by
Who as he goes turns half an eye,
To see the human form
divineThus Circe-wise changed into swine!
Make up the sum of either sex
That all our human hopes perplex,
With those
unhappy shapes that know
The silent streets and pale cock-crow.
And can I trace in such dull eyes
Of
fireside peace or country skies?
And could those
haggard cheeks presume
To memories of a May-tide bloom?
Those violated forms have been
The pride of many a flowering green;
And still the
virgin bosom heaves
With daisy meads and dewy leaves.
But stygian darkness reigns within
The river of death from the founts of sin;
And one
prophetic water rolls
Its gas-lit surface for their souls.
I will not hide the
tragic sight -
Those drown'd black locks, those dead lips white,
Will rise from out the slimy flood,
And cry before God's
throne for blood!
Those stiffened limbs, that
swollen face, -
Pollution's last and best embrace,
Will call, as such a picture can,
For retribution upon man.
Hark! how their
feeblelaughter rings,
While still the ballad-monger sings,
And flatters their
unhappy breasts
With
poisonous words and pungent jests.
O how would every daisy blush
To see them 'mid that earthy crush!
O dumb would be the evening thrush,
And hoary look the
hawthorn bush!
The meadows of their infancy
Would
shrink from them, and every tree,
And every little laughing spot,
Would hush itself and know them not.
Precursor to what black
despairs
Was that child's face which once was theirs!
And O to what a world of guile
Was
herald that young angel smile!
That face which to a father's eye
Was balm for all anxiety;
That smile which to a mother's heart
Went swifter than the swallow's dart!
O happy homes! that still they know
At intervals, with what a woe
Would ye look on them, dim and strange,
Suffering worse than winter change!
And yet could I
transplant them there,
To breathe again the
innocent air
Of youth, and once more reconcile
Their outcast looks with nature's smile;
Could I but give them one clear day
Of this
deliciousloving May,
Release their souls from
anguish dark,
And stand them
underneath the lark; -
I think that Nature would have power
To graft again her blighted flower
Upon the broken stem, renew
Some
portion of its early hue; -
The heavy flood of tears unlock,
More precious than the Scriptured rock;
At least instil a happier mood,
And bring them back to womanhood.
Alas! how many lost ones claim
This
refuge from
despair and shame!
How many,
longing for the light,
Sink deeper in the abyss this night!
O, crying sin! O, blushing thought!
Not only unto those that wrought
The
misery and
deadly blight;
But those that outcast them this night!
O, agony of grief! for who
Less
dainty than his race, will do
Such battle for their human right,
As shall awake this startled night?
Proclaim this evil human page
Will ever blot the Golden Age
That poets dream and saints invite,
If it be unredeemed this night?
This night of deep solemnity,
And verdurous serenity,
While over every
fleecy field
The dews
descend and odours yield.
This night of gleaming floods and falls,
Of forest glooms and sylvan calls,
Of
starlight on the pebbly rills,
And
twilight on the circling hills.
This night! when from the paths of men
Grey error steams as from a fen;
As o'er this flaring City wreathes
The black cloud-vapour that it breathes!
This night from which a morn will spring
Blooming on its
orient wing;
A morn to roll with many more
Its
ghostly foam on the
twilight shore.
Morn! when the fate of all mankind
Hangs poised in doubt, and man is blind.
His duties of the day will seem
The fact of life, and mine the dream:
The destinies that bards have sung,
Regeneration to the young,
Reverberation of the truth,
And
virtuousculture unto youth!
Youth! in whose season let abound
All flowers and fruits that strew the ground,
Voluptuous joy where love consents,
And health and pleasure pitch their tents:
All
rapture and all pure delight;
A garden all unknown to blight;
But never the
unnatural sight
That throngs the shameless song this night!
SONG
Under boughs of breathing May,
In the mild spring-time I lay,
Lonely, for I had no love;
And the sweet birds all sang for pity,
Cuckoo, lark, and dove.
Tell me,
cuckoo, then I cried,
Dare I woo and wed a bride?
I, like thee, have no home-nest;
And the twin notes thus tuned their ditty, -
'Love can answer best.'
Nor, warm dove with tender coo,
Have I thy soft voice to woo,
Even were a
damsel by;
And the deep
woodland crooned its ditty, -
'Love her first and try.'
Nor have I, wild lark, thy wing,
That from bluest heaven can bring
Bliss,
whatever fate befall;
And the sky-lyrist trilled this ditty, -
'Love will give thee all.'
So it chanced while June was young,
Wooing well with
fervent song,
I had won a
damsel coy;
And the sweet birds that sang for pity,
Jubileed for joy.
PASTORALS
I
How sweet on sunny afternoons,
For those who journey light and well,
To
loiter up a hilly rise
Which hides the
prospect far beyond,
And fancy all the
landscape lying
Beautiful and still;
Beneath a sky of summer blue,
Whose rounded cloudlets, folded soft,
Gaze on the scene which we await