The day, rejoicingly-the rosy light— All the rich flowers and fountains musical,
And sweet familiar melodies of earth,
To dwell with thee below!-Thou answerest not! The powers whom I have call'd upon are mute: The voices buried in old whispery caves, And by lone river-sources, and amidst The gloom and mystery of dark prophet-oaks, The wood-gods' haunt-they give me no reply! All silent-heaven and earth!-for evermore From the deserted mountains thou art gone- For ever from the melancholy groves,
Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound!- And I-I pine through all the joyous day, Through the long night I pine-as fondly pines The night's own bird, dissolving her lorn life To song in moonlight woods, Thou hear'st me not! The heavens are pitiless of human tears: The deep-sea darkness is about thy head; The white sail never will bring back the loved! By the blue waters-the restless ocean waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!
TO THE BLUE ANEMONE.
FLOWER of starry clearness bright, Quivering urn of colour'd light, Hast thou drawn thy cup's rich dye From the intenseness of the sky?
TO THE BLUE ANEMONE.
From a long, long fervent gaze Through the year's first golden days, Up that blue and silent deep,
Where, like things of sculptured sleep, Alabaster clouds repose,
With the sunshine on their snows ? Thither was thy heart's love turning, Like a censer ever burning,
Till the purple heavens in thee Set their smile, Anemone?
Or can those warm tints be caught Each from some quick glow of thought? So much of bright soul there seems In thy bendings and thy gleams, So much thy sweet life resembles That which feels, and weeps, and trembles, I could deem thee spirit-fill'd, As a reed by music thrill'd, When thy being I behold To each loving breath unfold, Or like woman's willowy form, Shrink before the gathering storm; I could ask a voice from thee, Delicate Anemone !
Flower! thou seem'st not born to die
With thy radiant purity,
But to melt in air away,
Mingling with the soft Spring-day, When the crystal heavens are still,
And faint azure veils each hill,
And the lime-leaf doth not move, Save to songs that stir the grove, And earth all glorified is seen, As imaged in some lake serene; -Then thy vanishing should be, Pure and meek Anemone !
Flower! the laurel still may shed Brightness round the victor's head; And the rose in beauty's hair Still its festal glory wear;
And the willow-leaves droop o'er
Brows which love sustains no more:
But by living rays refined,
Thou, the trembler of the wind,
Thou, the spiritual flower
Sentient of each breeze and shower,
Thou, rejoicing in the skies,
And transpierced with all their dyes; Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing, Gem-like to thy centre glowing Thou the poet's type shall be, Flower of soul, Anemone !
Without his fame,-the calm, pure, starry fame He might have won, to guide on radiantly Full many a noble soul, he sought it not; And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd The wayward child of genius. And the songs Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean-waves Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed, They died before him ;-they were winged seed, Scatter'd afar, and, falling on the rock
Of the world's heart, had perish'd. One alone, One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain, The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls Of the kind few that loved him, with a love Faithful to even its disappointed hope,
That song of tears found root, and by their hearths Full oft, in low and reverential tones,
Fill'd with the piety of tenderness,
Is murmur'd to their children, when his name On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls, Far from the world's rude voices, far away. Oh! hear, and judge him gently; 'twas his last.
1 Suggested by the late Mrs. Fletcher's Story of The Lost Life, published in the Amulet for 1830.
I come alone, and faint I come,
To nature's arms I flee;
The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee?
The earliest odour of the flower,
The bird's first song, is thine;
Father in heaven! my dayspring's hour Pour'd its vain incense on another shrine.
Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene Around me faded lies;
Therefore, remembering what hath been, I ask, is this mine early paradise?
It is, it is-but Thou art gone,
Or if the trembling shade
Breathe yet of thee, with alter'd tone Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay'd.
THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,
Since here the mournful seal was set By love and agony?
1 The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.
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