OFT have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek,
Matrons and Sires, who, punctual to the call
Of their loved Church, on fast or festival
Through the long year the House of Prayer would
seek:
By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak
Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall
They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall,
But with one fervor of devotion meek..
I see the places where they once were known,
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds,
Is ancient Piety for ever flown?
Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds
That, struggling through the western sky, have won
Their pensive light from a departed sun!
COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND
IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812.
WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribbons gay,
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
Angels of love, look down upon the place;
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
Even for such promise: serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep
With gentleness, in that becoming way
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear; No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
But when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
To her indulgent Lord become more dear.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
For if of our affections none finds grace
In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour;
But in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.
No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the Soul a heavenward course must hold;
Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal Form, the universal mould.
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught that doth on time depend.
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in heaven above.
FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING.
THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
That quickens only where Thou say'st it may:
Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
No man can find it; Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread ;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.
SURPRISED by joy, impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport-oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind, -
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss! - That thought's re
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapors from mine eyes
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!
EVEN So for me a Vision sanctified
The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had seen Thy countenance, -the still rapture of thy mien, When thou, dear Sister! wert become Death's
No trace of pain or languor could abide
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