Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

THE LOST PLEIAD.

AND is there glory from the heavens departed? -Oh! void unmark'd!-thy sisters of the sky Still hold their place on high,

Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started,
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye.

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night!
She wears her crown of old magnificence,
Though thou art exiled thence-

No desert seems to part those urns of light,
Midst the far depth of purple gloom intense.

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning— The shepherd greets them on his mountains free; And from the silvery sea

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turningUnchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd for thee.

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, E'en as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, Swept by the wind away?

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race,

And was there power to smite them with decay?

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven? Bow'd be our hearts to think of what we are, When from its height afar

A world sinks thus-and yon majestic heaven Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star!

Fill with forgetfulness!—there are, there are
Voices whose music I have loved too well;
Eyes of deep gentleness-but they are far-
Never! oh, never in my home to dwell!
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul-
Fill high the oblivious bowl!

Yet pause again!-with memory wilt thou cast
The undying hope away, of memory born!
Hope of re-union, heart to heart at last,

No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn? Wouldst thou erase all records of delight

That make such visions bright?

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high!—yet stay"T is from the past we shadow forth the land Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright band:

Pour the sweet waters back on their own rillI must remember still.

For their sake, for the dead-whose image nought
May dim within the temple of my breast-
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought
May shake or trouble with its own unrest,
Though the past haunt me like a spirit,-yet
I ask not to forget.

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.

ONE draught, kind fairy! from that fountain deep
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast,
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest;
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave-
One draught of that sweet wave!

Yet, mortal, pause!--within thy mind is laid Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine

Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast made
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine;
-Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear
A pyramid so fair?

Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd,

So it but sweep along the torrent's trace,

And fill the hollow channels of the past; And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf Rase the one master-grief!

Yet pause once more!-all. all thy soul hath known, Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade! Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone

A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made? No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall? Think-wouldst thou part with all?

A PARTING SONG.

WHEN will ye think of me, my friends?
When will ye think of me?

When the last red light, the farewell of day,
From the rock and the river is passing away,
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught,
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought-
Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, kind friends!
When will ye think of me?-
When the rose of the rich midsummer time
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime;
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled,
From the walks where my footsteps no more may
tread;

Then let it be!

When will ye think of me, sweet friends?
When will you think of me?-
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye
At the sound of some olden melody;
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream,
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream;
Then let it be!

Thus let my memory be with you friends?
Thus ever think of me!
Kindly and gently, but as of one
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone;
As of a bird from a chain unbound,
As of a wanderer whose home is found;
So let it be.

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.

I. INTELLECTUAL POWERS.

O THOUGHT! O memory! gems for ever heaping
High in the illumined chambers of the mind,
And thou, divine imagination! keeping [shrined;
Thy lamp's lone star mid shadowy hosts en-
How in one moment rent and disentwined,
At fever's fiery touch apart they fall,
Your glorious combinations!-broken all,

As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind Scatter'd to whirling dust!-oh, soon uncrown'd! Well may your parting swift, your strange return, Subdue the soul to lowliness profound,

Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern How by meek faith heaven's portals must be pass'd Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.

II. SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT.

THOU art like night, O sickness! deeply stilling Within my heart the world's disturbing sound,

And the dim quiet of my chamber filling

With low, sweet voices by life's tumult drown'd. Thou art like awful night!-thou gather'st round

V.-FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.

WHITHER, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way?
What solemn region first upon thy sight
Shall break, unveil'd for terror or delight?
What hosts, magnificent in dread array?
My spirit, when thy prison-house of clay,

After long strife is rent?-fond, fruitless guest!
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play,
And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal'd,
A glimpse of summer sky:-nor knows the field
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried.
Thou art that bird!-of what beyond thee lies
Far in the untrack'd, immeasurable skies, [Guide!
Knowing but this-that thou shalt find thy

VI.-FLOWERS.

WELCOME, O pure and lovely forms, again
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room;
For not alone ye bring a joyous train

Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom,
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells,
Of stars that look down on your folded bells

The things that are unseen, though close they lie-Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume,

And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, Givest their dread presence to our mental eye. -Thou art like starry, spiritual night!

High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, And revelations, which the common light

Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray All outward life:-Be welcome then thy rod, Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.

III-RETZSCH'S DESIGN, THE ANGEL OF DEATH. WELL might thine awful image thus arise

With that high calm upon thy regal brow, And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, Unto the glorious artist!—Who but thou The fleeting forms of beauty can endow For him with permanency? who make those gleams Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams, Immortal things?-Let others trembling bow, Angel of death! before thee.-Not to those, Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, Art thou a fearful shape!—and oh! for me How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, Did not the cords of strong affection twine So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!

IV. REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE.

O NATURE! thou didst rear me for thine own
With thy free singing-birds and mountain brooks;
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks,
With fairy fantasies, and wood-dreams lone;
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone
Drawn from thy many-whisperingtrees and waves,
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves,
And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne
Midst the green hills: and now, that, far estranged
From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath,
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged,
So glows the love of thee, that not for death,
Seems that pure passion's fervour-but ordain'd
To meet on brighter shores thy majesty unstain'd.

Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove Like sudden music; more than this ye bring

Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like Broods o'er the suffererdrawing fever'd breath, [wing Whether the couch be that of life or death.

VII. RECOVERY.

BACK, then, once more to breast the waves of life,
To battle on against the unceasing spray,
To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife,
And rise to strife again; yet on my way
O, linger still, thou light of better day!
Born in the hours of loneliness, and you,
Ye childlike thoughts, the holy and the true;

Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay,
The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn
Back on my soul, a clear, bright sense, new-born,
Now leave me not! but as, profoundly pure,

A blue stream rushes through a darker lake Unchanged, e'en thus with me your journey take, Wafting sweet airs of heaven through this low world obscure.

TO A FAMILY BIBLE. WHAT household thoughts around thee as their shrine Cling reverently!of anxious looks beguiled, My mother's eyes upon thy page divine

Each day were bent; her accents gravely mild, Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child, Wander'd on breeze-like fancies oft away,

To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, Some fresh-discover'd nook for woodland play, Some secret nest:-yet would the solemn Word At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be A seed not lost; for which, in darker years, O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears, Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!

SERJEANT TALFOURD.

THOMAS NOON TALFOURD is a native of Reading, and was born about the year 1796. He was educated at a grammar school under Dr. VALPY, and in 1811, while yet a student in the classics, he published his first volume of poems. One of these early compositions is "On the Brotherhood of Mankind," and another on "The Education of the Poor." They won for him the acquaintance and friendship of Lord BROUGHAM, who advised him to work his way through literature to the bar. He studied his profession under Mr. CHITTY, whom he assisted in his great work on the Criminal Laws.

His earlier essays as an author were several pamphlets on religion and politics, and, in 1815, "An Attempt to Estimate the Poetical Talent of the Present Age."

He was called to the bar by the society of the Middle Temple in 1821, and in 1834 he was elected to Parliament, from his native town, by a large majority of all parties. He was returned again in 1839, but declined being a candidate in 1841.

been overshadowed by the fame of his first effort.

TALFOURD has earned the gratitude of men of letters by his celebrated defence of Moxon, who was prosecuted as the publisher of SHELLEY, and for his advocacy of the rights of authors, in various speeches in the House of Commons on the copyright question. His writings, whether in prose or verse, bear the marks of patient meditation and careful correction. They display a fine temper, large attainments, an affluent imagination, and great richness and fulness of diction. Few works of the age are characterized by such purity of thought, or display a deeper love and reverence for beauty and goodness. The mildness of his disposition, his tenderness of feeling and sentiment, the calm, brooding spirit diffused over his compositions, and his tendency to overload his diction with glittering words and images, have subjected him, at times, to the charge of effeminacy and euphaism; but there is no lack of true power discernible in him, if we pass behind the profuse ornaments of his style, to the thought and emotion they are intended to decorate.

Previous to the publication of his great dramatic poem, he was only known on this side of the Atlantic as the author of various critical articles in the "New Monthly Magazine," the "Edinburgh Review," the "Encyclopedia Metropolitana," and the " Retrospective Review," written with much grace of style, and abounding in metaphor and illustration. He was the friend of LAME, Hazlitt, Hunt, and the other members of the literary coterie of which they formed a part, and has repeatedly borne testimony to their genius and cha-cian's Daughter," and others, have written

racter, even at those periods when to praise some of them was to participate in their unpopularity. Of all the authors of the present age, however, he seems to have the most veneration for WORDSWORTH. He has poured forth the full wealth of his own mind in illustrating the poetry and poetical character of his idol. The publication of " Ion" gave him an immediate reputation both in Great Britain and in this country,-a reputation which promises to be lasting. The two tragedies he has since produced, "The Athenian Captive," and "Glencoe," though of much merit, have

No recent age has produced in England more fine dramatic poetry than the present. Of the acted dramatists, TALFOURD, Bulwer, and KNOWLES have been most successful. It is wonderful, considering the condition of the stage, that the faultless, classical poetry of "Ion" was received with such applausę. BROWNING, author of "Paracelsus" and "Strafford," MARSTON, author of the "Patri

pieces full of passionate and imaginative poetry, but failed of audience, except in the closet, and after a few efforts, unsuccessful with the managers, have abandoned the dramatic for the epic or lyric forms of composition.

A collection of TALFOURD's "Critical and Miscellaneous Writings," comprising all his more important contributions to the literary magazines, was published by Carey and Hart in 1843, and about the same time Moxon brought out in London a complete edition of his tragedies and minor poems.

VERSES

TO THE MEMORY OF A CHILD NAMED AFTER CHARLES LAMB.

OUR gentle Charles has pass'd away,
From earth's short bondage free,
And left to us its leaden day
And mist-enshrouded sea.

Here, by the restless ocean's side,
Sweet hours of hope have flown,
When first the triumph of its tide

Seem'd omen of our own.

That eager joy the sea-breeze gave,

When first it raised his hair, Sunk with each day's retiring wave,

Beyond the reach of prayer.

The sun-blink that through dazzling mist,
To flickering hope akin,
Far waves with feeble fondness kiss'd,
No smile as faint can win;

Yet not in vain with radiance weak
The heavenly stranger gleams-
Not of the world it lights to speak,

But that from whence it streams.

That world our patient sufferer sought,
Serene with pitying eyes,

As if his mounting spirit caught
The wisdom of the skies.

With boundless love it look'd abroad
For one bright moment given,
Shone with a loveliness that awed,
And quiver'd into heaven.

A year made slow by care and toil
Has paced its weary round,
Since death's enrich'd with kindred spoil
The snow-clad, frost-ribb'd ground.

Then Lamb, with whose endearing name
Our boy we proudly graced,
Shrank from the warmth of sweeter fame
Than ever bard embraced.

Still 't was a mournful joy to think
Our darling might supply

For years on earth, a living link

To name that cannot die.

And though such fancy gleam no more
On earthly sorrow's night,
Truth's nobler torch unveils the shore
Where lends to both its light.

The nurseling there that hand may take
None ever grasp'd in vain,
And smiles of well-known sweetness wake,
Without their tinge of pain.

Though 'twixt the child and childlike bard
Late seem'd distinction wide,
They now may trace, in Heaven's regard,
How near they were allied.

Within the infant's ample brow

Blythe fancies lay unfurl'd,
Which, all uncrush'd, may open now
To charm a sinless world.

Though the soft spirit of those eyes
Might ne'er with Lamb's compete
Ne'er sparkle with a wit as wise,
Or melt in tears as sweet,

That calm and unforgotten look
A kindred love reveals
With his who never friend forsook
Or hurt a thing that feels.

In thought profound, in wildest glee,
In sorrow's lengthening range,
His guileless soul of infancy

Endured no spot or change.

From traits of each our love receives
For comfort nobler scope;

While light which childlike genius leaves
Confirms the infant's hope:

And in that hope with sweetness fraught
Be aching hearts beguiled,

To blend in one delightful thought
The poet and the child.

LINES

WRITTEN AT THE NEEDLES HOTEL, ALUM BAY, ISLE OF WIGHT, AFTER A WEEK SPENT AT THAT PLACE.

How simple in their grandeur are the forms That constitute this picture! Nature grants Scarce more than sternest cynic might desireEarth, sea, and sky, and hardly lends to each Variety of colour; yet the soul

Asks nothing fairer than the scene it grasps
And makes its own for ever! From the gate
Of this home-featured inn, which nestling cleaves
To its own shelf among the downs, begirt
With trees which lift no branches to defy
The fury of the storm, but crouch in love
Round the low snow-white walls whence they re-
More shelter than they lend-the heart-soothed guest
Views a furze-dotted common, on each side

Wreath'd into waving eminences, clothed
Above the furze with scanty green, in front
Indented sharply to admit the sea,

[ceive

Spread thence in softest blue-to which a gorge,
Sinking within the valley's deepening green,
Invites by grassy path; the eastern down,
Swelling with pride into the waters, shows
Its sward-tipp'd precipice of radiant white,
And claims the dazzling peak beneath its brow
Part of its ancient bulk, which hints the strength
Of those famed pinnacles that still withstand
The conquering waves, as fortresses maintain'd
By death-devoted troops, hold out awhile
After the game of war is lost, to prove
The virtue of the conquer'd.-Here are scarce
Four colours for the painter; yet the charm
Which permanence, mid worldly change, confers

Is felt, if ever, here; for he who loves
To bid this scene refresh his inward eye
When far away, may feel it keeping still
The very aspect that it wore for him,
Sure changed by time or season: autumn finds
Scant boughs on which the lustre of decay
May tremble fondly; storms may rage in vain
Above the clumps of sturdy furze, which stand
The forest of the fairies; twilight gray
Finds in the landscape's stern and simple forms
Naught to conceal; the moon, although she cast
Upon the element, she sways a track

Like that which slanted through young Jacob's sleep
From heaven to earth, and flutter'd at the soul
Of shadow's mighty painter, who thence drew
Hints of a glory beyond shape, reveals
The clear-cut framework of the sea and downs
Shelving to gloom, as unperplex'd with threads
Of pallid light, as when the summer's noon
Bathes them in sunshine; and the giant cliffs
Scarce veiling more their lines of flint, that run
Likeveins of moveless blue, through their bleak sides,
In moonlight than in day, shall tower as now
(Save when some moss's slender stain shall break
Into the samphire's yellow in mid air,
To tempt some trembling life) until the eyes
Which gaze in childhood on them shall be dim.

Yet deem not that these sober forms are all
That Nature here provides, although she frames
These in one lasting picture for the heart.
Within the foldings of the coast she breathes
Hues of fantastic beauty. Thread the gorge
And, turning on the beach, while the low sea
Spread out in mirror'd gentleness, allows
A path along the curving edge, behold
Such dazzling glory of prismatic tints
Flung o'er the lofty crescent, as assures
The orient gardens where Aladdin pluck'd
Jewels for fruit no fable-as if earth,
Provoked to emulate the rainbow's gauds
In lasting mould, had snatch'd its floating hues
And fix'd them here; for never o'er the bay
Flew a celestial arch of brighter grace
Than the gay coast exhibits; here the cliff
Flaunts in a brighter yellow than the stream
Of Tiber wafted; then with softer shades
Declines to pearly white, which blushes soon
With pink as delicate as autumn's rose
Wears on its scattering leaves; anon the shore
Recedes into a fane-like dell, where stain'd
With black, as if with sable tapestry hung,
Light pinacles rise taper: further yet
Swells out in solemn mass a dusky veil

Of purpled crimson,-while bright streaks of red Start out in gleam-like tint, to tell of veins Which the slow-winning sea, in distant times, Shall bare to unborn gazers.

If this scene Grow too fantastic for thy pensive thought, Climb either swelling down, and gaze with joy On the blue ocean, pour'd around the heights, As it embraced the wonders of that shield Which the vow'd friend of slain Patroclus wore, To grace his fated valour; nor disdain The quiet of the vale, though not endow'd

With such luxurious beauty as the coast
Of Undercliff embosoms:-mid those lines
Of scanty foliage, thoughtful lanes and paths,
And cottage roofs find shelter; the blue stream,
That with its brief vein almost threads the isle,
Flows blest with two gray towers, beneath whose
The village life sleeps trustfully, whose rites [shade
Touch the old weather-harden'd fisher's heart
With child-like softness, and shall teach the boy
Who kneels, a sturdy grandson, at his side,
When his frail boat amidst the breakers parts
To cast the anchor of a Christian hope
In an unrippled haven. Then rejoice,
That in remotest point of this sweet isle,
Which with fond mimicry combines each shape
Of the great land that, by the ancient bond
(Sea-parted once, and sea-united now)
Binds her in unity-a spirit breaths

On cliff, and tower, and valley, by the side
Of cottage-fire, and the low grass-grown grave,
Of home on English earth, and home in heaven!

KINDNESS.

THE blessings which the weak and poor can scatter Have their own season. "Tis a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarean juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort which by daily use Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 't will fall Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again; And shed on the departing soul a sense More precious than the benison of friends About the honour'd death-bed of the rich, To him who else were lonely, that another Of the great family is near and feels.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE POETS.

THE fame of those pure bards whose faces lie

Like glorious clouds in summer's calmest even, Fringing the western skirts of darkening heaven, And sprinkled o'er with hues of rainbow dye, Awakes no voice of thunder, which may vie

With mighty chiefs' renown;-from ages gone, In low, undying strain, it lengthens on, Earth's greenest solitudes with joy to fill,Felt breathing in the silence of the sky, Or trembling in the gush of new-born rill,

Or whispering o'er the lake's undimpled breast; Yet blest to live when trumpet-notes are still, To wake a pulse of earth-born ecstasy

In the deep bosom of eternal rest.

« ZurückWeiter »