Yet he was patient, slow to wrath,
Though every day provoked
By selfish, pining, discontent,
Acceptance cold or negligent,
And promises revoked.
And still the same rich feast was spread
For my insensate heart-
Not always so-I woke again,
To join Creation's rapturous strain,
"O Lord how good thou art!"
The clouds drew up, the shadows fled,
The glorious sun broke out,
And love, and hope, and gratitude,
Dispell'd that miserable mood,
Of darkness and of doubt.
I have been where the violets bloom,
Where the Heather sheds its rich perfume,
Where the gay birds chirp'd in wild delight,
Tho' man was distant from my sight,
Where nought was seen, save the herbage rude,
But yet it was not SOLITUDE.
I have been on the vessel's deck,
Upon Ocean's face a scarce view'd speck;
Above, but the sky, and below, but the wave,
The tomb for the mind, and the body's grave,
When the scene with silence seem'd imbued,
But yet it was not SOLITUDE.
I have been in my chamber lone,
Thinking of ages past and gone,
Voice nor sound have been with me,
But I have felt the glow of the spirit free;
With the voice of the soul I have been endued,
And have spurned at the thought of SOLITUDE.
I have been in the rich Parterre,
The voices of flowers mingle there;
I've marked the set of the glowing sun,
Prouder than, aye, when his race is run;
Alone the fragrant walks I've trod,
But yet I have felt not SOLITUDE.
I have been on the mountain side,
And have watched the course of the rushing tide,
Bounding and leaping down it goes,
Like the might of the warrior crushing his foes,
The grey stone and stream were all I view'd,
But I felt it not as SOLITUDE.
I have been on the level plain,
And have watched the course of the stream again;
Placid and sweet it has glided along,
Like the gentle notes of a far-off song,
Or a symbol of broken peace renewed,
But I never thought it SOLITUDE.
The Earth on her bosom has felt me lie,
As I watched the moon as she rolled on high,
And the "Starry host" that gathered there,
To people the multitudinous air;
Oh! who but a soul, untaught and rude,
Would call that feeling SOLITUde.
But I have been in a mingled throng,
And have seen the dance, and heard the song,
And thoughts of the clay of mortality,
Amid such scenes have come over me,
And my soul with sorrow has been imbued,
And this-oh! this is SOLITUDE.
O Moon! the oldest shades 'mongst oldest trees
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in:
O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thy airy fellowship.
Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,
Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine:
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes;
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken,
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf
Takes glimpses of thee: thou art a relief
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps
Within its pearly house. The mighty deeps,
The monstrous sea is thine-thy myriad sea!
O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee,
And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load.
What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move My heart so potently? When yet a child
I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled.
Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went
From eve to morn across the firmament.
No apples would I gather from the tree,
Till thou had'st cool'd their cheeks deliciously:
No tumbling water ever spake romance,
But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance :
No woods were green enough, no bower divine,
Until thou lifted'st up thine eyelids fine:
In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take,
Or drop a seed till thou wast wide awake;
And, in the summer-tide of blossoming
No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing,
And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.
No melody was like a passing spright,
If it went not to solemnize thy reign.
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain
By thee were fashioned to the self-same end;
And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend
With all my ardours; thou wast the deep glen,
Thou wast the mountain-top-the sage's pen-
The poet's harp-the voice of friends- the sun,
Thou wast the river-thou wast glory won;
Thou wast my clarion's blast-thou wast my
My goblet full of wine-my topmost deed :-
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon,
O what a wild and harmonized tune
My spirit struck from all the beautiful!
On some bright essence could I lean, and lull
Myself to immortality.
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
They grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one house with glee-
Their graves are sever'd far and wide,
By mount and stream and sea!
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow,
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?
One 'midst the forest of the west
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar's shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where Southern vines are dress'd
Above the noble slain,
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves by soft winds fann'd,
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus, they rest who play'd
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth-
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, on earth!
A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of respectable appearance and in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to compose a requiem for the funeral of a person of distinction. The composer who was in a highly nervous state, imagined that this was an omen of his own decease, and that the requiem would be for himself, which was actually the case, for the music was performed at his own interment.
A Requiem! and for whom?
For beauty in its bloom?
For valour fall'n-a broken rose or sword?
A dirge for King or Chief,
With pomp of stately grief,
Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored?
The warning voice I know,
From other worlds a strange mysterious tone;
A solemn funeral air,
It called me to prepare,
And my heart answered secretly--my own!
One more then-one more strain,
In links of joy and pain
Mighty the troubled spirit to enthral !
And let me breathe my dower,
Of passion and of power,
Full into that deep lay-the last of all!
The last!-and I must go
From this bright world below,
This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound!
Must leave its festal skies
With all their melodies,
That ever in my breast glad echoes found.
Yet have I known it long :
Too restless and too strong
Within this clay hath been th' o'er-mastering flame;
Swift thoughts, that came and went,
Like torrents o'er me sent,
Have shaken as a reed, my thrilling frame.
Like perfumes on the wind,
Which none may stay or bind,
The beautiful comes floating through my soul;
|