Life Without and Life Within Part 38

With my lamenting touched, the lofty trees Incline their graceful heads without a breeze; The listening birds forego their joyous song, For soft and mournful strains, which echoes faint prolong.

Lions and bears resign the charms of sleep To hear my lonely plaint, and see me weep; At my approaching death e'en stones relent.

Yet though yourself the fatal cause you know, Not once on me those lovely eyes are bent: Flow freely, tears! 'tis meet that you should flow!

Although for my relief thou wilt not come, Leave not the place where once thou loved'st to roam!

Here thou mayst rove secure from meeting me; With a torn heart forever hence I flee.

Come, if 'twere this alone thy footsteps stayed, Here the soft meadow, the delightful shade, The roses now in flower, the waters clear, Invite thee to the valley once so dear.

Come, and bring with thee thy late-chosen love; Each object shall thy perfidy reprove; Since to another thou hast given thy heart, From this sweet scene forever I depart.

And soon kind Death my sorrows shall remove, The bitter ending of my faithful love.

SONG WRITTEN FOR A MAY DAY FESTIVAL.

TO BE SUNG TO THE TUNE OF "THE BONNY BOAT."

I.

O, blessed be this sweet May day, The fairest of the year; The birds are heard from every spray, And the blue sky s.h.i.+nes so clear!

White blossoms deck the apple tree, Blue violets the plain; Their fragrance tells the wand'ring bee That Spring is come again.

We'll cull the blossoms from the bough Where robins gayly sing, We'll wreathe them for our queen's pure brow, We'll wreathe them for our king.

II.

The winter wind is bleak and sad, And chill the winter rain; But these May gales blow warm and glad, And charm the heart from pain.

The sick, the poor rejoice once more, Pale cheeks resume their glow, And those who thought their day was o'er New life to May suns owe.

And we, in youth and health so gay, Sheltered by love and care, How should we joy in blooming May, And bless its balmy air!

III.

We are the children of the Spring; Our home is always green; Green be the garland of our king, The livery of our queen.

The gardener's care the seed has strown, To deck our home with flowers; Our Father's love from high has shone, And sent the needed showers.

Barren indeed the plants must be, If they should not disclose, Tended and cherished with such toil, The lily and the rose.

IV.

Meanwhile through the wild wood we'll rove, Where earliest flowerets grow, And greet each simple bud with love, Which tells us what to do-- That, though untended, we may bloom And smile on all around, And one day rise from earth's low tomb, To live where light is found.

A modest violet be our queen, Still fragrant, though alone, Our king a laurel--evergreen-- To which no blight is known.

V.

So let us bless the sweet May day, And pray the coming year May see us walk the upward way-- Minds earnest, conscience clear; That fruit Spring's amplest hope may crown, And every winged day Make to our hearts more dear, more known, The hope, the peace of May!

So cull the blossoms from the bough Where birds so gayly sing; We'll wreathe them for our queen's pure brow, We'll wreathe them for our king.

CARADORI SINGING.

Let not the heart o'erladen hither fly, Hoping in tears to vent its misery: She soars not like the lark with eager cry, Not hers the robin's notes of love and joy; Nor, like the nightingale's love-descant, tells Her song the truths of the heart's hidden wells.

Come, if thy soul be tranquil, and her voice Shall bid the tranquil lake laugh and rejoice; Shall lightly warble, flutter, hover, dance, And charm thee by its sportive elegance.

A finished style the highest art has given, And a fine organ she received from heaven: But genius casts not here one living ray; Thou shalt approve, admire, not weep, to-day.

LINES

IN ANSWER TO STANZAS CONTAINING SEVERAL Pa.s.sAGES OF DISTINGUISHED BEAUTY, ADDRESSED TO ME BY----.

As by the wayside the worn traveller lies, And finds no pillow for his aching brow, Except the pack beneath whose weight he dies,-- If loving breezes from the far west blow, Laden with perfume from those blissful bowers Where gentle youth and hope once gilded all his hours, As fans that loving breeze, tears spring again, And cool the fever of his wearied brain.

Even so to me the soft romantic dream Of one who still may sit at fancy's feet, Where love and beauty yet are all the theme, Where spheral concords find an echo meet.

To the ideal my vexed spirit turns, But often for communion vainly burns.

Blest is that hour when breeze of poesy From far the ancient fragrance wafts to me; _This time_ thrice blest, because it came unsought, "Sweet suppliance," and _dear_, because _unbought_.

INFLUENCE OF THE OUTWARD.

The sun, the moon, the waters, and the air, The hopeful, holy, terrible, and fair; Flower-alphabets, love-letters from the wave, All mysteries which flutter, blow, skim, lave; All that is ever-speaking, never spoken, Spells that are ever breaking, never broken,-- Have played upon my soul, and every string Confessed the touch which once could make it sing Triumphal notes; and still, though changed the tone, Though damp and jarring fall the lyre hath known, It would, if fitly played, and all its deep notes wove Into one tissue of belief and love, Yield melodies for angel-audience meet, And paeans fit creative power to greet.

O, injured lyre! thy golden frame is marred; No garlands deck thee; no libations poured Tell to the earth the triumphs of thy song; No princely halls echo thy strains along; But still the strings are there; and if at last they break, Even in death some melody will make.

Mightst thou once more be strung, might yet the power be given, To tell in numbers all thou hast of heaven!

But no! thy fragments scattered by the way, To children given, help the childish play.

Be it thy pride to feel thy latest sigh Could not forget the law of harmony, Thou couldst not live for bliss--but thou for truth couldst die!

TO MISS R. B.[47]

A graceful fiction of the olden day Tells us that, by a mighty master's sway, A city rose, obedient to the lyre; That his sweet strains rude matter could inspire With zeal his harmony to emulate; Thus to the spot where that sweet singer sat The rocks advanced, in symmetry combined, To form the palace and the temple joined.

The arts are sisters, and united all, So architecture answered music's call.

In modern days such feats no more we see, And matter dares 'gainst mind a rebel be; The faith is gone such miracles which wrought; Masons and carpenters must aid our thought; The harp and voice in vain would try their skill To raise a city on our hard-bound soil; The rocks have lain asleep so many a year, Nothing but gunpowder will make them stir; I doubt if even for your voice would come The smallest pebble from its sandy home; But, if the minstrel can no more create, For _building_, if he live a little late, He wields a power of not inferior kind, No longer rules o'er matter, but o'er mind.