Summer Morning
'T is beautiful, when first the dewy light
Breaks on the earth! while yet the scented air
Is breathing the cool freshness of the night,
And the bright clouds a tint of crimson wear,
Mix'd with their fleecy whiteness; when each fair
And delicate lined flower that lifts its head
Is bathed in dainty odours, and all rare
And beautiful things of nature are outspread,
With the rich flush of light that only morn can shed.
When every leafy chalice holds a draught
Of nightly dew, for the hot sun to drink,
When streams gush sportively, as though they laugh'd
For very joyousness, and seem to shrink,
In playful terror from the rocky brink
Of some slight precipice—then with quick leap,
Bound lightly o'er the barrier, and sink
In their own whirling eddy, and then sweep
With rippling music on, or in their channels sleep.
While lights and shades play on them, with each breath
That moves the calm still waters; when the fly
Skims o'er the surface, and all things beneath
Gleam brightly through the flood, and fish glance by
With a quick flash of beauty—when the sky
Wears a deep azure brightness—and the song
Of matin gladness lifts its voice on high,
And mingled harmony and perfume throng
On every whispering breeze that lightly floats along.—
'T is sweet to wander forth at such an hour,
And drink the spirit of its loveliness;
While on the brow no shadowing care-clouds lower,
And on strong wing the free thoughts upward press;—
Yet there are those whom nature cannot bless,
With all her varied beauty;—such as they,
Whose cup is drugg'd with pain and sore distress,
By their own brother's hand, and the quench'd ray
Of whose lost hopes spreads gloom across the brightest day.
Lo! where, like cattle driven by the lash,
Forth to their wearying task in groups they go;
The mother, lifting up her hand, to dash
The tear-drops from her cheek, that still will flow,
As on her ear her infant's wail comes low,
Yet painfully distinct; and she must leave,—
For the stern overseer wills it so—
Her tender little one unsoothed, to grieve,
Happy to clasp it safe when she returns at eve.
The feeble crone who on her knees hath borne
Her children's grandchildren, is toiling there;
Young forms, and weak old men, whose limbs are worn
Nigh to the grave—strong men, whose bow'd necks bear
Perchance the weight of heavy irons, that wear
Into their very souls;—small heed has he
Who tasks them, of their ills, and none will spare
From the rude scourge—nor old nor infancy—
Who have the allotted toil perform'd imperfectly.
Oh shame upon man's selfishness! that so
The love of gold should canker in his breast,
Transforming his affection's kindly glow
To bitterness, himself into a pest
Upon the earth, the scourge of the oppress'd,
And tyrant of the helpless.—Strange that they,
Who with man's high capacities are blest,
Should, for earth's valueless and tinsel clay,
Thus cast the priceless jewels of their souls away.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Aline
How very beautiful
The creatures of this earth can sometimes be!
Aline was one of such; the summer rose
Hath not a petal fairer than her cheek,
Nor hath the light of the out-breaking sun
More radiant gladness than her beaming smile.
Her heart was full of gushing happiness.
The common air—the unfolding of a flower—
The voice of streams—the music of a bird
Was joy to her; and her glad spirit breathed
Its light o'er all around: Yet her soft eye
Was readier than a child's to fill with tears
For human sorrow; and her heart pour'd out
Its large affections over all that lived.
There was no selfishness in its young pulse;
Its thoughts were full of God, and all He made
To breathe upon the earth shared in her love,
And the upswelling of her sympathies.
Again,
In after years I look'd upon Aline.
Her face was lovely yet, but wore not all
The bloom of its young freshness; and the light,
That made its glance a gladness, was not there.
A childish group was round, filling the room
With their sweet laughter; and a bright-eyed girl,
Who look'd Aline restored to youth again,
Held to his mother's check the baby lips
Of a young brother, crowing in his joy,
As she laugh'd back to him.
Aline went forth
Amidst her servants; and her voice arose
Shrilly and harsh, and they shrunk back in dread
From her stern eye. The keen and cruel scourge
Was busy at her bidding; and the limbs
Of woman bled before her, and the shriek
Of childhood rose unheeded.
Then came one,
Whose traffic was in human forms; whose wealth
Was gather'd from the blood of breaking hearts,
And the stern rending of the holiest ties
That bless man's nature. For a price of gold,
Her husband sold to him the only son
Of a fond mother's love, and from the arms
Of conjugal affection, a sad wife,
With all her weeping babes—and she stood by—
That once compassionate girl—without a tear;
Seeing their misery, yet speaking not
One word to save them. She who once,
But at the thought of such iniquity,
And so much wretchedness, had shuddering wept,
Beheld it now without a passing pang;
And careless went to her own babes again—
So much had the best feelings of her heart
Been sear'd by dwelling ‘midst a land of slaves.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Carolan's Prophecy
A sound of music, from amidst the hills,
Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound
Of mirth, soon lost in wail.–Again it rose,
And sank in mournfulness.–There sat a bard,
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept
Flashing thro' rock and wood; the sunset's light
Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair,
And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash,
Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd,
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch
Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood,
Waiting around, in silent earnestness,
Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song,–
Many, and graceful forms! yet one alone
Seem'd present to his dream; and she indeed,
With her pale, virgin brow, and changeful cheek,
And the clear starlight of her serious eyes,
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful,
Ev'n painfully!–a creature to behold
With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth
Too dim without its brightness!–Did such fear
O'ershadow, in that hour, the gifted one,
By his own rushing stream?–Once more he gaz'd
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more
From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out
A few short festive notes, an opening strain
Of bridal melody, soon dash'd with grief,
As if some wailing spirit in the strings
Met and o'ermaster'd him: but yielding then
To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully,
Like moaning waters o'er the harp he pour'd
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang–
Voice of the grave!
I hear thy thrilling call;
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave,
In the sear leaf's trembling fall!
In the shiver of the tree,
I hear thee, O thou voice!
And I would thy warning were but for me,
That my spirit might rejoice.
But thou art sent
For the sad earth's young and fair,
For the graceful heads that have not bent
To the wintry hand of care!
They hear the wind's low sigh,
And the river sweeping free,
And the green reeds murmuring heavily,
And the woods–but they hear not thee!
Long have I striven
With my deep foreboding soul,
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven,
And darkly on must roll.
There's a young brow smiling near,
With a bridal white-rose wreath,–
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier,
Touch'd solemnly by death!
Fair art thou, Morna!
The sadness of thine eye
Is beautiful as silvery clouds
On the dark-blue summer sky!
And thy voice comes like the sound
Of a sweet and hidden rill,
That makes the dim woods tuneful round–
But soon it must be still!
Silence and dust
On thy sunny lips must lie,
Make not the strength of love thy trust,
A stronger yet is nigh!
No strain of festal flow
That my hand for thee hath tried,
But into dirge-notes wild and low
Its ringing tones have died.
Young art thou, Morna!
Yet on thy gentle head,
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,
A spirit hath been shed!
And the glance is thine which sees
Thro' nature's awful heart–
But bright things go with the summer-breeze,
And thou too, must depart!
Yet shall I weep?
I know that in thy breast
There swells a fount of song too deep,
Too powerful for thy rest!
And the bitterness I know,
And the chill of this world's breath–
Go, all undimm'd, in thy glory go!
Young and crown'd bride of death!
Take hence to heaven
Thy holy thoughts and bright,
And soaring hopes, that were not given
For the touch of mortal blight!
Might we follow in thy track,
This parting should not be!
But the spring shall give us violets back,
And every flower but thee!
There was a burst of tears around the bard:
All wept but one, and she serenely stood,
With her clear brow and dark religious eye,
Rais'd to the first faint star above the hills,
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek
Was paler than before.–So Morna heard
The minstrel's prophecy.
And spring return'd,
Bringing the earth her lovely things again,
All, save the loveliest far! A voice, a smile,
A young sweet spirit gone.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Farewell To The Dead
Come near!-ere yet the dust
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow,
Look on your brother, and embrace him now,
In still and solemn trust!
Come near!-once more let kindred lips be press'd
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest!
Look yet on this young face!
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone,
Leave of its image, ev'n where most it shone,
Gladdening its hearth and race?
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd-
-Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest!
Ye weep, and it is well!
For tears befit earth's partings!-Yesterday
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
And sunshine seem'd to dwell
Where'er he mov'd-the welcome and the bless'd!
-Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest!
Look yet on him, whose eye
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth!
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth,
The beings born to die?
-But not where death has power may love be bless'd--
Come near! and bear ye the belov'd to rest!
How may the mother's heart
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?
The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain,
The lovely must depart!
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near! and bear the early-call'd to rest!
Look on him! is he laid
To slumber from the harvest or the chase?
-Too still and sad the smile upon his face,
Yet that, ev'n that, must fade!
Death holds not long unchang'd his fairest guest,-
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!
His voice of mirth hath ceas'd
Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal feast!
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast;
Come near! weep o'er him! bear him to his rest!
Yet mourn ye not as they
Whose spirit's light is quench'd!-for him the past
Is seal'd. He may not fall, he may not cast
His birthright's hope away!
All is not here of our belov'd and bless'd-
-Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Night
Earth! thou art lovely, when the sinking sun
Hath bathed the clouds in his departing flush,
And, with the moon-lit evening, hath begun
The voiceless, and yet spirit-calming hush,
That thrills around the heart, till tear-drops rush,
Unbidden and uncall'd for, to the eye;
When, save the music of the fountain's gush,
Or the far wailing of the night-bird's cry,
Unbroken silence hangs o'er earth, and wave, and sky.
But now the majesty of midnight storm
Is gathering, in its grandeur, o'er the sky;
The deep black clouds in mustering squadrons form,
And the low, fitful blast, that passes by,
Hath a strange fearful thrilling—like the sigh
Of a sick slumberer; even that hath died,
And in their quiet sleep the waters lie,
As though the winds ne'er curl'd them in its pride,
Or shook the still bent leaves that hang above the tide.
How steadily that ebon mass moves on!
Stretching across the sky in one dark line,
Like a huge wall of blackness; there do none
Of the thin silvery vapours hang supine,
Or those bright clouds that sometimes seem to twine
A coronal to grace the brow of night;
Stars in Orion's studded baldric shine,
In all their wonted brightness; and the light
Of an unclouded moon half dims the dazzled sight.
The tempest hurries onward—how the flash
Of the red lightning leaps from cloud to cloud!
The gathering thunder bursts in one wild crash,
And sinks a moment—then, returning loud,
Seems bounding o'er the sky, as if 't were proud
Of its own potency. We need not now,
A sharer in the thoughts that round us crowd;
The soul is its own world, and the deep glow
Of the rapt spirit seeks no fellowship below.
The wildness of the storm hath pass'd; the rain
Drips from the wet leaves only, and the sky,
With its deep azure beauty, gleams again
Through the rent clouds; the sunken wind swells by,
With a low sobbing; and the clouds, heap'd high,
With the rich moonbeams’ streaming flood of light
Pour'd full upon them, swell before the eye
Like distant snow-clad mountains. Night! O night!
Thou art most glorious! most beautifully bright!
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Emancipation
Gladness in Mexico! A pealing shout,
From franchised men, goes proudly o'er her hills;
And the rich hymn is swelling up to Heaven,
Bearing the full heart's gratitude. No more
The wild bird springing upward from its nest,
Or the free waters in their gushing glee,
Seem taunting man that they are masterless,
While his proud thoughts and swelling pulse are crush'd
Beneath vile bonds. No more at eventide,
The serf stalks gloomily to seek a home,
He scarce can call his own; or goes at dawn
Unwillingly to toil:—the heavy spell,
That ‘numb'd his veins with leaden sluggishness,
Hath lost its power; and now, his glad limbs bound
Across the glorious earth, as though they were
Nought but an essence. Hear ye not the voice
Of his wild carol pour'd upon the air,
As like the woodland bird “with folded wing
He drops into his nest”—or goes at morn,
With light and eager spirit to the toil
From which no hand withholds the just reward!
Oh, it is sweet to wear a heart, whose throbs
Are stifled by no fetters—and an eye
That quails not to the mightiest! But the soul
Of him whose hand hath wrench'd the bonds of thrall
From the sad bosoms that beneath them pined,
Hath yet a higher joy!—and there is one,*
Whose name the grateful Mexican shall teach
His son to lisp, ere yet his infant lip
Hath learn'd to murmur, father.
But our land!—
The curse is on it still!—the slave-fiend stalks
Amidst our pleasant valleys and green hills;
A tyrant to the tyrants he has made;
Muttering fierce threats, and crowding on their hearts
Visions and shapes of terror, like the wild
And elfish faces that look forth at eve,
On wilder'd travellers, ‘midst the cheating shades,
And gibe and chatter at the fears they raise.
So men go crouching to the demon power,
Scarce daring e'en to syllable his name,
Lest they should waken up his smother'd rage;
And offering human victims at his shrine,
Instead of nobly standing forth, like men,
To drive him yelling from the glorious earth,
That he pollutes and blackens with his tread.
Whom call ye slaves? Are not the cravens such,
Who dare not act with justice?—Men who prate
In sweet smooth sentences, of christian love,
And with much sympathy, lament the fate
Of those from whose swoll'n limbs they will not strike
One single link, in all their weight of chains?
Strange! that the high capacities of mind,
Should be so blinded by the gleam of gold—
Till even the soul itself is valued less,
Than “so much trash as may be grasped thus.”
(*Guerrero)
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
A Laugh -- And A Moan
The brook that down the valley
So musically drips,
Flowed never half so brightly
As the light laugh from her lips.
Her face was like the lily,
Her heart was like the rose,
Her eyes were like a heaven
Where the sunlight always glows.
She trod the earth so lightly
Her feet touched not a thorn;
Her words wore all the brightness
Of a young life's happy morn.
Along her laughter rippled
The melody of joy;
She drank from every chalice,
And tasted no alloy.
Her life was all a laughter,
Her days were all a smile,
Her heart was pure and happy,
She knew not gloom nor guile.
She rested on the bosom
Of her mother, like a flower
That blooms far in a valley
Where no storm-clouds ever lower.
And -- 'Merry, merry, merry!'
Rang the bells of every hour,
And -- 'Happy, happy, happy!'
In her valley laughed the flower.
There was not a sign of shadow,
There was not a tear nor thorn,
And the sweet voice of her laughter
Filled with melody the morn.
* * * * *
Years passed -- 'twas long, long after,
And I saw a face at prayer;
There was not a sign of laughter,
There was every sign of care.
For the sunshine all had faded
From the valley and the flower,
And the once fair face was shaded
In life's lonely evening hour.
And the lips that smiled with laughter
In the valley of the morn,
In the valley of the evening
They were pale and sorrow-worn.
And I read the old, old lesson
In her face and in her tears,
While she sighed amid the shadows
Of the sunset of her years.
All the rippling streams of laughter
From our hearts and lips that flow,
Shall be frozen, cold years after,
Into icicles of woe.
poem by Abram Joseph Ryan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Recaptured Slave
Woe to thee, tyrant! woe!
Does that white brow of thine which shows so fair
And the rich tint thy cheek is wont to wear,
Make thee the ruler of my destiny?
Or does thy blood more freely flow,
Than that which pours so madly now,
Along my burning veins—that thou should'st be
The favourite of fortune—proud and free—
And I should be thy slave—thy vassal?—no!
'T is true, I was thy slave—the power was thine—
And thou hadst made me such—through lingering years,
One weary task of ceaseless toil was mine,
Of servitude and tears—
But didst thou think no kindly glow,
Could warm my heart to joy or woe?
Mistaken fool! I heard thee name a name,
That rush'd like fire along my burning breast,
And from that instant there awoke a flame,
That ne'er has been, and ne'er shall be suppress'd—
I heard the glorious name of liberty!
And from that hour I panted to be free!
I had breathed on—not lived—in recklessness,
And idle dull submission to my fate;
But then the very sunbeams seem'd to press
Upon my senses, with a bitter weight—
As though they spake upbraidingly,
That all around me should be free,
And I should be so vile—that I should bow,
And tremble at the gathering of thy brow!
I once had loved the gushing mirth
Of the young spring—when bee, flower, bird,
And every thing upon the earth,
Seem'd fraught with joy—but now, one word,
One only word, came o'er my brain,
Again, again, again,
As if 't were scorch'd in characters of flame
And that one word was Freedom! all things seem'd
To shape their voices only to that name—
The wild bird's joyous song—the fish that gleam'd
Through the bright flood—the murmur of the wave—
Nay, even the breath of heaven—methought seem'd whispering, Slave!
I fled, and ere another set of sun,
My galling chains were broken—I was free!
A new, a bright existence was begun—
And my soul knew and felt its potency.
The voice of eve seem'd sweeter to my ears,
And all things brighter to my eye—till tears
From my full heart gush'd up tumultuously—
Wife, children, friends, were all forgotten—all—
I only felt that I was free from thrall.
'T is over now—and I once more am thine—
But thinkest thou that, having known the bliss—
That though one moment only has been mine,
I will live on in servitude like this,
And wear the chains of bondage? tyrant, no!
My blood be on thy head! woe rest upon thee, woe!
Art thou my master! then come ask the wave,
To give thee back thy slave!
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Evening Thoughts
How beautiful
The calm earth resteth in her quiet sleep!
There are no sounds of human life abroad,
And the soft voice of that one bird, whose plaint
Melteth upon the ear so soothingly,
Seems but the low breeze moulded into sound.
The shadows of the trees distinctly lie
Upon the earth unstirring, and no breath
Comes whispering among the tender leaves,
To wake them into playfulness.
The sky
Bendeth in loveliness above the earth,
With a few clouds drawn o'er it, beautiful
In the soft light, and exquisitely pure,
As if they knew no other home than heaven.
Oh, thus it is, God of the universe!
That thou wouldst sanctify with thy rich grace,
Our erring human hearts, that we might be,
When from the earth our day of life hath pass'd,
Dwellers in that bright world where all are pure—
A world where sorrow cometh not, nor sin,
Nor the down-stooping ‘neath the oppressor's hand.
Alas! that earthly things should be so fair,
And day by day harmoniously move on
In their allotted course, at thy command,
Dutiful and unwavering from their track,
And man, man only, who alone may know
How beautiful thy ordinances are,
Mock at thy holy will, and mar his soul
With the dark stains of sin. Alas! that man,
With thy pure law unveil'd before his eyes,
Should bind the fetter on his brother's form,
And smite him with the scourge, and bid him pour
His strength out on the earth, for no reward;
And worse than this, wrench from his bleeding heart
The dearest objects of his earthly love;
And all that the oppressor's hoards may flow
With Mammon's worthless treasures; meagre dust,
Beside the priceless treasure of a soul!
Shall it be ever thus? Most Merciful!
Will man's hard heart be never touch'd with all
The o'erflowings of thy love, and yield itself
To gentle sympathies, till he shall learn
The noble joy of pouring happiness
Upon the heart of sorrow, and how sweet
The pleasure is of shedding bliss abroad.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
The Kingfisher
A newspaper paragraph gives an account of the instance of maternal affection in a bird, which has been made the subject of the following lines,
The kingfisher sat on her hidden nest,
Shielding her young with a downy breast;
She had built her home where the wave went by,
Soothing her ear with its melody;
And the wild white blossoms bent to dip
In the rushing waves, their thirsty lip.
Pleasant it was while the skies were fair,
And perfume flung on the sunny air,
While the wind in a low sweet whisper died,
Ere it could ruffle the flowing tide;
And the arching skies o'er the waters threw
The deep clear tint of their own pure blue.
But what that is bright on earth may last?
Soon were the days of her sunshine past;
On came the storm-winds muttering loud,
Sweeping before them the thunder-cloud;
And faster, as flash'd the lightning's flame,
Dashing to earth the sky-torrents came.
Yet with her cold wet wing unstirr'd,
On her shaken nest sat the mother bird;
Still ‘midst danger and death she clung,
With faithful love, to her lifeless young,
Till high around her hath risen the tide,
And with her pinion stretch'd o'er them, she died.
Oh! if affection like this hath part
In the warm depths of a wood-bird's heart—
That even to die, is a better fate
Than to leave her dear ones desolate;—
What is the love of a mother's breast,
With the seal of a deathless nature press'd?
Yet there are men who will rudely tear
The dearest chords that are cherish'd there;
Wrench from its mother's frantic hold,
Her weeping babes, to be pawn'd for gold;
And scourge her amidst that living death,
If she dares but give her woe to breath!
Know ye the land where such deeds are done,
In the broad light of the blessed sun?
Where the spoiler bursts, with savage hand,
The holy links of the household band;
And the ties of natural love are cast,
With a daring hand, to the idle blast?
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
To the sun
Thou glorious lamp of Space! Thou that dost flood
The void of heaven with brightness! in thy glow
Unnumbered worlds, age after age, have trod
In their appointed paths, and yet the flow
Of brightness hath not ebbed. -- Before thy brow
The stars still veil themselves; thy burning glance
Is all unquenched, undimmed, unchanged e'en now,
As when the finger of Omnipotence
Pointed to thee thy throne amid the vast expanse.
Yes, all unchanged. -- As on that morn when rang
The shout of joy as forth thy rays were spread,
While all the morning stars together sang,
So thou art now. The morning stars have fled,
The towering hill with age has bowed its head,
The sea has changed its home with the dry land,
The earth has gathered in her countless dead,
Again and yet again -- but thou dost stand,
Exhaustless and unmoved, upheld by God's own hand.
Thy beams rest not alone where monarchs dwell,
They linger round the cottage of the poor,
And pierce the grating of the captive's cell;
And when thou lookest on the lowliest flower
That lifts its head to thee for one short hour,
Thy glances just as mildly, gently burn
As when thou gazest on the loftiest tower,
Or on the countless worlds that round thee turn.
Oh! what a lesson here might human frailty learn.
Thou look'st upon the earth, and in thy rays
She brings her increase forth. Thine early light
Unfolds the bud, and thy intenser gaze
The blushing summer flower. Thou takest thy flight
And o'er the earth then walks the starry night;
Thou guidest the waters of the unquiet main,
Whose billows foam and tremble in their might --
For o'er the winds of heaven thou hold'st thy reign,
From the soft, flower-kissed breeze to the wild hurricane.
When I behold thy bright, alchemic glance
A flood of gold-light o'er the landscape throw,
And every cloud that decks the blue expanse,
Beneath thy gaze with deeping blushes glow;
Or when I see thee tint the heavenly bow,
Or in thy gaze the icebound waters melt,
As spring returns before thy burning brow,
I wonder not that Persia's children knelt,
And deemed thou was the Heaven wherein the Eternal dwelt.
Thou isle of brightness 'mid an azure sea!
As oft I gaze on thee at closing day,
I feel my spirit fluttering to be free, --
To cast its bonds of ignorance away,
And learn thy mysteries; and then I say,
Peace, restless spirit! -- yet a little time
And your frail prison will have changed to clay,
And thou shalt stand before the throne of Him
To whose veiled brow of light this glorious lamp is dim!
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
New Year's Eve
Night! with its thousand stars, and the deep hush
That makes its darkness solemn! The winds rush
In troubled music, o'er the wooded hill,
And the wide plain where creeps the fetter'd rill,
In wintry silence; but a softer sound
Of melody from man's lit halls swells round
No slumber yet to-night! the hours fleet on,
With converse, song, and laughter's joyous tone;
The young and gay are met in social mirth,
Or the home circle gathers round the hearth,
Or swelling upwards from the house of prayer,
The voice of praise concludes the passing year.
'T is almost midnight now;—hark! hush!—the bell
At once a note of triumph and a knell!
A sudden silence—the quick breath quell'd,
The speaker's voice in mute suspension held;
What thousand thoughts are in that moment press'd—
Past, present, future, crowding on the breast,
As stroke by stroke tolls on!—and then a start—
A sudden lightning of the eye and heart,
A burst of joyous greeting—such as here
We wish you, friends beloved—a happy year!
So speeds time on! scarce seems a moment sped,
Since first we hail'd the year that now has fled.
So speeds time on—but hath it left no trace,
That future hours shall never more efface?
Go, turn to Poland! may her sons forget
Their desolated fields with carnage wet?
Their bright brief hopes,—their struggle, fierce and proud,
With the stern despot ‘neath whose yoke they bow'd,
The lightning thrill that flash'd through every breast,
When wakening freedom waved her eagle crest,
Their hopes upspringing almost from despair,
And burning with a short illusive glare,
Soon to be quench'd in blood? Oh, God of Peace!
Must such wild scenes of carnage never cease?
Is blood “pour'd out like water,” still to be
The price of man's high yearning to be free?
Woe for the tyrant's selfishness and pride,
That hath to man his holiest rights denied!
Is life too poor in ills?—hath death so scant
His fearful quiver stored, that man should pant
To give the earth red graves? Ah! when shall right
Her nobler triumphs seek by moral light,
And learn that e'en the sweets of liberty
Are bought, with slaughter, at a price too high?
And when shall our own banner cease to wave
Its starry folds in mockery o'er the slave?
Oh! blot upon our land, and heavy shame
That e'er Columbia should bear such name!—.
That men, like beasts, should be enslaved and sold
For a base pittance of mere sordid gold;
That women's limbs beneath the scourge should bleed,
The swollen pomp of luxury to feed;
And in the freest nation known on earth,
The licensed thief invade the household hearth;
The purest, best affections of the heart,
And the strong ties of kindred rend apart,
And seizing, fiend-like, on his helpless prey,
Tear them forever from their homes away.
Oh, when shall tyrants learn that human veins
Bear pulses that were never made for chains:
And loose their links before the oppress'd one's band
Becomes a deadly weapon in his hand!
Our brethren found it such;—in southern halls,
The cold damp foot of desolation falls;
Young gladsome eyes that late were sparkling bright,
With the free spirit's joyous gush of light,
Mothers made happy by the bursts of glee
From the gay creatures grouped about their knee,
The brow of hoary eld—all, all are there,
With the pale look of anguish and despair:
Or, smitten rudely to the reeking earth,
Have deluged with their blood their own loved hearth.
Alas, alas, for them! alas, for those
Who still in white-lipp'd terror wait their foes!
And woe for all the oppressors’ haughty guilt,
And the fresh blood his vengeful hand hath spilt!
Oh, Heaven! in mercy yield them yet a space
To speak with tears of penitence thy grace!
Touch their steel'd hearts with thy dissolving love,
And their vile stains of prejudice remove,
That they may learn, upon the negro's face,
A brother's lineaments at last to trace;
And strike away the soul-degrading chains
Which long have hung upon his swollen veins;
That mad relentless hatred may no more
Flood the red earth with streams of mingled gore,
And other new years o'er our country rise,
With brighter aspect and more cloudless skies.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
The Anointing
The moon had risen.—Light was o'er the world
With all the freshness of the early day.
The feathery clouds that floated in the east,
Wore a faint tinge of crimson, and the voice
Of forest music; and a scented breath,
Of dewy flowers, came onward through the air.
The men of Bethlehem were gather'd round
The altar of their God; and the deep tones
Of Samuel's voice arose in solemn prayer;
The smoke curl'd upwards from the sacrifice,
In cloudy volumes first, then thin and slow,
Until the last faint wreath had disappear'd.
The prophet rose, and standing in the midst,
Stretch'd out his hands and bless'd them—and then spake—
“Thou, Jesse, son of Obed, of the tribe
Of lion Judah—hearken to my voice:
“Thus saith the Lord: ‘From Saul's anointed brow,
And from his hand, and those of all his sons,
The kingly sceptre and the crown shall pass,
As though he was not chosen of the Lord.'
So cause thy sons to pass before mine eyes,
That I may consecrate whom God hath chosen
To gift with Judah's kingly diadem.”
Then came Eliab forth, the first, and stood
Before the Prophet. His proud head was bow'd,
And his cross'd hands were folded on his breast,
In mute unwonted reverence; yet even thus,
His haughty brow above the mightiest tower'd,
As he were born to be a conqueror.
There was a speaking beauty in his face,
And the bright glorious eye that flash'd beneath
His clustering curls of sable seem'd to tell
Of a high spirit that could plan bold deeds,
Which that strong arm would joy to execute.
The Prophet gazed, and said within his heart,
“Surely, the Lord's anointed is before him!”
But in the still small voice Jehovah spake
Unto the Prophet's ear.—“Regard not thou
The beauty of his countenance, nor yet
His stature, nor the majesty thereof;
For him have I rejected. The Most High
Sees not as mortal; but the secret heart
Is open all before him, and its sins,
And its infirmities, he knoweth all.”
Then came Eliab's brethren, one by one,
And Samuel look'd upon them, but he knew
The chosen from the people was not there.
Then David came, e'en from his fleecy charge,
Himself as innocent, and knelt him down
Before the Prophet. He, that young fair boy,
His mother's treasured one, who had but left
Her fond maternal side, to lay him down
On the flower-studded bank, and watch the wave
Glide on in laughing ripples at his feet,
While his white lambs were sporting on the grass.
Why should the Prophet look on him, as though
He might be chosen to be Israel's king?
He was most beautiful! His timid eye,
With boyish wonder mix'd with holy awe,
Through its bright veil of golden curls look'd up
With a long gaze to Samuel's quiet face;
And feelings wrought intensely, had spread out
A warmer flush upon his downy cheek.
The prophet look'd upon the kneeling boy,
So young—so fair—those parted lips e'en now
Scarcely refraining from their wonted smiles—
The dimple sporting on his rosy cheek,
The snowy brow half shaded by his hair,
And those dark eyes, so bright, so beautiful,—
And a strange thrilling gush came o'er his heart
Even to starting tears. Could this be he,
For whom the Lord would break the power of Saul?
He felt that it was so—and lifting up
His horn of sacred oil, anointed him,
To be the servant of the Holy One.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Storm
The tempest mounts the sky! with hurrying sweep,
Driving across the heavens, cloud on cloud,
Which ever and anon the lightnings steep
In a red glare of flame, as they were proud
To make more visible the gloomy shroud,
That wraps the thunders:—Now its might is nigh!
And faster peal and flame alternate crowd,
And the loosed winds sweep onward fearfully,
Outpouring on the earth the fountains of the sky.
'T is terrible—yet most sublimely grand!
Magnificently awful! how the heart
Shrinks from all earthly splendour, as we stand,
And view the pomp of the proud storm—I start,
As the fork'd flames their glance of brightness dart,
Yet scarce in terror, for the tempest's might,
Yields of its own sublimity a part,
To the wrapt thoughts, and urges up their flight,
With free and eagle wing, above their wonted height.
Yet soon to stoop again—the green earth lies
Spread out before me, and the heart will yield
To the sweet sympathy of human ties,
And downward bend from the excursive field
Of reverie, where it had been upheld
With a strong writhe of thought, to blend again
With human sorrows—woes that might be heal'd,
If man would be no more the scourge of man,
And loose his brother's limbs from slavery's crushing chain.
Yet even now, amid the heavy clouds
That long have wrapt the Afric's sky in gloom,
Ten-fold more deep than that which darkly shrouds
The face of nature, there at length hath come
The breaking in of light, which shall illume
With a strong glow, ere long, its whole expanse,
And, shining on destroy'd oppression's tomb,
O'er all the earth its holy light advance,
Brilliant and clear and wide as the first sunbeam's glance.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Poems On The Slave Trade - Sonnet III
Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run
Down his dark cheek; hold--hold thy merciless hand,
Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command
O'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,
As pityless as proud Prosperity,
Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies
Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,
While that inhuman trader lifts on high
The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease
Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like these
Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God!
That I do feel upon my cheek the glow
Of indignation, when beneath the rod
A sable brother writhes in silent woe.
poem by Robert Southey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Properzia Rossi
Tell me no more, no more
Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?
Have I not lov'd, and striven, and fail'd to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting-place, a home for all
Its burden of affections? I depart,
Unknown, tho' Fame goes with me; I must leave
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious.
I.
ONE dream of passion and of beauty more!
And in its bright fulfillment let me pour
My soul away! Let earth retain a trace
Of that which lit my being, tho' its race
Might have been loftier far. Yet one more dream!
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam
Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!
May this last work, this farewell triumph be,
Thou, lov'd so vainly! I would leave enshrined
Something immortal of my heart and mind,
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone
Of lost affection; something that may prove
What she hath been, whose melancholy love
On thee was lavish'd; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song, that gush'd when none were near,
And dream by night, and weary thought by day,
Stealing the brightness from her life away,
While thou, Awake! not yet within me die,
Under the burden and the agony
Of this vain tenderness my spirit, wake!
Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake,
Live! in thy work breathe out! that he may yet
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret
Thine unrequited gift.
II.
It comes, the power
Within me born, flows back; my fruitless dower
That could not win me love. Yet once again
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train
Of glorious images: they throng they press
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness,
I shall not perish all!
The bright work grows
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,
Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line,
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine,
Thro' the pale marble's veins. It grows and now
I give my own life's history to thy brow,
Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear
My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,
Touched into lovelier being by the glow
Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light
All things are glorified. From thee my wo
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight,
When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould,
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold,
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea,
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye,
Speak to him, lorn one, deeply, mournfully,
Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw
Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low,
And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh,
To send the passion of its melody
Thro' his pierced bosom on its tones to bear
My life's deep feeling as the southern air
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath, to rise, to swell,
To sink away in accents of farewell,
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow
Surely my parted spirit yet might know,
If love be strong as death!
III.
Now fair thou art,
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart!
Yet all the vision that within me wrought,
I cannot make thee! Oh! I might have given
Birth to creations of far nobler thought,
I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,
Things not of such as die! But I have been
Too much alone; a heart, whereon to lean,
With all these deep affections that o'erflow
My aching soul, and find no shore below,
An eye to be my star; a voice to bring
Hope o'er my path like sounds that breathe of spring,
These are denied me dreamt of still in vain,
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain,
Are ever but as some wild fitful song,
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long
In dirge-like echoes.
IV.
Yet the world will see
Little of this, my parting work, in thee,
Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed
From storms a shelter, give the drooping vine
Something round which its tendrils may entwine,
Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed
Of love's kind words to woman! Worthless fame!
That in his bosom wins not for my name
Th' abiding place it ask'd! Yet how my heart,
In its own fairy world of song and art,
Once beat for praise! Are those high longings o'er?
That which I have been can I be no more?
Never, oh! never more; tho' still thy sky
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!
And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still,
And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams
Unchang'd on forms instinct with poet-dreams;
Never, oh! never more! Where'er I move,
The shadow of this broken-hearted love
Is on me and around! Too well they know,
Whose life is all within, too soon and well,
When there the blight hath settled; but I go
Under the silent wings of Peace to dwell;
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,
The inward burning of those words 'in vain',
Sear'd on the heart I go. 'Twill soon be past,
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,
And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast
Unvalued wealth, who know'st not what was given
In that devotedness, the sad, and deep,
And unrepaid farewell! If I could weep
Once, only once, belov'd one! on thy breast,
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!
But that were happiness, and unto me
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be
So richly bless'd! With thee to watch the sky,
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh:
With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along,
To listen silently; with thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden days,
This had been joy enough; and hour by hour,
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,
How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame
A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams! the fire
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name?
As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hush'd?awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive
Sad thoughts of me: I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound;
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell,
Say proudly yet?'
'Twas hers who lov'd me well!
'
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Parting Song
A youth went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasur'd, and most oft recall'd,
And brightest kept, of love;-a mountain home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half unconscious prayer;-a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.
And this was what he left!-Yet many leave
Far more:-the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call'd out the soul's bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection's tones.-He left not these.
-Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother's love!-A bitterer grief
Was his-To part unlov'd! -of her unlov'd,
That should have breath'd upon his heart, like Spring,
Fostering its young faint flowers!
Yet had he friends,
And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot-and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.
The parting spot was reach'd:-a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore, for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows.-Upon a reck he sprung,
The unbelov'd one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.
'Farewell, farewell!
'I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!-thou 'rt from my native dell,
Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound-a murmur of farewell!
And fare thee well-flow on, my stream!-flow on, thou bright and free!
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me;
But I have been a thing unlov'd, from childhood's loving years,
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears;
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known:
The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!
'I see thee once again, my home! thou 'rt there amidst thy vines,
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines.
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves,
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves!
-The hour the mother loves!-for me belov'd it hath not been;
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed scene!
Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come-
-Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?
'Not as the dead!-no, not the dead!-We speak of them -we keep
Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep!
We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung,
We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band among!
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth
No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
I go!-the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell
When mine is a forgotten voice.-Woods, mountains, home, farewell!
'And farewell, mother!-I have borne in lonely silence long,
But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong!
And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,
And but the dark deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply.
Yes! I will speak!-within my breast whate'er hath seem'd to be,
There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee!
Brightly it would have gush'd, but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown
Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine own!
'Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine,
Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine!
Forgive me that thou couldst not love!-it may be, that a tone
Yet from my burning heart may pierce, through thine, when I am gone!
And thou perchance mayst weep for him on whom thou ne'er hast smil'd,
And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child!
Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kindred dwell,
And quench its thirst with love's free tears!-'tis all a dream-farewell!'
'Farewell!'-the echo died with that deep word,
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast!
There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried
'Return, return, my son!'-the echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring-'Return, my son!'--
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Cottage Home
My cottage home! my cottage home!
How beautiful it lies,
Amid its quiet loveliness,
Beneath our bright blue skies.
A stranger's eye might mark it not,
Nor deem that it was fair;—
To me it is a lovely spot,
For those I love are there.
In summer there are wild flowers round,
And the tall forest weaves
A drapery of light and shade,
With its green and pleasant leaves;
And thousand birds are pouring out,
To the gay and singing breeze,
From the wild joys of their leaping hearts,
A thousand melodies.
The shadowing of an oak's green boughs
Is flung the low roof o'er;
And clambering vines their blossoms hang
About the open door.
And round the harvest's ripening wealth
Waves in its yellow light;
And the feathery tassels of the maize
Bend gracefully and slight.
But were it thousand times more fair—
If o'er the fertile soil
Oppression shook her manacles,
And scourged the slave to toil—
To me the rudest desert wild
Were better for my home,
So never on its arid breeze
The voice of wrong might come.
But round my home, my cottage home,
The tyrant never treads,
And o'er the field's luxuriant wealth
No slave his sad tear sheds.
And were it not that I have learn'd
In other scenes to know
Of deeds of cruelty and wrong,
And of the oppress'd ones’ woe—
And were it not that still a tale
Is wafted on the air,
Telling of fearful injuries,
And anguish and despair;
I might, perchance, almost forget
The guilt and wrongs of earth,
And deem that brightness gleam'd, alone,
Around the household hearth.
But woe for man's dark cruelty!
His selfishness and pride!
For him the earth is drench'd with tears,
With human life-blood dyed.
In his own freedom glorying,
He lifts his voice on high,
While on his brother's shrinking form
His crushing fetters lie.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
The Sold
I'll to the dance! what boots it thus,
To brood o'er ills I cannot quell?
Amid the revel shout of mirth,
My bitter laugh shall mingle well.
I've toil'd beside my mates to-day,
To-night we'll join in seeming glee;
But when we part, with morning's light,
For aye, that parting glance will be.
I will not go!—this fire within,
Would choke me with its smother'd flames!
How could I tell the dear ones there,
Of that detested tyrant's claims?
I could endure the fetter's weight,
That I have borne with them so long,—
But not to wear a stranger's chain,
And crouch beneath a stranger's thong.
Yet this must be my morrow's fate!
To part with all that gave my doom,
Dark as it was and desolate,
A ray of light amidst its gloom.
To bear the scourge, to wear the chain,
To toil with wearied heart and limb,
Till death should end my lengthen'd pain,
Or worn old age my senses dim:—
This have I borne, and look'd to bear,
All bitter as such lot must be;
But drearier still my life must wear,
Beneath a stranger's tyranny.
Alas! 't would be a happier lot,
If, ere to-morrow's doom shall come,
My woes and wrongs were all forgot,
Amid the darkness of the tomb.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
The Mourners
LOW she lies, who blest our eyes
Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise--
The life hath past away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,
Where we neither die nor sleep--
She is there, of whom our souls were fond--
Then wherefore do we weep?
The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,
She scarce seemed made to die.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,
Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow--
Then wherefore do we weep?
Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,
As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone;
There is silence still and deep:
Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne--
Then wherefore do we weep?
The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe;
That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all--
And her glossy golden hair!
But though that lid may never wake
From its dark and dreamless sleep,
She is gone where young hearts do not break--
Then wherefore do we weep?
That world of light with joy is bright,
This is a world of woe:
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,
Because we dwell below?
We will bury her under the mossy sod,
And one long bright tress we'll keep;
We have only given her back to God--
Ah! wherefore do we weep?
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Grave Of A Poetess
I stood beside thy lowly grave;
Spring-odours breath'd around,
And music, in the river-wave,
Pass'd with a lulling sound.
All happy things that love the sun,
In the bright air glanc'd by,
And a glad murmur seem'd to run
Thro' the soft azure sky.
Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough
That fring'd the ruins near;
Young voices were abroad–but thou
Their sweetness couldst not hear.
And mournful grew my heart for thee,
Thou in whose woman's mind
The ray that brightens earth and sea,
The light of song was shrined.
Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low,
With a dread curtain drawn
Between thee and the golden glow
Of this world's vernal dawn.
Parted from all the song and bloom
Thou wouldst have lov'd so well,
To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring,–
And thou wert pass'd away!
But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought
O'er my vain sadness came;
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have look'd ere now,
Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below.
The shadows of the tomb are here,
Yet beautiful is earth!
What see'st thou then where no dim fear,
No haunting dream hath birth?
Here a vain love to passing flowers
Thou gav'st–but where thou art,
The sway is not with changeful hours,
There love and death must part.
Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,
A voice not loud, but deep!
The glorious bowers of earth among,
How often didst thou weep!
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high?–
Now peace the woman's heart hath found,
And joy the poet's eye.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!