Autograph Verses
'Prove what Life can give of gladness;
Seek for aught that merits trust —
All thy mirth will turn to sadness,
All thy bliss to cold disgust.
Soon revolving years will banish
Fairest hopes, in darkness laid;
Earthly treasures soon must vanish,
Strength and beauty fail and fade.'
Thus, life-weary, spake the preacher,
Closing his misguided quest.
Heed him not, the half-truth teacher,
Deaf to Love's supreme behest.
But with Faith thy life adorning,
Serve thy race as Heaven hath plann'd;
Sow thy seed at dawn of morning,
Nor at evening stay thy hand.
Never shall this path seem weary;
Never hath such purpose fail'd;
Nor the retrospect proved dreary,
When Life's furthest heights are scaled.
And in bright realms still above thee,
On some ever-verdant shore,
Those thou servest, and who love thee,
Shall rejoin, to part no more.
poem by Joseph Furphy
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To The Beloved
Beauty beloved, who hast my heart inspired,
Seen from afar, or with thy face concealed,
Save, when in visions of the night revealed,
Or seen in daydreams bright,
When all the fields are filled with light,
And Nature's smile is sweet,
Say, hast thou blessed
Some golden age of innocence,
And floatest, now, a shadow, o'er the earth?
Or hath Fate's envious doom
Reserved thee for some happier day to come?
To see thee e'er alive,
No hope remains to me;
Unless perchance, when from this body free,
My wandering spirit, lone,
O'er some new path, to some new world hath flown.
E'en here, at first, I, at the dawn
Of this, my day, so dreary and forlorn,
Sought thee, to guide me on my weary way:
But none on earth resembles thee. E'en if
One were in looks and acts and words thy peer,
Though like thee, she less lovely would appear.
Amidst the deepest grief
That fate hath e'er to human lot assigned,
Could one but love thee on this earth,
Alive, and such as my thought painteth thee,
He would be happy in his misery:
And I most clearly see, how, still,
As in my earliest days,
Thy love would make me cling to virtue's ways.
Unto _my_ grief heaven hath no comfort brought;
And yet with thee, this mortal life would seem
Like that in heaven, of which we fondly dream.
Along the valleys where is heard
The song of the laborious husbandman,
And where I sit and moan
O'er youth's illusions gone;
Along the hills, where I recall with tears,
The vanished joys and hopes of earlier years,
At thought of thee, my heart revives again.
O could I still thy image dear retain,
In this dark age, and in this baleful air!
To loss of thee, O let me be resigned,
And in thy image still some comfort find!
If thou art one of those
Ideas eternal, which the Eternal Mind
Refused in earthly form to clothe,
Nor would subject unto the pain and strife
Of this, our frail and dreary life;
Or if thou hast a mansion fair,
Amid the boundless realms of space,
That lighted is by a more genial sun,
And breathest there a more benignant air;
From here, where brief and wretched are our days,
Receive thy humble lover's hymn of praise!
poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Wrestling Jacob
FIRST PART.
Come, O thou Traveller unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see;
My company before is gone,
And I am left alone with thee;
With thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.
I need not tell thee who I am;
My sin and misery declare;
Thyself hast called me by my name;
Look on thy hands, and read it there;
But who, I ask thee, who art thou?
Tell me thy name, and tell me now.
In vain thou strugglest to get free;
I never will unloose my hold:
Art thou the Man that died for me?
The secret of thy love unfold;
Wrestling, I will not let thee go
Till I thy name, thy nature know.
Wilt thou not yet to me reveal
Thy new, unutterable name?
Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell;
To know it now resolved I am;
Wrestling, I will not let thee go
Till I thy name, thy nature know.
What though my shrinking flesh complain
And murmur to contend so long?
I rise superior to my pain;
When I am weak, then am I strong!
And when my all of strength shall fail,
I shall with the God-man prevail.
SECOND PART.
Yield to me now, for I am weak,
But confident in self-despair;
Speak to my heart, in blessings speak;
Be conquered by my instant prayer;
Speak, or thou never hence shalt move,
And tell me if thy name be Love.
'T is Love! 't is Love! Thou diedst for me;
I hear thy whisper in my heart;
The morning breaks, the shadows flee;
Pure, universal Love thou art;
To me, to all, thy bowels move;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
My prayer hath power with God; the grace
Unspeakable I now receive;
Through faith I see thee face to face;
I see thee face to face and live!
In vain I have not wept and strove;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
I know thee, Saviour, who thou art,
Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend;
Nor wilt thou with the night depart,
But stay and love me to the end;
Thy mercies never shall remove;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
The Sun of Righteousness on me
Hath risen, with healing in his wings;
Withered my nature's strength; from thee
My soul its life and succor brings;
My help is all laid up above;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
Contented now upon my thigh
I halt till life's short journey end;
All helplessness, all weakness, I
On thee alone for strength depend;
Nor have I power from thee to move;
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
Lame as I am, I take the prey;
Hell, earth, and sin with ease o'ercome;
I leap for joy, pursue my way,
And, as a bounding hart, fly home;
Through all eternity to prove
Thy nature and thy name is Love.
poem by Charles Wesley
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To His Mistress
Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny
The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?
Without thy light what light remains in me?
Thou art my life; my way, my light's in thee;
I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
Thou art my life-if thou but turn away
My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way-
Without.thee, Love, I travel not but stray.
My light thou art-without thy glorious sight
My eyes are darken'd with eternal night.
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly.
Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!
Thou art my life; if thou withdraw'st, I die.
My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see:
To whom or whither should my darkness flee,
But to that light?-and who's that light but thee?
If I have lost my path, dear lover, say,
Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray?
My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray;
I cannot go, nor can I safely stay;
Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?
And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st me!
And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me!
Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st me?
Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,
The dead man's life. On thee my hopes rely:
If I but them remove, I surely die.
Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay!
See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray!
-O thou art my life, my light, my way!
Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee,
My reason shall obey, my wings shall be
Stretch'd out no farther than from me to thee!
poem by Lord John Wilmot
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On a Dead Child
Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee,
With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!
Though cold and stark and bare,
The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.
Thy mother's treasure wert thou;—alas! no longer
To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be
Thy father's pride:—ah, he
Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.
To me, as I move thee now in the last duty,
Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond;
Startling my fancy fond
With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.
Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it:
But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff;
Yet feels to my hand as if
'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.
So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,—
Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!—
Propping thy wise, sad head,
Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.
So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee?
To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?
The vision of which I miss,
Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?
Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us
To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark,
Unwilling, alone we embark,
And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.
poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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The Mediator
O Christ, true Son of God most high,
Thy name we praise for ever;
Whoe'er to Thee for help doth cry
Shall find Thee fail him never;
'Tis Thou wilt plead,
Thou intercede
With God, for us who need Thy prayers so sore:
Thy bitter strife
Hath wrought us life,
And Thine be thanks and praise for evermore!
To Thee the Father giveth now
All power in earth and heaven;
Sin, Satan, Death to Thee must bow,
All fetters Thou hast riven,
Bade fear to cease,
And made our peace,
That now to God we dare our hearts outpour:
Thy bitter strife
Hath wrought us life,
And Thine be thanks and praise for evermore!
Fulness of grace is in Thy Word;
The Life, the Truth, the Way
To life eternal art Thou, Lord;
To Thee alone we pray,
Who didst appear
A servant here
To bear the sin that crushed the world before:
Thy bitter strife
Hath wrought us life,
And Thine be thanks and praise for evermore!
poem by Hans Sachs
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Edward
HEAVY is my trembling heart, mine own love, my dearest,
Heavy as the hearts whose love is poured in vain;
All the bright day I watch till thou appearest,
All the long night I dream of thee again.
When the whisp'ring summer breeze is waving o'er me lightly,
When the moaning winter winds their wail of sadness make;
Then dearest, then, thine image riseth brightly,
I am weary of my life, for Edward's sake.
When in the halls of light, all bright and happy faces,
Smiling turn to greet a friend, and wander on
Far through the distant crowd, my heart thy proud form traces,
My eye is sadly fixed on thee alone.
When that dear, familiar voice, some careless word hath spoken,
When thy brow a moment bends, a cold farewell to take;
Then, dearest, then, my heart is well nigh broken,
I am weary of my life, for Edward's sake.
Oh, Edward! dark my doom!--this heart will love for ever,
Though thou wilt never share its joy or pain,
Thine eye will turn to mine, and meet its glance, but never
Beam fondly back on hers who loves in vain.
But when weary life is o'er, and in the grave I'm lying,
(Silently a woman's heart should hide its love and break; )
Then, dearest, then, some voice shall tell thee, sighing,
How weary was my life to me, for Edward's sake.
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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My Savior, on the Word of Truth
My Savior, on the word of truth
In earnest hope I live;
I ask for all the precious things
Thy boundless love can give.
I look for many a lesser light
About my path to shine;
But chiefly long to walk with Thee,
And only trust in Thine.
In holy expectation held,
Thy strength my heart shall stay,
For Thy right hand will never let
My trust be cast away.
Yea, Thou hast kept me near Thy feet,
In many a deadly strife,
By the stronghold of hope in Thee,
The hope of endless life.
Thou knowest that I am not blest
As Thou wouldst have me be,
Till all the peace and joy of faith
Possess my soul in Thee
And still I seek ’mid many fears,
With yearnings unexpressed,
The comforts of Thy strengthening love,
Thy soothing, settling rest.
It is not as Thou wilt with me,
Till, humbled in the dust;
I know no place in all my heart
Wherein to put my trust.
Until I find, O Lord, in Thee,
The Lowly and the Meek,
That fullness which Thy own redeemed
Go nowhere else to seek.
Then, O my Savior, on my soul,
Cast down, but not dismayed,
Still be Thy chastening, healing hand
In tender, mercy laid.
And while I wait for all Thy joys,
My yearning heart to fill,
Teach me to walk and work with Thee,
And at Thy feet sit still.
poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
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Death
I have been gazing on the resting place
Of the cold sleepers of the earth—who trod
This busy planet for a little space,
Then laid them down, and took the verdant sod
To curtain the low cot wherein they slept,
Forgotten save by some few hearts that o'er them wept.
'T is strange—so lately they were living forms,
Breathing and moving; now the vernal sun
Looks down upon their silent graves, nor warms
One pulse to action—life with them is done;
And the turf blooms as quietly, as though
No forms of human mould were slumbering below.
And this shall be my lot!—a little while,
And I shall, too, lie down and be at rest,
In silence and in darkness; earth will smile
In spring's rich garniture, and o'er my breast
The wild-flower shed its sweets—but there will be
No gladness in bright hues or fragrant breath for me.
Oh, Death! they call thee terrible—but life
Hath pain, and blighted hopes and bitter tears,
The pang of keen remorse, the daily strife
'Twixt jarring passions, the false smile that sears
The heart to kindly feelings, and the dread,
That e'en what bliss is ours, within our grasp will fade.
Nor is it very dreadful to lie down
In momentary darkness, and awake
In a bright world of happiness, unknown,
And unimagined! But 't is sad to take
The last farewell of earthly things, and know
That we have left fond hearts to lingering years of woe.
And herein lies the bitterness—but when
The parting pang is over, need we fear
To tread thy narrow pathway—and cling then
To life's poor relics?—It is true, that here
We have bright moments, scenes and hours of joy;
Yet seldom is our bliss unmix'd with some alloy.
It should be so—there is enough of bliss,
To make the hours of life glide swiftly on,
Yet sadness dims the brightest cup—and this
Recalls the heart from trusting what must soon
Forever vanish from our grasp, when we
Are call'd from things of time to dread eternity.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ale
Now do I hear thee weep and groan,
Who hath a comrade sunk at sea?
Then quaff thee of my good old ale,
And it will raise him up for thee;
Thoul't think as little of him then
As when he moved with living men.
If thou hast hopes to move the world,
And every effort it doth fail,
Then to thy side call Jack and Jim,
And bid them drink with thee good ale;
So may the world, that would not hear,
Perish in hell with all your care.
One quart of good ale, and I
Feel then what life immortal is:
The brain is empty of all thought,
The heart is brimming o'er with bliss;
Time's first child, Life, doth live; but Death,
The second, hath not yet his breath.
Give me a quart of good old ale,
Am I a homeless man on earth?
Nay, I want not your roof and quilt,
I'll lie warm at the moon's cold hearth;
No grumbling ghost to grudge my bed,
His grave, ha! ha! holds up my head.
poem by William Henry Davies
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Isabel
In the most early morn
I rise from a damp pillow, tempest-tost,
To seek the sun with silent gaze forlorn,
And mourn for thee, my lost
Isabel.
That early hour I meet
The daily vigil of my life to keep,
Because there are no other lights so sweet,
Or shades so long and deep,
Isabel.
And best I think of thee
Beside the duskest shade and brightest sun,
Whose mystic lot in life it was to be
Outshone, outwept by none,
Isabel.
Men said that thou wert fair:
There is no brightness in the heaven above,
There is no balm upon the summer air
Like thy warm love,
Isabel.
Men saw that thou wert bright:
There is no wildness in the winds that blow,
There is no darkness in the winter's night
Like thy dark woe,
Isabel.
And yet thy path did miss
Men's footsteps: in their haunts thou hadst no joy;
The thoughts of other worlds were thine in this;
In thy sweet piety, and in thy bliss
And grief, for life too coy,
Isabel.
And so my heart's despair
Looks for thee ere the firstling smoke hath curled;
While the rapt earth is at her morning pray'r,
Ere yet she putteth on her workday air
And robes her for the world,
Isabel.
When the sun-burst is o'er,
My lonely way about the world I take,
Doing and saying much, and feeling more,
And all things for thy sake,
Isabel.
But never once I dare
To see thine image till the day be new,
And lip hath sullied not the unbreathed air,
And waking eyes are few,
Isabel.
Then that lost form appears
Which was a joy to few on earth but me:
In the young light I see thy guileless glee,
In the deep dews thy tears,
Isabel.
So with Promethean moan
In widowhood renewed I learn to grieve;
Blest with one only thought-that I alone
Can fade: that thou thro' years shalt still shine on
In beauty, as in beauty art thou gone,
Thou morn that knew no eve,
Isabel.
In beauty art thou gone;
As some bright meteor gleams across the night,
Gazed on by all, but understood by none,
And dying by its own excess of light,
Isabel.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Wedlock For MY Lady Irene
Thou art my love, I worship thee.
I have the right to call thee wife,
I am enamoured completely,
thou art the star that guides my life.
Though other men may envy me
I do not fear their jealous eyes
For I have placed my trust in thee
thou art not only fair but wise.
I trust thee as thou trusteth me.
Who heaven hath joined let no man part
We are as we were meant to be
Conjoined directly heart to heart
and where thou art there I will be
together for eternity.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Lines On Hearing That Lady Byron Was Ill
And thou wert sad - yet I was not with thee;
And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near;
Methought that joy and health alone could be
Where I was not - and pain and sorrow here!
And is it thus?-it is as I foretold,
And shall be more so; for the mind recoils
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,
While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils.
It is not in the storm nor in the strife
We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more,
But in the after - silence on the shore.
When all is lost, except a little life.
I am too well avenged! - but 'twas my right ;
Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent
To be the Nemesis who should requite -
Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.
Mercy is for the merciful! - thou
Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.
Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep! -
Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel
A hollow agony which will not heal,
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!
I have had many foes, but none like thee;
For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, And be avenged, or turn them into friend;
But thou in safe implacability
Hadst nought to dread - in thy own weakness shielded,
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare;
And thus upon the world - trust in thy truth,
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth -
On things that were not, and on things that are -
Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope - and all the better life,
Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,
Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger, and for future gold -
And buying others' grief at any price.
And thus once enter 'd into crooked ways,
The earthly truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee - but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
In Janus-spirits - the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence - the pretext
Of prudence, with advantages annex'd -
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end
All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is won
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!
September 1816.
A New-Year Hymn
Sunlight of the heavenly day,
Mighty to revive and cheer,
Bless our yet untrodden way,
Lead us through the entered year.
Where the shades of death we see,
Let Thy living brightness be —
Let it speed our lingering feet —
Let it shine on all we meet.
While before our chastened gaze
Earthly pleasures fade and fail,
Thou, the light of all our days —
Thou, our steadfast glory, hail!
Forward, though the path be hid;
Though we pass the lurking foe;
Though the sound of war forbid,
Girt with gladness, let its go.
Bold in Thy protecting care,
Strong to prove Thee faithful there
Through the desert or the sea,
On, to reign in life with Thee.
Ah, with more than fearless heart,
Homeward be our faces set;
Show us in our present part
Wealth we have not measured yet.
Open Thou beneath our tread
Springs the distance could not show;
From the holy Fountain–head,
Let them rise where'er we go.
Rather give us eyes to see —
Love awake to love in Thee —
Hearts that, trusting in Thy care,
Find its traces everywhere.
Teach us, as we pass along,
In the shining of Thy face,
Many a sweet thanksgiving–song,
Even in a dreary place.
While with firm, unyielding will
For the victor's crown we strive,
Gracious Savior, keep us still
To Thy gentlest signs alive —
Where the stormy wind is heard,
Quick to every tender word,
And for all our journey's length,
Armed with meekness more than strength.
In the shadow of Thy hand
We can brave the uprooting gale,
And a little child may stand
Where the soldier's heart would fail
Oft a desolating blast
Bears the seed of comfort too,
And the patient soul at last
Finds a garden where it blew;
So, where nothing cheers our sight,
Germs of love may spring to light,
Bright 'mid earth's oppressive shades,
Fresh beside the leaf that fades.
Let the precious seed abound —
Make the tempest strong to bless,
Strong to claim our thorny ground
For the fruits of holiness.
Lord of All! we cannot know
What our paths may yet unfold;
But the part that love would show —
Wise to save us — Thou hast told.
By our heart's unmeasured price —
By Thy life–long sacrifice —
By Thy death to set us free,
Lead us on to joy in Thee.
On, to greet the perfect day,
Blessed End of time and strife, —
On, throngh all the shinlng way,
Brightness of our human life.
poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
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Why dost thou Shade thy Lovely Face?
1 Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? Oh, why
2 Does that eclipsing hand so long deny
3 The sunshine of thy soul-enliv'ning eye?
4 Without that light, what light remains in me?
5 Thou art my life, my way, my light; in thee
6 I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
7 Thou art mv life; if thou but turn away
8 My life's a thousand deaths: thou art my way;
9 Without thee, Lord, I travel not, but stray.
10 My light thou art; without thy glorious sight
11 Mine eyes are darken'd with perpetual night.
12 My God, thou art my way, my life, my light.
13 Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly:
14 Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!
15 Thou art my life; if thou withdraw, I die.
16 Mine eyes are blind and dark, I cannot see;
17 To whom or whither should my darkness flee,
18 But to the light? and who's that light but thee?
19 My path is lost, my wand'ring steps do stray;
20 I cannot safely go, nor safely stay;
21 Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?
22 Oh, I am dead: to whom shall I, poor I,
23 Repair? to whom shall my sad ashes fly,
24 But life? and where is life but in thine eye?
25 And yet thou turn'st away thy face, and fly'st me;
26 And yet I sue for grace, and thou deny'st me;
27 Speak, art thou angry, Lord, or only try'st me?
28 Unscreen those heavenly lamps, or tell me why
29 Thou shad'st thy face; perhaps thou think'st no eye
30 Can view those flames, and not drop down and die.
31 If that be all, shine forth, and draw thee nigher;
32 Let me behold and die, for my desire
33 Is ph{oe}nix-like to perish in that fire.
34 Death-conquer'd Laz'rus was redeem'd by thee;
35 If I am dead, Lord, set death's prisoner free;
36 Am I more spent, or stink I worse than he?
37 If my puff'd life be out, give leave to tine
38 My shameless snuff at that bright lamp of thine;
39 Oh, what's thy light the less for lighting mine?
40 If I have lost my path, great Shepherd, say,
41 Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?
42 Lord, shall a lamb of Israel's sheep-fold stray?
43 Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,
44 The dead man's life; on thee my hopes rely;
45 If thou remove, I err, I grope, I die.
46 Disclose thy sunbeams; close thy wings, and stay;
47 See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray,
48 O thou, that art my light, my life, my way.
poem by Francis Quarles
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Asthana
Darkness lingers, thy day fast approaches,
Mine tears they crack the grounds of heaven,
Death doth thee harbor any reproaches;
The sacred in shadows of thy haven?
In these times no one hath more faith than I
That thou canst change thy wicked ways
If only once thou look'd me in the eye-
Come, and I will lead thee out of this maze.
I know that thee hath not any friends,
I'll teach thee the art of how to trust,
Let me be the horizon thy sorrow ends,
The one to polish thy heart of rust.
Together lets hold the history pen,
And erase all thee hath caused, the pain.
poem by Isunge Mwangase
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Song. To A Russian Air
WAS it for this I dearly loved thee?....
But since at length I know thy heart,
And learn no real passion moved thee,
Go, Henry, go; this hour we part.
But do not think, past love forgetting,
That I thy foe can ever be;
My blighted hopes howe'er regretting,
I still shall pray for bliss to thee.
I still, no wrongs from thee resenting,
Shall wish Love's choicest treasures thine;
Though till life's closing sigh lamenting
The power to bless thee was not mine .
poem by Amelia Opie
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The Ideals
And wilt thou, faithless one, then, leave me,
With all thy magic phantasy,--
With all the thoughts that joy or grieve me,
Wilt thou with all forever fly?
Can naught delay thine onward motion,
Thou golden time of life's young dream?
In vain! eternity's wide ocean
Ceaselessly drowns thy rolling stream.
The glorious suns my youth enchanting
Have set in never-ending night;
Those blest ideals now are wanting
That swelled my heart with mad delight.
The offspring of my dream hath perished,
My faith in being passed away;
The godlike hopes that once I cherish
Are now reality's sad prey.
As once Pygmalion, fondly yearning,
Embraced the statue formed by him,
Till the cold marble's cheeks were burning,
And life diffused through every limb,
So I, with youthful passion fired,
My longing arms round Nature threw,
Till, clinging to my breast inspired,
She 'gan to breathe, to kindle too.
And all my fiery ardor proving,
Though mute, her tale she soon could tell,
Returned each kiss I gave her loving,
The throbbings of my heart read well.
Then living seemed each tree, each flower,
Then sweetly sang the waterfall,
And e'en the soulless in that hour
Shared in the heavenly bliss of all.
For then a circling world was bursting
My bosom's narrow prison-cell,
To enter into being thirsting,
In deed, word, shape, and sound as well.
This world, how wondrous great I deemed it,
Ere yet its blossoms could unfold!
When open, oh, how little seemed it!
That little, oh, how mean and cold!
How happy, winged by courage daring,
The youth life's mazy path first pressed--
No care his manly strength impairing,
And in his dream's sweet vision blest!
The dimmest star in air's dominion
Seemed not too distant for his flight;
His young and ever-eager pinion
Soared far beyond all mortal sight.
Thus joyously toward heaven ascending,
Was aught for his bright hopes too far?
The airy guides his steps attending,
How danced they round life's radiant car!
Soft love was there, her guerdon bearing,
And fortune, with her crown of gold,
And fame, her starry chaplet wearing,
And truth, in majesty untold.
But while the goal was yet before them,
The faithless guides began to stray;
Impatience of their task came o'er them,
Then one by one they dropped away.
Light-footed Fortune first retreating,
Then Wisdom's thirst remained unstilled,
While heavy storms of doubt were beating
Upon the path truth's radiance filled.
I saw Fame's sacred wreath adorning
The brows of an unworthy crew;
And, ah! how soon Love's happy morning,
When spring had vanished, vanished too!
More silent yet, and yet more weary,
Became the desert path I trod;
And even hope a glimmer dreary
Scarce cast upon the gloomy road.
Of all that train, so bright with gladness,
Oh, who is faithful to the end?
Who now will seek to cheer my sadness,
And to the grave my steps attend?
Thou, Friendship, of all guides the fairest,
Who gently healest every wound;
Who all life's heavy burdens sharest,
Thou, whom I early sought and found!
Employment too, thy loving neighbor,
Who quells the bosom's rising storms;
Who ne'er grows weary of her labor,
And ne'er destroys, though slow she forms;
Who, though but grains of sand she places
To swell eternity sublime,
Yet minutes, days, ay! years effaces
From the dread reckoning kept by Time!
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Sonnet # 155
Ah witty Shakespeare in whom I delight
At last by numbers paired
To thee good sir I say well met
Thine own pinnacle now we share
O' the quills I hath retired
In pursuit of this noble quest
Stanzas, mirth, and sorrow writ and
As thee sonnets penn'd at love's behest
I shan't let admiration wane
Great mentor in the ways of rhyme
From thesbian lips thy words to wit
Spake thee the heart and soul of human kind
O'Mystic Bard let thy spirit heed
Twas thy works alone that reveal'd the muse in me
poem by John A. Hancock
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Not Love
I HAVE not yet I could have loved thee, sweet;
Nor know I wherefore, thou being all thou art,
The engrafted thought in me throve incomplete,
And grew to summer strength in every part
Of root and leaf, but hath not borne the flower.
Love hath refrained his fullness from my heart.
I know no better beauty, none with power
To hold mine eyes through change and change as thine,
Like southern skies that alter with each hour,
And yet are changeless, and their calm divine
From light to light hath motionlessly passed,
With only different loveliness for sign.
I know no fairer nature, nor where, cast
On the clear mirror of thine own young truth,
The imaged things of Heaven lie plainer glassed;
Nor where more fit alike show tender ruth,
And anger for the right, and hopes aglow,
And joy and sighs of April-hearted youth.
But some day I, so wont to praise thee so
With unabashed warm words for all to hear,
Shall scarcely name another, speaking low.
Some day, methinks, and who can tell how near?
I may, to thee unchanged, be praising thee
With one not worthier but a world more dear;
With one I know not yet, who shall, maybe,
Be not so fair, be not in aught thy peer;
Who shall be all that thou art not to me.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Though Humble the Banquet
Though humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command;
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.
And though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelling
Of him thou regardest her favouring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.
'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves,
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.
'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
And with this, though of all other treasures bereaved,
The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.
Then, come, if a board so untempting hath power
To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,
Who, smiling will blend her bright welcome with mine.
poem by Thomas Moore
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