With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, as one Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears; Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart (1853) LXXXIV SONG WHO can say To-morrow will be yesterday? Who can tell Why to smell The violet, recalls the dewy prime The cause is nowhere found in rhyme. LXXXV MARGARET I O SWEET pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Of pensive thought and aspect pale, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. Of dainty sorrow without sound, 2 You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lull'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light 3 What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, penet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars? The last wild thought of Chatelet, 4 A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. But ever trembling thro' the dew 5 O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak: Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn (1853) LXXXVI KATE I KNOW her by her angry air, Her bright-black eyes, her bright-black hair, As laughters of the woodpecker From the bosom of a hill. 'Tis Kate-she sayeth what she will: For Kate hath an unbridled tongue, Her heart is like a throbbing star. Like a new bow, and bright and sharp As pure and true as blades of steel. Kate saith "the world is void of might.' The blackest files of clanging fight, In dreaming of my lady's eyes. Oh! Kate loves well the bold and fierce ; But none are bold enough for Kate, She cannot find a fitting mate. (1833) LXXXVII SONNET Written on hearing of the outbreak of the Polish Insurrection. BLOW ye the trumpet, gather from afar The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold. Grew to this strength among his deserts cold; LXXXVIII POLAND How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceased To quiver, though her sacred blood doth drown. The fields; and out of every smouldering town Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be increased, Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East Transgress his ample bound to some new crown :Cries to Thee, "Lord, how long shall these things be? How long shall the icy-hearted Muscovite Oppress the region ?" Us, O Just and Good, Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three ; Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right— A matter to be wept with tears of blood! DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, Old year, you must not die; He lieth still: he doth not move: He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; |