Imatges de pàgina

Fireflies were quenched on the dewy corn,
Glowworms went out on the river's brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim:
The beetle forgot to wind his horn,

The crickets were still in the meadow and hill:
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun
Night's dreams and terrors, every one,
Fled from the brains which are their prey,
From the lamp's death to the morning ray:

All rose to do the task He set to each,
Who shaped us to His ends and not our own;
The million rose to learn, and one to teach
What none yet ever knew or can be known;

And many rose

Whose woe was such that fear became desire;
Melchior and Lionel were not among those;
They from the throng of men had stepped aside,
And made their home under the green hill side.
It was that hill, whose intervening brow
Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye,
Which the circumfluous plain waving below,
Like a wide lake of green fertility,

With streams and fields and marshes bare,
Divides from the far Apennines-which lie
Islanded in the immeasurable air.

"What think you, as she lies in her green cove, Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of?

If morning dreams are true, why I should guess That she was dreaming of our idleness,

And of the miles of watery way

We should have led her by this time of day ?"—

"Never mind," said Lionel,

"Give care to the winds, they can bear it well

About yon poplar tops; and see

The white clouds are driving merrily,

And the stars we miss this morn will light

More willingly our return to-night.

List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair;

How it scatters Dominic's long black hair,
Singing of us, and our lazy motions,
If I can guess a boat's emotions."

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,
The living breath is fresh behind,
As with dews and sunrise fed,

Comes the laughing morning wind;

The sails are full, the boat makes head
Against the Serchio's torrent fierce,
Then flags with intermitting course,

And hangs upon the wave, [

Which fervid from its mountain source
Shallow, smooth and strong doth come,-
Swift as fire, tempestuously

It sweeps into the affrighted sea;

In morning's smile its eddies coil,
Its billows sparkle, toss and boil,
Torturing all its quiet light
Into columns fierce and bright.

The Serchio, twisting forth
Between the marble barriers which it clove
At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm
The wave that died the death which lovers love,
Living in what it sought; as if this spasm
Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling,
But the clear stream in full enthusiasm
Pours itself on the plain, until wandering,
Down one clear path of effluence crystalline
Sends its clear waves, that they may fling
At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine,
Then, through the pestilential deserts wild
Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir,
It rushes to the Ocean.

July, 1821.



SUMMER was dead and Autumn was expiring,
And infant Winter laughed upon the land
All cloudlessly and cold; when I, desiring
More in this world than any understand,
Wept o'er the beauty, which like sea retiring,

Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sand Of my poor heart, and o'er the grass and flowers Pale for the falsehood of the flattering hours.


Summer was dead, but I yet lived to weep
The instability of all but weeping;
And on the earth lulled in her winter sleep

I woke, and envied her as she was sleeping. Too happy Earth! over thy face shall creep

The wakening vernal airs, until thou, leaping From unremembered dreams, shalt [ ] see No death divide thy immortality.


I loved-O no, I mean not one of ye,

Or any earthly one, though ye are dear

As human heart to human heart may be;

I loved, I know not what-but this low sphere

And all that it contains, contains not thee,

Thou, whom seen nowhere, I feel everywhere, Dim object of my soul's idolatry.

Veiled art thou like

* Pumpkin.



By Heaven and Earth, from all whose shapes thou flowest,
Neither to be contained, delayed, or hidden,
Making divine the loftiest and the lowest,

When for a moment thou art not forbidden
To live within the life which thou bestowest;

And leaving noblest things vacant and chidden, Cold as a corpse after the spirit's flight,

Blank as the sun after the birth of night.


In winds, and trees, and streams, and all things common, In music and the sweet unconscious tone

Of animals, and voices which are human,

Meant to express some feelings of their own;

In the soft motions and rare smile of woman,

In flowers and leaves, and in the fresh grass shown,

Or dying in the autumn, I the most

Adore thee present or lament thee lost.


And thus I went, lamenting when I saw
A plant upon the river's margin lie,
Like one who loved beyond his Nature's law,
And in despair had cast him down to die;
Its leaves which had outlived the frost, the thaw
Had blighted as a heart which hatred's eye
Can blast not, but which pity kills; the dew
Lay on its spotted leaves like tears too true.


The Heavens had wept upon it, but the Earth
Had crushed it on her unmaternal breast.


I bore it to my chamber, and I planted
It in a vase full of the lightest mould;
The winter beams which out of Heaven slanted

Fell through the window panes, disrobed of cold,
Upon its leaves and flowers; the star which panted
In evening for the Day, whose car has rolled
Over the horizon's wave, with looks of light
Smiled on it from the threshold of the night.


The mitigated influences of air

And light revived the plant, and from it grew
Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers fair,
Full as a cup with the vine's burning dew,
O'erflowed with golden colours; an atmosphere
Of vital warmth enfolded it anew,
And every impulse sent to every part

The unbeheld pulsations of its heart.


Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong,
Even if the sun and air had smiled not on it;
For one wept o'er it all the winter long

Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which fell upon it
Hour after hour; for sounds of softest song

Mixed with the stringed melodies that won it
To leave the gentle lips on which it slept,
Had loosed the heart of him who sat and wept.


Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and flowers
On which he wept, the while the savage storm
Waked by the darkest of December's hours

Was raving round the chamber hushed and warm;
The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers,
The fish were frozen in the pools, the form
Of every summer plant was dead [

Whilst this

January, 1822.

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THEY die-the dead return not-Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye-

They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover,
Which he so feebly called-they all are gone!
Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain-
These tombs alone remain.

Misery, my sweetest friend-oh! weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled-I wonder not!
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain-
These tombs alone remain.


Он, world! oh, life! oh, time!
On whose last steps I climb
Trembling at that where I had stood

When will return the glory of your

No more-O, never more!

Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;
Fresh spring, and summer, and
winter hoar,

Move my faint heart with grief, but
with delight

No more-O, never more!


THE fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle-
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea,
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

January, 1820.

TO EMELIA VIVIANI. MADONNA, wherefore hast thou sent

to me

Sweet basil and mignonette? Embleming love and health, which never yet

In the same wreath might be.

Alas, and they are wet!

Is it with thy kisses or thy tears?

For never rain or dew Such fragrance drew From plant or flower-the very doubt endears

My sadness ever new, The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed for thee.

March, 1821.


I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden,
Thou needest not fear mine;
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burden thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion,
Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.


WHEN the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies deadWhen the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed.

When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not; When the lips have spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute:
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled
Love first leaves the well-built nest,
The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possest.
O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home and your

Its passions will rock thee

As the storms rock the ravens on high:
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave the naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.


(With what truth I may say-
Roma Roma! Roma!
Non è più come era prima !)
My lost William, thou in whom
Some bright spirit lived, and did
That decaying robe consume

Which its lustre faintly hid,
Here its ashes find a tomb,

But beneath this pyramid
Thou art not-if a thing divine
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine
Is thy mother's grief and mine.

Where art thou, my gentle child?
Let me think thy spirit feeds,
Within its life intense and mild,

The love of living leaves and weeds, Among these tombs and ruins wild;

Let me think that through low seeds Of the sweet flowers and sunny grass, Into their hues and scents may pass A portion

June, 1819.

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