Novelists From England

"It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song."

"But Love's bright fount is never pure; And all his pilgrims must endure All passion's mighty suffering Ere they may reach the blessed spring."

"My power was but a woman's power; Yet, in that great and glorious dower Which Genius gives, I had my part: I poured my full and burning heart"

"Statues but known from shapes of the earth, By being too lovely for mortal birth; Paintings whose colours of life were caught From the fairy tints in the rainbow wrought; Music whose sighs had a spell like those That float on the sea at the evening's close Language so silvery, that every word Was like the lute's awakening chord;"

"I am a daughter of that land, Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand Are most divine, —where the earth and sky, Are picture both and poetry— I am of Florence."

"And you, my fine poet, who thought that the earth To another such minstrel could never give birth, Already your works are all thrown on the shelf, And their author condemn'd as an ignorant elf.— Yes ; look thro' the world, and this truth you will find That, once out of sight, you are soon out of mind."

"You may smile at the fanciful structures I rear, And say, that my castles are built but on sand ; Like bubbles, that on the blue waters appear, That sparkle, invite, and then sink from the hand."

"I Give thee, love, a blooming braid; I cull'd it at eve's 'witching hour ; I twin'd it in the moon's sweet shade, When starlight dew was on each flower."

"How innocent, how beautiful thy sleep ! Sweet one, 'tis peace and joy to gaze on thee!"

"Thou, Poetry, in absence wert a chain, Binding our hearts together: where so well As in thy numbers, could I pour my soul, In soothing tenderness? 'twas bliss, to make Thought visible to those of whom I thought."

"... Oh! burning are the drops That wounded love will shed—like to the dew Falling from off the poison tree, the blight Still following the touch ;—ah ! other tears Soften and bless—but these destroy the heart."

"'Tis soothing, oh ! most soothing to the heart, To rove 'mid scenes where once we have been blest! Each tree, each blossom, has a thrilling charm; They seem memorials of those happier hours : The very sigh that tells they are no more, Is sweet unto the spirit; former days, And former feelings, rise upon the soul, Dear as they once have been."

"The leaves were gone from all, save where the pine Threw the wide shadow of its unchang'd green. I could not envy it that fadeless state.— Ah ! who would be the last, the only one That ruin spares—no ; if the blight must pass O'er all around, let it pass o'er me too !"

"Alas ! alas ! too often conscience sleeps, When pleasure's syren numbers lull its rest.—"

"... absence is The moonlight of affection ;"

"Once more my harp awakens ; once again, Tho' all unworthy be my hand to twine Th' etherial blossomings of poetry, I would call forth its numbers, yet would feel Its music fall like sunlight on my soul."

"Hope, frail but lovely shadow ! thou dost come, Like a bright vision on our pathway here, Making the gloomy future beautiful, And gilding our horizon with a light, The fairest human eye can ever know."

"Methinks adieu Is cold, when uttered with aught else but tears."

"And o'er them lowers destruction, high in air, Upon those jutting crags, whose rugged sides, Riven in fragments, and like ruins pil'd, Seem as that giants of those ancient days When earthborn creatures braved th' Olympic Gods, Those of whom fable tells, had torn away Rocks from their solid base, and with strong arm, Parted the mountains: there the avalanche hangs, Mighty, but tremulous; just a light breath Will loosen it from off its airy throne; Then down it hurls in wrath, like to the sound Of thunder amid storms, or as the voice Of rushing waters—death in its career."

"Romantic Switzerland! thy scenes are traced With characters of strange wild loveliness, Beauty and desolation, side by side; Here lofty rocks uprise, where nature seems To dwell alone in silent majesty; Rob'd by the snow, her stately palace fram'd Of the white hills; towering in all their pride, The frost's gigantic mounds are lost in clouds, Like to vast castles rear'd in middle air. The ice has sculptur'd too strange imagery— Obelisks, columns, spires, fantastic piles; Some like the polish'd marble, others clear As the rock crystal, others sparkling with The hues that melt along the sunborn bow."

"Are we not like that actor of old time, Who wore his mask so long his face took Its likeness?"

"The woman was in abject misery—that worst of poverty, which is haunted by shame—the only relic left by better days. She shrunk from all efforts at recovery, refused to administer the medicines, and spoke of the child's death but as a blessing. My God! and is the daily page of life Darken'd with wretchedness like this?"

"Oh never another dream can be Like that early dream of ours, When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep, Like a child, among the flowers."

"'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel, Far better had'st thou proved; Ev'n I could almost pity feel, For thou art not beloved."

"I'm weary, I'm weary,—this cold world of ours; I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers. . . . . I'm weary, I'm weary,—I'm off with the wind: Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind?"

"Free, thou sayest,—dream'st thou how? Loathing wouldst thou shun dismay'd Freedom by such ransom paid. —Girl, for thee I'll lay aside Veil of smiles and mask of pride; Shrowds that only ask of Fate Not to seem so desolate. —I am young,—but Age's snow Hides not colder depths below ..."

"Spirit, that ruleth man's life to its ending, Chance, Fortune, Fate, answer my summoning now; The storm o'er the face of the night is descending,— Fair moon, the dark clouds hide thy silvery brow. Let these bring thy answer, and tell me if sadness For ever man's penance and portion must be; Doth the morning come forth from a birthplace of gladness? Is there peace, is there rest, in thine empire or thee?"

"The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it, Or who ever read in the depths of their own? — How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it, But, even in feeling it, know it unknown!"

"How deep, how merciless, the love represt, That robs the silent midnight of its rest; That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone; That hears in mingled footsteps only one; That turns the poet's page, to only find Some mournful image for itself design'd; That seeks in music, but the plaining tone Which secret sorrow whispers is its own!"

"How can they say confiding is relief? Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring, Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring; But there are some too long, too well conceal'd, Too deeply felt,—that are but once reveal'd: Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart, And then the life-blood follows from the heart; Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh, But which, once spoken, only hath to die.—"

"Thy voice is sweet, as if it took Its music from thy face. And word and mien, and step and look, Are perfect in their grace."

"Alas! the praise given to the ear Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere— And does but waste away the mind On which it preys:—in vain Would they in whom its poison lurks A worthier state attain."

"Thou blessed season of our spring, When hopes are angels on the wing; Bound upwards to their heavenly shore, Alas! to visit earth no more."

"The early graced of Grecian song, The fragrant myrtle tree; For it doth speak of happy love, The delicate, the true."

"I am spectator, not partaker, here. To me it seems more like a pageant made To represent mirth, than the mirth itself."

"Blue hyacinths! Oh, do not show them me; they fill my eyes With tears too soft for such a scene as this."

"A weight is on the air, for ev'ry breeze Has, bird-like, folded up its wings for sleep."

"I can pass days Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees, Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,— The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs,— Each tree a natural harp,— each different leaf A different note, blent in one vast thanks-giving."

"Now I have no hope that does not dream for thee; I have no joy that is not shared by thee; I have no fear that does not dread for thee."

"the hollow voice Of that old crone, the only living sound; Her face, on which mortality has writ Its closing, with the wan and bony hand, Raised like a spectre's—and yourself the while, Cold from the midnight chill, and white with fear, Your large blue eyes darker and larger grown With terror's chain'd attention, and your breath Suppress'd for very earnestness."

"IT is in this we differ; I would seek To blend my very being into thine— I'm even jealous of thy memory: I wish our childhood had been pass'd together."

"Peace to the weary and the beating heart, That fed upon itself!"

"There was a sculptured form; the feet were placed Upon a finely-carved rose wreath; the arms Were raised to Heaven, as if to clasp the stars EULALIA leant beside; 'twas hard to say Which was the actual marble: when she spoke, You started, scarce it seem'd a human sound; But the eyes' lustre told life linger'd still; And now the moonlight seem'd to fill their depths."

"Alas! we make A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, But sleep ourselves at the foot: our high resolves Look down upon our slumbering acts."

"I held that Love Which chooseth from a thousand only one, To be the object of that tenderness Natural to every heart; which can resign Its own best happiness for one dear sake; Can bear with absence; hath no part in Hope,— For Hope is somewhat selfish, Love is not,— And doth prefer another to itself."

"Remembrance makes the poet; 'tis the past Lingering within him, with a keener sense Than is upon the thoughts of common men Of what has been, that fills the actual world With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes, That were and are not; and the fairer they, The more their contrast with existing things, The more his power, the greater is his grief."

"Methinks we must have known some former state More glorious than our present, and the heart Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left By past magnificence; and hence we pine With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes With bitter tears for their own vanity."

"-- social life is fill'd With doubts and vain aspirings; solitude, When the imagination is dethroned, Is turned to weariness."

"How noble and ennobling!—but within How mean, how poor, how pitiful, how mix'd With base alloy; how Disappointment tracks The steps of Hope; how Envy dogs success; How every victor's crown is lined with thorns, And worn mid scoffs!"

"I may be kind, And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still; For gratitude is not companionship.—"