Poets From England

"Oh, fame is as the moon above, Whose sun of light and life is love. There is more in the smile of one gentle eye Then the thousand pages of history; Than the loudest plaudits the crowd can raise. Take the gems in glory's coronal, And one smile of beauty is worth them all.—"

"Violets! — deep-blue violets! April's loveliest coronets! There are no flowers grow in the vale, Kiss'd by the dew, wooed by the gale, — None by the dew of the twilight wet, So sweet as the deep-blue violet!"

"But this is as a dream, — the plough has pass'd Where the stag bounded, and the day has looked On the green twilight of the forest-trees. This Oak has no companion ! - - - -"

"They met with cold words, and yet colder looks: Each was changed in himself, and yet each thought The other only changed, himself the same."

"He had a power; in his eye There was a quenchless energy, A spirit that could dare The deadliest form that Death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake."

"It is a gem which hath the power to show If plighted lovers keep their faith or no : If faithful, it is like the leaves of spring ; If faithless, like those leaves when withering."

"And this is Love! Oh! why should woman love; Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope, Happiness, are but things of which henceforth She'll only know the name?"

"Love may be increased with fears, May be fanned with sighs, Nurst by fancies, fed by doubts But without Hope it dies!"

"The day is past, and the moonbeams weep O'er the many that rest in their last cold sleep; Near to the gashed and the nerveless hand Is the pointless spear and the broken brand; The archer lies like an arrow spent, His shafts all loose and his bow unbent; Many a white plume torn and red, Bright curls rent from the graceful head, Helmet and breast-plate scattered around, Lie a fearful show on the well-fought ground; While the crow and the raven flock overhead To feed on the hearts of the helpless dead, Save when scared by the glaring eye Of some wretch in his last death agony."

"Oh, softest is the cheek's love-ray When seen by moonlight hours Other roses seek the day, But blushes are night flowers."

"For his was now the loveliest part Of the young poet's life, when first, In solitude and silence nurst, His genius rises like a spring Unnoticed in its wandering; Ere winter cloud or summer ray Have chill'd, or wasted it away,"

"Alas! for him whose youthful fire Is vowed and wasted on the lyre,— Alas! for him who shall essay, The laurel's long and dreary way! Mocking will greet, neglect will chill His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill; And, worst of all, that heartless praise Echoed from what another says."

"'Tis not for Spring to think on all The sear and waste of Autumn's fall: —"

"Oh, where is there the heart but knows Love's first steps are upon the rose!"

"Alas! that every lovely thing Lives only but for withering,— That spring rainbows and summer shine End but in autumn's pale decline."

"The cold north wind which bows to earth The lightness of the willow's birth Bends not the mountain cedar trees; Folding their branches from the breeze, They stand as if they could defy The utmost rage of storm and sky."

"Oh, she had yet the task to learn How often woman's heart must turn To feed upon its own excess Of deep yet passionate tenderness! How much of grief the heart must prove That yields a sanctuary to love!"

"The first, the very first; oh! none Can feel again as they have done; In love, in war, in pride, in all The planets of life's coronal, However beautiful or bright,— What can be like their first sweet light?"

"Autumn was falling, but the pine Seem'd as it mock'd all change; no sign Of season on its leaf was seen, The same dark gloom of changeless green. But like the gorgeous Persian bands 'Mid the stern race of northern lands, The chesnut boughs were bright with all That gilds and mocks the autumn's fall."

"Oh, love is timid in its birth! Watching her lightest look or stir, As he but look'd and breathed with her. Gay words were passing, but he leant In silence; yet, one quick glance sent,— His secret is no more his own, When has woman her power not known?"

"Awakening hope has named the name Of love, or blown its spark to flame. Restlessness, but as the winds range From leaf to leaf, from flower to flower; Changefulness, but as rainbows change, From colour'd sky to sunlit hour. Ay, well indeed may minstrel sing,— What have the heart and year like spring?"

"Where is the heart that has not bow'd A slave, eternal Love, to thee: Look on the cold, the gay, the proud, And is there one among them free?"

"Pure as the snow the summer sun Never at noon hath look'd upon, — Deep, as is the diamond wave, Hidden in the desart cave, — Changeless, as the greenest leaves Of the wreath the cypress weaves, — Hopeless, often, when most fond, Without hope or fear beyond Its own pale fidelity, — And this woman's love can be!"

"The scar of fire, the dint of steel, Are easier than Love's wounds to heal."

"I LOVED her! ay, I would have given A death-bed certainty of heaven If I had thought it could confer The least of happiness on her!"

"I kiss'd her lips: oh, God, the chill! My heart is frozen with it still:— It was as suddenly on me Open'd my depths of misery. I flung me on the ground, and raved, And of the wind that past me craved One breath of poison, till my blood From lip and brow gush'd in one flood. I watch'd the warm stream of my veins Mix with the death wounds clotted stains; Oh! how I pray'd that I might pour My heart's tide, and her life restore!"

"I was borne on an eagle's wing, Till with the noon-sun perishing; Then I stood in a world alone, From which all other life was gone, Whence warmth, and breath, and light were fled, A world o'er which a curse was said: The trees stood leafless all, and bare, The sky spread, but no sun was there: Night came, no stars were on her way, Morn came without a look of day,— As night and day shared one pale shroud, Without a colour or a cloud. And there were rivers, but they stood Without a murmur on the flood, Waveless and dark, their task was o'er,— The sea lay silent on the shore, Without a sign upon its breast Save of interminable rest: And there were palaces and halls, But silence reign'd amid their walls, Though crowds yet fill'd them; for no sound Rose from the thousands gather'd round; All wore the same white, bloodless hue, All the same eyes of glassy blue, Meaningless, cold, corpse-like as those No gentle hand was near to close. And all seem'd, as they look'd on me, In wonder that I yet could be A moving shape of warmth and breath Alone amid a world of death."

"There is an indolence in grief Which will not even seek relief. What is the toil, or care, or pain, The human heart cannot sustain? Enough if struggling can create A change or colour in our fate; But where's the spirit that can cope With listless suffering, when hope, The last of misery's allies, Sickens of its sweet self, and dies."

"Oh! what is memory but a gift Within a ruin'd temple left, Recalling what its beauties were, And then presenting what they are."

"'Tis strange with how much power and pride The softness is of love allied; How much of power to force the breast To be in outward show at rest,— How much of pride that never eye May look upon its agony! Ah! little will the lip reveal Of all the burning heart can feel."

"Oh! why should woman ever love, Trusting to one false star above; And fling her little chance away Of sunshine for its treacherous ray."

"'Tis strange how the heart can create Or colour from itself its fate; We make ourselves our own distress, We are ourselves our happiness."

"There is a steep and lofty wall, Where my warders trembling stand, He who at speed shall ride round its height, For him shall be my hand."

"—music's power Is little felt in sunlit hour; But hear its voice when hopes depart, Like swallows, flying from the heart On which the summer's late decline Has set a sadness and a sign;. . . . . . How deeply will the spirit feel The lute, the song's sweet-voiced appeal; And how the heart drink in their sighs As echoes they from Paradise."

"There is a flower, a snow-white flower, Fragile as if a morning shower Would end its being, and the earth Forget to what it gave a birth; And it looks innocent and pale, Slight as the least force could avail To pluck it from its bed, and yet Its root in depth and strength is set. The July sun, the autumn rain, Beat on its slender stalk in vain;— Around it spreads, despite of care, Till the whole garden is its share; And other plants must fade and fall Beneath its deep and deadly thrall. This is love's emblem; it is nurst In all unconciousness at first, Too slight, too fair, to wake distrust; No sign how that an after hour Will rue and weep its fatal power."

"Never, dear father, love can be, Like the dear love I had for thee!"

"Alas, tears are the poet's heritage!"

"It was no fancy, he had named the name Of love, and at that thought her cheek grew flame:"

"... oh! love will last When all that made it happiness is past,— When all its hopes are as the glittering toys Time present offers, time to come destroys,—"

"The dying chief sprang to his knee, And the staunch'd wounds well'd fearfully; But his gash'd arm, what is it now? Livid his lip, and black his brow, While over him the slayer stood, As if he almost scorn'd the blood That cost so little to be won,— He strikes,—the work of death is done!"

"During slumber's magic reign Other times shall live again;"

"Beautiful language! Love's peculiar, own, But only to the spring and summer known."

"AY, screen thy favourite dove, fair child, Ay, screen it if you may,— Yet I misdoubt thy trembling hand Will scare the hawk away."

"It matters not its history; love has wings Like lightning , swift and fatal, and it springs Like a wild flower where it is least expected, Existing whether cherish'd or rejected;"

"He fell as other thousands do, Trampled down where they fall, While on a single name is heap'd The glory gain'd by all. Yet even he whose common grave Lies in the open fields, Died not without a thought of all The joy that glory yields."

"TO-MORROW, to-morrow, thou loveliest May, To-morrow will rise up thy first-born day; Bride of the summer, child of the spring, To-morrow the year will its favourite bring:"

"Oh, what am I, and what are they ? Masquers but striving to deceive Themselves and others ; and believe It is enough, if none shall know The covered mass of care below."

"But not like this is Nature's face, Though even she must bear the trace Of the great curse that clings to all ; Her leaves, her flowers, must spring to fall :"

"'Tis May again, another May, Looking as if it meant to stay ; So many are its thousand flowers, So glorious are its sunny hours, So green its earth, so blue its sky, As made for Hope's eternity."

"Let worldly coldness and care depart, And yield to the spell of the minstrel's art."