Selected Poems (60 page)

155

And don the purple vest, –

As if that foolish robe could wring

Remembrance from thy breast.

Where is that faded garment? where

The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,

160

The star – the string – the crest?

Vain froward child of empire! say,

Are all thy playthings snatch’d away?

XIX

Where may the wearied eye repose

When gazing on the Great;

165

Where neither guilty glory glows,

Nor despicable state?

Yes – one – the first – the last – the best –

The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate,

170

Bequeath’d the name of Washington,

To make man blush there was but one!

Stanzas for Music

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,

There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame:

But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart

The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

5

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace

Were those hours – can their joy or their bitterness cease?

We repent – we abjure – we will break from our chain, –

We will part, – we will fly to – unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!

10

Forgive me, adored one! – forsake, if thou wilt; –

But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,

And
man
shall not break it – whatever
thou
mayst.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,

This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be;

15

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,

With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,

Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;

And the heartless may wonder at all I resign -

20

Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to
mine.

May, 1814.

She walks in beauty

I

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

5

Thus mellow’d to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

II

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair’d the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

10

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

III

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

15

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

LARA
A Tale

Canto the First

I

The Serfs
¹
are glad through Lara’s wide domain,

And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain;

He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord,

The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored:

5

There be bright faces in the busy hall,

Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;

Far checkering o’er the pictured window, plays

The unwonted faggots’ hospitable blaze;

And gay retainers gather round the hearth,

10

With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth.

II

The chief of Lara is return’d again:

And why had Lara cross’d the bounding main?

Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,

Lord of himself; – that heritage of woe,

15

That fearful empire which the human breast

But holds to rob the heart within of rest! –

With none to check, and few to point in time

The thousand paths that slope the way to crime;

Then, when he most required commandment, then

20

Had Lara’s daring boyhood govern’d men.

It skills not, boots not step by step to trace

His youth through all the mazes of its race;

Short was the course his restlessness had run,

But long enough to leave him half undone.

III

25

And Lara left in youth his father-land;

But from the hour he waved his parting hand

Each trace wax’d fainter of his course, till all

Had nearly ceased his memory to recall.

His sire was dust, his vassals could declare,

30

’Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there;

Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew

Cold in the many, anxious in the few.

His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name,

His portrait darkens in its fading frame,

35

Another chief consoled his destined bride,

The young forgot him, and the old had died;

‘Yet doth he live!’ exclaims the impatient heir,

And sighs for sables which he must not wear.

A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace

40

The Laras’ last and longest dwelling-place;

But one is absent from the mouldering file,

That now were welcome in that Gothic pile.

IV

He comes at last in sudden loneliness,

And whence they know not, why they need not guess;

45

They more might marvel, when the greeting’s o’er,

Not that he came, but came not long before:

No train is his beyond a single page,

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age.

Years had roll’d on, and fast they speed away

50

To those that wander as to those that stay;

But lack of tidings from another clime

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time.

They see, they recognise, yet almost deem

The present dubious, or the past a dream.

55

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood’s prime,

Though sear’d by toil, and something touch’d by time;

His faults, whate’er they were, if scarce forgot,

Might be untaught him by his varied lot;

Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name

60

Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame:

His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins

No more than pleasure from the stripling wins;

And such, if not yet harden’d in their course,

Might be redeem’d, nor ask a long remorse.

V

65

And they indeed were changed - ’tis quickly seen,

Whate’er he be, ’twas not what he had been:

That brow in furrow’d lines had fix’d at last,

And spake of passions, but of passion past:

The pride, but not the fire, of early days,

70

Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise;

A high demeanour, and a glance that took

Their thoughts from others by a single look;

And that sarcastic levity of tongue,

The stinging of a heart the world hath stung,

75

That darts in seeming playfulness around,

And makes those feel that will not own the wound;

All these seem’d his, and something more beneath

Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe.

Ambition, glory, love, the common aim,

80

That some can conquer, and that all would claim,

Within his breast appear’d no more to strive,

Yet seem’d as lately they had been alive;

And some deep feeling it were vain to trace

At moments lighten’d o’er his livid face.

VI

85

Not much he loved long question of the past,

Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast,

In those far lands where he had wander’d lone,

And – as himself would have it seem – unknown:

Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan,

90

Nor glean experience from his fellow man;

But what he had beheld he shunn’d to show,

As hardly worth a stranger’s care to know;

If still more prying such enquiry grew,

His brow fell darker, and his words more few.

VII

95

Not unrejoiced to see him once again,

Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men;

Born of high lineage, link’d in high command,

He mingled with the Magnates of his land;

Join’d the carousals of the great and gay,

100

And saw them smile or sigh their hours away;

But still he only saw, and did not share,

The common pleasure or the general care;

He did not follow what they all pursued

With hope still baffled still to be renew’d;

105

Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain,

Nor beauty’s preference, and the rival’s pain:

Around him some mysterious circle thrown

Repell’d approach, and show’d him still alone;

Upon his eye sat something of reproof

110

That kept at least frivolity aloof;

And things more timid that beheld him near,

In silence gazed, or whisper’d mutual fear;

And they the wiser, friendlier few confess’d

They deem’d him better than his air express’d.

VIII

115

’Twas strange – in youth all action and all life,

Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife;

Woman – the field – the ocean – all that gave

Promise of gladness, peril of a grave,

In turn he tried – he ransack’d all below,

120

And found his recompense in joy or woe,

No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought

In that intenseness an escape from thought:

The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed

On that the feebler elements hath raised;

125

The rapture of his heart had look’d on high,

And ask’d if greater dwelt beyond the sky:

Chain’d to excess, the slave of each extreme,

How woke he from the wildness of that dream?

Alas! he told not – but he did awake

130

To curse the wither’d heart that would not break.

IX

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man,

With eye more curious he appear’d to scan,

And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day,

From all communion he would start away:

135

And then, his rarely call’d attendants said,

Through night’s long hours would sound his hurried tread

O’er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown’d

In rude but antique portraiture around:

They heard, but whisper’d –
‘that
must not be known –

140

The sound of words less earthly than his own.

Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen

They scarce knew what, but more than should have been

Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head

Which hands profane had gather’d from the dead,

145

That still beside his open’d volume lay,

As if to startle all save him away?

Why slept he not when others were at rest?

Why heard no music, and received no guest?

All was not well, they deem’d – but where the wrong?

150

Some knew perchance – but ’twere a tale too long;