There late was One within whose subtle being, As light and wind within some delicate cloud That fades amid the blue noon's burning sky, Genius and youth contended. None may know The sweetness of the joy which made his breath Fail, like the trances of the summer air, When, with the Lady of his love, who then First knew the unreserve of mingled being, He walked along the pathway of a field Which to the east a hoar wood shadowed o'er, But to the west was open to the sky. There now the sun had sunk, but lines of gold Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points Of the far level grass and nodding flowers And the old dandelion's hoary beard, And, mingled with the shades of twilight, lay On the brown massy woods-and in the east The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose Between the black trunks of 'he crowded trees, While the faint stars were gathering overhead.- "Is it not strange, Isabel," said the youth, "I never saw the sun? We will walk here To-morrow; thou shalt look onit with me."
That night the youth and lady mingled lay In love and sleep-but when the morning came The lady found her lover dead and cold. Let none believe that God in mercy gave That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew wild, But year by year lived on-in truth I think Her gentleness, and patience, and sad smiles, And that she did not die, but lived to tend Her aged father, were a kind of madness, If madness 'tis to be unlike the world. For but to see her were to read the tale
Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;- Her eyelashes were torn away with tears,
Her lips and cheeks were like things dead-so pale, Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veins And weak articulations might be seen
Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self Which one vex'd ghost in habits, night and day, Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!
"Inheritor of more than earth can give, Passionless calm and silence unreproved, Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep! but rest, And are the uncomplaining things they seem, Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love; Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were-Peace " This was the only moan she ever made.
Honey from silk-worms who can gather- Or silk from the yellow bee?
The grass may grow in winter weather As soon as hate in me.
Hate men who cant, and men who pray.
And men who rail like thee;
An equal passion to repay
They are not coy like me.
Or seek some slave of power and gold To be thy dear heart's mate; Thy love will move that bigot cold, Sooner than me thy hate.
A passion like the one I prove Cannot divided be:
I hate thy want of truth and love- How should I then hate thee?
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 ?
When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead- When 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 bier?
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 my nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.
Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light Speed thee in thy fiery flight, In what cavern of the night
Will thy pinions close now?
Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, In what depth of night or day Seekest thou repose now?
Weary wind, who wanderest Like the world's rejected guest, Hast thou still some secret nest On the tree or billow?
My faint spirit was sitting in the light Of thy looks, my love;
It panted for thee like the hind at noon For the brooks, my love.
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, Bore thee far from me ;
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, Did companion thee.
Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, Or the death they bear,
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove With the wings of care;
In the battle; in the darkness, in the need, Shall mine cling to thee,
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, It may bring to thee.
First our pleasures die-and then
Our hopes, and then our fears-and when These are dead, the debt is due,
Dust claims dust-and we die too.
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