TO THE POET. By FREDERICK TENNYSON, a brother of the Poet Laureate. Whom God hath gifted with a loving eye, Let them disdain thee for thy just disdain : Shield thou thy heart against the world accurst, Where they discourse of joy, and ache with pain, And babble of good deeds, and do the worst; Shed dews of mercy on their wither'd scorn, And touch their midnight darkness with thy morn. There blind Ambition barters peace for praise; There Pride ne'er sleeps, nor Hatred waxeth old; And dwarfish Folly can his cubit raise To godlike stature on a little gold; There Madness is a king, and ev'n the wise There Pleasure is a sickly meteor-light, That chills the heart, and makes the pulses slow; Remorse, a scorpion's self-destroying sting, Sorrow, a Winter without hope of Spring. There Love's clear torch is quench'd as in a tomb, He drags, with eyes fix'd on his early doom, There Justice, mindless of her holy name, Creeps o'er the slime with adder's ears and eyes, Stirs with dark hand the World-involving flame, Thirsteth for tears, and hungers after sighs; There Honour is a game to lose or win; And Sanctity a softer name for Sin. For thee 'tis better to remain apart, Like one who dwells beneath the forest green, And listens far off to the beating heart Of the wide world, all-seeing, though unseen: In a cool cavern, on a mountain side, With rare, sweet flowers, and virgin springs supplied. Hark thou the voices from the peopled plain Like God, who gives thee work, when none are by. And from the twilight of thy solitude Note thou the lights and shadows of the sky, Till they are seen from far, like mountain-light, THE HAPPY VALLEY. A fragment from BARRY CORNWALL. Neiph. COME on, come on.-A little further on, Tall grass is there which dallies with the wind, There will we, midst delicious cates, and wines Pamphilus. Hail, vernal spot! We bear to thy embrace Pleasures that ask for calm; Love, and Delight; Harmonious pulses where no evil dwells; Smiles without treach'ry; words all soft and true; THE DEMON BRIDE. The following curious poem was found among the neglected manuscripts of a young physician, who has long abandoned the poetic art for more practical, and certainly more profitable, pursuits. It appears to us to embody much of the felicity of diction and wild beauty of Goethe's Bride of Corinth; at least it is the nearest English approximation to that poem which we know of. In the ages which we call benighted, And the German's old and wondrous land, In an upmost story dimly lighted, By a long and narrow wooden stand, Darkly stain'd with blood, The Dissector stood, Held a purpled knife within his hand. 'Twas late, and all his comrades had departed, Flashes, as of flame, Born of sorrows to the world unknown. To the churchyard in the moonlit meadow From his bleeding heart, her heart was torn; But her kinsmen proud Had repulsed his gentle suit with scorn. Droop'd the lady with her crush'd devotion, In his studies of the human frame. Quietly the youth a corpse uncover'd, Stood he then as still As a brook by winter winds congeal'd. Lay before him there a beauteous maiden Of her girlhood's gentleness and bloom. To her breast the hair hung down in tresses, And the lightest mould, Finger-rings threw out their fairy shine. Was the body and the chamber haunted? The Dissector's room Lost to him its gloom Was surrounded with a golden haze. Hung with damask curtains seem'd the windows, And broad unto his eye, Lovingly upon the snowy linen Lay the form of Beauty he beheld: Mouth and eyes were sparkling soft, and winning; In her breast the maiden fervour swell'd: Manliest virtues melt; He enamour'd felt; To her heart his throbbing heart impell'd. "Art thou, lost one, come from blissful Eden Bridegroom from his bride: Angels are singing now our marriage strain." On her neck he fell oppress'd and panting; Sight and hearing fled, And his soul dissolved in joys unknown. When the sun threw from his burning quiver Heaven had heard his vow, And he was not parted from his bride. |