When passion’s trance is overpast,
If tenderness and truth could last
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
5I should not weep, I should not weep!
It were enough to feel, to see
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
And dream the rest—and burn and be
The secret food of fires unseen,
10Could thou but be what thou hast been.
After the slumber of the year
The woodland violets reappear;
All things revive in field or grove
And sky and sea, but two, which move
15And form all others—life and love.
What! alive and so bold, oh Earth?
Art thou not overbold?
What! leapest thou forth as of old
In the light of thy morning mirth,
5The last of the flock of the starry fold?
Ha! leapest thou forth as of old?
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead?
How! is not thy quick heart cold?
10 What spark is alive on thy hearth?
How! is not his death-knell knolled?
And livest thou still, Mother Earth?
Thou wert warming thy fingers old
O’er the embers covered and cold
15Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled—
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead?
‘Who has known me of old,’ replied Earth,
‘Or who has my story told?
It is thou who art overbold.’
20And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
As she sung, ‘To my bosom I fold
All my sons when their knell is knolled,
And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.
25‘Still alive and still bold,’ shouted Earth,
‘I grow bolder and still more bold.
The dead fill me ten thousand fold
Fuller of speed and splendour and mirth.
I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,
30Like a frozen chaos uprolled
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead
My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.
‘Aye, alive and still bold,’ muttered Earth,
‘Napoleon’s fierce spirit rolled
35 In terror, and blood, and gold,
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.
Leave the millions who follow, to mould
The metal before it be cold,
And weave into his shame, which like the dead
40Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled.’
Night! With all thine eyes look down!
Darkness weep thy holiest dew!
Never smiled the inconstant Moon
On a pair so true—
5Haste coy Hour and quench all light,
Lest eyes see their own delight—
Haste swift Hour, and thy loved flight
Oft renew.
Fairies, sprites and angels keep her!
10 Holy Stars! permit no wrong!
And return to wake the sleeper
Dawn! ere it be long.
Oh joy! oh fear! there is not one
Of us can guess what may be done
15In the absence of the Sun—
Come along.
O linger long thou envious eastern lamp
In the damp
Caves of the deep.
The golden gate of sleep unbar
Where strength and beauty, met together,
25Kindle their image—like a Star
In a sea of glassy weather—
May the purple mist of love
Round them rise and with them move;
Nourishing each tender gem
30Which like flowers will burst from them—
As the fruit is to the tree
May their children ever be.
‘Do you not hear the Aziola cry?
Methinks she must be nigh’—
Said Mary as we sate
In dusk, ere stars were lit or candles brought—
5 And I who thought
This Aziola was some tedious woman
Asked, ‘Who is Aziola?’ How elate
I felt to know that it was nothing human,
No mockery of myself to fear or hate!—
10 And Mary saw my soul,
And laughed and said:—‘Disquiet yourself not,
’Tis nothing but a little downy owl.’
Sad Aziola, many an eventide
Thy music I had heard
15By wood and stream, meadow and mountain side,
And fields and marshes wide,—
Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird
The soul ever stirred—
Unlike, and far sweeter than them all.—
20Sad Aziola, from that moment I
Loved thee and thy sad cry.