But that is false in part, for never word
Of love from either lip by us was heard;
The tongue is false and cogging, but the eye,
The vanishing rosy smile, speak faithfully.
Yes, Love beneath these cold lids did repair
As to a crystal palace, there to blend
His essence with the lights they did defend;
And when they op'd their portals, what a light
Poured from the worlds they hid! Two bright
All-radiant worlds-two stars of living fire,
Having joint sway and majesty entire
Within their fair domains and beauteous spheres,
And gemmed with diamonds like to dropping tears,
And Love was there enshrined, and laughed through,
The pensive glories of these eyes so blue.
SWEET EARLSBURN, BLYTHE EARLSBURN.
SWEET Earlsburn, blythe Earlsburn,
Mine own, my native stream,
My heart grows young again, while thus
On thy green banks I dream.
Yes, dream! in sooth I can no more,
For as thy murmurs roll,
They wake the ancient melodies
That stirred my infant soul.
I've told thee, one by one, the thoughts ;
Strange shapeless forms were they,
That hung around me fearfully
In childhood's dreamy day.
And still thy mystic music spake
Dimly articulate,
Yielding meet answer to the dreams
That shadowed forth my fate.
I've wept by thee a sorrowing child;
I've sported, mad with glee,
And still thou wert the only one
That seemed to care for me;
For in whatever mood I came
To wander by thy brim,
Thy murmurs were most musical,
Soul-soothing as a hymn.
I've wandered far in other lands,
And mixed with stranger men,
But still my heart untravelled sought
Repose within thy glen.
The pictures of my memory
Were fresh as they were limned,
Nor change of scene, nor lapse of years,
Their lustre ever dimmed.
BEGONE, BEGONE THOU TRUANT TEAR.
BEGONE, begone thou truant tear
That trembles on my cheek,
And far away be borne the sigh
That more than words can speak.
And cease, my merry harp, to wake
The song of former days,
And perish all the minstrel lyre
That framed these happy lays.
She loves me not who woke these strains,
Then, wherefore should they be? True, she doth smile as she was wont, But doth she smile on me?
Her neck with kindly arch ne'er bends
When listing to my song,
Nor does her passion-moving lips
The trembling notes prolong.
Time was, indeed, when she would hang
Enamoured on my theme;
But ah, that happy time hath fled,
And vanished like a dream.
Peace, thou proud heart, and prate no more,
Thy sun of joy hath set,
And dark and starless is the sky
The troubadour has met.
O BABBLE NOT TO ME, GRAY EILD.
Oн babble not to me, Gray Eild,
Of days and years mis-spent,
Unless thou can'st again restore
Youth's scenes of merriment.
Can'st thou recal to me the heart
That bounded sorrow-free,
Or wake to life the lovely one
Who stole that heart from me?
Can'st thou by magic art compel
The shrouded dead to rise,
And all the friends of early years
Again to glad my eyes?
Can'st thou renew Hope flattering dream
That promised joys in store,
Or bid me taste again those few,
Alas! that are no more?
Then babble not to me, Gray Eild,
Of days and years mis-spent,
Unless thou can'st again restore
Youth's dreams of sweet content.
SONNET-THE PATRIOT'S DEATH.
HIS eye did lose its lustre for a space,
And a bright colour mantled o'er his face;
His lips did tremulous move, as if to speak,
But no words came. On his brow did break
The heavy and cold dew of coming death;
And thick and difficult hath grown his breath.
A moment's space, it was no more, for soon
Calmness and sunshine did again illume
His stern-resolved features, and a glow
Of deep but bridled wrath sat on his brow;
But it frowned not, nor did his piercing eye
Speak aught that wronged his proud heart's privacy.
Fear did not there abide, nor yet did rage
Gleam in its fire. Far nobler moods assuage
Its potent brilliance and restrain its ire ;
It nothing knew but the brave patriot's fire,
Who slaketh life to grasp at liberty,
And dies rejoicing that he has lived free,
Well knowing that his death to other men
Will be a gathering call- —a watchword, when
The brave on freedom look in after times.
SONNET-PÁLE DAUGHTER OF THE NIGHT.
Oн thou most beautiful and meek-eyed virgin,
Pale daughter of the night, how tempest tost
And wildered in these thickening clouds thou art,
Yet smiling ever with so sweet a face
Of love around thee, that in truth, methinks,
Even at these clouds thou canst not take offence,
Knowing thy glory and majestic form
Cannot be sullied; and the innocent,
Even like to thee, with undiminished beam,
Burst through the clouds of envious calumny
To shame the tongues, and give the lie to thoughts
Having no saintlike charity! Oh, yes, like thee,
Thus shine on darkness with forgiving look,
For Innocence and Mercy are twin-born!
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