There was a cry of joy, with seeking hands She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest; Like washing water on the figured sands, His being came and went in sweet unrest, As from the mighty shelter of his breast The Lady Barbara her head uprears With a wan smile, "Methinks I'm but half blest: Now when I've found thee, after weary years, I cannot see thee, love! so blind I am with tears."

TO ----

The broken moon lay in the autumn sky, And I lay at thy feet; You bent above me; in the silence I Could hear my wild heart beat.

I spoke; my soul was full of trembling fears At what my words would bring: You raised your face, your eyes were full of tears, As the sweet eyes of Spring.

You kissed me then, I worshipped at thy feet Upon the shadowy sod.

Oh, fool, I loved thee! loved thee, lovely cheat!

Better than Fame or G.o.d.

My soul leaped up beneath thy timid kiss: What then to me were groans, Or pain, or death? Earth was a round of bliss, I seemed to walk on thrones.

And you were with me 'mong the rushing wheels, 'Mid Trade's tumultuous jars; And where to awe-struck wilds the Night reveals Her hollow gulfs of stars.

Before your window, as before a shrine, I've knelt 'mong dew-soaked flowers, While distant music-bells, with voices fine, Measured the midnight hours.

There came a fearful moment: I was pale, You wept, and never spoke, But clung around me as the woodbine frail Clings, pleading, round an oak.

Upon my wrong I steadied up my soul, And flung thee from myself; I spurned thy love as 'twere a rich man's dole,-- It was my only wealth.

I spurned thee! I, who loved thee, could have died, That hoped to call thee "wife,"

And bear thee, gently-smiling at my side, Through all the shocks of life!

Too late, thy fatal beauty and thy tears, Thy vows, thy pa.s.sionate breath; I'll meet thee not in Life, nor in the spheres Made visible by Death.

SONNETS.

I cannot deem why men toil so for Fame.

A porter is a porter though his load Be the oceaned world, and although his road Be down the ages. What is in a name?

Ah! 'tis our spirit's curse to strive and seek.

Although its heart is rich in pearls and ores, The Sea complains upon a thousand sh.o.r.es; Sea-like we moan for ever. We are weak.

We ever hunger for diviner stores.

I cannot say I have a thirsting deep For human fame, nor is my spirit bowed To be a mummy above ground to keep For stare and handling of the vulgar crowd, Defrauded of my natural rest and sleep.

There have been vast displays of critic wit O'er those who vainly flutter feeble wings, Nor rise an inch 'bove ground,--weak Poetlings!

And on them to the death men's brows are knit.

Ye men! ye critics! seems 't so very fit They on a storm of laughter should be blown O'er the world's edge to Limbo? Be it known, Ye men! ye critics! that beneath the sun The chiefest woe is this,--When all alone, And strong as life, a soul's great currents run Poesy-ward, like rivers to the sea, But never reach 't. Critic, let that soul moan In its own h.e.l.l without a kick from thee.

Kind Death, kiss gently, ease this weary one!

Joy like a stream flows through the Christmas-streets, But I am sitting in my silent room, Sitting all silent in congenial gloom.

To-night, while half the world the other greets With smiles and grasping hands and drinks and meats, I sit and muse on my poetic doom; Like the dim scent within a budded rose, A joy is folded in my heart; and when I think on Poets nurtured 'mong the throes, And by the lowly hearths of common men,-- Think of their works, some song, some swelling ode With gorgeous music growing to a close, Deep-m.u.f.fled as the dead-march of a G.o.d,-- My heart is burning to be one of those.

Beauty still walketh on the earth and air, Our present sunsets are as rich in gold As ere the Iliad's music was out-rolled; The roses of the Spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, And the deep sea still foams its music old.

So, if we are at all divinely souled, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care.

'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending Within old starry-gated Poesy, To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet Friend! Oh, dearer this to me Than are the dewy trees, the sun, the moon, Or n.o.ble music with a golden ending.

Last night my cheek was wetted with warm tears, Each worth a world. They fell from eyes divine.

Last night a loving lip was pressed to mine, And at its touch fled all the barren years; And softly couched upon a bosom white, Which came and went beneath me like a sea, An emperor I lay in empire bright, Lord of the beating heart, while tenderly Love-words were glutting my love-greedy ears.

Kind Love, I thank thee for that happy night!

Richer this cheek with those warm tears of thine Than the vast midnight with its gleaming spheres.

Leander toiling through the moonlight brine, Kingdomless Anthony, were scarce my peers.

I wrote a Name upon the river sands With her who bore it standing by my side, Her large dark eyes lit up with gentle pride, And leaning on my arm with clasped hands, To burning words of mine she thus replied, "Nay, writ not on thy heart. This tablet frail Fitteth as frail a vow. Fantastic bands Will scarce confine these limbs." I turned love-pale, I gazed upon the river'd landscape wide, And thought how little _it_ would all avail Without her love. 'Twas on a morn of May, Within a month I stood upon the sand, Gone was the name I traced with trembling hand,-- And from my heart 'twas also gone away.

Like clouds or streams we wandered on at will, Three glorious days, till, near our journey's end, As down the moorland road we straight did wend, To Wordsworth's "Inversneyd," talking to kill The cold and cheerless drizzle in the air, 'Bove me I saw, at pointing of my friend, An old fort like a ghost upon the hill, Stare in blank misery through the blinding rain, So human-like it seemed in its despair-- So stunned with grief--long gazed at it we twain.

Weary and damp we reached our poor abode, I, warmly seated in the chimney-nook, Still saw that old Fort o'er the moorland road Stare through the rain with strange woe-wildered look.

Sheath'd is the river as it glideth by, Frost-pearl'd are all the boughs in forests old, The sheep are huddling close upon the wold, And over them the stars tremble on high.

Pure joys these winter nights around me lie; 'Tis fine to loiter through the lighted street At Christmas time, and guess from brow and pace The doom and history of each one we meet, What kind of heart beats in each dusky case; Whiles startled by the beauty of a face In a shop-light a moment. Or instead, To dream of silent fields where calm and deep The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep-- Recalling sweetest looks of Summers dead.

London:--Printed by G. BARCLAY, Castle St. Leicester Sq.

86, FLEET STREET, _London_.

_January 1854._

DAVID BOGUE'S

LATE TILT AND BOGUE,

ANNUAL CATALOGUE.