Poems.

by Frances Anne Butler.

LINES WRITTEN AT NIGHT.

August 9th, 1825.

Oh, thou surpa.s.sing beauty! that dost live Shrined in yon silent stream of glorious light!

Spirit of harmony! that through the vast And cloud-embroidered canopy art spreading Thy wings, that o'er our shadowy earth hang brooding, Like a pale silver haze, betwixt the moon And the world's darker orb: beautiful, hail!

Hail to thee! from her midnight throne of ether, Night looks upon the slumbering universe.

There is no breeze on silver-crowned tree, There is no breath on dew-bespangled flower, There is no wind sighs on the sleepy wave, There is no sound hangs in the solemn air.

All, all are silent, all are dreaming, all, Save those eternal eyes, that now shine forth Winking the slumberer's destinies. The moon Sails on the horizon's verge, a moving glory, Pure, and unrivalled; for no paler orb Approaches, to invade the sea of light That lives around her; save yon little star, That sparkles on her robe of fleecy clouds, Like a bright gem, fallen from her radiant brow.

VENICE.

Night in her dark array Steals o'er the ocean, And with departed day Hushed seems its motion.

Slowly o'er yon blue coast Onward she's treading, 'Till its dark line is lost, 'Neath her veil spreading.

The bark on the rippling deep Hath found a pillow, And the pale moonbeams sleep On the green billow.

Bound by her emerald zone Venice is lying, And round her marble crown Night winds are sighing.

From the high lattice now Bright eyes are gleaming, That seem on night's dark brow Brighter stars beaming.

Now o'er the bright lagune Light barks are dancing, And 'neath the silver moon Swift oars are glancing.

Strains from the mandolin Steal o'er the water, Echo replies between To mirth and laughter.

O'er the wave seen afar Brilliantly shining, Gleams like a fallen star Venice reclining.

TO MISS ---

Time beckons on the hours: the expiring year Already feels old Winter's icy breath; As with cold hands, he scatters on her bier The faded glories of her Autumn wreath.

As fleetly as the Summer's sunshine past, The Winter's snow must melt; and the young Spring, Strewing the earth with flowers, will come at last, And in her train the hour of parting bring.

But, though I leave the harbour, where my heart Sometime had found a peaceful resting-place, Where it lay calmly moored; though I depart, Yet, let not time my memory quite efface.

'Tis true, I leave no void, the happy home To which you welcomed me, will be as gay, As bright, as cheerful, when I've turned to roam, Once more, upon life's weary onward way.

But oh! if ever by the warm hearth's blaze, Where beaming eyes and kindred souls are met, Your fancy wanders back to former days, Let my remembrance hover round you yet.

Then, while before you glides time's shadowy train, Of forms long vanished, days and hours long gone, Perchance my name will be p.r.o.nounced again, In that dear circle where I once was one.

Think of me then, nor break kind memory's spell, By reason's censure coldly o'er me cast, Think only, that I loved ye pa.s.sing well!

And let my follies slumber with the past.

THE WIND.

Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully Arise the mighty winds, and sweep along In the full chorus of their midnight song.

The waste of heavy clouds, that veil the sky, Roll like a murky scroll before them driven, And show faint glimpses of a darker heaven.

No ray is there of moon, or pale-eyed star, Darkness is on the universe; save where The western sky lies glimmering, faint and far, With day's red embers dimly glowing there.

Hark! how the wind comes gathering in its course, And sweeping onward, with resistless force, Howls through the silent s.p.a.ce of starless skies, And on the breast of the swol'n ocean dies.

Oh, though art terrible, thou viewless power!

That rid'st destroying at the midnight hour!

We hear thy mighty pinion, but the eye Knows nothing of thine awful majesty.

We see all mute creation bow before Thy viewless wings, as thou careerest o'er This rocking world; that in the boundless sky Suspended, vibrates, as thou rushest by.

There is no terror in the lightning's glare, That breaks its red track through the trackless air; There is no terror in the voice that speaks From out the clouds when the loud thunder breaks Over the earth, like that which dwells in thee, Thou unseen tenant of immensity.

EASTERN SUNSET.

'Tis only the nightingale's warbled strain, That floats through the evening sky: With his note of love, he replies again, To the muezzin's holy cry; As it sweetly sounds on the rosy air, "Allah, il allah! come to prayer!"

Warm o'er the waters the red sun is glowing, 'Tis the last parting glance of his splendour and might, While each rippling wave on the bright sh.o.r.e is throwing Its white crest, that breaks into showers of light.

Each distant mosque and minaret Is shining in the setting sun, Whose farewell look is brighter yet, Than that with which his course begun.

On the dark blue mountains his smile is bright, It glows on the orange grove's waving height, And breaks through its shade in long lines of light.

No sound on the earth, and no sound in the sky, Save murmuring fountains that sparkle nigh, And the rustling flight of the evening breeze, Who steals from his nest in the cypress trees, And a thousand dewy odours fling, As he shakes their white buds from his gossamer wing, And flutters away through the spicy air, At sound of a footstep drawing near.

FAREWELL TO ITALY.

Farewell awhile, beautiful Italy!

My lonely bark is launched upon the sea That clasps thy sh.o.r.e, and the soft evening gale Breathes from thy coast, and fills my parting sail.

Ere morning dawn, a colder breeze will come, And bear me onward to my northern home; That home, where the pale sun is not so bright, So glorious, at his noonday's fiercest height, As when he throws his last glance o'er the sea, And fires the heavens, that glow farewell on thee.

Fair Italy! perchance some future day Upon thy coast again will see me stray; Meantime, farewell! I sorrow, as I leave Thy lovely sh.o.r.e behind me, as men grieve When bending o'er a form, around whose charms, Unconquered yet, Death winds his icy arms: While leaving the last kiss on some dear cheek, Where beauty sheds her last autumnal streak, Life's rosy flower just mantling into bloom, Before it fades for ever in the tomb.

So I leave thee, oh! thou art lovely still!

Despite the clouds of infamy and ill That gather thickly round thy fading form: Still glow thy glorious skies, as bright and warm, Still memory lingers fondly on thy strand, And Genius hails thee still her native land.

Land of my soul's adoption! o'er the sea, Thy sunny sh.o.r.e is fading rapidly: Fainter and fainter, from my gaze it dies, 'Till like a line of distant light it lies, A melting boundary 'twixt earth and sky, And now 'tis gone;--farewell, fair Italy!

THE RED INDIAN.

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past,-- Thy longest war-whoop, and thy last, Still rings upon the rushing blast, That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy haughty brow, Beneath the hand of death bends low, Thy fiery glance is quenched now, In the cold grave's obscurity.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy rising sun Is set in blood, thy day is done; Like lightning flash thy race is run, And thou art sleeping peacefully.