Marvel not at thy life!--patience shall see The perfect work of wisdom to her given; Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery, And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

TO ---

What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers All the sad night, when he is far away?

What recks he, how they mourn, through those dark hours, Till back again he leads the smiling day?

As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye, And blesses from its lowly seat, the G.o.d, In his great glory he goes through the sky, And recks not of the blessing from the sod.

And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate!

That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee?

That thy departing, leaves me desolate, That thy returning, brings back life to me?

I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe, That for thy sake daily disturbs my life; I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so, That all the love I can, is woe, and strife.

I blame not thee, that I may ne'er impart The tempest, and the death, and the despair, That words, and looks, of thine make in my heart, And turn by turn, riot and stagnate there.

Oh! I have found my sin's sharp scourge in thee, For loving thee, as one should love but Heaven; Therefore, oh, thou beloved! I blame not thee, But by my anguish hope to be forgiven.

TO ---

The fountain of my life, which flowed so free, The plenteous waves, which br.i.m.m.i.n.g gushed along, Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song, Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee: How should they not? from the shrunk, narrow bed, Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed away Light, life, and motion, and along its way The dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread,-- Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblest Disturb the wells whence that sad stream takes birth, The swollen waters once again gush forth, Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest.

EPISTLE FROM THE RHINE.

To Y---, with a bowl of Bohemian gla.s.s.

From rocky hills, where climbs the vine; Where on his waves the wandering Rhine Sees imaged ruins, towns and towers, Bare mountain scalps, green forest bowers; From that broad land of poetry, Wild legend, n.o.ble history, This token many a day bore I, To lay it at your feet, dear Y---.

Little the stupid bowl will tell Of all that on its way befell, Since from old Frankfort's free domain, Where smiling vineyards skirt the main, It took its way; what sunsets red Their splendours o'er the mountains shed, How the blue Taunus' distant height Like hills of fire gave back the light, And how, on river, rock, and sky, The sun declined so tenderly, That o'er the scene white moonlight fell, Ere we had bid the day farewell.

From Maintz, where many a warrior priest Was wont of yore to fight and feast, The broad stream bore us down its tide, Till where upon its steeper side, Grim Ehrenfels, with turrets brown, On Hatto's wave-worn tower looks down.

Here did we rest,--my dearest Y---, This bowl could all as well as I, Describe that scene, when in the deep, Still, middle night, all wrapped in sleep, The hamlet lone, the dark blue sky, The eddying river sweeping by, Lay 'neath the clear unclouded light Of the full moon: broad, br.i.m.m.i.n.g, bright, The glorious flood went rolling by Its world of waves, while silently The s.h.a.ggy hills on either side, Watched like huge giants by the tide.

From where the savage bishop's tower Obstructs the flood, a sullen roar Broke on the stillness of the night, And the rough waters, yeasty white, Foamed round that whirlpool dread and deep, Where still thy voice is heard to weep, Gisela! maiden most unblest, Thou Jephtha's daughter of the West!

Who shall recall the shadowy train That, in the magic light, my brain Conjured upon the gla.s.sy wave, From castle, convent, crag and cave?

Down swept the Lord of Allemain, Broad-browed, deep-chested Charlemagne, And his fair child, who tottering bore Her lover o'er the treacherous floor Of new-fallen snow, that her small feet Alone might print that tell-tale sheet, Nor other trace show the stern guard, The nightly path of Eginhard.

What waving plumes and banners pa.s.sed, With trumpet clang and bugle blast, And on the night-wind faintly borne, Strains from that mighty hunting-horn, Which through these woods, in other days, Startled the echoes of the chase.

On trooped the vision; lord and dame, On fiery steed and palfrey tame, Pilgrims, with palms and c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.ls, And motley fools, with cap and bells, Princes and Counties Palatine, Who ruled and revelled on the Rhine, Abbot and monk, with many a torch, Came winding from each convent porch; And holy maids from Nonnenwerth, In the pale moonlight all came forth; Thy love, Roland, among the rest, Her meek hands folded on her breast, Her sad eyes turned to heaven, where thou Once more shalt hear love's early vow,-- That vow, which led thee home again From Roncevalles' b.l.o.o.d.y plain,-- That vow, that ne'er again was spoken Till death the nun's drear oath had broken.

Down from each crumbling castle poured, Of ruthless robber-knights, the horde, Sweeping with clang and clamour by, Like storm-cloud rattling through the sky: Pageant so glorious ne'er, I ween, On lonely river bank was seen.

So pa.s.sed that night: but with the day The vision melted all away; And wrapped in sullen mist and rain, The river bore us on again, With heavy hearts and tearful eyes, That answered well the weeping skies Of autumn, which now hung o'er all The scene their leaden, dropping pall, Beneath whose dark gray veils, once more We hailed our native Albion's sh.o.r.e, Our pilgrimage of pleasure o'er.

LINES FOR MUSIC.

Good night! from music's softest spell Go to thy dreams: and in thy slumbers, Fairies, with magic harp and sh.e.l.l, Sing o'er to thee thy own sweet numbers.

Good night! from Hope's intense desire Go to thy dreams: and may to-morrow, Love with the sun returning, fire These evening mists of doubt and sorrow.

Good night! from hours of weary waking I'll to my dreams: still in my sleep To feel the spirit's restless aching, And ev'n with eyelids closed, to weep.

SONNET.

Say thou not sadly, "never," and "no more,"

But from thy lips banish those falsest words; While life remains that which was thine before Again may be thine; in Time's storehouse lie Days, hours, and moments, that have unknown h.o.a.rds Of joy, as well as sorrow: pa.s.sing by, Smiles, come with tears; therefore with hopeful eye Look thou on dear things, though they turn away, For thou and they, perchance, some future day Shall meet again, and the gone bliss return; For its departure then make thou no mourn, But with stout heart bid what thou lov'st farewell; That which the past hath given the future gives as well.

SONNET.

Though thou return unto the former things, Fields, woods, and gardens, where thy feet have strayed In other days, and not a bough, branch, blade Of tree, or meadow, but the same appears As when thou lovedst them in former years, They shall not _seem_ the same; the spirit brings Change from the inward, though the outward be E'en as it was, when thou didst weep to see It last, and spak'st that prophecy of pain, "Farewell! I shall not look on ye again!"

And so thou never didst--no, though e'en now Thine eyes behold all they so loved of yore, The _Thou_ that did behold them then, no more Lives in this world, it is another Thou.

SONNET.

Like one who walketh in a plenteous land, By flowing waters, under shady trees, Through sunny meadows, where the summer bees Feed in the thyme and clover; on each hand Fair gardens lying, where of fruit and flower The bounteous season hath poured out its dower: Where saffron skies roof in the earth with light, And birds sing thankfully towards Heaven, while he With a sad heart walks through this jubilee, Beholding how beyond this happy land, Stretches a thirsty desert of gray sand, Where all the air is one thick, leaden blight, Where all things dwarf and dwindle,--so walk I, Through my rich, present life, to what beyond doth lie.

SONNET.

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn O'er joys that G.o.d hath for a season lent, Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent, Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn.

There lies no desert in the land of life, For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem, Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.

Haply no more, music, and mirth and love, And glorious things of old and younger art, Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast; But when these bright companions all depart, Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.