Thus he nears! and now she feels him Breathing hot on every limb; And he hears her own quick pantings - Ah! that they might be for him.

O, that like the flower he tramples, Bending from his golden tread, Full of fair celestial ardours, She would bow her bridal head.

O, that like the flower she presses, Nodding from her lily touch, Light as in the harmless breezes, She would know the G.o.d for such!

See! the golden arms are round her - To the air she grasps and clings!

See! his glowing arms have wound her - To the sky she shrieks and springs!

See! the flushing chace of Tempe Trembles with Olympian air - See! green sprigs and buds are shooting From those white raised arms of prayer!

In the earth her feet are rooting! - b.r.e.a.s.t.s and limbs and lifted eyes, Hair and lips and stretching fingers, Fade away--and fadeless rise.

And the G.o.d whose fervent rapture Clasps her finds his close embrace Full of palpitating branches, And new leaves that bud apace,

Bound his wonder-stricken forehead; - While in ebbing measures slow Sounds of softly dying pulses Pause and quiver, pause and go;

Go, and come again, and flutter On the verge of life,--then flee!

All the white ambrosial beauty Is a l.u.s.trous Laurel Tree!

Still with the great panting love-chase All its running sap is warmed; - But from head to foot the virgin Is transfigured and transformed.

Changed!--yet the green Dryad nature Is instinct with human ties, And above its anguish'd lover Breathes pathetic sympathies;

Sympathies of love and sorrow; Joy in her divine escape; Breathing through her bursting foliage Comfort to his bending shape.

Vainly now the floating Naiads Seek to pierce the laurel maze, Nought but laurel meets their glances, Laurel glistens as they gaze.

Nought but bright prophetic laurel!

Laurel over eyes and brows, Over limbs and over bosom, Laurel leaves and laurel boughs!

And in vain the listening Dryad Sh.e.l.ls her hand against her ear! - All is silence--save the echo Travelling in the distance drear.

LONDON BY LAMPLIGHT

There stands a singer in the street, He has an audience motley and meet; Above him lowers the London night, And around the lamps are flaring bright.

His minstrelsy may be unchaste - 'Tis much unto that motley taste, And loud the laughter he provokes From those sad slaves of obscene jokes.

But woe is many a pa.s.ser by Who as he goes turns half an eye, To see the human form divine Thus Circe-wise changed into swine!

Make up the sum of either s.e.x That all our human hopes perplex, With those unhappy shapes that know The silent streets and pale c.o.c.k-crow.

And can I trace in such dull eyes Of fireside peace or country skies?

And could those haggard cheeks presume To memories of a May-tide bloom?

Those violated forms have been The pride of many a flowering green; And still the virgin bosom heaves With daisy meads and dewy leaves.

But stygian darkness reigns within The river of death from the founts of sin; And one prophetic water rolls Its gas-lit surface for their souls.

I will not hide the tragic sight - Those drown'd black locks, those dead lips white, Will rise from out the slimy flood, And cry before G.o.d's throne for blood!

Those stiffened limbs, that swollen face, - Pollution's last and best embrace, Will call, as such a picture can, For retribution upon man.

Hark! how their feeble laughter rings, While still the ballad-monger sings, And flatters their unhappy b.r.e.a.s.t.s With poisonous words and pungent jests.

O how would every daisy blush To see them 'mid that earthy crush!

O dumb would be the evening thrush, And h.o.a.ry look the hawthorn bush!

The meadows of their infancy Would shrink from them, and every tree, And every little laughing spot, Would hush itself and know them not.

Precursor to what black despairs Was that child's face which once was theirs!

And O to what a world of guile Was herald that young angel smile!

That face which to a father's eye Was balm for all anxiety; That smile which to a mother's heart Went swifter than the swallow's dart!

O happy homes! that still they know At intervals, with what a woe Would ye look on them, dim and strange, Suffering worse than winter change!

And yet could I transplant them there, To breathe again the innocent air Of youth, and once more reconcile Their outcast looks with nature's smile;

Could I but give them one clear day Of this delicious loving May, Release their souls from anguish dark, And stand them underneath the lark; -

I think that Nature would have power To graft again her blighted flower Upon the broken stem, renew Some portion of its early hue; -

The heavy flood of tears unlock, More precious than the Scriptured rock; At least instil a happier mood, And bring them back to womanhood.

Alas! how many lost ones claim This refuge from despair and shame!

How many, longing for the light, Sink deeper in the abyss this night!

O, crying sin! O, blushing thought!

Not only unto those that wrought The misery and deadly blight; But those that outcast them this night!

O, agony of grief! for who Less dainty than his race, will do Such battle for their human right, As shall awake this startled night?

Proclaim this evil human page Will ever blot the Golden Age That poets dream and saints invite, If it be unredeemed this night?

This night of deep solemnity, And verdurous serenity, While over every fleecy field The dews descend and odours yield.

This night of gleaming floods and falls, Of forest glooms and sylvan calls, Of starlight on the pebbly rills, And twilight on the circling hills.

This night! when from the paths of men Grey error steams as from a fen; As o'er this flaring City wreathes The black cloud-vapour that it breathes!

This night from which a morn will spring Blooming on its orient wing; A morn to roll with many more Its ghostly foam on the twilight sh.o.r.e.

Morn! when the fate of all mankind Hangs poised in doubt, and man is blind.