The Nereid maids, in days of yore,
Saw the lost pilot loose the helm,
Saw the wreck blacken all the shore,
And every wave some head o'erwhelm.
Afar the youngest of the train
Beheld (but fear'd and aided not)
A minstrel from the billowy main
Borne breathless near her coral grot.
Then terror fled, and pity rose . .
"Ah me!" she cried, "I come too late!
Rather than not have sooth'd his woes,
I would, but may not, share his fate."
She rais'd his hand. "What hand like this
Could reach the heart athwart the lyre!
What lips like these return my kiss,
Or breathe, incessant, soft desire!"
From eve to morn, from morn to eve,
She gazed his features o'er and o'er, And those who love and who believe May hear her sigh along the shore.
Art thou afraid the adorer's prayer
Be overheard? that fear resign.
He waves the incense with such care
It leaves no stain upon the shrine.
You see the worst of love, but not the best,
Nor will you know him till-he comes your guest.
Tho' yearly drops some feather from his sides,
In the heart's temple his pure torch abides.
According to eternal laws
(Tis useless to inquire the cause)
The gates of fame and of the grave
Stand under the same architrave,
So I would rather some time yet
Play on with you, my little pet!
While the winds whistle round my cheerless room,
And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom;
While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands,
The ripening harvest and the hoary sands;
Alone, and destitute of every page
That fires the poet or informs the sage,
Where shall my wishes, where my fancy, rove,
Rest upon past or cherish promist love?
Alas! the past I never can regain,
Wishes may rise and tears may flow. . in vain.
Fancy, that brings her in her early bloom,
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb.
What then would passion, what would reason, do?
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue.
Here will I sit till heaven shall cease to lour
And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour,
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,
Think of my love, and bid her think of me.
One pansy, one, she bore beneath her breast,
A broad white ribbon held that pansy tight.
She waved about nor lookt upon the rest,
Costly and rare; on this she bent her sight.
I watcht her raise it gently when it droopt;
I knew she wisht to show it me; I knew
She would I saw it rise, to lie unloopt
Nearer its home, that tender heart! that true!
You tell me I must come again
Now buds and blooms appear: Ah! never fell one word in vain Of
yours on mortal ear. You say the birds are busy now
In hedgerow, brake, and grove, And slant their eyes to find the bough That best conceals their love:
How many warble from the spray!
How many on the wing!
"Yet, yet," say you,
I miss the sound of spring."
How little could that voice express,
Beloved, when we met!
But other sounds hath tenderness,
Which neither shall forget.
Retired this hour from wondering crowds
And flower-fed poets swathed in clouds,
Now the dull dust is blown away,
Ianthe, list to what I say.
Verse is not always sure to please
For lightness, readiness, and ease;
Romantic ladies like it not
Unless its steams are strong and hot
As Melton-Mowbray stables when
Ill-favoured frost comes back again.
Tell me no more you feel a pride
To be for ever at my side,
To think your beauty will be read
When all who pine for it are dead.
I hate a pomp and a parade
Of what should ever rest in shade;
What not the slenderest ray should reach,
Nor whispered breath of guarded speech:
There even Memory should sit
Absorbed, and almost doubting it.
I often ask upon whose arm she leans,
She whom I dearly love,
And if she visit much the crowded scenes
Where mimic passions move.
There, mighty powers! assert your just controul,
Alarm her thoughtless breast,
Breathe soft suspicion o'er her yielding soul,
But never break its rest.
O let some faithful lover, absent long,
To sudden bliss return;
Then Landor's name shall tremble from her tongue, Her cheek thro' tears shall burn.
I sadden while I view again
Smiles that for me the Graces wreathed.
Sure my last kiss those lips retain
And breathe the very vow they breathed;
At peace, in sorrow, far or near,
Constant and fond she still would be,
And absence should the more endear
The sigh it only woke for me.
Till the slow hours have past away,
Sweet image, bid my bosom rest.
Vain hope! yet shalt thou night and day,
Sweet image, to this heart be prest.
A time will come when absence, grief, and years,
Shall change the form and voice that please you now,
When you perplext shall ask, "And fell
Into his bosom? breath'd I there my vow?"
It must be so, Ianthe! but to think
Malignant Fate should also threaten you,
Would make my heart, now vainly buoyant, sink:
Believe it not: 'tis what I'll never do.
Have I, this moment, led thee from the beach
Into the boat? now far beyond my reach!
Stand there a little while, and wave once more
That kerchief; but may none upon the shore
Dare think the fond salute was meant for him!
Dizzily on the plashing water swim
My heavy eyes, and sometimes can attain
Thy lovely form, which tears bear off again.
In vain have they now ceast; it now is gone
Too far for sight, and leaves me here alone.
O could I hear the creaking of the mast!
I curst it present, I regret it past.
Yes, we shall meet (I knew we should) again,
And I am solaced now you tell me when.
Joy sprung o'er sorrow as the morning broke,
And, as I read the words, I thought you spoke.
Altho' you bade it, yet to find how fast
My spirits rose, how lightly grief flew past,
I blush at every tear I have represt,
And one is starting to reprove the rest.
Ye walls! sole witnesses of happy sighs,
Say not, blest walls, one word.
Remember, but keep safe from ears and eyes
All you have seen and heard.*
The bough beneath me shakes and swings.
While tender love wants most your wings
Why are you flying from our nest?
That love, first opened by your beak,
You taught to peck, and then to speak
The few short words you liked the best,
Come back again, soft cowering breast!
Do not you hear or mind my call?
Come back! come back! or I may fall
From my high branch to one below;
For there are many in our trees,
And part your flight and part the breeze
May shake me where I would not go.
Ah! do not then desert me so!
IANTHE'S LETTER.
We will not argue, if you say
My sorrows when I went away
Were not for you alone;
For there were many very dear,
Altho' at dawn they came not near,
As you did, yet who griev'd when I was gone.
We will not argue (but why tell
So false a tale ?) that scarcely fell
My tears where mostly due.
I can not think who told you so:
I shed (about the rest I know
Nothing at all) the first and last for you.
"Remember you the guilty night,"
A downcast myrtle said,
"You snatcht and held me pale with fright Till life almost had fled?
O murs! temoins des plus heureux soupirs,
N'en dites mot: gardez nos souvenirs.
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