The Bridegroom calls,-shall the For them there is no glory in the Bride seek to stay?' Then low upon her breast she bowed her head. sky, No sweetness in the breezes' murmuring: O lily flower, O gem of priceless They say, 'The peace of heaven is worth, placed too high, And this earth changeth and is perishing.' 6 December 1847. VANITY OF VANITIES AH woe is me for pleasure that is vain, Ah woe is me for glory that is past! Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last, Glory that at the last bringeth no gain. So saith the sinking heart; and so again It shall say till the mighty angelblast Is blown, making the sun and moon aghast, And showering down the stars like sudden rain. And evermore men shall go fearfully, Bending beneath their weight of heaviness; And ancient men shall lie down wearily, And strong men shall rise up in weariness: Yea even the young shall answer sighingly, Saying one to another How vain it is!' 1847. THREE STAGES -A PAUSE OF THOUGHT I LOOKED for that which is not, nor can be, 2. THE END OF THE FIRST PART My happy happy dream is finished with, My dream in which alone I lived so long. And hope deferred made my My heart slept woe is heart sick in truth: But years must pass before a hope of youth Is resigned utterly. I watched and waited with a steadfast will: And though the object seemed to flee away That I so longed for, ever day by day I watched and waited still. Sometimes I said: "This thing shall be no more; My expectation wearies and shall cease; I will resign it now and be at peace': Yet never gave it o'er. Sometimes I said: 'It is an empty name I long for; to a name why should The peace of all the days I have Yet gave it all the same. Alas thou foolish one! alike unfit 14 February 1848. me, it wakeneth Was weak-I thought it strong. Oh weary wakening from a life-true dream! 4 Oh pleasant dream from which I wake in pain! I rested all my trust on things that seem, And all my trust is vain. I must pull down my palace that I built, Dig up the pleasure-gardens of my soul; Must change my laughter to sad tears for guilt, My freedom to control. Now all the cherished secrets of my heart, Now all my hidden hopes, are turned to sin. Part of my life is dead, part sick, and part Is all on fire within. The fruitless thought of what I might have been, Haunting me ever, will not let me rest. A cold North wind has withered all my green, My sun is in the West. But, where my palace stood, with the same stone I will uprear a shady hermitage: And there my spirit shall keep house alone, Accomplishing its age. Gone dead alike to pulses of quick pain And pleasure's counterpoise.' I said so in my heart: and so I thought There other garden-beds shall lie My life would lapse, a tedious mono around, Full of sweet-briar and incensebearing thyme : There I will sit, and listen for the sound Of the last lingering chime. 18 April 1849. 3 tone: I thought to shut myself and dwell alone Unseeking and unsought. But first I tired, and then my care grew slack, Till my heart dreamed, and maybe wandered too :— I THOUGHT to deal the death-stroke I felt the sunshine glow again, and at a blow: To give all, once for all, but never more: Then sit to hear the low waves fret the shore, Or watch the silent show. 'Oh rest,' I thought, 'in silence and the dark: Oh rest, if nothing else, from head to feet: Though I may see no more the poppied wheat, Or sunny soaring lark. 'These chimes are slow, but surely strike at last : This sand is slow, but surely droppeth through: And much there is to suffer, much to do, Before the time be past. 'So will I labour, but will not rejoice: Will do and bear, but will not hope again: R knew The swallow on its track: All birds awoke to building in the leaves, All buds awoke to fullness and sweet scent: Ah too my heart woke unawares, intent On fruitful harvest-sheaves. Full pulse of life, that I had deemed was dead; Full throb of youth, that I had With royal purple blossoms for the feast, Nor flush with laughter, nor exult in song: These joys may drift, as time now drifts along; And cease, as once they ceased. U And dreaming through the twilight 12 December 1848. ON KEATS A GARDEN in a garden: a green spot Where all is green : most fitting slumber-place For the strong man grown weary of a race Soon over. Unto him a goodly lot Hath fallen in fertile ground; there thorns are not, But his own daisies; silence, full of grace, Surely hath shed a quiet on his face; His earth is but sweet leaves that fall and rot. What was his record of himself, ere he Went from us? 'Here lies one whose name was writ In water.' While the chilly shadows flit Of sweet St. Agnes' Eve, while basil springs His name, in every humble heart that sings, Shall be a fountain of love, verily. 18 January 1849 (Eve of St. Agnes). HAVE PATIENCE THE goblets all are broken, The pleasant wine is spilt, The songs cease. If thou wilt, Listen, and hear truth spoken. We take thought for the morrow, And know not we shall see it ; We look on death with sorrow, And cannot flee it. Youth passes like the lightning, From the white rose's cup That had been very fair; No beauty lingers there, And no bee settles. But, when the rose is dead And the leaves fallen, And when the earth has spread A snow-white pall on, The thorn remains, once hidden By the green growth above itA darksome guest unbidden, With none to love it. Manhood is turbulent, And old age tires; This no desires. And more cares fret it : Life is a weariness From first to last Let us forget it: Fill high and deep!-But how? For this is but a token |