THE lady Blanch, regardless of all her lover's fears, To the Urs'line convent hastens, and long the Abbess hears,
ON THE CELEBRATED FICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS.
WHILE young John runs to greet The greater Infant's feet,
"O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly The Mother standing by, with trembling life ye lead."
Blanch look'd on a rose-bud and little seem'd to Of devout admiration,
She look'd on the rose-bud, she look'd round, and thought
Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty
Nor knows as yet the full event
On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun Of those so low beginnings, had taught.
From whence we date our winnings,
"I am worshipp'd by lovers, and brightly shines But wonders at the intent my fame,
"All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's
"Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,
"My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me.
Of those new rites, and what that strange childworship meant.
But at her side
An angel doth abide, With such a perfect joy As no dim doubts alloy, An intuition,
"But when the sculptured marble is rais'd o'er A glory, an amenity, my head,
Passing the dark condition
"And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among Of blind humanity, the noble dead,
"This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly All the blest wonder should ensue, Or he had lately left the upper sphere,
"It nothing will avail me that I were worshipp'd And had read all the sovran schemes and divine here."
ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN.
WHO art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? Come, fair and pretty, tell to me, Who, in thy life-time, thou might'st be.
MATERNAL lady with the virgin grace, Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure, And thou a virgin pure.
Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face Men look upon, they wish to be
A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.
u are not, Kelly, of the common strain, That stoop their pride and female honour down To please that many-headed beast the town, And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain; By fortune thrown amid the actors' train, You keep your native dignity of thought; The plaudits that attend you come unsought, As tributes due unto your natural vein. Your tears have passion in them, and a grace Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow; Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,
That vanish and return we know not how- And please the better from a pensive face, A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.
ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN.
QUEEN-BIRD that sittest on thy shining-nest, And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest, And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest Lest the white mother wandering feet molest: Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle, Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able To tread the land or waters with security. Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin, In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in Confessing weakness, error, and impurity. Did heavenly creatures own succession's line, The births of heaven like to yours would shine.
Was it some sweet device of Faery That mock'd my steps with many a lonely glade, And fancied wanderings with a fair hair'd maid? Have these things been? or what rare witchery, Impregning with delights the charmed air, Enlighted up the semblance of a smile
In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair To drop the murdering knife, and let go by His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid? Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh? While I forlorn do wander reckless where, And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.
METHINKS how dainty sweet it were, reclined Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, Nor of the busier scenes we left behind Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid! Beloved! I were well content to play With thy free tresses all a summer's day, Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. Or we might sit and tell some tender tale Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, A tale of true love, or of friend forgot; And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail In gentle sort, on those who practise not Or love or pity, though of woman born.
WHEN last Iroved these winding wood-walks green, Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene, Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. No more I hear her footsteps in the shade Her image only in these pleasant ways Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid. I pass'd the little cottage which she loved, The cottage which did once my all contain; It spake of days which ne'er must come again, Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. "Now fair befall thee, gentle maid !" said I, And from the cottage turn'd me with a sigh.
WHAT reason first imposed thee, gentle name, Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher;
And I, a childless man, may end the same. Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Received thee first amid the merry mocks And arch allusions of his fellow swains. Perchance from Salem's holier fields return'd, With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd, Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came, No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.
IF from my lips some angry accents fell,
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
'Twas but the error of a sickly mind
Betwixt our ages, which then seem'd so great- And still by rightful custom you retain Much of the old authoritative strain, And keep the elder brother up in state.
O! you do well in this. "Tis man's worst deed
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, To let the "things that have been" run to waste, And waters clear, of Reason; and for me Let this my verse the poor atonement be—
My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined Too highly, and with a partial eye to see No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
A TIMID grace sits trembling in her eye, As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, That steeps in kind oblivious ecstacy The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: Speaking most plain the thoughts which do
Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, And innocent loves, and maiden purity: A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him who hates his brethren of mankind.
Turn'd are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA- HOUSE.
JOHN, you were figuring in the gay career Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, When I was yet a little peevish boy- Though time has made the difference disappear
And in the unmeaning present sink the past: In whose dim glass even now I faintly read Old buried forms, and faces long ago, Which you, and I, and one more, only know.
O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep Like to a child. For now to my raised mind On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy, And her rude visions give severe delight. O winged bark! how swift along the night Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by Lightly of that drear hour the memory, When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood, Even till it seem'd a pleasant thing to die,— To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, Or take my portion with the winds that rave.
We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, And INNOCENCE her name. We two did love each other's company; The time has been, Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. But when by show of seeming good beguiled,
I left the garb and manners of a child, And my first love for man's society, Defiling with the world my virgin heart— My loved companion dropp'd a tear, and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art- In what delicious Eden to be found- That I may seek thee the wide world around!
In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse Upon the days gone by; to act in thought Past seasons o'er, and be again a child; To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
That reverend form bent down with age and
And rankling malady. Yet not for this Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew Her trust in him, her faith, an humble hope- So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross-
Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay For she had studied patience in the school flowers,
Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled), Would throw away, and straight take up again, Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.
On the green hill top, Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-barn, Save by a slender tapering length of spire, The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells The name and date to the chance passenger. For lowly born was she, and long had eat,
Of Christ; much comfort she had thence derived, And was a follower of the NAZARENE.
THE SABBATH BELLS.
THE cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear Of the contemplant, solitary man,
Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, And oft again, hard matter, which eludes And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick and tired
Well-earn'd, the bread of service :-hers was else Of controversy, where no end appears,
A mountain spirit, one that entertain'd Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable, Or aught unseemly. I remember well Her reverend image; I remember, too,
With what a zeal she served her master's house; And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age Delighted to recount the oft-told tale Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, And wondrous skill'd in genealogies, And could in apt and voluble terms discourse Of births, of titles, and alliances; Of marriages, and intermarriages; Relationship remote, or near of kin; Of friends offended, family disgraced- Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying Parental strict injunction, and regardless Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote, Stooping to wed with one of low degree. But these are not thy praises; and I wrong Thy honour'd memory, recording chiefly Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love, She served her heavenly Master. I have seen
No clue to his research, the lonely man Half wishes for society again.
Him, thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute Sudden his heart awakes, his ears drink in The cheering music; his relenting soul Yearns after all the joys of social life, And softens with the love of human kind.
FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS. THE truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk In the bright visions of empyreal light, By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow; By crystal streams, and by the living waters, Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found From pain and want, and all the ills that wait On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.
'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. Those are the moanings of the dying man, Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, And interrupted only by a cough Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. So in the bitterness of death he lies, And waits in anguish for the morning's light. What can that do for him, or what restore? Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices, And little images of pleasures past,
Of health, and active life-health not yet slain, Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light,
And finds no comfort in the sun, but says "When night comes I shall get a little rest." Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end.
"Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Where decent reverence well had kept her
Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brought
By her enormous fablings and mad lies, Discredit on the gospel's serious truths And salutary fears. The man of parts, Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates
A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, Their heads encompassed with crowns, their
With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far re
From damned spirits, and the torturing cries Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth, As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, Belike his kindred or companions once- Through everlasting ages now divorced, In chains and savage torments to repent Short years of folly on earth. Their groans
In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, For those thus sentenced-pity might disturb The delicate sense and most divine repose Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God, The measure of his judgments is not fix'd By man's erroneous standard. He discerns No such inordinate difference and vast Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, No man on earth is holy call'd: they best Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield To him of his own works the praise, his due.
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