English

In the fair blank that now, like some new bay
In life's vague ocean, opens with to-day,
Couldst thou but write, dear lady, at thy will,
All thou wouldst choose of good, or shun of ill,
As on this paper thou mayst fill the space
With thoughts and wishes gentle as thy face,
Thou couldst not crowd the days that are to be
With happier fortune than I hope for thee.

For, if the saint that keeps the book above
Which holds the record of thy life and love,
Where at one view thy childhood and thine age,

Alive am I through lack of joy;
By joy you have been slowly slain;
So you are old, and I, a boy,
In all my hopes and dreams remain.

I have been kept alive by strife,
But you are moribund thro' peace,
My soul still longs for fuller life,
And yours from living seeks release.

You cannot live! I cannot die
While life has still so much to give.
You, through success, are dead; and I
By virtue of my failures live.

You, having garnered all things fair,
Can hope no more, so you are dead;

Her dreamy eyes are of the blue of smoke,
That softly, frond by frond and gyre by gyre,
O'er some thatched bothy, in a Highland glen,
Unfurls at gloaming from an ingle fire,

Whose hearth-stone is love's altar,—blue of smoke
Ascending, blending in blue heaven away,—
Blue of the fragrant smoke of vestal flame
That in her virgin heart burns night and day.

I, who had slept the dreamless sleep of Death
For æons, wakened to a sense of pain,
Wrenched my stiff hands asunder, gasped for breath,
And was a man again.

The tatters of torn heaven overhead
Were swayed by hurrying wings and busy breath.
It was the resurrection of the dead,
The dying-day of Death.

The sun had halted half-way down the west;
But in the shadow of the pendant blue,
Patient and calm amid the world's unrest,
There shone a star or two.

Weird voices wailed about the vexéd sea;

Only to follow you, dearest, only to find you!
Only to feel for one instant the touch of your hand;
Only to tell you once of the love you left behind you,—
To say the world without you is like a desert of sand;

That the flowers have lost their perfume, the rose its splendor,
And the charm of nature is lost in a dull eclipse;
That joy went out with the glance of your eyes so tender.
And beauty passed with the lovely smile on your lips.

I did not dream it was you who kindled the morning

Be tremblingly fearful;
Be careful night and day.
Men trip not on mountains;
They trip on anthills.

If God speaks anywhere, in any voice,
To us, his creatures, surely here and now
We hear Him, while the great chords seem to bow
Our heads, and all the symphony's breathless noise
Breaks over us with challenge to our souls!
Beethoven's music! From the mountain peaks
The strong, divine, compelling thunder rolls,
And, “Come up higher, come!” the words it speaks,
“Out of your darkened valleys of despair,
Behold, I lift you upon mighty wings
Into Hope's living, reconciling air!
Breathe, and forget your life's perpetual stings;

My soul, praise the Lord! O God, thou art great:
In fathomless works thyself thou dosthide.
Before thy dark wisdom and power uncreate,
Man's mind, that dare praise thee, in awe must abide.

The earth where we dwell, that journeys in space,
With air as a robe thou wrappest around:
Her countries she turneth to greet the sun's face,
Then plungeth to slumber in darkness profound.

Lo, there is thy sea, whose bosom below
With creatures doth teem, scaled fishes and finn'd:
Above, the ships laden with merchandise go,

To love, and be lov'd, how transporting the bliss,
To give, and receive, the soft conjugal kiss;
To see a young race of sweet prattlers around,
Is a pleasure superior to all can be found.

Let libertines rail at the joys they ne'er know,
Such joys as from rambling can sure never flow;
A bottle and Thais may please for a night,
But wedlock affords never fading delight.

Tho' censure may seem to have room for its rage,
In this money-job, scandalous, match-making age;
When parents and guardians their children dispose,

Though all should smile denying, I believe
These elms have borne the Fieldfare's fabulous nest.
Why else in England should he build and rest,
Quitting the flock in which his brethren leave

Our shores forsaken on an April eve,
Save, on these lawns, to preen a speckled breast,
And hear your feathery friends proclaim you blest?
Where else so safe a bower could fieldfare weave?

Ah! might he borrow notes as sweet as those
With which the Mavis pays you all day long
(Our delicate Mavis with her slighted song),