English

O FOR a summer day when time was young
And o'er the hills Aurora led the morn,
While olive groves and fir-dark mountains rung
To the clear winding of Diana's horn!
And on the woody heights, his Nymphs among,
Or Fauns eluding, in some cave forlorn,
Great Pan from woven reeds sweet music flung
To the soft winds that curled Demeter's corn.
And, lapt in languor, by the crystal springs
The white-armed Naiads leaned upon their urns,

And Sylphs flew past on silent, rainbow wings,
And Dryads whispered by the drooping ferns,

While other Females trifle Life away
In Dress and Scandal, Equipage and Play;
Stella, with Sense exalted and refin'd,
And each superior Grace adorns her Mind;
There Friendship, Honour, Truth, and Virtue live,
With all the Charms that Art or Nature give.

O how shall Words my Tenderness impart!
Or speak the Dictates of a grateful Heart!
To thee, fair Patroness! who could'st descend,
My Character thus nobly to defend.
Who would not wish to have sustain'd a Wrong,
To have their Cause supported by thy Tongue?

Go whisper to her gentle winds,
While you are passing by,
The mighty secret of my heart,
The burden of my sigh.

Take to her from this blushing rose,
Such sweets of scented air,
As are befitting for a queen,
And one divinely fair.

And from this lily of the vale,
Take her who is to me,
The emblem of all that is good,
And sweetest purity.

The violets of azure eyes,
Which ever sweets impart,
Take her their gentle modesty,
So like her guileless heart.

I KNOW , my love, you are not far away;
Your footfall matches mine along the floor;
You enter still with me at every door;
Though hushed, the old, familiar things you say
That thrilled my waiting heart but yesterday,
And I am full of peace,—and more and more
My soul perceives what death is fashioned for
To which the body only is the prey.
Strange: oft we touched not for the wall between
When hand in hand we went, and side by side,—
Often there seemed some let, some thwarting screen,
Some corner for the living soul to hide,

Achant of dark betrayals: song betrayed
By those who turned their backs against its morn;
Of art conceived, yet left at birth forlorn
By hearts that feared the thing their dreams had made,
Of an unsanctioned parentage afraid;
Of music silenced by the world's dumb scorn;
Of banners up the light no longer borne
Lest mock of fools might darken the parade.

And yet who dares to chide them—these, who failed,
Reluctant, at the opening verge of bliss,
Because the censures of the world prevailed?
For who has not betrayed enough to know

As we rode through the village, the houses every one
Were open to the west wind and merry with the sun;
All except the one house, shuttered from the day,
Like a soul in sorrow who hides his face away.

As we rode past the village it would not quit my mind—
The little house in trouble that we had left behind;
Smoke lifted from the chimney, but the closed door cried,
“Oh, hurry by, oh, hurry by, nor seek the grief I hide.”

O little house in trouble, when back again I ride,
God grant I see your windows shine, your door flung wide,

Come a little nearer! Now we part,
Why should you seem dearer to my heart?

Troublesome, unruly, discontent—
Were you ever truly heaven-sent?

Made of grief and blisses, hopes and fears,
I have known your kisses and your tears.

Joy, when joy compelled you, day by day;
Grief, when duty held you from your way.

Every fancy wooing, false or true;
Every wind pursuing—that is you.

Now the years grow riper—why romance?
Child, we owe the piper for this dance.

Yours is all the riot, pipes and drums—

Tender grass in April springing,
Scent of lilacs wet with rain,
Bluebird jubilantly singing
Snatches of a loved refrain,

Falcon soaring high above me,
Light of stars in deeps divine,
Creeping earth-bound things that move me
To compassion, ye are mine!

Wind in varied cadence playing
Mystic runes on harps unseen,
Blossom hardily delaying
Where lost summer late hath been,

Shadow drifting o'er the mountain,
Mist blown inward from the sea,
Hidden spring and bubbling fountain,—

Divine abstraction, shadowy image, dream
More vital than substantial shapes made strong
By all the tireless energies of wrong,—
Who should deny thy being would blaspheme
The power that made thy loveliness supreme,
Lending thee accents of auroral song
To comfort those who unto thee belong—
Though they go down to dark Cocytus' stream.

Patient as Time art thou, eternal one!
Yet who may change thy judgments—or destroy?
The conqueror whom wily Egypt won
Found with life's honeyed draught a bitter blent;

Such gentle awe is in her winsome ways
That, when she greeteth others on the street,
The glibbest tongue in silence long delays,
Nor dare bold eyes her star-like gaze to meet.

Though praises follow her where'er she goes,
Yet with humility she's ever dressed:
She seems from heaven come, so to disclose
The gracious bearing of the immortal blest.

To gaze upon her beauty is to know
The purest sentiment of reverent love;
While he to whom some favor she doth show
May taste before the joys of heaven above.