romantic poems

WRITTEN BY SIR THOMAS MORE, UPON THE PORTRAITS OF ERASMUS AND OF EGYDIUS IN THE SAME PICTURE .

Erasmus and Egydius , Twins in Love,
As all the Virtues and the Muses prove,
Like the two Stars of Leda's mystic flame,
Congenial spirits into being came.
In local habits to a distance thrown,
My heart is not as near them as their own;
The Painter lends me his protecting aid,
By Genius cherish'd, and by Love convey'd.
The absent thus united arts endear;

My God, I thank thee! to thy lofty throne
In gratitude I lift my heart to-night;
For every good and perfect gift comes down
From thee, as from the sun its rays of light.

Each graceful-formed and lovely-tinted flower
Which decks the earth, as stars the evening sky,
Is emblematic of thy love and power,
And speaks of heaven, where flowerets never die.

Such hast thou sent me by the hand of one
United to me by the mystic tie
Which binds in union sweet who seek alone
Thy will to do, who reignest e'er on high.

A child, I lay upon my bed,
Craving the light.
The darkness caverned me with dread —
Vast, merciless the night.
Sudden a sound that broke the terror spell,
A rustle on the stair, a creaking floor,
The dear maternal step I knew so well,
And then a rush of radiance at the door!
But ere my childish passion of relief
Could vent — " Hush, go to sleep! " — her firm command.
The door closed cruelly upon my grief;
The saving light had vanished in her hand.

A woman, yearning for illumining

I

Love on tiptoe to the doorway of the mouldering hovel came,
Where Time sat within the shadow of the hearthstone by the flame:
He looked through, and saw the Anarch bent above the glowing brands,
Poring o'er the hour-glass lapsing through his brown and withered hands.

II

The red lights upon his leaden forehead their reflection threw,
Till the motionless and lifelike form to life and motion grew;
As on Egypt's sands the rising sun the giant statue crowned,

Sweetly she sleeps whom here we loved so truly:
She wakes no more,
Save where the angels round those spirits gather
Who reach the other shore.

Unclouded now for aye her mental vision,
She sees the Truth,
And shares the health of those fair fields Elysian
With an immortal youth.

Folded in arms of love, serene, paternal,
She now will rest
In the glad mansions of our home supernal,
Among the saved and blest.

No blight shall fall upon her sin-freed spirit,
No grief she shares:

She has passed away like the flowers of earth;
She has faded like a star,
When the autumn winds bow the forest-leaves,
When the day-god comes from far.

But her memory lives with loved ones left,
Like the fragrance of a flower;
And oft in the sky of each soul shall beam,
Like the star of the morning hour.

But not lost! oh, no! she but died to live;
She " passed on " to die no more;
And e'er to her loved ones must she prove
As a tie to a fairer shore.

Oh! then will the heart of her poet-son

We sit, with mourning hearts, beneath the shadow
Which darkens now our home,
And look with longing eyes to that bright region
Where shadows never come.

We think of her, now from our side departed,
In Christian hope and trust:
Gentle and lovely, pure and earnest-hearted,
She dwells among the just.

Through summer's long, bright days she lingered with us;
Then, with the falling leaf,
She faded from our sight, and heaven's garner
Received a ripened sheaf.

Love watched unceasingly beside her pillow;

They say that I love thee, that thou art to me
As the gods to the heathen, — a fair deity.
And they tell but the truth when they say thou art dear;
For, as blossoms so fair in the morn of the year,
Do I oft hail thy presence, — a star on my way;
And thy smile is as welcome as bright, sunny May.

Oh, yes, I do love thee! and welcome to me
Comes thy sweet, merry laugh, like a song o'er the sea.
Thou cheerest my pathway like music; thy smile
Doth oft from its sorrows my spirit beguile:

Might I lie at your feet some summer day,
Some summer day, when the sky is blue
And the air is soft,
Gazing aloft,
How should I dream that day away,
Being by you?

But no. No visions would come, my own,
For I could not dream with you so near
I should not dream,
But it would seem
That a perfect love is life alone,
In Heaven and here.

She sleeps, her fair cheek pillowed on some joy,
Some satisfaction pure, without alloy.

What shall awake her? whispered love so low
That the sweet words seem melting, soft and slow?

Nay! but the blood-red torch, the clangorous strife
Of armed men round her — Thus it is with life.