Of pleasure only will to all dispense; That Fount alone unlock, by no distress Chok'd or turn'd inward; but still issue thence Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness.
As on the driving cloud the shiny bow, That gracious thing, made up of tears and light, Mid the wild rack, and rain that slants below, Stands smiling forth unmov'd and freshly bright;
As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers, Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.
Ev'n so, Eliza! on that face of thine,
On that benignant face,
(The soul's translucence through her crystal shrine!) Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own—
A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing; But with a silent charm compels the stern And fost❜ring Genius of the BITTER SPRING, To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.
Who then needs wonder if (no outlet found In passion, spleen, or strife) the FOUNT OF PAIN, O'erflowing, beats against its lovely mound, And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?
Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam, On his rais'd lip, that aped a critic smile, Had passed: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream.
Till audibly at length I cried, as though Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes, O sweet, sweet sufferer! if the case be so,
pray thee be less good, less sweet, less wise!
In every look a barbed arrow send;
On those soft lips let scorn and anger live; Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend, Hoard for thyself the pain thou wilt not give!'
A FUNERAL SONG FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE,
In its summer pride arrayed, Low our Tree of Hope is laid! Low it lies:-in evil hour, Visiting the bridal bower, Death hath levelled root and flower. Windsor, in thy sacred shade, (This the end of pomp and power!) Have the rites of death been paid: Windsor, in thy sacred shade Is the Flower of Brunswick laid! 'Ye whose relics rest around, Tenants of this funeral ground! Know ye, Spirits, who is come, By immitigable doom
Summoned to the untimely tomb? Late with youth and splendor crown'd, Late in beauty's vernal bloom, Late with love and joyaunce blest; Never more lamented guest Was in Windsor laid to rest. 'Henry, thou of saintly worth, Thou, to whom, thy Windsor gave Nativity, and name, and grave; Thou art in this hallowed earth Cradled for the immortal birth. Heavily upon his head
Ancestral crimes were visited. He, in spirit like a child, Meek of heart and undefiled, Patiently his crown resigned,
And fixed on heaven his heavenly mind, Blessing, while he kiss'd the rod, His Redeemer and his God. Now may he in realms of bliss Greet a soul as pure as his. 'Passive as that humble spirit, Lies his bold dethroner too; A dreadful debt did he inherit To his injured lineage due ; Ill-starred prince, whose martial merit His own England long might rue! Mournful was that Edward's fame, Won in fields contested well, While he sought his rightful claim: Witness Aire's unhappy water, Where the ruthless Clifford fell; And when Wharfe ran red with slaughter, On the day of Towcester's field, Gathering, in its guilty flood, The carnage and the ill-spilt blood, That forty thousand lives could yield. Cressy was to this but sport, Poictiers but a pageant vain, And the victory of Spain
Seem'd a strife for pastime meant,
And the work of Agincourt
Only like a tournament ;
Half the blood which there was spent Had sufficed again to gain Anjou and ill yielded Maine, Normandy and Aquitaine;
And Our Lady's ancient towers, Maugre all the Valois' powers, Had a second time been ours. A gentle daughter of thy line, Edward, lays her dust with thine. Thou, Elizabeth, art here; Thou to whom all griefs were known; Who wert placed upon the bier In happier hour than on the throne. Fatal daughter, fatal mother! Father, uncle, sons, and brother, Mourn'd in blood her elevation; Raised to that ill-omen'd station, Woodville, in the realms of bliss, To thine offspring thou mayst say, Early death is happiness; And favour'd in their lot are they Who are not left to learn below That length of life is length of woe. Lightly let this ground be press'd— A broken heart is here at rest. 'But thou, Seymour, with a greeting, Such as sisters use at meeting, Joy, and Sympathy, and Love, Wilt hail her in the seats above, Like in loveliness were ye, By a like lamented doom Hurried to an early tomb! While together, spirits blest, Here your earthly relics rest, Fellow angels shall ye be In the angelic company. 'Henry, too, hath here his part; At the gentle Seymour's side, With his best-beloved bride, Cold and quiet, here are laid The ashes of that fiery heart. Not with his tyrannic spirit Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit; No, by Fisher's hoary head, By More, the learned and the good, By Katharine's wrongs, and Boleyn's blood,
By the life so basely shed Of the pride of Norfolk's line, By the axe so often red, By the fire with martyrs fed, Hateful Henry, not with thee May her happy spirit be!
'And here lies one, whose tragic name A reverential thought may claim; The murder'd monarch, whom the grave, Revealing its long secret, gave Again to sight, that we might spy His comely face, and waking eye; There, thrice fifty years, it lay, Exempt from natural decay, Unclosed and bright, as if to say, A plague, of bloodier, baser birth Than that beneath whose rage he bled, Was loose upon our guilty earth ;- Such awful warning from the dead Was given by that portentous eye- Then it closed eternally. 'Ye, whose relics rest around, Tenants of this funeral ground; Even in your immortal spheres, What fresh yearnings will ye feel When this earthly guest appears!
Yet mark! as fade the upper skies, Each thicket opes ten thousand eyes. Before, beside us, and above, The fire-fly lights his lamp of love, Retreating, chasing, sinking, soaring, The darkness of the copse exploring; While to this cooler air confest,
The broad Dhatura bares her breast, Of fragrant scent and virgin white, A pearl around the locks of night! Still as we pass, in softened hum, Along the breezy alleys come The village song, the horn, the drum. Still as we pass, from bush and briar, The shrill cigala strikes his lyre; And, what is she, whose liquid strain Thrills through yon copse of sugar-cane?
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