The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 93

Sunlight and calm: noon in the dreamy glade, Noon on the lulling rill.

He saw not, where on high The noiseless eagle of the Heavenly King Rested,--till rapt upon the rus.h.i.+ng wing Into the golden sky.

When the bright Nectar Hall And the still brows of bended G.o.ds he saw, In the quick instinct both of shame and awe His hand the reed let fall.

Soul! that a thought divine Bears into heaven,--thy first ascent survey!

What charm'd thee most on earth is cast away;-- To soar--is to resign!

MEMNON.

Where Morning first appears, Waking the rathe flowers in their Eastern bed, Aurora still with her ambrosial tears, Weeps for her Memnon dead.

Him the Hesperides Nursed on the marge of their enchanted sh.o.r.e, And still the smile that then the Mother wore Dimples the orient seas.

He died; and lo, the while The fire consumed his ashes, glorious things With joyous songs, and rainbow-tinted wings, Rose from the funeral pile.

He died; and yet became A music; and his Theban image broke Into sweet sounds that with each sunrise spoke The Mighty Mother's name.

O type, thy truth declare!

Who is the Child of the Melodious Morn?

Who bids the ashes earth receives--adorn With new-born choirs the air?

What can the Statue be That ever answers with enchanted voices Each rising sun that on its front rejoices?

Speak!--"I AM POETRY!"

THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.

Upon a barren steep, Above a stormy deep, I saw an Angel watching the wild sea; Earth was that barren steep, Time was that stormy deep, And the opposing sh.o.r.e--Eternity!

"Why dost thou watch the wave?

Thy feet the waters lave, The tide engulfs thee if thou dost delay."

"Unscathed I watch the wave, Time not the Angel's grave, I wait until the ocean ebbs away."

Hush'd on the Angel's breast I saw an Infant rest, Smiling upon the gloomy h.e.l.l below.

"What is the Infant press'd, O Angel, to thy breast?"

"The child G.o.d gave me, in The Long Ago.

"Mine all upon the earth, The Angel's angel-birth, Smiling each terror from the howling wild."

Never may I forget The dream that haunts me yet, OF PATIENCE NURSING HOPE--THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD

TO A WITHERED TREE IN JUNE.

Desolate tree! why are thy branches bare?

What hast thou done To win strange winter from the summer air, Frost from the sun?

Thou wert not churlish in thy palmier year Unto the herd; Tenderly gav'st thou shelter to the deer, Home to the bird.

And ever once, the earliest of the grove, Thy smiles were gay, Opening thy blossoms with the haste of love To the young May.

Then did the bees, and all the insect wings Around thee gleam; Feaster and darling of the gilded things That dwell i' the beam.

Thy liberal course, poor prodigal, is sped; How lonely now!

How bird and bee, light parasites, have fled The leafless bough!

"Tell me, sad tree, why are thy branches bare?

What hast thou done To win strange winter from the summer air, Frost from the sun?"

"Never," replied that forest-hermit lone (Old truth and endless!) "Never for evil done, but fortune flown, Are we left friendless.

"Yet wholly, nor for winter nor for storm Doth Love depart!

We are not all forsaken till the worm Creeps to the heart!

"Ah, nought without, within thee if decay, Can heal or hurt thee.

Nor boots it, if thy heart itself betray, Who may desert thee!"

ON THE REPERUSAL OF LETTERS WRITTEN IN YOUTH.

Strange, as when vaguely through the autumn haze Loom the pale scenes last view'd in summer skies, Out from the mist the thoughts of sunny days And golden youth arise.

Were ye, in truth, my thoughts?--along the years Flies back the wondering and incredulous Mind, In the still archives of lost hopes and fears Your date and tale to find.

Gradual and slow, reweaving link to link, Epoch, and place, and image it recalls, And owns the thoughts it never more can think,-- Dim pictures in dim halls!

Dim pictures now; and once ye breathed and moved, And took your life as proudly from the sun As if immortals!--schemed, aspired, and loved, And sunk to rest;--sleep on!

On a past self the present self amazed Looks, and beholds no likeness!--Canst thou see In the pale features of the phantom raised One trace still true to thee?

'Twas said "The child is father to the man,"

By one whose world was but the shepherd's range.

What seas beyond thy vale, Arcadian, Ebb and reflow with change!

In the great deeps of reason, heart, and soul, Through s.h.i.+ne or storm still roll the tides unfailing; Each separate globule in the restless whole In daily airs exhaling.