Poems Chiefly from Manuscript Part 13

_A World for Love_

Oh, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care; Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair; Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear, That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near.

And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe, How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go; Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a gra.s.sy blade Had eer been bent by Trouble's feet, and Love thy pillow made.

For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime, And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty's happy clime; And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood, And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good.

And there to make a cot unknown to any care and pain, And there to shut the door alone on singing wind and rain-- Far, far away from all the world, more rude than rain or wind, Oh, who could wish a sweeter home, or better place to find?

Than thus to love and live with thee, thou beautiful delight!

Than thus to live and love with thee the summer day and night!

The Earth itself, where thou hadst rest, would surely smile to see Herself grow Eden once again, possest of Love and thee.

_Love_

Love, though it is not chill and cold, But burning like eternal fire, Is yet not of approaches bold, Which gay dramatic tastes admire.

Oh timid love, more fond than free, In daring song is ill pourtrayed, Where, as in war, the devotee By valour wins each captive maid;--

Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee, As they could tell each other's mind; Where ruby lips are kissed as free, As flowers are by the summer wind.

No! gentle love, that timid dream, With hopes and fears at foil and play, Works like a skiff against the stream, And thinking most finds least to say.

It lives in blushes and in sighs, In hopes for which no words are found; Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes, The tongue is left without a sound.

The pert and forward things that dare Their talk in every maiden's ear, Feel no more than their shadows there-- Mere things of form, with nought of fear.

True pa.s.sion, that so burns to plead, Is timid as the dove's disguise; Tis for the murder-aiming gleed To dart at every thing that flies.

True love, it is no daring bird, But like the little timid wren, That in the new-leaved thorns of spring Shrinks farther from the sight of men.

The idol of his musing mind, The wors.h.i.+p of his lonely hour, Love woos her in the summer wind, And tells her name to every flower; But in her sight, no open word Escapes, his fondness to declare; The sighs by beauty's magic stirred Are all that speak his pa.s.sion there.

_Nature's Hymn to the Deity_

All nature owns with one accord The great and universal Lord: The sun proclaims him through the day, The moon when daylight drops away, The very darkness smiles to wear The stars that show us G.o.d is there, On moonlight seas soft gleams the sky And "G.o.d is with us" waves reply.

Winds breathe from G.o.d's abode "we come,"

Storms louder own G.o.d is their home, And thunder yet with louder call, Sounds "G.o.d is mightiest over all"; Till earth right loath the proof to miss Echoes triumphantly "He is,"

And air and ocean makes reply, G.o.d reigns on earth, in air and sky.

All nature owns with one accord The great and universal Lord: Insect and bird and tree and flower-- The witnesses of every hour-- Are pregnant with his prophesy And "G.o.d is with us" all reply.

The first link in the mighty plan Is still--and all upbraideth man.

_Decay_

O Poesy is on the wane, For Fancy's visions all unfitting; I hardly know her face again, Nature herself seems on the flitting.

The fields grow old and common things, The gra.s.s, the sky, the winds a-blowing; And spots, where still a beauty clings, Are sighing "going! all a-going!"

O Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again.

The bank with brambles overspread, And little molehills round about it, Was more to me than laurel shades, With paths of gravel finely clouted; And streaking here and streaking there, Through shaven gra.s.s and many a border, With rutty lanes had no compare, And heaths were in a richer order.

But Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again.

I sat beside the pasture stream, When Beauty's self was sitting by, The fields did more than Eden seem Nor could I tell the reason why.

I often drank when not adry To pledge her health in draughts divine; Smiles made it nectar from the sky, Love turned een water into wine.

O Poesy is on the wane, I cannot find her face again.

The sun those mornings used to find, Its clouds were other-country mountains, And heaven looked downward on the mind, Like groves, and rocks, and mottled fountains.

Those heavens are gone, the mountains grey Turned mist--the sun, a homeless ranger, Pursues alone his naked way, Unnoticed like a very stranger.

O Poesy is on the wane, Nor love nor joy is mine again.

Love's sun went down without a frown, For very joy it used to grieve us; I often think the West is gone, Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us.

The stream it is a common stream, Where we on Sundays used to ramble, The sky hangs oer a broken dream, The bramble's dwindled to a bramble!

O Poesy is on the wane, I cannot find her haunts again.

Mere withered stalks and fading trees, And pastures spread with hills and rushes, Are all my fading vision sees; Gone, gone are rapture's flooding gushes!

When mushrooms they were fairy bowers, Their marble pillars overswelling, And Danger paused to pluck the flowers That in their swarthy rings were dwelling.

Yes, Poesy is on the wane, Nor joy nor fear is mine again.

Aye, Poesy hath pa.s.sed away, And Fancy's visions undeceive us; The night hath ta'en the place of day, And why should pa.s.sing shadows grieve us?

I thought the flowers upon the hills Were flowers from Adam's open gardens; But I have had my summer thrills, And I have had my heart's rewardings.

So Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again.

And Friends.h.i.+p it hath burned away, Like to a very ember cooling, A make-believe on April day That sent the simple heart a-fooling; Mere jesting in an earnest way, Deceiving on and still deceiving; And Hope is but a fancy-play, And Joy the art of true believing; For Poesy is on the wane, O could I feel her faith again!

_The Cellar Door_

By the old tavern door on the causey there lay A hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray, And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a drop As dry as the cinders that lay in his shop; And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun, Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun.

He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and hone Till he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone; So ere he could work--though he'd lost the whole day-- He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.

The cellar was empty, each barrel was drained To its dregs--and Sir John like a rebel remained In the street--for removal too powerful and large For two or three topers to take into charge.

Odd zooks, said a gipsey, with bellows to mend, Had I strength I would just be for helping a friend To walk on his legs: but a child in the street Had as much power as he to put John on his feet.

Then up came the blacksmith: Sir Barley, said he, I should just like to storm your old tower for a spree;

And my strength for your strength and bar your renown I'd soon try your spirit by cracking your crown.

And the cobbler he tuckt up his ap.r.o.n and spit In his hands for a burster--but devil a bit Would he move--so as yet they made nothing of land; For there lay the knight like a whale in the sand.

Said the tinker: If I could but drink of his vein I should just be as strong and as stubborn again.

Push along, said the toper, the cellar's adry: There's nothing to moisten the mouth of a fly.

Says the host, We shall burn out with thirst, he's so big.

There's a cag of small swipes half as sour as a wig.

In such like extremes, why, extremes will come pat; So let's go and wet all our whistles with that.

Says the gipsey, May I never bottom a chair If I drink of small swipes while Sir John's lying there.

And the blacksmith he threw off his ap.r.o.n and swore Small swipes should bemoisten his gullet no more: Let it out on the floor for the dry c.o.c.k-a-roach-- And he held up his hammer with threatens to broach

Sir John in his castle without leave or law And suck out his blood with a reed or a straw Ere he'd soak at the swipes--and he turned him to start, Till the host for high treason came down a full quart.

Just then pa.s.sed the dandy and turned up his nose: They'd fain have him shove, but he looked at his clothes And nipt his nose closer and twirled his stick round And simpered, Tis nuisance to lie on the ground.

But Bacchus, he laughed from the old tavern sign, Saying, Go on, thou shadow, and let the sun s.h.i.+ne.