Look not upon the wine when it
Is red within the cup!
Stay not for pleasure when she fills Her tempting beaker up!
Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone,
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
There's no contentment in a world like this, Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
Though clear its depths, and rich its glow, We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream;
Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye And pine till it is hooded from the sky.
I HAVE found violets. April hath come on,
And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain
Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time.
You may hear birds at morning, and at eve
The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls,
Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in
His beautiful, bright neck, and; from the
hills,
A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea,
Tells the release of waters, and the earth
Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves
Are lifted by the grass; and so I know
That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath
heard
The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring.
Take of my violets! I found them where
The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank
That lean'd to running water. There's to me
A daintiness about these early flowers,
That touches me like poetry. They blow
With such a simple loveliness among
The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out
Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts
Whose beatings are too gentle for the world
I love to go in the capricious days.
Of April and hunt violets, when the rain
Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod
So gracefully to the kisses of the wind.
It may be deem'd too idle, but the young
Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven,
And call the flowers its poetry. Go out!
Ye spirits of habitual unrest,
And read it, when the ,,fever of the world"
Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life
Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be
Like a beguiling music to its flow,
And you will no more wonder that I love
To hunt for violets in the April-time.
OH, WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.
Он, weep not for the dead!
Rather, o rather give the tear
To those that darkly linger here,
When all besides are fled;
Weep for the spirit withering
In its cold cheerless sorrowing,
Weep for the young and lovely one
That ruin darkly revels on;
But never be a tear-drop shed
For them, the pure enfranchised dead.
O, weep not for the dead.
No more for them the blighting chill,
The thousand shades of earthly ill,
The thousand thorns we tread; Weep for the life-charm early flown, The spirit broken, bleeding, lone; Weep for the death pangs of the heart, Ere being from the bosom part;
But never be a tear-drop given
To those that rest in yon blue heaven.
THE SONG OF CAPTIVE ISRAEL. COME, Sweep the harp! one thrilling rush Of all that warm'd its chords to song, And then the strains for ever hush
That oft have breathed its wires along! The ray is quench'd that lit our mirth, The shrine is gone that claim'd the prayer; And exiles o'er the distant earth,
How can we wake the carol there.
One sigh, my harp! and then to sleep,
For all that loved thy song have flown;
Why should'st thou lonely vigils keep,
Forsaken, broken, and alone?
Let this sad murmur be thy last,
Nor e'er again in music swell;
Thine hours of joyousness are past,
And thus we sever: fare thee well!
And saw the willow branches lave,
As light winds swept them o'er;
The music of the golden bow,
That did the torrent span;
But I heard a sweeter music flow
From the youthful heart of man.
The wave rushed on; the hues of heaven
Fainter and fainter grew;
And deeper melodies were given
As swift the changes flew:
Then came a shadow on my sight,
The golden bow was dim:
And he that laugh 'd beneath its light,
What was the change to him?
I saw him not; only a throng
Like the swell of troubled ocean,
Rising, sinking, swept along
In the tempest's wild commotion:
Sleeping, dreaming, waking then,
Chains to link or sever;
Turning to the dream again,
Fain to clasp it ever.
There was a rush upon my brain,
A darkness on mine eye;
And when I turn'd to gaze again
The mingled forms were nigh;
In shadowy mass a mighty hall
Rose on the fitful scene; Flowers, music, gems were flung o'er all. Not such as once had been.
I HEARD the music of the wave, As it rippled to the shore;
COME, while with wine the goblets flow,
For wine they say has power to bless;
And flowers too not roses, no!
Bring poppies, bring forgetfulness!
To feel our spirit-flower still fresh and free,
And guard its blush, its smile, from shame Could a wild wave thy glance of pleasure
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