TO THE BLUE ANEMONE.

From a long, long fervent gaze
Through the year's first golden days,
Up that blue and silent deep,

Where, like things of sculptured sleep,
Alabaster clouds repose,

With the sunshine on their snows ?
Thither was thy heart's love turning,
Like a censer ever burning,
Till the purple heavens in thee
Set their smile, Anemone?

Or can those warm tints be caught
Each from some quick glow of thought?
So much of bright soul there seems
In thy bendings and thy gleams,

So much thy sweet life resembles

That which feels, and weeps, and trembles,
I could deem thee spirit-fill'd,
As a reed by music thrill'd,
When thy being I behold

To each loving breath unfold,
Or like woman's willowy form,
Shrink before the gathering storm;

I could ask a voice from thee,
Delicate Anemone !

Flower! thou seem'st not born to die

With thy radiant purity,

But to melt in air away,

Mingling with the soft Spring-day,
When the crystal heavens are still,
And faint azure veils each hill,

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And the lime-leaf doth not move,
Save to songs that stir the grove,
And earth all glorified is seen,
As imaged in some lake serene;
-Then thy vanishing should be,
Pure and meek Anemone!

Flower! the laurel still may shed
Brightness round the victor's head;
And the rose in beauty's hair
Still its festal glory wear;

And the willow-leaves droop o'er

Brows which love sustains no more:

But by living rays refined,

Thou, the trembler of the wind,

Thou, the spiritual flower

Sentient of each breeze and shower,

Thou, rejoicing in the skies,

And transpierced with all their dyes;
Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing,
Gem-like to thy centre glowing
Thou the poet's type shall be,
Flower of soul, Anemone !

THE SONG OF PENITENCE.

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THE SONG OF PENITENCE.1

UNFINISHED.

HE pass'd from earth

Without his fame, -the calm, pure, starry fame
He might have won, to guide on radiantly
Full many a noble soul,—he sought it not;
And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd
The wayward child of genius. And the songs
Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life,
Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean-waves
Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed,
They died before him;-they were winged seed,
Scatter'd afar, and, falling on the rock

Of the world's heart, had perish'd. One alone,
One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain,
The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,

That song of tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft, in low and reverential tones,

Fill'd with the piety of tenderness,

Is murmur'd to their children, when his name
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world's rude voices, far away.

Oh! hear, and judge him gently; 'twas his last.

1

Suggested by the late Mrs. Fletcher's Story of The Lost Life, published in the Amulet for 1830.

I come alone, and faint I come,

To nature's arms I flee;

The green woods take their wanderer home, But Thou, O Father! may I turn to thee?

The earliest odour of the flower,
The bird's first song, is thine;

Father in heaven! my dayspring's hour
Pour'd its vain incense on another shrine.

Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene
Around me faded lies;

Therefore, remembering what hath been,
I ask, is this mine early paradise?

It is, it is-but Thou art gone,

Or if the trembling shade

Breathe yet of thee, with alter'd tone
Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay'd.

*

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.1

THOU thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,

Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony?

1 The impression of a woman's form, with an infant clasped to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum.

THE IMAGE IN LAVA.

Temple and tower have moulder'd,
Empires from earth have pass'd,
And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!

And childhood's fragile image,

Thus fearfully enshrined,
Survives the proud memorials rear'd
By conquerors of mankind.

Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering
Upon thy mother's breast,
When suddenly the fiery tomb

Shut round each gentle guest?

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you,
Fair babe and loving heart!
One moment of a thousand pangs-
Yet better than to part!

Haply of that fond bosom

On ashes here impress'd,

Thou wert the only treasure, child!
Whereon a hope might rest.

Perchance all vainly lavish'd
Its other love had been,

And where it trusted, nought remain'd
But thorns on which to lean.

Far better, then, to perish,

Thy form within its clasp,

Than live and lose thee, precious one!
From that impassion'd grasp.

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