SADNESS AND MIRTH

Wert thou weary of thy throne?
Was thy sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o'er it cast,
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
Woe for gifted souls and high !
Is not such their destiny?

SADNESS AND MIRTH.

"Nay, these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind,

As it has lower'd of late, so keenly cast,

Unsuited seem, and strange.

Oh nothing strange,

Did'st thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast,

Winging the air beneath some murky cloud,

In the sunn'd glimpses of a troubled day,
Shiver in silvery brightness?

Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning flash
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit's path,
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake?
O, gentle friend!
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad,
And may be so to-morrow!"-Joanna Baillie.

YE met at the stately feasts of old,

Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold,
Sadness and mirth! ye were mingled there

With the sound of the lyre in the scented air ;
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high,
Ye mix'd in the gorgeous revelry.

For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a gloom,
A thought and a shadow of the tomb;

It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone,

To the rose a coloring not its own,

To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power-
Sadness and mirth! ye had each your dower!

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by,
With the Roman eagles through the sky!
I know that even then, in his hour of pride,
The soul of the mighty within him died
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still,
Which the music of victory might never fill!

Thou wert there, oh, mirth! swelling on the shout,
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out;
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine,
All the rich voices in air were thine,

The incense, the sunshine-but, sadness, thy part,
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart!

203

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear
Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier!
As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed,
Crosses the storm in its path of dread;

As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky-
Sadness and mirth! so ye come and fly!

Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast,
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest!
When the breath of the violet is out in spring,
When the woods with the wakening of inusic ring,
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass,
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass.
When will your parting be, sadness and mirth?
Bright stream and dark one!-oh! never on earth!
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near,
While death and love walk the same dim sphere,
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep,
While the heart of man is a soundless deep!

But there smiles a land, oh! ye troubled pair!
Where ye have no part in the summer air.
Far from the breathings of changeful skies,
Over the seas and the graves it lies;

Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done,
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun!

THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH-SONG

Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen
Die mit seelenvollen melodie

Dich entzückten in des Lenzes Tagen?

-Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie.-Schiller

MOUNFULLY, sing mournfully,

And die away, my heart!

The rose, the glorious rose is gone,

And I, too, will depart.

The skies have lost their splendor,

The waters changed their tone,
And wherefore, in the faded world,
Should music linger on?

Where is the golden sunshine,

And where flower-cup's glow?

And where the joy of the dancing leaves,
And the fountain's laughing flow?

A voice, in every whisper

Of the wave, the bough, the air,

Comes asking for the beautiful,

And moaning," Where, oh! where?"

THE DIVER.

Tell of the brightness parted,
Thou bee, thou lamb at play!
Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth!
-Are ye, too, pass'd away?
Mournfully, sing mournfully!
The royal rose is gone.

Melt from the woods, my spirit, melt
In one deep farewell tone!

Not so, swell forth triumphantly,
The full, rich, fervent strain!
Hence with young love and life I go,
In the summer's joyous train.
With sunshine, with sweet odor,
With every precious thing,
Upon the last warm southern breeze
My soul its flight shall wing.
Alone I shall not linger,

When the days of hope are past,
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf,
To wait the rushing blast.
Triumphantly, triumphantly!
Sing to the woods, I go!
For me, perchance, in other lands,
The glorious rose may blow.

The sky's transparent azure,

And the greensward's violet breath,
And the dance of light leaves in the wind,
May there know nought of death.

No more, no more sing mournfully!
Swell high, then break, my heart
With love, the spirit of the woods,
With summer I depart!

THE DIVER.

'They learn in suffering what they teach in song."-Shelley.

THOU hast been where the rocks of coral

grow,

Thou hast fought with eddying waves;
Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low,
Thou searcher of ocean's caves!

Thou hast look'd on the gleaming wealth of old,
And wrecks where the brave have striven:

The deep is a strong and a fearful hold,
But thou its bar hast riven !

VOL. II.--23

265

A wild and weary life is thine;
A wasting task and lone,

Though treasure-grots for thee may shine
To all besides unknown!

A weary life! but a swift decay
Soon, soon shall set thee free

Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away,
Thou wrestler with the sea!

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek,
Well are the death-signs read-
Go! for the pearl in its cavern seek,
Ere hope and power be fled!
And bright in beauty's coronal
That glistening gem shall be ;
A star to all in the festive hall-
But who will think on thee?

None!-as it gleams from the queen-like head,
Not one 'midst throngs will say,

"A life hath been like a rain-drop shed,
For that pale quivering ray."

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought!
-And are not those like thee,

Who win for earth the gems of thought?
O wrestler with the sea!

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go,
Where the passion-fountains burn,
Gathering the jewels far below

From many a buried urn:

Wringing from lava-veins the fire,
That o'er bright words is pour'd;
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre
A spirit in each chord.

But, oh! the price of bitter tears,
Paid for the lonely power

That throws at last o'er desert years,

A darkly glorious dower!

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread,
So radiant thoughts are strew'd;

The soul whence those high gifts are shed,
May faint in solitude!

And who will think, when the strain is sung
Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd,

What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung,
Have gush'd with every word?

None, none !—his treasures live like thine,
He strives and dies like thee ;

-Thon, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine,
O wrestler with the sea!

THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS.

967

THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS.

"Les poetes dont l'imagination tient à la puissance d'aimer et de souffrir, ne sont ils pas les bannis d'une autre region ?"

MADAME DE STAEL-De L'Allemagne.

No tears for thee !-though light be from us gone
With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one!
No tears for thee!

They that have loved an exile, must not mourn
To see him parting for his native bourne
O'er the dark sea.

All the high music of thy spirit here,
Breathed but the language of another sphere,
Unecho'd round;

And strange, though sweet, as 'midst our weeping skies
Some half-remember'd strain of paradise
Might sadly sound.

Hast thou been answer'd? thou, that from the night
And from the voices of the tempest's might,

And from the past,

Wert seeking still some oracle's reply,
To pour the secrets of man's destiny
Forth on the blast!

Hast thou been answer'd ?-thou, that through the gloom,
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb,
A cry did'st send,

So passionate and deep? to pierce, to move,
To win back token of unburied love

From buried friend!

And hast thou found where living waters burst?
Thou that did'st pine amidst us in the thirst
Of fever-dreams!

Are the true fountains thine for evermore?
Oh! lured so long by shining mists, that wore
The light of streams!

Speak! is it well with thee ?-We call, as thou,
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow,
Wert wont to call

On the departed!

Art thou bless'd and free? -Alas! the lips earth covers, even to thee,

Were silent all!

Yet shall our hope rise fann'd by quenchless faith,
As a flame, foster'd by some warni wind's breath,
In light upsprings:

Freed soul of song; yes, thou hast found the sought;
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought,

On morning's wings.