Thou art but in life's morning, and as yet

The world looks witchingly: its fruits and flowers

Are fair and fragrant, and its beauteous bowers

Seem haunts of happiness, before thee set,

All lovely as a landscape freshly wet

With dew, or bright with sunshine after showers;

Where pleasure dwells, and Flora's magic powers

Woo thee to pluck joy's peerless coronet.

Thus be it ever:—wouldst thou have it so,

Preserve thy present openness of heart;—

Cherish those generous feelings which now start

At base dissimulation, and that glow

Of native love for ties which home endears;

And thou wilt find the world no vale of tears.

[1818]

“Thou art but in life's morning!”— Years have sped

Their silent flight since thus my idle rhyme

Addressed thee in thy being's opening prime;

If since that hour some clouds at times have spread

Their shadow o’er thy path, these have not shed

On thee their anger; but, from time to time,

Have led thy thoughts tow’rd sunnier heights to climb;

Communing with the loved, lamented dead!

And still thou art but in the glowing morn

Of thy existence: hearts of finest mould,

And warm affections claim their right to hold

Those purer, nobler feelings with them born,

Which will not let them droop, of hope forlorn,

Nor in a few brief years be changed and cold.

[1828]

I saw a stream whose waves were bright

With morning's dazzling sheen;

But gathering clouds, ere fall of night,

Had darken’d o’er the scene:—

“How like that tide,”

My Spirit sighed,

“This life to me hath been.”

The clouds dispers’d:— the glorious West

Was bright with closing day;

And on the river's peaceful breast

Shone forth the sunset ray:—

My Spirit caught

The soothing thought—

Thus life might pass away.

I saw a tree:— with ripening fruit

And shady foliage crown’d;

But ah! an axe was at its root,

And fell’d it to the ground:—

Well might that tree

Recal to me

The doom my hopes had found.

The fire consum’d it:— but I saw

Its smoke ascend on high!

A shadowy type, beheld with awe,

Of that which cannot die,

But, from the grave

Shall rise to crave

A home above the sky.

“O! mayst thou ever be, what now thou art,

Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring;

As fair in form, as warm, yet pure in heart.”

BYRON.

Believe not that absence can banish

The memory of moments gone by;

Could I deem they so lightly would vanish

I should think on the past with a sigh.

But thy image was never intended

The source of one sorrow to be;

For pleasure and hope are both blended

In each thought which arises of thee.

’Tis not love—as that passion is painted,

Its revival I never shall prove;

For, long ere we two were acquainted,

I had ceas’d e’en to think about love.

The attachment I feel is another,

’Tis passion from penitence free;

And had I to choose as a Brother,

I would look for a Sister in thee.

Thou need’st not, dear Helen, to doubt me,

When I fondly and frankly confess,

That thought in this bosom about thee

Is busier than words can express.

And when such ideas are springing,

They touch such a tone and a key;

If my hand on my harp I am flinging,

Its strings must be vocal to thee.

When the sun, in his rising from ocean,

Foretels a bright day by his dawn;

With eager and joyful emotion

We exult in the beauties of morn.

Such thine—be thy noontide the same too,

And may age, from infirmity free,

Calm, peaceful, as earth can lay claim to,

In life's close, be still lovely in thee.

O grant that the picture thus painted,

The world may not wantonly mar!

Keep thy soul in its whiteness untainted,

And may innocence still be its star.

Then whatever the station assign’d thee,

Though distant that station may be;

The remembrance of friends left behind thee

Shall dwell with delight upon thee.

For affection bids distance defiance,

Its ardour no absence can change;

And the links of its holy alliance

Can reach through creation's vast range.

Those links have so lovingly bound us,

That, when thou art far over sea,

Thy image shall hover around us,

Sunshine and Moonshine by hook or by crook;

With Bowers, and Flowers, and many a Brook;

Fairy regions which never were dreamt of by COOK;

Rosy lips, rosy cheeks too, and tresses, which, shook

By the amorous breezes, inchantingly look;

With bright eyes which glance into every nook,

Speaking language which might even puzzle HORNE TOOKE,

If PURLEY his spirit from PLUTO could hook;—

In short, you can't guess what you’ll find in the Book

Which TOM MOORE has written, and call’d Lalla Rookh!

How lightly o’er thy guarded head

The lapse of silent years had sped,

How poor the spoils of time,

To leave thee thus, in life's last stage,

A living greenness in old age

So splendid and sublime.

Thy natural vigour unimpair’d,

An eye whose lustre still declar’d

Age could not dim its ray,

How brightly must thy sun have set,

Which on the verge of night had yet

The radiance of noon-day.

Had age so vigorous and serene

E’en in that distant era been

A thing regarded not,

Not thus had history's page unroll’d

Thy triumph o’er decay, and told

Thy proud, peculiar lot.

But thus conspicuously was shown

Vigour and brightness not thy own.

To life's last parting hour,

That Israel in that wond’rous sign

Of might more glorious far than thine,

Should own Jehovah's power.

That we, who sooner reach life's close,

May in our weakness yet repose

On his eternal truth,

Who, if to Him alone we live,

In age unto the soul can give

Spring's renovated youth.

Sweet instrument! whose tones beguile the ear

With mingled strains of sadness and delight,

Recal the scenes to melancholy dear,

Or to the bowers of former bliss invite;

The sweet aerial sylph, or seraph bright,

That sweeps thy strings with more than mortal skill,

Although of frame too subtle for the sight,

May well a bard's imagination fill.

Hark! what a heavenly strain was there!

A dirge for some departed soul

Angels have taken to their care,

With kindred spirits to enrol.

Such were the sounds that softly stole

Erewhile on Cowper's faltering sense,

As onward he survey’d the goal

That hasten’d his departure hence.

A bolder and a bolder note

To gladness now directs my mind,

Like distant bells whose changes float

Across the water on the wind;

To hail some married pair, design’d

For mutual love, or mutual strife;

By habit or by will inclin’d

To strange vicissitudes of life.

And while the rapid chariot rolls,

In noisy pride, the streets along;

Attracts the gaze of vulgar souls,

And mocks and interrupts my song;

How I despise the restless throng,

Who scorn the meed of sober thought;

Whose pulses beat with rapture strong,

Whose transient bliss is dearly bought!

That dying fall, which now succeeds

The uproar that subdued thy sound,

Tells me of many a heart that bleeds

With guilt in fashion's giddy round;

Who never since their childhood found

A day, an hour of cheap repose,

But vainly thought their wishes crown’d.

When riot with the morning rose.

The lofty song, the sprightly dance,

To them was life, to them was all.

The studied sigh, the wanton glance,

And all the arts that grace the ball,

My unapproving heart appal;

But while I listen to thy strains,

I fit my mind for duty's call,

And bless the lot that pride disdains.

The trumpet tells of streaming blood,

Of valour's feats, of victory's prize,

Of broken hearts, and many a flood

Of tears that gush from widows’ eyes.

But thy celestial breath supplies

Before proud Rome's imperial throne,

In mind's unconquer’d mood,

As if the triumph were his own,

The dauntless captive stood;

None, to have seen his freeborn air,

Had fancied him a prisoner there.

Though through the crowded streets of Rome,

With slow and stately tread,

Far from his own lov’d island-home

That day in triumph led,—

Unbow’d his head, unbent his knee,

Undimm’d his eye, his aspect free.

A free and fearless glance he cast

On temple, arch, and tower,

By which the long procession pass’d

Of Rome's victorious power;

And somewhat of a scornful smile

Upcurl’d his haughty lip the while.

And now he stood with brow serene

Where slaves might prostrate fall;

Bearing a Briton's manly mien

In Caesar's palace hall;

Claiming, with kindling brow and cheek,

The privilege e’en there to speak.

Nor could Rome's haughty Lord withstand

The claim that look preferr’d;

But motion’d with uplifted hand

The suppliant should be heard;

If he, indeed, a suppliant were,

Whose glance demanded audience there.

Deep stillness fell on all the crowd;

From Claudius on his throne

Down to the meanest slave that bow’d

At his imperial tone;

Silent his fellow-captives’ grief,

As fearless spoke the Island Chief.

“Think not, thou Eagle-Lord of Rome,

And master of the world,

Though vict’ry's banner o’er thy dome

In triumph now be furl’d,

I would address thee as thy slave,—

But as the bold should greet the brave.

“I might perchance, could I have deign’d

To hold a Vassal's throne,

E’en now in Britain's isle have reign’d,

A king, in name alone.—

Yet holding, as thy meek ally,

A monarch's mimic pageantry.

“Then through Rome's crowded streets, this day,

I might have rode with thee;

Not in a captive's base array,

But fetterless, and free;—

If freedom he could hope to find

Whose bondage is of heart and mind.

“But canst thou marvel that,—freeborn,

With heart and hope unquell’d,

Throne, crown, and sceptre I should scorn,

By thy permission held?

Or that I should retain my right,

’Till wrested by a conqueror's might?

Part I.

There is a lone valley, few charms can it number,

Compar’d with the lovely glens north of the Tweed;

No mountains enclose it where morning mists slumber,

And it never has echoed the shepherd's soft reed.

No streamlet of crystal, its rocky banks laving,

Flows through it, delighting the ear and the eye;

On its sides no proud forests, their foliage waving,

Meet the gales of the Autumn or Summer wind's sigh;

Yet by me it is priz’d, and full dearly I love it,

And oft my steps thither I pensively turn;

It has silence within, Heaven's proud arch above it,

And my fancy has nam’d it the Valley of Fern.

O deep the repose which its calm recess giveth!

And no music can equal its silence to me;

When broken, ‘tis only to prove something liveth,

By the note of the sky-lark, or hum of the bee.

On its sides the green fern to the breeze gently bending,

With a few stunted trees, meet the wandering eye;

Or the furze and the broom their bright blossoms extending,

With the braken's soft verdure delightfully vie;—

These are all it can boast; yet, when Fancy is dreaming,

Her visions, which Poets can only discern,

Come crowding around, in unearthly light beaming,

And invest with bright beauty the Valley of Fern.

Sweet Valley! in seasons of grief and dejection,

I have sought in thy bosom a shelter from care;

And have found in my musings a bond of connexion

With thy landscape so peaceful, and all that was there:

In the verdure that sooth’d, in the flowers that brighten’d,

In the blackbird's soft note, in the hum of the bee,

I found something that lull’d, and insensibly lighten’d,

And felt grateful and tranquil while gazing on thee.

Yes! moments there are, when mute nature is willing

To teach, would proud man but be humble and learn;

When her sights and her sounds on the heart-strings are thrilling;

And this I have felt in the Valley of Fern.

For the bright chain of being, though widely extended,

O sad yellow-hammer! that singest to me,

While blows by my window the swinging birch tree;

That sorrowful cadence is sweet to mine ear,

For it seeks the forgotten, and summons them here.

O sad yellow-hammer! what long years ago

Through the old woody places we two used to go;

Just that very note falling from bough after bough,

It seemed the same bird that sits singing here now.

O sad yellow-hammer! there was a dun cow

Used to be always grazing, where space would allow

The tall grass to shoot up, and primrose leaves green,

Beside the park palings the tree stems between.

O sad yellow-hammer! a little black dog

Used to flit like a spirit through brier and bog;

The violets all purple bent under its tread,

And the rose-leaves fell down on its beautiful head.

You may go to those woody lanes day after day,

But the cow and the dog they are always away;

I hear in the dim shade, un-life-lighted now,

But the sad yellow-hammer that sings on the bough.

When Summer was Summer, beneath those green trees,

A musical voice used to blend with the breeze;

I never went roaming the hazel-wood's side,

But a dark eye flashed by me, a step at my side.

I’ve outgrown the childhood when we wandered so,

And for hazel-nuts caring have left long ago;

But, sad yellow-hammer, within the birch bough,

I care for the tones thou art bringing back now!

O sad yellow-hammer! while thou sing’st to me,

A carol comes floating far over the sea;

A light laugh is ringing where billows gleam pale,

And a distant voice singing to dare the wild gale.

O sweet yellow-hammer! that singest to me,

An anxious heart's blessing thy recompence be;

Ay, shake the light birch bough, and cheerly sing on,

For cheerly thou bringest back them that are gone!

Midnight has stol’n upon me! sound is none,

Save when light, tinkling cinders, one by one,

Fall from my fire; or its low, fluttering blaze,

A faint and fitful noise at times betrays;

Or distant baying of the watch-dog, caught

At intervals. It is the hour of thought!

Canst thou then marvel, now that thought is free,

Memory should wake, and Fancy fly to thee?—

That she should paint thee, wrapp’d in peaceful sleep?

While round thy happy pillow spirits keep

Their post unseen: those watchers of the night,

Who, o’er the innocent, with fond delight

Stand centinels, and, by their guardian power,

Preserve from evil, Virtue's slumbering hour.

Calm, healthful, and refreshing be thy rest!

And be thy dreams as blissful, as e’er blest,

In Fancy's sweetest, purest, loveliest mood,

The hours of stillness and of solitude!

Glide gently down thy native stream,

And give thy swelling sail

To April's bright and sunny beam,

And to its favouring gale.

In safety speed thine onward way,

By prosperous breezes fanned;

Breasting old Ocean's briny spray,

To Mersey's distant strand.

Thou bear’st no proud or lofty name,

Which all who read must know;

Yet for its sake thou well mayest claim

The verse I now bestow.

That name was given to honour me,

By those ‘mid whom I dwell,

And cold indeed my heart must be,

Could I disown its spell.

For all the homage fame can give

To those who for it roam,

That lowlier tribute should outlive,

Which comes, unasked, at home!

1843.

They may cant of costumes, and of brilliant head-dresses,

A la Grecque—a la Françoise—or what else they will;

They may talk of tiaras, that glitter on tresses

Enwreath’d by the Graces, and braided with skill:

Yet to my partial glance, I confess the drab bonnet

Is the loveliest of any,—and most when it bears

Not only the bright gloss of neatness upon it—

But, beneath,—the expression Benevolence wears!

Then let Fashion exult in her vapid vagaries,

From her fascinations my favourite is free:

Be Folly's the head-gear that momently varies,

But a Bonnet of drab is the sweetest to me.

Though stately the ostrich-plume, gracefully throwing

Its feathery flashes of light on the eye;

Though tasty and trim the straw-bonnet, when glowing

With its ribbons so glossy of various dye:—

Yet still I must own, although none may seem duller

Than a simple drab Bonnet to many a gaze—

It is, and it will be, the favourite colour,

Around which my fancy delightedly plays:—

And it well suits my muse with a garland to wreathe it,

And echo its praises with gratefullest glee,—

For, knowing the goodness that oft lurks beneath it,

The Bonnet of drab beats a turban with me.

Full many a rare gem,—the poet has chaunted,—

In the depths of the ocean flings round it its sheen;—

And many a floweret, its beauties unvaunted,

Springs to life, sheds its perfume, and withers unseen:

And well do I know that our sisterhood numbers,

Array’d in the liv’ry that coxcombs reprove,—

Forms as fair as e’er rose on a poet's sweet slumbers,

And faces as lovely as ever taught love.

This I know, and have felt;—and, thus knowing and feeling,

A recreant minstrel I surely should be,

If, my heart-felt attachment ignobly concealing,

The Bonnet of drab past unhonour’d by me!

But is there then no medium? or, because

Napoleon's name alternately has been

A theme for indiscriminate applause

And fiercest censure, must we blindly lean

To either? Truth is, surely, found between.

And he who has not mingled in debate

With those who loudest talk when least they mean,

May, without erring widely, estimate

Napoleon's lasting claim to be consider’d great.

True greatness is not won by power alone,

Even if that power be nobly, fairly gain’d;

But as its influence unto GOOD is prone,

The plaudits of the virtuous are obtain’d.

By this sure test alone may be explain’d

All genuine greatness;— it has made mankind

Wiser, and happier; it has never stain’d

Its fame by selfishness, but borne in mind,

That glory, to be true, must be with good combin’d.

GOD is not great because omnipotent !

But because power, in Him, is understood,

And felt, and prov’d, to be benevolent,

And wise, and holy;—thus it ever should!

For what He wills, we know, is pure and good,

And has in view the happiness of ALL:

Hence love and adoration;—never could

The contrite spirit at his footstool fall,

If Power, and Power alone , its feelings did appal!

If then divinest power be truly so,

Because its end and object is to bless;

It follows, that all power which man can know,

The highest even monarchs can possess,

Displays alone their “less than littleness,”

Unless it seek the happiness of man,

And glory of the Highest;—nothing less

Than such a use of power one moment can

Make its possessor great, on Wisdom's godlike plan.

Thus judg’d, Napoleon was not truly great;

Because his actions to the world have shown,

In language which admits of no debate,

Self-aggrandizement was his end alone.

He us’d his power, as conquerors are prone,

And ever were, for selfish ends; and sought

To extend his sway, and fortify his throne;

Not by those gentler arts, with blessings fraught,

But by War's ruthless spoil, with blood and rapine bought.

I will not say that he had no excuse,

In visions which are not of night, a shadowy vale I see,

The path of pilgrim tribes who are, who have been, or shall be;

At either end are lowering clouds impervious to the sight,

And frequent shadows veil, throughout, each gleam of passing light;

A path it is of joys and griefs, of many hopes and fears;

Gladden’d at times by sunny smiles, but oftener dimm’d by tears.

Green leaves are there, they quickly fade, bright flowers,

but soon they die;

Its banks are lav’d by pleasant streams, but soon their bed is dry;

And some that roll on to the last with undiminish’d force,

Have lost that limpid purity which graced their early source,

They seem to borrow in their flow the tinge of dark’ning years,

And e’en their mournful murmuring sound befits the vale of tears.

Pleasant that valley's opening scenes appear to childhood's view,

The flowers are bright, the turf is green, the sky above is blue;

A blast may blight, a beam may scorch, a cloud may intervene,

But lightly mark’d, and soon forgot, they mar not such a scene;

Fancy still paints the future bright, and hope the present cheers,

Nor can we deem the path we tread leads through a vale of tears.

But soon, too soon the flowers that deck’d our early pathway-side

Have drooped and wither’d on their stalks, and one by one have died;

The turf by noon's fierce heat is sear’d, the sky is overcast,

There's thunder in the torrent's tone, and tempest in the blast;

Fancy is but a phantom found, and hope a dream appears,

And more and more our hearts confess this life a vale of tears.

Darker and darker seems the path! how sad to journey on,

When hands and hearts which gladden’d our's appear for ever gone,

Some cold in death, and some, alas! we fancied could not chill,

Living to self, and to the world, to us seem colder still;

With mournful retrospective glance we look to brighter years,

And tread with solitary steps the thorny vale of tears.