Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurl'd,—
Any where, any where
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran.—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it, think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them!
And her eyes, close them
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,—
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.
-Cross her hands humbly!
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast,—
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour:
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour.
ODE TO AUTUMN.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless, like Silence listening
To silence (for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn),
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where are the songs of Summer? With the Sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the South,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds? Away, away
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noon-day,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Where are the blooms of Summer? In the West,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is press'd,
Like tearful Proserpine snatch'd from her flowers,
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer, the green prime,
The many many leaves all twinkling? Three
On the moss'd elm, three on the naked lime
Trembling, and one upon the old oak tree.
Where is the Dryads' immortality?
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity.
The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard;
The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain;
And honey-bees have stored
The sweets of summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing'd across the main ;
But here the autumn Melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
She sits and reckons up the Dead and Gone,
With the last leaves for a love-rosary :
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned Past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far-away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, grey upon the grey.
O, go and sit with her, and be o’ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair!
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care ;—
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower, and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's, she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light ;-
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,
Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul.
TO A COLD BEAUTY.
Lady! wouldst thou heiress be
To Winter's cold and cruel part?
When he sets the rivers free,
Thou dost still lock up thy heart :
Thou that shouldst outlast the snow
But in the whiteness of thy brow.
Scorn and cold neglect are made
For winter gloom and winter wind;
But thou wilt wrong the summer air
Breathing it to words unkind,-
Breath which only should belong
To love, to sunlight, and to song.
When the little buds unclose,
Red, and white, and pied, and blue,
And that virgin flower, the rose,
Opes her heart to hold the dew,
Wilt thou lock thy bosom up
With no jewel in its cup?
Let not cold December sit
Thus in Love's peculiar throne ! Brooklets are not prison'd now,
But crystal frosts are all agone; And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May.
LOVE'S CONSTANCY.
Still glides the gentle streamlet on,
With shifting current new and strange;
The water that was here is gone :
But those green shadows do not change.
Serene, or ruffled by the storm,
On present waves, as on the past,
The mirror'd grove retains its form,
The self-same trees their semblance cast.
The hue each fleeting globule wears,
That drop bequeaths it to the next:
One picture still the surface bears
To illustrate the murmur'd text.
So, Love! however time may flow,
Fresh hours pursuing those that flee,
One constant image still shall show
My tide of life is true to thee.
She stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the Sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripen'd: such a blush
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