International Weekly Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science - Volume 1, No. 5, July 29, 1850. Various

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      Thou hadst lain lost and dying, prompted not

      My feet had struck that pathway, and I could,

      With the neglected sunshine of my hair,

      Have clasped thee from the hungry jaws of Death,

      And on my heart, as on a wave of light

      Have lulled thee to the beauty of soft dreams.

      Weak, weak imagination! be dissolved

      Like a chance snowflake in a sea of fire.

      Let the poor-spirited children of Despair

      Hang on the sepulchre of buried Hope

      The fadeless garlands of undying song.

      Though such gift turned on its pearly hinge

      Sweet Mercy's gate, I would not so debase me.

      Shut out from heaven, I, by the arch-fiend's wing,

      As by a star, would move, and radiantly

      Go down to sleep in Fame's bright arms the while

      Hard by, her handmaids, the still centuries

      Lilies and sunshine braided for my brow.

      Angel of Darkness, give, O give me hate

      For the blind weakness of my passionate love!

      And if thou knowest sweet pity, stretch thy wing,

      Spotted with sin and seamed with veins of fire,

      Between the gate of heaven and my life's prayer.

      For loving, thou didst leave me; and, for that

      The lowly straw-roof of a peasant's shed

      Sheltered my cradle slumbers, and that Morn,

      Clasping about my neck her dewy arms,

      Drew to the mountains my unfashioned youth,

      Where sunbeams built bright arches, and the wind

      Winnowed the roses down about my feet

      And as their drift of leaves my bosom was,

      Till the cursed hour, when pride was pillowed there,

      Crimsoned its beauty with the fires of hell.

      God hide from me the time when first I knew

      Thy shame to call a low-born maiden, Bride!

      Methinks I could have lifted my pale hands

      Though bandaged back with grave-clothes, in that hour

      To cover my hot forehead from thy kiss.

      For the heart strengthens when its food is truth,

      And o'er the passion-shaken bosom, trail

      And burn the lightnings of its love-lit fires

      Like a bright banner streaming on the storm.

      The day was almost over; on the hills

      The parting light was flitting like a ghost,

      And like a trembling lover eve's sweet star,

      In the dim leafy reach of the thick woods,

      Stood gazing in the blue eyes of the night.

      But not the beauty of the place nor hour

      Moved my wild heart with tempests of such bliss

      As shake the bosom of a god, new-winged,

      When first in his blue pathway up the skies

      He feels the embrace of immortality.

      A little moment, and the world was changed—

      Truth, like a planet striking through the dark,

      Shone cold and clear, and I was what I am,

      Listening along the wilderness of life

      For faint echoes of lost melody.

      The moonlight gather'd itself back from me

      And slanted its pale pinions to the dust.

      The drowsy gust, bedded in luscious blooms,

      Startled, as 'twere at the death-throes of peace,

      Down through the darkness moaningly fled off.

      O mournful Past! how thou dost cling and cling—

      Like a forsaken maiden to false hope—

      To the tired bosom of the living hour,

      Which, from thy weak embrace, the future time

      Jocundly beckons with a roseate hand.

      And, round about me honeyed memories drift

      From the fair eminences of young hope,

      Like flowers blown down the hills of Paradise,

      By some soft wave of golden harmony,

      Until the glorious smile of summers gone

      Lights the dull offing of the sea of Death.

      And though no friend nor brother ever made

      My soul the burden of one prayer to Heaven,

      I dread to go alone into the grave,

      And fold my cold arms emptily away

      From the bright shadow of such loveliness.

      Can the dull mist where swart October hides

      His wrinkled front and tawny cheek, wind-shorn,

      Be sprinkled with the orange fire that binds

      Away from her soft lap o'erbrimmed with flowers,

      The dew-wet tresses of the virgin May?

      Or can the heart just sunken from the day

      Feed on the beauty of the noontide smile?—

      O it is well life's fair things fade so soon,

      Else we could never take our clinging hands

      From Beauty's nestling bosom—never put

      The red wine of love's kisses sternly back,

      And feel the dull dust sitting on our lips

      Until the very grass grew over us.

      O it is well! else for this beautiful life

      Our overtempted hearts would sell away

      The shining coronals of Paradise.

      In the gray branches of the oaks, starlit,

      I hear the heavy murmurs of the winds,

      Like the low plains of evil witches, held

      By drear enchantments from their demon loves.

      Another night-time, and I shall have found

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