Mazelli, and Other Poems [25]
are at rest?
"Thou, truant wanderer o'er the deep,
The cause of all my cares;
For thee at night I wake and weep,
When none may mark my tears.
"I seek the festive hall no more,
Its mirth no more I crave;
My heart is lonely as the shore,
And restless as the wave.
"My soul has struggled to forget
Its sleepless, fatal flame;
I know thy vows were false, and yet
My love is still the same.
"Still o'er the dream I nursed too well,
My bursting heart will yearn;
For ever with me must it dwell,--
Oh, wanderer, return!"
A white sail fluttered in the wind,
A light bark skimmed the sea,--
It came like hope across the mind,
As swift and silently.
The shell-strewn beach that edged the main,
A manly footstep pressed;
The wanderer had returned again,--
The maiden's heart was blessed!
THE DESERTED.
"Come, sit thee by my side once more,
'Tis long since thus we' met;
And though our dream of love is o'er,
Its sweetness lingers yet.
Its transient day has long been past,
Its flame has ceased to burn,--
But Memory holds its spirit fast,
Safe in her sacred urn.
"I will not chide thy wanderings,
Nor ask why thou couldst flee
A heart whose deep affection's springs
Poured forth such love for thee!
We may not curb the restless mind,
Nor teach the wayward heart
To love against its will, nor bind
It with the chains of art.
"I would but tell thee how, in tears
And bitterness, my soul
Has yearned with dreams, through long, long, years,
Which it could not control.
And how the thought that clingeth to,
And twineth round the past,
For ever in my heart shall glow,
And be save one my last.
"They say thou hast another's love,--
Well, cherish it, but thou
Its lack of strength and depth wilt prove,
Should sorrow cloud thy brow.
Though she may own a statelier form,
A fairer cheek than mine,
Her heart cannot so well and warm,
Respond each throb of thine."
Her words were gentle, but their tone
Was sad as sorrow's sigh,--
A tear-drop trembled in his own
As he sought her downcast eye.
A chord was struck within his breast
That long untouched had lain,
Old memories started from their rest,--
The maid was loved again.
Stanzas.
On! there are hours of sadness, when the soul,
Torn from its every stay, and crushed beneath
Its many griefs, and spurning faith's control,
Pants with an earnest longing for the death
Which would for ever close its dark career,
With the pale shroud and the remorseless bier;
When the harsh, sterile nothingness of life,
First breaks upon the hope-deluded breast,
And the heart sickens with the bootless strife
That wrings its chords, and longs to be at rest;
Ev'n if the blow that frees it from distress,
Should strike it into utter nothingness.
Ah, nothingness! The thought at times will come,
The mind will wrestle with the mystery
That clouds its being! from its clay-made home,
Its dwelling of a m6ment, it will flee
Into the far depths of the vast UNKNOWN,
In its vain searchings for th' eternal throne
Of that Omnipotence which gave it birth,
And, giving it a nature which might suit
A seraph, bound its destiny to earth!
And a few years, in which to eat the fruit
Of life's strange tree, so bitter at its core,
Then death, the quiet grave, sleep, and--what more?
Whence came we? whither go we? All is still
And voiceless in the past! A veil is drawn
Across the future! by life's mystic rill
We sit and ponder, watching for the dawn
Of some yet unconceived, far-reaching thought,
By which our nature's secret shall be taught!
Why sorrow is our element--why sin
Is native in us--by what curse we bear
An ever aching, crushing void within
Our secret souls! and why the little share
Of happiness that mingles with our fate,
Is of such fleeting, transitory date 1
Our loves! our hopes! what are they? fruits which turn
To ashes on our lips! illusive lights
That cast a moment's brightness while they burn,
Then die, and leave a darkness
"Thou, truant wanderer o'er the deep,
The cause of all my cares;
For thee at night I wake and weep,
When none may mark my tears.
"I seek the festive hall no more,
Its mirth no more I crave;
My heart is lonely as the shore,
And restless as the wave.
"My soul has struggled to forget
Its sleepless, fatal flame;
I know thy vows were false, and yet
My love is still the same.
"Still o'er the dream I nursed too well,
My bursting heart will yearn;
For ever with me must it dwell,--
Oh, wanderer, return!"
A white sail fluttered in the wind,
A light bark skimmed the sea,--
It came like hope across the mind,
As swift and silently.
The shell-strewn beach that edged the main,
A manly footstep pressed;
The wanderer had returned again,--
The maiden's heart was blessed!
THE DESERTED.
"Come, sit thee by my side once more,
'Tis long since thus we' met;
And though our dream of love is o'er,
Its sweetness lingers yet.
Its transient day has long been past,
Its flame has ceased to burn,--
But Memory holds its spirit fast,
Safe in her sacred urn.
"I will not chide thy wanderings,
Nor ask why thou couldst flee
A heart whose deep affection's springs
Poured forth such love for thee!
We may not curb the restless mind,
Nor teach the wayward heart
To love against its will, nor bind
It with the chains of art.
"I would but tell thee how, in tears
And bitterness, my soul
Has yearned with dreams, through long, long, years,
Which it could not control.
And how the thought that clingeth to,
And twineth round the past,
For ever in my heart shall glow,
And be save one my last.
"They say thou hast another's love,--
Well, cherish it, but thou
Its lack of strength and depth wilt prove,
Should sorrow cloud thy brow.
Though she may own a statelier form,
A fairer cheek than mine,
Her heart cannot so well and warm,
Respond each throb of thine."
Her words were gentle, but their tone
Was sad as sorrow's sigh,--
A tear-drop trembled in his own
As he sought her downcast eye.
A chord was struck within his breast
That long untouched had lain,
Old memories started from their rest,--
The maid was loved again.
Stanzas.
On! there are hours of sadness, when the soul,
Torn from its every stay, and crushed beneath
Its many griefs, and spurning faith's control,
Pants with an earnest longing for the death
Which would for ever close its dark career,
With the pale shroud and the remorseless bier;
When the harsh, sterile nothingness of life,
First breaks upon the hope-deluded breast,
And the heart sickens with the bootless strife
That wrings its chords, and longs to be at rest;
Ev'n if the blow that frees it from distress,
Should strike it into utter nothingness.
Ah, nothingness! The thought at times will come,
The mind will wrestle with the mystery
That clouds its being! from its clay-made home,
Its dwelling of a m6ment, it will flee
Into the far depths of the vast UNKNOWN,
In its vain searchings for th' eternal throne
Of that Omnipotence which gave it birth,
And, giving it a nature which might suit
A seraph, bound its destiny to earth!
And a few years, in which to eat the fruit
Of life's strange tree, so bitter at its core,
Then death, the quiet grave, sleep, and--what more?
Whence came we? whither go we? All is still
And voiceless in the past! A veil is drawn
Across the future! by life's mystic rill
We sit and ponder, watching for the dawn
Of some yet unconceived, far-reaching thought,
By which our nature's secret shall be taught!
Why sorrow is our element--why sin
Is native in us--by what curse we bear
An ever aching, crushing void within
Our secret souls! and why the little share
Of happiness that mingles with our fate,
Is of such fleeting, transitory date 1
Our loves! our hopes! what are they? fruits which turn
To ashes on our lips! illusive lights
That cast a moment's brightness while they burn,
Then die, and leave a darkness