"Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse; and with me The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
"She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm, Of mute insensate things.
"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
E'en in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy.
"The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound
Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run!
Standing, with reluctant feet, Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet!
Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On the river's broad expanse !
Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian? Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar?
O thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares ! Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered ;- Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth.
O, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart Into many a sunless heart, For a smile of God thou art.
Her simple heart could not but feel
The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel, 'Tis all in vain, — she can't but smile!
Just like sweet April's dawn appears
Her modest face, I see it yet, And though I lived a hundred years Methinks I never could forget
The pleasure that, despite her heart, Fills all her downcast eyes with light, The lips reluctantly apart,
The white teeth struggling into sight,
The dimples eddying o'er her cheek,
The rosy cheek that won't be still; — O, who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill?
TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNAID.
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head;
And these gray rocks, this household lawn, These trees, -a veil just half withdrawn, This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake, This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth together ye do seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But O fair Creature! in the light Of common day so heavenly bright, I bless thee, Vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away; For never saw I mien or face In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer; A face with gladness overspread, Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech, A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality:
« AnteriorContinuar » |