English

Go, bird, and to the sky
Pour forth what thou and I
Have suffered here:
Thou, for thy mate removed,
And I, for faith disproved
In one as dear.

Farewell; and if again
Thou find for prison-pain
Felicity,
Be this thy glad release
A prophecy of peace,
Dear bird, for me!

Mute is his eloquence: that silver tongue
On whose sweet accents crowds, admiring, hung,—
Whose fitting words in heavenly beauty fell
On ear and heart, that owned the witching spell;
Whose graceful cadence tides of feeling woke,
As if on earth some loving angel spoke,—
Now rests in silence, like a harp unstrung.
Its notes, unrivalled, on the breezes flung,
Still breathe in living echoes in the air,
As though the master-spirit lingered there.
Who can do justice to so great a name?
Who speak in worthy words his matchless fame?

Come back to be buried beneath the green willow,
Whose long weeping branches trail over the tomb;
The soil of thy birthplace prepares thee a pillow,—
Where kindled thy morn, for thy eve there is room.

Come back to be buried, where patriarchs holy
In faith breathed thy name at the altar of prayer;
Come back, from thy greatness, to sleep with the lowly,
Where pride sounds no trumpet, and fame is but air.

Come back to be buried, where honor first found thee,
And o'er thee her mantle deliciously flung;

If I could weepe my self into a spring,
Or a perpetuall current: then
This Metamorphosis might seeme a thing
Of merit, in the eyes of Men:
But what requitall can this bee,
To him, that did weepe blood for me?

Could I for penitentiall sigheings, vye
With the whole compasse, some might guesse,
That my contrition was a motive high,
To melt an heart, even mercyles.
But what requitall can this bee,
To him that sigh'd his last for mee?

What if I should to death my self expose?

All ways lead to my heart:
Out of confusions and rebellions, out of venoms and revolts, lead to my heart:
Though they come in the darkness in acts of crime, lead to my heart:
Though they are wayward and would prefer to go somewhere else, somehow lead to my heart:
By some mysterious impetus back of what they will to do or not to do, lead to my heart:
All things and all people, clean or corrupt, divine or devilish, lead to my heart:
Sometimes eager, sometimes dreaming of me and of the voyage, lead to my heart:

I had a message to send her,
To her whom my soul loved best;
But I had my task to finish,
And she was gone home to rest.

To rest in the far bright heaven:
O, so far away from here,
It was vain to speak to my darling,
For I knew she could not hear!

I had a message to send her,
So tender, and true, and sweet,
I longed for an Angel to bear it,
And lay it down at her feet.

I placed it, one summer evening,
On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast;
But it faded in golden splendor,
And died in the crimson west.

'Tis sweet to sit beneath these walnut trees,
And pore upon the sun in splendour sinking,
And think upon the wond'rous mysteries
Of this so lovely world, until, with thinking,
Thought is bewilder'd, and the spirit, shrinking
Into itself, no outward object sees,
Still, from its inward fount, new visions drinking,
Till the sense swims in dreamy reveries

Awaking from this trance, with gentle start,
'Tis sweeter still to feel th' o'erflowing heart
Shoot its glad gushes to the thrilling cheek;

Lone warbler! thy love-melting heart supplies
The liquid music-fall, that from thy bill
Gushes in such ecstatic rhapsodies,
Drowning night's ear. Yet thine is but the skill
Of loftier love, that hung up in the skies
Those everlasting lamps, man's guide, until
Morning return, and bade fresh flowers arise,
Blooming by night, new fragrance to distil

Why are these blessings lavish'd from above
On man, when his unconscious sense and sight
Are closed in sleep; but that the few who rove,

In my devout Muse could ever bring
Ought worth acceptance, or an offering
Unto thy Vertue, justly I might deeme
My selfe thrice happie in so good a theme.
Yet let thy worth vouchsafe to take these lines,
As the pledges of my great Love, and signes
Of true affection, wanting alone
Art to discover that impression,
Which the conceit of thy most high desert
Hath Charracterd so deepely in my heart.
And though my penne a pencill be scarce fit
To Paint out to the life thy merrit; yet
My heart shall ever be engag'd to thee;

My heaven is full of words but I desire love,
My heaven is crowded to the doors with good people but I hunger for sinners,
My heaven is dazed with suns—everywhere suns—but I crave for the shadows,
My heaven is the confirmation of the prophets but I am wayward and the prophets bore me,
My heaven is the home of the saints but I shrink from the saints and disdain their prerogatives.
I had done all I could to enrich life and point it the way of my heaven:
Finally I arrived—the last doubting step was taken