A SAPPHIC

Sweet is the morning when the Sabbath-day dawns,
And earth and sky spread lovelier before me;
When not a breath stirs, in its whispering motion,
Garden or forest,
Which does not seem to partake in the holy
Peace of the pure hearts, where passion slumbers,
Care is composed, and the thoughts all awaken
Bright with devotion.
Sweeter the lark sings on that sunny morning,
Livelier the wren chirps round the shingled cottage,

Poor Matthias!—Found him lying
Fall'n beneath his perch and dying?
Found him stiff, you say, though warm—
All convulsed his little form?
Poor canary! many a year
Well he knew his mistress dear;
Now in vain you call his name,
Vainly raise his rigid frame,
Vainly warm him in your breast,
Vainly kiss his golden crest,
Smooth his ruffled plumage fine,
Touch his trembling beak with wine.
One more gasp—it is the end!
Dead and mute our tiny friend!
—Songster thou of many a year,
Now thy mistress brings thee here,

Unto the calmly gathered thought
The innermost of truth is taught, —
The mystery, dimly understood,
That love of God is love of good;

That to be saved is only this, —
Salvation from our selfishness;
From sin itself, and not the pain
That warns us of its chafing chain:

That worship's deeper meaning lies
In mercy, and not sacrifice, —
Not proud humilities of sense,
But love's unforced obedience;

That God is near us now as when
He spake in old-time faith and men;
That the true Christ dwells not afar

Thou art endeared to me by all
The ties of kindred minds,
And thou hast twined my heart in all
The chains that beauty binds;
The man who could deceive thee,
And, when the prize was won,
Could ruin, scorn, and leave thee,
Must have a heart of stone.

For but one look of kindness given
By thee, my heart would brave
The coldest, darkest frowns of Heaven,
The terrors of the grave:
O, death cannot affright me,
When thou art smiling by;
I ask no star to light me,
But the sparkle of thine eye.

Our walls are on the sea,
And they ride along the wave,
Manned with sailors, bold and free,
And the lofty and the brave
Hoist their flag to the sport of the gale;
With an even march they sweep
O'er the bosom of the deep,
And their order trimly keep,
As they sail.

Though so gallantly we ride,
Yet we do not seek the fight;
We have justice on our side,
And we battle in our right,
For our homes, and our altars, and sires:
Then we kindle in our cause,
And awhile a solemn pause —

Come on your sky-blue wings, ye Paphian doves!
And o'er me drop the pure Idalian dews,
Come, fan the air with silken pinions,
Pluck with tender bill the roses,
While they open in the thickets,
Heavy with the tears of morning:
Bear them on the faltering breezes,
As they waken with Aurora,
Lightly brushing o'er the meadow,
Kissing, as they pass, the lilies;
Sighing through the silent forest,
Waking from their nightly slumbers
All its murmuring tones and echoes;
Floating o'er the sleeping ocean,
When without a wave or billow,

" Henri Heine " — — 'tis here!
That black tombstone, the name
Carved there — no more! and the smooth,
Swarded alleys, the limes
Touch'd with yellow by hot
Summer, but under them still,
In September's bright afternoon,
Shadow, and verdure, and cool.
Trim Montmartre! the faint
Murmur of Paris outside;
Crisp everlasting-flowers,
Yellow and black, on the graves.

Half blind, palsied, in pain,
Hither to come, from the streets
Uproar, surely not loath
Wast thou, Heine! — to lie
Quiet, to ask for closed

I.

Earth is a thirsty drinker,
The trees drink from its bosom,
The ocean drinks the wet winds,
The fiery sun the ocean,
The moon drinks in the sun's light.
Then why, my friends, be angry,
Because I love to drink too.

II.

Full -bosomed maids of Chio!
Around your auburn tresses
The woven roses twining,
Now sport in circling dances.
The moon is on the ocean,
The light, loose clouds around her
Their fleecy heaps are piling,
And gird her with a halo:
No longer from the billow
The fresh sea-wind is stealing;

APRIL, 1855

Where, under Loughrigg, the stream
Of Rotha sparkles through fields
Vested for ever with green,
Four years since, in the house
Of a gentle spirit, now dead —
Wordsworth's son-in-law, friend —
I saw the meeting of two
Gifted women. The one,
Brilliant with recent renown,
Young, unpractised, had told
With a master's accent her feign'd
Story of passionate life;
The other, maturer in fame,
Earning, she too, her praise
First in fiction, had since

We name thy name, O God,
As our God call on thee,
Though the dark heart meantime
Far from thy ways may be.
And we can own thy law,
And we can sing thy songs,
While the sad inner soul
To sin and shame belongs.

On us thy love may glow,
As the pure mid-day fire
On some foul spot look down,
And yet the mire be mire.
Then spare us not thy fires,
The searching light and pain;
Burn out our sin; and, last,
With thy love heal again!