English

We two have strayed far from the noise of earth,
By heath and peak, by foam-distracted beach,
By little ancient towns of foreign speech,
By woodlands where the swinging birds made mirth,
By dusky towns, eyes in the moorland girth
Of hills, and in the solitude of each
Your lovelier soul has bent itself to teach
My soul the lore that follows the New Birth.
I think some fragment of our life must make
A green oasis in those mountain snows,
A sanguine flush across the wild white rose,
A bar of opal where the streamlets break,

In happy time the wished fair is come,
To fit thy lute with strings of ev'ry kind:
Great pity 'tis so sweet a lute be dumb,
That so can please the ear and ease the mind;
Go, take thy choice, and choose the very best,
And use them so that head and heart find rest.

Rest thou in joy, and let me wail alone;
My pleasant days have ta'en their last farewell:
My heart-strings sorrow struck so long with moan,
That at the last they all in pieces fell,
And now they lie in pieces broke so small,

Beauty and Love — and are they not the same?
The one is both — and both are but the one —
Pervasive they of all around the sun,
Of one same essence, differing but in name.
Lo! when pure Love lights his immortal flame,
He, and all Earth and Heaven in Beauty shine;
And when true Beauty shows her face divine,
Love permeates the universal frame.
Holy of holies — mystery sublime!
Who truly loves is beautiful to see,
And scatters Beauty wheresoe'er he goes.
They fill all space — they move the wheels of Time;

THE VOLUNTARY .

The solemn organ poured sonorous waves
Of melody through the cathedral aisles
Dim, but most beautiful, that stood in gloom
Like antique forests, hardened into stone.
And as th' invisible musician played,
And all the pious women told their beads,
I, a spectator — not a worshipper —
Of a strange creed, and in a foreign land,
Thought of the music more than of the prayers,
Yet felt the spirit of devotion fill
And permeate my being. All my soul

Hail, to the sov'reign pow'r, which broke
The strength of slavery's cursed yoke,
And freed our captive race;
Did all the rage of hell confound,
And gave our foe his fatal wound!
All hail, victorious grace!

Hail to the friend of human kind,
Who his celestial throne resign'd,
To succor man distress'd;
Who did unnumber'd wrongs forgive,
Who groan'd to bid the rebel live,
And died to make him blest!

To thee our lives, our souls we owe,
Our peace and purest joys below,
And brighter hopes above:

Nay, Margaret, thou trickster, why hast thou spread a false tale of me? —
That a babe unbaptized lay within my womb,
In the dwelling of a noble's son, where I and thou would not be together;
Or why wouldst thou not speak the truth as surely as I?
Not alike were my father, thou slanderer, and thine,
Not alike were my brethren and thine unlovely louts,
Not alike were our dwellings at sunset:
In my father's house were found venison and bones of the deer;
In thy father's house bree and bones of the fish were your fare.

On Mamre's plain, beside the Patriarch's door
The ministering Angels sat — the world was young,
And men beheld what they behold no more.
Ah no! — The harps of Heaven are not unstrung!
The angelic visitants may yet appear
To those who seek them! — Lo! at Virtue's side,
Its friend, its prop, its solace, and its guide,
Walks Faith , with upturned eyes and voice of cheer,
A visible Angel. Lo, at Sorrow's call,
Hope hastens down, an angel fair and kind,
And whispers comfort whatsoe'er befall;

My wanton Muse, that whilome wont to sing,
Fair beauty's praise, and Venus' sweet delight;
Of late had changed the tenor of her string,
To higher tunes than serve for Cupid's fight;
Shrill trumpets' sound, sharp swords and lances strong,
War, blood, and death, were matter of her song.

The God of Love by chance had heard thereof,
That I was proved a rebel to his crown;
Fit words for war, quoth he, with angry scoff,
A likely man to write of Mars his frown!
Well are they sped, whose praises he shall write,

Love, flooding all the creeks of my dry soul.
From which the warm tide ebbed when I was born,
Following the moon of destiny, doth roll
His slow rich wave along the shore forlorn,
To make the ocean—God—and me, one whole.

So, shuddering in its ecstasy, it lies,
And, freed from mire and tangle of the ebb,
Reflects the waxing and the waning skies,
And bears upon its panting breast the web
Of night and her innumerable eyes.

Nor can conceive at all that it was blind,
But trembling with the sharp approach of love,

Who died Jan. 10, 1778. Aged Twelve Years

Ah! why this sorrow, why this pensive gloom,
That sweet Eliza rests within the tomb?
Her gentle Spirit is supremely blest;
No anxious cares can agitate her breast.
Short was her passage thro' this vale of tears,
Unstain'd by guilt, or its attendant fears:
Her soul aspiring to the realms of light,
Secur'd its happiness by rapid flight.
Shall elegiac verse in mournful lay,
Or silent eloquence her worth display?
In her was sound whate'er could love engage,