English

Here let us stand — windows, and roofs, and leads,
Alive with clinging thousands — what a scene!
And in the midst, above that sea of heads,
Glooms the black Guillotine.

A scene like that in the Eternal City,
When on men's hearts the Arena feasted high —
While myriads of dark faces, void of pity,
Looked on to see them die.

How the keen Gallic eyes dilate and glare!
The flexile brows and lips grimace and frown —
How the walls tremble to their shout, whene'er
That heavy steel comes down!

Oh yes, I've seen your Boston girls,
And anchored close to Cambridge curls;
But from Ches'peake 'way down to Maine
There is no girl like Sarah Jane.

What love-lit eyes! Twin beacons rare!
What landscape cheeks! what wavy hair!
Her mouth — a sort of inland sea,
Her smile — a whole Geography.

She is the bonniest, best-rigged lass
From Sandy Hook to Hatteras;
And when she laughs her open face
Looks like a sea-side watering-place.

What joy to launch a gallant kiss
Upon that tideless sea of bliss!

Never a man in Bates or Cass
Could stand the force of his swinging blow.
Many a trim Missouri lass
Rued his wooing in shame and woe:
He cared for nothing on earth below;
He dreaded nothing in heaven above;
His wrath was deadly to friend or foe,
But deadlier still was his evil love.

Neither a Reb nor a Yank was he,
But a bushwhacker, bred to trick and trade;
For well he loved the lord to be
Of his own true rifle and bowie-blade.
And when he rode with his reckless band,
Whisky-wild and mad for a fray,

Wilt thou, remorseless fair,
Still laugh while I lament,
Or shall thy chief contentment be,
To see me malcontent?

Shall I, Narcissus-like,
A flying shadow chase,
Or like Pygmalion hug a stone,
That hath no sense of grace?

No, no, my blind love now
Must borrow Reason's eyes,
And as thy fairness made me fond,
My wrongs must make me wise.

My loyalty disdains
To love a loveless dame:
The life of Cupid's fire consists
Into a mutual flame.

Had'st thou but given one look,

Tears on a blooming cheek, — dew on a rose!
Who would not kiss them, and charm them away?
Called to soft eyes by the briefest of woes,
Showers from the blue of a morning in May.
Tears on a blooming cheek, — dew on a rose!
Rainbowed with smiles are the tears of the young;
Light is the sorrow that maidenhood knows;
Sweet is the solace by flattery sung.
Beauty need never seek
Vainly for Love to speak;
Tears on a blooming cheek, — dew on a rose!

Tears on a faded cheek, — rain on a tomb!

1.

Lord, send thine hand
Unto my rescue, or I shall
Into mine own ambushments fall,
Which ready stand
To d' execution, all
Lay'd by self-love, O, what
Love of ourselves is that,
That breeds such uproars in our better state!

2.

I think I pass

Thou mighty subject of my humble song,
Whom every thing speaks, though it cannot speak,
Whom all things echo, though without a tongue,
And int' expressions of thy glory break;

Who out of nothing this vast fabric brought,
And still preserv'st it, lest it fall again,
And be reduc'd into its ancient nought,
But may its vigour primitive retain;

Who out of atoms shap'd thine image, man,
And all to crown him with supremacy
Over his fellow-creatures; nay, and then
Didst in him raise a flame that cannot die;

I.

Dost thou remember how we lived at home —
That it was like an oriental place,
Where right and wrong, and praise and blame did come
By ways we wondered at and durst not trace,
And gloom and sadness were but shadows thrown
From griefs that were our sire's, and not our own?

II.

It was a moat about our souls, an arm
Of sea, that made the world a foreign shore,
And we were two enamoured of the charm
To dream that barks might come and waft us o'er.
Cold snow was on the hills; and they did wear

1.

  Traitor Self, why do I try
  Thee, my bitterest enemy?
  What can I bear,
   Alas! more dear,
 Than is this centre of myself, my heart?
Yet all those trains that blow me up lie there,
Hid in so small a part.
2.

  How many backbones nourish'd have
  Crawling serpents in the grave!
    I am alive,
    Yet life do give
 To myriads of adders in my breast,
Which do not there consume, but grow and thrive,
And undisturbed rest.

3.

By summer lakes and copsewoods green
We two in happy times have been;
And blyther pilgrims never rode,
Since Leven down her valley flowed,
Or mass was sung and prayer was said
In Furness o'er the Christian dead.
That was a day of love and mirth
Which may not dawn again on earth.
Each plant that in the hedges grew,
Fox-glove, and fern, and bell of blue,
And bending rose-branch—all were bright
With more than summer's common light.
We thought that day by Leven's brink
Sad thoughts which youth delights to think,