TO HELEN.
Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o"er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native sh.o.r.e.
On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy cla.s.sic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, To the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window niche, How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!
1831.
THE VALLEY OF UNREST.
_Once_ it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay, _Now_ each visitor shall confess The sad valley"s restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-- Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Unceasingly, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye-- Over the lilies that wave And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:--from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:--from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.
1831.
ISRAFEL. [1]
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy Stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamoured Moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven), Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfeli"s fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings-- The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty-- Where Love"s a grow-up G.o.d-- Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpa.s.sioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live and long!
The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit-- Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute-- Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely--flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.
1836.
[Footnote 1:
And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all G.o.d"s creatures.
"Koran".]
TO----
I heed not that my earthly lot Hath--little of Earth in it-- That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute:-- I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that _you_ sorrow for _my_ fate Who am a pa.s.ser-by.
1829.