PHANTOM OR FACT?

A DIALOGUE IN VERSE.

AUTHOR.

A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed,
And such a feeding calm its presence shed,
A tender Love so pure from earthly leaven
That I unnethe the fancy might control,
'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven
Wooing its gentle way into my soul !

But ah! the change-It had not stirr'd, and yet
Alas! that change how fain would I forget?
That shrinking back, like one that had mistook!
That weary, wandering, disavowing Look !
'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame,
And still, methought, I knew, it was the same!

FRIEND.

This riddling Tale, to what does it belong?
Is't History? Vision? or an idle Song?
Or rather say at once, within what space

Of Time this wild disastrous change took place?

AUTHOR.;

Call it a moment's work (and such it seems)

This Tale's a Fragment from the Life of Dreams;
But say, that years matur'd the silent strife,
And 'tis a Record from the Dream of Life.

WORK WITHOUT HOPE.

LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY, 1827.

ALL Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair-
The bees are stirring-birds are on the wing,
And WINTER slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,

Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where Amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye Amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
WORK WITHOUT HOPE draws nectar in a sieve,
And HOPE without an object cannot live.

YOUTH AND AGE.

VERSE, a Breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where HOPE clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a maying

With NATURE, HOPE, and POESY,
When I was young!
When I was young?-Ah, woeful WHEN !
Ah for the Change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing House not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery Cliffs and glittering Sands,
How lightly then it flashed along
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding Lakes and Rivers wide,
That ask no aid of Sail or Oar,

That fear no spite of Wind or Tide!
Nought cared this Body for wind or weather
When YOUTH and I liv'd in't together.

FLOWERS are lovely; LOVE is flower-like;
FRIENDSHIP is a sheltering tree;

O the Joys, that came down shower-like,
Of FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, and LIBERTY,

Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woeful ERE,
Which tells me, YOUTH'S no longer here!
O YOUTH! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond conceit-

It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
Thy Vesper bell hath not yet toll'd :-
And thou wert aye a Masker bold!
What strange Disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these Locks in silvery slips,
This drooping Gait, this altered Size:
But SPRINGTIDE blossoms on thy Lips,
And Tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but Thought: so think I will
That YOUTH and I are House-mates still.

A DAY DREAM.

My eyes make pictures, when they are shut :-
I see a Fountain, large and fair,

A Willow and a ruined Hut,

And thee, and me and Mary there.

O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!

Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green Willow!

A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed,

And that and summer well agree:
And, lo! where Mary leans her head,

Two dear names carved upon the tree!

And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow:

Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow.

'Twas Day! But now few, large, and bright

The stars are round the crescent moon!

And now it is a dark warm Night,

The balmiest of the month of June:

A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting
Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

O ever-ever be thou blest!

For dearly, ASRA! love I thee!

This brooding warmth across my breast,

This depth of tranquil bliss-ah me!

Fount, Tree and Shed are gone, I know not whither,
But in one quiet room we three are still together.

The shadows dance upon the wall,

By the still dancing fire-flames made;
And now they slumber, moveless all!

And now they melt to one deep shade!

But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee:
I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!

But let me check this tender lay

Which none may hear but she and thou!

Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming,

Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!

LINES SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS.

OB. ANNO DOM. 1088.

No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope
Soon shall I now before my God appear,

By him to be acquitted, as I hope;

By him to be condemned, as I fear.—

REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE.

Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed,
Be of good cheer, meek soul! I would have said:
I see a hope spring from that humble fear.
All are not strong alike through storms to steer

Right onward. What? though dread of threatened death
And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath

Inconstant to the truth within thy heart?

That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice didst start, Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife,

Or not so vital as to claim thy life:

And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew
Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true!

Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not your own,
Judge him who won them when he stood alone,
And proudly talk of recreant Berengare—
O first the age, and then the man compare!
That age how dark! congenial minds how rare!
No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn!
No throbbing hearts awaited his return!
Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell,
He only disenchanted from the spell,

Like the weak worm that gems the starless night,
Moved in the scanty circlet of his light:
And was it strange if he withdrew the ray
That did but guide the night-birds to their prey?

The ascending Day-star with a bolder eye
Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn!
Yet not for this, if wise, will we decry

The spots and struggles of the timid DAWN;

Lest so we tempt th' approaching Noon to scorn
The mists and painted vapours of our MORN.

TO A LADY,

OFFENDED BY A SPORTIVE OBSERVATION THAT WOMEN HAVE NO SOULS.

NAY, dearest Anna! why so grave?

I said, you had no soul, 'tis true!

For what you are, you cannot have:

'Tis I, that have one since I first had you!

I HAVE heard of reasons manifold

Why Love must needs be blind,
But this the best of all I hold-
His eyes are in his mind.

What outward form and feature are
He guesseth but in part;

But what within is good and fair

He seeth with the heart.

THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS.

FROM his brimstone bed at break of day
A-walking the DEVIL is gone,

To visit his little snug farm of the earth
And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale

And he went over the plain,

And backward and forward he swished his long tail
As a gentleman swishes his cane.

And how then was the Devil drest?

Oh! he was in his Sunday's best :

His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where the tail came through.

He saw a LAWYER killing a Viper

On a dung-heap beside his stable,

And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind
Of Cain and his brother, Abel.

A POTHECARY on a white horse

Rode by on his vocations,

And the Devil thought of his old Friend
DEATH in the Revelations.

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,
A cottage of gentility!

And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin
Is pride that apes humility.

He went into a rich bookseller's shop,
Quoth he! we are both of one college,
For I myself sate like a cormorant once
Fast by the tree of knowledge."

*

* And all amid them stood the TREE OF LIFE
High eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit

Of vegetable gold (query paper-money :) and next to Life

Our Death, the TREE OF KNOWLEDGE, grew fast by.—

So clomb this first grand thief

Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life
Sat like a cormorant.-PAR. LOST. IV.

The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of various readings obtained from collating the MSS. one might expect to find it noted, that for "LIFE" Cod. quid. habent, "TRADE." Though indeed THE TRADE, i.e., the bibliopolic, so called xάr'xny may be regarded as LIFE sensu eminentiori; a suggestion which I owe to a young retailer in the hosiery line, who, on hearing a description of the net profits, dinner parties, country houses, &c., of the trade, exclaimed, "Ay! that's what I call LIFE now!"-This "Life, our Death," is thus happily contrasted with the fruits of Authorship.-Sic nos non nobis mellificamus Apes. Of this poem, which with the Fire, Famine, and Slaughter first appeared in the

N