Abbildungen der Seite


UNPATHOMABLE Sea! whose waves are years,

Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
Are brackish with the salt of human tears !

Thou sboreless floud, which in thy ebb and flow
Claspest the limits of mortality !
And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore.
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,

Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable Sea ?


That time is dead for ever, child,
Drowned, frozen, dead for ever!

We look on the past,

And stare aghast
At the spectres wailing, pale, and ghast,
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled

To death on life's dark river.

The stream we gazed on then rolled by;
Ils waves are unreturning;

But we yet stand

In a lone land,
Like tombs to mark the memory
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee

In the light of life's dim morning.
November 5th, 1817.


A widow bird sate mourning for her love

Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above,

The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,

No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air

Except the mill-wheel's sound.


Tell ine, thou star, whose wings of light
Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
In what cavern of the night

Will thy pinions close now?

Tell me, moon, thou pale and

grey Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, In what depth of night or day

Seekest thou repose now ?

Weary wind, who wanderest
Like the world's rejected guest,
Hast thou still some secret nest

On the tree or billow?


Rough wind, that moanest loud

Grief 100 sad for song ; Wild wind, when sullen cloud

Knells all the night long ; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches stain, Deep caves and dreary main,

Wail, for the world's wrong 1


Far, far away, O ge

Halcyons of memory, Seek some far calnier nest Than this abandoned breast ;No news of your false spring To my heart's winter bring ; Once having gone, in vain

Ye come again.

Vultures, who build your bowels High in the Future's towers, Withered hopes on hopes are spread, Dying joys, choked by the dead, Will serve your beaks for prey

Many a day.


ORPHAN bours, the year is dead,

Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry hours, smile instead,

For the year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse

In its coffin in the clay,
So White Winter, that rough nurse,

Rocks the dead-cold year to-day;
Solemn hours! wait aloud
For your mother in her shroud.

As the wild air stirs and sways

The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days

Rocks the year:-be calm and mild,
Trembling hours ; she will arise
With new love within her eyes.

January grey is here,

Like a sexton by lier grave;
February bears the bier,

March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps—but, О ye hours,

Follow with May's fairest flowers. January 1st, 1821.


Ye lasten to the dead! What seek ye there,
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes
Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear ?
O thou quick Heart, which pantest to possess
All that anticipation feigneth fair!
Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess
Whence thou didst come, and whither thou may'st go,
And that which never yet was known wouldst kuow-
Oh, whither hasten ye that thus ye press
With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path,
Seeking alike from happiness and woe
A refuge in the cavern of grey death?
O heart, and inind, and thoughts! What thing do you
Hope to inherit in the grave below ?



Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one bearing of their hearts,
History is but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fieet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in it

« ZurückWeiter »