The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 95

Again thou enchantest my ear; My soul hangs again on thy breath, And murmurs that melt in a tear Repeat "I am thine unto death!"

Again is the light of thine eyes The limpid reflection of Truth; Thy smile gives me back to the skies That lit the ideals of youth.

Oh, is it thyself that I mourn, Or is it that dream of my heart Which glides from the reach of my scorn, And soars from the clay that thou art?

Well, go--take this comfort with thee, (I know thou art vain of thy power,) Thou hast blighted existence for me, Thou hast left not a germ for the flower;

My star may escape the eclipse, The music that tuned it is o'er; The smile may return to my lips-- It fades from my heart evermore;

Yet dark on thy being will fall A shade from the wreck of my own, Long years shalt thou sigh over all Thou hast in a day overthrown.

For none shall exalt thee as I!

Ah, none whom thy spells may control Shall deck thee in hues from the sky, And breathe in thy statue his soul.--

None build from the glories of song The brighter existence above, The realm which to poets belong, The throne they bestow where they love.

Let earth its chill colours regain, The moonlight depart from thy sea, Explore through creation in vain The fairy land vanish'd with me.

I take back the all I had given: Thy charm, with my folly is o'er; From the rank I a.s.sign'd thee in heaven Descend to thy level once more.

O grief!--whether here or above, Must my soul thus be sever'd from thine?

Ah, mourn--though I had not thy love-- The sin that bereaves thee of mine.

THE TREASURES BY THE WAYSIDE.

A TALE FOR SORROW.

The sky was dull, the scene was wild, I wander'd up the mountain way; And with me went a joyous child, The man in thought, the child at play,

My heart was sad with many a grief; Mine eyes with former tears were dim; The child!--a stone, a flower, a leaf, Had each its fairy wealth to him!

From time to time, unto my side He bounded back to show the treasure; I was not hard enough to chide, Nor wise enough to share his pleasure.

We paused at last--the child began Again his sullen guide to tease; "They say you are a learned man-- So look, and tell me what are these?"

Aroused with pain, my listless eyes The various spoils scarce wander o'er; Than straight they hail a sage's prize In what seem'd infant toys before:

This herb was one the glorious Swede Had given a garden's wealth to find; That stone had harden'd round a weed The earliest deluge left behind.

Fit stores for science, Discontent Had pa.s.s'd unheeding on the wild; And Nature had her wonders lent As things of gladness to the child!

Thus, through the present, Sorrow goes, And sees its barren self alone; While healing in the leaflet grows, And Time blooms back within the stone.

O THOU, so prodigal of good, Whose wisdom with delight is clad; How clear should be to Grat.i.tude The golden duty--to be glad!

ADDRESS TO THE SOUL IN DESPONDENCY.

No, Soul! not in vain thou hast striven, Unless thou abandon the strife; Forsworn to the banners of Heaven, If false in the battle of life.

Why--counting the gain or the loss-- The badge of the temple a.s.sume?

March on! if thy sign be the Cross, Thy triumph must be at the Tomb.

Say, doth not the soldier rejoice If placed by his chief at the van?

As spirit, submit to the choice The n.o.ble would welcome as man.

"Farewell to the splendour of light!"

The Greek could exulting exclaim, Resign'd to the Hades of Night, To live in the air as A NAME.

Could he, for a future so vain, Every pang in the present control, Yet thou of a moment complain In thine infinite life as a soul?

Like thee, do not millions receive Their chalice embitter'd with gall?

If good be creation--believe _That_ good which is common to all!

In evil itself, to the glance Of the wise, half the riddles are clear Were wisdom but perfect, perchance, The rest might in love disappear.

The thunder that scatters the pest May be but a type of the whole; And storms which have darken'd the breast May bring but its health to the soul.

Can earth, where the harrow is driven, The sheaf in the furrow foresee,-- Or thou guess the harvest of heaven Where iron has enter'd in thee?

CORN-FLOWERS.

BOOK II.

THE SABBATH.

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale, Yet yonder halts the quiet mill; The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, How motionless and still!

Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, Thy strength the slave of Want may be; The seventh thy limbs escape the chain-- A G.o.d hath made thee free!

Ah, tender was the law that gave This holy respite to the breast, To breathe the gale, to watch the wave, And know--the wheel may rest!