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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 Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye— Over the lilies there 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* 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 all the 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. * And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lut, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.—KORAN. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty— Where Love’s a grown up God— 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 unimpassion’d song: To thee the laurels belong Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long! The extacies 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.

TO —— 1 The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The wantonest singing birds Are lips—and all thy melody Of lip-begotten words— 2 Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin’d Then desolately fall, O! God! on my funereal mind Like starlight on a pall— 3 Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh, And sleep to dream till day Of truth that gold can never buy— Of the trifles that it may.

1829.

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 passer-by.

1829.

TO THE RIVER—— Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow Of crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of the glow Of beauty—the unhidden heart— The playful maziness of art In old Alberto’s daughter; But when within thy wave she looks— Which glistens then, and trembles— Why, then, the prettiest of brooks Her worshipper resembles; For in my heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply lies— His heart which trembles at the beam Of her soul-searching eyes.

1829.

SONG I saw thee on thy bridal day— When a burning blush came o’er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee: And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be) Was all on Earth my aching sight Of Loveliness could see. That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame— As such it well may pass— Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame In the breast of him, alas! Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush would come o’er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee.

1827.

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD 1 Thy soul shall find itself alone ‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone— Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy: 2 Be silent in that solitude Which is not loneliness—for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee—and their will Shall then overshadow thee: be still. 3 For the night—tho’ clear—shall frown— And the stars shall look not down, From their high thrones in the Heaven, With light like Hope to mortals given— But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee for ever: 4 Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish— Now are visions ne’er to vanish— From thy spirit shall they pass No more—like dew-drop from the grass: 5
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