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POEMS

by

ALEXANDER SMITH.

Third Edition.







London:
David Bogue, Fleet Street.
MDCCCLIV.

LONDON:
Printed by G. Barclay, Castle St. Leicester Sq.




CONTENTS.


                             Page

  A LIFE-DRAMA                  9

  AN EVENING AT HOME          213

  LADY BARBARA                229

  TO ----                     236

  SONNETS                     239




A LIFE-DRAMA.


SCENE I.--_An Antique Room: Midnight._

WALTER,
_Reading from a paper on which he has been writing_.

  As a wild maiden, with love-drinking eyes,
  Sees in sweet dreams a beaming Youth of Glory,
  And wakes to weep, and ever after, sighs
  For that bright vision till her hair is hoary;
  Ev'n so, alas! is my life's-passion story.
  For Poesy my heart and pulses beat,
  For Poesy my blood runs red and fleet,
  As Aaron's serpent the Egyptians' swallow'd,
  One passion eats the rest. My soul is follow'd
  By strong ambition to out-roll a lay,
  Whose melody will haunt the world for aye,
  Charming it onward on its golden way.
          [_Tears the paper and paces the room with disordered steps._
  Oh, that my heart were quiet as a grave
  Asleep in moonlight!
  For, as a torrid sunset boils with gold
  Up to the zenith, fierce within my soul
  A passion burns from basement to the cope.
  Poesy! Poesy! I'd give to thee,
  As passionately, my rich-laden years,
  My bubble pleasures, and my awful joys,
  As Hero gave her trembling sighs to find
  Delicious death on wet Leander's lip.
  Bare, bald, and tawdry, as a fingered moth,
  Is my poor life, but with one smile thou canst
  Clothe me with kingdoms. Wilt thou smile on me?
  Wilt bid me die for thee? O fair and cold!
  As well may some wild maiden waste her love
  Upon the calm front of a marble Jove.
  I cannot draw regard of thy great eyes.
  I love thee, Poesy! Thou art a rock,
  I, a weak wave, would break on thee and die.
  There is a deadlier pang than that which beads
  With chilly death-drops the o'er-tortured brow,
  When one has a big heart and feeble hands,--
  A heart to hew his name out upon time
  As on a rock, then in immortalness
  To stand on time as on a pedestal;
  When hearts beat to this tune, and hands are weak,
  We find our aspirations quenched in tears,
  The tears of impotence, and self-contempt
  That loathsome weed, up-springing in the heart,
  Like nightshade '<DW41> the ruins of a shrine;
  I am so cursed, and wear within my soul
  A pang as fierce as Dives' drowsed with wine,
  Lipping his leman in luxurious dreams;
  Waked by a fiend in hell!----
  'T is not for me, ye Heavens! 't is not for me
  To fling a Poem, like a comet, out,
  Far-splendouring the sleepy realms of night.
  I cannot give men glimpses so divine,
  As when, upon a racking night, the wind
  Draws the pale curtains of the vapoury clouds,
  And shows those wonderful, mysterious voids,
  Throbbing with stars like pulses.--Naught for me
  But to creep quietly into my grave;
  Or calm and tame the swelling of my heart
  With this foul lie, painted as sweet as truth.
  That "great and small, weakness and strength, are naught,
  That each thing being equal in its sphere,
  The May-night glow-worm with its emerald lamp,
  Is worthy as the mighty moon that drowns
  Continents in her white and silent light."
  This--this were easy to believe, were I
  The planet that doth nightly wash the earth's
  Fair sides with moonlight; not the shining worm.
  But as I am--beaten, and foiled, and shamed,
  The arrow of my soul which I have shot
  To bring down Fame, dissolved like shaft of mist--
  This painted falsehood, this most damned lie,
  Freezes me like a fiendish human face,
  With all its features gathered in a sneer.
  Oh, let me rend this breathing tent of flesh;
  Uncoop the soul--fool, fool, 't were still the same,
  'T is the deep soul that's touch'd, _it_ bears the wound;
  And memory doth stick in 't like a knife,
  Keeping it wide for ever.             [_A long pause._
                            I am fain
  To feed upon the beauty of the moon!
                                 [_Opens the casement._
  Sorrowful moon! seeming so drowned in woe,
  A queen, whom some grand battle-day has left
  Unkingdomed and a widow, while the stars,
  Thy handmaidens, are standing back in awe,
  Gazing in silence on thy mighty grief!
  All men have loved thee for thy beauty, moon!
  Adam has turned from Eve's fair face to thine,
  And drunk thy beauty with his serene eyes.
  Anthony once, when seated with his queen,
  Worth all the East, a moment gazed at thee:
  She struck him on the cheek with jealous hand,
  And chiding said,--"Now, by my Egypt's gods,
  That pale and squeamish beauty of the night
  Has had thine eyes too long; thine eyes are mine!
  Alack! there's sorrow in my Anthony's face!
  Dost think of Rome? I'll make thee, with a kiss,
  Richer than Caesar! Come, I'll crown thy lips."
                                   [_Another pause._
  How tenderly the moon doth fill the night!
  Not like the passion that doth fill my soul;
  It burns within me like an Indian sun.
  A star is trembling on the horizon's verge,
  That star shall grow and broaden on the night,
  Until it hangs divine and beautiful
  In the proud zenith--
  Might I so broaden on the skies of fame!
  O Fame! Fame! Fame! next grandest word to God!
  I seek the look of Fame! Poor fool--so tries
  Some lonely wanderer '<DW41> the desert sands
  By shouts to gain the notice of the Sphynx,
  Staring right on with calm eternal eyes.


SCENE II.

_A Forest._ WALTER _sleeping beneath a tree._

_Enter_ LADY _with a fawn._

LADY.

                Halt! Flora, halt! This race
  Has danced my ringlets all about my brows,
  And brought my cheeks to bloom. Here will I rest
  And weave a garland for thy dappled neck.
                                     [_Weaves flowers._
  I look, sweet Flora, in thine innocent eyes,
  And see in them a meaning and a glee
  Fitting this universal summer joy:
  Each leaf upon the trees doth shake with joy,
  With joy the white clouds navigate the blue,
  And, on his painted wings, the butterfly,
  Most splendid masker in this carnival,
  Floats through the air in joy! Better for man,
  Were he and Nature more familiar friends!
  His part is worst that touches this base world.
  Although the ocean's inmost heart be pure,
  Yet the salt fringe that daily licks the shore
  Is gross with sand. On, my sweet Flora, on!
                     [_Rises and approaches_ WALTER.
  Ha! what is this? A bright and wander'd youth,
  Thick in the light of his own beauty, sleeps
  Like young Apollo, in his golden curls!
  At the oak-roots I've seen full many a flower,
  But never one so fair. A lovely youth,
  With dainty cheeks and ringlets like a girl,
  And slumber-parted lips 'twere sweet to kiss!
  Ye envious lids! I fain would see his eyes!
  Jewels so richly cased as those of his
  Must be a sight. So, here's a well-worn book,
  From which he drinks such joy as doth a pale
  And dim-eyed worker who escapes, in Spring,
  The thousand-streeted and smoke-smothered town,
 