PART THE SECOND.

Who shall dispart the Poet's golden threads, From the fine tissues of Philosophy?— Mounts to one goal, each guess that upward leads, Whether it soar in some impassion'd sigh

Or some still thought; alike, it doth but tend To Light that draws it heavenward.—‘ Tis but one Great law that from the violet lifts the dew At dawn and twilight to the amorous sun,

Or calls the mist, which navies glimmer through, From the vast hush of an unfathom'd sea. The Athenian guess'd that when our souls descend From some lost realm ( sad aliens here to be ),

Dim broken memories of the state before Form what we call our‘ reason’; — nothing taught But all remember'd;— gleams from elder lore, Pallid revivals of sublimer thought,

Which, though by fits and dreamily recall'd, Make all the light our sense receives below; Like the vague hues down-floating — disenthrall'd From their bright birthplace, the lost Iris-bow.

Is this Philosophy or Song? Why ask? How judge?— The instant that we leave the ground Of the hard Positive, who saith “I know?” Conjecture, fancy, faith —‘ tis these we task,

When Reason passes but an inch the bound In which our senses draw the captive's breath. And never yet Philosopher severe Strove for a glimpse beyond the Bridge of Death,

But straight he enter'd on that atmosphere Poets illume:— Let Logic prove the Known; Truths that we know not, if we would explore, We must imagine! Link, then, evermore

Together — each so desolate alone, O Poesy, O Knowledge!— Is not Love, Of all those memories which to parent skies

Mount struggling back — ( as to their source above, In upward showers, imprison'd founts arise;) Oh, is not Love the strongest and the clearest? Love, and thine eyes instinctive seek the Heaven;

Love, and a hymn from every star thou hearest; Love, and a world beyond the sense is given; Love, and how many a glorious sleeping power Wakes in thy breast and lifts thyself from thee;

Love, and, till then so wedded to the Hour, Thy thoughts go forth and ask Eternity! Lose what thou lovest, and the life of old Is from thine eyes, O soul, no more conceal'd;

Look beyond Death, and through thy tears behold There, where Love goes — thine ancient home reveal'd. The lovers met in twilight and in stealth. Like to the Roc-bird in the Orient Tale,

That builds its nest in pathless pinnacles, And there collects and there conceals the wealth, Which paves the surface of the Diamond Vale, Love hoards aloof the glories that it stealeth;

And gems, but found in life's enchanted dells, On airy heights that kiss the heaven concealeth. All nature was a treasury which their hearts Rifled and coin'd in passion; the soft grass,

The bee's blue palace in the violet's bell; The sighing leaves which, as the day departs, The light breeze stirreth with a gentle swell; The stiller boughs blent in one emerald mass,

Whence, rarely floating liquid Eve along, Some unseen linnet sent its vesper song; All furnish'd them with images and words, And thoughts which spoke not, but lay hush'd like prayer;

Their love made life one melody, like birds, And circled earth with its own rosy air. What in that lovely climate doth the breast Interpret not into some sound of love?

Canst thou ev'n gaze upon the hues that rest, Like the god's smile, upon the pictured dream Limn'd on mute canvas by the golden Claude, Nor feel thy pulses as to music move?—

Nor feel thy soul by some sweet presence awed? Nor know that presence by its light,— and deem The Landscape breathing with a Voice Divine, “Love, for the land on which ye gaze is mine?”

But all round them was life — the living scene, The real sky, and earth, and wave, and air: The turf on which Egeria's steps had been, The shade, stream, grotto, which had known her care.

Still o'er them floated an inspiring breath — The fragrance and the melody of song — The legend — glory — verse — that vanquish'd death Still through the orange glades were borne along,

And sunk into their souls to swell the hoard Of those rich thoughts the miser Passion stored! But they required no fuel to the flame Which burn'd within them, all undyingly;

No scene to steep their passion in romance, No spell from outward nature to enhance The nature at their bosoms: all the same Their love had been if cast upon a rock,

And frown'd on from the Arctic's haggard sky. Nay, ev'n the vices and the cares, which move Like waves o'er that foul ocean of dull life, That rolls through cities in a sullen strife

With heaven, had raged on them, nor in the shock Crumbled one atom from their base of love. And, like still waters, poesy lay deep Within the hush'd yet haunted soul of each;

And the fair moon, and all the stars that steep Heaven's silence and its spirit in delight, Had with that tide a sympathy and speech! For them there was a glory in the night,

A whisper in the forest, and the air; Love is the priest of Nature, and can teach A world of mystery to the few that share, With self-devoted faith, the winged Flamen's care.

In each lay poesy — for Woman's heart Nurses the stream, unsought, and oft unseen; And if it flow not through the tide of art, Nor woo the glittering daylight — you may ween

It slumbers, but not ceases; and, if check'd The egress of rich words, it flows in thought, And in its silent mirror doth reflect Whate'er Affection to its banks has brought.

This makes her love so glowing and so tender, Dyeing it in such deep and dreamlike hues; Earth — Heaven — creative Genius — all that render, In man, their wealth and homage to the muse;

Do but, in her, enrich the heart, and throng To centre there what men disperse in song. O treasure! which awhile the world outweighs That blessed human heart Youth calls its own!

Measure the space some envied Caesar sways With that which stretches from the heavenly throne Into the Infinite;— and then compare All after-conquests in the dim and dull

Bounds of the Real, with the realms that were Youth's, when its reign was o'er the Beautiful! He who loves nobly and is nobly loved Is lord of the Ideal. Could it last!

It doth — it doth! lasts mournful but unmoved, In the still Ghost-land that reflects the Past. Age will forget its wintry yesterday, But not one sunbeam that rejoiced its May;

Showing, perchance, that all which we resume Of this hard life, beyond the Funeral River, Are the fair blossoms of the age of bloom; And hearts mourn most the things that live for ever.

Twice glided through her course the wandering Queen Who rules the stars and deeps, since first they met. ‘ Tis eve once more, that earliest hour, serene With the last light, before the sun hath set;

And Zoe waits her lover on the hill, Waits, looking forth afar:— The parting ray Of the reluctant Day-god linger'd still; Aslant it glinted through the pinewood boughs,

Broadly to rest upon the ruins grey, That at her feet in desolate glory lay. Through chasm and chink, the myrtle's glossy green, Votive of old to Cytheraea's brows —

Rose over wrecks, and smiled: And there, like Grief Close-neighbouring Love, the aloe forced between Myrtle with myrtle clasp'd — its barbed leaf. Where Zoe stands, the Caesar's Palace stood,

And from that lofty terrace ye survey, Naked within their thunder-riven tomb, The bones of that dead Titaness call'd Rome. Beyond, the Tiber, through the Latian Plain

With many a lesser sepulchre bestrew'd, Mourn'd songless onward to the Tyrrhene main; Around, in amphitheatre afar The hills lay basking in the purple sky;

Till all grew grey, and Maro's shepherd-star Look'd through the silence with a loving eye. And soft from silver clouds stole forth the Moon, Hush'd as if still she watch'd Endymion.

They sate them on a fallen column, where The wild acanthus clomb the shatter'd stone, Mocking the sculptured mimicry — which there Was graven on the pillar'd pomp o'erthrown,

Flowerless, if green, the herbage type-like decks Art that will flower not over Glory's wrecks. “Ah, doth not Heaven seem near us when alone? How air and moonbeam interchange delight!

How like the homeward bird my soul hath flown Unto its rest!— O glorious is the night, Glorious with stars, and starry thoughts, and Thee!” Her sweet voice paused; then from the swelling heart

Sigh'd — “Joy to meet, but O despair to part!” “And wherefore part? Out of all time to me Thou cam'st emerging from the depth of dreams, As rose the Venus from her native sea;

And at thy coming, Light with all his beams Illumed Creation's golden Jubilee. What, if my life be wrench'd from youth too soon To find in duty Manhood's troubled doom,—

Lo, where yon star clings ever through the gloom Fast by the labouring melancholy moon, So shine, unsever'd from thy pilgrim's side, And gift his soul with an immortal bride.”

Trembling she heard — no answer but a sigh — Sighing, still trembled; tenderly he raised Her downcast cheek, and sought the wish'd-for eye. On the long lashes hung slow-gathering tears:

And that subdued, despondent thought which wears Woe, as a Nun the fatal funeral veil, Silent and self-consuming — cast its gloom O'er the sad face yet sadder for its bloom.

He gazed, and felt within him, as he gazed, His heart beneath the dire foreboding quail, Ev'n as the gifted melancholy seer Knows by his shudder when a grief is near.

“Thou answerest not — yet my soul trusts in thee; Albeit — as if for child of earth too fair Thy love vouchsafed, thy life conceal'd from me, Nymph-like, thou comest out of starry air,—

And I, content the Beautiful to see, Presumed till now no hardier human prayer. But now, the spell the hour appointed breaks, Now in these lips a power that thralls me speaks;

I seek mine England, canst thou leave thy Rome? Start not — but let this hand still rest in thine; Canst thou not say‘ thy home shall be my home,’ Canst thou not say‘ thy People shall be mine?’”

Wildly she falter'd, starting from his breast, “What dost thou ask — must it all end in this! Art thou not happy, Ingrate? Rest, O, rest, England has toil — Italia happiness!”

And as she spoke — a loftier light than pride Flash'd from his eye, and thus the MAN replied,— “Hear and approve me — In my father's land Age-long have men, as Heathens, bow'd the knee

To the dire Statue with the sceptred hand, Which Force enthrones for Thought's idolatry. But now I hear the signal-sound afar, Like the first clarion waking sleep to war,

When slumbering armies gird a doomed town. Dread with the whirlwind, glorious with the light, Strong with the thunderbolt, comes rushing down TRUTH:— Let the mountains reel beneath her might!

Vigour and health her angry wings dispense, And speed the storm, to clear the pestilence. For this, at morn, when through the gladd'ning air Larks rise to heaven — arose my freeman's prayer.

For this, has Night in solemn prophet-dreams Limn'd Time's great morrow — now its day-star gleams! Yea, ere I loved thee, ere a sigh had ask'd Ev'n if the love of woman were for me,

A Shape of queenlier grief than ever task'd The votive hearts of antique Chivalry, Born to command the sword, inspire the song, Unveil'd her beauty, and reveal'd her wrong.

The Cause she pleads for with the world began; The realm torn from her is the Soul of Man — And her great name despoil'd is — Liberty! And now she calls me with imperial voice

Homeward o'er land and ocean to her cause; Sworn to her service at mine own free choice, Shall I be recreant when the sword she draws?” She look'd upon that brow so fair and high,

Too bright for sorrow as too bold for fear; She look'd upon the depth of that large eye Whence ( ev'n when lost to daylight ) starry clear Shone earth's sublimest soul;— then tremblingly

On his young arm her gentle hand she laid, And in the simple movement more was said Of the weak woman's heart, than ever yet Of that sweet mystery man's rude speech hath told.

The touch rebuked him as he thrill'd to it; Back to their deep the stormier passions roll'd, And left his brow ( as when the heaven above Smiles through departing cloud ) serene with love.

“Come then — companion in this path sublime; Link life with life, and strengthen soul with soul; If vain the hope that lights the onward time; If back to darkness fade the phantom goal;

If Dreams, that now seem prophet-visions, be Dreams, and no more — still let me cling to thee! Still, seeing thee, have faith in human worth, And feel the Beautiful yet lives for earth!

Come, though from marble domes and myrtle bowers, Come, though to lowly roofs and northern skies; In its own fancies Love has regal towers, And orient sunbeams in beloved eyes.

Trust me, whatever fate my soul may gall, Thou at thy woman-choice shalt ne'er repine; Trust me, whatever storm on me may fall, This man's true breast shall ward the bolt from thine.

Hark, where the bird from yon dark ilex breathes Soul into night,— so be thy love to me! Look, where around the bird the ilex wreathes Still, sheltering boughs,— so be my love to thee!

O dweller in my heart, the music thine! And the deep shelter — wilt thou scorn it? mine!” He ceased, and drew her closer to his breast; Soft from the ilex sang the nightingale:

Thy heart, O woman, in its happy rest Hush'd a diviner tale! And o'er her bent her lover; and the gold Of his rich locks with her dark tresses blended;

And still, and calm, and tenderly, the lone And mellowing night upon their forms descended; And thus, amid the ghostly walls of old, Seen through that silvery, moonlit, lucent air,

They seem'd not wholly of an earth-born mould, But suited to the memories breathing there — Two Genii of the mix'd and tender race, Their charmed homes in lonely coverts singling,

Last of their order, doom'd to haunt the place, And bear sweet being interfused and mingling, Draw through their life the same delicious breath, And fade together into air in death.

Oh! what then burn'd within her, as her fond And pure lips yearn'd to breathe the enduring vow? All was forgot, save him before her now — A blank, a non-existence, lay beyond —

All was forgot — all feeling, thought, but this — For ever parted, or for ever his! The voice just stirs her lip — what sound is there? The cleft stone sighing to the curious air?

The night-bird rustling, or the fragment's fall, Soft amid weeds, from Caesar's ruin'd wall? From his embrace abrupt the maiden sprang With low wild cry despairing:— In the shade

Of that dark tree where still the night-bird sang, Stood a stern image statue-like, and made A shadow in the shadow;— locks of snow Crown'd, with the awe of age, the solemn brow;

Lofty its look with passionless command, As some old chief's of grand inhuman Rome: Calm from its stillness moved the beckoning hand, And low from rigid lips it murmur'd “Come!” —