What hope or fear or joy is thine? Hast thou heard the butterflies With what voice the violet woos To the mosses underneath? IV. Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, Some spirit of a crimson rose In love with thee forgets to close His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkness blind. What aileth thee? whom waitest thou With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, And those dew-lit eyes of thine, V. Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies? With melodious airs lovelorn, And ye talk together still, MARGARET. I. O SWEET pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro' a fleecy night. 11. You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lull'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light III. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well? IV. A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Keeps real sorrow far away. Than your twin-sister, Adeline. But ever trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woeful sympathies. O sweet pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak: Tie up the ringlets on your cheek: The sun is just about to set, The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. The quick lark's closest-caroll'd strains, Life shoots and glances thro' your veins, III. Come down, come home, my Rosalind, My gay young hawk, my Rosalind: Too long you keep the upper skies; Too long you roam and wheel at will; But we must hood your random eyes, That care not whom they kill, And your cheek, whose brilliant hue From North to South, We'll bind you fast in silken cords, From off your rosy mouth. ELEÄNORE. I. THY dark eyes open'd not, Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighbourhood, Thou wert born on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades: And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought, At the moment of thy birth, And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, earth, Jewel or shell, or starry ore, To deck thy cradle, Eleänore. II. Or the yellow-banded bees, Fed thee, a child, lying alone, As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Roof'd the world with doubt and fear, Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, In thee all passion becomes passionless, In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight, And luxury of contemplation As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will: Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea: And the self-same influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand, Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleänore. VIII. But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined; I watch thy grace; and in its place Thro' my veins to all my frame, From thy rose-red lips My name My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimmed with delirious draughts of warm est life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I would be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleänore. I. My life is full of weary days, But good things have not kept aloof, Nor wander'd into other ways: I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise. And now shake hands across the brink Of that deep grave to which I go: Shake hands once more: I cannot sink So far far down, but I shall know Thy voice, and answer from below. |