Part 67

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Warped by the world in disappointment’s school. In words too wise, in conduct there a fool; Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, Doomed by his very virtues for a dupe, He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, And not the traitors who betrayed him still; Nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men, Had left him joy, and means to give again. Feared, shunned, belied, ere youth had lost her force, He hated men too much to feel remorse, And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, To pay the injuries of some on all.

Byron.

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He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world’s slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

Shelley.

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They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams, As if the Star of Bitterness which fell On earth of old, and touched them with its beams, Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate, From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate; And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, Comes out, at times, in love’s own native light-- How gladly all, who’ve watched these struggling rays Of a bright, ruined spirit through his lays, Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven That noble nature into cold eclipse-- Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven, And born, not only to surprise, but cheer With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lasts Naught but the wide cold shadow which it casts!

Moore.

DEW PLANT.... Serenade.

Inesilla! I am here: Thy own cavalier Is now beneath thy lattice playing: Why art thou delaying?

He hath ridden many a mile But to see thy smile: The young light on the flowers is shining, Yet he is repining.

What to him is a summer star, If his love’s afar? What to him the flowers perfuming, When his heart’s consuming?

Sweetest girl! why dost thou hide? Beauty may abide Even before the eye of morning, And want no adorning.

Now, upon their paths of light, Starry spirits bright To catch thy brighter glance are staying: Why art thou delaying?

Barry Cornwall.

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Listen! from the forest boughs The voice-like angel of the spring Utters his soft vows To the proud rose blossoming.

And now beneath thy lattice dear! I am like the bird complaining: Thou above (I fear) Like the rose disdaining.

From her chamber in the skies Shouts the lark at break of morning, And when day-light flies Comes the raven’s warning.

This of gloom and that of mirth In their mystic numbers tell; But thoughts of sweeter birth Teacheth the nightingale.

Barry Cornwall.

PINE.... Pity.

Naught is there under Heaven’s wide hollowness That moves more dear compassion of the mind Than beauty brought to unworthy wretchedness Through envy’s snares, or fortune’s freaks unkind: I, whether lately through her brightness blind, Or through allegiance and vast fealty, Which I do owe unto all womankind, Feel my heart pierced with so great agony, When such I see, that all for pity I could die.

Spenser.

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Like Ariadne, when in pale despair The Athenian left her,--so sad Eva pined, And so she went complaining to the air, And gave her tresses to the careless wind:-- The colour of her fate was on her mind, Dark, death-like, and despairing;--and her eye Shone lustrous, like the light of prophecy.

Over the grassy meads,--beside lone streams, To perilous heights which no weak step could reach, She wandered, feeding her unearthly dreams With musing, and would move the tremulous beech And shuddering aspen with imploring speech; For nothing that did live, save they (who sighed) Pitied the downfall of her amorous pride.