And there, 'neath the green leaves closely furled,
I will cool thy cheek with the dew of the world;
I will bind thy locks with the sweet wood-reef,
And fan thy brow with the wabron leaf;
I will press thy heaving heart to mine,
And try to mix with our love divine
An earthly joy, a mortal bliss;
I will woo thee and woo thee for a kiss,
As a thing above all gifts to prize,
And I'll swear 't is the odour of Paradise!
In earthly love, when ardent and chaste,
There's a joy which angels scarce may taste:
Then come to the bower I have framed for thee;
We'll let the youth of the vale go free,
And this eve shall be LOVE'S JUBILEE!
I will not, I dare not such hazard run,
My virgin race may be all undone.
The breeze is chill,-it is wearing late,
Away, thou guardian profligate!
Sweet spirit! why that quivering lip,
Which an angel of light might love to sip?
And why doth thy radiance come and go,
Like the hues of thine own celestial bow?
And why dost thou look to the ground and sigh,
And away from the green-wood turn thine eye?
Are these the symptoms, may I divine,
Of an earthly love, and is it mine?
Ah, no! it is something about my head,
Some qualm of languor or of dread.
That breeze is surely in a glow,
And yet it is chill-what shall I do?
Wilt thou not go?-ah! haste away
Unto thy charge; thou art worse than they.
I will not, cannot leave thee so;
I must woo thee whether thou wilt or no;
Let us hide from the star-beam and the gale,—
Why dost thou tremble and look so pale?
Oh, my dear maidens of beauty so bright,
What will become of you all to-night!
For I fear me this eve of wizard spell,
May be by shade, by bower, and dell,
An eve to dream of-not to tell!
I will charge the little elves of sin
To keep their silken cells within,—
In the night-flower's breast, the witch-bell blue,
Or wrapt in the daisy's silver flue;
And not to warp, on any pretence,
The thoughts or the dreams of innocence.
There shall not one of them dare to sip
The dew of love from the fervid lip,
Till the sleeping virgin, pale and wan,
Shrink back, as if from the kiss of man.
There shall no elfin, unreproved,
Take the dear form of the youth beloved;
Or whisper of love within the ear
A word for maiden unmeet to hear.
From man's deep wiles thy sex I'll guard,
If a smile from thine eye be my reward;
For all beside we must let them be,
And this eve shall be Love's JUBILEE!
The guardian angel of virgin fame,
In one sweet dale which I may not name,
Was won for that dear eve, to prove
The thrilling enjoyments of earthly love:
And if by matron the truth was said,
There was ne'er such an eve since the stars were made,
For young delight, and for moments bright,
And all that could virtuous love requite;
For all was holy, and pure, and chaste,
As the angels that wooed in their home of rest.
The welkin glowed with a rosy blue,
And its star of love had a brighter hue;
The green-wood strains with joy were rife,
And its breeze was a balm of heavenly life.
Ay, 't was an eve-by bower and dell—
An eve to dream of-not to tell :
For ever hallowed may it. be,
That eve of LOVE'S HIGH Jubilee!
Literary Souvenir.
O painted clouds! sweet beauties of the sky!
How have I viewed your motion and your rest,
When like fleet hunters ye have left mine eye,
In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest;
Or in your threatened thunder's grave black vest,
Like black deep waters slowly moving by,
Awfully striking the spectator's breast
With your Creator's dread sublimity,
As admiration mutely views your storms.
And I do love to see you idly lie,
Painted by heaven as various as your forms,
Pausing upon an eastern mountain high.
LONG, wild, and bloody was the day,
The morn had shot its purple ray
On Harold's helm of gold;
The noon had seen it red with gore,
At eve it lay on Hastings' shore,
In dust and slaughter rolled.
Night fell yet still the trumpet rang,
Still rose the axe and armour's clang,
Still twanged the British bow;
Still did their bands unbroken keep
The march by hill and forest deep,
Like lions, stern and slow.
Beneath the torch and cresset's flame,
Heavy and spent, the Norman came
From that scarce conquered field;
And came his haughty chivalry,
With weary limb, and drooping eye,
And shattered helm and shield.
The tents were pitched, the feast was spread, Was crowned the monarch's feverish head; And lovely o'er the throng,
As victor-boast and joyous roar
Sank down like waves upon the shore,
Was heard the minstrel's song.
Sweet stole the Jongleur's ancient strain,
"Of ladies' frowns, and lovers' pain,"
Till even the monarch smiled;
And every lord to some sweet name,
His day-star on the path to fame,
The golden beaker filled.
The Jongleur paused, he backward flung
The locks that o'er him darkly hung-
Then dashed his eager hand
Through the rich tumult of the wires,
Till rushed the sounds, like living fires,
Among the warrior band.
"Woe to the lands!" the minstrel sang,
"That hear the Norman rider's clang,
Their bloody doom is sealed;
of flame, and voice of fear, He comes, the breaker of the spear, The scorner of the shield!
"Where lies, proud Greek! thy crescent vane?
Its silver light is on the wane-
Where, Venice, is thy barge?
Illustrious harlot of the deep!
No longer shall thy banner sweep
The Adria's purple marge,
“Thou mother, queen of nations, Rome,
What arrow tore thy eagle's plume,
Now proudest, last of all?
Health to the king!—his wreath is won,
The Norman sits on England's throne,
The sovereign of the ball.”
OH when the lips we loved are cold, and fixed in silent death, The tender tale that once they told parts not with parting breath; A word-a tone survives its hour-an angel's passing strain, Once heard when dreams from heaven had power, and never heard again!
From eyes that death hath closed, a gleam thrills softly o'er the heart!
That joins with life its blessed beam, till life itself depart!
Then from its last exhaling fires it purely parts above,
And with the mounting soul aspires to light it up to love!
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