The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 94

Thus evermore, albeit to erring eyes, The same wild surface dash to sh.o.r.e the spray, That seeming oneness every moment dies, Drop after drop, away.

And stern indeed the prison of our doom If self from self had no divine escape; If each dead pa.s.sion slept not in the tomb; If childhood, age could shape.

Happy the man in whom with every year New life is born, re-baptized in the past,-- In whom each change doth but as growth appear, The loveliest change the last!

Full many a sun shall vanish from the skies And still the aloe show but leaves of thorn; Leaf upon leaf, and thorn on thorn, arise, And lo--the flower is born!

THE DESIRE OF FAME.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTY.

I do confess that I have wish'd to give My land the gift of no ign.o.ble name.

And in that holier air have sought to live, Sunn'd with the hope of Fame.

Do I lament that I have seen the bays Denied my own, not worthier brows above,-- Foes quick to scoff, and friends afraid to praise,-- More active hate than love?

Do I lament that roseate youth has flown In the hard labour grudged its n.i.g.g.ard meed, And cull from far and juster lands alone Few flowers from many a seed?

No! for whoever with an earnest soul Strives for some end from this low world afar, Still upward travels, though he miss the goal, And strays--but towards a star.

Better than fame is still the wish for fame, The constant training for a glorious strife: The athlete nurtured for the Olympian Game Gains strength at least for life.

The wish for Fame is faith in holy things That soothe the life, and shall outlive the tomb-- A reverent listening for some angel wings That cower above the gloom.

To gladden earth with beauty, or men's lives To serve with action, or their souls with truth,-- These are the ends for which the hope survives The ign.o.bler thirsts of youth.

No, I lament not, though these leaves may fall From the sered branches on the desert plain, Mock'd by the idle winds that waft; and all Life's blooms, its last, in vain!

If vain for others, not in vain for me,-- Who builds an altar let him wors.h.i.+p there; What needs the crowd? though lone the shrine may be, Not hallow'd less the prayer.

Eno' if haply in the after days, When by the altar sleeps the funeral stone, When gone the mists our human pa.s.sions raise, And Truth is seen alone:

When causeless Hate can wound its prey no more, And fawns its late repentance o'er the dead, If gentle footsteps from some kindlier sh.o.r.e Pause by the narrow bed.

Or if yon children, whose young sounds of glee Float to mine ear the evening gales along, Recall some echo, in their years to be, Of not all-perish'd song!

Taking some spark to glad the hearth, or light The student lamp, from now neglected fires,-- And one sad memory in the sons requite What--I forgive the sires.

THE LOYALTY OF LOVE.

I love thee, I love thee; In vain I endeavour To fly from thine image; It haunts me for ever.

All things that rejoiced me Now weary and pall; I feel in thine absence Bereft of mine all.

My heart is the dial; Thy looks are the sun; I count but the moments Thou s.h.i.+nest upon.

Oh, royal, believe me, It is to control Two mighty dominions, The Heart and the Soul.

To know that thy whisper Each pang can beguile; And feel that creation Is lit by thy smile.

Yet every dominion Needs care to retain-- Dost thou know when thou pain'st me Or smile at the pain?

Alas! the heart-sickness, The doubt and the dread, When some word that we pine for Cold lips have not said!

When no pulses respond to The feelings we prove; And we tremble to question "If _this_ can be love;"

At moments comparing Thy heart with mine own, I mourn not my bondage, I sigh for thy throne.

For if thou forsake me, Too well I divine That no love could defend thee From sorrow like mine.

And this, O ungrateful, I most should deplore-- That the heart thou hadst broken Could s.h.i.+eld thee no more!

A LAMENT.

I stand where I last stood with thee!

Sorrow, O sorrow!

There is not a leaf on the trysting-tree; There is not a joy on the earth to me; Sorrow, O sorrow!

When shalt thou be once again what thou wert?

Oh, the sweet yesterdays fled from the heart!

Have they a morrow?-- Here we stood, ere we parted, so close side by side; Two lives that once part, are as s.h.i.+ps that divide When, moment on moment, there rushes between The one and the other, a sea;-- Ah, never can fall from the days that have been A gleam on the years that shall be!

LOST AND AVENGED.

O G.o.d, give me rest from a thought!

I cannot escape it nor brave; Dread ghost of a joy that I sought To harrow my soul from its grave!

Farewell to the smile of the sun, The cheerful Religion of Trust!

I centred my future in One, And wake as it crumbles to dust!

Oh, blest are the tears that are shed For love that was true to the last.

The future restores us the dead, The false we expel from the past.--

Yet all, when I summon my pride Thyself as I find thee to see, Again there descends to my side The angel I dreamt thee to be.