The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 97

IV.

The seasons nurse the blight and storm, The glory leaves the air-- The dreams and birds will pa.s.s away, The blossom wither from the spray-- One day--the stem be bare--

V.

But mine has grown the Dryad's life, Coeval with the tree; The sun, the frost, the bloom, the fall, My fate, sweet tree, must share them all, To live and die with thee!

THE LOVE-LETTER.

As grains of gold that in the sands Of Lydian waters s.h.i.+ne, The welcome sign of mountain lands That veil the silent mine;

Thus may the river of my thought, That glideth now to thee, Reveal the wealth as yet unwrought, Which Love has heap'd in me!

So strove I to enrich the scroll To thy dear hands consign'd; I thought to leave the lavish soul No golden wish behind!

Ah, fool! to think an hour could drain What life can scarce explore-- Enough, if guided by the grain, Thy heart should seek the ore!

THE LANGUAGE OF THE EYES.

Those eyes--those eyes--how full of Heaven they are!

When the calm twilight leaves the heaven most holy; Tell me, sweet eyes, from what divinest star Did ye drink in your liquid melancholy?

Tell me, beloved eyes!

Was it from yonder orb that ever by The quiet moon, like Hope by Patience, hovers, The star to which hath sped so many a sigh, Since lutes in Lesbos hallow'd it to Lovers?

Was that your Fount, sweet Eyes?

Ye Sibyl books, in which the truths foretold Inspire the Heart, your dreaming priest, with gladness, Bright Alchemists that turn to thoughts of gold The leaden cares ye steal away from sadness, Teach only me, sweet Eyes!

Hus.h.!.+ when I ask ye how, at length, to gain The cell where Love, the sleeper, yet lies hidden, Loose not those arch lips from their rosy chain; Be every answer, save your own, forbidden-- Feelings are words for Eyes!

DOUBT.

Bright laughs the sun; the birds, that are to air Like song to life, are gaily on the wing; In every mead the handmaid hours prepare The delicates of spring;[E]

But, if she love me not!

To me at this fair season still hath been In every wild-flower an exhaustless treasure, And, when the young-eyed violet first was seen, Methought to breathe was pleasure;-- But, if she love me not!

How, in thy twilight, Doubt, at each unknown Dim shape, the superst.i.tious Love will start; How Hope itself will tremble at its own Light shadow on the heart!-- Ah, if she love me not!

Well; I will know the worst, and leave the wind To drift or drown the venture on the wave; Life has two friends in grief itself most kind-- Remembrance and the Grave-- Mine, if she love me not!

[E] "The choicest delicates from yonder mead."--_The Faithful Shepherdess._

THE a.s.sURANCE.

I am loved, I am loved--Jubilate!

Hark! hark! how the happy note swells To and fro from the fairy bells, With which the flowers melodiously To their banquet halls invite the bee!-- "He is loved, he is loved--Jubilate!"

The echo at rest on her mountain-keep Murmurs the sound in her broken sleep-- "He is loved, he is loved--Jubilate!"

And those gossips, the winds, have come to scout What the earth is so happy about, And they catch the sound, and circle it round-- "He is loved, he is loved--Jubilate!"

And the rivers, who, all the world must know, Were in love with the stars ever since they could flow, With a dimpled cheek and a joyous sigh, Whisper it up to the list'ning sky, "He is loved, he is loved--Jubilate!"

It is not the world that I knew before; Where is the gloom that its glory wore?

Not a foe could offend, nor a friend betray, Old Hatred hath gone to his grave to-day!

Hark! hark! his knell we toll, Here's to the peace of his sinful soul!

On the earth below, in the heaven above, Nothing is left me now but Love.

Love, Love, honour to Love, I am loved, I am loved--Jubilate!

MEMORIES, THE FOOD OF LOVE.

When shall we come to that delightful day, When each can say to each, "Dost thou remember?"

Let us fill urns with rose-leaves in our May, And hive the thrifty sweetness for December!

For who may deem the throne of love secure, Till o'er the _Past_ the conqueror spreads his reign?

That only land where human joys endure, That dim elysium where they live again!

Swell'd by a thousand streams the deeps that float The bark on which we risk our all, should be.

A rill suffices for the idler's boat: It needs an ocean for the argosy.

The heart's religion keeps, apart from time, The sacred burial-ground of happy hours; The past is holy with the haunting chime Of dreamy sabbath bells from distant towers.

Oft dost thou ask me, with that bashful eye, "If I shall love thee evermore as now!"

Feasting as fondly on the sure reply, As if my lips were virgin of the vow.

Sweet does that question, "Wilt thou love me?" fall Upon the heart that has forsworn its will: But when the words hereafter we recall, "Dost thou remember?" shall be sweeter still.