swell with natural tears
For brilliant hopes—all faded into air!
As, on the sands of Irak, near approach
Destroys the traveller’s vision of still lakes,
And goodly streams reed-clad, and meadows green;
And leaves behind the drear reality
Of shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand!
And when the sullen clouds rose thick on high
Mountains on mountains rolling—and dark mist
Wrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud,
When on her grave swept by the moaning wind
Bending the heather-bells—then would I come
And watch by her, in silent loneliness,
And smile upon the storm—as knowing well
The lightning’s flash would surely turn aside,
Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful sleeps
All that gave life and love to one fond heart!
I talk of things that are not; and if prayers
By night and day availed from my weak lips,
Then should they never be! till I was gone,
Before the friends I loved, to my long home.
Oh pardon me, if e’er I say too much; my mind
Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth,
As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond—
Or brooding melancholy cloys my soul
With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted time
And bitter feelings swallowed up in jests.
Then strange and fearful thoughts flit o’er my brain
By indistinctness made more terrible,
And incubi mock at me with fierce eyes
Upon my couch: and visions, crude and dire,
Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity,
Space, time, thought, being, blank nonentity,
Things incorporeal, fancies of the brain,
Seen, heard, as though they were material,
All mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me,
And lead my soul away from earth and heaven
Until I doubt whether I be or not!
And then I see all frightful shapes—lank ghosts,
Hydras, chimeras, krakens, wastes of sand,
Herbless and void of living voice—tall mountains
Cleaving the skies with height immeasurable,
On which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas,
Studded with islands numberless, that stretch
Beyond the regions of the sun, and fade
Away in distance vast, or dreary clouds,
Cold, dark, and watery, where wander I for ever!
Or space of ether, where I hang for aye!
A speck, an atom—inconsumable—
Immortal, hopeless, voiceless, powerless!
And oft I fancy, I am weak and old,
And all who loved me, one by one, are dead,
And I am left alone—and cannot die!
Surely there is no rest on earth for souls
Whose dreams are like a madman’s!  I am young
And much is yet before me—after years
May bring peace with them to my weary heart!

Helston, 1835.

TREHILL WELL

There stood a low and ivied roof,
   As gazing rustics tell,
In times of chivalry and song
   ‘Yclept the holy well.

Above the ivies’ branchlets gray
   In glistening clusters shone;
While round the base the grass-blades bright
   And spiry foxglove sprung.

The brambles clung in graceful bands,
   Chequering the old gray stone
With shining leaflets, whose bright face
   In autumn’s tinting shone.

Around the fountain’s eastern base
   A babbling brooklet sped,
With sleepy murmur purling soft
   Adown its gravelly bed.

Within the cell the filmy ferns
   To woo the clear wave bent;
And cushioned mosses to the stone
   Their quaint embroidery lent.

The fountain’s face lay still as glass—
   Save where the streamlet free
Across the basin’s gnarled lip
   Flowed ever silently.

Above the well a little nook
   Once held, as rustics tell,
All garland-decked, an image of
   The Lady of the Well.

They tell of tales of mystery,
   Of darkling deeds of woe;
But no! such doings might not brook
   The holy streamlet’s flow.

Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts,
   Of melancholy dreams,
By that fair fount whose sunny wall
   Basks in the western beams.

When last I saw that little stream,
   A form of light there stood,
That seemed like a precious gem,
   Beneath that archway rude:

And as I gazed with love and awe
   Upon that sylph-like thing,
Methought that airy form must be
   The fairy of the spring.

Helston, 1835.

IN AN ILLUMINATED MISSAL {216}

I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven;
I would be great: there is no pride in heaven;
I would have sung, as doth the nightingale
The summer’s night beneath the moonè pale,
But Saintès hymnes alone in heaven prevail.
My love, my song, my skill, my high intent,
Have I within this seely book y-pent:
And all that beauty which from every part
I treasured still alway within mine heart,
Whether of form or face angelical,
Or herb or flower, or lofty cathedral,
Upon these sheets below doth lie y-spred,
In quaint devices deftly blazonèd.
   Lord, in this tome to thee I sanctify
   The sinful fruits of worldly fantasy.

1839.