Songs of the Affections, with Other Poems

Front matter

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS,

WITH

OTHER POEMS.

A Spirit's Return

SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

A SPIRIT'S RETURN.

This is to be a mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality! Manfred.

Thy voice prevails; dear Friend, my gentle Friend! This long-shut heart for thee shall be unseal'd, And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend Over the troubled stream, yet once reveal'd Shall its freed waters flow; then rocks must close For evermore, above their dark repose.

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie;

Come to the woods, where all strange wandering sound Is mingled into harmony profound; Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind Fills with a viewless being, unconfined, The trembling reeds and fountains;—Our own dell, With its green dimness and Æolian breath, Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records well— Hear me in tenderness and silent faith!

Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal noon— I would thou hadst!—for then my heart on thine Had pour'd a worthier love; now, all o'erworn By its deep thirst for something too divine, It hath but fitful music to bestow, Echoes of harp-strings, broken long ago.

Yet even in youth companionless I stood, As a lone forest-bird midst ocean's foam; For me the silver cords of brotherhood Were early loosed;—the voices from my home

Pass'd one by one, and Melody and Mirth Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth.

But, with the fulness of a heart that burn'd For the deep sympathies of mind, I turn'd From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught, In every still small voice and sound of power, And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower, A perilous delight!—for then first woke My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre, But minister'd to that strange inborn fire.

Midst the bright silence of the mountain-dells, In noontide-hours or golden summer-eves, My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves

Shakes out response;—O thou rich world unseen! Thou curtain'd realm of spirits!—thus my cry Hath troubled air and silence—dost thou lie Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen Shut from us ever?—The resounding woods, Do their depths teem with marvels?—and the floods, And the pure fountains, leading secret veins Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, Have they bright dwellers?—are their lone domains Peopled with beauty, which may never still Our weary thirst of soul?—Cold, weak and cold, Is Earth's vain language, piercing not one fold Of our deep being!—Oh, for gifts more high! For a seer's glance to rend mortality! For a charm'd rod, to call from each dark shrine. The oracles divine!

I woke from those high fantasies, to know My kindred with the Earth—I woke to love:— O, gentle Friend! to love in doubt and woe, Shutting the heart the worshipp'd name above,

Is to love deeply—and my spirit's dower Was a sad gift, a melancholy power Of so adoring;—with a buried care, And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer, And with a deepening dream, that day by day, In the still shadow of its lonely sway, Folded me closer;—till the world held nought Save the one Being to my centred thought. There was no music but his voice to hear, No joy but such as with his step drew near; Light was but where he look'd—life where he moved— Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. Oh! but such love is fearful!—and I knew Its gathering doom:—the soul's prophetic sight Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw O'er all things round a full, strong, vivid light, Too sorrowfully clear!—an under-tone Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone Whispering of grief.—Of grief?—be strong, awake!

Hath not thy love been victory, O, my soul? Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake Death's fastnesses?—a magic to control Worlds far removed?—from o'er the grave to thee Love hath made answer; and thy tale should be Sung like a lay of triumph!—Now return, And take thy treasure from its bosom'd urn, And lift it once to light!

In fear, in pain, I said I loved—but yet a heavenly strain Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, A joy flash'd through the trouble of my dream! I knew myself beloved!—we breathed no vow, No mingling visions might our fate allow, As unto happy hearts; but still and deep, Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave, Like golden sand in some dark river's wave, So did my soul that costly knowledge keep So jealously!—a thing o'er which to shed, When stars alone beheld the drooping head,

Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden'd with the excess Of our strange nature's quivering happiness.

But, oh! sweet Friend! we dream not of love’s might Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light The image we enshrine!—Before that hour, We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power Within us laid!—then doth the spirit-flame With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame; The wings of that which pants to follow fast Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison'd blast,— The sea is in our souls!

He died, he died, On whom my lone devotedness was cast! I might not keep one vigil by his side, I, whose wrung heart watch'd with him to the last! I might not once his fainting head sustain, Nor bathe his parch'd lips in the hour of pain,

Nor say to him, "Farewell!"—He pass'd away— Oh! had my love been there, its conquering sway Had won him back from death!—but thus removed, Borne o'er the abyss no sounding-line hath proved, Join'd with the unknown, the viewless,—he became Unto my thoughts another, yet the same— Changed—hallow'd—glorified!—and his low grave Seem'd a bright mournful altar—mine, all mine:— Brother and Friend soon left me that sole shrine, The birthright of the Faithful!—their world's wave Soon swept them from its brink.—Oh! deem thou not That on the sad and consecrated spot My soul grew weak!—I tell thee that a power There kindled heart and lip;—a fiery shower My words were made;—a might was given to prayer, And a strong grasp to passionate despair, And a dread triumph!—Know'st thou what I sought? For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought?

—Communion with the dead!—I sent a cry, Through the veil'd empires of eternity, A voice to cleave them! By the mournful truth, By the lost promise of my blighted youth, By the strong chain a mighty love can bind On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind; By words, which in themselves are magic high, Arm'd, and inspired, and wing'd with agony; By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream; I summon'd, I adjured!—with quicken'd sense, With the keen vigil of a life intense, I watch'd, an answer from the winds to wring, I listen'd, if perchance the stream might bring Token from worlds afar: I taught one sound Unto a thousand echoes; one profound Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky; One prayer to night,—"Awake, appear, reply!"

Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne, The dark way never hath allow'd return?

That all, which tears can move, with life is fled, That earthly love is powerless on the dead? Believe it not!—there is a large lone star, Now burning o'er yon western hill afar, And under its clear light there lies a spot, Which well might utter forth—Believe it not!

I sat beneath that planet,—I had wept My woe to stillness; every night-wind slept; A hush was on the hills; the very streams Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams, And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour, Stood motionless, even as the grey church-tower Whereon I gazed unconsciously:—there came A low sound, like the tremor of a flame, Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, Flitting through twilight woods, across the air; And I look'd up!—Oh! for strong words to bring Conviction o'er thy thought!—Before me there, He, the Departed, stood!—Aye, face to face— So near, and yet how far!—his form, his mien,

Gave to remembrance back each burning trace Within:—Yet something awfully serene, Pure,—sculpture-like,—on the pale brow, that wore Of the once beating heart no token more; And stillness on the lip—and o'er the hair A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air; And an unfathom'd calm, that seem'd to lie In the grave sweetness of the illumined eye; Told of the gulfs between our being set, And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met, Made my soul faint:—with fear?—Oh! not with fear! With the sick feeling that in his far sphere My love could be as nothing!—But he spoke— How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill My bosom's infinite?—O Friend, I woke Then first to heavenly life!—Soft, solemn, clear, Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, Yet strangely seem'd as if the while they rose From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose

Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells; But, as they murmur'd on, the mortal chill Pass'd from me, like a mist before the morn, And, to that glorious intercourse upborne, By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still, Possess'd my frame:—I sought that lighted eye,— From its intense and searching purity I drank in soul!— I question'd of the dead— Of the hush'd, starry shores their footsteps tread— And I was answer'd:—if remembrance there, With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air; If Thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, Be treasure in that pensive land to keep; If Love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, and blast, Find there the music of his home at last; I ask'd, and I was answer'd:—Full and high Was that communion with eternity, Too rich for aught so fleeting!—Like a knell Swept o'er my sense its closing words,—"Farewell,

On earth we meet no more!"—and all was gone— The pale bright settled brow—the thrilling tone— The still and shining eye!—and never more May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore That radiant guest!—One full-fraught hour of Heaven, To earthly passion's wild implorings given, Was made my own—the ethereal fire hath shiver'd The fragile censer in whose mould it quiver'd, Brightly, consumingly!—What now is left?— A faded world, of glory's hues bereft, A void, a chain!—I dwell, 'midst throngs, apart, In the cold silence of the stranger's heart; A fix'd, immortal shadow stands between My spirit and life's fast-receding scene; A gift hath sever'd me from human ties, A power is gone from all earth's melodies, Which never may return:—their chords are broken— The music of another land hath spoken,— No after-sound is sweet!—this weary thirst!—

And I have heard celestial fountains burst!— What here shall quench it? Dost thou not rejoice, When the spring sends forth an awakening voice Through the young woods?—Thou dost!—And in that birth Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, Thousands, like thee, find gladness!—Couldst thou know How every breeze then summons me to go! How all the light of love and beauty shed By those rich hours, but woos me to the Dead! The only beautiful that change no more, The only loved!—the dwellers on the shore Of spring fulfill'd!—The Dead!—whom call we so? They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know Things wrapt from us!—Away!—within me pent, That which is barr'd from its own element Still droops or struggles!—But the day will come— Over the deep the free bird finds its home,

And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, yet greets The sea at last; and the wing'd flower-seed meets A soil to rest in:—shall not I, too, be, My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee? Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish stirr'd The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard, Whose agony of triumph won thee back Through the dim pass no mortal step may track, Yet shall we meet!—that glimpse of joy divine, Proved thee for ever and for ever mine!

The Lady of Provence

THE LADY OF PROVENCE.

Courage was cast about her like a dress Of solemn comeliness, A gather'd mind and an untroubled face Did give her dangers grace. Donne.

The war-note of the Saracen Was on the winds of France; It had still'd the harp of the Troubadour, And the clash of the tourney's lance. The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, And the hollow echoes of charge and flight,

Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray In a chapel where the mighty lay, On the old Provencal shore; Many a Chatillon beneath, Unstirr'd by the ringing trumpet's breath, His shroud of armour wore. And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, Gave quivering life to the slumber pale Of stern forms couch'd in their marble mail, At rest on the tombs of the knightly race, The silent throngs of that burial-place.

They were imaged there with helm and spear, As leaders in many a bold career, And haughty their stillness look'd and high, Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory: But meekly the voice of the lady rose Through the trophies of their proud repose;

Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid, Under their banners of battle she pray'd; With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love, Upraised to the Virgin's pourtray'd above, And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave. And her fragile frame, at every blast, That full of the savage war-horn pass'd, Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart, When it vainly strives from its cage to part,— So knelt she in her woe; A weeper alone with the tearless dead— Oh! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed, Or the dust had stirr'd below!

Hark! a swift step! she hath caught its tone, Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan;— Is her lord return'd with his conquering bands? No! a breathless vassal before her stands!

—"Hast thou been on the field?—Art thou come from the host?" —"From the slaughter, Lady!—All, all is lost! Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe, And thy Lord," his voice took a sadder sound— "Thy Lord—he is not on the bloody ground! There are those who tell that the leader's plume Was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom."

—A change o'er her mien and her spirit past; She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, She dash'd the tears from her kindling eye, With a glance, as of sudden royalty: The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow, Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow, And her young voice rose till the peasant shook At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look: —"Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead, And fear not to say, that their son hath fled?

—Away! he is lying by lance and shield,— Point me the path to his battle-field!"

The shadows of the forest Are about the lady now; She is hurrying through the midnight on, Beneath the dark pine bough. There's a murmur of omens in every leaf, There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief; The branches that rock to the tempest-strife, Are groaning like things of troubled life; The wind from the battle seems rushing by With a funeral march through the gloomy sky; The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long, But her frame in the daring of love is strong, And her soul as on swelling seas upborne, And girded all fearful things to scorn.

And fearful things were around her spread, When she reach'd the field of the warrior-dead;

There lay the noble, the valiant, low— Aye! but one word speaks of deeper woe; There lay the loved—on each fallen head Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed; Sisters were watching in many a home For the fetter'd footstep, no more to come; Names in the prayer of that night were spoken, Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken; And the fire was heap'd, and the bright wine pour'd, For those, now needing nor hearth nor board; Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, And oh! ye beloved of women, farewell!

Silently, with lips compress'd, Pale hands clasp'd above her breast, Stately brow of anguish high, Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye; Silently, o'er that red plain, Moved the lady 'midst the slain.

Sometimes it seem'd as a charging cry, Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh; Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn, Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne; And her maidens trembled;—but on her ear No meaning fell with those sounds of fear; They had less of mastery to shake her now, Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough. She search'd into many an unclosed eye, That look'd, without soul, to the starry sky; She bow'd down o'er many a shatter'd breast, She lifted up helmet and cloven crest— Not there, not there he lay! "Lead where the most hath been dared and done, Where the heart of the battle hath bled,—lead on!" And the vassal took the way.

He turn'd to a dark and lonely tree That waved o'er a fountain red;

Oh! swiftest there had the currents free From noble veins been shed.

Thickest there the spear-heads gleam'd, And the scatter'd plumage stream'd, And the broken shields were toss'd, And the shiver'd lances cross'd, And the mail-clad sleepers round Made the harvest of that ground. He was there! the leader amidst his band, Where the faithful had made their last vain stand; He was there! but affection's glance alone The darkly-changed in that hour had known; With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasp'd, And a banner of France to his bosom clasp'd, And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace, And the face—oh! speak not of that dead face! As it lay to answer love's look no more, Yet never so proudly loved before!

She quell'd in her soul the deep floods of woe, The time was not yet for their waves to flow; She felt the full presence, the might of death, Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath, And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair, As she turn’d to his followers—"Your Lord is there! Look on him! know him by scarf and crest!— Bear him away with his sires to rest!"

Another day—another night— And the sailor on the deep Hears the low chant of a funeral rite From the lordly chapel sweep: It comes with a broken and muffled tone, As if that rite were in terror done; Yet the song 'midst the seas hath a thrilling power, And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour.

Hurriedly, in fear and woe, Through the aisle the mourners go;

With a hush'd and stealthy tread, Bearing on the noble dead, Sheathed in armour of the field— Only his wan face reveal'd, Whence the still and solemn gleam Doth a strange sad contrast seem To the anxious eyes of that pale band, With torches wavering in every hand, For they dread each moment the shout of war, And the burst of the Moslem scimitar. There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend, No brother of battle, no princely friend; No sound comes back like the sounds of yore, Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor; By the red fountain the valiant lie, The flower of Provençal chivalry, But one free step, and one lofty heart, Bear through that scene, to the last, their part.

She hath led the death-train of the brave To the verge of his own ancestral grave; She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway, But the struggling passion must now have way. In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil, By turns does the swift blood flush and fail; The pride on the lip is lingering still, But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill; Anguish and Triumph are met at strife, Rending the chords of her frail young life; And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier, Lifting her voice, as if Death might hear.—

"I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, My soul hath risen for thy glory strong! Now call me hence, by thy side to be, The world thou leav'st has no place for me. The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth— Faithful and tender! Oh! call me forth! Give me my home on thy noble heart,— Well have we loved, let us both depart!"—

And pale on the breast of the Dead she lay, The living cheek to the cheek of clay; The living cheek!—Oh! it was not vain, That strife of the spirit to rend its chain; She is there at rest in her place of pride, In death how queen-like—a glorious bride!

Joy for the freed One!—she might not stay When the crown had fallen from her life away; She might not linger—a weary thing, A dove, with no home for its broken wing, Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, That know not its own land's melodies. From the long heart-withering early gone; She hath lived—she hath loved—her task is done!

The Coronation of Inez de Castro

THE CORONATION

OF

INEZ DE CASTRO.

Tableau, où l'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe; union redoutable de la mort et de la vie! Madame de Stael.

There was music on the midnight;— From a royal fane it roll'd, And a mighty bell, each pause between, Sternly and slowly toll'd. Strange was their mingling in the sky, It hush'd the listener's breath; For the music spoke of triumph high, The lonely bell, of death.

There was hurrying through the midnight— A sound of many feet; But they fell with a muffled fearfulness, Along the shadowy street: And softer, fainter, grew their tread, As it near'd the minster-gate, Whence a broad and solemn light was shed From a scene of royal state.

Full glow'd the strong red radiance, In the centre of the nave, Where the folds of a purple canopy Swept down in many a wave; Loading the marble pavement old With a weight of gorgeous gloom, For something lay 'midst their fretted gold, Like a shadow of the tomb.

And within that rich pavilion, High on a glittering throne,

A woman's form sat silently, 'Midst the glare of light alone. Her jewell'd robes fell strangely still— The drapery on her breast Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill, So stonelike was its rest!

But a peal of lordly music Shook e'en the dust below, When the burning gold of the diadem Was set on her pallid brow! Then died away that haughty sound, And from the encircling band Stept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound, With homage to her hand.

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering Over each martial frame, As one by one, to touch that hand, Noble and leader came?

Was not the settled aspect fair? Did not a queenly grace, Under the parted ebon hair, Sit on the pale still face?

Death! Death! canst thou be lovely Unto the eye of Life? Is not each pulse of the quick high breast With thy cold mien at strife? —It was a strange and fearful sight, The crown upon that head, The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, All gather'd round the Dead!

And beside her stood in silence One with a brow as pale, And white lips rigidly compress'd, Lest the strong heart should fail: King Pedro, with a jealous eye, Watching the homage done,

By the land's flower and chivalry, To her, his martyr'd one.

But on the face he look'd not, Which once his star had been; To every form his glance was turn'd, Save of the breathless queen: Though something, won from the grave's embrace, Of her beauty still was there, Its hues were all of that shadowy place, It was not for him to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre, The treasures of the earth, And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, Alike of wasted worth! The rites are closed:—bear back the Dead Unto the chamber deep! Lay down again the royal head, Dust with the dust to sleep!

There is music on the midnight— A requiem sad and slow, As the mourners through the sounding aisle In dark procession go; And the ring of state, and the starry crown, And all the rich array, Are borne to the house of silence down, With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly King Pedro led the train,— But his face was wrapt in his folding robe, When they lower'd the dust again. 'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above, Hymns die, and steps depart: Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love? Mightier thou wast and art.

Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin

ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

O sanctissima, o purissima ! Dulcis Virgo Maria, Mater amata, intemerata, Ora, ora pro nobis. Sicilian Mariner's Hymn.

In the deep hour of dreams, Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea, And by the star-light gleams, Mother of Sorrows! lo, I come to thee.

Unto thy shrine I bear Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie All, all unfolded there, Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye.

For thou, that once didst move, In thy still beauty, through an early home, Thou know'st the grief, the love, The fear of woman's soul;—to thee I come!

Many, and sad, and deep, Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast; Thou, too, couldst watch and weep— Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart opprest!

There is a wandering bark Bearing one from me o'er the restless waves; Oh! let thy soft eye mark His course;—be with him, Holiest, guide and save!

My soul is on that way; My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim Through the long weary day, I walk, o'ershadow'd by vain dreams of him.

Aid him,—and me, too, aid! Oh! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess! On thy weak child is laid The burden of too deep a tenderness.

Too much o'er him is pour'd My being's hope—scarce leaving Heaven a part; Too fearfully adored, Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart!

I tremble with a sense Of grief to be;—I hear a warning low— Sweet mother! call me hence! This wild idolatry must end in woe.

The troubled joy of life, Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known; And, worn with feverish strife, Would fold its wings;—take back, take back thine own!

Hark! how the wind swept by! The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave— Hope of the sailor's eye, And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save!

To a Departed Spirit

TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT.

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, Or from some world unreached by human thought, Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there, And if thy visions with the past be fraught, Answer me, answer me!

Have we not communed here of life and death? Have we not said that love, such love as ours, Was not to perish as a rose's breath, To melt away, like song from festal bowers? Answer, oh! answer me!

Thine eye's last light was mine—the soul that shone Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze—

Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, Nought of what lived in that long, earnest gaze? Hear, hear, and answer me!

Thy voice—its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone Thrill'd through the tempest of the parting strife, Like a faint breeze:—oh! from that music flown, Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life, But once, oh! answer me!

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep, When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep— Spirit! then answer me!

By the remembrance of our blended pray'r; By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet; By our last hope, the victor o'er despair;— Speak! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet; Answer me, answer me!

The grave is silent:—and the far-off sky, And the deep midnight—silent all, and lone! Oh! if thy buried love make no reply, What voice has Earth?—Hear, pity, speak, mine own! Answer me, answer me!

The Chamois Hunter's Love

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE.

For all his wildness and proud fantasies, I love him! Croly.

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the Chamois bounds, Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the torrent-sounds; And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through the stillness of the air, And where the Lauwine's peal is heard—Hunter! thy heart is there!

I know thou lov'st me well, dear Friend! but better, better far, Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with rocks and storms at war; In the green sunny vales with me, thy spirit would but pine— And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine!

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those thy native heights, With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pastoral delights; For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not as mine— And yet I will be thine, my Love! and yet I will be thine.

And I will leave my blessed home, my Father’s joyous hearth, With all the voices meeting there in tenderness and mirth, With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its fire-light shine, To sit forsaken in thy hut,—yet know that thou art mine!

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free heart, That I cast away for thee—for thee—all reckless as thou art! With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind myself to dwell Yet, yet I would not change that lot,—oh no! I love too well!