[Xxxix., 1823]

To thee, all time to thee, My lyre a voice shall be! Above all earthly fashion, Above mere mundane rage, Your mind made it my passion To write for noblest stage.

Whoe'er you be, send blessings to her--she Was sister of my soul immortal, free! My pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource, When green hoped not to gray to run its course; She was enthronèd Virtue under heaven's dome, My idol in the shrine of curtained home.

LES VOIX INTÉRIEURES.--1840.

THE BLINDED BOURBONS.

("Qui leur eût dit l'austère destineé?")

[II. v., November, 1836.]

Who then, to them had told the Future's story? Or said that France, low bowed before their glory, One day would mindful be Of them and of their mournful fate no more, Than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'er The unremembering sea?

That their old Tuileries should see the fall Of blazons from its high heraldic hall, Dismantled, crumbling, prone; Or that, o'er yon dark Louvre's architrave A Corsican, as yet unborn, should grave An eagle, then unknown?

That gay St. Cloud another lord awaited, Or that in scenes Le Nôtre's art created For princely sport and ease, Crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade, Should browse the bark beneath the stately shade Of the great Louis' trees?

Fraser's Magazine.

TO ALBERT DÜRER.

("Dans les vieilles forêts.")

[X., April 20, 1837.]

Through ancient forests--where like flowing tide The rising sap shoots vigor far and wide, Mounting the column of the alder dark And silv'ring o'er the birch's shining bark-- Hast thou not often, Albert Dürer, strayed Pond'ring, awe-stricken--through the half-lit glade, Pallid and trembling--glancing not behind From mystic fear that did thy senses bind, Yet made thee hasten with unsteady pace? Oh, Master grave! whose musings lone we trace Throughout thy works we look on reverently. Amidst the gloomy umbrage thy mind's eye Saw clearly, 'mong the shadows soft yet deep, The web-toed faun, and Pan the green-eyed peep, Who deck'd with flowers the cave where thou might'st rest, Leaf-laden dryads, too, in verdure drest. A strange weird world such forest was to thee, Where mingled truth and dreams in mystery; There leaned old ruminating pines, and there The giant elms, whose boughs deformed and bare A hundred rough and crooked elbows made; And in this sombre group the wind had swayed, Nor life--nor death--but life in death seemed found. The cresses drink--the water flows--and round Upon the slopes the mountain rowans meet, And 'neath the brushwood plant their gnarled feet, Intwining slowly where the creepers twine. There, too, the lakes as mirrors brightly shine, And show the swan-necked flowers, each line by line. Chimeras roused take stranger shapes for thee, The glittering scales of mailèd throat we see, And claws tight pressed on huge old knotted tree; While from a cavern dim the bright eyes glare. Oh, vegetation! Spirit! Do we dare Question of matter, and of forces found 'Neath a rude skin-in living verdure bound. Oh, Master--I, like thee, have wandered oft Where mighty trees made arches high aloft, But ever with a consciousness of strife, A surging struggle of the inner life. Ever the trembling of the grass I say, And the boughs rocking as the breezes play, Have stirred deep thoughts in a bewild'ring way. Oh, God! alone Great Witness of all deeds, Of thoughts and acts, and all our human needs, God only knows how often in such scenes Of savage beauty under leafy screens, I've felt the mighty oaks had spirit dower-- Like me knew mirth and sorrow--sentient power, And whisp'ring each to each in twilight dim, Had hearts that beat--and owned a soul from Him!