Glances of wilderment—it may be fear— On the wild waves behind her; and she clings Of that imperial spurner of the spray That lord of lowing herds, the milk-white bull! With unremitting speed the godlike brute, Rejoicing in his glorious freight, moves on:— What are the waves to him? they may not stay His ardent course ;-the warring winds may howl With fitful violence round the vessel's prow, And turn it from its track;-the whirlpool's depths May draw it down to never-ending night; But all their powers conjoined may ne'er prevail Which proudly dashes on—and on—and on— Well may we 'count The Boy-God's power omnipotent, since he (And sure those witching fables that would prove LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. I. NAY, reproach me not, sweet one! I still am thine own, Though the world in its toils hath detained me awhile! The deep vision that spelled my lone bósom is flown, It was bliss to remember whose truth I had proved; And the falsehood of friends, the crowd's hollow decree, Served to bind me more fondly and firmly to thee! 120 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. II. Yes, I still am thine own:-though I sometimes may mingle, In lightness of spirit, with fools I despise; In my heart—my dark heart — dwelling silent and single, Is the thought of all others, it soothes me to prize. If I join the loud throng in its madness of mirth, I but think how much purer our pleasures have been; If I gaze on the fair-bosomed daughters of earth, 'Tis to turn to thy beauties-of beauty the Queen! And if from man's dwellings to Nature I flee, Glen, mountain, and ocean, seem breathing of thee! III. When a soft soothing glance from the eye of Affection Breaks my midnight of gloom with its halo divine, How surpassingly sweet is the bright recollection Of the passionate love ever beaming from thine!— LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 121 'Twill beam on me no more.-Yet though Death has bereft me Of a form such as seraphs from Heaven might adore,— In this image thy features of beauty are left me, And the lines of thy soul in my heart's core of core! Then reproach me not, sweet one! for time shall not see The hour that estranges one deep thought of thee! 1818. |